Authors: The Sands of Sakkara (html)
For a few moments it seemed as if
he had regained his senses. He managed to claw Sanson's tunic, raw anger in his
eyes, his voice a hoarse rattle. 'The - sodding bastard Arab - he did for me-'
Sanson could barely control his
impatience. 'If you know where they are, tell me, man!’
Salter gurgled, relaxed his grip,
his breath coming in tortured gasps.
'Hang in there. The medic's on his
way,' Sanson urged.
'No - no good. Won't help me-'
'Where are they, Salter? If you
know, for Christ's sake tell me!'
Weaver saw the flashes of light
two hundred yards from the airfield. Gunfire crackle and grenade explosions
filled the night air, and his heart sank. He told Helen Kane to pull up and he
climbed out of the car. 'We're too late. It's already started.'
She got out of the driver's seat
and came up beside him.
Weaver looked towards the
airfield, his face grim, watching the flashes of light from the welter of
small-arms fire. She put a hand on his arm. 'There's nothing you could have
done, Harry. I hate to say it, but it's over for your friends. Now let's get
out of here, before we both get shot.'
He took the pistol from the car,
made to move off into the darkness. 'If I'm not back in fifteen minutes, get
out of here and back to
'Harry, please - by now it's
pointless.'
'I need to know what's happened.'
Hassan revved the Moto Guzzi as he
sped along the edge of the runway.
A burst of machinegun fire ripped
into the ground to his right, and he glanced over his shoulder. A Jeep raced
after him in the darkness, three soldiers on board, clouds of dust pluming in
its wake. Hassan revved the throttle harder, tried to widen the gap, but he was
barely able to control the motorcycle, his hand ablaze with pain as he gripped
the handlebars.
Suddenly, the runway came to an
abrupt end and he veered left on to open ground. He was on hard-packed sand
that rolled beneath the wheels in rough waves, bouncing the front absorber
struts madly, sending agonising shock ¦waves through his body.
He peered ahead into the moonlit
darkness but saw only more rolling scrubland all the way to the barbed-wire
perimeter. He was trapped. Gunfire raked the soil ahead of him and he glanced
back again. The Jeep bounced over the rough ground, gaining on him fast.
He drove on, zigzagging,
frantically searching for a sharp rise somewhere near the perimeter, until he
saw a long, rising mound no more than fifty yards to his left, near the edge of
the wire. Another burst of fire riddled the ground dangerously close on his
left, and he swung right, then veered left again in a narrow arc, straightened
the front wheel, and headed directly towards the mound, revving hard.
The Moto Guzzi accelerated
sharply, eating up the final
twenty yards at full power, until
it looked certain he was about to crash into the mound. At the last moment, he
jerked up the handlebars and opened the throttle full. The engine screamed, the
back wheels hit the rise at ferocious speed, and he sailed through the air. The
motorcycle rose for a few terrifying seconds, he felt something claw savagely
at his leg as he cleared the wire, and then he started to sink fast. The front
wheel hit the ground forcefully, the Moto Guzzi bucked, and he came off and landed
hard, grunting, the breath knocked out of him.
Dazed, he looked back to see the
driver slam on his brakes to avoid hitting the mound. Too late, he skidded, and
the Jeep kicked up a cloud of dust and rolled over on its side. One of the
soldiers was thrown free, his body hurtling through the air, the Jeep rolled
again, landed on top of the wire, and Hassan heard the muffled screams of the
other two men as they were crushed beneath the vehicle.
He staggered painfully to his feet
and checked the Moto Guzzi. The engine was still running, and he climbed back
on and pushed the machine forward to assess the damage. The front wheel had
been slightly warped. It still spun, but grated against the forks and would
slow him down. The Sten gun had bruised his side when he'd fallen, the barbed
wire had cut a jagged gash down his right calf, and his jaw had started to
bleed again.
Suddenly he heard the roar of an
aircraft as a Spitfire came in low, its engines snarling, then another on its
tail, the landing lights of both ablaze as they flew over the airfield, before
they screamed up into the night. As he revved the motorcycle, he saw the
soldier who had been thrown clear stagger to his feet, clutching his shoulder.
