The Cairo Code (24 page)

They had gone over each of the statements from Gabar's neighbors. The few who admitted they had even met him said he kept to himself and had never spoken to them. None could recall the license number of the motorcycle. Nothing else had turned up in the remainder of the captured German papers, but they had made one important connection. The Arab had moved into the apartment six days after the date on the memo.

“We can't really assume we're dealing with the same man, this chap Phoenix, but it's a possibility,” Sanson commented. “I've put in an urgent request to Y Section to see if they can get a proper fix if our friend transmits again. They're keeping a round-the-clock watch on the frequencies he used in the past.”

There was a knock on the door and a lieutenant poked his head round and said to Sanson, “Phone call for you, sir.”

Weaver walked over to the window after Sanson left, and stood there for several minutes, watching a platoon marching in through the barrack gates. There was a bustle of activity in the camp. The Kasr-el-Nil barracks and Camp Huckstep, the American base, were bristling with extra troops, drafted in to help with conference security. He knew the only hope they had now was if Besheeba transmitted again and they had enough time to locate the signal. But that depended on him staying on the air long enough, and to judge by his past performance this was unlikely.

He glanced at the wall clock. Midnight.

He rubbed his eyes. He had barely seen Helen in two days, apart from passing her briefly in the office. She had asked him back to her apartment that night, and despite the exhaustion creeping in on him, and the pain still flooding his brain, he was looking forward to being with her again. He found the pill bottle, was about to pop one in his mouth when Sanson came back, looking pleased.

“Some good news for once. I think we've found our memo writer. According to the POW detention lists, a Hauptmann Manfred Berger of German military intelligence was captured six months ago in Tunis.”

“Where is he now?”

“At Bitter Lakes. I just telephoned—they've definitely got him, according to the camp commander.”

Bitter Lakes was a two-hour drive southeast of Cairo, a collection of salt lakes near Suez that was a cauldron of heat and mosquitoes. Thousands of Axis nationals were interned there, Germans and Italians, along with prisoners of war.

Weaver snapped to full attention, his pain forgotten. “When can we talk to him?”

Sanson picked up his cap. “As soon as we can get there.”

•  •  •

Baldy Reed was drunk. Not so drunk that he couldn't walk back to barracks from the brothel he'd just visited, but he didn't notice the olive-green staff car following him until it pulled into the curb and a burly man in uniform hopped out. “Reggie wants a word.”

Reed swallowed, moved into the back shadows of the car. Salter sat there in military disguise, a British major's uniform jacket draped over his shoulders. The car pulled out. “Baldy, old son. Sorry about the dramatics, but something urgent's come up and I need your help.”

Reed wiped his sweating face. “For a bleeding minute there I thought I'd been nicked.”

Salter laughed. “Not you, old son. You're too careful.” He handed over a wad of notes. “That's five hundred on account. Another five hundred for when the job's done.”

Reed frowned. “What job?”

When Salter told him what he needed, Reed paled, suddenly sober, and moved to hand back the money. “Crikey, Reggie. Military vehicles, weapons, and uniforms? I'd be getting in the deep end on that kind of thing; they'll have me up against a wall, honest—”

Salter turned on him. “You do as I tell you, mate. And I want the lot within forty-eight hours.”

“Reggie, have a heart—”

The car halted, Salter shoved the money into Reed's tunic, patted him on the cheek, and showed him the door. “It's an important deal, old son. So just do as I ask. Otherwise those testicles of yours are going to be dangling on the end of some Arab's worry beads.”

Schellenberg came into the barrack hut with Rachel just after seven that Wednesday morning. It was bitterly cold and dark outside; the tiled stove in the corner was going full blast, but it was still freezing in the room.

