The Cairo Code (46 page)

“That really won't be necessary,” Halder answered.

“Pardon?”

“Where's madame?”

“In her office, taking a nap. Why?”

“Is there a back way out of here? In case any of the customers want to slip out unnoticed.”

The woman looked puzzled. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

Halder opened his wallet and produced a generous wad of notes. “We agreed five pounds an hour. I'll give you a hundred to vanish until midnight, and say nothing to Madame or the other girls.”

This time, Safa looked completely bewildered. Halder said, “Our presence here can be easily explained. We're trying to escape from an American intelligence officer, an angry and determined man, who doesn't like the idea of his wife having an affair. We arrived from Cairo this afternoon but had to flee our hotel with him in pursuit. You can bet he'll be searching every hotel and lodging house in the area, so we needed a refuge for the evening, until it's safe to leave town.” Halder smiled charmingly. “There's obviously been a misunderstanding on Madame's part, one which we gladly played along with. When it comes to delicate matters such as this, we thought it wise to say little. I'm sure you understand?”

Whether the woman did or didn't seemed immaterial. Safa plucked the money greedily from Halder's fingers, tucked it between her breasts, and smiled agreement. “Anything you say, monsieur.”

Deacon swallowed his third brandy in ten minutes. He had just returned from the Pharaoh's Garden, and there was no one waiting on the terrace who looked remotely as if they were trying to make contact.

“It's over, then?” Hassan said. “If the city's surrounded, they're finished.”

“It's a complete mess,” Deacon said bitterly. “After this disaster, it could be the last nail in the coffin.” He put down his glass and took a sheet of paper from his desk. He'd driven to the villa and returned to the houseboat with Hassan hidden in the Packard's trunk; luckily he hadn't been stopped by any checkpoints. He needed Hassan for what he had in mind. “But we're not finished yet. There's something we need to do—”

There was a knock on the door and his manservant entered, looking flustered. Deacon exploded. “I thought I told you I wasn't to be disturbed.”

“Apologies, effendi. But there's a gentleman named Salter to see you—he came alongside in a boat, with some men.”

Deacon peered through the porthole. Darkness had fallen outside, but he saw that a motorboat had tied up alongside, a couple of Salter's henchmen on board. Hassan came over. “What's he doing here?”

“If he isn't careful, he'll have the bloody law all over us.”

At that moment the door burst open and Salter entered, Costas Demiris in tow. “Hello, Harvey.” Salter picked up the brandy bottle from the desk, examined the label. “A '36 Hennessy. Living well, I see. Does a man have to die of thirst before he's offered a drink?”

“Leave us,” Deacon said abruptly to his servant, and when the man had left he glared at Salter.

“What are you doing here?”

“No need to get shirty. It's about those trucks you ordered. And there are a couple of things we need to discuss.”

“I thought we'd done that already.”

Salter grinned as he went over to the drinks cabinet, found a glass, then came back and helped himself to a generous splash of brandy. “Not really, but we'll come to that in a minute. I've got three American trucks, like I promised, and with all the right papers.” Salter swallowed from his glass and raised an eye. “What's the matter? You don't look too impressed.”

“If you could get to the point and be on your way, I'd appreciate it. Playing the roulette table in my private room after dark is one thing, but if anyone saw you come aboard I risk a visit from the military police.”

“Relax, you're safe as houses. No one saw me, I made sure of that.” Salter refilled his glass, swirled the amber liquid. “The stuff will be at the warehouse tomorrow afternoon, ready for delivery.”

“Good,” Deacon said flatly.

“You could try and sound a bit more enthusiastic. You're not thinking of backing out on me, are you, Harvey?”

“The deal's done and I'll pay you. Now, what else did you want to talk about?”

Salter nodded to his partner. “Tell him, Costas.”

“You've been a busy boy, Mr. Deacon. Trips out to Giza, and another to that airfield. We wondered what to make of it all.”

Deacon was aware of the blood draining from his face, and felt like an idiot. In his haste he'd ignored the most basic of rules: Always watch your back. He was barely able to contain his rage as he looked at Salter. “You've been following me.”