He brought up the Sten, squeezed off a burst and, as the dazed man dropped for
cover, sped away.
Weaver was halfway along the
airfield perimeter road, moving fast, when he heard a motorcycle engine
somewhere behind him and looked back.
A hundred yards beyond the wire he
saw a rider being pursued by a Jeep, one of the passengers firing wildly at the
motorcycle as it twisted across the rough scrubland. To Weaver's amazement, the
rider started to drive at high speed towards the barbed-wire run. A split
second before the bike hit the wire, the front wheel lifted, and the machine
roared over the fence, its engine whining. The pursuing Jeep skidded wildly,
rolled twice, and crashed, belly up.
Weaver had started to run back
when he saw the rider get to his feet and check his machine, as a Spitfire
howled low overhead, then another, before the motorcyclist let off a volley of
machinegun fire and roared off in the opposite direction.
When Weaver reached the wire he
saw a sergeant sway to his feet on the other side, clutching his shoulder. He
climbed over the wrecked Jeep towards him. 'Lieutenant-Colonel Weaver, military
intelligence. What's happened here?'
The sergeant fell to his knees.
Weaver reached him just as he was about to keel over. The man's face was
creased in agony, his arm limp, and it looked as if his shoulder was broken. He
stared over at the tangled bodies under the wreckage. 'The poor bastards.'
'What happened? Where's
Lieutenant-Colonel Sanson?'
'Back at the airfield, mopping up,
sir.'
Weaver removed the sergeant's belt
and buckled it. He made a crude sling, placed the arm inside, and the sergeant
groaned.
'Who was on the motorcycle?'
'An Arab escaped from one of the
huts. We went after him.'
Weaver said urgently, 'Two
Germans. A man and a woman.
Were they caught?'
'I didn't hear about no woman
being caught, sir. Or Germans either.'
Weaver heard the sound of engines.
A string of blue-painted headlights raced towards him across the scrubland.
Frantically, he looked back along the road where the motorcycle had
disappeared. It had left a distinct wheel track in the sandy dirt.
Weaver made the decision
instantly. 'Help's on its way, sergeant.
They'll get you to a medic' He
clambered over the wreckage and raced back towards Helen Kane's car.
'We lost the Arab, sir.'
Sanson fumed when he heard what
had happened. 'Send out a couple of men to try and pick up his trail. And have
them take a radio operator with them to keep in touch.'
'We'll do our best, sir, though
we're probably a bit late. But it seems an American officer arrived on the
scene and might have gone after him. Name of Weaver, sir.'
'What?'
'Lieutenant-Colonel Weaver - at
least I'm told that's how he identified himself, sir. He gave first aid to the
injured sergeant then left in a hurry, hared off in the same direction as the
Arab.'
Sanson flared. 'Detail some men to
get after him. Have them search along the road. Weaver's to be arrested on
sight.'
'Sir? 'You heard me,' Sanson was
enraged. 'He's an escaped prisoner. Now get me a map of Cairo, fast.'
The confused major relayed the
orders to one of his officers, and came back promptly with a map. He looked at
Salter, lying unconscious on a stretcher in a corner as a medic attended him.
'Do you think he'll make it, sir?'
'I don't give a damn if he does or
not,' Sanson snapped back, then rolled out the map, slammed a fist on the table
to hold it down. 'This villa he mentioned on the western bank, Maison Fleuve,
have you ever heard of it?'
'I'm afraid not.'
'On second thoughts, have the
radio operator remain here, just in case the Germans attempt to try and land, and
reinforcements are needed. But first, have him get in touch with the American
embassy and pass on the message to General Clayton, urgently. Let him know
exactly what's happened here.'
'What about the airfield, sir?'
'Put a couple of trucks on the
field and make absolutely certain nothing can land. I want twenty of your men
to come with me, the rest to stay here and guard the prisoners. Seeing as the
field radio's out, the villa could be where the Arab's headed.
And if Salter's right, that's
where Deacon and the Germans are holed up.’
Haider jerked awake with a cry,
his body drenched in sweat.
