The Maltese Falcon
Chapter 12
The car peeled away, kicking up a cloud of dust. Gertie stood at the curb, her duffel bag at her side, watching as the taillights faded into the distance. She faced it alone again.
The airport was alive with activity. The smell of aviation fuel—hexane, kerosene, benzine—hit her like a wave. She felt dizzy. It was the smell of speed and altitude.
She walked toward the hangar. The air vibrated with the roar of engines. A DC-3 Dakota, its olive-drab fuselage marked with a roundel of three vertical stripes of red, white, and blue, sat on the concrete apron. It was an old bird, a workhorse that had seen service in every theater of the war. Its skin was worn, its rivets pitted, but it was a machine of purpose.
Gertie approached the outdoor waiting area. It was a tarpaulin-covered platform with a single wooden bench. A few people were already there. They were a disparate group, a rogues' gallery of characters. There was a man in a tweed suit, his hat pulled low, clutching a leather briefcase. A woman in a heavy coat, her face obscured by a scarf, sat with her eyes on the horizon. A third figure, in a shabby leather jacket, stood near the fence, tapping an unlit cigarette. They were all older than her, their eyes darting around, checking for threats. They were fugitives, couriers, spies, and hawks—like her.
Gertie walked to the gate. She presented her ticket to the stewardess, a woman in a crisp uniform, and climbed the stairs to the cabin. The door hissed shut, and the plane began to taxi.
The interior of the Dakota was a tunnel of olive-drab, worn and smelling of ozone and mildew. The seats were arranged in rows of three, facing each other, with a central aisle. The floor was a worn rubber mat, its surface pitted with the scuffs of thousands of footsteps. The overhead bins were small, stuffed with luggage, and a small vent near the ceiling pumped warm air that smelled of the engine.
The plane was a DC-3, a workhorse that had served in every theater of the war. It was a noisy beast. The roar of the engines was a constant, a low-frequency thrum that vibrated through the floor and into the soles of her boots. It shook the cabin, rattling the windows. The pilot and co-pilot were in a small cockpit, its glass panels like the eyes of a machine, its instruments a blur of needles and dials. The crew worked in silence. The stewardess moved with a practiced efficiency, pouring coffee from a thermos and handing out small cups to the passengers.
The manifest was on the clipboard in the cockpit. Gertie's name was on it. She was logged. She was exposed. She was part of the system.
The plane took off, lifting into the air. The vibration increased, the roar grew louder, and the earth fell away. Gertie pressed her face against the window. The earth below was a patchwork of green and brown, of fields and towns, of small, isolated islands of civilization.
The Atlantic Ocean appeared, a shimmering expanse of blue, stretching to the horizon. The clouds were piled high, white and cottony. The sun beat down on the water, creating a brilliance that hurt the eyes. She saw a ship, a freighter, sailing on the water, its wake a long, white line.
The plane banked left, turning toward the south. The Iberian Peninsula appeared, a rugged, mountainous coastline. She saw the River Tagus, a silver ribbon cutting through the land. She saw the city of Lisbon, its white roofs glinting in the sun.
The flight was long, and the silence was heavy. The passengers were all discrete. They kept to themselves, their eyes on the horizon or their newspapers. No one spoke. The stewardess moved through the aisle, pouring coffee, handing out small cups of water, her movements quiet and efficient. The crew worked in silence, the engines humming a constant drone.
The mountains of Spain rose up, their peaks capped with snow. The plane flew over the Strait of Gibraltar. The Rock was visible, a massive limestone monolith rising from the sea, its silhouette distinct. It was a familiar landmark, a symbol of the ancient world. Below, the waters of the Mediterranean were a deep, azure blue, contrasting with the Atlantic's turquoise. The plane banked right, leaving the Rock behind.
The flight continued over the sea. The sun beat down on the waves, creating a dazzling display of light and shadow. The clouds were a tapestry of white, pink, and gold, like a painting. The beauty of the scene was overwhelming. It was a world of light, of heat, the sheer scale of the Mediterranean was a revelation to Gert. She had never seen anything like it.
The plane descended, turning toward the north. The coastline of Algeria appeared. It was a rugged, rocky coastline, with small towns and villages scattered along the shore.
The city of Algiers appeared. It was a sprawling, vibrant city, the "White City" of the Mediterranean. The white buildings of the Casbah rose up from the sea, their terracotta roofs glowing in the sun. The port was a hive of activity, with ships of all sizes, a forest of masts. The city spread out before her, a mosaic of light and heat.
The plane banked left, circling the city. The pilot put the plane into a holding pattern, waiting for clearance. The engines roared, the plane shook, and the passengers stood up, gathering their luggage.
The plane descended, its wheels touching the tarmac with a soft thud. The propellers slowed and stopped, the roar of the engines fading to a low hum. The propeller blades slowed, the engines cooling, the vibration subsiding. The plane came to a halt.
The door opened, and the stairs were lowered. Gertie waited for clearance to disembark.