The Cairo Code (34 page)

“Vito! For the love of—!”

But it seemed as if Falconi had been waiting for exactly this moment, almost expecting it. In an instant his hands were working rapidly, pushing forward the throttles, pulling back hard on the stick, lowering the flaps. The nose lifted sharply and the C-47 barely cleared the sandbank. There was a harsh metallic sound as the fuselage scraped the top, but miraculously they continued to climb.

“That was close, Vito!”

Falconi's white face dripped sweat. “Too close for comfort. Now let's just pray our friend doesn't see it in time.”

•  •  •

Carlton was trying to keep his eyes on the C-47, preparing to fire again, when he saw the target's tail climb sharply.

“Keep level, baby. What the . . . ?” A second later Carlton saw a massive sand dune straight ahead.
“Holy—!”
He pulled back frantically on the stick.

Higgins screamed. It was the last sound Carlton heard in his earphones before the Beau clipped the top of the dune, the aircraft spun out of control, nosed into the sand, and exploded in a ball of searing orange flame.

•  •  •

“I think we got him.” Falconi burst out of the thick cloud at a thousand feet, took in the flaps, glanced back and saw a bright mushroom of flame rise up out of the sandstorm. There was no sound of triumph in his voice. “The poor souls. God have mercy on them.” He wiped a lather of sweat from his face and leveled out the Dakota.
“Mamma mia!”

“What were you up to back there?”

“A small game we used to play when I flew mail runs down to Addis Ababa. We'd fly low and skip the dunes, anything to relieve the boredom of flying over nothing but desert. Pleasant enough fun in clear weather, but in a blinding sandstorm, positively dangerous. You'd better see to Remer.”

Halder felt the copilot's pulse. It was very weak, his breathing shallow, and he was still bleeding heavily. “He's alive—just about.”

“Get the first-aid kit from the cabin, see if you can do anything about the bleeding—and check the others. But be quick about it, Jack. Remer seems in a bad way.”

Halder went back to the cabin and saw Rachel standing, clutching the cargo webbing, looking frightened and white-faced. Kleist and Doring seemed shaken after the experience, and there were several holes punched clean through the fuselage, but incredibly no one had been hit except Remer.

“Is the worst over with, or about to begin?” Kleist asked bleakly.

“It seems we're out of the woods for now. Find me the first-aid kit. The copilot's badly wounded.” As Kleist went to look for it, Halder said to Rachel, “Are you OK?”

“I—I don't know. I'm still trying to recover. That was one of the worst experiences of my life.”

“We're still alive, which counts for something.”

Kleist came back with the kit and handed it to Halder. As he went towards the cockpit, Rachel said, “Do you want me to help?”

“Not for now, but if I need you I'll call.”

Suddenly there was a sickening dropping sensation, and the plane started to lose height. They all heard the engines struggle as Falconi applied a surge of power, but the Dakota barely lifted.

“Stay down, all of you!” Halder went back up to the cockpit and saw that Falconi looked deeply worried. “What's wrong now?”

“Engine trouble. More than likely we ingested sand and it did us some damage. And we're losing fuel, fast. The machine-gun fire must have ruptured the fuel lines.”

Halder put a heavy cotton dressing on Remer's wound. The man was unconscious, but he groaned in pain. “Can we still make it to the landing site?” Halder asked.

“We're close, maybe eight miles away or less, but there's not a chance in hell,” Falconi replied grimly. “I'm going to have to try and crash-land.”

“After all our trouble that's all we need.”

Halder looked out of the cockpit but could see nothing. They were down to six hundred feet and back into the sandstorm. Falconi applied full power, but the engines barely reacted. “It's no use,” he cried. “She won't respond.”

At that precise moment the engines died. There was a frightening silence, broken only by the sound of the wind on the wings, and then the Dakota dipped sickeningly.

“Our engines are out!” Falconi shouted. “Strap yourself in, Jack. And be quick about it!”

“What about the others?”

“There's no time. Brace yourself!”

