The Cairo Code (21 page)

Halder interrupted. “Back up a little. It's all very well our agent in Cairo procuring these three American army trucks for us to ferry Skorzeny's men from the airfield after they land and get them close to where Roosevelt and Churchill will be. But we're talking about dozens of German paratroops in battle uniform. If for any reason the trucks are stopped at a checkpoint, we'll be finished.”

Schellenberg smiled. “We have a little trick up our sleeves that should resolve the particular problem you speak of, if it comes up. But all in good time, Jack. You'll get to know the full facts before you depart. But be aware that Skorzeny's part of the operation will be done at lightning speed, with no hanging about. After the paratroops land, and you consult with Skorzeny and furnish him with all the relevant details he'll need, you'll be transporting him and his men straight to where the targets are, with no unnecessary detours, I hope.”

He put aside the map of Egypt, selected a detailed one of Cairo and its surroundings, and spread it out on the table. “And now to the tricky bit, the Mena House at Giza, where we assume the Allied leaders will be staying. All we know for certain is that the area around it has been heavily fortified and put under strict guard. We have some precise details of the hotel layout, from the usual tourist information published before the war, and we'll study that this afternoon. But I expect Besheeba to have more exact information when you rendezvous in Cairo. Estimated troop numbers, defense details of the compound, and so on. However, I repeat, the main point is, before our attack can commence you'll have to find a way of getting inside the compound grounds and confirming that Roosevelt and Churchill are being quartered there. And if so, where exactly. Getting in—and out again with the information you need—is the difficult job. But you've got to do it somehow, and without being detected.”

Schellenberg pointed to the Cairo map. “Assuming you can achieve that, you'll need to secure and hold this airfield, here—about twenty minutes' drive from the hotel—so Skorzeny's men can land safely. We had considered parachuting them in, but it's too risky. Their parachutes could easily be spotted from the air and the alarm raised. The airstrip itself is ten kilometers south of Giza, near a town called Shabramant. It's a training field belonging to the Royal Egyptian Air Force, an insignificant organization that's largely symbolic, and the airfield's only very occasionally used by the British and Americans. From Besheeba's past intelligence reports, it would seem it's poorly guarded, but considering Cairo's about to host a visit from Roosevelt and Churchill, that might not be the case. Again, a problem you'll have to solve once you get there.”

“How the devil are you going to get a couple of planeloads of SS paratroops past Allied air defenses?”

Schellenberg smiled at Halder. “There are always ways and means. And basically it's the exact same way we're going to get you in. It's rather ingenious, really. But as I said, you'll have to wait with bated breath for that particular surprise, and a few others into the bargain. As for getting you out afterwards, I'll give you precise details long before you depart, but at present the intention is you'll make your way back to Shabramant, where one of our aircraft will be waiting to fly you out. Along with Besheeba, I might add. He'll have outlived his usefulness in Egypt after this. If things go horribly wrong at Shabramant—which they won't—Besheeba will have already arranged an alternative escape route for you. He'll give you details when you arrive.”

“Surely our departure by air is going to be risky? The Allies will probably have their air defenses well up by then.”

Patiently, Schellenberg said, “I've arranged for a couple of air raids on Alexandria and Cairo from our bases in Rhodes and Crete as a diversion, just after Skorzeny's men land, so the Luftwaffe should keep things busy for several hours. Yes, Kleist?”

“When do we get to meet the woman?”

“The day after tomorrow, when we distribute your clothes and personal belongings. As I explained, she's not going to know the true purpose of your mission, so none of you will discuss anything of relevance in her company. Be particularly careful about that.” There was a knock on the door and Schellenberg said, “Enter.”

A huge man strode into the room with an air of total self-confidence, as if he could walk through a brick wall unscathed. He towered well over six feet, with bullish shoulders and a hard face that looked as if it had been hewn from rock. He wore an SS colonel's uniform with paratroop flashes, the Knight's Cross displayed proudly at his throat. He gave the Nazi salute and clicked his heels.

