The Cairo Code (67 page)

Halder jerked awake with a cry, his body drenched in sweat. Rachel sat curled up in a chair by the window. She came over, put a hand on his brow. “It's all right, Jack. I'm here.”

“What—what happened?”

“I think you had a bad dream, that's all. You tossed and turned in your sleep.”

He sat up in the bed, covered in perspiration. Rachel found a towel, dabbed his body.

“What were you dreaming about?”

His face darkened as he remembered. “That fortune-teller must have set my mind on edge. I had a terrible nightmare, about Pauli. There were bombs—he was dying. I couldn't save him—”

“Jack, that's nonsense.”

He got off the bed with sudden unease, went over to the enamel basin, splashed water on his face. “The ancients called dreams the prophecies of the soul, a kind of warning from the gods. Sometimes I think they knew more than we do.”

“That's superstitious drivel.”

As he went to dry himself, there was an unsettling disquiet in his eyes, his features drawn. She came up behind him, put her arms around his waist reassuringly, her head against his back. “With all that's happening, your mind's working overtime. That's why you had such a terrible nightmare. You know, for a grown man, sometimes you can be so irrational. Please, try and forget about it, Jack.”

He turned round, took her in his arms, looked into her face. “You know something? You're far too good for me, Rachel Stern. Practical, your feet on the ground.”

She put a finger to his lips, smiled, but the tension showed in her eyes. “You'd better go downstairs. The sooner you return, the better.” She touched his cheek, brushed it with a kiss, looked into his face. “Promise me you'll come back safely? For both our sakes.”

•  •  •

He went down to the patio and found Deacon and Kleist waiting restlessly at the table, the field radio in front of them. The Nile was dotted with the lanterns of small fishing boats, the vast, dark river incredibly placid, and on the far bank the silhouettes of palm trees were motionless in the heavy night air. “It's like the calm before the storm,” Halder commented.

“It's the waiting that kills you.” Deacon was on edge as he wiped his neck with a handkerchief. “You rested well?”

“Not half well enough.” There was a pot of Turkish coffee and some cups on the table and Halder helped himself. “Did anything come through on the field radio?”

“It's been as dead as the morgue.”

Halder nodded to Kleist. “Better give them a call before we head back, just to make certain.”

Kleist went to the radio, flicked a switch, and put on the headphones.
“Raider One to Raider Two, are you receiving me? Over.”
He repeated the message half a dozen times, then frowned. “There's no reply. It's dead on the other end.”

“You're sure the radio's working properly and you've got the right frequency?”

Kleist checked to be certain, and nodded. “Try it yourself.”

Halder did, but heard just endless crackle in reply. As he put down the headphones Deacon stood, worriedly. “Do you think something's wrong?”

“We checked both the field radios before we took the airfield, and they worked perfectly. There might just be a technical problem, but you never know. Get out to the vehicle, Kleist. We're heading back.”

When Kleist had left, Halder said uneasily, “Do you think there's a chance Salter has overplayed his hand?”

Deacon's expression darkened. “I wouldn't have thought so, not when he thinks he's got a fortune coming. But with a snake like him, I suppose there's no telling what he might get up to. You think you can handle it, if that's the case?”

“Let's hope so. The main thing is to stall him. Salter's going to have to hang around until the aircraft land, that's for sure. After that, we won't have to worry about him either way.” Halder tapped his fingers on the radio. “But the fact there's no reply worries me.”

“You and me both.”

Halder tugged on his cap. “If we can sort out the problem with the radio, I'll call you and let you know when Skorzeny's men have landed. Otherwise, one of us will have to drive back to keep you informed. God willing, it'll all be over one way or another before dawn, and we'll meet for the final rendezvous. Look after the lady while I'm gone.”

Deacon offered a firm handshake. “Good luck, Major.”

Halder turned to go, realized he'd left the M3 upstairs in the bedroom. He moved towards the hall, heard the distinct sound of an engine roaring into the front courtyard. He removed his pistol, said to Deacon, “Who the devil's that?”

