Glenn Meade (12 page)

'Then I'll need to see my son one
last time, before I go.' ›*¦_.

Schellenberg shook his head. 'Not
possible, I'm afraid, for £" obvious security reasons. From this moment
on, you're all committed to the mission and under my protection. By right, you
should be sleeping in Lichterfeld barracks tonight.'

Haider made to protest, but
Schellenberg said, 'Forget it, Jack, you're wasting your time. It's Himmler's
personal instruction, and the two Gestapo men outside have orders to ensure you
don't go anywhere without my permission.' He stood. 'And now you'd better get
some sleep. You've a busy day tomorrow.'

He crossed to the door, opened it,
looked out at the pouring rain. 'Thank God the weather's stopped the bombers.'
He shivered, pulled up his collar and looked back, a curious expression on his
face. 'Do you still have feelings for the girl, Jack?'

'What's it to you?'

Schellenberg shrugged. 'I'm simply
curious.'

'You can go to hell.'

'I take it Canaris told you about
Himmler's threat?'

'He told me.'

'Old Heinrich means what he says.
Unpleasant, I know, but there you have it. So I wouldn't even think about
failing, Jack, or putting anything less than a hundred per cent into this. Life
wouldn't be worth living, as they say, for either you or your son.'
Schellenberg gave a wicked grin as he turned back towards the door. 'But rest
assured, the boy will be well looked after until your safe return.'

Weaver tilted his head and tried
to sit still as the female doctor stitched his neck. He "was in a cubicle
in the Anglo-American hospital. A nurse had given him a shot of morphine, and
all he felt was a warm feeling of elation. The pain would come later, when the
drug wore off.

The doctor finished another
stitch, smiled and said, 'A ¦wonderful thing, morphine. Makes you forget all
your troubles.

That's a pretty nasty gash. You're
lucky you're still alive.' She was British, very attractive, and had sensitive
blue eyes. 'So, tell me, what happened?'

'Someone cut me with a knife.'

'That much is obvious.'

The incident "was an
intelligence matter and not something Weaver wanted to discuss, no matter how
attractive the doctor.

'Are we almost done?'

'One more to go.' She pierced the
flesh again, finishing the last suture. She tied the stitch, cut the thread
with scissors, then the nurse put a protective dressing on Weaver's neck and
wrapped a bandage around it.

'Will I be OK?'

'You'll be fine, apart from a
nasty scar when the wound heals. But you're a bit shaken and you'll have to
rest up for a week or two. Stick to liquids for a few days, soup and some
glucose mixed with "water, otherwise swallowing's going to hurt.

I'll give you some morphine pills
to help keep the pain at bay. In the meantime, try not to move your neck too
much, otherwise the stitches might be disturbed.'

'Do I really have to rest up?'

'Lieutenant-Colonel Weaver, you've
lost quite a bit of blood and the cut's deep. A quarter-inch deeper and you'd
probably be in the morgue. So it's straight home to bed.'

The door opened and Helen Kane
came in. She looked concerned. 'How is he, Doctor?'

'He'll live.' She handed Weaver a
bottle of pills. 'Take two whenever the pain gets too bad. They'll make you a
little slow and light-headed, but that's a small price to pay. Try to be more
careful in future.'

She smiled playfully and went out
with the nurse. Helen Kane said, 'How are you feeling, sir?'

'Lousy.'

'Well, there's one good thing.'

'What?'

'I think the doctor liked you. She
made a lot of eye contact.'

Weaver was tempted to smile back,
but resisted. He touched the bandage around his neck. It felt tight. He could
barely move his head and he felt groggy. He hardly remembered being taken to
the hospital - everything that had happened after the Arab had slashed him was
a blur. He slid off the bed and reached for his jacket. Helen Kane put out a
hand to support him. 'Don't you think you'd better rest for a while?'

'Time for that later. What's
happening about the Arab, Helen?'

'Lieutenant-Colonel Sanson wants
to see you. He's waiting down the hall.'

Sanson was in one of the waiting
rooms when Weaver and Helen Kane entered, the windows open, a ceiling fan
whirring away. When he saw Weaver's bandaged neck and the dried blood caked
into his shirt and tunic, he looked mildly sympathetic.

'That looks pretty bad. Do you
feel up to talking?’

