The Cairo Code (42 page)

“All
of them, sir?”

“Every darned one, Captain. Big and small. Flophouses included.”

The captain looked flustered. “But there are
hundreds
in Alex. That could take days.”

“You'll have to work faster than that. The longer we delay, the more likely they are to kill again, and the better their chances are of escaping.”

The captain sighed. “Yes, sir.” As he reached for the telephone, it rang. He picked it up, listened for several moments. “Right, I'm on my way.” He put down the phone, looked up. “We're in luck. It seems we may have spotted two of the people you're looking for.”

The Corniche, the famous crescent-shaped road stretching for miles along Alexandria's coast, was peppered with hotels and nightclubs, sidewalk cafés and cheap lodging houses. There was a certain faded glory about the seafront buildings. Some of the smaller hotels were actually brothels that catered to both sexes, handsome young Arab men and women sitting outside on the stone steps, trying to entice customers.

Halder had changed out of uniform, abandoning his suitcase under one of the carriage seats, and Rachel had donned a different set of clothes and put on makeup. As the train approached the outskirts of Alex, they saw the clusters of white, red-roofed houses perched on the side of the road, the Greek restaurants with their shady verandas, the blue sea close on the other side, palm trees dotting the coastal sands.

When they pulled into the station before Ramleh, they saw no obvious military presence on the platform, so they walked outside and took a cab. Halder told the driver to drop them off along the Corniche, and ten minutes later they stepped out onto the promenade.

“You'd hardly think there was a war on,” Halder commented, lighting a cigarette and slipping Rachel's arm into his as they walked. “It's like another world after drab old Berlin.”

Couples strolled along the magnificent sunny esplanade, as trams rattled past the Mediterranean, and there were bright-colored kiosks selling candy and trinkets. The only obvious reminders of the war were the dozens of ships belonging to the Allied fleet anchored farther along the quays, and the sailors and off-duty soldiers loitering outside brothels.

“They used to call Alex the Paris of the Middle East. But then it does have a certain reputation, even seedier than Cairo's. They say the brothels cater to every imaginable taste. Even the ancient Romans named it the City of Sinful Delights.”

Rachel noticed two heavily bosomed Egyptian prostitutes trying to tempt a couple of young sailors into a run-down hotel. “It seems things haven't changed much since the time of Antony and Cleopatra. How do you know Alex so well?”

“My parents took me on visits as a child, or didn't I ever tell you? My father always had it in his mind that Cleopatra's fabled treasure palace was buried somewhere under the harbor out there. But the last time was a year ago—I spent a month operating behind enemy lines. It wasn't as dangerous as it sounds. And definitely a lot more pleasant than being shelled by the British in Libya.”

At that moment two military Jeeps rounded a corner up ahead and came to a halt in the middle of the Corniche. Half a dozen military police jumped out and began setting up a roadblock, stopping traffic in both directions and checking drivers' papers.

Halder tossed away his cigarette. “It could be just a routine spot check, but then again they might be looking for us. Let's not tempt fate.” He took Rachel's hand. They crossed the seafront road and turned down a narrow back street opposite the promenade. It was thronged with more brothels and off-duty troops, and reeked with unpleasant smells. “I know it's taking a risk, but we'll have to give the main railway station a try. There's always a chance it mightn't be watched just yet. This time we'll use our own papers.”

“What happens if someone tries to arrest us?”

“We get out of there fast as we can, guns blazing if we have to.” He saw Rachel study him. “What's the matter?”

“I suppose you know you're crazy, Jack Halder? You seem to come alive whenever there's danger in the air. Or didn't anyone ever tell you that?”

He smiled, faintly. “It must be the Prussian in my blood.” He stood there, an odd look of excitement on his face. “But you know the strangest thing? I haven't felt this alive in months.” He pointed towards another side street. “The station's about a twenty-minute walk. It'll be safer if we stick to the back streets. Right, we'll get going. And let's try not to look like we're a couple of escaped convicts on the run.”