“Time to meet the last member of your team, gentlemen,” he announced, rubbing his hands briskly. “Allow me to introduce Fräulein Stern. From now on you'll know her as Maria Tauber, an expert archeologist and a displaced German Jew.” He turned to her. “Major Halder you already know. But for the purpose of the mission he's Paul Mallory, an American professor of archeology. The papers he'll carry are genuine, by the way. The real Mallory was captured by our troops in Sicily three months ago—a lecturer with the American University in Cairo, helping the U.S. Army identify important Roman artifacts our troops liberated in North Africa.” Schellenberg gestured to Kleist and Doring. “These are the other two gentlemen I told you about. You'll know them as Karl Uder and Peter Farnback, both South Africans.”

Kleist inclined his head, clicked his heel, and grinned. “A pleasure, I'm sure, Fräulein.”

Rachel pointedly ignored him, and said to Schellenberg, “If Major Halder is supposed to be an American, why isn't he in uniform?”

Schellenberg smiled charmingly. “A good point, and I'm glad to see you're entering into the spirit of things, but this has already been taken care of. A suitable medical condition was recorded in the professor's papers, which meant he was unfit for army service. Now, let's move things along.”

There were several Gladstone bags on the table, and he handed one to each of them, then gave a set of identity papers to Rachel. “Your personal belongings, and your necessary documents. I advise you again to thoroughly familiarize yourself with the cover story you've been given. If you're stopped and questioned on Egyptian soil, the slightest slip could cost you your life, and those of the others. Now, everyone had better examine their belongings.”

They opened their bags. Inside were clothes and personal items. Civilian desert kits with water canteens, safari suits, and broad-rimmed khaki hats, along with more conventional casual attire. All of the clothing looking suitably well-worn.

“I think you'll find the tailors have done an excellent job with the alterations. The clothing and personal items were all taken from Allied prisoners and refugees in North Africa, so they won't arouse suspicion if you're searched. Sufficient quantities of currency will be given to you before you depart.”

Halder held up a carton of Lucky Strikes he had removed from his Gladstone bag. “It seems you've remembered everything. Thoughtful of you.”

Schellenberg smiled. “The German variety would rather give you away—so you'd better get used to them. Egyptian brands are rather hard to come by in Berlin, as you can imagine. But these will do just as well.” He helped himself to a pack of the American cigarettes, removed one and lit it, then put his hands on his hips, all business.

“Now, let's go over things one more time. Just the necessary, salient facts that the fräulein here will need to be aware of. Then I'll leave you alone to go try on your outfits for size, familiarize yourselves with the maps and routes, and let you all get better acquainted.”

•  •  •

Halder was studying a map of Cairo, Rachel by his side, when Kleist came up behind them and gestured at the map. “A long time since I've been in that stinking hellhole of a city. Not that I ever wanted to see it again—it's a filthy mess.”

“A pity you only saw it that way,” Halder answered drily. “You obviously missed out on over six thousand years of history. Perhaps you might have learned something from it.”

“For what purpose? The real history's happening here, in the Fatherland.” Kleist grinned. “The Egyptian women were all right, though, I'll give it that. Some of the best brothels I've had the pleasure to frequent were in Cairo and Alexandria. In my experience, the women you pay for are always the best.”

“No doubt you're an expert in such affairs.”

Kleist laughed. “I think you could say that.” He glanced over at Rachel. “Schellenberg tells me you and the woman already know each other.”

“What of it?”

This time Kleist looked blatantly at Rachel, taking in her body, and leered. “I'm looking forward to getting to know the fräulein better. I'll even admit that for a Jew she looks tempting.”

Halder fixed him with a steely look. “Let's make one thing clear. You misbehave towards her in any way and I'll personally put a bullet in you, understand?”

“Is that a threat, Halder?”

“Think of it as a friendly warning. And I'd heed it if I were you.” As Halder moved to lead Rachel away, Kleist grabbed him by the arm, pulled him round, leaned in close, and stared him in the face. “Is that a fact, now?” The big SS man smirked, but his eyes were hard and dangerous. “Are you sure you can back it up?”

In an instant, Halder's knee jerked up, hitting Kleist in the groin. Kleist doubled over in agony, then Halder grabbed one of his arms, twisted it painfully hard, and pushed him against the wall.

“Let go! You're breaking my arm!”

