Kat and the Desert Eagle Read online

  Kat swallowed. “You want us to steal one of their planes?”

  “Not exactly. We believe the Germans are getting help from a well known aeronautics engineer. His name is Stipa, and he has a facility at Linate Airport.” He blew another stream of smoke at the ceiling. “We want you to kidnap him.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Back in the Junkers 52 again, with the NAZI Swastika painted on its tail, now the perfect cover for flying into Italy. No one felt comfortable when Capetti started the engines, with all the bullet holes in the fuselage, the noise was deafening and the petrol fumes even worse.

  “So you look-a good in a German uniform,” Capetti said, as he strapped himself in. “Don’t-a forget why we’re here.”

  Kat ran a hand over her hip. She had to admit, the Waffen-SS knew how to make a uniform. Dressed all in black, complete with an iron cross, a Luger Pistol and Swastika Armband, Pernass would have been proud of her. Taking a seat next to Dore, she gave him a teasing smile.

  “You like my uniform, Jock?”

  Dore raised his eyebrows ever so slightly and smiled, “Looks a wee bit tight.”

  Stewart and Atkins said nothing. They missed Trufflefoot. He’d been their weather vane for danger. Not being the bravest of people, if Trufflefoot thought it was safe, it was safe. Now they must rely on Dore, and Dore was almost as crazy as Kat.

  “Captain, you ever done a jump?” Atkins asked Stewart.

  “You gotta be joking, mate. I can barely fly a plane, let alone jump out of one.”

  Atkins didn’t look encouraged. “You’ll be right, mate… I mean Sir… Just count to five and pull the cord.”

  Everyone fell silent when the engines swelled and Capetti steered the damaged Junkers to the takeoff point, waited for the green light and then pushed the throttle levers all the way forward. The engines roared, and the Junkers surged forward, the wheels thumping on the concrete as they picked up speed. Kat gazed through one of the tiny windows. She never expected to set foot in this plane again, yet here they were, heading for Italy. She only hoped the locals were as friendly as promised. According to Capetti, most Italians hated Hitler, but they hated Mussolini even more.

  The Junkers lifted off. They were airborne. Now all she could do was hope not to freeze. It was early June and the weather on the ground was pleasantly warm, but at 12,000 feet, it was damned cold. The airfield supplied blankets, however, it wasn’t enough. All she could do was grit her teeth and endure the five-hour flight. Capetti flew through the valleys when they reached the alps. By the time they flew over Milan, it was brass monkeys’ in the plane and she was frozen stiff. When the time to strap on her parachute came, she prayed she’d be able to open it.

  “Jock, I can hardly move my fingers. How am I going to pull the damned cord?”

  “Put yer hands inside my jacket. You’ll be fine.”

  Sure enough, Dore’s 120 kilo body was warm as toast, so she held him for a while, soaking in his warmth. All too soon, Capetti put the plane on automatic pilot and sprung out of his seat.

  “We go now! Unless you enjoy skiing, we have less than minute!” He made his way to the door. “I jump last! Stewart! Vai! Vai!”

  With her heart in her mouth, Kat watched Stewart disappear, followed immediately by Atkins. Then her turn came.

  “See you down there, Jock!”

  She was flying through inky space, the wind tearing at her hair. She’d thought the earth would rush towards her, but besides the pummeling wind, it felt as though she were floating, the lights of Milan twinkling far below. Was she really falling, or was the wind keeping her aloft? Don’t be stupid, Wolfram. Pull the bloody cord. Grabbing the handle, she yanked on it. A loud rushing sound, the snap of canvas, and suddenly everything stopped. She moved so slowly, she wondered if she’d ever land. She watched the Junkers slowly descend, mesmerized as she waited for it to crash, however, it took a long time before she saw fire plume on a distant mountain.

