The Cairo Code (64 page)

Taxiing was painfully slow. Neumann kept to the tortuous pace the ground crews set. It took ten minutes to reach the runway threshold and line up as best he could. To left and right of them, the runway lights were on full, but even the powerful beams they threw out were mere electric fuzz, faint yellow coronas for less than thirty meters, and then they were swallowed up by fog. Skorzeny came up to the cockpit, impatient. “Aren't we at the threshold yet?”

“We've just arrived. You'd better get back with your men, Colonel. We're about to take off.”

“I'll stay here,” Skorzeny answered, slipping into the vacant radio operator's seat and strapping himself in. “Well, don't bloody hesitate, man. We haven't got all night. Go!”

Neumann didn't see the point of arguing, or even replying. He was conscious of a trickle of sweat dripping off his nose as he eased the throttles forward. The roar from the engines increased and he scanned his instruments. Suddenly the Dakota was moving. As it gained momentum, and the copilot called out their speed, Neumann tried his hardest to keep the aircraft midway between the feeble strings of runway lights, using the rudder as lightly as he could. It was difficult, and with every passing second bursts of yellow from the beams shot past them to left and right, faster and faster, the dynamic rhythm almost hypnotic as they tore down the runway into a frightening wall of solid fog.

“Rotate,” the copilot finally called out.

Neumann pulled back on the column.

The Dakota didn't budge.

For a moment, he had a sickening feeling in his stomach that something had gone terribly wrong, but then the aircraft struggled into the air with its full load. He called for the undercarriage to be retracted, and by the time the flaps had been taken in, they had burst out of the fog into clear night air.

Neumann permitted himself a quiet release of breath, wiped another drop of perspiration from his face. “So far so good. Let's check if the others made it safely.”

Compared to the mess below, the visibility above the fog ceiling was excellent—a crisp night, stars sparkling in full, clear moonlight. Below them, a vast gray shroud obliterated the nighttime landscape. Neumann banked left, until they were at right angles to their takeoff heading, and then below them and to the left they saw the second Dakota erupt out of the fog and climb steadily after its takeoff.

“Thank God for that,” muttered Neumann. “No unwelcome problems.” He glanced back at Skorzeny. “Except, of course, those that might lie ahead.”

Skorzeny put a hand on his shoulder. “Good work, Neumann. I'll see you get a commendation for this.”

“At my funeral, no doubt?”

“Don't be smart. Now, push those throttles hard forward. I want to make this crossing in record time.”

Salter was perplexed. He wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve, the barrack office uncomfortably hot, not even an overhead fan to move the stifling air. “You're sure it was German he spoke?”

“That's what it sounded like to me, boss.”

Doring stirred again, his face bathed in perspiration, twisted in agony.
“Wasser
—”

“There he goes again. I think that's what he said last time.”

“Yeah, but what's he bloody saying?” Salter demanded.

“I picked up a few words when I was guarding Jerry prisoners in the Western Desert. Sounds to me like he wants water.”

Salter frowned, nodded at the metal bucket. “Fetch a cup and give him some. Then ask him his name, in German this time.”

Salter watched as the man ladled water from the bucket with an enamel cup and offered it to Doring. He was still almost out of it, could barely sip.
“Was ist ihre name?”

When Doring didn't respond, Salter grabbed a handful of hair. “Ask him again.”

“Ihre name? Was ist ihre name?”

The young German groaned, eyes rolling to the ceiling. “Doring.”

“What's that supposed to bleeding mean?” asked Salter.

“I think he said his name's Doring. He's a Jerry, boss, no question. But what's he doing with Deacon and his mates?”

Salter's face creased in confusion. “Ask him who his friends are, and what they've got planned. Ask him—”

“Hold on a second, boss. My German ain't
that
good.”

Salter exploded with exasperation, fury in his face. “Then it had better improve fast. I want to know what we're bloody well dealing with here!”