“Quick off the mark, ain't you, Harvey? Tell him what else we found out, Costas.”

“The airfield belongs to the Royal Egyptian Air Force. It's used sometimes when the government Antiquities Department wants to transport valuable artifacts to Cairo, discovered on official digs down south. The last I heard, some stuff came through there a month ago, bound for the Egyptian Museum. Gold and valuables from a tomb they're working on in the Valley of the Kings. Priceless, all of it.”

Salter put down his empty glass with a wicked grin. “Interesting, don't you think, Harvey? Treasure like that would fetch a pretty penny from private collectors once the war's over—it could set a man up for life. You wouldn't happen to know anything about another consignment due shortly, would you, old son?” He studied Deacon and shrugged. “It's the American army trucks I don't understand—I would have thought Egyptian army or air force was more likely the case. That and your little trip to Giza, which I just can't figure out. Some kind of clever plan in mind, have we?”

Deacon swallowed. “I think you're seriously misjudging the situation, Reggie. Honestly, I do.”

“I don't think so, mate, not by a long shot. I reckon your friends are up to no good—like nabbing some priceless treasure out at the airfield—or something tasty along those lines. And I'd like to know exactly what they have in mind.”

“I couldn't tell you even if I knew.”

Salter stepped closer, jabbed a finger threateningly into Deacon's chest. “Don't try it with me, Deacon. It doesn't wash. Whatever you're up to, I reckon it's worth a lot more than three grand. So we've got a new arrangement. I want in for ten percent. In return, you get your vehicles and uniforms free of charge, and any extra muscle that might come in handy from me and my boys.”

“I told you—” Deacon made to speak, but Salter slapped him across the face.

“Don't mess me around. I haven't got the patience. I want to know what these buddies of yours are up to.”

In an instant, Hassan was up off the chair, his knife out, but Salter was quicker. He had his Browning out of its shoulder holster and pointed at Hassan's face. “Try it, sunshine, and I'll drill a hole in you big enough to drive a camel through. Now drop the blade, or your boss here is going to need a new carpet.”

Hassan didn't move. “I'm not going to ask again,” Salter warned.

“Drop the knife,” Deacon told him.

Hassan obeyed. Salter's fist came up and struck him a blow in the face and Hassan fell back, his nose bloodied. Salter picked up the knife. “You ever threaten me again, you bleeding wog, and I'll carve you.”

He tossed the blade away, turned back, and touched the Browning to Deacon's nose. “Have a talk with your friends. Explain the situation. Make them see reason. I can lay my hands on anything they need to pull this off—and I mean
anything
—equipment, uniforms, men, you name it. I want to know by tomorrow night where I stand.” He smiled as he put down the gun. “Trust me, Harvey, this can be good for us all. A nice tidy profit all round.”

Deacon took the handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his face. “You're a conniving, greedy pig, Salter.”

“You know, that's the nicest thing anyone's said to me all day.” Salter replaced the Browning in his shoulder holster, grinned, and patted Deacon's cheek. “No hard feelings, Harv, but this is business. And a good word of advice. Convince your friends to play ball, and I promise, everything can be sweet. But try to keep me out of this caper, and I'll screw the lid down on you. And I don't think your friends would be too happy if the police got a tip-off telling them to watch the airfield. Get my drift? See you around.”

When Salter and the Greek had left, Hassan spat on the floor and wiped blood from his nose. He picked up his knife and glared at Deacon. “Next time, I kill him. And the Greek.”

Deacon poured himself a large brandy, swallowed it, then slammed the glass on the desk. “Drop it. We've got bigger problems right now. And you ought to be careful about where you point that toothpick. Salter's the kind of scum who doesn't take a threat lightly.” He tore a slip of paper from the sheet on his desk and scribbled down an address. “The way things are, we don't need Salter's trucks. And he's not going to like that. Even if I pay the scumbag, he's going to think I'm trying to double-cross him. But that's another day's worry.” He threw across the Packard's keys. “For now, take my car and drive to Alex, as fast as you can.”

