St Kilda Blues (Charlie Berlin #3)(104)
Halfway through the three-hour session Berlin realised that although there was a lot of shouting and threats of imminent execution and clips around the ears, the interrogators were not actually seeking any military information – they were simply intent on terrorising him. But he played along and eventually gave up a fake squadron number, aircraft type and target, knowing none of it could be checked and verified. They sent him back to his cell and he was feeling pleased with himself until he realised that at some stage in the first part of the interrogation he had wet his pants.
It must be a very different Frankfurt now, though he had neither the time nor inclination to go exploring. The airport terminal was spacious and much more modern than anything he had seen in Melbourne or Sydney. The first echoing loudspeaker announcements in German startled him, as did the policemen armed with submachine guns who patrolled the terminal in pairs. He had become accustomed to the casual carrying of weapons in Israel, but that was a country at war. An armed police force was a foreign concept to him. He went looking for British or Australian papers in a newsagency and found none, but did buy himself a pocket-sized German-English dictionary.
The Pan American Airways plane that would take them into West Berlin was waiting on the tarmac. It was a Boeing 727, the same as the Ansett-ANA jet that had flown them from Melbourne to Sydney to connect with their Qantas flight. The 727 was smaller than the 707s Berlin had become used to and had only three engines. He decided he was happy with three engines, though four would have been better.
After his Qantas experience the casual banter between the Pan Am pilots and stewardesses was disconcerting. But through the open cockpit door he was reassured to see the crew do a pre-flight check that was thorough and professional, and their eventual take-off was smooth. It would only be a short flight and as the wheels of the 727 locked up into the fuselage Berlin wondered what he was going to find at the other end and why he had decided to make this detour. His letter inquiring about Scheiner’s wartime service had been sent to an address in West Berlin and he was still waiting for an answer. Was that the real reason for this trip? he wondered. Or was it a need he had to see a place that had figured so strongly in his war, as the seat of power of the criminal maniacs that had caused it or as the target that too often figured in his nightmares?
The buildings of Frankfurt and the German landscape fell away quickly beneath the wings of the rapidly climbing 727. God it was fast. Berlin had always thought speed was a good thing. He had decided early on that the faster he flew, the faster a bombing mission was completed, the less chance there was of being shot down. His RAF ground crew had jokingly painted ‘Berlin Express’ on the nose of his Lancaster because of its always speedy return from operations and the theory had held true twenty-nine times – until that night over the docks at Kiel.
Even today, twenty-two years after the war’s end, Berlin was still a divided city and not a place that could be approached by air in total safety. The flight from Frankfurt into West Berlin’s Tempelhof Airport was through Soviet airspace and along a narrow and strictly defined corridor designated for civilian airline traffic. It was well reported that any aircraft that strayed outside the corridor stood a good chance of being intercepted by Russian MiG fighters and possibly even shot at by some of the more trigger-happy Eastern Bloc pilots. After reaching cruising altitude, that subject was brought up at a rather high volume by two crew-cut, business-suited men in the seats in front of Berlin and Rebecca.
The men had obviously been drinking before boarding and the object of their conversation seemed to be to either to impress or frighten a pretty young woman seated across the aisle from them. Having actually had the experience of being shot out of the German sky, Berlin found his anger growing. The senior Pan Am hostess must have mistaken the look on his face for nervousness because she came down the aisle and leaned over the seats of the two men.
‘Now, Chuck, honey, you know you cain’t come on my airplane and make my passengers all nervous with your chatter about MiG fighters and all that silly nonsense. You hush and I’ll refresh those drinks for y’all but you keep it up and you’ll get me all mad and you know we cain’t have that. You hear me, hon?’
She winked and the two men laughed but they did lower the volume of their voices.
The stewardess leaned over Berlin and Rebecca. When she spoke the syrupy southern accent was gone.
‘I’m sorry if they upset you, folks. They’re regular passengers and they sometimes forget we have real people on these flights too. Happens a lot with gentlemen who work for the company.’
Berlin saw the stewardess’s eyes flicker as if she had realised she’d said something she shouldn’t.
Rebecca smiled up at the woman. ‘The company? They work for Pan Am?’
The stewardess seemed relieved. ‘That’s right, ma’am, they work for the Pan Am company.’
Berlin knew West Berlin was supposed to be awash with intelligence agents and these two fresh-faced, all-American boys were obviously, very obviously, a couple of not very bright intelligence people.
The weather changed as they got closer to their destination. Cloud cover was heavier and then there was rain and the plane was buffeted as it descended though clouds towards the airport. Berlin must have looked concerned because the stewardess stopped beside him again and smiled reassuringly.
‘It’s okay, just a few bumps, we should be on the ground in ten minutes. There’s nothing to worry about.’