The Cairo Code (37 page)

When Kleist and Doring finished tying up the men, they secured them to the fuselage. “What do you want us to do with the uniforms?” Kleist asked.

Halder looked at them for size. “I'll take the captain's.” He tossed the lieutenant's papers and uniforms across to Doring. “Put that on—see if it fits.”

Doring tried on the clothes and they fitted reasonably well. The SS man grinned down at the young lieutenant, who was naked except for his underwear, and tapped his ribs with the toe of his boot. “Well, do I pass for an
Englander
?

The lieutenant's face was strained, and he was rigid with fear. “Leave him,” Halder warned Doring.

“It's all right, Hugo. They're not going to harm us.” The captain looked up at Halder as if for reassurance. “Under the rules of the Geneva Convention—”

“I'm well aware of the rules, and you both have nothing to fear. Though I'm afraid we'll have to leave you here.”

“We could be dead from thirst by the time we're found.”

“I'll give you both a fill of water before we go. I'm sorry, there's nothing else we can do. But I've no doubt one of your patrols will find the wreckage.”

Halder indicated for Doring and Kleist to join him outside. When they went out, he jerked a thumb at Doring. “See if there's a map in their Jeep. Kleist, give our friends some water, and a couple of our canteens in case they manage to free themselves. Make it quick, then let's get moving.”

“Are you insane? You're going to let them live?” Kleist said in amazement.

“And what would you suggest?”

“We shoot them.”

“Forget it, Kleist. They're innocent men.”

“They're the enemy, and you're making a grave mistake. They can give their comrades our descriptions. Alive, they sign our death warrants. Dead, the enemy knows nothing.”

“I'm not going to murder anyone in cold blood. And we're in deep enough trouble as it is. Now do as you're told. Give them the water and get back here, on the double.”

Kleist made to protest, his face livid, but then seemed to think better of it. He hurried towards the wreckage, picking up the water canteens as he went, just as Doring came back. “There's no sign of any map, sir.”

“Terrific.” Halder turned to Rachel. “Quite a mess, isn't it? Still, look on the bright side—at least we have transport.” He removed his shirt and pants, pulled on the captain's shirt and uniform, buckled on the Sam Browne belt and holstered the revolver, then tried on the boots. “A bit tight, but they'll have to do for now.”

“You might bear a passing resemblance to the captain, but if those papers are checked thoroughly, you'd never pass inspection.”

“A fact I'm well aware of, but let me worry about that if it happens.”

“What now?” Rachel asked worriedly.

Halder pulled on the captain's cap, set it at a jaunty angle, and touched the peak in a mock salute, impersonating a British accent. “God only knows, my dear, but we'll do our jolly best.”

“You're crazy. We'll never get out of this alive.”

“Oh, I don't know about that. You always have to live in hope.”

Falconi gave a low moan, and Doring said, “I think you'd better take a look at him, sir.”

Halder knelt over the Italian. Falconi's skin looked sickly gray, and dark patches of blood were seeping through the bandages. He loosened the belt tourniquet again, then tied it more tightly.

“He's in a bad way. The heat's going to be unbearable in another hour, and he'll only get worse. Without proper medical attention, he'll bleed to death. It's probably still worth trying the landing strip, in case our contact hung around. If so, he may know of a trustworthy doctor who can help.” He turned to Doring. “Tell Kleist we're moving out.”

Two shots exploded from inside the Dakota. Halder went white and turned towards the wreckage, knowing instinctively what had happened. “Kleist—you bloody animal!”

•  •  •

When he reached the aircraft door, Kleist was stepping out, the revolver in his hand, a faint plume of smoke rising from its barrel. Halder looked in and saw the twisted bodies of the two young officers, each shot through the head. He grabbed Kleist by the lapels, enraged. “You callous thug—you killed them in cold blood!”

“If you couldn't do it, I could,” Kleist said, unrepentant. “This is war, Halder—”

Halder punched him in the face. Kleist was flung back against the wreckage and dropped the revolver in the sand. He staggered to his feet, his nose dripping blood, hate in his eyes. “You're dead, Halder. Dead!”