Hassan frowned. “You said it's swarming with the army and police.”

“No one's going to be looking for you there. Besides, no one should recognize you in that disguise, without the beard, and you said yourself no one got a good look at you at the hotel.”

Deacon handed him the slip of paper. “Go to this address and ask to speak with Inspector Sadek. And make sure none of Salter's men are tailing you.”

Hassan looked at Deacon as if he were mad. “A policeman?”

“A retired policeman—he's a Nazi sympathizer. We need to know whether our friends have been caught. I'll have to inform Berlin when I transmit tonight. Sadek ought to be able to find out. If everything looks hopeless, drive to Rashid as quick as you can, and tell that cousin of yours to get rid of the boat—we don't need him to hang around the river any longer. I don't want a shred of evidence to lead back to us if our friends are rounded up and interrogated, and they tell about their bolthole.”

“Can't you phone this inspector?”

“He doesn't have a phone, not since he retired on a pension. If Sadek's not at home, ask his wife how to contact him, but either way find him, and tell him I sent you. If he's reluctant to help, get him to phone me and I'll handle it from this end.”

Hassan frowned. “And what will you be doing?”

“Visiting the café again, just in case by some marvel our contacts still turn up.”

Gabrielle Pirou heard the knock on her door. She was in the back room on the ground floor which served as her private office, wearing an old cardigan draped over her shoulders, her feet up and stretched out on the couch, as she dipped into a box of chocolates and fed tidbits to her poodle.

“Enter.”

Safa came in. “It's well for some.” She tossed a wad of notes on the table.

Gabrielle frowned. “What's that?”

Safa plucked one of the chocolates from the box and popped it in her mouth. “Your share. The couple upstairs didn't want to play games. Turns out there's been a misunderstanding. A pity, the woman looked all right.” She explained the situation. “The man gave me fifty pounds to get lost until midnight. So I'm giving my back a rest and taking the afternoon off to do some shopping.”

Gabrielle sat up. “You think the couple are kosher?”

“Should we care?”

Gabrielle made a face, then shrugged. “It doesn't sound right. Still, it's money, I suppose.” She tucked the wad of notes into her cardigan and looked at Safa. She had probably been given more, but she let it pass for now. She would check with the couple before they left. The telephone rang on the desk and she said, “Be a dear and answer it,
chérie.
”

Safa picked up the receiver. “Madam Pirou's salon.” She listened. “One moment.” She covered the mouthpiece. “Someone's looking for one of the officers who came in earlier—Captain Green. Says it's urgent.”

“Who is it?”

“His office at army headquarters.”

“Tell them you'll fetch the captain,” Gabrielle sighed.

Safa spoke into the receiver, then laid it down. “After that, I'm off.” She went out, and Gabrielle sat there, thinking about the couple upstairs. She had a feeling there was something odd about them. A certain nervousness that suggested all was not what it seemed. A few minutes later she heard footsteps outside and there was a knock on the door. A man came in, red-faced, tucking in his shirt.

“Ah,
Capitaine.
An urgent phone call for you. Headquarters, I believe.”

“How the bally hell did they know I was here?”

Gabrielle smiled. “Like God, the army works in mysterious ways. I'll leave you in private.”

She was in the hallway minutes later, rearranging a vase of flowers, when the officer came out of her room, looking irritated.

“Problems,
Capitaine
?”

“I'll say. There's a search on, and I'm wanted back at barracks. Seems a couple of enemy infiltrators are on the loose. They wounded three of our men outside the Ramleh station. Would you credit it? Just when a man's enjoying himself. Bloody thoughtless lot, these Germans.”

For a second the information didn't register, then Gabrielle frowned. “Did you say Germans?”

“A man and a woman, and a dangerous pair by the sounds of it.”

Halder was lying on the bed, smoking a cigarette and studying the Baedeker, when Rachel came out of the bathroom. Her hair was wet and she had a towel wrapped around her middle. “At least the water's hot and there's real soap. Don't you want to bathe?”