The Cairo Code (65 page)

“A hundred. You mind me asking what the reason for all this is, sir?”

Sanson ignored the question, yanked open the rear door, climbed in, and said to the driver, “Move up to the head of the line and take the lead position.” He turned back to address the major. “You know the airfield at Shabramant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you to listen to me very carefully . . .”

•  •  •

Helen Kane headed south from the city on a dark, palm-lined country road, until Weaver said, “Pull in.”

She swung the staff car into the side. Weaver got out. “Bring the gun.”

“You'll only get yourself in deeper trouble, Harry. Do you really think this is wise?”

“The gun, Helen.”

She took a Colt automatic from under her seat. “I haven't fired a weapon since basic training.”

“Now's your time to get some practice.” Weaver knelt at the side of the road, placed his palm flat on the ground, stretching the handcuff chain. “Do it.”

She knelt in front of him, moved the tip of the barrel close to the chain, cocked the pistol.

“Pull the trigger,” Weaver urged.

She squeezed, there was an explosion, the earth kicked up a cloud of dust, and the chain shattered. Weaver stood, rubbing his wrists, the metal cuffs that remained still chafing his skin. “Did you manage to get the wire cutters?”

“No, but there's a hacksaw and some tools in a kit I put in the boot.”

“They'll do. Give me the keys to the car. I'll drive back some of the way. We'll find you a taxi—”

“There isn't time. Besides, I'm going with you.”

“This isn't your business, Helen, so don't be a fool. You're already risking a court-martial. I'm not going to have you risk your life as well—”

There was a sudden, steely determination in her voice. “If you think after all this I'm going to miss the final act, then you've got another thing coming, Harry Weaver.” She found the tools in the trunk, tossed them onto the backseat, and climbed back into the car. “Get in. I'm driving.”

Sanson ordered the convoy to halt five hundred yards from the airfield, on the dirt road that led past the entrance. Every headlight had already been doused farther back on the road, so that their approach wouldn't be seen. He got out of the cab and studied the airfield, as much of it as he could see in the moonlight. He could barely make out the half-dozen or so huts and two hangars. There was no proper fence, just a barbed-wire run a couple of meters high on the left-hand side of the road. The opposite side stretched towards desert, nothing but low-rolling scrubland, hard-packed sand dunes tufted with rough grass and the odd palm tree.

He called the major over. “Pick two of your best men and send them ahead as scouts. And bring a radio operator up here.”

“Yes, sir.” The major returned minutes later with the operator and a couple of sergeants. “These are my best men for the job, sir.”

Sanson addressed them. “Recce the airfield and see if you can spot anything amiss. Keep an eye out for any American trucks in particular. And make sure you're not seen. It'll ruin everything. Black up and off you go. Try to get back here as quick as you can.”

The men blackened their faces and hands with axle grease from one of the trucks, then moved off into the darkness as Sanson said to the radio operator, “Get in touch with RAF GHQ. Alert them to keep a radar watch for any unidentified aircraft entering Cairo airspace—they may be enemy intruders. And I want a couple of night fighters to circle the airfield. It's absolutely imperative nothing's allowed to land there.”

“Well?” Sanson demanded when the scouts returned.

“It looks all quiet, sir,” the first man reported. “There're a couple of sentries in place at the main gate.”

“Did you notice any unusual activity?”

“I can't say that we did, sir. Everything looks fairly normal. But we spotted three American trucks parked just inside the gates.”

Sanson turned to the major. “We're going in. Get the men ready for a briefing. Make sure they've got descriptions of who we're after, especially Salter, Halder, and the woman.”

Hassan was doused with a bucket of water and dragged into the room, blood caked on his face from the gash Salter had inflicted. He was groggy from the blow to his skull, but when he saw Doring's body sprawled in a corner, he came awake.

“The lad should have been more cooperative,” Salter remarked moodily. “Let's hope you've got more sense. Otherwise you're in for the same.” He nodded at the corpse. “An interesting thing. Your pal was a Jerry, name of Doring. There's something very fishy about this whole business. So how about you and me put our differences aside, and you fill me in?”