“They sent me on a wild-goose chase, sir. Bloody clever pair, I'll give them that.”

Weaver looked at the MP standing to attention in Myers's office. “At ease, Sergeant.”

The sergeant stood at ease, put his hands behind his back.

Sanson removed his cap, his face and eye patch flecked with sand dust. He sat on the edge of the desk. “You'd better tell me exactly what happened.”

Weaver had had Sanson radioed as soon as he heard Myers's news, and Sanson had sped back to HQ, leaving the patrols to carry on searching the villages. Weaver had filled him in and told him about the identities of the two dead officers.

The MP appeared uncomfortable in the presence of three officers. “Speak up, Sergeant,” Weaver prompted.

“There wasn't a sight of the two men anywhere. I had some of our lads cover the main roads out of town, but they didn't see any staff car. And there was no report of any other civilian or military vehicle stolen. But when we got back to the station, I checked out the abandoned Jeep. Turns out it belonged to the two officers who'd gone missing.”

“What did this young woman look like?”

“Very attractive. Late twenties. Blond-haired, blue-eyed. Slim, average height. And a bloody good actress, I'd have to say.”

“She claimed she was South African?”

“Yes, sir. Said her father was a colonel, serving in Alex.”

“And yet you didn't check her bloody papers?” Sanson said angrily.

The MP blushed. “She told me she'd forgotten them, sir. And then I reckoned there was no need—not when it seemed the officer could vouch for her.”

Sanson made an effort to control his anger. “You say he presented himself as Captain Jameson?”

The MP nodded. “That's what's frightening, sir. He played it as cool as you like. Spoke with a perfect upper-class English accent—” He broke off and glanced at Myers. “Begging your pardon, sir, I meant—”

Myers nodded abruptly. “I know what you meant, Sergeant. Go on.”

“He was about thirty, I reckon. Give or take a couple of years. Tall, handsome enough, dark hair and eyes. Capable-looking chap, I would have said. Then, when I checked with Amiriya, they told me Captain Jameson and another officer, Lieutenant Grey, had gone missing. And then I heard they'd been—”

“We know what you heard.”

“Would you recognize either of them if you saw them again?” Weaver asked.

“Oh, yes, sir. Not a shred of doubt about that.”

“What about his papers?” Sanson interrupted. “The photographs couldn't have matched.”

The sergeant blushed again. “Sometimes it's difficult to tell with photographs, sir, especially if someone's wearing a uniform and there's a passing resemblance. But he was a cool customer—told me to go ahead and check with his CO when I noticed his ID was a week out of date. He seemed so convincing, I took his word for it.”

“He's certainly a ruthless, clever sod, whoever he is,” Sanson said to Weaver, and walked over to the wall map. “You say they took the local train, heading west towards here?”

“Yes, sir,” the MP replied. “I questioned the stationmaster. He saw the man and woman board together after I'd left. That's when I radioed HQ.”

Sanson said to Myers, “Where's the final stop?”

“The Ramleh, the main station. But they'd have reached there long ago—it only takes about half an hour. I'm assuming, of course, that was their destination—there are several other stops along the way.”

“Get some men to the outlying stations on the route and question the railway staff. Find out if anyone saw a couple matching the descriptions get off at any of them.” Sanson looked over at the sergeant, his anger at the man's incompetence barely controlled. “That'll be all for now. Wait outside.”

The man left, and Sanson said, “They've got only two options. Move on, or stay in town.”

Myers glanced at his watch. “There's a train leaving for Cairo in just over an hour, sir. The two-fifteen. And there's another for Port Said an hour later. If they decide to keep running while their luck's good, it might do no harm to keep an especially close watch on Ramleh station, as Lieutenant Colonel Weaver has suggested.”

Sanson grimaced. “You can bet your backside we'll be watching. Plainclothes only. Don't have your men trooping in together—filter them into the station in twos and threes, through the front and back entrances. Tell them to be discreet—one wrong slip and we could ruin any chance we've got of catching them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you'd better find us some civilian clothes. Arrange it with the stationmaster so that all passengers have to pass through only one or two barriers, so we can keep a close watch on things. Have medical assistance standing by, too, in case we need it.”