Kleist came at him fast, his arms open like those of an angry bear, his full weight hitting Halder and toppling him. He lunged on top and punched Halder savagely, fists slamming into his face. Halder fought back and managed to roll away, but when he tried to unholster his gun, Kleist came at him again.

This time he was ready. His foot came up and he kicked Kleist below the knee. Kleist roared in pain and staggered back, clutching his leg. Halder got to his feet and his fists went to work, punching Kleist hard and fast. The dazed SS man was spun round, and Halder's arms locked around his throat, but Kleist's hand came up, gripping Halder's hair, almost wrenching the scalp from his skull. Halder tightened his hold. “Enough, Kleist, or I'll break your bloody neck!”

Kleist managed to scream hoarsely, “Doring—the gun!”

Doring hesitated, uncertain for a moment, then ran to recover Kleist' s revolver from the sand, but Rachel tripped him, he fell forward, and she reached for the weapon. As Doring got to his feet, she pointed the gun at his face.

“You stupid b—!” Doring moved towards her.

“Another step and I'll kill you.”

Doring halted instantly. The look in her eyes suggested she meant it. Rachel kept the gun trained on him and said to Kleist, “Unless you want your comrade to die, do as Halder says.”

Kleist gave a look that suggested he knew when he was beaten, and did as he was told. Halder pushed him away and pulled out his revolver, as Doring said sheepishly, “Major, I—”

“You stupid fool. I could shoot you for insubordination.”

“A grave mistake, Major, I—I didn't think—” Doring stammered.

“Shut up and get over beside Kleist.”

Doring obeyed, and Halder leveled his gun at them. “I ought to finish the matter right here. And you, Kleist, you're beyond contempt. You deserve a bullet.”

The big SS man wiped blood from his nose. “See sense, Halder. We didn't have any choice.” He jerked his head towards the Dakota. “If they were found alive, we'd be caught before we knew it. This way, at least we have a chance.”

There was a brutal logic to it, Halder knew, but Kleist's ruthless savagery made him loathe the man. “Except now we're responsible for murdering two British officers. A fact I'm sure will make their comrades all the more determined to catch us. You've put us in even worse jeopardy.”

Kleist had no answer to that, and he stood there, sullenly.

“You're also forgetting we have a mission to complete,” Halder reminded him. “This is still a military operation and I'm still in charge. Until we're either killed or captured. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Major.”

“Now both of you get in the Jeep. Up front, where I can keep an eye on you.”

The SS men climbed in, and Halder went across to Rachel and took the revolver from her. “From the look on your face you were quite prepared to use this.” He raised his eyes. “What a change war brings in people. Do you really think you could have pulled the trigger?”

“I don't know.” She smiled, very faintly. “But at least the threat of it seemed to frighten the life out of Doring. Are you all right?”

He rubbed his jaw. “I've felt worse. But Kleist certainly hasn't helped our situation.” Halder looked towards the wreckage, anger in his voice. “I'm sorry it's come to this. Those men didn't deserve to die.” He turned back to Rachel. “You can be sure it won't be long before enemy patrols are out looking for us. With luck, if our compass is working, we could reach the airfield in twenty minutes. We can only pray our contact's still there. But after that, I'm afraid everything's in the lap of the gods.”

A military police Jeep with a canvas hood was waiting on the airfield when they landed, a British lieutenant and a driver seated in front. When Weaver and Sanson climbed out of the Avro Lancaster, the officer came forward.

“Lieutenant Colonel Sanson? I'm Lieutenant Lucas, sir, Field Security.” He saluted them. “I've been ordered to liaise with you by Captain Myers at Alex HQ. He sends his apologies he couldn't meet you personally, but he has a staff meeting to attend.”

Sanson returned the salute. “This is Lieutenant Colonel Weaver, U.S. military intelligence. He'll be joining us.”

“A pleasure to meet you, sir.” The lieutenant turned back to Sanson. “Captain Myers said you were interested in this missing Dakota, that it might be a German intruder.”

“Have you made any progress?”

