The Cairo Code (14 page)

Sanson said, “It seems our friend has a keen interest in photography.” He took down the camera and examined it. “A German Leica. Did you find anything in the other room?”

“Nothing.”

“I'll have the apartment searched thoroughly, and I'll need a man on duty at the door until I can get it repaired and sealed up. After that, we'll put a watch on the place and see if anyone turns up. There's a phone at the railway station. Could I ask you to wait here while I call headquarters?”

“What happens if the Arab shows up in the meantime?”

Sanson removed his revolver and offered it to Weaver. “You'd better take this as a precaution. I'll be as quick as I can. Ten minutes, perhaps less.”

•  •  •

Weaver opened the window. There was hardly a breeze. He looked down into the back alleyway below. A tiny bricked-off courtyard lay behind the tenement house, filthy with stinking garbage. The door leading in was rotted off its hinges. He went to sit on the ottoman, laid the revolver on the coffee table, and looked around the room. The place was functional, nothing more. There were no photographs, no personal belongings, no knick-knacks that showed the kind of man they were dealing with. But even bare functional rooms with a mattress, some clothes, and three locks on the front door told them something. The man was secretive, cautious, had simple needs, and lived alone.

The man was also a spy, of that he had no doubt. And ruthless, assuming he had killed Evir. Weaver was intrigued. Why had Evir been murdered? And what was the Arab up to in Cairo? The Germans had recruited agents and sympathizers in the city's clubs, bars, and brothels, but since Rommel had been defeated they were pretty much unemployed.

Something else struck him. If the man was a spy, he probably had a radio. He knew he should leave the proper searching to Sanson and his men, but his curiosity got the better of him. He stood and went into the kitchen. He rapped his knuckles on the insides of the cupboards, checked the floors and walls, but there were no false panels. He did the same in the bedroom and in the darkroom.

Nothing.

He went back into the front room, tried the same, with no luck. The stove was all that was left. It was unlit, the metal cold. He knelt and pulled at the bricks at the base. One of them came loose, then another. Four bricks later, a recess was revealed. He put his hand inside, felt something, and hefted it out onto the floor. It was a small leather suitcase with a sturdy handle and a couple of straps. He undid the straps. Inside was a German shortwave radio set, a pair of earphones, and a Morse code key. He guessed the battery was still in the recess or hidden somewhere else.

Weaver smiled and whistled. “You know something, Harry, I think you're in luck.”

He heard a faint creak behind him and turned. A tall, bearded Arab stood in the doorway, a Walther pistol in his hand. He wore a djellaba and a livid expression on his face which suggested he was furious that his territory had been violated.

Weaver stood. “Who the—?”

“Move away from the radio,” the Arab ordered in English. “Do it very slowly.”

Weaver stepped back. Sanson's revolver was still on the coffee table. The Arab saw Weaver's eyes flick to it.

“Don't, unless you want a bullet. Empty your pockets on the table.”

Weaver did as he was told. The Arab picked up Weaver's identity card and examined it without expression. “An American. What are you doing here?”

“I came looking for a friend and saw the door open.”

“Don't lie to me, or you'll lose your life. Answer the question—what are you doing here?”

Weaver glanced at the radio. “I think that's obvious.”

“Hand the radio here.”

Weaver closed the suitcase and moved to hand it over. A clatter of feet sounded on the stairs. The Arab looked behind, startled. Weaver saw his chance and made a move. Just as the man looked back, he managed to grab the Walther's muzzle, and punched him hard in the face, with a sound like bone cracking. The gun went off, the slug drilled the wall, and the man reeled back. As Weaver struggled for the weapon, the man's free hand came up. A blade flashed and Weaver felt a searing pain in his throat. He cried out and let go of the Walther. The Arab kicked his feet from under him and he fell to the floor.

There were shouts outside the doorway, and moments later two of Sanson's men appeared, guns drawn as they moved into the flat, Sanson unarmed behind them. The Arab grabbed the radio and moved towards the window, then turned and fired twice as he clambered out. One of the men was hit in the chest and slammed back against the wall as Sanson and the second man frantically sought cover.

“Stay down, Weaver!” Sanson roared.