Rachel sat curled up in a chair by
the window, and she came over and put a hand on his brow. 'It's all right,
Jack. I'm here.'
'What - what happened?'
'I think you had a bad dream,
that's all. You tossed and turned in your sleep.'
He sat up in the bed, covered in
perspiration. Rachel found a towel, dabbed his body.
'What were you dreaming about?'
His face darkened as he
remembered. 'That fortuneteller must have set my mind on edge. I had a terrible
nightmare, about Pauli. There were bombs - he was dying. I couldn't save him-'
'Jack, that's nonsense.'
He got off the bed with sudden
unease, went over to the enamel basin, splashed water on his face. 'The
ancients called dreams the prophecies of the soul, a kind of warning from the
gods. Sometimes I think they knew more than we do.'
'That's superstitious drivel.'
As he went to dry himself, there
was an unsettling disquiet in his eyes, his features drawn. She came up behind
him, put her arms around his waist reassuringly, her head against his back.
'With all that's happening, your
mind's working overtime.
That's why you had such a terrible
nightmare. You know, for a grown man, sometimes you can be so irrational.
Please, try and forget about it, Jack.'
He turned round, took her in his
arms, looked into her face.
You know something? You're far too
good for me, Rachel Stern. Practical, your feet on the ground.'
She put a finger to his lips,
smiled, but the tension showed in her eyes. 'You'd better go downstairs. The
sooner you return, the better.' She touched his cheek, brushed it with a kiss,
looked into his face. 'Promise me you'll come back safely? For both our sakes.’
He went down to the patio, and
found Deacon and Kleist waiting restlessly at the table, the field radio in
front of them.
The
dark river incredibly placid, and on the far banks the silhouettes of palm
trees were motionless in the heavy night air. 'It's like the calm before the
storm,' Haider commented.
'It's the waiting that kills you.'
Deacon was on edge as he wiped his neck with a handkerchief. 'You rested well?'
'Not half well enough.' There was
a pot of Turkish coffee and some cups on the table and Haider helped himself.
'Did anything come through on the field radio?'
'It's been as dead as the morgue.'
Haider nodded to Kleist. 'We'd
better give them a call before we head back, just to make certain.'
Kleist went to the radio, flicked
a switch, and put on the headphones. 'Raider One to Raider Two, are you
receiving me? Over.' He repeated the message half a dozen times, then frowned.
'There's no reply. It's dead the other end.'
'You're sure the radio's working
properly and you've got the right frequency?'
Kleist checked, to be certain, and
nodded. 'Try it yourself, if you wish.'
Haider did, but heard just endless
crackle in reply. As he put down the headphones Deacon stood, worriedly. 'Do
you think something's wrong?'
'We checked both the field radios
before we took the airfield, and they worked perfectly. There might just be a
technical problem, but you never know. Get out to the vehicle, Kleist. We're
heading back.'
When Kleist had left, Haider said
uneasily, 'Do you think there's a chance Salter has overplayed his hand?'
Deacon's expression darkened. 'I
wouldn't have thought so, not when he thinks he's got a fortune coming. But
with a thoroughgoing snake like him, I suppose there's no telling what he might
get up to. You think you can handle it, if that's the case?'
'Let's hope so. The main thing is
to stall him. Salter's going to have to hang around until the aircraft land,
that's for sure. After that, we won't have to worry about him either way.'
Haider tapped his fingers on the radio. 'But the fact there's no reply worries
me.'
'You and me both.'
Haider tugged on his cap. 'If we
can sort out the problem with the radio, I'll call you and let you know when
Skorzeny's men have landed. Otherwise, one of us will have to drive back to
keep you informed. God willing, it'll all be over one way or another before
dawn, and we'll meet for the final rendezvous.
Look after the lady while I'm
gone.'
Deacon offered a firm handshake.
'Good luck, Major.'
Haider turned to go, realized he'd
left the M3 upstairs in the bedroom. He moved towards the hall, heard the
distinct sound of an engine, roaring into the front courtyard. He removed his
pistol, said to Deacon, 'Who the devil's that?'
As they both went towards the
front door, Kleist came rushing in, his face taut. 'You'd better come outside.'