The Angry Hills - Leon Uris [11]
A plan of desperation hit him. He crawled back to the prostrate body of the guard. The scream again! A blast rolled him against the wall. They won’t get me! They won’t get me!
He half tore the clothes from the guard’s body.... They won’t get me...they won’t get me... He tugged at the man’s pants; then ripped his own clothes from him.
He struggled into the guard’s clothes as the thunder outside rose to a crescendo.
His hands fished through the pockets of his own clothes. Envelope—wallet—pipes—passport—the credential—pistol...
He staggered through the doorway.
A shadow raced over the runway toward the shack. “Morrison! Morrison!” a voice pierced through the inferno. “Morrison! Morrison! Morrison!” The shadow took the form of a man.
Mike stumbled, crawled, bolted toward the line of trucks on the highway.
Then everything was quiet.
The planes vanished and the air was still.
The lights around the field blinked off leaving only the glow of the fire.
Mike knelt beside a truck, clutched at his stomach then rolled over on the ground. “Oh, Jesus—Jesus—I’m sick—I’m sick...”
The spinning would not stop. American Embassy—they’ll get you—they’ll get you—empty wet streets—oh, go on Fred, we’re busy—no time for gags—they’ll get you—they’ll get you—blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and his mustache was wet with blood—the glasses lay smashed—long hall with white marble statues—Kifissia Hotel, thataway...
Then there was nothing.
“Bloody Huns!”
“Hey, Tom. Over here. I think this bloke’s been hit.”
“From the smell of him I’d say he’s been on too much Greek wine.”
“All right, lads, hop to it. Get aboard the lorries.”
“Give us a hand, sergeant. He’s out cold.”
Mike’s body was shoved aboard the truck. The tail gate clanged shut behind him.
The convoy roared off.
SEVEN
MORRISON LOOKED THROUGH A window. On the other side of the window faces stared at him—a hundred faces and the faces stared at him with shocked eyes. The faces wore masks of terror. Faces of Greeks.
The window began to move and the faces blurred.
Mike bolted up in his seat then slid back. His head pounded and throbbed. There was a dry, pasty, miserable taste in his mouth and a queasy feeling in his stomach. He grunted and rubbed his temples.
On the opposite seat Mike saw a man stretched out. He was in uniform and his face was wrapped in bandages. The man groaned.
Mike pushed out of his seat and stretched. He was in a compartment on a train. He looked down the aisle and saw other compartments filled with wounded soldiers.
He flopped into his seat and dropped his head into his hands. Then, the first of the recollections came to him. A voice in the shadows, “you have no choice, Morrison....”
Mike fumbled wildly through his pockets. He held the card—MAJOR THEODORE HOWE-WILKEN: INTELLIGENCE... He stared at the small white envelope...
The train clickety-clacked past a grove of olive trees. The soldier opposite him moaned again and rolled and twisted in agony.
Mike sat through several moments of puzzled silence. Snatches of memory returned and he began to fit pieces together. So many of the events seemed hazy; others he could not recall. He looked about him again. The train—the uniform—the envelope—the pass. It was no nightmare—it had really happened.
He found the comfort of his pipe and tried to reason the situation out. Stergiou, the attorney, was obviously mixed up in something of importance. The “something” being the contents of the small white envelope. An adversary wanted the envelope.... British Intelligence was in on it, so, Mike reasoned, the Germans were the adversaries.
He shuddered as he reviewed the harrowing hours. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered.
Michael Morrison knew as much as he wanted to know. One thing was certain: he was going to get out of the whole affair quickly.
The fright of yesterday turned to anger. The audacity of that Stergiou!
He rubbed his temples again and