The Cairo Code (57 page)

They were in a tiny candlelit room that smelled powerfully of incense. A young girl wearing a cotton wrap and loop earrings sat behind a rickety table, flicking through a tattered magazine, as if to pass the time. She smiled up at them. “You have come to consult with Khalil, the oracle?”

Halder realized the girl thought they had come to have their fortunes read, but he didn't miss a beat. “Indeed we have.”

“This way.”

The girl led them through another beaded curtain, as Rachel whispered to Halder, “What are you doing?”

“It'll keep us out of harm's way for a while. Besides, maybe we could do with a glimpse of what lies in store.”

“You don't really believe in all that hocus-pocus nonsense?”

Halder laughed. “Oh, I don't know. There might be something in it. The pharaohs put a lot of faith in their mystics, remember?”

They were in another small candlelit room. A
bassara,
an Egyptian fortune-teller, sat cross-legged on a carpet—an old man with wrinkled skin the color of walnut. One of his eyes was milky white, the blind pupil staring into nothing. In front of him was a brass tray with some tiny cups, a coffee pot heating on a tiny charcoal brazier nearby.

“A couple to see you, Grandfather.”

The girl left and the old man said, “So, you have come to consult with Khalil. Be seated.”

They sat cross-legged on the floor. “Is it just the young lady, or you also, effendi?”

“Both of us, I think.” Halder smiled as he turned to Rachel. “I'll go first, if you like. Seeing as how you're a disbeliever.” He nodded to the old man. “Let's hear what the future holds, my friend.”

The man poured thick Turkish coffee into one of the cups and handed it over. “Drink, effendi.”

Halder swallowed the treacly black liquid and returned the cup. The fortune-teller rolled it between his palms and stared into the grounds at the bottom. “The effendi has come from a far country, but he is no stranger to this land. I see pain and trouble in his past, and more lies ahead. There is an opportunity to redeem himself, if he does not give in to evil. There is also a woman he desires very much, but he will be forced to choose between desire and duty.”

Halder turned to Rachel with a smile. “What can I say to all that?”

“Something else,” the old man went on solemnly. “Someone the gentleman loved has recently passed away.” He hesitated, a cloud crossed his face, and he shook his head.

“That is all I see.”

“Nothing more?”

“I am sorry.”

Halder said to Rachel, “Now it's your turn.”

“I'd rather not, Jack. It's stupid.”

“Humor him.”

The man said to Rachel, “Khalil doesn't lie. His gift comes from the mystic power of the pyramids. The future is there, if you wish to know it. Hold out your hand, dear lady.”

Rachel held it out to the man. He filled another cup, placed it in her hand, and she drank the coffee. She returned the empty cup to Khalil, who studied the grounds, but his face clouded again, and he put it down. “I'm afraid Khalil can see nothing in the lady's future that she doesn't already know.”

Rachel was silent for a moment, then she shrugged and looked at Halder. “See, I told you. It's all nonsense, anyway.”

The man stared across at Halder, who placed a handful of coins on the table. “Let's get out of here.”

He led Rachel out past the girl, into the hall, and lit a cigarette. “You don't seem too comfortable. Did he upset you?”

“I never believed in fortune-tellers. It's gibberish.”

“You're still not impressed, are you? But one or two things he said had a ring of truth.”

“You think he meant about your father's death, don't you?”

Halder's face darkened and he shivered. “Maybe, but the feeling it gave me when he mentioned a death was quite uncanny. Like someone walking over my grave. I had this vision, not of my father, but of Pauli—”

There was a morbid look on his face, a terrible unease, and Rachel put a reassuring hand on his arm. “Jack, don't be silly. You're reading something into nothing.”

He did his best to shrug off the feeling of dread. “Maybe you're right. You'd better wait here.”

He went down the alley and peered into the street, then came back. “It looks all clear, so let's give it a try. Deacon and Kleist must be wondering what's happened to us.” He retrieved the motorcycle, climbed on, helped Rachel onto the back, and started the engine.