Halder scrambled into the wireless operator's seat and fastened the harness. There was a terrible sinking feeling, and then the sand flurries thinned and he saw the desert rushing up at them fast. He braced himself for the impact.

At the last moment Falconi pulled back hard on the column, the Dakota lifted a little, but then sank again. They hit the ground with a terrible force. There was a grating sensation as they plowed across the sand, then the left wing seemed to hit something and the aircraft flipped over.

It was still dark when Canaris arrived at the hospital in Charlottenburg just before eight that morning. When he saw the carnage and destruction he almost wept. Bodies had been laid out in the grounds in a long line, damp white sheets covering them, looking like an array of ghosts in the light drizzle of rain. The Berlin fire brigade was still working furiously and one half of the building was a smoldering ruin, wisps rising from the charred remains, an acrid tang of smoke in the air.

When his Mercedes drew up on the gravel and he stepped out, a doctor wearing a bloodied white coat came up to greet him. “Herr Admiral, I'm Dr. Schumacher.”

“Herr Doctor. Not a pleasant sight. How many dead?”

“Fifty-seven patients and four staff.”

Canaris's jaw tightened, but he was hardly surprised by the news. Parts of Berlin he had just driven through were a desolate ruin after last night's raid. “My God, it gets worse. And the boy?”

“He's barely alive, in a very bad way. He was bad to start with of course, but now—” The doctor shrugged helplessly. “You instructed me to call you if anything happened concerning the child—”

“Of course.” Canaris sighed deeply. “You'd better take me inside.”

•  •  •

An emergency ward had been set up in one of the undamaged basement storage rooms, kerosene lamps offering the only emergency light, and when Canaris went in the place was bedlam, with orderlies and staff trying to tend the sick and wounded. The doctor led him to a curtained-off cubicle. A nurse and another doctor were with the boy.

“How is he?” Canaris asked.

“Not too good.”

Canaris looked down at the child's innocent face and wanted to weep. His eyes were closed and his head and pelvis were wrapped in bloodied gauze, his breath just a faint wheeze. “Pauli, can you hear me?”

The child didn't react, and one of the doctors said, “You're wasting your time. He's in deep shock.”

“What happened?”

“A bomb hit—”

“I know all about the bloody bombs,” Canaris erupted. “They haven't stopped all week. What exactly happened to
him?”

“A shell came through the ceiling of a nearby ward. The blast shattered the walls. Falling masonry crushed his pelvis and caused severe head injuries.”

Canaris pursed his mouth. “His chances?”

Both doctors exchanged looks, then one of them shook his head. “Can't you do
anything
!” Canaris begged.

“I'm afraid it's quite hopeless. I'm surprised he's even lasted this long.”

At that moment the nurse said, “I think he's going, Doctor.”

A few minutes later the child moaned and gave a tiny gasp, his chest deflated, and his eyelids flickered. The doctors went to work, but it was useless. The child's head slumped to one side, he went still, and the life passed out of him.

“He's gone,” the doctor said finally.

Canaris had seen death before, many times, but the passing of someone so young was a heart-wrenching thing to witness. He was deeply upset as he looked down at the innocent dead face.

“The poor child,” he said, and there were tears in his eyes.

•  •  •

Canaris was in his office an hour later, writing a report, when the adjutant showed in a tired-looking Schellenberg. The admiral didn't rise but tossed his pen aside and gestured to a chair. “Sit down.”

His tone was gruff, but Schellenberg sat and Canaris said, “You got my message?”

Schellenberg managed to look suitably grieved. “Yes. A terrible calamity. But then what do you expect from Roosevelt and Churchill? They send bombers to destroy our cities, to kill and maim our—”

“Shut up, Schellenberg. I'm not in the mood for one of Goebbels's speeches. You promised Halder you'd have his son transferred to a hospital outside Berlin. He was very specific about that, so why didn't you?”

Schellenberg bristled at the accusation in Canaris's voice. “I'm not sure I like your tone.”

“Just answer the bloody question, before I'm tempted to hit you. Why?”

“I only got back from Rome an hour ago. There wasn't time.”

“You had time before you left.”

“Not really.”

