The Cairo Code (27 page)

Schellenberg angrily snapped his fingers. “Leave us! Outside!”

The jailer clicked his heels, instantly obeyed. Schellenberg drew on his cigarette, and looked back at the prisoner. “I'm afraid you'll have to forgive these people. Some are worse than common beasts. But I have some good news, which should boost your morale. Your daughter agreed to my proposal. If she does what's expected of her, and survives, this unpleasant business should all be over very soon. Well, what have you got to say?”

The man whimpered, nervously took his hands away from his head. His bearded face was severely bruised, purple sores where old wounds had healed. He stared up like a frightened madman, deranged eyes beyond help, then he started to cry, covered his face again, and rocked back and forth.

Schellenberg sighed with despair, tossed his cigarette on the floor, and crushed it with his heel. “I have a terrible feeling you're beyond redemption, my friend. The bully boys have scrambled your brains.” He stepped outside, said to the jailer, “Have a doctor come by. Not one of the usual cellar quacks. A proper physician. And I want to see his report.”

“Yes, Herr General.”

The cell door clanged shut and Schellenberg retreated back down the corridor.

Reggie Salter was in a foul mood that Thursday afternoon, and for a very good reason. One of his warehouses had been raided the previous night, not by the police, but by a well-organized gang of Arab thieves. They had slit the throat of one of his guards and made off with over five thousand pounds' worth of Salter's cherished goods.

His men had already buried the guard's body out in the desert, and before long some greedy scumbags would be digging their own graves to keep him company. Whoever robbed his warehouse was going to pay dearly, but knowing the Arab criminal gangs as Salter did, he was unlikely to see his goods again.

He was still fuming at the thought of losing five grand when Costas came up the stairs from the warehouse below, wiping his hands on an oily rag. “Deacon's just arrived downstairs, Reggie. You want me to send him up?”

“No, I'll go down. What's happening with the bloody Jeep?”

“It's out in the yard. The boys are checking it over.”

“Right. Let's see the color of Deacon's money.” Salter went down the steps to the warehouse, Costas behind him, and they saw Deacon and the Arab waiting by some packing crates on the ground floor.

“Harvey, old son. Good to see you again.”

“You have the Jeep and the uniforms?”

“All business today, ain't we? I said I wouldn't let you down, and I haven't. I even got them earlier than expected. Follow me.”

Salter led the way through the warehouse to a covered yard at the back. Two of his men were working away under the hood of an American Jeep, while another was busy cleaning the dust off the military police decals on the sides.

“Costas tells me the engine's a good one—almost new,” Salter explained. “Not half clapped out like most you'd come across, after being run ragged across the blistering desert.”

Deacon looked over the vehicle. “Where did you get it?”

Salter tapped his nose with a grin. “The less you know the better.”

“But you're sure the papers are legitimate, and the Jeep can't be traced back to here?”

Salter laughed. “Give us a break, Harvey. Of course I bloody am. If I conducted business any other way I'd be nailed in my coffin by now.”

Deacon ran a hand over the paintwork, and Salter said, “Feel free to check the merchandise. You're the customer.”

Deacon sat in the Jeep and started the ignition. The engine throbbed smoothly. He climbed out and looked under the hood with Hassan's help. “It looks fine,” Deacon pronounced, dusting his hands.

“Would I do you a bad deal?” Salter handed him the vehicle's papers. “All in order, I think you'll find.”

Deacon examined the papers. “They seem OK, right enough. What about the uniforms?”

Salter clicked his fingers at one of his men. “Get the other stuff from inside, Joey.”

The man went into the warehouse and returned carrying a couple of bulging military kit bags over his shoulders. Salter opened one and emptied some of the contents on the ground. An American captain's uniform and a military police sergeant's uniform, both with all the trimmings, including a couple of holstered Colt .45 pistols and two American M3 “grease gun” machine pistols, with extra ammunition clips for each.

“Everything you ordered. Better check, though, just to be certain.”

Deacon examined the contents of each of the kit bags, and Salter said, “Happy?”