•  •  •

Five minutes later he had cut around the village and was on a gravel road, halfway up to the pyramids. Deacon's car was parked off the road, Kleist in the passenger seat, and he drove up beside them. He and Rachel dismounted.

Deacon stepped out, frowning, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. “What the devil kept you?”

Halder nodded back towards the village. “A small problem of some military police we had to avoid. Did you have any trouble getting here?”

“There were a couple of army checkpoints on the way. But fortunately your friend's papers passed the test.”

Kleist said, “Are you ready, Major?”

Halder nodded. “I'll leave the motorcycle here and we'll go on together.”

He wheeled the machine off the road, left it hidden behind some rocks, and climbed into the back of the car with Rachel. The massive Cheops pyramid lay ahead as they drove on up the hill, and there was a jumble of boulders on the right-hand side of the road, the tumbling ruins of several tombs. They saw a red-and-white barrier pole blocking their way, a wooden sentry box beside it, and a shabbily dressed Egyptian policeman appeared out of the shadows, wearing a red hat with a tarboosh and a pair of scruffy sandals instead of boots. He flashed a flashlight for them to halt.

When Deacon pulled up, Halder said, “Leave this to me.” He climbed out and showed his ID. “I'm a professor from Cairo University.”

The policeman looked at the documents, a kind of awe on his face, but he said nothing, until Halder realized the poor fellow was probably barely literate. There was a noise behind him and a stout man wearing a sergeant's uniform came out of nowhere, his thumbs stuck in his leather belt. He was obviously in charge.

“What's the trouble, Ali?” the sergeant asked.

“The effendi says he's a professor, from Cairo University.”

“Some students of mine are working on the site,” Halder offered the sergeant his papers. “Some colleagues and I need to make an inspection of their progress. Are any of the excavating teams still here?”

“They have all gone home. The site is empty.” The sergeant looked in at the passengers, then examined the documents under the flashlight and scratched his head. “A thousand pardons, Professor, but is it not a little late in the evening for this sort of thing?”

Halder smiled. “Not when you're expecting an important visit from a Ministry of Antiquities delegation first thing tomorrow. We need to make absolutely certain everything's in perfect order. I'm sure you understand. Lift the barrier, there's a good fellow.” Halder took out his wallet and generously slipped the sergeant a couple of banknotes. “A small token of my gratitude, for your kind help.”

The money vanished instantly into the sergeant's back pocket and he bowed his thanks. “Of course, effendi. I am at your service.” He clicked his fingers. “You heard the professor. Lift the barrier, Ali.”

The policeman scurried away to do as he was told.

Halder climbed back into the Packard, and as they passed under the barrier, the sergeant drew himself to attention and saluted. Halder smiled at Deacon. “See. I told you. Easy.”

Deacon wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve. “Let's just hope our luck holds out for the rest of it.”

The chauffeured Mercedes glided to a halt in the enclosed courtyard at the rear of the Chancellery building and Schellenberg climbed out. An acrid smell immediately filled his nostrils, and he covered his mouth and nose with his hand. He hadn't failed to notice a couple of large, smoldering bomb craters in the Chancellery grounds, nor the dozens of thick, black oily plumes drifting up from the west of the city, and he could still hear the clanging of fire engine bells in the distance. Berlin was covered by a pall of choking smoke after another devastating air raid that late afternoon, the sky so dark it looked as if the world were going to end.

Two SS guards of the Liebstandarte Division, Hitler's private bodyguard, immaculate in their black uniforms and white gloves, snapped to attention as Schellenberg went past into the bunker lobby, where a waiting adjutant took his overcoat and led him straight down two flights of steps to the Führer's private underground office.

When Schellenberg was led into the sparse concrete room, Hitler was in an anxious mood, wringing his hands as he paced the floor. “Well?”

“I've been personally waiting in the signals room at SS headquarters since early afternoon, and will return there to be on hand, but still nothing yet,
mein Führer.
However, as I explained, we don't expect Deacon to transmit until tonight.”

