The Cairo Code (56 page)

“You'll do as you're ordered, Neumann,” Skorzeny snapped bluntly, and with that he turned and strode away.

Weaver arrived at Sanson's office to find him talking to a thin-faced Egyptian with a hook nose. His dark, hooded eyes looked faintly sinister, his skin pockmarked with old acne scars. He carried a tattered leather briefcase and wore a pale, short-sleeved tropical suit. Something about the man looked oddly familiar, but Weaver couldn't recall why.

Sanson made the introductions. “I'd like you to meet Captain Yosef Arkhan. Cairo Homicide.”

Weaver remembered the name. The captain in charge of Mustapha Evir's murder investigation.

“A pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant Colonel Weaver,” Arkhan said in perfect English, and shook Weaver's hand.

“You mind telling me what this is about?” Weaver asked Sanson.

“Yosef and I go back a long way. Before serving with Homicide, he used to work for the secret police—the Mukhabarat.”

Weaver glanced over at Arkhan. With his hooded eyes and menacing looks, the captain still had the look of a secret policeman. “I don't get it.”

“You will, and very soon. Take a seat.” Sanson gestured to the chairs, then nodded to Arkhan. “Tell him, Yosef—”

The Egyptian removed two worn manila files from his briefcase and said politely to Weaver, “You were a member of an international archeological team at Sakkara in '39.”

“What of it?”

Arkhan opened one of the files and read. “Harold Weaver. American citizen, born in New York, a graduate of engineering. Father an estate caretaker—Thomas Weaver—employed by a wealthy German-American family named Halder. Unmarried, but appears to have a platonic relationship with one Rachel Stern, German citizen, a member of same archeological team. No known vices, apart from occasional alcohol. Mr. Weaver appears a bona fide citizen of his country, and not engaged in any espionage activity.” Arkhan closed the file and looked up. “I could go on, there are lots more petty details, but I'm afraid they're really not very interesting.”

Weaver stared angrily at the Egyptian. “You were watching me.”

Arkhan shrugged. “My men and I watched many of the archeological teams who came to our country. I'm sure you know the nickname by which the secret police are known—the Red Eye. The eye that never sleeps. We observed not only your team, but many other foreign visitors—anyone who interested us or we had our suspicions about. There was a long list—German and Italian oil workers and company executives, American professors at our universities. Even diplomats.” He paused. “In fact, our paths crossed once, four years ago. Oddly enough, it was in the grounds of the American residency. The occasion was a farewell party.”

Weaver felt stunned remembering where he had seen Arkhan before. “I was on the veranda with Rachel Stern. You were watching us.”

Arkhan gave a slight nod. “You're observant, Lieutenant Colonel Weaver, and possessed of a good memory. Few people could recall a fleeting incident that happened so long ago.”

“Why were you watching us?”

“Not only you and the young lady. We had an interest in quite a number of the party guests that night.”

“You didn't answer my question.”

Arkhan hesitated, and Sanson said, “Tell him, Yosef.”

“Some of the people we observed during that period were entirely innocent. Others were definitely not what they pretended to be. They were spies. Italian, German, even American. In extreme cases, we quietly expelled such people. But among the Germans at Sakkara, several especially interested us. In particular, Rachel Stern and her parents.”

“Why?”

“Because we strongly suspected they were German agents. Had they not left the country when they did, they would certainly have been arrested.”

Weaver looked at Sanson and said incredulously, “I can't believe this.”

“Let him finish. Go on, Yosef.”

“The young lady was watched discreetly for a considerable time. On different occasions, she was seen near military installations, and in the same company as a number of my countrymen suspected of working for the Nazi intelligence services. Her father was also conducting several archeological digs in secret—an illegal act in itself. But I believe the true purpose of his work was much more dangerous.”

“What do you mean?”

Arkhan glanced at Sanson before replying. “We felt certain the Germans would eventually invade North Africa, and that Egypt would be their principal target. We believed they had plans to store arms and munitions, supplies, and communications equipment in secret dumps, to be used to arm an Egyptian fifth column, which would stir internal unrest once war started. After all, there was, and still is, considerable support for the Nazi cause among the officer class and the general population. We think Professor Stern's job was to locate suitable archeological sites around Cairo, which would have been used as secret supply dumps.”

