“You're probably right, but I truthfully don't know, Jack. Petra never speaks about her marriage.”
As Delia lifted silver cutlery from a hamper, Andrew said chattily, “When we had picnics in Caithness, my mother always used to sing the Happy Song.”
“The Happy Song?” Delia had begun slicing a large quiche. “Now what song would that be?”
“It's always the same one. It's any song you sing when you are really happy. We always chose ‘The Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond.’ Don't you have a Happy Song?”
“I don't think we do, Andrew.” There was regret in Delia's voice as she slid a slice of quiche onto a plate.
“Oh, yes, we have,” said Davina. “It's ‘Dixie.’ You've been singing it at every family occasion since I can remember.”
“That's true, Delia,” Jerome said, a gleam in his gold-flecked eyes. “Though I remember an occasion, on the day we first met, when Ivor specifically forbade you from ever singing it again.”
“Ah, well.” Delia's voice was full of mischief. “That was when dear Ivor thought he'd married a very different girl from the one he actually had. How about I sing it now? Would you like that, Andrew?”
Andrew nodded and Delia handed the plate of quiche to Jerome and then launched into the song that reminded her of Sans Souci and her long exhilarating rides in the rolling countryside of her birth.
Jack looked across at Petra. All afternoon she had done her best to put as much space between them as possible. She had hardly spoken to anyone else, either. More often than not, when he had looked across at her, she had been looking toward his father, an expression in her eyes that he couldn't for the life of him fathom.
As Delia came to the last verse, they all joined in the chorus. Afterward Petra said, her voice strained, “I'm going for a walk. I won't be long, Jerome. I'll be back to say goodbye before you leave.”
It was a reminder that the car that was to take Jerome to the airport was already waiting. In less than an hour he would be speeding to Heliopolis.
Jack watched her walk away. He knew she was bitterly unhappy. Everyone knew she was bitterly unhappy. But she
wouldn't talk to him; she wouldn't let him close to her in any way at all.
He stood up and walked quickly after her.
She was heading in the direction of the clubhouse and he caught up with her at the lavender-lined path.
Seizing her arm, he swung her around to face him. “Talk to me,” he said urgently. “We may not be lovers, but we can at least be friends! Don't keep yourself so isolated. I love you. I've always loved you. I want to help you. Tell me what's wrong.”
“I can't!” In the strong sunlight he saw that there were deep circles under her eyes, and her skin was so pale it was almost translucent. “There's so much wrong, Jack! It isn't just you and me—it's other things. Things I can't speak about; not until I'm sure.”
“What kind of things?” There was a different urgency in his voice, for her green eyes were frantic with an expression he'd seen all too often in interrogations. She was frightened— and he had to know why.
“Later, Jack. I just need a little more time.” Her face was bloodless. “Please give my apologies to Jerome. I can't go back and say goodbye. Not now.”
She tried to turn away from him, but he held her fast, his heart pounding. “You have to tell me what it is you're so scared of, Petra,” he said fiercely. “I'll slay every dragon in the world for you, but I have to know where danger lies. I love you. You can trust me with your life!”
“I know that, Jack! Please don't ever think I don't know that!”
A group of people were coming down the pathway and she twisted so suddenly that this time she escaped his grasp. He tried to catch hold of her again, but a woman between them stumbled and fell in front of him. By the time he had disentangled himself from her, Petra was yards away, running toward the car park.
He was about to sprint after her when a club official hurried up to him. “There's an urgent phone call for you from general headquarters, Major Bazeljette.”
Uttering a curse he seldom used, Jack gave Petra one last look and headed for the clubhouse.
The caller was Archie.
“Sorry to disturb you, Jack,” he said apologetically, “but thought you should know that Sadat's in Cairo again. The minute our informer at the station rang in I set Slade on his tail and he has just contacted me to say that Sadat has boarded a houseboat on Gezira.”
Jack felt as if a ton weight had just slammed into his chest.
“South of the island?” he said, praying to God it was one of the houseboats near to the English Bridge.
“No.” Archie was happily oblivious of Jack's concern. “At the Zamalek end. The name of the houseboat is the
Egyptian Queen
.”
