Chapter Twenty

Inside the cabin of the plane, it was cold and noisy. Maggie and Sarah both slipped into shearling-lined flight jackets and helped Gus into his. The Englishman was falling in and out of consciousness. Over his head, Maggie met Sarah’s gaze; the dancer had the black bag next to her, with its own safety belt. They nodded, acknowledging what they’d been through. Hugh should be here with us, Maggie thought, blinking back hot tears. Hugh should be going home, too. From the closed-off expression on Sarah’s face, she knew her friend was thinking the same.

The plane climbed steadily. Maggie stared out the window; with the full, bright moon, there were few visible stars. Far below, shadows shrouded the farms.

And Elise—Maggie felt a pang of bitter disappointment. Her sister wasn’t returning with her to London. But they’d made a connection, and that was something. Her loneliness had been eased. She had a sister. A sister who might be in Occupied France, but still—a sister. Family.

And, really, she admired her sister’s commitment to the enfants and to finding her path in life. This is where you belong, Elise. And, maybe—if we’re lucky—we’ll see each other again…

The aircraft leveled off. They flew smoothly for minutes, until, without warning, the plane lurched sideways, causing them all to rock violently. “The wind,” Maggie said, if only to reassure herself. One of the gray-painted panels began rattling.

Sarah pulled something from Gus’s breast pocket. “I saw your sister put this in,” she told Maggie, holding up a small flask. “Don’t think he’d mind if I had a sip, do you?”

“Go ahead.”

Sarah took a long pull, then put her feet up on the toolbox. “Your sister has good taste in Cognac.” She offered the flask to Maggie, who shook her head.

“Maybe later.”

“I wish I had a cigarette,” the dancer said, taking another swig.

“You might want to pace yourself.”

“Sod that.” Sarah tipped back the flask, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Sarah—you remember how we were talking about Reiner and the letters? Reiner’s not the only one who has access to the letters.”

“Bollocks.” Sarah unbuckled her safety belt and made her way to the satchel Jacques had left. “Let’s see what we have here.”

“Sarah—”

She opened the bag; it was full of papers and letters. The dancer rifled through the envelopes and pulled one out. “This is my last letter home—I wrote it the day before Hugh and I were captured. Left it at the assigned drop-off.” She examined it in the sickly light of the cabin, then slid next to Maggie. “It’s been opened.”

Maggie didn’t see any rips or tears. “How do you know?”

“Look here—it’s wrinkled, like it’s been held over steam. And there’s too much glue on the envelope flap. Someone opened it, then resealed it.”

Maggie suddenly remembered Jacques’s warning: Trust no one.

“My God.” Her heartbeat was so loud in her ears it almost blotted out the engine’s roar.

Jacques appeared from the cockpit. “We’re good,” he told them. “The weather’s holding and no Messerschmitts in sight.”

“So who’s flying the plane?” Maggie asked, keeping her voice level.

“She’s on gyroscopic autopilot—we should reach Tangmere in no time.” He looked to Sarah. “My condolences about Hugh.”

She said through clenched teeth, “Thank you.” The rage radiating from her was palpable.

“His mother will be proud,” Jacques said gently.

Maggie stiffened. “His mother?”

As Hugh’s friend, Maggie knew the Englishman’s mother was alive and his father was dead. With their intimacy, Sarah must, too. But why would Jacques?

“I—I assumed,” he stammered.

“But why would you ‘assume’ his mother—and not his father? Why not say ‘his parents’?” Maggie pressed. “Unless you’ve read Hugh’s letters home…”

“I spoke with him when you landed,” Jacques replied easily, recovering. “He must have mentioned her.”

“No,” Sarah responded. “He didn’t. I never left Hugh’s side when we landed. He never discussed his family with you. And that was the only time you had together.”

Maggie looked into Jacques’s eyes; they were blue and brown. They were also sad and shrewd.

“You…” She felt the sting of betrayal. “It’s you! Oh my God—it was you all this time…”

His expression shuttered, and he pivoted swiftly to step back to the cockpit.

“Wait!” She jumped up and followed. “What are you doing?”

“Turning this plane around. Taking us all back to France.”

“And giving us up to the Gestapo?” Maggie challenged.

“You’ve burned me. I’m already under suspicion for working with the Germans—that’s why they’ve ordered me back. If I return to England, and they know I’ve been going through the letters, I’ll be shot as a traitor.”

“And if we go back to France, we’ll be taken by the Gestapo again. To be tortured by your friend von Waltz.”

“I’ll do what I can for you. Put in a good word.”

“How dare you!” Sarah was the picture of cold fury.

“I’m not your enemy—”

“You are. You’re worse than the Nazis.”

