Vespers Rising (The 39 Clues #11)(35)

Drago pulled the biplane to a halt and killed the motor. When the propeller sputtered to a stop, Grace realized how much Olga‘s vibration had become a part of her. It had been four hours since they’d left Monaco. Her guts were shaken; her lungs were full of gas fumes. And here they were — nowhere.

Drago popped the canopy and heaved his bulk out of the cockpit. “I will refuel.” He pointed to a small shack. “In there you will find toilet.”

Grace glared at him. “If you think I’m going to give you the chance to fly away and strand me, you’re crazy.”

He shrugged. “It is long way to Casablanca.”

“I’m fine, thank you very much.”

“As you wish.” He jumped to the tarmac.

A few minutes later, she heard the clanging of the metal drums and the gurgling of liquid filling the biplane’s tank.

She tried to stretch out her stiff legs, but in the cramped cockpit, there simply wasn’t room. She forced herself to ignore the discomfort. This was, after all, the easy part. They were about to fly into a war in search of an invading general. She should appreciate this calm while it lasted.

And then something cold and hard prodded her arm. She looked down at the barrel of a machine gun.

A black-clad Spanish officer stood on the bottom rung of the boarding ladder. “Your papers, señorita!”

Frightened, Grace fumbled in her coat pocket and came up with her passport.

The Spaniard’s eyebrows rose. “American. You will come with me.”

“Why?” she demanded in outrage, summoning an imperious dignity she did not feel. “You have no right to arrest me. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Your country is at war, and therefore so are you. You are to be detained for questioning by the government of Generalissimo Francisco Franco. You will step out of the aircraft.”

“I — can’t.” How could she ever explain it to a man with a machine gun — that if she left the plane, Drago might fly off and abandon her?

Speaking of Drago, where was he? The refueling sound had ceased. Was the tank full and the pilot in hiding, waiting for the officer to drag her away?

The gun nudged her again. “Out of the plane, señorita. Ahora!”

Grabbing the briefcase, she climbed down and submitted to being marched across the tarmac toward a small hut marked POLICíA.

Grace’s mind was awhirl. Could she bribe the man? What if he thought she was some kind of spy? If she got sent to a prison camp, no one would ever find out what had become of her! Even if they interrogated her and let her go, she’d be marooned in the middle of Spain.

Either way, she would never make it to Casablanca.

There was a loud thud, followed by the clatter of the machine gun falling to the tarmac. A split second later, the Spanish officer hit the ground beside his weapon.

Grace wheeled. There stood her pilot, brandishing a large wrench.

He took her hand and began to rush her back to the plane. “Hurry! He may be light sleeper!”

Weak with relief, Grace allowed herself to be stuffed back into the cockpit. Minutes later, they were in the air once again, crossing the Spanish mainland.

Grace gaped at her strange, shaggy pilot. “You could have left me! You could have flown away!”

Drago indicated the briefcase, which was once again in her lap. “Where my money goes, I follow.”

“You already have ten thousand dollars,” Grace reminded him. “In Monaco you said you weren’t greedy.”

He refused to look at her. “Do I resemble smart man to you?”

“You resemble a wonderful man!” she breathed.

“Bah!” he scoffed. “Where we journey is no place for sentiment.”

“I’ll pay you more money,” she promised.

He nodded. “I deserve it.”

An hour later, they were out over the Atlantic Ocean, giving Gibraltar a wide berth to avoid alerting the British Royal Air Force installation there.

They had left Europe behind. Next stop: Africa.

Operation Torch came into view before Casablanca did. The first rays of dawn revealed a towering plume of smoke obscuring the African coastline.

“Look —” Drago pointed. “There is your war.”

Grace gulped. “I was hoping it was just — bad weather.”

But now she could see hundreds of ships of all sizes — a mammoth naval battle. From this distance, they looked like Dinky Toys. Grace had to remind herself that every faint flash of orange represented an explosion of enormous destructive power. American fighter planes strafed and dive-bombed the defenders, unchallenged by any Vichy French air force. In the sea she could make out the vector-straight track of a submarine-launched torpedo. Amphibious landing craft spilled their invaders onto the beach. Thousands of troops, tiny as ants, swarmed over the sand, exchanging lethal fire with the French soldiers dug in there. The scene was all the more bizarre because Grace couldn’t hear anything over the noise of Olga‘s engine. That left a ghastly pantomime of mechanical monsters and soundless death.

“How are we going to get past all that?” Grace shrilled.

“You ask me this now?” he demanded bitterly.

“I thought …” Her voice trailed off. The truth was she hadn’t thought. She had brought them to this carnival of destruction with no clear plan.