The Cairo Code (28 page)

“That really inspires me with confidence, Vito. Any other good news?”

Falconi laughed. “We do have the slight advantage of flying one of their aircraft. They'll be less likely to shoot first and ask questions later. Which might give us a chance to bluff our way out if they think our communications or electrics are dead, and we can make a run for it, if necessary.”

“That's hardly a likely option if we come up against a night fighter. They'd have us for speed.”

Schellenberg interrupted. “Like I said, Jack, there are risks. But you're well aware Vito's done this sort of run over enemy territory before. You're in excellent hands.”

“It's the weather I'm really more concerned about,” Falconi admitted to Halder. “The Met reports indicate a pretty nasty front moving in rapidly across the Med. It looks like thunderstorms all the way down to Alex for the next twenty-four hours, and sandstorms along the north Egyptian coast.”

“Marvelous.”

“But the good news is I'm hoping the bad weather will keep any enemy coastal patrols firmly on the ground.”

“You really think we'll be safe?” Rachel asked.

Falconi smiled, all charm. “There's a war on,
bella signorina.
And no one is entirely safe, especially in our situation. But even the Devil has his good days, and since I've lived this long, he obviously hasn't let me down so far.”

“And just to lay your minds at rest,” Schellenberg put in, “I have a team of the Luftwaffe's finest mechanics waiting in Rome to give the aircraft a final inspection. The last thing we want is technical trouble during your flight—it could prove disastrous. Are we almost ready, Vito?”

“My copilot, Remer, and I were just finishing our checks.”

Schellenberg searched the faces around him. “No further questions? Good. Climb aboard and stow away your things. We'll be getting under way shortly.”

It was almost one o'clock when the Dakota finally lifted off the long Gatow runway. Falconi climbed to fourteen thousand feet before letting the young Luftwaffe copilot take over the controls, while he consulted the route maps.

In the back of the aircraft, Halder sat on the floor beside Rachel, while Kleist and Doring sat opposite. Schellenberg was up near the front, stretched out on the floor with his arms folded, his briefcase clutched to his chest, his officer's cap tilted over his eyes as he tried to sleep. The C-47 was pretty basic, with no seats and a lattice of canvas cargo webbing hanging along the fuselage walls. Once they had reached their cruise altitude, Halder began to feel the cold, and he noticed that Rachel looked pale and drawn.

“How do you feel?”

“Tired and freezing.”

“It's a long flight. I'll see if I can find something to keep out the chill.”

He went to get a couple of the blankets from one of the stowage bins, but when he came back Rachel was already fast asleep, curled up like a child, her head to one side.

Halder placed a blanket over her, then for some inexplicable reason he leaned over and gently kissed her on the nape of the neck. Across the aircraft, he noticed Kleist stare at him and say something under his breath to Doring, and the two SS men sniggered. Then Kleist glared at him boldly, eyes filled with something close to hate.

Halder ignored the provocation, covered himself with a blanket, and tipped his hat over his eyes. The drone of the Dakota's twin engines lulled him to sleep.

“It's called the Imperial,” said Reeves. “Twenty rooms in all. Looks like a proper dive inside. I think I'd rather take my chances sleeping in a rat-infested sewer.”

Weaver had just climbed into the back of an unmarked staff car next to Sanson, both of them armed and wearing civilian clothes. Arriving by taxi in the hot, crowded back streets of the Ezbekiya, they joined two of Sanson's men already detailed to watch the Imperial. One of them, Reeves, a young intelligence officer with a thin mustache, sat in the driver's seat, also wearing civilian clothes.

Across the street, the Imperial looked far from what its name suggested: a cheap, run-down hotel with peeling shutters, cracked exterior walls that looked as if they were about to collapse—four derelict floors sandwiched between a long row of similar cheap hotels and decaying tenement buildings. The painted sign above the entrance was badly faded.

“What's the owner's background?” Weaver asked.