He shrugged. “I’ll save you the Nazi-versus-Commie lecture for when we return to Paris.”

“I hate you,” Maggie said, a vein throbbing beneath one eye. She put her face up to his. “And I hate that damn French shrug! You are a traitor. People have died because of you! So we will get you back to London—and they’ll deal with you there. Va te faire enculer, fils de pute!”

Jacques gave her a twisted smile. “I see we’ve gone from Qui vivra verra to profanity. Be very careful,” he warned. “You can’t do anything to me. Who’ll get us home?” Maggie and Jacques were so engrossed in their argument, they didn’t notice Sarah rise and move to the toolbox.

“Gus,” Maggie said resolutely. “Gus will get us home.”

“Gus can’t even keep his eyes open. And if I’m not mistaken, he’s wet himself. He’ll get you home all right—in a ball of fire.”

“You never had a friend at a morgue,” Maggie said, thinking it through. “You knew von Waltz killed Calvert. It was the Germans who were using her radio. That’s why her messages never had their proper security checks…”

“Erica Calvert committed suicide,” he said. “I had nothing to do with having her killed. She died rather than collaborate with the Gestapo.”

“So, the letters home—did you have them transcribed for your Nazi friends? Or photographed?”

“Photographed,” he said. “In a little flat not far from Avenue Foch. Didn’t take long.”

“And Bar Lorraine,” Maggie pressed. “Has it always been compromised?” She looked to Sarah. “Is that where they captured you?”

Sarah moved closer to the two, hiding the wrench behind her back. She nodded.

“I told you not to go to Bar Lorraine, to go to the safe house instead!” Jacques cried. “I tried to save you!”

The wrench in Sarah’s hand slammed into Jacques’s skull with a wet crunch. Maggie gasped as he collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.

Sarah dropped the bloody wrench and took a step back. “He betrayed Hugh and got him killed. I’d rather take my chances in the sky than go back to France,” Sarah rasped. “You?”

Maggie didn’t reply. She knelt beside the injured man to take his pulse. “He’s alive.”

“Too bad.”

Maggie examined the gash on his head. “It’s superficial. He won’t be out for long. We’ve got to tie him up.”

Sarah dropped the wrench and went to the toolbox to get a length of rope. “We might die up here,” she said matter-of-factly, stooping to bind his wrists.

“Better in a plane than the basement of 84 Avenue Foch. We need to wake Gus up.”

“How?”

“We have those pills we got in case we needed to keep going—Benzedrine. If we give him a few, it might shock him awake.” Maggie sat down on the bench and took off her right shoe, twisting the heel. It moved, and the cellophane packet with two round pills dropped into her waiting palm.

“You’re sure that’s not the cyanide?”

She gave a sad smile. “No, those pills are in my lipstick case.”

Maggie lifted Gus’s head. She placed the tablets in his mouth, then poured liquid from the flask down his throat. He spluttered noisily, then swallowed. “Good boy,” Maggie said, patting his back as he gagged and his eyelids quivered. “That should work in a few minutes.”

“Maggie?” Sarah asked.

“Yes?”

“Autopilot or no—someone should probably be flying this plane.”

Moonlight was streaming through the cockpit windows, illuminating the instrument panel. Maggie was as terrified as she’d ever been. Still, she forced herself to slip into the pilot’s leather seat. She rested her hands lightly on the yoke, staring out at the cloud formations in front of her. Her heart was hammering.

She was petrified to take her eyes off the sky, but she knew she had to look down at the instrument panel. She checked the altitude. Miraculously, the plane seemed to be holding steady. She checked the fuel—the tank was just shy of full. We’re in the equivalent of a tin can hurtling through space and time, she realized, simultaneously wanting to cry and giggle.

She looked up as Gus staggered in, supported by Sarah. In the shadows, the pilot’s eyes were rimmed with red and his skin looked clammy. “Here you go,” the dancer said, helping the injured pilot into the navigator’s chair.

“Oh, you should be the one in the pilot’s seat—” Maggie said, starting to rise. She wanted nothing more than to relinquish the terrible responsibility.

“I can’t operate the rudders with my injury,” he slurred. “If we’re…going to do this, you need to be my legs.”

“Are—are you sure? I barely passed my driving test back home in the States. Never did learn to parallel-park, if we’re being completely honest.”

“No need for parallel parking up here.” Gus attempted a grin and failed. “I’m afraid if I try to move, I’ll pass out from the pain.”

“I’ve had far too much Cognac to fly anything.” Sarah clapped him on the shoulder, and he winced. “All right then—you two do what you need to do. I’m going to keep an eye on our Judas in the back.”

“So,” Maggie said when she and Gus were alone in the cockpit, her heart a cold fist. “This is flying.”

