nice condition; better still was the single-seater Albatros fighter, 180-hp of liquid-cooled speed. Hoffner remembered how Georg had been able to recite the specifications from memory: little wooden models dragged off to a park or set in rows along a windowsill. Hoffner even recalled helping the boy with one of them. Or two. Or not.
“You’ve lost weight.”
The voice echoed, and Hoffner tried to locate its source. He set his valise down and said, “Hello, Toby.”
“I hope that doesn’t mean you’ve stopped drinking?”
Toby Mueller appeared from behind the tail of one of the pilfered planes. Mueller was of average build, but the limp in his right leg made him seem shorter. He had lost part of the foot, along with several fingers, during the war. Neither had stopped him from flying.
Hoffner said, “You’ve quite a collection.”
“Yah,” said Mueller, as he rubbed a bit of grease off his good hand: the fingers on the other held the rag like two pincers. “Didn’t think I’d actually be seeing you.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
They had known each other for over twenty years, Mueller the gimp World War I ace and Hoffner the cop who made sure he never got caught for smuggling. They had met on a hillside in the Tyrol, toasting Victor König, Hoffner’s onetime partner and Mueller’s squadron leader. Two months later they had buried König. It was a bond impossible to break.
“No, it’s good for me,” said Mueller. “Eight—ten hours. Bit long on my own.”
“So you were going anyway?”
Mueller’s smirk held just the right mix of disbelief and mockery. “No, Nikolai, I’m doing all this for you. Here, let me get your bag.” Mueller remained where he was and nodded over to a single-propeller biplane. “We’re taking the Arado. You can put it in the bomb hold.”
Hoffner picked up the valise and made his way over. The plane was two seats in tandem set behind the twin wings, the whole thing maybe eight meters in length, two and a half meters in height. Hoffner had expected them to be taking the beauty next to it, a red single-wing affair, with room for at least four, and who knows what else in the undercarriage. If Mueller was planning on making this a business trip, the red one looked to have far more room for merchandise.
Mueller saw where Hoffner was looking. “She’s nice, isn’t she?”
Hoffner found the latch on the Arado and shoved his valise inside.
Mueller said, “They’ve clocked her at nearly three hundred kph. And that’s not even in a dive. It’s like riding cut glass.”
Hoffner had no idea what Mueller meant but nodded anyway as he started over.
Mueller said, “She’d have us there in six hours, maybe less.”
“But she’s not yours, is she?”
“Oh, she’s mine. Had her down in Marseilles last week for some very nice fishing.”
“I’m sure the catch was good.”
“The catch is always good, Nikolai.”
Whatever Mueller was smuggling, Hoffner knew not to get involved in the details. “She’s just not for us,” he said.
Mueller’s smirk reappeared. “It’s a night flight, Nikolai. The Lockheed might be quick, but she’s not so good after dark. Trust me. The little Arado is a much better bet.”
Hoffner was rarely impressed by Mueller’s acquisitions, but this was something even for him. “How the hell did you get your hands on an American plane?”
Mueller’s smirk became a broad smile. “Well, there might have been a girl or two, and some French Air Corps mechanics involved, but I can’t really say.”
“Or,” said Zenlo Radek, who was now standing at the hangar’s entrance, “he might just have walked in here one day and found the plane waiting for him.”
Both Hoffner and Mueller looked over to see Radek in a dinner jacket and bow tie, his hair slicked back: hard to imagine the skin on his forehead looking more strained than usual, but there it was. He was carrying a small satchel.
Hoffner turned back to Mueller, and Mueller’s
“You’ve lost weight.”
The voice echoed, and Hoffner tried to locate its source. He set his valise down and said, “Hello, Toby.”
“I hope that doesn’t mean you’ve stopped drinking?”
Toby Mueller appeared from behind the tail of one of the pilfered planes. Mueller was of average build, but the limp in his right leg made him seem shorter. He had lost part of the foot, along with several fingers, during the war. Neither had stopped him from flying.
Hoffner said, “You’ve quite a collection.”
“Yah,” said Mueller, as he rubbed a bit of grease off his good hand: the fingers on the other held the rag like two pincers. “Didn’t think I’d actually be seeing you.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
They had known each other for over twenty years, Mueller the gimp World War I ace and Hoffner the cop who made sure he never got caught for smuggling. They had met on a hillside in the Tyrol, toasting Victor König, Hoffner’s onetime partner and Mueller’s squadron leader. Two months later they had buried König. It was a bond impossible to break.
“No, it’s good for me,” said Mueller. “Eight—ten hours. Bit long on my own.”
“So you were going anyway?”
Mueller’s smirk held just the right mix of disbelief and mockery. “No, Nikolai, I’m doing all this for you. Here, let me get your bag.” Mueller remained where he was and nodded over to a single-propeller biplane. “We’re taking the Arado. You can put it in the bomb hold.”
Hoffner picked up the valise and made his way over. The plane was two seats in tandem set behind the twin wings, the whole thing maybe eight meters in length, two and a half meters in height. Hoffner had expected them to be taking the beauty next to it, a red single-wing affair, with room for at least four, and who knows what else in the undercarriage. If Mueller was planning on making this a business trip, the red one looked to have far more room for merchandise.
Mueller saw where Hoffner was looking. “She’s nice, isn’t she?”
Hoffner found the latch on the Arado and shoved his valise inside.
Mueller said, “They’ve clocked her at nearly three hundred kph. And that’s not even in a dive. It’s like riding cut glass.”
Hoffner had no idea what Mueller meant but nodded anyway as he started over.
Mueller said, “She’d have us there in six hours, maybe less.”
“But she’s not yours, is she?”
“Oh, she’s mine. Had her down in Marseilles last week for some very nice fishing.”
“I’m sure the catch was good.”
“The catch is always good, Nikolai.”
Whatever Mueller was smuggling, Hoffner knew not to get involved in the details. “She’s just not for us,” he said.
Mueller’s smirk reappeared. “It’s a night flight, Nikolai. The Lockheed might be quick, but she’s not so good after dark. Trust me. The little Arado is a much better bet.”
Hoffner was rarely impressed by Mueller’s acquisitions, but this was something even for him. “How the hell did you get your hands on an American plane?”
Mueller’s smirk became a broad smile. “Well, there might have been a girl or two, and some French Air Corps mechanics involved, but I can’t really say.”
“Or,” said Zenlo Radek, who was now standing at the hangar’s entrance, “he might just have walked in here one day and found the plane waiting for him.”
Both Hoffner and Mueller looked over to see Radek in a dinner jacket and bow tie, his hair slicked back: hard to imagine the skin on his forehead looking more strained than usual, but there it was. He was carrying a small satchel.
Hoffner turned back to Mueller, and Mueller’s
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