Sanson had his notebook open on his lap. “Tarik Nasser's a small-time businessman with no known convictions. The hotel was visited by the local police three days ago as part of our checks, but they claim the register was in order and the clerk told them no one of Farid Gabar's description had looked for a room. The only reason we reckon Tarik Nasser's a likely sympathizer is the word of one of our informers. During the flap he was overheard boasting that he'd be welcoming the Germans with open arms as soon as they reached Cairo. Hardly unusual, you might say, but it turns out he's probably got a good motive—a number of years ago his younger brother was shot dead while pilfering from British army stores. And as of now, Nasser's the only likely suspect we've come up with.”

Three other hotels in the district were under observation, and Sanson seemed impatient to make progress. “Give me the story,” he said to Reeves.

“I asked for a room and the clerk told me they're full right now,” Reeves replied. “All twenty rooms bursting at the seams, and not a chance of getting one for another two months. It's the same with all the others around here. You can't get a room for love nor money.”

Sanson let out a sigh. The intention had been to get one of the men inside the Imperial to see if they could spot anyone among the guests who resembled Gabar. “That messes up our plans. Which means we probably don't have much option except to raid the place and pull in Nasser for questioning. What about the customers?”

“Mostly European refugees, but some Arabs, too, so far as I could see.”

“Did you get a look at the register?”

“No, sir. That wasn't possible.”

“Did you see
anyone
who might resemble Gabar entering or leaving?”

“No, sir.”

“What about Nasser?”

“I asked to see the owner after I tried to book a room, just to get a proper look at him. He came out himself. I gave him my spiel about needing accommodation badly and that I'd pay over the odds, but it made no difference—he told me he was full to the gills. He left just over an hour ago and hasn't come back since. Briggs went to follow him, sir.” Reeves looked out of the window. “Hang on a minute. Here's Briggs now.”

A man came up alongside the car, wearing a civilian suit and hat, and climbed in beside the driver. “Where's Nasser?” Sanson asked.

Briggs nodded out of the window. “That's him, sir. He went for lunch in a Greek restaurant two streets away. Then he bought some groceries in a store around the corner.”

Across the road, they saw a barrel-chested man waddle along the pavement. He wore a fez and carried a bag of groceries, his triple chins rippling as he munched an apple. He turned into the hotel and climbed up the short flight of steps with difficulty, his stubby legs under strain, his fat cheeks puffing air.

Sanson opened the car door. “Right, let's nab him while we can. Reeves, you come with us. Briggs, go round the back. Anyone tries to make a run for it, you drop them, but don't kill the sods. If they run, they've got something to hide, and I want to know what it is.”

•  •  •

Hassan lay on the bed, idly cleaning the Walther pistol with an oily rag.

The tiny room was driving him insane, and he felt like a caged animal. A pile of Arab newspapers lay on the floor; he'd read each at least a half-dozen times. He was restless, needed to walk. His stomach rumbled. It was still lunchtime, and the Greek restaurant two streets away served excellent food. Wearing the suit, and with his beard gone, he had begun to feel reasonably secure in his disguise.

He put aside the pistol, got up from the bed, took his tie and suit jacket from the hanger on the back of the door, and started to get dressed.

•  •  •

Weaver went into the lobby with Sanson, Reeves behind them. The place was threadbare, smelled of stale food and cigarette smoke. There was a wooden counter on the left, a young Arab clerk behind it, idly fingering a set of worry beads, and Sanson said, “Tarik Nasser. Where is he?”

The clerk blinked at his visitors. “I—I don't know, sir.”

“Don't lie to me. I saw him enter just a moment ago.”

The young man gestured nervously towards a door. “Mr. Nasser's office over there. Perhaps you find him inside—”

Sanson smartly crossed to the door with Weaver and Reeves, pushed it open, and they found themselves in a tiny office. Tarik Nasser was seated at a desk set against the far wall, looking through some correspondence, and he wobbled uncertainly to his feet at the sudden intrusion. “Yes?”

“Tarik Nasser?”

“Yes, I'm Nasser.”

“I'm Lieutenant Colonel Sanson, military intelligence. This is Lieutenant Colonel Weaver.”

Nasser tried not to swallow, felt his legs begin to shake, as if they were about to collapse under his weight. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Sanson nodded to Reeves. “Check the registration book. Be quick about it.”