“You can do it, miss.”

“Sure.” Maggie sounded less than convinced. “Just like driving my Aunt Edith’s ’thirty-two Ford back home. And it’s Maggie, please—not miss.”

“All right, then. That’s the altimeter, that’s the vertical speed indicator, that’s the artificial horizon, and that’s the compass.” Gus pointed to each in turn.

A sudden patch of turbulence made the aircraft sway. Maggie squeezed her eyes shut, reciting the decimal places of pi. Three point one four one five nine two…

“Don’t close your eyes—whatever you do!” Gus insisted. “We’re going to Tangmere, yes?”

She somehow managed to nod.

“Good—I’ve taken off and landed there before.” He eyed the compass. “Three hundred fifteen degrees magnetic—we’re on course. Keep her steady.”

They flew in silence for a while. “How do you feel?” she asked, desperate to break the tension.

“Not up for the Lindy Hop, I’m sorry to say. But the pills helped.”

Without taking her eyes from the sky, Maggie put her hand to his forehead. He was on fire. “You’ve got a fever.”

He grimaced. “We’ll deal with that on the ground. In the meantime, I’d like to get above this cloud. We’re at three thousand feet. I need you to take us to five thousand.”

Maggie pulled back on the yoke and the plane jerked up, slamming them backward. Back in the cabin, Sarah yelped.

“No! Not so fast!” Gus cried.

Maggie adjusted the altitude.

“All right, better, better….Now, just make sure you keep climbing—maintain the climb rate using the vertical speed indicator at five hundred feet per minute. Don’t raise the nose too fast or too far up, or you’ll stall.”

“And if we stall?”

“Don’t ask.”

In moments they entered what looked like cotton, and she realized they were actually in the clouds. “I can’t see!” Maggie said, a crackle of panic in her voice. “I can’t see a thing!” A fine mist swirled at the cockpit’s windowpanes. “Where are the windshield wipers?”

“Afraid there aren’t any. The instruments are our eyes—watch your artificial horizon to keep your wings level. And have faith.”

“We could hit a mountain!”

“We’re nowhere near the Alps.” She could hear suppressed laughter in his strained voice. “There are no mountains in this part of France.”

The cloud thinned. “All right now—gently—level her off,” he instructed.

Maggie carefully adjusted the yoke, eyes flicking between the windshield and the instruments, as the plane’s engines droned on. She glanced at Gus, at his increasing pallor, the bruise-like smudges under his eyes. “Do you need water?” she asked.

“No, I’d really prefer not to have to take a piss on the floor in front of you. Er—sorry about the language.”

“Gus, we’re five thousand feet in the air in a glorified sardine can. Do you really think I care about your damn language?”

“I do try to be a gentleman.”

“And I’m sure your mother’s very proud.”

They flew in silence. “All right,” Maggie said, “let’s have a quick lesson. I know how to change altitude. But how do we control the speed?”

“The engine controls are here on the center console. These two levers are the left and right engine throttles. Push forward to give it more power.”

“All right—good to know. What else?”

“You won’t need to worry about the flaps and landing gear until later.” Gus was squinting at the horizon. “Shit! Er, sorry.”

“What?”

He pointed. “Messerschmitt—ten o’clock, climbing.” He pointed.

“Oh, bloody hell!” The German plane was still in the distance, but as it climbed closer, Maggie could see the distinctive black crosses on its wings. She felt nauseous. “Because we didn’t have problems already—”

“It’s a Messer 109.” Gus explained it as if they were out on a nature walk and had spotted some harmless animal in the underbrush. “She’s fast and light, with two machine guns mounted in the cowling. They fire over the top of the engine and through the propeller arc. He’ll definitely try to shoot us down. We’re going to have to brace for impact. Are you strapped in?”

“No…” He glared at her, and she bristled. “We didn’t exactly have time for all the niceties, what with capturing the double agent and taking control of the plane!”

“Grab that strap and put it around you,” he said, doing the same for himself. Maggie managed with trembling fingers.

“Your friend should, too.”

“Sarah!” Maggie shouted.

Sarah poked her head back in. “What?”

“We’ve got company—buckle up.” Sarah left. “All right then, Gus, what do we have? Where’s the artillery?”

He looked around, then grimaced. “I’m afraid we have nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“They took out the gun turrets to make the plane lighter,” he explained.

“So we’re completely defenseless?”

“Yes. We need to hide—fly into another cloud—find cover. There—” Gus pointed. “Go there.”

She adjusted the yoke with shaking hands, muttering obscenities. As the enemy plane edged closer, Maggie could see bright flashes. She heard the chilling rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire.

They had not been shot.