“Next time, it'll be your head. We might share the same rank, Kleist, but just remember who's in charge of this part of the operation. So in the future you'll accord me suitable respect as a fellow officer and address me as Major. Is that understood?”

Kleist was white-faced with pain. “Yes . . . yes, Major. As you say, Major.”

Halder let go and pushed him away. There was a frightening rage in Kleist's eyes, and Halder said, “I really wouldn't pursue this any further. Not unless you want trouble. Another outburst like that and you'll have Schellenberg's wrath to deal with, as well as mine. Now get back to work.”

Kleist bit back his anger and went to join Doring.

Halder took Rachel's hand and led her to the door. As they walked across the compound, he said, “My apologies. The man's a bully, who doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut. I'll have a word with Schellenberg before the fool gets out of hand. In the meantime, try to be very careful when you're around him. He's a dangerous animal, likely to kill you if you cross him. If I had my way, he'd be thrown off the mission, but unfortunately I don't have any say in the matter.”

“You don't have to stand up for me.”

There was a hardness in her voice, and Halder stopped, gently took her arm, and turned her round to face him. “The camp's completely changed you, hasn't it?” He raised a hand to her face. “My poor Rachel.”

She pulled away. “I told you before—don't touch me. And I don't need your protection. I can look after myself.” And with that she turned abruptly and walked away.

•  •  •

Kleist stood at the barrack window, feeling sick as he massaged his groin. He watched Halder and the woman cross the compound. There was murder in his eyes, and at that moment his hatred was total and overwhelming, and went beyond all reasoning.

Doring came up to him, and they saw Rachel Stern walk away, leaving Halder alone, before he eventually moved off. “Cool bastard, isn't he? Still, the woman doesn't seem all that happy about what he did. I would have thought she'd be glad of someone playing the knight in shining armor.”

Kleist spat on the floor. “Maybe she's got a lot more sense than you'd think. Halder's typical of all those rich, spoiled Prussian aristocrats. And arrogant with it.”

“That's his background?”

“Wouldn't you know? The same toffee-nosed type who milked this country for centuries, and kept the peasants under their heels. My old man worked his backside ragged for that lot all his life, and for what? A pittance and an early grave. If you ask me, the Führer should have done to them what he's done to the Jews. The likes of Halder make me bloody sick.”

Doring grinned. “So that's it? I had the feeling it was something more personal. Still, he's able to look after himself, I'll give him that. That's the first time I've ever seen anyone knee you in the groin and walk away alive.”

Kleist turned on him. “Wipe that smirk off your face, or I'll wipe it off for you.”

Doring obeyed instantly. “Sorry, Herr Major.”

“I don't know what you find so bloody funny. The Halders of this world like to think they're above you and me, but they've kept us down for too long. That type have a lesson to learn. I didn't join the SS to have some arrogant Prussian scumbag of the same rank treat me like dirt.”

“Have you got revenge in mind, Major?”

“Don't worry, I'll think of something.” A sinister grin spread over Kleist's face. “And you can mark my words, Halder will definitely get his when the time comes.”

The desert road was empty in the early hours, the air chilly, and they didn't pass a single vehicle. Weaver drifted in and out of sleep, napping in the passenger seat until just after 4:00 a.m., when Sanson turned off the main road and drove for two miles down a desolate track.

“Wake up. We're here.”

Weaver rubbed his eyes and saw a signpost in English and Arabic.
“This area strictly off limits, except to authorized military personnel.”

They were in a shallow valley, the first rays of dawn barely tinting the horizon, and the place had an eerie feel.

He could make out a vast collection of wooden and corrugated-iron huts surrounded by barbed-wire runs, watchtowers jutting into the darkness.

They drove up to the camp's main entrance barrier and halted. Two armed guards from the sentry hut examined their papers before telephoning the duty officer and allowing them to drive through. They were met outside the main administration building by a tired-looking British major who escorted them into his office. “I believe you're here to interrogate Berger, sir?” he said to Sanson. “An odd hour for that sort of thing, if you don't mind me saying so.”