The Cairo Code (51 page)

Hassan looked completely puzzled. “But he's the enemy, and he's seen our faces—”

“No buts, just do as you're told. I don't want him harmed,” Halder ordered. He gave a wave, and turned towards the jetty. “So long, Harry. Be good.”

•  •  •

Hassan shoved Weaver into the boathouse. There was a dirt floor and wooden rafters, ancient nets hanging overhead, and the place stank of rotting fish.

The Arab hung the storm lamp on one of the rafters and pushed Weaver into a corner.

“I should have killed you last time, American. It was my mistake.”

Weaver heard the boat's engine start up outside and knew what was coming. Hassan tossed the rope aside and drew his knife out again. “But don't worry, I'm going to finish it now. Slowly. Painfully.” He moved closer, a bloodthirsty look on his face “Then I'm going to cut out your heart.”

Hassan slashed with the blade and Weaver stepped back. “Give in to the will of Allah, American. Death will be quicker.”

Weaver lashed out helplessly with his feet and the Arab laughed. “Good. You're angry. That way, dying will be more painful.”

He slashed again, and Weaver staggered back. The Arab moved in for the kill. Weaver kicked out with his foot, but Hassan caught it, twisted, and Weaver fell back into the corner. He was trapped. There was nowhere to turn.

“And now you die.”

Hassan raised the knife. There was a soft click and a voice said, “Put down the toothpick, there's a good boy.”

Halder stood in the doorway, the pistol in his hand, livid anger on his face. Hassan frowned. “He tried to kill me once before. Now I kill him.”

He turned back smartly to finish Weaver off. The blade stabbed through the air, but before it reached its target there was a loud explosion and a bullet nicked Hassan's ear, drawing blood. The knife clattered to the floor and he yelped in pain.

“You ought to wash out your ears,” Halder admonished. “And heed a warning when it's given. I told you to tie him up—not kill him. Now get outside and take care of the Citroën, before I change my mind and finish the dirty deed.”

There was a curious look on the Arab's face, rage mixed with confusion, as he clutched his ear. “Fool! You don't know what you're doing—”

Halder jerked the revolver impatiently. “Outside, I said. And be quick about it. I haven't got all night.”

Hassan stared over at Weaver and spat on the floor, “
Inshallah.
There'll be another time, American.”

He went out, glaring at Halder, who tucked the gun into his trouser belt, took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, selected one, and lit it. “It's so hard to find decent help these days.”

Weaver struggled to move. “Stay where you are, Harry.” Halder picked up the rope and tied him securely to one of the wooden posts.

“You came to kill Roosevelt and Churchill, didn't you?”

Halder raised his eyes, his shock obvious. “And what makes you think that?”

“It's true, isn't it?”

“You always were quick off the mark, Harry. But this time you really do surprise me. Maybe it's a reasonable deduction, maybe not. The question is, what makes you think so?”

“It's an insane idea, Jack—a suicide mission. It doesn't have to be this way. Give yourself up right now and—”

“And what? Face a firing squad?” Halder finished tying the knot, stepped back, and shook his head solemnly. “That's about my only option, Rachel's, too, even though she's an innocent in all this. Call me an adventurous fool, but I know where our chances lie, and surrender's not one of them. Besides, I'm in far too deep to wade out again.”

“Because you killed two officers?”

Halder shook his head, disgust etched on his face. “Not my doing, I promise you that.”

Weaver felt a welter of confusion. “I don't understand any of this. Why you and Rachel? How is she still alive—?”

Halder put a finger to his lips. “No time for explanations, not now. Let's just hope we don't bump into each other again, at least for the duration of this war. Even the thought of us being temporary enemies is hard enough to stomach, and I'd hate to ruin whatever fellowship remains. So do me a favor and stay out of this.”

“I can't do that.”

Halder ground out his cigarette with his shoe, his expression grim. “Then if it comes to the worst, a flower on my grave wouldn't go amiss. One of those lilies my father was so fond of will do quite nicely. I'd do the same for you, if it came to it. But meantime let's try to look on the bright side, and pray that doesn't happen—for either of us.” A tortured look crossed his face. “I beg you, stay out of it, Harry,” he pleaded. “This is bigger than both of us.”