“You scum, Schellenberg! If you'd done what you promised, the boy would be alive now.”

Schellenberg stood and pushed back his chair angrily. “I don't have to take this from you.”

“Sit down. I'm not finished. You also lied to Rachel Stern.”

Schellenberg frowned. “About what?”

“Her father. I checked with Dachau. According to their records, Professor Stern was never delivered to the camp after his arrest four years ago. What's going on, Schellenberg? Did your Gestapo friends do their dirty work after he was arrested? No doubt he was shot or beaten to death in those cellars of yours. Or maybe he's still rotting there? You lied to me, didn't you?”

Schellenberg gave an indifferent shrug. “Lying and subterfuge are all part of this game. You know that as well as I do. True, I didn't tell you the full story. But what of it?”

“So, it all comes out now. You fooled the woman, and you failed to keep your promise to Halder—the one thing he asked of you. His only concern was that his son would be looked after. He loved the boy deeply. You're despicable, Schellenberg, you and every one of your bloody-minded Gestapo and SS friends. You've brought this country to the abyss. But you know what really makes me sick? To know that we're all going straight to hell together.”

Schellenberg ignored the outburst. “Don't you want to know the mission status?”

“Oddly enough, at this moment I couldn't seem to care less.” Which was a lie, of course, but Canaris strove to hide his curiosity. He was still struggling with his conscience for having had to betray Halder and Rachel Stern, no matter how necessary he considered that betrayal to be, and it weighed heavily on him.

“The Dakota has disappeared. It either crashed, was forced to land on enemy soil, or was shot down. That agent of yours at Abu Sammar whom I used sent a radio message an hour ago, relayed from Rome, to say the aircraft never showed up at the rendezvous. And it certainly didn't return to Italy.”

This time Canaris turned pale.
Perhaps his message to Sylvia had got through?
The knowledge that he might have contributed to the deaths of Halder and the woman caused him a painful spasm of remorse. Later, he would certainly wallow privately in his grief for the loss of innocent lives. “I see.” He looked shocked and saddened. “It's over, then? They're either dead or captured?”

“I'm afraid so.”

Weaver woke to the sound of a muezzin's cry. He had spent half the night sleeping badly on a borrowed cot in his office, and when he stood his body was covered with aches and pains. The clapboard windows were closed, and he had a splitting headache from rereading all the files on likely Arab agents. He rubbed his face and opened the windows. Dawn rose over Cairo, silhouetting the rooftops and the ancient citadel built by the Turks. Just after midnight he had come across something that had roused his interest. An Arab about the same age as Gabar who had worked as a houseboy for the German embassy before the war. He was employed in a radio shop in the Old Town, which had certainly made Weaver stop and think, and he wondered how he had missed the man first time round. His address was in the file. He jotted it down in his notebook. He would check him out first thing that morning. A shower and shave would be in order first, but as he went to pick up his cap to leave for his villa, the door opened and Helen Kane came in, carrying a tray of steaming coffee and a plate of fresh bread rolls.

“I thought you might want breakfast.”

“You're in early.”

“It's dedication,” she said with a smile. “Did you sleep OK?”

“Tossed and turned through most of the night, I'm afraid.”

“A pity I couldn't have kept you company.”

“Lieutenant Kane, don't even tempt me with a thought like that.” Weaver smiled back.

When she put the tray down on his desk, he barely sipped the coffee before reaching for his cap. “I can't stay, Helen. When Sanson gets in tell him I should be back in a couple of hours. I'll be out looking for one of our sympathizers. His file's on my desk.”

“But there's a report that just came in you ought to know about. I'll get it for you.”

“No, tell me, it'll save time.”

“There was a curious incident up in Alex. We received details on the teleprinter from RAF Command just a few minutes ago.”

Weaver nodded. “What kind of incident?”

“An aircraft on coastal patrol, an RAF Beaufighter with 201 Group, reported an unidentified American Dakota flying northwest of Alex. The pilot went to intercept, but it appears the tower lost contact and the Beaufighter vanished. There was a pretty bad sandstorm blowing at the time and flying conditions were atrocious.”