Weaver was bleeding heavily from a gash in his neck, but he got to his feet, grabbed the revolver from the table, and staggered to the window. Down in the alleyway he saw the Arab climb onto a motorcycle and kick it to life. He tried to aim with his left hand, but the Arab's weapon came up smartly and spat twice, the shots whistling past Weaver's head as he ducked back inside.

He heard the motorcycle roar away, and when he looked out again the man was already halfway down the alley. Weaver tried to steady his hand against the window frame, but he felt terribly weak. He noticed blood washing down his chest, turning his tunic bright crimson. Sanson was beside him in an instant, prizing the gun from his fingers.

“Give me that!”

Sanson aimed out of the window and emptied the revolver in a rapid volley of shots.

The last thing Weaver saw was the Arab's djellaba blowing wildly in the wind as the motorcycle skidded, rounded a corner, and sped away. Then his vision started to go, he felt himself falling, and everything turned black.

The hospital in the suburbs of Charlottenburg was a solid-looking red brick building, built at the turn of the century and set behind high walls. It was just after eleven in the morning when Halder arrived. A convoy of ambulances and army trucks was pulling up in the gravel driveway, soldiers and medics helping to carry in dozens of injured civilians on stretchers. A staff nurse he recognized came down the steps, all business, and Halder said, “More problems, I see.”

“It's those cursed British and American bombers,” she answered scornfully. “Have they no shame? Most of the dead and wounded are women and children.”

A medic went past with a badly bleeding teenage girl, and the nurse left to help. Halder moved up the steps into the entrance hallway. It was in chaos, ringing with the cries of the injured and the shouts of medical staff, orderlies running in all directions. He saw the office down the hall, knocked on the door, and an impatient voice said, “Come in.”

A white-coated doctor, well past retirement age and looking under strain, was sifting through some files as he sat behind a desk. “Yes, what is it?”

“I'm here to see about my son, Pauli Halder. He's a patient in the burns ward.”

“You'll have to come back. I've got fifty new casualties on my hands, enough beds for barely half, and only God knows where I'm going to put the rest.”

“My apologies, but I thought Dr. Weiss was on duty.”

“Weiss and his family were killed yesterday evening in the air raids. His home took a direct hit.”

“I'm very sorry to hear that. He was a good man.”

“Even doctors aren't immune from bombs, I'm afraid. Halder, did you say? What exactly do you want?”

“The matron mentioned yesterday that Dr. Weiss had wanted to see me. But he wasn't on duty and I got no reply from his home number, so I thought I'd call by in case it might be something important about my son.”

The doctor sighed, went to a filing cabinet, and searched until he found the medical report he was looking for. “Pauli Halder, almost three years old, transferred from Hamburg?”

“That's him.”

The doctor read the report and shook his head. “Not too good, is he? He's healing, of course, after the skin grafts, but most of his body was covered in third-degree burns from the phosphor bombs, and he's still in pretty bad shape. Injuries like his can take a long time to heal. And he really needs to get out of this environment. The Allies have been bombing close to the hospital recently, and the pounding seems to upset him. Not surprising really, after his ordeal in Hamburg.” The doctor sighed again. “There's a note here about the morphine for his pain relief. I imagine that's what Dr. Weiss wanted to see you about.”

“What do you mean?”

“We barely have enough drugs for emergency cases right now. We'll have to cut back on his dosage.”

“I've been here every day since my son was admitted,” Halder said angrily. “I've seen the kind of agony he's in. If you do that he's going to suffer even more!”

“A lot of injured civilians are suffering, Halder, not to mention our troops. Our factories are being destroyed by the bombing—drugs and medical supplies are posing a problem right now. The troops get priority for what's available and our allocation has been reduced. And with these latest raids, we're stretched to the limit. There's nothing I can do, I'm afraid.”

The phone rang and the doctor picked it up. “Yes, of course I know! I'm on my way.” He slammed down the phone. “Look, I'm sorry, I'm needed in surgery.”

