Disclaimer: I do not own, or claim to own, any of the Biggles series characters used in this work. This fan fiction was written for entertainment purposes only and should not be considered part of the official storyline.
Warning: Non canon type fan fiction works may contain severe time mix-ups and character deviations.
Algy turned and came face to face with a
man that he presumed to be Brechovich. He was tall, clean-shaven, and surprisingly
well-dressed in an expensive suit.
“Stefan,” said Jane, taking the man’s hand
and gesturing to Algy. “This is Robert Smith, the pilot I was telling you
about.”
Inwardly Algy cringed at the appallingly
simple pseudonym, but he said nothing aloud, not wanting to give the game away.
Brechovich’s eyes settled on Algy with interest mixed with suspicion and he
said, “You fly good?”
The Russian’s accent was thick behind the
badly spoken English—Algy thought he could discern traces of an American accent
somewhere in the mix, but again he did not comment, merely replying in a non-committal
manner, “Good enough.”
“He’s very
good,” Jane put in, the compliment at direct odds with her earlier hostility.
She snuggled closer to Brechovich in a way
that made Algy’s eyes narrow, but again he said nothing, although mentally he
was starting to feel the first stirrings of anger. How could Jane treat
Brechovich in such a friendly fashion? It simply wasn’t decent! He was
starting to think that it was a good thing that Biggles was not at the scene
after all. “Goodness knows what he’d do if he saw this,” was his unspoken
thought.
“Good, huh?” Brechovich, oblivious to Algy’s
rage, was continuing to look him over with mildly suspicious interest. “You
need money, yes?”
Again Algy’s answer was non-committal, although
this time it was because his mind was elsewhere. “It’s always nice to have
money around, I suppose.”
To his astonishment the Russian reached
into a pocket and pulled out a thick wad of banknotes, handing them to Algy. “Here,”
he said. “Half now, half later. Wait outside. We fly in one hour.”
“Fly where?” inquired Algy, but Brechovich
was no longer listening. He had turned away and was making his way towards the
bar, arm raised to signal for a drink from the bartender.
&&&
Biggles pounded on the door and shouted
until he was hoarse, but no one came to let him out. He briefly considered
climbing out of the window, but a quick glance at it was enough to convince him
that he could not possibly fit through it.
“What sort of game are they playing anyway?”
he muttered to himself, sinking weakly down onto the bed. “They seem quite keen
to make sure that I’m here at five in the morning, at any rate. Still, it’s a
bit rich of them to lock me up in here.”
He took a glance at his watch and decided
that perhaps it would be better to get some rest, for it was almost midnight.
He had expected to spend a restless night,
but surprisingly he drifted almost instantly into a deep sleep as soon as his
head hit the pillow.
&&&
Biggles woke to find the sun streaming into
his face. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, he sat up slowly, wondering where
he was. Gradually the events of the night before came back to him and he threw
back the covers in a panic, casting a horrified look at his watch as he did so.
It was half past ten—five whole hours past
the time specified by Brechovich.
Striding to the door, Biggles tried the
handle again. It was still locked. However, a small tray had been placed beside
the door with a simple meal arranged on it, so clearly someone had been inside
the room since he had been imprisoned in it.
“How long are they planning to keep me in
here?” he wondered aloud, as he picked up the tray and carried it over to the
bed. “Strange treatment for a pilot.”
It only took a few moments for him to
dispose of what little food there was on the tray. Having thus refreshed
himself, he began to think seriously of a plan for escape.
Obviously the door was locked, and unless
it was opened by someone coming to collect the tray, he did not see any other
way of escape through there. The window, as he had already noted, was too small
for escape, but perhaps he could use it to deliver a message, possibly by
throwing his cigarette case through it. Surely the pub would be open again that
night and hopefully one of the patrons would notice the gleam of the case and
be tempted to pick it up.
Of course, there was always the risk that
the case would be picked up by one of Brechovich’s men, in which case the
message would be wasted.
“Still,” he mused, “it’s worth a try, at
any rate.”
Taking a pencil from his pocket, he wrote a
brief message on a page in his notebook and then tore the page out. Emptying
the cigarettes in his case onto the bed, he then proceeded to fold the paper
and place it inside the case. Satisfied with his handiwork, he collected his cigarettes
and put them back into his pocket before picking up the cigarette case with its
vital message.
He peered out the window. There did not
seem to be anything much around except for trees and bushes. It did not look
like the sort of place where many people passed by.
Biggles weighed the cigarette case
experimentally in his hand before throwing it with all his strength out of the
window. It hit a low-hanging branch of a tree, bounced, and then dropped out of
sight into the middle of a clump of bushes.
Disappointed, Biggles was just turning away
when the bush spoke.
“Ouch!” it said, indignantly.
Biggles stared. “Hello?” he called.
The bushes moved. A figure emerged. “Dad?”
said Sebastian.