Authors: The Sands of Sakkara (html)
Ismay sat forward anxiously. 'I
know security is going to be extraordinarily tight for the conferences, sir,
but have you read the recent intelligence reports from
that there's something in the air. Their spies in
of President Roosevelt.’
'So I read.'
'Our intelligence chaps are even
suggesting Berlin might be tempted to try something desperate, sooner rather
than later, now that we're pushing Hitler hard.'
'I read that, too. Kill us, you
mean.'
'It makes sense. The death of any
one of you, Roosevelt, Stalin or yourself, would be a godsend for the Nazis -
especially yourself or Roosevelt. It would throw everything in a muddle and likely
as not put the brakes on the Allied offensive. Who knows which way the tide
might turn if a catastrophe like that occurred?'
'Don't I know it.' Churchill eased
himself from his chair, crossed to the porthole, looked out, and spoke without
turning back. 'But personally I've never put much faith in the Nazis' ability
to carry out an operation like that.'
'But they got Mussolini out of
it was too. I wouldn't put anything past them, sir. They could as easily have
assassinated II Duce as rescued him. And this Skorzeny chap who led the SS
paratroops, you have to admit his entire operation was first-class.'
'True. Are you trying to frighten
me, Hastings?'
'I doubt I could do that, sir. I'm
simply pointing out the possibility of danger ahead, if these reports are to be
believed.
Perhaps it might be wise, if it's
found necessary, to reschedule the conferences?'
'Impossible. It's taken too much
hard work, planning and compromise to arrange them in the first place. And it's
vital they take place at this juncture, with everything so critical. You know
that better than anyone. Lives depend on it. The sooner we can win and finish
this battle the better, lest there be more death and destruction.'
'But if it's deemed necessary.'
'Then it will ultimately be my
decision.' Churchill sipped his drink, continued to gaze out of the porthole.
'But I'm sure I'm in much safer hands than Mussolini. And there's one thing
on.'
'And what's that, sir?'
'Rather than succumb at the hands
of Hitler's assassins, I have every bloody intention of dying in my sleep, at a
ripe old age and with my family around me. There's a lot to be said for it,
Ismay couldn't help but smile
cheekily. 'No doubt with a cigar in your mouth and a brandy by your side?'
Churchill turned back, raised his
glass. 'That's it, exactly.'
The big old warehouse in the
teeming market area of the
Khanel
Khalili looked on
the outside like any other in the bazaar, a shambling brick building with
soot-blackened walls.
Inside, it was something else
entirely.
A treasure-house of supplies that
any merchant or NAAFI stores would have been proud of, packed from floor to
ceiling with crates of assorted alcohol, medical supplies, boxes of shoes,
bedcovers, tinned food and olive oil, reams of cloth, and just about anything
that would fetch an inflated price on the black market.
Reggie Salter was sitting at a
desk in the first-floor office, counting through several thick wads of dirty
Egyptian banknotes, sweat on his face as there always was when he counted
money. He was a small man in his early thirties, stickily built, and wearing a
sweat-stained linen jacket, a Browning automatic tucked away neatly in a
leather shoulder holster underneath.
The heat and humidity were
unbearable that evening, and every now and then he wiped his face with a
handkerchief.
Across the room, a thin, barefoot
Egyptian boy, no more than ten, sat on a couple of sacks of flour, turning a
set of bicycle pedals as fast as he could with his hands, working a complex
mechanical contraption of chains and pulleys that kept a couple of large wooden
fan blades spinning in the ceiling overhead, although the air was too
oppressive for it to make much difference.
'Can't you turn those bleeding
things any faster?' Salter snapped. The child was lathered in sweat, but did
his best to obey. There was a knock on the door and Salter scowled, but didn't
bother to look up as he carried on counting the notes.
'I'm busy. What the fuck is it?'
The door opened and one of his
bodyguards appeared. He looked thoroughly dangerous, well over six feet, broad
and muscular, tiny scars criss-crossing his face like a spider's web.
'Baldy Reed is here to see you,
Reggie. And Deacon's arrived. He's waiting downstairs.'
Salter scooped the money into a
drawer and locked it.
'Keep Deacon waiting and send
Baldy in first. Then find Costas down in the cellars and tell him I need his
arse up here, pronto.'
'Right you are, boss.'
When the door closed, Salter
crossed the room and jerked a thumb at the boy. 'Get out, kid. You're bloody
useless.'