“Herr General.”

“Colonel Skorzeny.” Schellenberg beamed. “What perfect timing. I was just finishing my preliminary briefing. This is Major Halder.”

Skorzeny returned a salute and offered a massive hand, his grip like iron. “Major—a pleasure to meet you.”

Halder shrugged. “From what I hear, the pleasure should be all mine. I believe the Reich's newspapers are calling you the most dangerous man in Europe. Rescuing Signore Mussolini was quite a feat.”

“And one which I hope to repeat, with even deadlier effect. But you have an enviable record yourself, Halder. I must say, I'm impressed. I could do with an officer like you in one of my paratroop battalions.”

“Sadly, Colonel, I prefer to keep my feet firmly on the ground. It's a lot safer.”

“A pity.” Skorzeny shrugged. “But who knows? After this little adventure, you might change your mind.” He turned to Schellenberg. “But my apologies, Herr General. I'm holding up your briefing.”

“Not at all. Almost finished now.” He turned to the others. “Except for the matter of the Jeep and military police uniforms, which I said I'd return to. As you can imagine, guard duties will have to change at the compound, reliefs will have to be made. Besheeba should have more exact details of the guard duty changes when you arrive, but it seems to me that this might present an opportunity to get into the compound.”

“How?” Halder asked.

Schellenberg smiled. “An able fellow like you, and with your talents, I'm sure you'll come up with something, Jack. Have any of you more questions?”

The room fell silent. Schellenberg stood there, hands on his hips. “Good. For the next few days you're going to familiarize yourselves with your cover identities. You'll study the maps thoroughly, until you're acquainted with Alexandria and Cairo—we don't want anyone getting lost. We'll go over our plans and the layout of the Mena House with Colonel Skorzeny, and he'll be joining you at intervals over the coming days to check on your progress and make sure you're totally familiar with any details pertinent to his own drop. And just so you'll know, I'll be with you as far as Rome when the time comes, to send you on your way and wish you good luck.”

He looked at Kleist and Doring. “As to any questions you might have about the rudiments of archeology to enhance your cover stories, I've arranged for Major Halder and a couple of other experts to give you a crash course. In the meantime, get to work, gentlemen.”

•  •  •

It was raining hard that evening, a real Berlin downpour hammering from the blackened sky. Halder opened the barrack hut door and stepped in, his hat and coat dripping wet. Rachel was there alone, sitting on a bunk. “Schellenberg told me I'd find you here.”

“What do you want?”

He removed his hat, shook water from it, and smiled uncertainly. “Hardly the warm welcome I'd expect on a miserable evening like this. I thought we might have dinner together in my quarters.”

“I'd prefer to be alone.”

“Is there really any need for all this, Rachel?”

“All what?”

“The cold-shoulder treatment. Despite the unpleasantness of the situation, I thought we could still be friends.”

She made to turn away, but Halder gently gripped her arm. “Do you really despise me that much?”

“Let go of my arm!”

He let go, and there was a tired, vulnerable look on his face. “No doubt you're thinking I've sold my soul to the Nazis. But you want the honest truth? A simple case of life not turning out the way you planned—you take the wrong road and before you know it you've gone too far to turn back.” He hesitated. “I never told you this, but when you didn't write, I met and married someone else. She was a good woman, very much like you in many ways.”

Rachel looked at him blankly.

“She died after giving birth to our son. And none of us has escaped this war unhurt, Rachel—we're all victims. Three months ago, there was an Allied air raid on Hamburg. The worst destruction in history. My father perished, my son survived. If you call being a cripple and scarred for life survival.”

Her face darkened. “I—I'm sorry to hear that. Truly sorry.”

“Water under the bridge.”

She started to say something, but seemed to change her mind. Halder turned to go. “Schellenberg will be along tomorrow to go over your cover story. In a few days, you'll meet the others.”

“Who are they?”

“No doubt he'll tell you about them. All you need to know for now is that they're both SS. I'm sure they're hardly your idea of perfect traveling companions after four years in a camp. Nor mine either. But nothing can be done about that. In the meantime, try and get as much rest as you can. You're going to need it.”