  The lights of Milan drifted away. She saw the lights of tiny villages now, creeping towards her so slowly, she wondered if she’d ever get there. Where would she land? On someone’s cow, straddling a grape vine, halfway up a tree? Studying the approaching shadows, she pulled on the strings. The parachute drifted slightly, so she pulled again. To a limited degree, she could guide the parachute. When she saw what looked like a field, she aimed for it. Then she was down, rolling in long grass, the air blissfully warm.

  Gathering up the billowing parachute, she searched for the others. She’d glimpsed Atkins seconds before she landed. He wasn’t far away. If Dore jumped soon after her, he’d be nearby as well. Thankfully, the sky was clear, and the full moon remarkably bright.

  Someone called her name in a hoarse whisper. It was Stewart clambering over a fence.

  “Where’s Atkins?” she called.

  “Dunno. I landed in a bloody vineyard. Took me ages to disentangle my chute. You seen Jock?”

  “Not yet.” Except for Dore, one by one, the team appeared.

  “Is-a possible Dore get lost?” Capetti inquired.

  “He might be strangling the farmer,” Atkins suggested.

  “Is a midnight. Everyone asleep.”

  After ten minutes and still no sign of Dore, they headed for the village. They finally found Dore talking to an old man in the village square. They were sitting on a bench by a closed coffee bar, Dore making hand signs to make up for his Scottish Italian. He raised his eyebrows when he saw them.

  “He does-na have a clue what I’m saying.”

  “You have to speak Italian,” Capetti said, doffing his cap at the man.

  “I was speaking Italian.”

  Stewart laughed. “You come from Glasgow, Jock. Even we don’t understand you.”

  Capetti shook the man’s hand, and they were soon chattering away in Italian. Someone opened an overhead window, shouted something and slammed it shut again, and after a while, Capetti stood.

  “We’re in luck. There are no Germans in this village. He’s going to contact the Italian resistance in the morning. In the meantime, we can sleep in the church, or his barn, if we don’t mind cows.”

  When Kat open her eyes, she heard chickens clucking, but that wasn’t the only sound. The church bells were ringing, and she listened to loud rumbling and clanking sounds. She sat up in alarm. Dore hurriedly brushing straw from his uniform, and Capetti peered through a crack in the barn’s decayed wooden planking.

  “Tanks.” he whispered. “Six of them. And about thirty men.”

  “Are they stopping?” she whispered back.

  “Hard to tell.”

  “Any reconnaissance vehicles?” Stewart asked, rubbing his eyes.

  “If there are, I could nick one.” Atkins sniggered. Peering through a gap in the barn’s sagging door, he continued, “would beat the heck out of walking.”

  “If I don’t eat something soon,” Stewart groaned, “this bloke’s going to be missing one of his cows.”

  Capetti laughed, and Kat couldn’t help noticing his perfect teeth. “You don’t-a eat cows, Captain, you milk them.”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  They waited, the sound of tanks gradually diminishing. Then silence, only chickens clucking as they scuttled back and forth. A man casually walked across the yard towards them, looked about thirty years of age, wearing casual clothes, and obviously not a farmhand.

  Only Kat was visible when the door opened, he ignored her as he looked around. Asking in English, “where’s Major Capetti?”

  “I’m Major Capetti,” Kat said. “Can I help you?”

  The man stared at her for a moment, then smiled. “You are no
t Capetti. You are that crazy English woman. Wolfhorse, or something. Is that really your name?”

  “It’s Wolfram..”

  The team slowly appeared, Capetti chewing on a piece of straw.. He jutted his chin at the Italian, saying nothing.

  “You’re alone?” Kat asked.

  “My name is Matteo, and no, I am not alone. Please come with me. The Germans have gone.”

  They followed him across the yard and into the lane where a German truck sat with its engine running.

  “You have papers?”

  Capetti nodded.

  “Then please sit in the front. If we’re stopped, I’m a prisoner. The driver knows where to go.”