“I told you—I can't.”

“So be it.” Halder removed his jacket, took off his shirt, and twisted it to make a gag.

“Jack, listen to me
—”

Halder tied the gag around Weaver's mouth, then slipped his jacket back on. He retrieved the storm lamp and moved towards the door. “It's been good seeing you again, and I mean that, despite the circumstances. And I'd love to stay and finish our talk, but I've got a boat waiting and duty beckons. So long, Harry.”

Weaver struggled behind the gag, the storm lamp went out, the door banged shut, and the boathouse was plunged into darkness.

The Douglas C-54 transport plane, with the Stars and Stripes emblem on its fuselage, touched down on the heavily guarded runway at RAF Cairo West airport, exactly two and a half hours behind schedule. After a ten-hour night flight from Tunis over barren desert and in total radio silence, a distance of almost two thousand miles, the crew and passengers were exhausted.

Waiting on the runway apron were dozens of troop-filled trucks and armored vehicles, Secret Service agents, squads of MPs mounted on motorcycles, and a cavalcade of staff cars. When the aircraft taxied to a halt, there was a flurry of activity, and two of the staff cars drove up to meet the plane.

A group of anxious-looking senior officers stepped out of the vehicles, among them the commanding general of U.S. Army forces in the Middle East, Major General Royce, his chief of staff, and the American ambassador, Alexander C. Kirk. They waited while the aircraft door opened, and then the Secret Service agents on board climbed down, tough-looking men wearing suits and felt hats and carrying Thompson submachine guns, who acted like a law unto themselves as they surrounded the plane.

The Douglas C-54, nicknamed the Sacred Cow, had been uniquely modified by the manufacturers, for as well as the usual exits a special hydraulic door had been installed in the fuselage. Moments later it whirred open and an electrical elevator cage began to lower the familiar white-suited figure of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, seated in his wheelchair. Once he had been surrounded and helped to disembark by the Secret Service men, his personal entourage of uniformed military and naval personnel, tired-looking men all of them, came down the metal steps.

Ambassador Kirk was the first to step forward, offering his hand. “Good to see you again, Mr. President. Welcome to Cairo.”

Roosevelt gave a warm handshake, smiled despite his exhaustion. “Hello, Alex. I guess I kept you all waiting, but better late than never.”

Kirk and his companions were visibly relieved. Because of the secrecy of the president's flight plan, his pilot had maintained total radio silence. Two different groups of fighter escorts had been appointed to rendezvous with the plane at scheduled times during the flight, but they had failed to make visual contact and returned to their bases, leaving some very anxious senior officers fearful that the aircraft had been shot down.

“You certainly caused us some concerns, Mr. President,” one of them commented. “We were just about to send up search planes.”

Roosevelt smiled. “You can blame Major Bryan, my pilot. He reckoned the only way to avoid any enemy fighters that might cross our path by accident or design was to fly the longest route south.” He greeted each of the senior officers present by name, then turned his attention back to Kirk. “And how have you been, Alex?”

“Fine, sir. I thought I should let you know that Prime Minister Churchill sends his best wishes, and is looking forward to your preliminary private discussion at 11:00 a.m. at the Mena, as scheduled, after you've both had a chance to greet the chiefs of staff.”

“He arrived yesterday, I believe?”

“Yes, sir.” Before Ambassador Kirk could speak further, the motorized cavalcade started up and the heavily armed Secret Service detail went into action, taking up their positions, forming a solid wall of flesh as the president was wheeled towards a waiting black Packard. No one could have failed to notice the extraordinary number of troops, military vehicles, and Bofors antiaircraft guns guarding the airfield, least of all the president. “Security seems pretty tight this morning,” Roosevelt remarked lightly.

Kirk dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief, waited until the Secret Service men had quickly transferred the president to the backseat of the Packard. “Sir, there's something of importance I'd like to discuss. Would you mind if I rode with you?”

“I was kind of hoping you would. Why, is there a problem?”