As they both went towards the front door, Kleist came rushing in, his face taut. “You'd better come outside.”

Weaver kept the headlights off for the entire journey, following the track the Arab had left on the desert road, until eventually they spotted the motorcycle's dust cloud. The only light came from the quarter-moon, and every now and then the motorcycle wove drunkenly, as if the driver were having difficulty steering.

Weaver tried to watch the road, to make sure they kept well enough behind, hoping they wouldn't be spotted, and when they'd gone a couple of miles, he said to Helen Kane, “I might be wrong, but from the way he's driving he could be injured. Don't take your eyes off him for a second. I don't want to lose him.”

At that hour of the morning there was barely any traffic, and they crossed the English Bridge ten minutes later and came to the city outskirts along the sparsely populated western bank. They passed several big old Nile villas set in their own grounds and saw the Arab turn down a narrow private track alongside the river. A mile farther on the motorcycle disappeared through the open gates of a white-walled villa.

Weaver immediately pulled the car off the road, killed the engine, and for a few seconds heard the throb of the motorcycle engine before it died abruptly. He stepped out of the car and peered into the darkness.

Helen Kane frowned. “What do you think he's up to?”

Weaver checked the Colt pistol, tucked it into his waistband. “Stay here. I'm going ahead to have a look. If I'm not back in twenty minutes, get to the nearest telephone and contact Sanson.”

She saw a kind of possession in his expression. “Harry, you're being reckless. What can it achieve? Why don't we simply contact Sanson now?”

“I've come this far, I might as well follow it through. Remember—stay here.”

•  •  •

They moved Hassan into a chair, and Deacon went to get a towel and a bowl of water. When he came back, he dabbed the badly gashed cheek.

“What happened?” Halder said anxiously.

The Arab gritted his teeth in agony, held the towel to his jaw, his speech broken. When he had managed to tell them, Deacon exploded with rage. “The conniving creep—Salter's double-crossed us and ruined everything.”

“Anger won't get us anywhere,” Halder admonished. “What concerns me is how the army knew about the airfield. Not Salter's fault, surely?”

Hassan shook his head, words an effort. “All I know is the aircraft can't land. Not with the army and British Spitfires waiting to shoot them down.”

Halder sighed, resignation on his face. “Are you sure you weren't followed?”

The Arab struggled from the chair, still holding the towel to his face. “I'm sure of nothing, except I've killed that pig Salter.”

“Kleist, get outside and have a good look around.”

Halder made the decision instantly. “Then we're getting out of here.”

The SS man left hurriedly, and Deacon said, “You mind telling me where?”

“Anywhere will do for now, until we figure out what to do next. If the army knew about the airfield, there's no telling what else they know. To remain here would be madness. You'd better get a signal off to Berlin, fast as you can, while there's still enough time for Skorzeny to abort. Make absolutely certain they acknowledge the message. Then get out to the boat. We'll stick to the river—it might be safer than the roads.”

As he went to fetch Rachel, Deacon grabbed his arm. “Listen to me, Halder. We can still finish this. If one of us could make it through the tunnel—”

Halder pulled his arm away. “See sense, Deacon. Without our paratroops, it's hopeless. If you want to volunteer for a suicide mission, be my guest. But for me, it's over. You have my orders—send the signal, and let's get out of here.”

There was a footstep behind them. “It's over for all of you.”

They looked round. Weaver stood on the patio. “No one's going anywhere.”

•  •  •

He moved into the room, brandishing the Colt. “All of you put your hands up where I can see them. Very slowly.”

Halder obeyed, Deacon and Hassan followed. “Now take the gun out of your holster, Jack, nice and easy, then place it on the floor and kick it over here.”

Halder did so, tipped the weapon with his foot, and slid it across. The shock hadn't left his face. “It seems the fateful day has come. I wasn't relishing this, Harry. You and me face to face, up against each other, like in some cheap western. It seems to tarnish whatever good there was between us. You mind telling me how you found me?”