“It all looks good.”

“Another five hundred shekels, I think we said.”

“The uniforms and weapons I want delivered to the club later tonight. Use the delivery entrance, and for crikey's sake be discreet.”

“It's my middle name.”

“You're sure it's not a problem leaving the Jeep for a couple of days, until I need it?”

“Not so long as you pay the agreed storage it's not.”

Deacon removed an envelope from his pocket and handed it over. Salter riffled through the notes, then slid the envelope into his pocket. “A pleasure to do business with you, Harvey.”

“We haven't finished yet. What about the trucks?”

Salter lit a cheroot and scratched his jaw. “I'm afraid we're having a bit of temporary bother with those, ain't we, Costas?”

The Greek shrugged. “It seems the army's laying its hands on every vehicle it can right now, Harvey. God knows why, but there's a shortage of trucks about. Don't worry, we'll do our best.”

“Your best isn't good enough,” Deacon said worriedly. “I have to be certain I'll have those trucks within the next two days.”

There was a hint of desperation in his voice that Salter didn't fail to notice, and he said reassuringly, “I'll look after it personally, Harvey, no sweat. They'll be here, and on time, even if I have to nick them myself. That's a definite promise.”

“Good.” Deacon looked relieved, nodded to Hassan, and turned to go. “You'll be in touch?”

“As soon as I have word, old son.”

Salter watched them leave the yard, and when they had gone called over two of his men. “You know what to do. Everywhere Deacon goes, anyone he sees, I want to know about it. Mess this up on me and let him spot you, and you'll be crocodile bait, understand?”

“Sure, Reggie.”

The men left. Costas sidled over. He grinned crookedly at Salter. “You think it'll work?”

Salter cracked his knuckles. “It had bloody well better, Costas, old son. We lost five grand to those thieving Arab gits last night and I intend to recover our losses. Whatever's going on, we're going to get a piece of it, whether Deacon and his mates like it or not.”

The Luftwaffe airfield at Gatow was busy that afternoon as Schellenberg's Mercedes passed through the barrier, followed by a covered truck carrying Halder and the others. They pulled up beside a locked hangar, and Schellenberg led them in through a side door. An aircraft was parked inside, its fuselage painted in sand-colored camouflage, no markings or roundels to identify it. A half-dozen mechanics were working away while two pilots were busy in the cockpit.

“Vito!” Schellenberg called out, and the man in the captain's seat waved through the window, then moments later appeared at the fuselage door and came down the metal steps. “Herr General.”

“And how is our transport coming along?” Vito Falconi was tall for an Italian, very handsome, with dark curly hair and a fine Roman nose, and rather dashing-looking with it. He was also quite old for a combat pilot, in his late thirties. He wore a Luftwaffe leather flying jacket, a white silk scarf knotted at his neck, his eyes full of restless energy.

“Bene.
I took her up twice this morning, and she handles remarkably well.” He turned to Halder and shook his hand warmly. “Jack, you're still alive, I see.”

“Hello, Vito. It's been a while.”

Falconi smiled. “And I'm not exactly sure it's good to see you again. Not after I heard it was your idea to pick me to fly this mission. Are you trying to get me killed? So, how are you, my friend?”

“Between despair and middling.”

Falconi laughed. “Aren't we all. This war has everyone on edge. And what are you up to now? Something so top secret the whole future of the war depends on it?”

“You'd better ask the Herr General that.”

“All none of your business, Vito, I'm afraid,” Schellenberg said lightly, and made the introductions. “Meet Gruppenkommandant Falconi, your pilot. He'll be taking you all the way to Egypt.”

Vito took Rachel's hand and kissed it. “A pleasure,
bella signorina.
And may I say you're the best-looking passenger I've had in a long time.”

“Pay no attention to Vito,” Schellenberg remarked. “He's a first-class charmer.”

Kleist interrupted, a sour look on his face. “Herr General, the pilot's Italian. Why not German? The cowardly scum surrendered to the enemy. All they've ever done is give us trouble. As for their pilots, everyone knows they're useless. You may as well give us our death certificates here and now.”