  Climbing into the back with the others, Kat watched as they left the village behind. The rolling countryside gradually giving way to steep hills, the truck’s gears whining as they climbed through wooded terraces. They were high above the valley now. She saw vineyards, and she wondered if they still harvested the grapes. The truck slowed, drove through high wooden gates and then stopped. They were in the cobbled courtyard of a derelict castle, men with guns leaning over crumbling battlements.

  “Wow!” she said, jumping down. “This is amazing.”

  “It also has no water or electricity,” Matteo said. “Which is good, because the Germans don’t want it. Please, follow me.”

  As they followed Matteo along the wide, curving terrace, marveling at the incredible view, Capetti whispered to her. “Just so you know, rank mean nothing here. They only want to know who make decisions. Which is me. Just so we’re clear.”

  “You got it boss.” She glanced at him. “But just so you know, Jock can get pretty stubborn.”

  “And you?”

  She laughed. “I just go with the flow.”

  The end of the terrace came into view. Alone at a trestle table and pounding on an old typewriter, sat a man with a shock of long, pure white hair. A large cigar clamped in his teeth, and his brow deeply furrowed.

  “Gramigna,” Capetti whispered.

  “Who’s Gramigna?”

  “A General who defected.”

  “Major General,” Gramigna corrected him, yanking a sheet of paper from the typewriter. “However, you can call me Signor. I no longer have a rank.”

  Capetti nodded almost a bow. “I am grateful your help, Signor Gramigna. We going to need it.”

  “What exactly do you need? London wouldn’t tell me.”

  Kat glanced at Capetti. “Can I speak?”

  Capetti waved his hands. “Please. It was you who spoke to Commander Fleming.”

  She looked at Gramigna. “Can I sit?”

  “You can do more than that,” he replied. “You can have coffee. Lorenzo! Bring our guests coffee!”

  “Thank you. We’re also starving.”

  “I’m sure. Food is on its way.”

  Settling into a wicker chair, she wondered how much she should say. “We’re looking for a well known Aeronautics Engineer, a man called Luigi Stipa. We believe he’s working on a new fighter plane design.”

  Gramigna grunted. “For the Germans, I assume.”

  “I don’t think he has a choice.”

  “No. Probably not. And you want to stop him.”

  Kat smiled. “We thought he might enjoy an all expenses paid British holiday. For the duration of the war… Of course…”

  Gramigna gazed at her for a moment and then re-lit his cigar. “It won’t be easy. If he’s become so important, he’ll be heavily guarded.”

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  “No idea. We’ll make inquiries. In the meantime, you can help me with a German problem I am having. You’ll need Italian officer uniforms and transport, of course, but that’s not a problem.” Exhaling a plume of smoke, he winked at Kat.

  CHAPTER 3

  Stepping into the barn, Kat gazed at the Daimler-Benz staff car in awe. She’d seen press photographs of Hitler using this exact model. How Gramigna came to be in possession of it was anyone’s guess, his own staff car would more likely have been a Fiat. She glanced at Capetti who wore Gramigna’s Italian Major General uniform and looked creepily genuine with his two-day stubble. She remained in her Waffen-SS uniform and be Capetti’s German driver. Dore was promoted to an Italian Captain, Stewart and Atkins to Lieutenants. Who would think of challenging them?

  While they awaited information on Luigi Stipa, they prepared for a night assault on a German garrison on the outskirts of Bergamo. The Germans chose the site for its large country house, which would give its officers comfortable accommodations. It was a vulnerable area, surrounded by hills and forests, and a large tank battalion camped there. They were to approach the camp as visiting dignitaries. Once inside, they would be wolves among slumbering sheep.

  One of Gramigna’s men doctored an older type of grenade with a seven-second fuse. He’d devised a way of holding the grenades’ safety lever in place with the pins removed for approximately 10 seconds, giving the team 17 seconds to lob the grenades and escape. They would use smoke grenades to create confusion and, as a final gesture, fire the Panzerschreck Gramigna’s men placed in the back of the staff car, along with a few rockets, at the house. With any luck, they’d all get out alive. Stepping out of the barn, she looked up at the sky. Fleecy clouds scudding across a full moon. They would have moonlight and shadow. Perfect.