“Did you find hard evidence of that?”

Arkhan hesitated. “No, but we were certain—”

“These people Rachel Stern met,” Weaver interrupted. “The meetings could have been entirely innocent. She could have simply bumped into the wrong people at the wrong time—or socialized with them unknowingly. Isn't that possible?”

“Perhaps, but I don't believe so—”

“Oh, come on, Captain. I can't accept the Sterns were spies. How many times do I have to say it? The professor hated the Nazis, and his wife was Jewish.”

“His hatred of the Nazis was most certainly a cover story. And his wife's race was nothing more than a rumor we couldn't prove.” Arkhan paused. “We also suspected this other German, Halder, was a spy. However, apart from his closeness to Miss Stern, we couldn't be absolutely certain. But we were positive about one thing.”

“What?”

“At least four of the people in your group at Sakkara were Nazi agents. More important, one of them was arrested on spying charges several months after the war began. He confessed that the top Nazi agent in the Middle East was operating in Cairo at the time of your dig—under the code name Nightingale.” Arkhan looked steadily at Weaver. “I believe Nightingale was none other than Rachel Stern.”

Weaver almost laughed. “On what basis?”

“Instinct. Nightingale was undoubtedly the most brilliant agent the Germans had. Catching her in the act proved impossible. She was far too clever. So in the end, instincts were all we had to go by.”

Sanson said, “Well, Weaver?”

“I don't buy it. You can't condemn someone on instinct alone. You need hard facts.”

Arkhan offered across the second file. “Perhaps we didn't have irrefutable evidence, as you say. But instinct is often the best attribute an intelligence officer can possess. We kept a dossier that detailed the lady's meetings and the places she went. Perhaps you'd care to read it for yourself? It might help you understand our suspicions.”

Weaver ignored the file. “I don't need to. You know as well as I do even the best-intentioned intelligence report can lead to false conclusions. Didn't you ever have an intuition about something that was wrong?”

“Of course, but—”

“But nothing. This time you got it wrong. You even got it wrong about me.”

“Pardon?”

“I was born in Boston, not New York.”

Arkhan shrugged. “A small matter.” He said delicately, “There was a certain romantic attachment between you and the young lady, was there not?”

“What's that got to do with it?”

“As we say in Egypt, a man in love can mistake a wart for a dimple. Passion can make us blind to the truth.”

Weaver ignored the remark. Sanson nodded to Arkhan. “Thanks, Yosef. You can go now.”

The captain replaced the files in his briefcase, tucked it under his arm, and bowed politely. “Good day, gentlemen. It's been a pleasure meeting you, Lieutenant Colonel Weaver.”

•  •  •

When the Egyptian had left, Sanson looked over at Weaver. “Arkhan's a good policeman. Whenever I've had to put my faith in his judgment, I've rarely been disappointed. Like when he came to me about Evir's murder. He has a sixth sense about these things, one that's seldom been proven wrong. He knew something didn't smell right, and he was spot on. But you don't believe him, do you?”

“No, I don't.”

Sanson sighed, made a steeple of his fingers. “The desert searches turned up a bit of good luck. I got a phone call from Myers just before you arrived. His men have picked up a man named Achmed Farnad, a German agent who runs a small hotel at a place called Abu Sammar, about twenty miles from Alex. He was shot and seriously wounded during the arrest, but he's still conscious, and they managed to get him to talk a little. It seems he was the link man Berlin arranged to meet their team. The plan was that they would rendezvous at a nearby deserted airfield, and Farnad would send them on their way to Cairo. They never made the rendezvous, but some hours after the crash they arrived at his hotel in the Jeep they stole from the murdered officers. Five people—the pilot, three men and a woman. The way Farnad is telling it, Halder is in charge. The pilot was badly injured in the crash, and later died. Which leaves four, as we suspected.”

“When can we interrogate him?”

