Glenn Meade (22 page)

'It's called the Imperial,' said
Reeves. 'Twenty rooms in all.

Looks like a proper dive inside. I
think I'd rather take my chances sleeping in a rat-infested sewer.'

Weaver had just climbed into the
back of an unmarked staff car next to Sanson, both of them armed and wearing
civilian clothes. They had taken a taxi into the hot, crowded back streets of
the Ezbekiya to join two of Sanson's men who had been detailed to watch the
Imperial. One of them, Reeves, a young intelligence officer with a thin moustache,
sat in the driver's seat, also wearing civilian clothes.

Across the street, the Imperial
looked far from what its name suggested: a cheap, run-down hotel with peeling
shutters, cracked exterior walls that looked as if they were about to collapse
- four derelict floors sandwiched between a long row of similar cheap hotels
and decaying tenement buildings. The painted sign above the entrance was badly
faded.

'What's the owner's background?'
Weaver asked.

Sanson had his notebook open on
his lap. 'Tarik Nasser's a small-time businessman with no known convictions.
The hotel was visited by the local police three days ago as part of our checks,
but they claim the register was in order and the clerk told them no one of
Farid Gabar's description had looked for a room.

The only reason we reckon Tarik
Nasser's a likely sympathiser is the word of one of our informers. During the
flap he was overheard boasting that he'd be welcoming the Germans with open
arms as soon as they reached
Cairo
.
Hardly unusual, you might say, but it turns out he's probably got a good motive
- a number of years ago his younger brother was shot dead while pilfering from
British Army stores. And as of now,
Nasser
's
the only likely suspect we've come up with.'

Three other hotels in the district
were under observation, and Sanson seemed impatient to make progress. 'Give me
the story,' he said to Reeves.

'I asked for a room and the clerk
told me they're full right now,' Reeves replied. 'All twenty rooms bursting at
the seams, and not a chance of getting one for another two months. It's the
same with all the others around here. You can't get a room for love nor money.'

Sanson let out a sigh. The
intention had been to get one of the men inside the Imperial to see if they
could spot anyone among the guests who resembled Gabar. 'That messes up our
plans. Which means we probably don't have much option except to raid the place
and pull in
Nasser
for questioning.

What about the customers?'

'Mostly European refugees, but
some Arabs too, so far as I could see.'

'Did you get a look at the
register?'

'No, sir. That wasn't possible.'*
'Did you see anyone who might resemble Gabar entering or leaving?'

'No, sir.'

'What about
Nasser
?'

'I asked to see the owner after I
tried to book a room, just to get a proper look at him. He came out himself. I
gave him my spiel about needing accommodation badly and that I'd pay over the
odds, but it made no difference - he told me he was full to the gills. He left
just over an hour ago and hasn't come back since. Briggs went to follow him,
sir.' Reeves looked out of the window. 'Hang on a minute. Here's Briggs now.’

A man came up alongside the car,
wearing a civilian suit and hat, and climbed in beside the driver. 'Where's
Nasser
?' Sanson asked.

Briggs nodded out of the window.
'That's him, sir. He went for lunch in a Greek restaurant two streets away.
Then he bought some groceries in a store around the corner.'

Across the road, they saw a
barrel-chested man waddle along the pavement. He wore a fez and carried a bag
of groceries, his treble chins rippling as he munched an apple. He turned into
the hotel and climbed up the short flight of steps with difficulty, his stubby
legs under strain, his fat cheeks puffing air.

Sanson opened the car door.
'Right, let's nab him while we can. Reeves, you come with us. Briggs, go round
the back.

Anyone tries to make a run for it,
you drop them, but don't kill the bastards. If they run, they've got something
to hide, and I want to know what it is.'

Hassan lay on the bed, idly
cleaning the Walther pistol with an oily rag.

The tiny room was driving him
insane and he felt like a caged animal. A pile of Arab newspapers lay on the
floor; he'd read each at least a half-dozen times. He was restless, needed to
walk. His stomach rumbled. It was still lunch-time, and the Greek restaurant
two streets away served excellent food. Wearing the suit, and with his beard
gone, he had begun to feel reasonably secure in his disguise.

He put aside the pistol, got up
from the bed, took his tie and suit jacket from the hanger on the back of the
door, and started to get dressed.

Weaver went into the lobby with
Sanson, Reeves behind them.

The place was threadbare, smelled
of stale food and cigarette smoke. There was a wooden counter on the left, a
young Arab clerk behind it, idly fingering a set of worry beads, and Sanson
said, 'Tank Nasser. Where is he?'

The clerk blinked at his visitors.
'I - I don't know, sir.’

'Don't lie to me. I saw him enter
just a moment ago.'

The young man gestured nervously
towards a door. 'Mr Nasser's office over there. Perhaps you find him inside-'

Sanson smartly crossed to the door
with Weaver and Reeves, pushed it open, and they found themselves in a tiny
office. Tarik Nasser was seated at a desk, set against the far wall, looking
through some correspondence, and he wobbled uncertainly to his feet at the
sudden intrusion. 'Yes?'

'Tarik Nasser?'

'Yes, I'm
Nasser
.'

'I'm Lieutenant-Colonel Sanson,
military intelligence. This is Lieutenant-Colonel Weaver.'

Nasser
tried not to swallow, felt his legs begin to shake, as if they were about to
collapse under his weight. 'To what do I owe this pleasure?'

Sanson nodded to Reeves. 'Check
the registration book. Be quick about it.'

'What's going on here?'
Nasser
protested.

Reeves left and Sanson said, 'Sit
down, Mr Nasser.'