Hitler looked gravely disappointed. “And Skorzeny and his men?”

“On alert, and ready and waiting. The colonel informs me he can be off the ground and on his way to Cairo within five minutes of receiving our instruction.”

“This afternoon Allied bombers destroyed a dozen more of our factories, not to mention direct hits to two of our railway stations.”

“Yes, I heard,
mein Führer.
A terrible business.”

“Terrible? It's catastrophic!” Hitler's face turned purple, the veins swelling on his neck and forehead. “Dozens of carriages destroyed, hundreds of military and civilian casualties, total disruption to our armaments shipments by rail to the Russian front, production halted in four of our tank factories and small-arms plants. It's getting worse, Walter. Every day it's getting worse. If this continues, our armies will have nothing left to fight with but sticks and stones.”

“I'm certain Production Minister Speer will do his absolute utmost to rectify matters urgently.”

“If he doesn't, I'll have his neck on the end of a rope.” Hitler slumped into a leather armchair, his body crumpling with despair. “So, you still think Halder can do what's needed?”

“I'm convinced of it.”

Hitler fixed Schellenberg with a cold stare. “As always, your optimism is enviable, Walter. But if Sphinx fails, mark my words, heads will roll. Perhaps even yours. With every day that passes, it becomes even more imperative we annihilate our two mortal enemies, Roosevelt and Churchill. Two bombs hit the Chancellery grounds this afternoon. Can you believe it? They're trying to kill me, Walter.
Me!
We must destroy them first, before they destroy us all.”

“I agree totally,
mein Führer.
”

“The very
second
you receive word from Deacon, you call me, personally. Dismissed.”

Weaver went up the steps past the uniformed dragomans at the entrance to Shepheard's. He found an empty seat under the palms on the front terrace. It was Friday night and the streets were overflowing. He ordered a large Scotch and sat there, barely taking notice of the chaos of traffic that went past the hotel.

He had phoned Clayton at least half a dozen times, but the general wasn't taking his calls. He felt angry and frustrated. And there was a strange feeling he was aware of, now that he had got over the shock of seeing Rachel alive. The fact that she was with Jack Halder sent a pang of jealousy through him, so powerful it almost made him wish Halder dead. It was as if he had been wounded, a pain spreading through his entire body.

A waiter scurried past, and he ordered another large Scotch. In the warm evening air, the alcohol was fast going to his head, but he didn't care.

“Hello, Harry.”

He saw Helen Kane standing over him. “Mind if I join you?”

He was surprised to see her and felt faintly embarrassed. “No, of course not. How did you know I was here?”

She pulled up a chair. “I didn't. I called at the villa but there was no one there. I was on my way back to the office and saw you on the terrace as I drove past.” She looked at him sympathetically. “I heard what happened with Sanson. I thought maybe you could do with some company. And I also wanted to apologize.”

“For what?”

“My behavior this afternoon. I was being selfish, playing the spurned woman and only thinking of myself. You're a good man, Harry Weaver. And for what it's worth I believe you when you say Rachel Stern is innocent.”

He put a hand on hers, and this time she didn't pull away. “I'm sorry about what happened, Helen. It's just—”

“You don't have to explain, really you don't.”

Weaver felt a terrible stab of guilt, and changed the subject. “You mind me asking if Sanson's made any progress?”

She blushed, took her hand away slowly. “I suppose I shouldn't be telling you this, but there was a phone call from a Sergeant Morris at the provost's office. It had to do with the inquiry Sanson made about stolen vehicles. There were exactly four thefts in the last week—all of them in the last five days, all of them military, and from the same transport pool in Cairo.”

“What kinds of vehicles?”

“A Jeep and three trucks. The sergeant seemed to think it unusual that all four should be stolen almost simultaneously. Another thing. There were three uniforms taken from a clothing store at about the same time as the Jeep, which made him faintly suspicious there might be something more to it.”

“Uniforms?”

“Military police. One officer's, and two NCOs'. The sergeant suggested he might have some information about the thefts.”