Ginger gripped the wire with both hands near the point at which Biggles'

file was already biting into the metal. Two sounds only could be heard.

One was the rasp of the file; the other was the murmur of a gliding aircraft.

'This is where we have to burn our boats,' decided Biggles. 'Flash the call sign.' He handed Ginger the torch and went on with his work.

The torch, upturned, cut a series of dots and dashes in the night.

'Nearly through,' muttered Biggles. 'Keep flashing till you get an answer.'

Rasp-rasp-rasp, grated the file.

'Okay. They've seen us,' informed Ginger.

Biggles raised a leg, put his foot on the wire, and jumped. The wire parted with a musical tw.a.n.g. At once Biggles s.n.a.t.c.hed up the loose end and began running with it, to get as much of it as possible out of the way.

Ginger's eyes were on the gate a" or the position where he knew it to be.

There was no sound or sign of movement. Raising the torch again, he flashed it to show their position to the pilot, now circling overhead.

Biggles came back. 'That's all we can do,' he said. 'Watch the gate and tell me if you see '

em coming.' He took the torch and held it low to form a narrow flare path.

For the next sixty seconds, time, to Ginger, seemed to stand still. As Biggles had said, there was nothing more they could do. So there they stood, nerves tense, eyes staring into the dark vault overhead.

'He's a long time, what's he doing?' muttered Ginger impatiently.

'He's trying to avoid collision with something solid,' answered Biggles.

'Quite right. This isn't the moment to make a b.o.o.b. Here he comes. Watch out he doesn't knock you down!'

The black silhouette of the aircraft suddenly appeared, hardening as it drew nearer. The wheels b.u.mped, b.u.mped again, and the machine ran to a stand-still. Ginger recognised the Proctor. It had overshot them a little way, but they ran on after it, and reached it just as the door was opened.

Bertie stepped out. 'What cheer, chaps!' he greeted. 'Where's this bally Iron Curtain I've heard so much about?'

'It's right here,' Biggles told him curtly. 'Get back in and cut the funny stuff. I'm in no mood for it. In you go, Ginger.'

Bertie returned to his seat. Ginger scrambled in behind him. Biggles followed and slammed the door. 'Peel off, Algy,' he snapped. 'There's no future in staying here.'

As he finished speaking several things happened at once. The engine roared. The Proctor began to move. A searchlight cut a blaze of white light across the stubble. A machine-gun started its vicious rattle, the bullets flicking dirt and sc.r.a.ps of straw into the air.

For a few seconds Algy held the machine low, for speed, banking with one wing-tip nearly touching the ground. Then the Proctor zoomed like a rocket, and the field, with its dangers, faded astern.

'Which way do you want to go?' called Algy.

'Grab some alt.i.tude while I think about it,' replied Biggles. The Proctor continued to climb steeply.

After a minute Biggles went on. 'Make for the nearest German frontier. A course slightly south of east should take us to the American Zone.

That'll suit me a" for a start, anyway.

The thing is to get outside the Curtain.'

'I'll do my best,' promised Algy.

'Do you expect any difficulty?'

'We were challenged on the way out.'

'By what?'

'Flak, when I refused to go down. Radar must have picked us up as we crossed the frontier. I saw a Russian Yak, but I dropped into a cloud and lost it.'

'Did you come across the Russian Zone?'

'Naturally, I came the shortest way.'

'That explains why they were trapping the known landing-grounds on your line of flight.

No matter. Carry on. You've less than a hundred miles to go.'

Bertie chipped in. 'By the way, where's our soldier chappie, Ross?'

'On his way to China, via Berlin. They're using these fellows in the Korean war.'

'Here, I say! That's a bit tough!' muttered Bertie. 'Looks as if he's had it. How far is China from here? Never was any bally good at geography, and all that sort of thing.'

'For a rough guess,' answered Biggles grimly, 'China is about five thousand miles farther east than we could get in this kite, even with full tanks. That's why I'm going the other way.'

'But, look here, old boy, you're not going to leave Ross there, are you?'

'I am not,' Biggles told him shortly. 'But I'm not such a fool as to try to fly right across Russia. We'll get something bigger than this and tackle the job from the back door of Asia. But it may not come to that.

At the moment Ross is in the Soviet Zone of Berlin.'

'Are you thinking of trying to collect him there?' asked Algy.

'It'd save us a much longer journey if we could. It would also save a lot of time. I wouldn'

t like Ross to think we'd let him down. Get across the frontier, and we'll talk about it.'

The Proctor droned on.

Algy's fears of interception did not materialise, due perhaps to a new front of cloud that was coming up from the west, in which he took cover.

Signals ordering the machine down were received on the radio, but these were of course ignored. There was a flurry of flak as the aircraft approached the frontier, but it never threatened serious danger.

An hour later the Proctor landed, and, after explanations, parked for the night at Frankfurt, in the American Zone of Occupied Germany.

Much later in the day, just as the twilight was becoming dim, it touched its wheels on the great international airport at Berlin.

CHAPTER IX.

Biggles Takes a Chance.