Hassan glared back at him, not a shred of fear in his face. “I tell you nothing.”

Salter glanced at Doring's body. “What is it with you and your friend? You part of some kind of secret society, or what? Put him in the chair, boys. Tie down his hands.”

The men held Hassan down, lashed his forearms to the armrests with the ropes, and Salter picked up the pliers. He grabbed Hassan's right hand and placed the tips of the pincers on the index fingernail. “I'll ask again, just to be polite.”

Hassan spat defiantly in Salter's face.

Salter wiped away the spittle, barely able to control his rising temper, and snarled, “Tough bleeding wog, ain't you? Well, we'll see how tough you are when I've finished pulling your nails and go to work on your testicles.” He grinned maliciously, tightened his grip on the pliers. “You know something, old flower? I'd be lying if I said I wasn't looking forward to this.”

Salter laughed, pulled hard. The nail sheared from the finger. The Arab stiffened, beads of sweat rising on his face, its expression twisted in pain, but he didn't scream.

“Changed your mind yet?”

Hassan gritted his teeth, blood dripping from his injured finger, clenched his eyes shut against the agony.

“No? Then let's try another.” As Salter moved to grip the next nail, there was a burst of machine-gun fire from somewhere outside. “What the bloody—?” He jumped to his feet as one of his men stormed into the room.

“We got trouble on the way, boss. Lots of it.”

When Weaver arrived at the Shabramant crossroads, the headlights caught the unmistakable lattice of tire tracks in the dust. He was filled with dread, slammed his fist into the dashboard with frustration.
“Damn!
It looks like Sanson got his reinforcements, and he's been and gone.”

“What now?”

“Put your foot down, hard as you can.”

Sanson and his men had crawled towards the sand dunes opposite the gates, everything going smoothly until the last few minutes before the assault. He could make out the sentry boxes in the wash of silver moonlight, the outlines of a half-dozen barrack huts, lights on in several of the windows. But apart from the two guards, smoking and chatting as they leaned against one of the boxes, he noticed no other activity in the camp.

He gestured to the two scouts, their faces still blackened, and they slipped forward on their bellies, vanishing into the shadows like ghosts. They reappeared across the road minutes later and overpowered the two guards, but one of the sentries managed to let out a muffled scream before a hand cut off his cry.

“Let's pray no one's heard the noise,” Sanson fumed. He turned to the major.

“Get those gates open and see if you can find out from the sentries where Salter is, then bring me the bullhorn.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sanson led the way towards the gates, and when they were opened, he instructed the men to spread out and move forward. “Don't open fire unless I give the order.”

They had hardly moved a dozen paces when the door of the nearest hut opened, fifty meters away, and a couple of men stepped out cautiously, looking as if they'd decided to investigate the disturbance.

“Get down!” Sanson ordered, and everyone threw themselves to the ground, but it was too late. The two men wore British army uniforms and were armed with Sten guns, and when they saw the intruders they opened up, firing wildly, before vanishing back inside the hut and dousing the lights.

The major darted up beside Sanson, dropped himself flat on the ground. “Bloody bad luck—we almost had them by surprise.”

“Give me the bullhorn.” The major handed it over, and Sanson shouted into the mouthpiece.
“This is Lieutenant Colonel Sanson, military intelligence. We have the airfield surrounded. Put down your weapons and come out with your hands up.”

Glass shattered in one of the windows, a Sten gun was poked through, and a chatter of fire whistled above Sanson's head as he ducked for cover.

“If that's their answer, so be it. Bring up the armored car. And get some men round the back of the huts to cover the rear, in case anyone's stupid enough to make a break for it.”

The major spoke on the field radio, and within a minute the armored car had roared in through the gates, followed by the troop carrier. They drove forward and swung right, covering the troops as they crouched behind the vehicles. Sanson tapped on the car's armor plate with his revolver, a metal flap opened in the door, and the face of the machine gunner appeared.

