Glenn Meade (6 page)

The surviving crew members had
abandoned ship while flames raged on deck. Rachel and her father managed to
scramble aboard one of the lifeboats with two badly wounded Turkish sailors, her
father still clutching his briefcase containing his precious maps and notes
from the
Sakkara
dig. They drifted away from
the other lifeboats in the darkness, and a little before midnight a storm blew
up. Their tiny vessel was pounded by ten-foot waves and lashed by savage winds.
The weather improved by dawn, but by noon the sailors were dead and she and her
father were exhausted, dehydrated, and burnt by a scorching Mediterranean sun.

Late in the afternoon, a grey
shape loomed on the horizon and cruised towards them. At first, Rachel thought
it was a British naval boat searching for survivors, but when it came closer
she saw the red-and-black swastika of the German Kriegsmarine. She and her
father were detained on board the naval vessel after it docked in
Naples
for refueling, and two weeks later they arrived in
Hamburg
, where they were
promptly met by the Gestapo.

Harry Weaver stayed on in
Egypt
, and for much longer than he thought,
working with an American desert exploration group searching for archaeological
ruins, until six months before Rommel landed in
Tripoli
in February 1941. Then he flew to
Lisbon
and on to
London
,
returning to the
United States
via
Southampton
. He volunteered the day after
the Japanese attacked
Pearl Harbor
.

He had heard about the sinking of
the
Izmir
while still at
Sakkara
.
It was a little after midnight, and someone came to his tent with a newspaper
and showed him the report, which claimed that the only survivors were four
Turkish crewmen whose lifeboat had been picked up by a Maltese fishing trawler.

When he read the news in the
lamplight, he cried. He had loved Rachel deeply, and that night on the
ambassador's veranda he had so much wanted to tell her, but had never really
got the chance, or had the courage. Then he did what any grief-stricken young
man would have done in such circumstances. He put aside the newspaper, took a
bottle of whisky from his bag, and got drunk.

But the very last thing he did
before he finally fell asleep was to look at the photograph he treasured, of
the three of them together. Rachel, Jack and himself. Three young, smiling
people, their arms around one another, standing in the desert sands at
Sakkara
. It was a happy time.

November is the hottest summer in
thirty-six years. The ancient city in the shadow of the
Giza
pyramids had always stank, but it
smelled like a fetid sewer. All over
North Africa
clear skies and an oppressive heat wave had added an
asant
discomfort to the rigours of war. And yet, despite the fact, it had been a
momentous year for the Allies. The once great Rommel had been defeated, the
German 5
th
Army of Marshal von
Paulus
had surrendered at Stalingrad, General Rommel's troops had landed in
Sicily
, and the Reich's second city, crawling
port
of
Hamburg
, had been reduced to
smoulderubble
. And then came autumn. The weather cooled,
the Germans had to regroup, and the war suddenly stagnated. In the
ron
that was
Cairo
, such
news mattered far less than the
ag
winds and the
welcome rain-clouds that finally blew in the
Mediterranean
in early November. Mustapha Evir, crouching in the shadows of the pine it
seemed that the oppressive heat of summer had never away. It was a mild night,
yet sweat ran down his shirt and , trickled down his face and chin, and his
body felt on fire. It ear, of course. To try to lessen his anxiety, he toyed
with a 3 set of Arab worry beads in his right hand. Considering the danger of
what he was about to do, Evir knew that one slip could cost him his life.

He was a small man, lean and thin,
and wore a shabby black suit, tatty leather sandals, and a grimy, collarless
shirt. His unshaven face had the tired look of a weary old fox constantly beset
by hounds. He was in the grounds of a walled villa in the wealthy district of
Garden City, an area that quartered some of the grand city homes of foreign
ambassadors and their families.

He had waited with the patience of
a hunter for over an hour, and now it was almost time to move. Sixty paces
across the lawns stood the handsome villa that housed the American ambassador.
Two armed sentries paced outside the double oak doors, and there were another
two at the entrance by the gate lodge.

Evir glanced behind him, down the
sloping gardens, past the ornate pavilion and the sentries at the lodge,
checking that the guards were still there. Beyond the wrought-iron gates, in
the far darkness, he could make out the Kasr-el-Nil bridge and the broad
majestic
Nile
, the ghostly white sails of
feluccas gliding over the shimmering, moonlit water. He noticed the tall
minaret of a mosque on the far side of the river and said a silent prayer - not
that prayer had ever changed anything in his miserable life, but right now he
needed to calm himself. The last thing he wanted was to go back to the
stinking, crowded cell he had shared with twelve other prisoners, and he begged
Allah to protect him.