“We're cutting it a bit fine for me to organize all that, sir.”

“No excuses, Captain. Just see that it's done.” Sanson picked up his cap, slapped off the sand dust. “Anything else you can think of, Weaver?”

“I guess you've covered everything.” Weaver nodded towards the door. “Except we'd better take the sergeant along. He saw them once. He'll recognize them again.”

It took Halder and Rachel almost half an hour to reach the Ramleh station. There was a small café—the Petite Paris—on the corner opposite, and Halder led them to one of the tables and beckoned a waiter.

“What's wrong?” Rachel asked.

“A little reconnaissance might be in order first. Let's have some coffee. I can recommend the Yemeni, it's first class. And we'd better eat something while we can.”

They ordered coffee and pastries, and Halder watched the station entrance across the street. There were the usual soldiers in transit, entering and leaving the massive entrance, kit bags over their shoulders, and a couple of Egyptian traffic policemen stood chatting on the square. They didn't seem to be paying much attention to anyone, and Halder noticed no obvious military presence.

“It seems quiet enough. But then again, they could have men posted undercover. It's a risk we'll just have to take.”

He observed the station for ten more minutes, then finished his coffee. “If there's even a whiff of trouble, you stick close to me. Understand?”

Rachel nodded.

He felt for the revolver in his pocket, stood, looked down, and offered her his arm. “Time to test the water. Ready?”

She stood and took his arm.

The Ramleh was chaotic, a massive stone building with high vaulted ceilings. There were several filthy-looking food stalls just inside the entrance, busy with passengers, mostly Arab peasants. They crowded the station, many of them barefoot and wearing djellabas, accompanied by wives and children, carrying boxes tied with string, wooden crates packed with chickens and pigeons.

Weaver stood behind the ticket barrier, wearing a linen suit loaned by one of Myers's staff. The air was clammy with smells and stifling hot. The sergeant was by his side, sporting a blazer and flannels, his skull-cropped haircut covered by a Panama hat. The train for Cairo left in fifteen minutes, the one for Port Said an hour after. There was only one barrier through which all passengers had to pass to gain access to the platforms, and Weaver and the sergeant stood a short distance away from the uniformed Arab ticket inspector, but close enough to see the faces of everyone who passed through.

Weaver glanced at the station clock. The hands struck 2:00 p.m.

A long queue had formed and there were murmured protests from some of the European passengers, but the Arabs took the inconvenience in stride, used to mindless bureaucracy and delays. So far, the sergeant had spotted no one resembling the couple. Another checkpoint had been set up farther down the platform, out of view of the passengers, where two plainclothes MPs were double-checking the identity cards of everyone who was allowed through.

Weaver felt confident that if they spotted the couple they couldn't escape.

It had been a manic rush to organize everything. He'd arrived only five minutes ago through the back way, changing into the borrowed clothes in one of the army trucks parked at the rear. Ten armed plainclothes men were posted around the station, six farther along the platforms, and another two dozen uniformed troops were holed up in the stationmaster's office, if needed. Sanson had chosen to position himself outside the main entrance with two plainclothes MPs, ready to block any escape, and a couple of motorcycle riders were parked in a nearby side street, alongside a waiting ambulance and two doctors, in case there was shooting.

The station was a chaos of human traffic, which made the job all the more difficult. Weaver saw Myers and another plainclothes officer lounging against a pillar twenty yards away, smoking cigarettes and standing over a couple of battered suitcases, pretending to be waiting passengers. Myers looked over and Weaver shook his head. They had seen no suspects so far.

The sergeant touched Weaver's arm. “There's a couple about twenty feet from the barrier, sir—”

“Where?”

“The lady's fair-haired, wearing a blue dress. The man with her's wearing a light-colored jacket.”