The exhausted child lowered
himself from the sacks, but when he didn't move fast enough, Salter lashed out
and kicked his backside. 'Are you bleeding deaf? I said out. Now!'
The boy scurried out through the
door and a little later it opened again and a shifty-looking man in a British
army sergeant's uniform appeared. Wally Reed was no more than twenty-five,
boyishly thin-faced, but when he removed his forage cap there was barely a wisp
of hair on his smooth young head. Salter came round from behind the desk,
flashed a smile, all charm now, and shook his hand.
'Good to see you again, Baldy. And
what do you have for me this time? Something interesting, I hope?'
'Two forty-gallon drums of petrol,
a dozen bottles of best claret, and four sides of beef 'And who did you have to
murder to get those?'
Reed laughed. 'A man's got to
live. Are you interested?'
'How much?'
'Forty quid.'
'You're a bigger thief than I am.
Thirty, and not a penny more.' Salter grinned. 'But just to show there's no
hard feelings, I'll throw in a bottle of Scotch.'
'Done. You want me to drop the
stuff off at the usual place?'
'I'd appreciate it.' Salter
slapped a hand on the sergeant's shoulder and led him to the door. 'And do it
after midnight, as always. Good to do business with you again, Baldy.'
The day Reggie Salter deserted
from the Eighth Army, his life changed for the better. It had made him a wanted
man, but also a wealthy one. When the North African campaign had begun in
earnest, thousands of frightened young troops had fled from their units and hid
low in the
to invite a German bullet between the eyes. In Salter's case, it wasn't fear
that made him steal away from his foxhole in the middle of the night, but
simple common sense.
As many as twenty thousand Allied
deserters were in
among them, numbering at least a hundred, had set up very lucrative rackets,
using organized groups of renegades to rob civilian warehouses and military
stores. Salter had become one of them, and probably the most successful, hardly
surprising considering he'd already had a career in petty crime in
conscripted. Now he led a gang of twenty armed and dangerous deserters, English
and American, aided by a handful of Arabs, operating one of the sharpest and
most profitable black-market operations in
The door opened as Salter sat
perched on the edge of his desk, and a swarthy-looking man with a black
moustache appeared. Costas Demiris was the son of a Greek merchant, and like
Salter, his business partner, a deserter. His dark eyes were constantly on the
move, missing nothing. 'What's the problem, Reggie?'
Salter lit a cheroot from a pack
on his desk. 'Deacon's here.'
Costas grinned. 'So, your chickens
have finally come home to roost. Are you going to pay him the two hundred quid
you lost on his roulette table? It's been over a month now.'
Salter meshed his fingers together
and cracked his knuckles, a sudden vicious sneer on his face. 'Like hell I am.
Those wheels of his are as bent as a dog's hind leg. He fucks with me and I'll
have his balls for bookends.'
Costas's grin widened in
anticipation of trouble, as the bodyguard opened the door and Harvey Deacon
stepped in, followed by Hassan. Salter walked calmly across the room and stuck
out his hand. 'Good to see you again,
Drink? I've got a ten-year-old Scotch to die for.'
Deacon shrugged. 'Why not.'
'Pour
The Greek took a bottle from one
of the desk drawers, wiped a couple of tumblers with his shirt, filled them,
and came over with the glasses. Salter clinked Deacon's tumbler. 'Well, what
can I do for you, Harvey, old son?' He nodded at Hassan.
'Your boy here said it was
urgent.'
'I'm not his boy.' Hassan glared
back.
'I wasn't talking to you,
sunshine. So why don't you shut the fuck up until spoken to?'
Salter skewered the Arab with a
dangerous look, then turned back to Deacon. 'So, what's the trouble,
'No trouble. Some business, if
you're interested.'
'I can always do with that. Well,
I'm listening. What are you stuck for, a couple of cases of black-market
Scotch?'
'Not this time.' Deacon went to
sit in one of the chairs. He ran a finger round inside the collar of his shirt
- the heat in the warehouse office was stifling - then looked with wry
amusement at the crates and sacks of black-market goods packed floor to
ceiling. 'You know, it never ceases to amaze me how you haven't been caught yet
by military intelligence. You move about the city with impunity, and with a
bounty on your head.
You must have balls of brass,
Reggie. Or a guardian angel looking over your shoulder.'
