The Cairo Code (63 page)

“Hardly. It all makes perfect sense.” Sanson stood there, his mind ticking over furiously.

“This captain fellow sounds like Halder. As for Deacon and his Arab friend, I think we've found Halder's contacts. From the description Demiris gave us, the Arab has got to be the wily character we've been looking for. The rest I'm sure we can guess. A poorly guarded airfield, no more than half an hour from Giza? It sounds ideal for a covert landing, the right sort of place from which to mount an attack. As for the business of the valuable cargo, it's obviously some sort of ruse to fool Salter.”

Sanson snapped his fingers at Morris. “Get on the radio and muster as many men as you can. Have them join us at the Shabramant crossroads, a mile from the airfield. And I want a raiding party sent to Deacon's nightclub. Tell them to nab him if he's there and report to me on the radio.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'm coming with you,” Weaver said defiantly.

Sanson glared back. “No, Weaver, you're not. And if you think you're going to worm your way out of this, think again. I'm going to finish this once and for all, and you're not in the picture. Sergeant, remove this officer's sidearm and take him into custody. He's under arrest, for disobeying orders.”

When Halder pulled up outside the villa with Kleist, Deacon came out to meet them, looking anxious. “Well, what's the story?”

Halder told him the news. The excitement and relief were evident on Deacon's face.

“Excellent. If everything goes according to plan, there'll be an Iron Cross in this for all of us, presented by the Führer himself.”

“Let's forget about the medals for now, Deacon. You have a signal to send.”

“What about Salter?”

“He's expecting me back within a couple of hours.”

“You're certain he didn't suspect anything?”

“Not so far as I could tell. Now, the radio, if you please.” He followed Deacon down to the cellar, Kleist behind them. Deacon opened the cabinet and turned on the radio. While he waited for the set to warm up, he removed the Luger pistol, checked the action, and stuffed it in his pocket, before smiling up at them. “No sense in leaving a perfectly good weapon behind when it comes time to leave. I'll keep it as a memento.”

Halder wrote out the message, and when the valves had warmed, Deacon slipped on the earphones and went to work on the Morse key. Ten minutes later he was jotting down the received code on a slip of paper. He took off the earphones and looked up.

“It's done.”

“What's the reply?”

Deacon decoded, grinned up at Halder, and handed him the paper.

The communications room in the basement of SS headquarters was a large affair, several dozen high-powered radio transmitter-receiver sets neatly arranged around the lime-colored walls, each set manned by highly trained SD operators, day and night, who twiddled with dials and tapped on Morse keys as they dealt with the thousands of signals that flowed through the airwaves from SD Ausland agents all over the world, from such far-flung cities as Rio and Tokyo, Washington and Lisbon.

That night, a uniformed operator sat in a private communications booth, which was set apart from the main room, in a small office across the hall. His work area was illuminated by a pool of light from an electric study lamp, and he was listening intently on his earphones and jotting on a notepad with his pencil. When he had decoded, he handed the slip to Schellenberg, anxiously standing behind him and drawing fiercely on a cigarette, the duty officer by his side.

“You wish to send a specific reply, Herr General?” the operator asked.

Schellenberg read the signal almost in a trance, totally overcome with jubilation. For a moment he could hardly breathe, his pulse rapid with excitement, glittering beads of sweat rising on his temples, until he snapped out of his trance and crushed his cigarette out in a metal ashtray by the console. “Yes—yes, of course. As follows: ‘Message received. Colonel departing Rome by midnight. Berlin sends best wishes for success.' ”

As the operator tapped out the reply and waited for the acknowledged signal, an elated Schellenberg turned to the duty officer. “Get me a line to the Chancellery. I want to speak personally to the Führer. Then have a car ready to take me there.” From his pocket he took a slip of paper he had prepared. “And this goes to Colonel Skorzeny in Rome by radio,
immediately.
The slightest delay and someone will face a firing squad.”

The officer grasped the page and clicked his heels. “
Zu
Befehl, Herr General!”