'Sure.'

Sanson said politely, 'If you
don't mind waiting out in the car, Helen.'

'Yes, sir.'

When Helen Kane left, Sanson lit a
cigarette and watched her stroll into the gardens outside. 'She seems to have a
keen interest in your wellbeing, Weaver. Is there something going on between
you two?'

'As one equally ranked officer to
another, and if you don't mind me saying so, I really don't think that's any of
your business.'

Sanson reddened. He seemed to take
the rebuff personally, his expression icy as he nodded towards a bench. 'Take a
seat.'

They sat near one of the windows.
Out on the sun-washed lawns, nurses strolled with their charges, limbless and
seriously wounded men on crutches and in wheelchairs, recovering from the
fighting in
Italy
.
Looking at the injured patients, then back at Sanson's scarred face and patched
eye, Weaver suddenly felt grateful that he had only suffered a knife
laceration. The last time he'd been wounded had been in
Algeria
, when
he'd sustained a shrapnel injury to his thigh from an enemy mortar blast. It
had been a close call, because he'd lost a lot of blood and his unit was under
heavy machine gun fire at the time. He couldn't move, but one of his fellow
officers had heroically risked his life, crawling forward under withering fire
and helping to get him back safely behind American lines. Had he not been
rescued, Weaver would certainly have died, but after six weeks enduring the
boredom of recovery in a hospital bed in
Algiers
,
he had been almost glad to return to active duty.

'You had a lucky escape,' Sanson
said sharply. 'My sergeant wasn't so fortunate. He died ten minutes ago in a
ward down the hall'

'I'm really sorry to hear that.'

'So was I. He was a bloody good
soldier by any standards.'

Sanson was angry. 'And I'll tell
you something else, Weaver.

Something that is my business. Had
you kept a vigilant watch with the gun and waited until I returned before
poking your nose around the flat, my sergeant might still be alive.’

Weaver said grimly, 'Maybe you're
right. But from the look on the Arab's face, he meant to kill anyone who got in
his way.

All of us who were in the room if
he had to. I meant it when I said I was sorry about the sergeant's death. But
it could just as easily have been me.'

Sanson took out a notebook, all
business, and replied curtly, 'Forget it, Weaver. Right now I'm not in the mood
for arguing. You'd better tell me exactly what happened after I left the flat.'

Weaver told him and Sanson jotted
down details. 'If our friend is worth his salt, he's probably got another safe
house, but we'll have to check the hotels, pensions and lodging houses to see
if anything turns up. It's probably pointless keeping a watch on the flat -
he'll never go back there again. I've also given details of the incident to
every police station in Cairo, and we're questioning the other tenants and
trying to get in touch with the landlord, to see if he can tell us anything
about the identity of this fellow.'

'Did you search the flat?'

'Top to bottom. We found nothing,
apart from a radio battery hidden under the stove. But it wouldn't stop him
from transmitting. A car battery would probably do just as well. I'll try to
find out if there's been any unidentified radio traffic out of
Cairo
recently, and ask Signals to keep a
close monitor on the airwaves from now on. By the way, the camera we found is a
type that's ideal for photographing documents, and uses a miniature roll of
film. With that and the radio, you can bet the bastard's up to serious
business. Have you any experience of enemy spies, Weaver?'

Internal security in
Egypt
was the responsibility of the British;
they had the most experience, and the
US
took a back seat. 'I guess not.'

'You might say catching them is a
personal crusade of mine.'

Sanson pointed to his face, the
patched eye and scarred jaw, an edge of bitterness in his voice. 'No doubt
you've wondered about this. It was a gift from a chap named Raoul Hosiny, who
worked for the Germans. I tracked him down to a flat in
Alexandria
eighteen months ago, while he was
sending a radio transmission to one of Rommel's bases. He was another good one
with a knife, was Raoul. So good, he left me blind in one eye and looking on
the bright side, permanently.'

'He escaped?'

'Not for long. I tracked him down
again and shot the bastard dead.' Sanson dropped his cigarette on the floor,
ground it out with his boot. 'Catching Italian spies was always easy - you
located the most beautiful women in town, and looked under their beds. And
being sensible fellows, the Italians nearly always gave up without a struggle.
But the Germans are something else entirely. They have the most ruthless and
professional agents you'll ever meet. Hardly surprising when you consider some
of them are trained by the Gestapo and SD.'