“Rake the huts with fire, one by one,” Sanson ordered. “We're going to flush them out.”

•  •  •

Salter had doused the office lights the instant he'd heard the first rattle of gunfire. He fumbled his way to the window, where one of his men was hunched down with a Sten gun. They heard the metallic voice from the bullhorn, followed by a second burst of fire. “It's the army, boss. And it sounds like they mean business.”

An armored car and a troop carrier with a heavy machine gun started to hammer one of the huts with a deadly salvo of fire, and less than a hundred yards away Salter noticed shadowy figures move in the darkness. He was confused, seething with anger. “How did the bloody sods know we were here?”

“It beats me. But we're in the deep end, no two ways about it.”

A stray burst of fire shattered the window, and the man went to raise the Sten gun in reply, but Salter stopped him. “Don't be bloody daft, you'll give our position away.” He turned to the four of his men still in the hut. “One of you stay here, the rest try and get to the others, out the back way. Tell them we're breaking out, pronto. It's everyone for himself.”

Three of the men moved towards the rear of the hut, and Salter crouched with the remaining man beside the window, saw more shadows moving closer in the darkness. In the other buildings, the rest of his gang were putting up stiff resistance by the sound of it, answering the attack with chattering machine-gun fire. “How many do you reckon there are?”

“Too many from the looks of it. And it won't be long before they have us covered, every which way.”

Salter fumed in anger as one of his trucks parked outside a neighboring hut had its tires shredded by deliberate gunfire. “The sods are making sure we can't escape. Well, we'll see about that. Get out to the nearest hangar at the back. See if you can find us any kind of transport. I'll be right behind you, soon as I take care of the wog.”

“Right, boss.” The man crawled across the floor towards the rear corridor. Salter crouched over Hassan, still tied to the chair, and pointed the tip of the Sten gun barrel in his face. “Looks like it's just you and me, sweetheart. It's time to talk or die. Where's Deacon and his friends? Tell me, and you live to fight another day. Don't, and your head's going to look like a pulped melon.”

Another shower of stray fire exploded into the room, breaking glass, rounds stitching the wall and riddling the field radio's metal chassis. Salter wiped perspiration from his face, tightened his finger on the trigger, pressed the barrel into the Arab's forehead. “I don't mean to rush you, matey, but if you don't answer soon you mightn't have a bleeding choice. This is it. Last chance. Where are they?”

Sweat glistened on Hassan's face. “On the Nile bank. A villa called Maison Fleuve.”

“Exactly
where
on the Nile bank?”

Hassan told him, and Salter grinned in the shadows. “You wouldn't be lying to me, would you?”

“It's the truth. Take me with you. I show you.”

“Oh, don't you worry, mate, you definitely will if we get out of this alive. Your friends have a few questions to answer.” Salter loosened the ropes, pointed towards the corridor with the gun, as more stray fire ripped into the hut, sending splinters of wood flying. “Outside, the back way. Fast. And keep your head down.”

Hassan struggled from the chair. As he stumbled in the darkness, he knocked the table. Salter prodded him with the machine gun. “Move it! Or they'll be on top of us.” Hassan noticed his knife, still planted in the desk. He stumbled again, deliberately this time, grabbed the hilt, yanked it from the wood, and slipped the blade unseen into his sleeve. “I said move it!” Salter roared.

•  •  •

At the back door of the hut, Salter began to panic. The gunfire was getting closer. He saw his man hurry towards them in a sweat, wheeling a battered-looking motorcycle, a green-painted Moto Guzzi, the engine already running. “What's
that
?”

“There was nothing in the hangar, boss, except a couple of push-bikes and this bloody ancient motorcycle.”

“I don't care how old it is, is it working?”

“Seems to be, and there's fuel in the tank.” He frowned at Hassan. “We can't take the wog. There's only room for two.”

“You're right.” Salter coldly brought up the Sten and squeezed the trigger, sending the stunned man reeling back, dancing in a chatter of fire.