“We just had word ten minutes ago, sir. One of our spotter planes sighted the wreckage of an American-flagged Dakota in the desert, about twenty-five miles southwest of here. The pilot also thinks he might have found the Beaufighter, about five miles farther north.”

“Good. Any signs of survivors?”

The lieutenant shook his head. “Not as far as the Beaufighter's concerned. It's a complete mess, plowed straight into a sand ridge. And one of the wings appears to have sheared off the Dakota. But the spotter says the fuselage still looks intact, so it's possible the passengers made it.”

“Have you sent anyone to investigate?” Weaver asked.

The lieutenant indicated a field radio with a whip antenna on the Jeep's backseat. “I have a patrol on its way, as of five minutes ago, and they'll keep in touch. Military personnel are pretty thin on the ground in that particular sector, but I've put a bulletin out, to be on the alert for any survivors.”

“How long will it take us to reach the crash sites?”

“If we push it, less than an hour.”

Achmed Farnad was in the yard at the back of the hotel, cleaning the windshield of his Fiat truck with a tattered leather chamois. The glass was covered with dust and insects after his drive to the airfield that morning, and he really didn't know what to make of the whole confusing business. He had waited over two hours, but the Germans hadn't appeared. The sandstorm had been pretty bad, of course, and he guessed they had either been forced to abandon their mission, or else the poor dogs had been shot down en route, or maybe even crashed.

If they had, he hoped for his sake there were no survivors. There was always the risk he might somehow be compromised if they were captured and interrogated, and the uncertainty of what had happened made him feel uneasy. He finished cleaning the Fiat's windshield, rinsed the chamois and tossed out the bucket of dirty water, then crossed to the barn, scattering the chickens in his path.

He stepped into an empty goat pen and kicked away part of the thick layer of cane-leaf fodder covering the floor. Underneath was a wooden trapdoor, and he lifted it to reveal a neat recess.

A piece of filthy sackcloth lay on top, and when he removed the covering, his radio transmitter was concealed below, a Luger pistol next to it. He had made the coded transmission two hours ago, questioning why the aircraft hadn't arrived, and the signal had been acknowledged, but there wasn't any possibility of a reply until eleven that evening, when he kept his frequency open. At least by then he ought to have an explanation, but for now he wanted to make sure the radio battery was fully charged. As he made to lift it out, his wife came into the barn, ashen-faced, nervously clutching her apron.

“Achmed, there are soldiers outside—they're coming into the hotel. I think they've arrested Mafouz!”

Achmed's jaw dropped with fright. He stashed away the radio, replaced the trapdoor, and scattered the fodder on top with his hands. “Stay here, woman,” he told her, worriedly. “Look busy feeding the chickens. And try to remain calm.”

•  •  •

Halder waited with Rachel in the area that passed for reception—a wooden desk with a half-dozen keys hanging from a rickety board on the wall—while Kleist and Doring sat outside in the Jeep, tending to Falconi. A group of ragged children had gathered around them, following the vehicle into the village the moment they appeared, and both Kleist and Doring looked uncomfortable.

“It's like the circus come to town,” Halder said. “The whole bloody village knows we're here. Still, it can hardly be helped.”

Abu Sammar was no more than a collection of wood and mud-brick buildings in the middle of nowhere, criss-crossed with unpaved roads and narrow alleyways. Scrawny-looking chickens and goats roamed among piles of rotting refuse, and the entire population of men, women, and children seemed to be watching them out of curiosity as they pulled up outside the Seti. The hotel wasn't up to much, a three-story affair with an enclosed yard at the side, the place shabby with oddments of threadbare carpet and flaking whitewashed walls, the only hotel in a village that looked as if it didn't need one.

“Not exactly the Ritz,” Halder said to Rachel. An ancient marble staircase with broken metal banisters led upstairs, and the building smelled of must and decay. There was a bell on the desk and Halder smacked it again, much harder this time, the noise ringing around the walls, before looking down at Mafouz. “You're sure your father's here?”

They had found the boy at the airfield, minding some goats in one of the Nissen huts, and it didn't take long for Halder to discover what had happened.

“I will find him, sir.”