Yet.

The Messerschmitt flashed past them, then arced, swooping in for another pass. As it approached, it opened fire again. The sparks flared red and orange in the night sky.

The left wing was hit, the bullets punching through the aluminum skin. The sound was terrifying. “It’s all right,” Gus reassured her. “Just as long as he doesn’t hit the fuel tank.”

“Oh, you bloody, bloody, buggering bugger!” Maggie’s anger felt good, and swearing even better. Better to be furious than frightened out of her mind.

“All right—it’s all right,” Gus said by way of comfort. “We’re still in the air, after all. And we’re almost there. Just keep going toward the cloud.”

As the German plane banked and prepared for a third pass, they reached the safety of the cloud. “Now change direction,” Gus instructed.

Maggie did so, smoother this time. They’d lost the German plane and now flew in silence. Maggie didn’t know what Gus was thinking, but her thoughts were of Jacques. His betrayal.

“May I ask what happened to the original pilot?” Gus ventured.

“We knocked him out.”

“Ah. And we did this—why?”

“Because our pilot turned out to be a slimy, two-faced, traitorous, Nazi-loving Frog. Who was planning to take us back to Paris and the Gestapo when we found out what the bastard was up to.”

“Righty-o, then,” Gus ventured. “Probably a good decision to take over the plane after all.”

“We thought so.”

As they finally left the cloud, Maggie spotted a gray-blue stripe below, shimmering in the moonlight. “Is that the Channel?”

“It is.”

“Oh!” Her heart leapt for joy; they were crossing back to England. “Hello there, Blighty!” Home. Normality. Laughing with David. Having tea and toast with Chuck. The sweet fragrance of baby Griffin’s downy head. K’s purr. These are the things that matter, she thought. Love is what matters.

Gus wiped at his eyes with a fist. “I’m not crying.”

“No, of course not. I have something in my eye, too.” Then, “How long until we get to Tangmere?”

“A bit. The base is on the south coast, near West Sussex.”

“I’ve been there,” Maggie told him. “But only as a passenger.” RAF Tangmere, about four miles east of Chichester, was often used as a base during the moon periods because the airfields were so much nearer to their target areas in France than those at Tempsford.

“Well, I hate to tell you…but it’s not flying that’s hard, it’s landing. And from what I’ve heard the boys say, these Hudsons can go up in flames if they’re not brought down gently.”

“Gus,” Maggie said tightly, “if you’re trying to reassure me, it’s not working.”

“Swear all you want if it helps.”

She let out a dazzlingly creative string of profanities, making the Englishman blush. “You’re right, that does help!”

He looked both horrified and impressed. “Do you, er, know what all of those words actually mean?”

“Most of them.” Maggie peered through the cockpit window at England in the silvery light right before dawn. Below her was a patchwork quilt of farmers’ fields, copses of trees, rivers, lakes, and ponds. Despite her fear of the task ahead, she had an unmistakable urge to sing “Rule, Britannia.”

Finally, Gus pointed. “That’s Tangmere, there—do you see? Look for the lines of runways and the control tower.”

“I see it. Should we let them know we’re coming? Use the radio?”

Gus tapped the instrument panel. “No radio.”

There’s no radio? “Let me guess—to make the plane lighter?”

He didn’t reply.

Maggie took a shaky breath. “Right then. Let’s land this thing.”

“There.” He pointed to a runway slicing through the center of the airbase. “Go for that one. Runway heading is two hundred and sixty-three degrees. Drop your flaps and landing gear when you get below a hundred twenty-five knots.”

Maggie pulled the lever back, and, as the engines’ roar eased, the plane began to descend. Her heart was trip-hammering.

“Don’t overdo it—nice gentle descent,” Gus instructed.

“Easy for you to say,” Maggie muttered.

“Now drop the gear and flaps. Aim for the runway.” It seemed they were almost touching the ground. The airfield fence line flashed past, and they were skimming the airstrip.

“You’ve got to bring her down now,” Gus said. “Or we’re going to hit the tower.”

“Bloody hell.”

“Cut the engines back the rest of the way to idle.” There was a long moment that seemed to stretch forever—then a bump as the wheels finally made contact with the earth. The plane bounced up again instantly, then crashed back to the runway. But at least they were on the ground and rolling.

“Brakes!”

Maggie screamed, “Where?”

“Pull on the Johnson bar in the center console!”

“This?”

“No!”

“This?”

“Yes!”

The rolling aircraft slowed with a shudder and a louder roar than any they’d heard in the sky. As it finally came to a stop, Maggie couldn’t help herself. She burst into tears.

“You did it!” Gus exclaimed.

“We did it!” But before she could undo her safety belt, he’d passed out.