As he turned back, a chandelier
suddenly blazed into life in the villa's hallway, and Evir tensed. Moments
later he heard a car's engine start up, then an imposing black Ford appeared
from behind the servants' quarters and drew up in front of the entrance. The
sentries snapped to attention as the oak doors opened and a man dressed in
evening wear came out and stepped into the chauffeured car.

The American ambassador had a
well-fed look, and Evir spat in the darkness and despised him. What did he know
of having seven hungry mouths to feed? Of living in a stinking hovel? Of how a
man had to break his back every day to earn a crust in a harsh city like
Cairo
?

Evir saw the Ford drive away, and
seconds later the chandelier lights went off. As soon as the car moved out
through the main gates, the sentries seemed to relax, and the two outside the
villa entrance sat on the granite steps and lit cigarettes. Evir crouched in
the shadows of the trees for five more minutes, then wiped the sweat from his
face, slipped the set of worry beads into his pocket and stood, massaging his
aching knees. It was time to go to work.

The American ambassador's
residence had a reputation for tight security, but Mustapha Evir also had a
reputation. To those who availed themselves of his services he was known as The
Fox. There wasn't a house built that he couldn't break into, or a safe made
that he couldn't crack. But three stiff sentences in the hell of
Cairo
's Torah prison, in
over thirty years of crime, had cooled his love of the work. After his release
three months previously he had formed the intention of leading an honest life,
but the only work he could find was back-breaking drudgery, carrying bales of
cotton through the steep, cobbled market streets, for a fat cloth merchant who
treated him like a dog and paid him barely enough to feed his family. But
tonight, this one job could earn him a fortune.

Evir was unimpressed by the
security and the sentries. He had watched the villa for over a week, observing
the guards, sketching the layout of the grounds, trying to judge distances and
anticipate obstacles. So much was at risk, and he couldn't afford mistakes. But
it had been simple enough to climb over the residence wall, and the sentries
didn't appear to notice as he crawled on his belly across the lawn towards the
patio on the far side of the building. He guessed that now the Germans had been
defeated in
North Africa
, the guards were more
at ease. He reached the French windows and stood, perspiration dripping from
his face. He took a long, slim knife from under his coat, slipped the blade
between the window frames, sprung the catch effortlessly, and stepped between
some curtains into a darkened, oak-panelled study.

The Khan-el-Khalili bazaar was
crowded as usual that evening, the noise and the smell of spices and sweaty
bodies overpowering, but as Evir made his way through the throng two hours
later, he felt happy with himself. He had done a good night's work. The narrow
maze of alleys rang with the cries of street vendors, and cripples begging for
alms. Evir kept his hands on the valuable object in his pocket. Even a criminal
wasn't safe in the bazaar. There were thieves here who'd steal the coins from a
blind man's bowl.

A couple of scruffy beggar
children came up to him.

'Baksheesh?'

'Away with you, sons of whores.'

The boys spat at him, laughed and
ran away. Evir didn't even bother to run after them and clip their ears. He had
more important things on his mind. Halfway through the bazaar he came to a busy
crossroads, with bustling shops and restaurants.

The streets and pavements were
alive, cafes and shops blaring music, people crowding the trams and buses,
passengers clinging dangerously to the rails and running boards.

Despite the war, the blackout
restrictions were halfhearted in
Cairo
;
some car headlamps and streetlights were dimmed with a thin coat of regulation
blue paint, others not at all.

Ancient, dented taxis trundled
past. A shortage of parts meant that most of them drove with broken headlamps,
damaged fenders and cracked windscreens. The motorized traffic was chaotic, and
drivers had to compete with horse-drawn carts and livestock being herded
through the streets: goats, sheep, cattle and camels.

To make matters worse, drunken
off-duty troops filled the pavements: British, American, Australian, piling in
and out of bars and restaurants with names like Home Sweet Home and Cafe-Bar
Old England.

Remembering his instructions, Evir
waited at the crossroads.

Clusters of jabbering Arab men sat
outside tea rooms, puffing on hookah pipes and playing backgammon as they
sipped from glasses. Traffic roared past in all directions. Five minutes later
Evir saw a muddied green BSA motorcycle come down the street on his left and
slow to a halt.

An Arab sat on the machine. He
wore a djellaba, and had a beard. The man gestured for him to join him. Evir
climbed on board the pillion seat, and the BSA roared away from the kerb.