“I think you could say that, Mr. President.”

•  •  •

Four hundred yards across the airfield, a Royal Egyptian Air Force liaison officer with the RAF was on duty that morning in one of the Nissen huts. He stood at the window, watching the arrival proceedings with a pair of powerful binoculars, well out of range of the security cordon. When the cavalcade drove out through the main exit gates, he laid down the binoculars and picked up the desk telephone.

Halder came awake from a fitful doze to the sound of lapping water and a hot sun on his face. The boatman was busy guiding the vessel through some reeds towards the private jetty of a whitewashed villa with overgrown gardens. Rachel was asleep on Halder's shoulder and he roused her. “We're here.”

Banyan trees overhung the water's edge, steps leading up to a flagstone patio at the back, a wicker table and chairs set out. The villa looked sadly neglected, the walls peeling and covered with ragged creepers. Cairo's outline rose up in the near distance, and the unmistakable Giza pyramids farther west. The Arab was waiting for them on the jetty, and he didn't look happy to see them.

“Not exactly the warm welcome I'd hoped for,” Halder commented.

Rachel studied the villa. “Where are we?”

“A couple of miles south of Cairo, by the looks of it. Happy to be back?”

“Under these circumstances, I'm not so sure.”

“If you're still worried about Harry, don't be. He'll be perfectly safe until he's found.”

“I'm more worried about what happens afterwards.” Her face darkened. “He's not going to stop until he finds us, but then I presume you know that.”

“I didn't think he would. But war or no war, I could hardly kill him now, could I? Even though something tells me we might live to regret it.”

The Arab helped the boatman tie the ropes, then glared at them sullenly and jerked his head towards the patio.

Halder stepped onto the jetty and held his hand out to Rachel. “Come on. There should be someone waiting to meet us.”

•  •  •

As they stepped onto the patio, a French door opened and a rugged-looking man came out. His hands were thrust into the pockets of his linen jacket, his graying hair greased off his forehead, and he frowned worriedly as he came forward. “So, you finally made it. You must be Major Halder?” He offered his hand. “Harvey Deacon. Besheeba to my friends in Berlin. I hope your river journey wasn't too unpleasant?”

“Apart from the boatman having to hide our vessel in the reeds for two solid hours to avoid a river patrol.”

“Unfortunate, but you're here now, which is what's important.” Deacon turned to Rachel, the frown gone as he smiled charmingly and kissed her hand. “Berlin told me to expect a woman, but I never expected one so pretty. Delighted, I'm sure.” He made a gesture towards the villa. “But perhaps for now you'd be good enough to step inside and make yourself at home? There's some private business I need to discuss with the major.”

Rachel went in through the French doors, leaving Halder alone with Deacon and Hassan. When Deacon turned back, the worried look returned. “A terrible catastrophe, your aircraft crashing. It's not going to help matters.”

“How did you know?”

Deacon sighed. “A long story, which I'll explain later, but among other things, I radioed Berlin last night. Your contact at the airfield sent them a signal. As of now, our friend Schellenberg isn't aware of your safe arrival in Cairo, but he'll know tonight when I send my report.” He glanced at Hassan before turning back. “I believe you both had a small disagreement last night?”

“He failed to carry out my orders.”

“You should have let me kill the American,” Hassan said bitterly. “He'll only bring us trouble after this. You're a fool if you think otherwise.”

Halder stared him down. “And you ought to remember who's in charge of this operation.”

“Gentlemen,” Deacon interrupted, and jerked his thumb at Hassan. “Go inside and look after the woman, then do as I told you.”

When he had left, Halder lit a cigarette. “Does your friend have a name?”

Deacon plucked a cigar from his breast pocket, lit it, tossed the match into the river.

“Hassan. He tells me you already know this American intelligence officer, Weaver?”

“Since before the war.” Halder explained briefly and Deacon frowned.

“I see. An unwelcome surprise. But you'll have to understand about Hassan. He's headstrong and arrogant, and never forgives a slight. But apart from that, he's worth his weight in gold. Try to humor him. He's been very useful to us.”