The Zodiac Deception by Gary Kriss

Author:Gary Kriss
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

21

Outside Burg al Arab: August 19, 1942

Your Stars Today: Problem-solving activities increase in intensity now. Success will depend on your power to supply ready answers when challenged and to effectively convince others to accept them.

Peter was convinced he was dreaming, so he disregarded the sounds of machinery and the voices shouting coarse commands in very bad German.

But being poked in the ribs with some kind of blunt object actually seemed real enough to hurt and, even in a dream, demanded some kind of response.

“Verpiss dich,” he said, and felt another jab.

“Schiesse!” A groggy Peter stuck his head out through the folds of the parachute, which he had wrapped himself in like a cocoon to keep warm. “Verpiss dich!” He opened his eyes and was immediately blinded by truck lights.

“What’s he saying, Sarge?”

“‘Piss yourself away’. Best I can tell that’s ‘fuck off’ in kraut.”

Christ, it really wasn’t a dream! Those were soldiers surrounding him, the blunt object poking him was a rifle, and Sarge, the guy holding it, had an Australian accent. This was probably the Long Range Desert patrol that earlier had been shooting at the Axis aircraft.

“G’day, Fritz. How ya goin’? Now that we done the formalities, lift your ass, you bloody fuckwit.”

“Wait!” Peter raised his hands. Sarge grabbed them and yanked him up.

“See, Fritz, this is what ‘lift your ass’ means!” Sarge held Peter while one of the other soldiers slapped on a pair of handcuffs, then released him. “We found your boxhead buddy a few miles back, all mashed up in glider wreckage. Left him for the jackals and I’m thinking we should do the same with you.”

Not even a burial for Johnny. Damn, how did it come to this? “Listen, you don’t understand. We’re on the same side. I’m Peter Baker, a major in the British Army.”

“Pretty good accent for a kraut, Sarge,” the soldier who handcuffed Peter remarked.

“They teach their agents well, but he’s no fair-dinkum Brit. No, I’ll bet Fritz here and the other Herr Heine were preparing to pay Churchill a little surprise visit so they could chew the fat.”

Churchill? What the hell did Churchill have to do with anything? “I’m telling the truth. How can I convince you?”

“Not us,” Sarge said. “It’s the shiny arses at Field HQ you have to convince. Good on ya, Fritz. You’ll be getting where you were going anyway, courtesy of me and my Digger Darlan’s. What ya think, boys—won’t Winnie be goin’ all hooly dooley when Fritz here lobs in to yabber?”

Sarge’s question produced peals of laughter.

“Enough,” Sarge said. “Time we threw the cactus in the back of a truck and headed home.”

“Cactus?” Peter said.

“Oh, sorry, Fritz. I forgot for a moment that you’re a Brit so you wouldn’t know strine lingo. Well, no problem. Translated into the King’s English, ‘you’re cactus’ simply means ‘you’re fucked.’”

* * *

Under different circumstances, Peter might have enjoyed Burg al Arab, the Egyptian coastal village thirty miles southwest of Alexandria. With lush fig groves bordering on stretches of snow-white sand

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