The Cairo Code (62 page)

“A perfect time to spring our surprise.” Kleist grinned. “The sentries will be half asleep by then.”

“Let's hope you're right,” Halder replied doubtfully. “We'd better have a look at the hangars—we'll need to keep Skorzeny's aircraft safely out of the way until we get back here after the attack.”

When they pulled up outside the first of the two hangars, the doors were open. Halder strode into the building. It reeked of grease and aviation fuel, two well-worn Gloster Gladiators parked near the front, a small two-seater training aircraft next to them. Halder shook his head. “We'll need more space than this to accommodate two Dakotas. Let's have a look at the other hangar.”

The second was closer to the airfield barrack huts and completely empty, apart from an ancient green-colored Italian Moto Guzzi motorcycle and a couple of bicycles parked near the doors, private transport which obviously belonged to the Egyptian air force men.

“Excellent. This one will do perfectly well—there's more than enough space.” Halder turned to Hassan and Doring. “I'm going to leave you both with Salter. He'll get a shock, of course, when our paratroops land, and he'll be fighting a losing battle if he thinks of putting up resistance. But we'll have to try and dissuade him from that idea when the moment arrives, and hope he sees the sense of giving in quietly. Kleist and I will be back at the villa, sending the signal. We'll rejoin you within a couple of hours. But if there's even a hint of any problems here, you contact us on the field radio, understood, Doring?”

“Yes, Major.”

“So, it seems we're all set,” Halder said grimly. “Another few hours, and one way or another it'll all be over.”

•  •  •

When they got back to the barrack office, half a dozen of Salter's men sat about on the veranda, smoking and talking. Halder told Doring to remove one of the field radios from the Jeep, and they went in with Hassan while Kleist remained at the wheel. Salter was busy cleaning his Sten gun with an oily rag. “Well, are we in business?”

“It looks like it.” Halder nodded over to Doring and Hassan. “I'm leaving two of my men. Any problems, they'll contact me by radio. Should anyone arrive at the front gate, try to make it look like there's nothing amiss. But lock them up with the guards if you have to.”

Salter nodded. “It'll be dealt with. When will you be back?”

“A couple of hours, probably less. Until then, Mr. Salter, try to keep the faith.”

Halder turned to go, but Salter gripped his arm. “I meant what I said. Try and mess me about, and it'll end in tears.”

“There's really no need for threats, Salter.” Halder pulled away. “And I give you my personal assurance you'll be pleasantly surprised when you see the cargo.”

“I'll look forward to that.”

Halder moved outside and climbed in beside Kleist. They drove off, leaving Doring and Hassan behind in the office, setting up the radio. Salter strolled out onto the veranda and watched the Jeep exit through the gates before they were shut again by two of his men wearing the sentries' uniforms.

“What you reckon, Reggie? Are we ready?”

One of his men sidled up. Salter cradled the Sten gun in his arms, cracked his knuckles.

“Give it ten minutes for good measure, then you know what to do.”

The unmarked Ford sedan pulled into the lane. Weaver sat in the passenger seat beside the military driver, Reed in the back with Sergeant Morris, all of them wearing civilian clothes.

“It's good you're prepared for trouble,” Reed said morosely. “Because if Salter's in there, there'll be shooting and bodies, no two ways about it.”

Weaver looked towards the warehouse at the end of the lane. He saw a heavy metal door with a grille and shutter set in the middle, a light on above the wall on the left.

“You're sure you can't get us in peacefully?”

Reed shook his head. “Not a chance. The guards have orders to let no one past without Salter knowing about it. If anyone tries, they get blasted.”

Weaver knew that if things went horribly wrong he'd be court-martialed, no question, but he'd already passed the barrier of caring about his fate. The field radio crackled on the backseat and Morris spoke into the handset, then said to Weaver, “We've got the back covered, sir. The men are ready to go as soon as they get the word.”

Twenty heavily armed military police were hidden inside the delivery truck that had pulled up behind them, and combined with the two dozen ready to assault the rear. Weaver reckoned that it ought to be enough to deal with Salter's gang. “What about the ambulances and medics?”