Weaver flicked the pistol towards Hassan. “I followed your friend. The other one's Deacon, I presume? The second half of the double act.”

“I'm impressed, Harry. You've been hotter on our trail than I thought.”

Hassan said sourly, “You should have let me kill him when I had the chance.”

“Regrets, I'm afraid, will get us nowhere,” said Halder, and he looked over at Weaver. “Simply to satisfy my curiosity, how did the army know about the airfield?”

“Those stolen trucks of yours led to Salter. The rest I'm sure you can guess.”

“I see.” Halder looked totally resigned. “Then I suppose the only question is what happens next?”

“I think you already know the answer, Jack. Sanson and his men are on their way. After that, it's either a rope or a firing squad. That uniform you're wearing is in itself enough to warrant a bullet, for impersonating a U.S. Army officer.”

“You wouldn't be lying about Sanson, would you?”

“Not a chance.”

Halder said, hopelessly, “Then try not to forget the lily on my grave, will you, old friend? I never was one for roses, I'm afraid.”

Weaver knelt, picked up Halder's gun. “Where's Rachel?”

“She's not a part of this, Harry.” There was a pleading look on Halder's face. “The rest of us are as guilty as sin, but she's been used from the very start. You have to let her go.”

“I asked where she is.”

“I'm here.”

There was a noise behind him, and Weaver turned.

Rachel moved into the doorway, Halder'S M3 machine pistol cradled in her hands.

“Now, please, put down the gun, Harry.”

•  •  •

Kleist appeared behind her, holding Helen Kane roughly by the arm, his pistol aimed at her head. “Let go of me—”

She struggled to get free, but Kleist manhandled her into the room. “I found her outside, a friend of the American's. Waiting alone in a staff car back along the track.”

The SS man glared over. “You heard the order. Put down the gun.”

Weaver made to raise the Colt in anger, but Kleist said viciously, “Another move like that, and the woman won't have a brain.”

“Harry, I think you'd better do as he says,” Halder said quietly. “It seems the tables have turned. So perhaps you should drop the weapon and introduce the lady.”

Weaver stared back at Rachel, said hoarsely, “You don't know what you're doing—”

“Shut up,” Kleist interrupted. “Drop the gun, and be quick about it.”

Weaver dropped the Colt, it clattered to the floor, and Deacon picked it up while Halder crossed the room, his hand held out to Rachel for the machine pistol. “For a woman who hates firearms, you did remarkably well. Now, you'd better give me that, before someone gets hurt.”

She made no move to hand over the weapon. “Move away, Jack.”

Halder frowned, totally confused. A shadow crossed his face. He was about to speak, but Rachel gestured with the machine pistol. “Over there, by the wall. You too, Harry.” She nodded to Kleist. “Take the woman down to the cellar. Tie her securely. Make sure she can't go anywhere.”

Kleist roughly bundled Helen Kane out of the room, and Rachel said to Hassan, “Go outside and keep watch. If you see or hear anything, get back here, at the double.”

The Arab looked totally bemused, his pain forgotten, and Deacon snapped, “You heard the order. Obey it. I'll explain later.”

When Hassan had left, Rachel looked at Deacon. “Send Berlin the signal. You know what to tell them.”

Deacon left the room hurriedly, his footsteps fading into the cellar, and then the three of them were alone.

The blood had drained completely from Weaver's face, a terrible truth dawning, and Halder was as white as death. “You know, all of a sudden I've got this horrible feeling Harry and I have lived with a delusion for years.”

“I think it's time you both knew the truth.”

Schellenberg had just finished a late supper in his private rooms at SS headquarters when the signal was delivered to him personally in a wax-sealed envelope. The bombing had stopped and he had returned to his office on the third floor, heavy rain streaking the taped windows, a blanket of dismal clouds hanging over nighttime Berlin. He broke the red wax seal and read the decoded contents. His face tightened, then he picked up the internal telephone and summoned his adjutant. “Call Admiral Canaris at once. Inform him I wish to see him urgently.”