At Practica di Mare, the airfield was shrouded in dense fog, great wreaths of it smothering every corner of the airfield, the hangars blanketed in a gray haze as thick and heavy as smoke. It had crept in from the sea barely an hour before, and now Skorzeny was prowling the tarmac area outside the hangar like an enraged bear, Captain Neumann by his side. They could barely see each other in the thick fog.
“Mein Gott,
it's unbelievable,” muttered Skorzeny, seething with frustration.

“It's even worse than I thought,” admitted Neumann. “Down to near zero. In my opinion, it would be sheer madness to take off in conditions like this.”

“If I want your opinion, Neumann, I'll ask for it.”

“Colonel Skorzeny, are you there?”
An SS major came out of the fog, waving a lighted flashlight, breathless as he almost bumped into them. “An urgent message for you, Colonel. Just received by radio from Berlin.”

Skorzeny tore open the flimsy, his huge hands ripping the paper. He read the signal by the light of the flashlight, let out a breath with obvious relief, and said to Neumann with a broad smile, “This is it. We go immediately.” He turned to the SS major. “Assuming we get airborne safely—the very moment we do—send a reply to Berlin. ‘The colonel's on his way.' Simply that.”

The major stared at him as if he were mad even to consider flying in such atrocious weather, but then saluted. “As you wish, Colonel.”

When the man had disappeared back into the fog, Skorzeny was already moving back towards the hangar. “Well, what are you waiting for, Neumann? I want your crews ready to go within five minutes.”

“But we couldn't even
taxi
to the runway in these conditions without risk of getting lost. And the runway lighting would be useless, the fog's so thick. My crews agree you're putting everyone's life in danger—”

Skorzeny stopped, turned back, put his hands on his hips. “Forget the weather. You have your orders. I'll have us guided out with flashlights when we taxi, and give instructions for the runway lighting to be put on full power, which might help to keep us straight and narrow on takeoff. Do it, Neumann, and make sure you have a quick check on the latest weather forecast for en route.”

“With respect, what if we have to land again because of engine failure or—”

Skorzeny drew his pistol and cocked it, his expression almost savage. “Question my orders again and I'll put a bullet in you. Now, you and your crew have a simple choice. You fly or you die. So I take it you'll be a sensible man and instruct them we're taking off.”

At the airfield, Doring had fared little better than Costas Demiris. His face was a bloodied mess and he groaned, slumped in the chair. He was barely conscious as Salter grabbed him by the roots of his hair. “Wake up, you hear me?”

Doring moaned in reply, and his head rolled to one side. Salter let go of him, gritted his teeth, and crossed to the window, his mouth twisted with frustration. One of his men said, “You want me to have a go at him, boss?”

“You idiot. Another beating and we'll have to bury him. We want the whole consignment, not bloody ten percent, so I need to know
exactly
what his mates are up to before they get back.”

“Not much chance of that if he won't talk.”

“Douse him with a bucket of water. Then find some rope and fetch a pair of pliers from one of the toolkits in the trucks.”

“What have you got in mind?”

There was a dark look in Salter's eyes. “A nail job. If it works for the Gestapo, it can work for us. I'll make him talk if I have to pull them out one by one.”

Behind them, Doring stirred in agony, muttered something, and his head slumped into his chest. One of the men standing over him frowned, a look of puzzlement on his face. Salter saw the reaction. “Well, what did he say?”

The confused man scratched his head. “It sounded to me like something in German, boss.”

Halder went upstairs and found Rachel sitting on the bed, an oil lamp flickering on the table beside her, shadows playing around the room. She rushed over and put her arms around his neck, kissed him fiercely on the lips, and when she finally broke away, Halder smiled and put the M3 down beside the bed. “A man could very easily get addicted to that kind of thing.” He saw the concern in her eyes.

“I'm just glad you're back safely. Is everything all right?”