The man kept glancing over his
shoulder while he drove, as if to be certain they hadn't been followed. He
headed towards the El Hakim mosque, weaving through the tight back streets,
until ten minutes later they came out on to a cobbled square, ringed with tall
brick-and-wood tenement houses. They climbed off the BSA. The man locked it
with a padlock and chain, and beckoned for Evir to follow. He stepped into the
open hallway of one of the houses and climbed a flight of bare wooden stairs to
the first floor. There was a door with three heavy locks, and the man unlocked
them in turn with a bunch of keys, led Evir inside and closed the door.

'Well?' the bearded man asked.

'I did as you asked.'

The man looked pleased. 'You're
certain no one saw you at the residency?'

Evir laughed. 'If they did, do you
think I'd be here?'

He had been in the flat twice
before, when the man needed to show him how to use the equipment. It was neat
but functional, with a coffee table and some cushions scattered on the floor, a
metal stove by the wall, but it smelled musty, and Evir had the feeling the
place wasn't often lived in. The man held out his hand. 'Give me the camera.'

'My money first,' Evir demanded.

'You'll get your money
afterwards.'

Evir shook his head. 'I want it
now.'

'Later,' the man answered firmly.
'When I'm finished examining your work. If the photographs don't turn out, I
want you to go back again.'

'Again?'

'Again. Now, give me the camera.'

Evir heard the hard edge in the
man's voice, saw the threatening look on his face. There was a dangerous air
about him that made Evir feel uncomfortable. He took the tiny Leica camera from
his pocket and handed it over.

'Wait here.'

The man stepped into the bedroom
and closed the door. The stand-up closet he used as a darkroom was off to the
right, a faint, pungent smell of chemicals wafting out. He went in and pulled
the sliding door after him, tugged a string hanging from the ceiling. A red
light came on, revealing a shelf containing glass jars of developer and fixer.
There was also a stopwatch, a couple of metal soaking basins, an electric fan,
and a thin wooden box, topped with opaque glass and underlit with a couple of
bulbs.

He filled one of the basins with
developer, removed the roll of film from the tiny Leica, placed it in the
liquid, pressed the stopwatch and waited for three minutes.

Finally he turned on the fan,
plucked the roll of film from the tray, and held the exposed negative over the
stream of air until it was dry. He flicked on the underlit glass and laid the
strip on top.

Carefully, he examined the
exposures with a magnifying glass.

As he studied one of the negatives
of the pages marked 'Top Secret', he suddenly quivered with shock.

It took him several moments to
compose himself, then he picked up a cotton towel and wiped his hands. He must
still have looked shocked when he stepped back into the room, because Evir
said, 'What's the matter? Is something wrong?'

The man shook his head. 'Nothing.
You've done excellent work.' He tossed away the towel. 'Now, let's get out of
here.'

'Where are we going?'

'You want your money, don't you?'

Twenty minutes later they arrived
outside a dilapidated warehouse on the old
Nile
docks. The place was deserted, the wire metal gates unlocked, and the man
turned the BSA into a darkened cobbled yard in front.

Evir felt a pang of fear. 'Why
have we come here?’

The man switched off the engine.
'Come, you'll get your money.'

He got off the motorcycle, leaned
it against a wall and strode inside the warehouse. Evir reluctantly went after
him. The building was a ramshackle, cavernous place littered with bits of
rusting scrap metal, the concrete floors covered with puddles of watery oil.
There was a dented oil drum in a corner, a storm lamp on top. The man lit the
wick and tossed away the match.

The warehouse was flooded with
soft yellow light. The man took a thick envelope from his pocket, waved it in
his hand.

'Before I pay you, I need to ask
you some questions. Did you take anything else from the safe?'

Evir saw the man study him
intently. His eyes seemed to burn into his face. 'On the lives of my children,
I did only as you told me.'

The man continued to stare.
'You're quite sure you're telling me the truth?'

Evir felt uncomfortable, a ripple
of fear down his spine. 'You said to photograph every document I found in the
safe. I did just as you asked. And now I want my money.'

'Have patience. And you're certain
you told no one about our arrangement?'

'Not a soul. May Allah cut out my
tongue if I lie.' Evir told the truth. Besides, he had been warned of the
consequences.

The man nodded, satisfied, and
smiled. 'Good. There's just one more thing.'

Evir frowned. 'What?'

The man put down the envelope and
reached into his pocket. When his hand came out the smile was gone, and Evir
saw a curved Arab blade with a white ivory handle, a savage looking thing like
a metal claw.