“What's going on here?” Nasser protested.

Reeves left and Sanson said, “Sit down, Mr. Nasser.”

Nasser sat, felt sweat rise on the back of his neck, and his heart began to palpitate. He thought of reaching for the buzzer under his desk, but reconsidered. “You haven't told me what this is about.”

“Then I'll get directly to the point. You're suspected of harboring German spies, Mr. Nasser. And of being a German agent yourself.”

He
was
in trouble. Nasser felt a sudden pain tightening his chest, but he gave a dry, nervous laugh that didn't sound very convincing. “Is—is this some kind of funny business?”

“Cut the innocent act, Nasser. We have the word of a captured German intelligence officer.”

Nasser swallowed, reached for a handkerchief on his desk, dabbed his brow. “There—there must be a mistake, certainly? I'm—I'm an honest businessman.”

Reeves came back moments later with a thick guest ledger. “There's no one named Gabar registered for any time over the last nine months, sir. Or at present.”

As soon as he heard the name, Nasser's chest pain got worse. He felt like throwing up, but he made to reach for the buzzer instead, his hand shaking. He quietly took it away as Sanson looked back at him.

“We're going to search the hotel. Tear it apart if we have to, and check the guests in every room, one by one. Then we're going to take you to GHQ for interrogation. Before we do so, I'm going to give you the opportunity to confess. Well, Nasser?”

Nasser made up his mind. Trembling, the handkerchief still in his hand, he reached under the desk and pressed the button twice. Sanson grabbed his arm in an instant, twisted it behind his back. “What the devil are you playing at—?”

Nasser yelled in pain.

Sanson heaved him out of the way, searched under the desk, spotted the button. “The clever rogue's warned someone.” He drew his revolver. “A pound to a penny the Arab's here. Watch him, Reeves, and cover the lobby. Follow me, Weaver, quickly.”

•  •  •

Hassan had finished putting on his suit. He was examining himself in the cracked mirror, almost ready to leave, when he heard the buzzer go off, a sharp, brutal noise that sounded like a giant angry mosquito had invaded the room.

His heart skipped. He looked up sharply at the buzzer, just as it stopped for a second, then sounded again.

Once for caution. Twice to get out.

In one fluid movement he picked up the Walther, scanned the room to make sure he'd left nothing behind, and moved to the door.

•  •  •

Weaver had his Colt automatic out as he went back into the lobby with Sanson.

“We'll take one floor each, one at a time,” said Sanson, the Smith & Wesson in his hand. “I'll take the second, you the third, then move up from there. And for the love of God be careful.”

They both went up the staircase, Sanson leading the way, and parted company on the second-floor landing as Weaver raced up to the third. He found himself in a short hallway, a window at the far end, the same smells and shabby red carpet as the lobby, three rooms on either side.

He saw no open doors. He tried the first, on his right.
Locked.
He moved his shoulder hard against it, pushed, and heard a noise behind the door. It opened and a middle-aged European man made to come out, a shabby briefcase in his hand. He looked alarmed.

“Get your hands above your head.” Weaver pointed the gun in his face and pushed him back inside the room.

“I—I have papers,” the man stammered, his hands shaking violently. “My—my name is Josef Esher. I am Hungarian refugee—”

The man obviously wasn't Gabar, and Weaver saw there was no one else in the room.

“I'm looking for an Arab.” He described Gabar. “Have you seen him?”

The trembling man shook his head. “I—I see no one like that.”

“Stay in your room and lock the door,” Weaver ordered, then moved back out into the hallway. The door closed after him, and he heard the lock click.

He tried the next room.
Locked.
He moved to the door opposite, tried the handle. It opened. He was in a tiny single room. The bed was ruffled, an indent in the bedclothes where someone had lain. Newspapers lay scattered on the floor. It looked as if someone had left in a hurry. Weaver noticed a key in the inside lock. He went back out into the hallway. The window at the end was half open. He hurried towards it and looked out. A rusting fire escape led down to a back alley, but he saw no one outside.