  She glanced at Gramigna. “General, are you sure about this? My team… I’m sorry, I mean Major Capetti’s team… are not very… what shall I say? Regimented. We try to be, but situations are all so different, we work as the wind blows us… so to speak.”

  As Capetti and Dore joined them, Gramigna laughed. “Have you seen my men? They’re the most disorganized bunch of misfits you’ve ever seen. You have a lot in common. Just destroy those tanks. I don’t care how you do it.”

  “You really not-a come with us?” Capetti said, in his stilted English.

  “I’m an old man, Major, I’d only slow you down. I’ll give you a tip though. Throw the smoke grenades, when you’re escaping, not before.”

  “If we use the smoke grenades first,” Dore cut in, scowling at the man, “the Germans won’t be able to see what’s happening.”

  “I’m sure they won’t, but nor will you. If you can silence the Guards, it shouldn’t take four of you any longer than five seconds to lob the grenades into the tank turrets and get back in the car. Then all you have to do is get out of there.”

  Kat wasn’t sure if she agreed. It was never as straightforward as that. With everyone aboard, she climbed into the Daimler and started it. She felt almost regal as they drove through the castle gates with the aloof and handsome Capetti beside her. It would normally have been Dore, except the grumpy sergeant sat in the back seat with a bag of specially prepared grenades. The safety levers were wrapped in 2mm soldering wire, the ends carefully fastened with an exact number of twists, so that when the pins were pulled, it would take approximately ten seconds for the levers to pull the solder apart.

  She followed the motorcycle at a distance, a rusting Bianchi Supermil that had seen better days. She didn’t need the rider to signal when they reached the German camp, it would be obvious, but she’d need his help to get back again. Bergamo was half an hour away through winding country lanes, the tank battalion two kilometers beyond. She’d never find the castle again in the dark.

  The problem was solved when they passed through the old piazza in Bergamo. The rider stopped and waved her down.

  “Now you go alone,” he whispered. “Go straight after statue. You see camp in two kilometers. After,” he grinned, “after boom, you look for lights of Bergamo. I wait for you.”


  She felt tense as she drove. Most of the battalion would be asleep, but there would be Guards, and it was difficult to foresee their reaction to high-ranking officers arriving in the dead of night. She also didn’t know the layout of the camp. According to Gramigna, the commandeered house was at the end of a long, tree-lined drive. If the tanks were parked in the shadow of the trees, it should be easy. However, if they weren’t…

  As it turned out, the camp’s layout was almost irrelevant. The gates were guarded by two armored cars and a heavily manned check-point. Getting out of the camp might not be so easy after all.

  “Papiere,” the Guard demanded, waving a flashlight over the car’s occupants.

  Capetti didn’t even look at the man. He handed his documents to Kat and stared straight ahead with a bored expression. Kat smiled at the Guard. He looked nervous at the sight of a Major General. No harm in making him feel better.

  “One moment,” the Guard said, apologetically. He stepped into the Guards’ Hut and picked up the phone. They waited. It was 0130. Anyone important would be asleep at this hour. The call, no more than a formality. Sure enough, the Guard soon returned with Capetti’s forged documents. “Welcome to the sixteenth, General. Please drive on.”

  She drove on, passed rows of kübelwagons, halftracks and armored cars, all parked well clear of the house, perhaps to maintain the peace and quiet. She saw the commandeered house now. More of a chateau than a house, at three stories high, it boasted a multitude of spires. Then they saw the tanks. As Kat hoped, they were parked in a row, under an avenue of trees. Their crews had tied bivouacs to the tank tracks, or erected small tents on the adjacent lawns. They clearly weren’t worried about being attacked.

  “Where are all the Guards?” Stewart whispered, looking around.