“It's imperative that he's thoroughly questioned, of course, but that's my business, Weaver. Though I don't know how much more he can tell us—he's probably got no idea what the Germans are really up to. But from here on, this has nothing more to do with you.”

“What do you mean?”

Sanson said firmly, “It's my duty to inform you that you're no longer on the case. I can't put my trust in a man whose judgment I think is suspect.”

“You can't do that, Sanson, damn you!”

“I already have, and with General Clayton's full consent. In fact, he wanted to dismiss you at our meeting this afternoon. I asked that you be given one more chance. Once you'd considered the evidence, I thought you might have changed your mind. But you've been pig-headed and ignored my professional judgment in this matter. If you'd accepted it, I might have allowed you to remain on the case. But to be truthful, I'm not sure I can rely on you to carry out your duties effectively and with proper vigor, Weaver.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I told you when this began I needed an officer who was prepared to do his duty and follow orders—to kill the enemy if necessary. I'm not at all certain you'd be prepared to do that in this instance. You and your friends are on opposite sides of the fence, but it's obvious this friendship of yours ran very deep. And there just might be a conflict between your loyalty to your friends and your duty to your country. You might even be tempted to allow them to escape, rather than have them face military justice. And I can't have that.”

Weaver fumed. “You're totally ignoring the real issue here, Sanson. There's no hard evidence Rachel Stern is a spy. Only hearsay and guesswork. You'd be killing an innocent woman.”

“That's a matter of opinion. Arkhan's accusation is enough for me. Not that it really matters. These friends of yours are condemned anyway. But I wanted to give you the benefit of Arkhan's information.” Sanson stood and picked up his cap, the meeting at an end. “Now, if you don't mind, I've got to attend to Farnad's interrogation. Good day, Weaver.”

Weaver pushed back his chair angrily. “You can't just dump me like that.”

“The decision's made.”

“Listen to me, Sanson—”

“I said good day.”

“Then just do me one favor,” Weaver pleaded. “If you find Halder and Rachel Stern, at least let me attempt to talk to them before any shooting starts—let me try to convince them to surrender.”

“You see? My point's proven. You still want to try and save their necks. But if you think I'm going to risk the lives of my men by pussyfooting around and asking these friends of yours to surrender, you've got another think coming. Forget it, Weaver. I won't do that.”

Halder kept his speed down as he drove the motorcycle, Rachel holding on to him in the pillion seat. The moonlit track was dark and bumpy, full of ruts and potholes, and he wore sand goggles to protect his eyes from the gritty desert air. Half an hour after leaving the villa they came to the outskirts of the busy little village of Nazlat as-Saman, at the foot of the majestic Sphinx.

“Well, we made it.” Halder pulled off the goggles. “Now let's find the others.”

The village was a rabbit warren of boisterous narrow streets, carnival stalls everywhere, fire-eaters and snake-charmers giving displays, and they realized there was some kind of local festival in progress. Near the end of the main street a dirt road led up past the Sphinx, and on a rise behind it loomed the site of the Giza pyramids, a magnificent backdrop against the moonlit night sky.

As Halder inched the BSA through the noisy, good-humored crowd, he saw two groups of American military police up ahead, stopping civilians and off-duty soldiers, checking papers.

“There's no end to it, is there?” he said over his shoulder to Rachel. “Still, there's no point in inviting trouble.”

“You think it's us they're looking for?”

Halder shrugged. “It could be just routine, but somehow I doubt it. I'm sure Harry and his pals are tearing Cairo apart.”

He turned down an alley, hoping to skirt around the MPs, but realized they were in a dead end. When he looked back down the alley, he saw another group of MPs stroll past on the street.

“
It gets worse. We better keep our faces out of the way until they've gone.”

“What about meeting the others?”

“They'll just have to wait.” He told Rachel to dismount, then propped the motorcycle on its stand. There was an open doorway opposite, the hallway lit by an oil lamp. “Let's see if there's a way out of this dead end, just in case.” He saw a beaded curtain at the end of the hallway, pushed his way through, and Rachel followed.