“It seems so, at least for now.” He sighed, rubbed his eyes, then collapsed onto the bed, the strain and tiredness of the last few days showing on his face. He lay there in the dim light, his mind and body aching from exhaustion, and Rachel went to lie beside him and put her head on his chest, her fingers gently stroking his face. “Do you have to leave again?”

“In an hour, I'm afraid.”

“And after that?”

“A little before dawn, and it should all be over. Then with luck, and if Schellenberg keeps to his promise, we'll be flying out of here, back to Germany and freedom.” Halder looked into her eyes, emotion in his voice. “If we make it out of this alive, and if you think you could forget about Harry and give this a chance, I want us to be together, Rachel. Start a new life. Somewhere where there's no war. I'm tired of all this killing and death, my love.”

“You're sure that's what you want?”

“I've never been so sure about anything in my life.”

He saw the wetness in her eyes, and she moved in close. He found her mouth, kissed her hungrily, held her until he finally felt overcome by an excruciating tiredness.

“My poor Jack, you're completely worn out. You really should try and sleep, at least for an hour. I'll wake you when it's time to go.”

He was about to protest, but she blew out the lamp. He shut his eyes, and in a few moments he was resting peacefully in the darkness, her hand still gently stroking his face, until a little later he was faintly aware of her moving off the bed, the soft click of the door closing, and he gave in to his exhaustion and drifted into a deep sleep.

Skorzeny ordered his NCOs to assemble the men. The hangar doors had already been rolled open and the flight crews had started engines and taxied the Dakotas out onto the apron, the ground crews ready and waiting with powerful flashlights to guide them through the fog on their short journey to the runway.

As the paratroops snapped to attention, Skorzeny strode down their ranks, his baton under his arm, making a quick inspection of their American uniforms as he addressed them above the din of the Dakotas' idling engines. “Well, the moment has come. And a glorious moment it is. You've had your briefings so you all know the mission you are about to undertake
is absolutely vital
to the Reich. As you can see, the weather's not exactly to our liking for takeoff, but I have every faith in our Luftwaffe crews. Remember, do your duty to your utmost. It's not only me depending on you, but the Führer himself. Good luck.”

The NCOs marched the men smartly outside the hangar, and they began filing on board the two Dakotas, just as Neumann appeared, looking the worse for Skorzeny's threat, his copilot having taxied their aircraft out of the hangar.

“Well?” Skorzeny demanded. “What about conditions en route?”

“Nothing really unpleasant, so far as our Met people can tell, but they predict strong southeasterly winds from northern Sicily down to the African coast, at altitudes of up to six thousand meters. That's as far and high as the present forecasts go.”

Skorzeny was pleased. “It's enough. It means the wind will be at our backs most of the way, so we could end up making excellent time. That's what I like to hear, Neumann. You'd better take command of your aircraft. We're ready to go.” He slapped a powerful hand on the captain's shoulder. “And cheer up, man. It could be worse.”

Neumann wasn't convinced. “Not much. The fog aside, and from the little I know after our mission briefings, this whole business is going to be tricky.”

Skorzeny gave an almost manic grin. “You're right. In fact, I think I can promise you a very interesting night's work. Now, let's get on board.”

The colonel raced up the steps to board the first Dakota, and Neumann followed, checking that the door was properly closed after the steps had been pulled away. He moved past Skorzeny and his men into the cockpit and took his seat beside the copilot, noticing glinting beads of sweat on the man's forehead. Neumann tried not to show his unease. “Well, Dieter, it seems madness prevails after all. I suppose we'd better keep the colonel happy and try to get airborne.”

“Ready when you are, sir. We'll be first off, I'm told.”

“Why not?” replied Neumann sarcastically.

He peered out of the cockpit. Ahead of them was thick, unyielding fog, the Dakota's own takeoff lights in the wings barely illuminating the solid grayness. Two ground crewmen were waving flashlights just a couple of meters from his nose cone, though Neumann couldn't see the men properly, just the ghostly haze from their lights. He inched the throttles forward gently and the Dakota began to move, rumbling over the tarmac.