“Two streets away, so as not to attract attention. They'll come if we call them on the wireless.”

“Let's hope they're not needed.” Weaver looked at his watch anxiously. “OK, it's time. Give the word to the men.”

Morris got on the radio, gave the command, then reported back to Weaver, “We're all set, sir.”

“Come with me, Sergeant. Let's get it over with.” Weaver picked up a heavy khaki satchel from the floor of the car, and Morris put a hand lightly on his arm, nodded at the satchel, and said, “You're sure about this, sir?”

“Can you think of any other way?”

Weaver got out of the car and went down the lane with Morris. When they reached the warehouse, he took three grenades from the satchel, placed them at the base of the metal door, then removed a Very flare pistol from the bag.

“Get back,” he told Morris.

Weaver pulled each of the grenade pins in turn and ran back down the lane after the sergeant. As they pressed themselves against the wall, there was a tremendous explosion, and the grenades erupted almost together. A dirty cloudburst of dust and metal splinters blew across the alleyway, echoed like a roll of thunder, and the door was blown off its hinges.

Before the dust had even settled, Weaver raised the Very gun and squeezed the trigger. A red flare exploded into the air, turning the night sky blood red, the signal to alert the men covering the rear. Already the troops were piling out of the delivery truck, weapons at the ready, as Weaver and Morris moved towards the shattered door frame.

Doring and Hassan had finished setting up the radio on the desk when Salter strolled over. “That captain friend of yours seems an able enough sort.”

Doring nodded agreeably. “Yes, he is.”

“Care to tell me about his background and which unit he's from?”

Doring fell silent, and Hassan's eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why don't you ask him yourself?”

“I wasn't talking to you.” Salter glared, held the Arab's stare, then turned back to Doring. “Well, sonny? And for starters you can give me his name. And yours.”

A half-dozen of Salter's men gathered ominously around them from all corners of the room. Hassan made to reach for his knife, but one of them was behind him instantly with a gun. “Try it and you'll get blasted,” Salter warned. “Now put those paws in the air where I can see them.”

Hassan reluctantly obeyed, and Salter came over, found the knife, and took it from him, sneering. “I warned you about this before, didn't I?”

The blade flashed in Salter's hand, and a deep gash opened on Hassan's jaw. Enraged, the Arab started to lunge at Salter, but the man behind him slammed the butt of his gun hard into his skull, and Hassan jerked and slumped to the floor.

As he lay there, unconscious, Salter put the toe of his boot to the Arab's head, tilted it over. “You ought to heed a warning when it's given.” He stuck the knife into the top of the wooden desk, left it there, and walked casually over to Doring. “Well, sonny, I'm waiting.”

Doring panicked, overcome by a sudden feeling of doom. In an instant he punched Salter in the face and made a desperate grab for a Sten gun behind the desk. He just managed to get his hand on the barrel when a rifle butt came crashing down on his fingers. He screamed, fists began to rain, and before he knew it he was being dragged across the room to one of the chairs.

Salter staggered over, wiping blood from his nose. He grabbed Doring savagely by the hair. “That was a dumb thing to do, sonny. Very dumb indeed.”

Doring struggled as he was held down, features contorted in agony, his fingers a pulped mess, and Salter punched him hard in the face. There was a sickening crack of bone splintering. Doring screamed and almost passed out as a fountain of blood spurted from his shattered nose.

“Eye for an eye, I always say. And that's just to get acquainted.”

Across the room, one of Salter's men felt Hassan's neck. “He's still out of it, boss.”

“Put him in one of the rooms until he comes round. We might need him later.” He turned back to Doring, leaned in, cold, evil eyes staring hard. “Now, sonny, how about you telling me who your friends are, and what exactly they've got planned after these aircraft land?”

Weaver could barely contain his frustration. He was in a room on the second floor which obviously served as an office of some sort. They had stormed through the warehouse and found only three of Salter's men, who didn't have a chance of putting up much resistance. “Where are the prisoners?”