The weather seemed determined to remain unsettled, and it was raining quietly but steadily when Biggles stepped out of a taxi in a certain street in the British Zone of Berlin. After paying his driver, he crossed the shining pavement and entered an open door over which hung a limp Union Jack.

A sergeant in British battle-dress intercepted him. 'Yes, sir?' he challenged.

'I want to speak to Major Boyd,' Biggles told him.

'Got an appointment, sir?'

'No, but if you take in my name I think he'll see me. Just say it's Inspector Bigglesworth.'

'Very good, sir. Please wait. here.' The N.C.O. strode down a corridor and knocked on a door at the far end. He went in, but reappeared at once with a finger raised. 'This way, sir.'

Biggles walked forward and entered the room. The N.C.O. retired and closed the door behind him.

An elderly man in civilian clothes, who had been seated at a desk, rose to meet Biggles. '

Come in,' he invited. 'Take a seat. What can I do for you?'

'You were expecting me, I think?'

'Yes. I had a signal from London.'

'That would be the result of a phone call I put through to my chief this afternoon. He told me to come to you.'

'What's the trouble?'

'It isn't exactly trouble. One of our operatives is a prisoner in the Soviet Zone. I'm anxious to get him out, or at any rate make contact with him.'

'Can't he get out on his own?'

'He may not try. He's an amateur, a volunteer, in a rather curious business. He doesn't know it, but as far as I'm concerned his work is finished. Through him I've got the information I wanted, so he might as well come home. It's unlikely that he could get out even if he tried. Not knowing what I know, it's more likely that he won't try. Unless I can get hold of him quickly, I may lose sight of him for good.'

'I see. How can I help you?'

'I don't know my way about. That is, I'm not familiar with the Zonal boundaries. I want you to lend me a guide who does. There are reasons why I'd rather not risk being questioned at any of the control points a" our own, or Russian.'

'Where exactly do you want to go?'

'I've reason to think that my man is in the Hotel Prinz Karl, in the Zindenplatzer.'

'It shouldn't be very difficult to get you there. When do you want to go?'

'Now, if it's all the same to you?'

'It's all the same to me. D'you want the guide to wait for you and bring you out?'

Biggles hesitated. 'That's a bit difficult. I've no idea how long I shall be. How long could the guide wait?'

'As long as you like, within reason.'

'Suppose he waits for an hour? That should be long enough. If I'm not ready to leave by then I may be over the other side indefinitely.'

The officer pushed a bell. 'Suppose you get into trouble? Do you want me to do anything about it?'

'No, thanks. It's unlikely that you would be able to do anything, short of starting a full-scale diplomatic row. If our friends over the way get their hands on me, knowing who I am, they'll keep me there.'

'Watch how you go.'

'I'll do that.'

A man came in, a youngish man in a well-worn suit. There were no introductions, but a glance told Biggles that he was a German. This was confirmed when Major Boyd spoke to him in that language, explaining what was required of him. The guide simply said, Jawohi,' and went out, to return a minute later wearing a hat and raincoat. 'I am ready,' he announced, looking at Biggles.

'Thanks, Boyd, much obliged,' said Biggles, and got up.

'No trouble at all. Good luck.'

'Do you want to see me when I come back?'

'Not necessarily. I shall probably have left the office by then. The guide will come back here.'

'Fair enough. Goodbye.' Biggles followed the German into the street.

The man set off at a brisk pace. Not a word was spoken in the long walk that followed.

At first the way lay through busy thoroughfares, but presently these gave way to quiet streets in what was obviously a residential quarter. In one of these the guide turned abruptly into a private house, one of a long row built in the same pattern. Three steps led from the pavement to the door. This the guide unlocked with a key which he took from his pocket.

They entered. The door was closed. All was in darkness, but the guide switched on a torch, to reveal a long hall. To the far end of this he walked. Another door was opened, and another hall traversed. Yet another door gave access to a street much like the one they had just left. But there was a difference. The soldiers now encountered wore Russian uniforms, not British. The guide walked on, in an atmosphere that had suddenly become sinister. There was no need for him to tell Biggles that they were in the Russian Zone.

Ten minutes brought them to an important street of shops and bright lights. There was a fair amount of traffic. The guide stopped at a corner and spoke for the first time. The hotel is about a hundred paces along, on the right. It is the only one, so you cannot make a mistake. A few doors along from here there is a bierhaus. I will wait for you there.'

'If I'm not back in an hour, you'd better go home,' said Biggles. 'As you wish.'

Biggles went on alone and had no difficulty in finding the hotel. It was larger, and of much higher cla.s.s than had been the one in Prague. The clientele was altogether different and, Biggles noticed, included a fair sprinkling of Russian officers. Several cars stood outside. There was also a patrol vehicle of the jeep type, with two soldiers standing by it.

Just how he was going to locate Ross, Biggles did not know. Apart from the name of the hotel he had no information on which to work. He had a vague hope that he might see him, or his escort, pa.s.sing through the vestibule or in one of the public rooms. If these failed, he decided, he would try his luck with the reception clerk, trusting to his spotted tie to produce answers to his questions. There was, of course, no certainty that it would; but it had worked in Paris and in Prague, so it might work in Berlin.