There was a silence between them. Halder tugged on his wet hat, turned up the collar of his coat, crossed to the door, and went out. Rachel moved to the window, tears in her eyes as she watched him cross the barrack courtyard, his head down against the sheeting rain, and then he was gone.

It was Sanson who found the memo, just as they were about to give up.

They had searched until after midnight and by then they were exhausted. They were in the depository building in Ezbekiya, near the Opera House. A large room on the third floor, with shuttered windows, a wooden table, and some chairs. The documents and files were stacked in thick piles on the table and floor. Many of them had been scorched by fire and bore the marks of water damage, others were in a complete mess. German intelligence staff had been caught in the act of trying to burn their papers when the Allies took Tunis. Weaver had noticed heavy bloodstains on several. Someone had died trying to destroy these papers.

Sanson studied the memo, coming awake. “I think we've got something here.”

He showed Weaver the page, typed in German and dated nine months earlier. It had been partly burned, but the contents were still readable. The name
Besheeba
leaped out at him and Weaver looked up eagerly. “What does it say?”

“It appears to be an internal memo from an army intelligence officer, Hauptmann Berger, to his commanding officer in Tunis.” Sanson handed it to one of the NCO translators, a young sergeant with black-framed glasses. “Give us an accurate translation, Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.
‘Rommel urgently pressing for more details: troop numbers, armor, and artillery movements. Berlin instructs Phoenix to proceed Cairo at once. Besheeba will rendezvous. Hopes combined efforts will produce more resuits.
' ” The sergeant looked up. “That's about the gist of it, sir.”

Sanson said to Weaver, “It seems our friend Besheeba got himself some help.”

“Why was that?”

“Easy enough to understand. Nine months ago, Jerry was having a bad time of it from Monty, and needed all the intelligence he could get. Pretty much everything passed through here—signals, reinforcements, equipment.” Sanson shrugged. “Not that it matters much at this stage, except that if they're still working together, we could have a double act on our hands.” He yawned, rolled down his sleeves, pulled on his jacket, and dismissed the two NCOs.

“What next?” Weaver asked tiredly. He needed to sleep, had stayed up half the previous night making love to Helen Kane, and his body was full of pleasant aches and pains. In the office that day, it had been difficult to keep their relationship strictly formal. Whenever she came near him, she would give him a knowing smile, and he couldn't ignore the heightened sexual electricity between them. If it weren't for the problem of having to find the Arab, he would have liked to have seen her that night. He looked back as Sanson replied, felt sympathy for him now that he knew Sanson's personal tragedy.

“We'll carry on searching here after we get some sleep, in case anything else turns up. And I'll check with the prison camps and see if we captured Hauptmann Berger, or his CO, when we took Tunis.”

Despite their discovery, Weaver felt oddly deflated. He knew they were still no closer to finding Besheeba. If Signals couldn't locate him or decipher the Cairo Code, their chances were even slimmer.

“That sounds like a long shot I wouldn't bet on. We still haven't got much hope of catching him, have we?”

Sanson rubbed his good eye. It stared back at Weaver. “In a city of two million? Not much. But we've got to, Weaver. We've got to.”

•  •  •

The Sultan Club was packed that Tuesday evening. There was a band playing on the stage, a group of displaced Frenchmen wearing ridiculous fezzes. Harvey Deacon went down the steps just before ten and clicked his fingers at the head waiter. “Find me a table near the back, Sammy. Number seven would be perfect.”

“Of course, sir.” The waiter scurried off, anxious to please his employer. Deacon watched as he went over to a group of American soldiers sitting in the back shadows. An argument developed as the waiter tried to convince them the table was reserved. The men grumbled, but eventually agreed to move with the promise of a complimentary beer. When the waiter came back, he led Deacon over to the table.

“I'll have a glass of champagne.” Deacon looked at his watch moodily. “What the bloody devil's keeping the performance?”