“The men are bringing them up now, sir,” Sergeant Morris answered.

“Have Reed brought up from the car.”

There was a clatter of feet on the stairs and three of Salter's men were led in, one of them swarthy, with a black mustache. When Reed appeared in the doorway moments later, Weaver said, “Do you recognize any of these people?”

Reed pointed to the man with the mustache. “That—that one's Costas Demiris.”

The Greek clenched his teeth, livid with anger, and struggled to get free. “You bloody Judas, Reed—when Reggie gets his hands on you, you're dead!”

As Demiris was held back, Weaver said, “Bring him over here and take the others downstairs. Reed, get back down to the car.”

A grateful Reed left, and Demiris was led over to a chair. Weaver said, “Where's Salter?”

“That's for you to find out,” Demiris said defiantly, a slight grin playing on his face. “If you think you'll get me to squeal, you've got another thing coming. Besides, Reggie's got friends in the right places. He'll soon sort this out. A case of wrongful arrest.”

“You're a wanted criminal and deserter, Demiris. Unless you talk, I'll see to it personally that they toss you into a dark cell and throw away the key.”

“Yeah? Want to bet?” Demiris sat there smugly, and Weaver could contain his frustration no longer. He was across the room in an instant and grasped the Greek by the hair, wrenched back his head. Demiris screamed.

“What happened to the trucks you got from Reed?”

There was a sudden screech of tires in the lane below, and seconds later footsteps clattered up the stairs. Weaver said, “Find out what's going on.”

Before the sergeant had reached the door, Sanson burst in, crimson with rage as he stared at the scene then glared at Weaver. “What in damnation's going on here?”

•  •  •

“You blatantly disobeyed orders, Weaver.” Sanson stood there, his face still livid.

Weaver made to speak again, but Sanson cut him off. “We'll discuss this later. I've just spent two wasted hours of interrogation in Alex and I haven't got the patience.” He shot a look at the Greek. “So, this is one of Salter's scum?”

“His name's Costas Demiris.”

“Has he talked?”

“I guess he's not in a very cooperative mood right now.”

“We'll see about that.” Sanson strode over to the Greek, who had witnessed his entrance with indifference. “I'm Lieutenant Colonel Sanson, military intelligence. Where's Salter?”

Demiris spat on the floor. “No idea. Told you lot already. You all deaf?”

Sanson flushed a furious red. “Leave us, Sergeant.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me! Get out! And don't come in again until I call you.”

The sergeant left, closing the door after him. Sanson calmly took out his Smith & Wesson revolver, broke the barrel to make sure the chambers were loaded, then snapped the weapon shut again.

As Weaver stood watching, he calmly walked over to the Greek. “I want you to listen, and listen carefully, Demiris. For two reasons. First, I don't have the time or the patience for wrong answers, and second, if you don't heed my advice, it's likely you'll spend the rest of your days in a wheelchair.”

Demiris tensed, just slightly.

“In plain English, if you don't give me the right answers to my questions, I'm going to shoot your kneecaps off. And if you still haven't talked by then, I'm going to aim a little higher, up towards that Greek manhood of yours. Now, are you going to tell me where Salter is? And where those vehicles are?”

Demiris gave a dry, nervous laugh. “You wouldn't shoot a prisoner, Sanson. You wouldn't dare.”

Sanson shot him in the left kneecap. As the weapon exploded, Demiris screamed in agony, rolling onto the floor and clutching the shattered bone. The door burst in as the sergeant came to investigate, and Sanson roared, “I said stay outside!”

The door closed abruptly. Demiris lay there, writhing, blood pumping from his wound, tears of pain streaming down his shocked face. “You're insane. Bloody insane!”

Sanson calmly aimed the pistol at the other kneecap. “You don't know the half of it. So start talking, Demiris, and quickly.”

•  •  •

Weaver stood aside as a white-faced Demiris was carried downstairs on a stretcher by a couple of medics, still clutching his wounded knee and moaning in agony. He turned back to Sanson. “You don't think he was lying?”