Salter grinned and raised his
glass. 'My secret, old son, but the military has bigger fish to catch than
Reggie Salter. Uncle Adolf, for instance.' 4 In truth, Salter's warehouse was
one of several he had around the city, almost every one of them a warren of
tunnels below ground, with lookouts and runners posted up to three streets away,
and he rarely slept in the same bed for more than one night. He also had a line
of informers that stretched right to the top at the Provost Marshal's office, a
costly service he willingly paid for, since it ensured that he managed to avoid
capture and a certain firing squad after eighteen months on the run, despite a
price on his head.
Deacon said quietly, 'That
gambling debt you owe me. How would you like to keep it, and make some extra
money into the bargain?'
Salter glanced at Costas, and raised
his eyes with a faint smile.
'I'd like that very much,
sweetheart. But what's the catch, as my old granddad used to say?'
'I need a Jeep. American Army
type, with military police markings.'
Salter was still smiling. 'Is that
all?'
'I haven't finished. I'll also
want an American army captain's uniform, two MP uniforms, sidearms to go with
them, along with a couple of M3 machine guns. And three army trucks, American,
in good mechanical condition. Plus all the right paperwork for the vehicles.'
Salter looked amused, and laughed
out loud. 'What are you going to do,
Start another bleeding war?'
Deacon took a large envelope from
his breast pocket and tossed it to Salter. 'That's a thousand pounds on
account.
your time.'
The smile vanished from Salter's
face and he nodded to Costas, who picked up the envelope and riffled through
the contents. 'It looks kosher, Reggie. A grand sterling, like he says.'
Salter checked the money, then
studied Deacon. 'Who's the stuff for? Not yourself, surely? It's a bit late in
the day to start playing soldiers.'
'Some customers of mine.' Deacon
smiled. 'Who wish to remain nameless.'
Salter grinned back. 'In for a
dealer's fee, are you?'
'You might say that. The question
is, can you supply the necessary?'
'You know me, I can provide
anything your heart desires.
But it'll cost.’
'How much?'
Salter's grin widened. 'A lot more
than a grand. A Jeep, three trucks, uniforms and weapons? That's a lot of
hardware. Let's say three thousand, sterling, the lot.'
'A considerable amount of money.'
'It's the best I can do.' Salter
shrugged. 'My lads could get shot stealing that kind of gear.
Widows-and-orphans fund to take care of, and all that. Take it or leave it.'
'There's just one problem. I'll
need to know you have the Jeep, uniforms and sidearms within forty-eight hours,
by Friday night at the latest. The trucks I'll need a day later.'
Salter whistled. 'That's a rush
job, Harvey, my mate.'
'But can you do it?'
Salter shrugged, and finally
smiled. 'I don't see why not.'
'I'll want you to garage them for
me until I can pick them up.'
Salter frowned. 'For how long?'
'Probably no more than a day.'
Salter nodded. 'So long as you pay
storage, not a problem.
Say a hundred quid a day for the
lot.'
Deacon stood. 'Agreed. We've got a
deal.' He stuck out his hand and Salter shook it.
'Don't you need to consult with
your friends first, about the price?'
'No need. They trust my judgment.'
'Fair enough. I'll want another
five hundred when the Jeep, uniforms and weapons are ready for inspection, the
rest when I have the trucks. You pay the storage when you take delivery.
Where do you want to do that?'
'We can decide later.'
'No sweat.' Salter tucked the
envelope of money into his pocket.
Deacon looked him in the face.
'I'm depending on you, Reggie. Don't let me down.'
Salter slapped him on the back and
walked him to the door.
'Don't you worry, I'll see to
everything. Just make sure you bring the cash on Friday and everything will be
hunky-dory, old son.’
Reggie Salter splashed Scotch into
his glass, then stood watching from the grimy warehouse window as Deacon and
the Arab left the building and disappeared into the bazaar.
He rubbed his jaw. 'I wonder what
old
to?'
Costas joined him. 'You think he's
telling us the truth?'
Salter sipped from his glass,
shrugged, and wiped a film of greasy sweat from his brow. 'Could be. But as far
as I know, he's not the kind to get mixed up in naughty business. Sure, he'll
come to us for a couple of crates of stolen booze when he runs short, but
that's about his lot.'
'MP uniforms, a Jeep, weapons, and
three trucks. That's a lot of ordnance, Reggie.'
'And three grand is a lot of
shekels. There has to be a return for that kind of investment. A bloody big
return. So I ask myself, what are these mates of his up to?'
'Any ideas?'
Salter put down his glass. 'A
payroll heist, stealing valuable artifacts, robbing King Farouk's jewels, who
knows? Remember some cheeky sods did the naval paymaster's office in
ago and walked away with a cool ten grand?