Halder stormed out of the office and went up to the third-floor ward. It was crowded with new patients. He found the curtained-off bed in a corner. A harassed-looking nurse stepped out, carrying a tray of balm and used dressings. “Oh, it's you again, Herr Halder. I've just been dressing Pauli's wounds. He's resting now, but you can go in.”

Halder moved behind the curtain. The little boy was covered from head to toe in bandages, his skin burned so deeply in places that numerous skin grafts had been needed, especially on his legs, which had been horrifically charred. Only his face was visible, some of the tissue bloated and pink and scarred, his eyes closed, the eyelashes seared away. There were beads of perspiration on his forehead, and even in sleep his expression was pained.

“Pauli, can you hear me?”

The boy gurgled something, but was too drugged to make any sense. There was a single chair, and a bowl of water and a cloth on the locker beside the bed. For a long time Halder sat there, gently swabbing his son's forehead with the damp cloth, staring at his tortured face. When he reached out to touch his bandaged hands, the boy moaned in his sleep. There was something deeply disturbing about having to witness a child in such horrible pain and not being able to do anything about it. Halder felt a wave of anguish sweep over him, and he was close to tears.

A young nurse put her head round the curtain. “Are you Major Halder?”

He wiped his eyes. “Yes.”

“There's a gentleman to see you, sir. He's waiting downstairs in the visitors' room.”

•  •  •

When he went down, Wilhelm Canaris was sitting on one of the benches. He wore civilian clothes, a shabby dark suit, overcoat, and hat. He stood and offered his hand.

“Jack, it's good to see you.”

Halder didn't offer to shake his hand, and Canaris said, “I can imagine you're hardly pleased to see me. I believe you met with Schellenberg?”

“What about it?”

Canaris nodded towards the hospital grounds. “Would you mind if we walked outside? We need to talk in private.”

The admiral led the way, down a pathway between some trees, and when they had gone several paces he said, “How's your son?”

“What the devil is it to you?”

“My inquiry is genuine, Jack. Don't take offense.”

“He's not too good.”

“The poor boy. I'm terribly sorry to hear that.”

“What do you want to see me about?”

Canaris let out a breath. “I'd just like you to know that Schellenberg's plan is entirely his own little scheme. I spoke with Himmler last night and tried to convince him to reconsider using you, but it was a waste of time. He's investing a lot in the mission succeeding. Seems to think it has a good chance of working and you're perfect for the job.”

“And what do you think?”

Canaris shrugged. “Does it matter? It's just another lunatic SD plot. And like you, I've no choice but to go along. But Himmler's adamant he won't accept failure on this one. The way he sees it, everything is at stake, and by that he means total victory or defeat. If the mission succeeds, he'll keep to his word. He'll give you everything he's promised, and more.” Canaris hesitated. “But if you fail—”

“Spit it out, Willy.”

Canaris looked at him. “I suppose because of the fact you're American-born, Himmler's a little doubtful about your absolute allegiance to the Fatherland. That's partly why Kleist and Doring will be along—to make sure the job is done. If you fail, or don't put everything into the mission for whatever reason, Himmler assures me you'll never see your son again. There's also the risk that Kleist or his comrade will put a bullet in you if you try to shirk your duty.”

A look of anger flashed on Halder's face. “The low-down, evil scum.”

“It's been said before, and worse, but to no avail. There's something else. Schellenberg wants you to be the one to speak with Rachel Stern.”

“Why? Why should it be me?”

“That black uniform of Walter's tends to put the shivers up most people. Besides that, he seems to think she may be more receptive if she knows you're involved.” Canaris handed across a large envelope. “All her details are in there, including Schellenberg's proposal, which may help her decide. You're expected at Ravensbruck this evening, as a guest of the Reichsführer's office. I'll have one of my drivers pick you up at seven.”

“Do you know how she's been?”

Canaris saw the concern in Halder's face. “These places are never pleasant, but Ravensbruck is not the worst. And for the last few days Schellenberg has made sure she's been well looked after, given extra rations, medical attention, and so on. He also tells me she hasn't been badly treated despite her imprisonment. It seems one of the senior camp officers was a former pupil of her father's. Fortunately, he made sure she was spared the worst and given light duties.” Canaris stopped walking and looked at the other man. “Did you love her, Jack?”