“But I've only got a few Jerry words—”

In a rage, Salter picked up the metal bucket and threw the contents, drenching Doring completely, then flung the bucket against the wall. It landed with a clatter, and Doring jerked and shook water from his hair as he became conscious.

“Well, what do you know,” grinned Salter. “He's back in the land of the living. Get the ropes.” As two of his men grabbed Doring's hands and secured them to the chair's armrests, Salter pulled a chair over, gripped Doring's scalp.

The German's eyes snapped fully open with horror when he saw the pair of heavy pliers.

“Take a good look at these, mate. Not exactly a pleasant way to accompany a chat, but I'm afraid you've left me no option. Now, we're going to start again. Nice and easy this time. Tell me what I want to know, and you've got my word you'll walk away from here a free man. But try holding back, and I promise, it'll be blood and thorns all the way.”

Weaver felt frustration grow inside him, and it fueled his anger. He was in the back of the staff car as it headed towards Garden City, Sergeant Morris in the seat beside him.

There was no way he could attempt to save Rachel unless he could make it to the airfield before Sanson, and the agony was torturing him. And even if he could reach her first, what could he do?

He looked out of the window. The car was going too fast to jump, but as they came towards the Old Town, the driver slowed as they rounded a corner. Weaver saw his chance. He reached for the door, pushed it half open, but Morris grabbed him and shouted to the driver, “Stop the bloody car!”

It screeched to a halt, Weaver was flung back against the seat, and before he knew it Morris had an arm locked around his neck. “I really wouldn't try that, sir. You'll only get us both in deeper trouble.”

Weaver struggled to get out of the door, but Morris produced a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, snapped them onto his wrists. “Calm down, sir, or you'll do yourself an injury.”

“You don't understand—”

“You can say that again. But mine is not to reason why.”

As Morris checked that the handcuffs were secure, Weaver protested. “Is there really any need for these?”

“Sorry, sir, but I have my orders.” Morris pulled the door shut, the car moved off again, and Weaver slumped back in even deeper frustration.

When Schellenberg was led down to Hitler's private office in the Chancellery underground bunker, the Führer was already waiting. Himmler was there also, the two men in splendid mood as they relaxed in leather armchairs. They rose from their seats, and Himmler actually smiled as he raised his arm in salute. “Walter. Excellent news. Truly excellent!”

Hitler clasped a hand on Schellenberg's forearm. “This gives me hope, Walter. Lifts my spirits immeasurably. But what news of Skorzeny?”

“The word came from Rome as I left the communications room. He took off ten minutes ago, despite heavy fog. But he's well on his way by now.”

Hitler was excited. “Let me see the message from Cairo.”

Schellenberg handed across the decoded signal from Deacon, and said as Hitler read, “It's all happened quicker than we thought. As you can see, Halder has successfully located Roosevelt at the Mena House, breached the tunnel—which turns out to be of use to gain entry to the hotel grounds—and has taken the airfield and successfully secured the necessary transport to ferry Skorzeny's men to the target. He and the others are awaiting the colonel's arrival for the final act to begin. All we can do now is bite our nails and wait.”

Hitler finished reading and looked up. “So, there's no need for this ace you've kept up your sleeve.”

Schellenberg smiled. “It seems not.”

Hitler was overcome. “If Skorzeny can finish this business, I'll make him a general. No—a field marshal! He's an amazing man, capable of anything.”

“He's certainly that
.
”

As Hitler handed back the signal, for a moment his expression became despondent.

“But it's hardly over yet. And I'm disappointed about Churchill.”

“But at least we have Roosevelt clearly in our sights. And granted, it's not over. But what a promising beginning,
mein Führer
.”

Hitler's mood swung again, and he collapsed into his chair, gripping the armrests, the excitement almost too much to bear. His joy was obvious, a radiance in his face that neither Schellenberg nor Himmler had witnessed in a long time. “A very promising beginning, indeed.”

Doring's scream rang around the room. It sounded like the utterance of a wild animal in pain, and when it died, his body twitched and his head fell to one side. One of Salter's men put a hand to his neck, felt for a pulse. “He's—he's dead, boss.”

