Heart racing, Klaus nodded again. Somehow, he’d find a way out of this. For Dietrich. For his mother.
“Get in,” his uncle ordered when they reached the car.
The woman turned toward him as he slid into the backseat. “You shouldn’t run, Klaus. It’s only for a few days. And we know where you live.”
After they arrived at the airstrip, his fear grew as they loaded the chests from the trunk into the hold, then boarded the four-engine Avro Lancastrian, Uncle Ludwig not letting go of the suitcase. The plane had been used as a bomber during the war, later imported to Argentina and converted for passenger use. Although there were nine seats, single file, there were only five passengers. His uncle directed Klaus to sit, then took the seat in front of him, setting the case with the eggs and the Operation Werewolf papers on the floor beside him.
Such an ordinary suitcase . . .
What was in it was anything but ordinary, Klaus thought as someone shouted from outside the plane.
There was a commotion at the door, and he turned, saw a man, wearing a tan overcoat, enter.
“Sorry,” the man said, out of breath. “Didn’t mean to hold up everyone. Joe Schmidt,” he said by way of introduction. He spoke perfect German, but the accent was something Klaus couldn’t place. There was a sheen of perspiration on Schmidt’s brow, and he reached up, wiped it with the back of his hand. Winded, he stood there a moment, looked around, his gaze catching on Klaus, and then his uncle, before taking the seat just behind Klaus.
Once the door was shut, the engines started, and the plane moved down the runway. Klaus gripped the edge of his seat as they lifted off. He closed his eyes, trying to take even breaths. He was scared. Part of his fear came from the fact that he’d never been in a plane before. He looked down at that suitcase, thinking about what Greta had said about the Fourth Reich, the papers and the cases of jewels his uncle was carrying, and the men shooting at them as they fled. And then there was Greta’s comment about needing Klaus with them. To keep from being noticed.
Who would be watching them?
Something made him look back at the man who’d boarded last. Joe Schmidt. Their gazes met. The man gave a slight nod, and Klaus turned away. Somehow, over the roar of the engines, he fell into a fitful sleep.
Something jarred him awake. Klaus opened his eyes, confused by his surroundings. He looked around, then behind him as he felt his seat shudder and saw that Joe Schmidt had Uncle Ludwig’s suitcase. When the man realized he’d been caught, he raised his finger to his lips.
They were being watched. His heart sped up a little at the hope that someone was going to stop the Nazis. He dared a slight nod, wanting to reassure the man that he wasn’t about to tell, and he glanced toward his uncle’s seat, noticing his head tilted to the side. Sleeping. Or so he thought until Ludwig dropped his hand down toward the floor where the suitcase had been, his fingers reaching at nothing. He jumped from his seat, looking around, frantic. The moment he saw Schmidt with his suitcase, he lunged.
Schmidt shoved the case upward. His uncle blocked it with his arm, then slammed his right fist into Schmidt’s jaw. Schmidt grabbed Ludwig by his shoulders, pulling down as he brought up his knee.
Ludwig staggered back, then reached beneath his coat, drawing his gun. Klaus turned toward the other passengers, willing them to get up and help, but they cowered in their seats. Only Greta stood, gripping Klaus by his arm. He looked back as Schmidt threw himself at Ludwig, ramming him with all his weight. The two men tripped over the suitcase, crashing to the floor. The gun flew from Ludwig’s grasp, landing near Klaus. Greta pushed him aside. She grabbed the gun while Ludwig overpowered the man, pummeling at his face until he lost consciousness. “Kill him!” Greta said.
His uncle pulled a knife from his boot. In a flash, he rammed it beneath the man’s sternum.
Klaus stared in shock at the growing red stain on Schmidt’s white shirt. His stomach roiled with nausea, and he took several deep breaths trying to calm it. “Why . . . ?”
Greta must have heard him over the roar of the engines. “He’s a spy sent to stop us.”
Turbulence jolted the plane, throwing Klaus and Greta against the seats. She dropped the gun as she tried to break her fall. Klaus grabbed it, his hand shaking as he pointed it at her.
She tried to stand, grabbing for the gun, but he shoved her back into the seat. She reached for him. “Klaus. You don’t want to do this.”
Ludwig’s brows went up a fraction when he realized that Klaus had the gun.
“Give me the gun, Klaus . . .” Uncle Ludwig took a step forward. “It’s over now. There’s no reason to fight.”
Tears clouded Klaus’s vision as he backed away. “I’ll shoot you.”
“It won’t do any good,” his uncle said. He glanced at Greta, giving her a sharp nod.
She stood, taking a step toward Klaus. He pointed the gun at her and she stopped.
His uncle moved to her side. “When this plane lands, those papers will be delivered. But if you help me get them there, you’ll be rewarded. You and your father will have all the money you need. Think of your sister.”
Klaus blinked away the tears, seeing the dead man, wondering if it was worth dying for . . . Was this how his brother died?
“Klaus . . .” Uncle Ludwig held out his hand. “Your mother wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. Give me the gun.”
Follow your heart . . . Do that . . . You’ll be rewarded. Promise me . . .
His mother’s voice sounded so clear in his head. Heart beating, he backed away from them, turning the gun toward the two passengers who tried to stop him. “Get out of my way!” he shouted as he continued backing up until he bumped into the ladder that led up to the cockpit.