Falconi gave Kleist a frosty look. “In case you hadn't heard, thousands of Italian dead lie as far east as the outskirts of Moscow and the ruins of Stalingrad. I think that counts for something, don't you?”

Schellenberg glared at Kleist. “Quite so. And I wouldn't worry about the Gruppenkommandant's flying abilities. He's been seconded to the Luftwaffe as an instructor since 1940, and is one of the best we have. He's also had a lot of experience flying in Africa. Since before the war, in fact, so you're in safe hands.”

“With respect, you must be doing your recruiting in some low places these days,” Falconi said to Schellenberg. “Your friend here had really better improve his attitude. Two minutes in his company and already I've had enough.”

Schellenberg said pointedly to Kleist, “Curb your tongue, and watch your manners. I also hear from Major Halder you're getting a little out of hand. Just remember he's in total charge of this part of the operation, so show him the proper respect. That's an order.”

Kleist grimaced, and drew himself up. “Yes, Herr General.”

“And now, Vito, I suppose you'd better explain about our transport.”

•  •  •

Falconi led them over to the sand-camouflaged aircraft and Halder said, “What's this, for heaven's sake?”

“An American C-47 cargo plane, otherwise known as the Dakota, or rather more affectionately as the Gooney Bird. Probably the best transporter the Allies have. This particular beauty ran out of fuel and ditched in a field in northern Italy, fortunately with only minor undercarriage damage. An SS patrol was in the area and managed to get to her before the pilot could blow her up. She was repaired and transported to Luftwaffe special operations.”

“So what's the idea?”

“The Dakota's as common as ditchwater in the Allied air forces. So from our point of view, she's ideal.”

“You mean to help us sneak past the Allied air defenses?”

Falconi grinned. “Exactly.”

“It was Vito's idea,” Schellenberg explained. “And there are two more aircraft just like them, for our friend the colonel. This way, we have a chance of getting you to your destination without coming under suspicion from enemy coastal patrols.”

“And they're pretty tight at the moment, from what I hear,” Falconi offered. “Their Spitfires and Tomahawks are out hunting day and night, and they're bloody good. Luftwaffe bomber squadrons based in Italy have been trying to hit Sicily and Alex in the last few weeks, but with considerable losses. Most of the poor swine have been shot down before they even reached their targets.”

“All very ominous for us,” Halder remarked. “Won't we need Allied aircraft markings? Surely there's a risk we could get blown out of the sky by one of their air patrols?”

“When we land in Rome for refueling, American markings will be painted on. We'll have a slight advantage using Italy as our departure point, because the Allies tend to focus their attention on the air traffic from German fields in Rhodes and Athens, seeing as they're closer to North Africa. Once we're on our way, to all intents and purposes we'll look like a U.S. Air Force plane going about its lawful business.” Falconi smiled. “And just in case you're worried, we'll be cleared with Luftwaffe command as far as southern Italy, so there's no danger of being shot down by our own side before we even get under way.”

“And after that?” Halder asked.

“The route we'll take down to North Africa will be mostly over sea. When we reach the desert airfield, I'll land and let you disembark, then take off again immediately. The Dakota's been fitted with an extra tank, so I'll have more than enough fuel to get me back to Rome.”

“What happens if the Allied air defenses intercept us and call you up on the radio?”

Falconi shrugged bleakly. “That's a possibility, of course. But if it happens, I'm afraid we'll just have to try to muddle our way through. You see, we really wouldn't know if they tried to call us up on the radio.”

“Why?”

“For security reasons, they change their communications frequencies daily, sometimes even for each patrol, so we've no way of knowing what the frequency might be.”

“But their aircraft would try to make contact somehow if we didn't respond?”

Falconi nodded. “If normal communications didn't do the trick, they'd try to do it visually with a signal code, either with Morse-keyed lights which Allied aircraft have mounted under their fuselage, or with a Very flare gun. Or then again, they might not even bother with a signal code, and just shoot us out of the skies.”