“I can bloody see that.” Salter tossed the pliers on the desk. The German hadn't told him a thing, not even after he'd pulled out three nails. In his anger, Salter had whacked him hard across the skull with the heavy pliers. It was a blow too many; the German screamed, his eyes bulged wildly, blood hemorrhaged from his nose, and then he fell still.

Salter wiped a film of greasy sweat from his face, lit another cheroot to steady his nerves. “You'd swear the kraut was sworn to secrecy. Anyone in his right mind would have cracked before it went this far. He was a tough nut, I'll say that much for him.” He frowned suspiciously, looked at Doring's body. “I've got a funny feeling about this, a very funny feeling indeed, and I don't bloody like it. What's Deacon and that captain doing working with a German? Look at him. You ask me, he's the military type.”

“Maybe he's an escaped POW?”

“Maybe.” Salter looked unconvinced.

“What do we do, boss?”

Salter checked his watch. “We're in for the full shilling's worth now, ain't we? Deacon's pals get back here in less than an hour.” He paced the room, mulled things over, but more frustrated than ever, the confusion eating him. He dropped the cheroot to the floor, ground it with his boot. “Get the Jerry out of the chair, and bring in the wog. I'll get to the bottom of this if it's the last bleeding thing I do.”

The staff car trundled through a rabbit warren of side streets, five minutes away from GHQ.

Weaver's mind was working feverishly. There was no way of retrieving the handcuff key from the sergeant. The situation looked completely hopeless, but he knew he had to take his last shot, and very soon, otherwise he'd be locked up in a cell with no chance of escape. They came out of the side streets, cut right, and the car began picking up speed, heading along the darkened Nile bank. The driver, a young corporal, was concentrating on the road ahead, Morris staring idly out of the window. As the driver swung right to overtake a donkey and cart, Weaver picked his moment and lunged sideways, shoving all his weight against Morris.
“What the
—”

The sergeant gasped, exhaling, all the breath forced out of him from the impact as Weaver reached across and slapped his palms hard against the door handle. The door opened, he grabbed at the frame, held on, and shouldered Morris. The sergeant rolled out of the moving car with a startled cry.

The corporal glanced back, horrified, slammed on the brakes, and the car skidded to a halt thirty yards on. “Bloody heck, you could have killed—”

Weaver thrust both his fists forward, hitting the man square in the jaw. As the dazed corporal reeled back, he was already climbing out of the car.

•  •  •

Ten minutes later he stepped into a back-street hotel, breathless, his body drenched in sweat. An elderly Egyptian sat behind an ancient reception desk, toying with a set of worry beads. “Effendi?”

“I need to use your telephone,” Weaver panted.

“Apologies, effendi. The telephone is only for hotel guests.”

“Just show me the darned telephone!”

The old man noticed the handcuffs and thought better of arguing. “Down—down the hall there is a booth.”

Weaver found it at the end of the lobby, stepped in, fumbled to lift the receiver, and asked for the operator.

•  •  •

He heard the car pull up in the back street. His heart skipped, and he hoped it wasn't the military police. Then he saw Helen Kane come through the front door, wearing her uniform. She stared at the handcuffs. “Harry, what's going on—?”

“Did you bring the things I asked?”

“Yes, but—”

He took her arm, moved towards the door. “I'll explain on the way.”

At the Shabramant crossroads, Sanson was getting impatient. He paced up and down beside the Jeep, about to check his watch again with a flashlight, when one of his men called out, “I think this is them, sir.”

Sanson peered along the darkened road and saw a long line of headlights coming towards him fast from the direction of the city, clouds of dust in their wake. He counted three open-back trucks filled with British soldiers, a staff car and a Jeep, and an armored car and a troop carrier taking up the rear, a Bren gun mounted on top. He ran forward to meet them. The major in the front passenger seat of the staff car had a bullhorn in his hand, and Sanson jumped onto the running board, thrust his ID through the open window, and said urgently, “Lieutenant Colonel Sanson. How many men have you brought?”