'And what about the Arab?'

'Oh, he's a spy, no doubt about
it. The question is, what's he up to? And what did Evir do for him that he paid
for with his life?'

'You really think he might have
breached security at the residency?'

Sanson stood, towering above
Weaver, his tone still icy.

'We'd better check and try and
find out, hadn't we? But if you want an honest opinion, I'll give you one. I
was a policeman for ten years, and my nose is twitching on this one. We both
know your President and our Prime Minister are due to arrive next week for a
top-secret conference. Our intelligence reports suggest that the Germans have
been trying desperately to get details. Why should be pretty obvious. I'd say
that's reason enough for both of us to be concerned, wouldn't you?'

The Gezira Sporting and Racing
Club was the most prestigious in
Cairo
, situated
on
Gezira
Island
,
a small luxury oasis in the middle of the
Nile
,
set in fourteen acres of magnificent gardens, with tennis courts, three polo
pitches, swimming pools, restaurants, and several bars. The membership was
mostly diplomats, wealthy Europeans and Allied officers, and there was a
waiting list for new members as long as the club's racecourse.

The members' bar was still busy
with civilians and off-duty officers when Weaver arrived just after lunch. He
ordered a Scotch and soda, took a sip but found it an effort to swallow. He had
showered and changed into civilian clothes, a light linen suit and an
open-necked shirt. Wearing a uniform shirt and tie was impossible with the
bandage, and now the anaesthetic was beginning to wear off his neck felt
painfully sore.

He saw General George Clayton
enter the bar, his uniform immaculately pressed as always, the polished brass
stars shining on his epaulettes. The
US
military attache was a
no-nonsense intelligence officer with a tough reputation. 'Hello, Harry. You
look like you've had one hell of a morning.'

'I think you could say that, sir.'

Behind Clayton came the American
ambassador, wearing sweaty tennis whites and carrying a racket and towel.
Alexander Kirk was a tall, very handsome man with a flamboyant manner, his
friendly blue eyes hiding a wily streak.

'Mr Ambassador, sir. Sorry for
interrupting your game.'

'Lieutenant-Colonel Weaver. Good to
see you again.'

Weaver shook hands, and Clayton
nodded towards the empty tables on the veranda. 'Why don't we take a walk,
where we can have some privacy.'

The ambassador and general
strolled outside and sat in the cane chairs at one of the tables, and Weaver
joined them. A couple ofghiassa -
Nile
boats
with huge sweeping lateen sails drifted gracefully along the river. Beyond the
palm and oleander trees there was an uninterrupted view out to the
Giza
pyramids, twelve
miles away, where Weaver knew the American and British army engineers were
putting the finishing touches to the special compound being constructed for the
top-level conference.

Clayton lit a cigar and dismissed
the waiter who approached the table. 'So what's this about some Arab trying to
cut your throat?'

Weaver explained, and when he
finished there was a long silence, until the ambassador said, 'You're telling
us Lieutenant Colonel Sanson thinks this burglar managed to crack my safe
without my staffs knowledge? That seems pretty incredible.'

'He believes it's possible, sir.’

'The residency has tight
security,' Clayton remarked. 'You know that, Harry.'

'And there's been nothing missing
from the safe,' the ambassador offered.

'Maybe I'd better tell you what we
found, sir.'

Clayton stopped chewing on his
cigar. 'Maybe you'd better.'

Weaver looked at the ambassador.
'There were some faint scratch marks near the latch on the French windows that
lead to your study, which could have been made with a knife. And several
indentations in the soil under a clump of trees across the lawn.
Lieutenant-Colonel Sanson thinks they could have been footprints. We're still
checking for fingerprints, but it's too early to say.'

The ambassador stirred
uncomfortably in his chair. 'And what do you think, Lieutenant-Colonel Weaver?'

'The fact is, the burglar was
murdered, for whatever reasons.

And the Arab had a radio, and was
obviously prepared to kill me to retrieve it. Which means the radio's vital -
so it's likely he's in contact with the Germans. He also had a camera. Maybe
nothing was taken from the safe, but any documents kept there could have been
photographed. Can you recall your schedule for last week, sir?'