Jack fought the temptation to head straight to Zamalek. No law was being broken and Sadat was being tailed only because he was known to be a member of a subversive group. It wasn't a crime for which he could be jailed. Action could be taken against the Free Officers only if they began an open rebellion. If Sadat became aware that he was being tailed—and he would become aware of it if a British intelligence officer showed up on the houseboat—keeping close tabs on him would become impossible. All Jack could do was step up the surveillance on him—and instigate surveillance on Darius.
It was the very last thing in the world that he wanted to do.
Back at GHQ he hesitated, but he knew he had no option. That Sadat had made contact with the owner of the
Egyptian Queen
was now a matter of record—as was the owner's name.
Jack knew he had to confront Darius about the meeting with Sadat. Darius may have successfully fooled people into believing that his days as a fierce nationalist were over, but Jack knew differently. The war had just caused Darius to go undercover.
He wrote a terse report for Brigadier Haigh. Rang Petra's home number and received no reply. Rang Nile House only to be told that Lady Conisborough had not returned from the
airfield. Then, just as Jack was about to send his report to the brigadier, the brigadier sent for him.
With Sadat's file tucked under his arm he made his way along the warren-like corridors to Haigh's office.
The director of military intelligence was not alone.
He had a friend of the Conisboroughs, Bruno Lautens, with him.
As an experienced intelligence officer Jack was well trained in maintaining an impassive expression, although it took some doing now.
“Sit down, Jack.” Since the reminder that Jack's father was a close intimate of the prime minister, Brigadier Haigh's attitude toward him had become increasingly matey. “Circumstances require that the three of us have a very private talk.”
“Circumstances?” Not looking toward Bruno, Jack put the file down on Haigh's desk.
The brigadier looked at the name and tapped it with his forefinger. “Yes, Jack,” he said meaningfully.
“These
circumstances.”
Bruno was seated to one side of the desk; Jack took the other chair facing the brigadier.
“The latest update in this file,” said Brigadier Haigh, “will detail Captain Anwar Sadat's unexpectedly speedy return to Cairo and his visit to your brother-in-law's houseboat. I know all this, Jack, because we're not the only ones interested in Captain Sadat, nor are we the only people keeping him under surveillance. The Americans have a strong interest in him too. I know that you are on social terms with Mr. Lautens, but what he has not been able to disclose, until now, is that he is a high-ranking American intelligence officer.”
Jack looked at Bruno. “And archaeology?” he asked. “Was that just a front?”
Bruno's grin was as affable as always. “No. I'm a pukka archaeologist. It was when I was on a dig down near the Sudan
border that I was recruited by Washington.” He looked toward Brigadier Haigh. “Do you want me to put Major Bazeljette in the picture, or would you prefer to do so, Brigadier?”
Haigh pursed his lips and then said, “I shall, if you don't mind. America's take on the Free Officers Movement, Jack, is that when this war is won, America and Britain are going to need their members to build a modern Egyptian state that Britain and America can work with. We all know that the monarchy's days are numbered. Farouk is as corrupt as they come and certainly not the man to help Egypt into the twentieth century. There's a feeling that Gamal Nasser, who is head of the Free Officers, probably is.”
“And does this … scenario … assume an Egypt completely free of a British presence?” Jack asked, looking from the brigadier to Bruno.
“America doesn't like imperialism,” Bruno said pleasantly.
“And we have to be realistic,” Brigadier Haigh said heavily. “I don't have a second's doubt that we're going to win this war, but when we do, the world will be a different place. The Americans may well be right that in postwar Egypt there will be no place for Britain. And, on the chance that Nasser and Sadat will be the men we then have to deal with, my orders are to keep a tight watch on them and on their friends, but not so tight that we won't be able to come to an accommodation with them, should the occasion arise.”
“And is Darius Zubair counted as one of those friends?”
Bruno leaned forward, his big hands clasped. “Not only a friend, but according to our intelligence reports, a leading member of Nasser's future government. And that it
is
Nasser and his friends who one day form it is vital if the danger of the Muslim Brotherhood taking control of Egypt is to be avoided.”