Nasser
sat, felt sweat rise on the back of his neck, and his heart began to palpitate.
He thought of reaching for the buzzer under his desk, but reconsidered. 'You
haven't told me what this is about.'

'Then I'll get directly to the
point. You're suspected of harbouring German spies, Mr Nasser. And of being a
German agent yourself He was in trouble.
Nasser
felt a sudden pain tightening hi& chest, but he gave a dry, nervous laugh
that didn't sound very convincing. 'Is - is this some kind of funny business?'

'Cut the innocent act,
Nasser
. We have the word of a captured German
intelligence officer.'

Nasser
swallowed, reached for a handkerchief on his desk, dabbed his brow. 'There -
there must be a mistake, certainly?

I'm - I'm an honest businessman.'

Reeves came back moments later
with a thick guest ledger.

'There's no one named Gabar
registered for any time over the last nine months, sir. Or at present.'

As soon as he heard the name,
Nasser
's chest pain got worse.

He felt like throwing up, but he
made to reach for the buzzer instead, his hand shaking. He quietly took it away
as Sanson looked back at him.

'We're going to search the hotel.
Tear it apart if we have to, and check the guests in every room, one by one.
Then we're going to take you to GHQ for interrogation. Before we do so, I'm
going to give you the opportunity to confess. Well,
Nasser
?'

Nasser
made up his mind. Trembling, the handkerchief still in his hand, he quickly
reached under the desk and pressed the button twice. Sanson grabbed his arm in
an instant, twisted it behind his back. 'What the devil are you playing at-?'

Nasser
yelled in pain.

Sanson heaved him out of the way,
searched under the desk, spotted the button: 'The clever bastard's warned
someone.' He drew his revolver. 'A pound to a penny the Arab's here. Watch him,
Reeves, and cover the lobby. Follow me, Weaver, quickly -'

Hassan had finished putting on his
suit. He examined himself in the cracked mirror, almost ready to leave, when he
heard the buzzer go off, a sharp, brutal noise that sounded like a giant angry
mosquito had suddenly invaded the room.

His heart skipped. He looked up
sharply at the buzzer, just as it stopped for a second, then sounded again.

Once for caution. Twice to get
out.

In one fluid movement he picked up
the Walther, scanned the room to make sure he'd left nothing behind, and moved
to the door.

Weaver had his Colt automatic out
as he went back into the lobby with Sanson.

'We'll take one floor each, one at
a time,' said Sanson, the Smith & Wesson in his hand. 'I'll take the first,
you the second, then move up from there. And for God's sake be careful.'

They both went up the staircase,
Sanson leading the way, and parted company on the first-floor landing as Weaver
raced up to the second. He found himself in a short hallway, a window at the
far end, the same smells and shabby red carpet as the lobby, three rooms on
either side.

He saw no open doors. He tried the
first, on his right. Locked. He moved his shoulder hard against it, pushed, and
suddenly heard a noise behind the door. It opened and a middle-aged European
man made to come out, a shabby briefcase in his hand.

He looked alarmed.

'Get your hands above your head.'
Weaver pointed the gun in his face and pushed him back inside the room.

'I - I have papers,' the man
stammered, his hands shaking violently. 'My - my name is Josef Esher. I am
Hungarian refugee-'

The man obviously wasn't Gabar,
and Weaver saw there was no one else in the room.

'I'm looking for an Arab.' He
described Gabar. 'Have you seen him?'

The trembling man shook his head.
'I - I see no one like that.'

'Stay in your room and lock the
door,' Weaver ordered, then moved back out into the hallway. The door closed
after him, and he heard the lock click.

He tried the next room. Locked. He
moved quickly to the door opposite, tried the handle. It opened. He was in a
tiny single room. The bed was ruffled, an indent in the bedclothes where
someone had lain. Newspapers lay scattered on the floor.

It looked as if someone had left
in a hurry. Weaver noticed a key in the inside lock. He went back out into the
hallway. The window at the end was half open. He moved towards it quickly and
looked out. A rusting fire escape led down to a back alley, but he saw no one
outside.

'Damn.' Suddenly, he heard two
pistol shots in quick succession from somewhere below in the hotel, then came
another two, which seemed to echo out in the alley. He raced back along the
hall and down the stairs.

'He's dead, sir. He tried to
escape - made a move towards the front door. I fired a couple of warning shots
to scare him and he just keeled over, clutching his chest. Looks like the shock
must have given him a heart attack. I tried to revive him but it was useless.
The clerk's called an ambulance, not that it's going to do much good.'

As Reeves spoke, Weaver looked
down at Tank Nasser's overweight body sprawled on the lobby carpet. The
blubbery face had turned blue.

Sanson knelt, felt his pulse to be
certain. 'Damn it to hell. We needed to question the bastard. Did you see
anything, Weaver?'

'There's a window open on the
second floor. I think someone might have got down the fire escape, but there's
no sign of anyone.' He looked at Reeves. 'I heard two more shots.

Where's Briggs?'

'He should be still covering the
rear, sir.'

Sanson paled, got to his feet.
'Let's get out the back-'

As they made to move, Briggs
rushed in the front door, panting, his revolver still in his hand, and Sanson
said urgently, 'Did you get the Arab?'

'He got away, sir.'

'Damn it to bloody hell

Deacon reversed the Packard into
the deserted alleyway near the Rameses station.

He was fuming. There were
important things he had planned to do that afternoon, before he sent his signal
to
Berlin
that night, but this unexpected disaster had ruined his schedule.

It could even ruin everything.

He halted the car, jerked on the
handbrake, rolled down the window. The alleyway was a filthy, stinking place,
not a sinner in sight. He lit a cigar to ward off the stench, before he stepped
out of the car and said aloud, 'You can come out. It's safe.'