“That wouldn't be something any of us would want to contemplate,” Haigh said with feeling. “The long and the short of
it, Jack, is that you keep your brother-in-law and Sadat under surveillance, but that you so do with an eye to the broader picture.” And not troubling to open the file Jack had brought, the brigadier handed it back to him.
“Yes, sir.” Jack rose to his feet, saluted, and left the room.
When he got back to his own office he locked the file safely away and tried Petra's phone number again. Again there was no reply.
Archie came in and thumped another pink-docketed report on his desk. “A British Gladiator took off without authorized clearance two hours ago,” he said. “Seems there was an Egyptian at the controls and our radar had him heading straight for the German lines. Our blokes tried to shoot him down before he crossed them. They failed, but a stray German gunner did the job for them. What the pilot was up to is anybody's guess.”
“Leave it with me. I'll send a report to Haigh in the morning. I understand you've got a hot date with Boo tonight?”
Archie grinned. “I have, but I've some paperwork to finish off first.”
When Archie had begun pounding away on his battered typewriter Jack tried Petra's number again. This time the number didn't ring unanswered. This time it was unobtainable. For a phone to be out of order was a frequent occurrence in Cairo and controlling his impatience Jack said, “I'm off home, Archie. I'm in need of a stiff drink and a shower.”
“Home,” the flat he shared with two other officers, was only a five-minute walk away, but between setting off from Grey Pillars and arriving at his door, dusk fell, pale-yellow light turning fiery orange before plunging into deep-purple twilight.
He knew the instant he stepped into the narrow hallway that no one else was at home. Relieved, he made straight for the bathroom and turned on the creaky shower. The phone
rang before he'd even had the chance to take off his shirt and certain it would be a fishing-fleet girl for one or other of his flatmates, he walked back out of the bathroom and into the hall to answer it.
“Thank God you're there, Jack.” There was an edge to Archie's voice he'd never heard in it before. “Petra just showed up. She's very upset and said she had to see you. When I said you'd just left for the flat she asked for the address. I offered to escort her over, but she refused. She was nearly hysterical and so I thought it best to let her have her way.”
“She left GHQ how long ago?”
“Two minutes. Maybe three.”
“Stay by the phone in case I need you.” He slammed the receiver down. Whatever the cause of Petra's distress, he knew it was something extremely serious. She'd been scared when she had spoken to him earlier and Petra wasn't the kind of woman who scared easily.
He strode into the bathroom and turned the shower off. As he did so the front doorbell rang.
He yanked the door open so fast that she half fell across the threshold.
To his stupefaction he saw she was clutching a battered German prayer book.
He put an arm around her, taking her weight.
“I have to talk to you, Jack …” She was gasping for breath. “I have to tell you—”
“Wait until you're sitting down with a brandy inside you,” he said.
“No.” She shook her head violently, her torrent of hair tumbling out of its pins. “There isn't time … I don't even know whether he's so injured he'll be there, or whether he'll be gone.”
“He? Sholto?”
She nodded and, fighting hysteria, said, “He's a spy. I've
had suspicions for months, but when I found this …” Her fingers tightened on the prayer book. “When I found this, I was sure. So sure that I confronted him … He just laughed and then he lunged at me. We fought at the top of the stairs and I tripped him. He tumbled down and banged his head on the newel-post and that's where I left him, unconscious and bleeding. But when he comes around he'll come after me.”
He didn't ask why she'd been suspicious of Sholto for months. He didn't ask what was in the prayer book.
He dialed his number at GHQ.
Archie answered.
“Our man is Sholto Monck,” Jack said without explanation. “He's at 5 Sharia Aziz, Gezira Island. Go there directly with a squad of armed men. I want him taken into custody no matter what diplomatic immunity he claims. And I want him taken alive. I'll meet you there. Got it?”
“Got it,” Archie said, stunned but unquestioning.
Jack took his Colt from its holster and strode into the bedroom. Tugging open a drawer, he took out a box of bullets and shook it open. As he began loading the revolver, Petra said unsteadily from the doorway, “Sholto isn't Anglo-Irish. He's German-Irish. I was looking for confirmation and I found this in a box of books which he brought with him to Cairo and never unpacked.”