The Cairo Code (70 page)

The SS man grinned, stared into his face. “You haven't got the stomach for war, Halder. How they ever put a coward like you in uniform is beyond me.”

“You're a complete brute, Kleist. I should have shot you when I had the chance.”

Kleist struck him savagely across the face with the butt of the machine pistol, and Halder reeled back, blood on his lips.

“A little foretaste of what's to come, the down payment on an old score.” Kleist's face split into a tight grin. “And I must say, I'm going to enjoy settling the rest of it.”

Outside, they heard the motorcycle rev up and drive away. Kleist looked at Halder maliciously. “If you think I'm taking you back on the plane, you've got another thing coming. Even if those two manage to finish the business, something tells me they'll never get out alive. Which means you're dead.”

His boot came up, lashed into Halder's groin, and he crumpled to the floor. Weaver moved to help him up, but Kleist shoved the machine pistol in his face. “Don't tempt me, American. Besides, I believe someone else has a bone to pick.”

Hassan stepped forward. The curved knife appeared in his hand, and there was a look of intense pleasure in his eyes. “The evil day has finally arrived. Get ready to say your prayers.”

Kleist put a hand on his arm. “Not here. I've something much more interesting in mind. Fetch the woman and get her onto the boat.” He touched the barrel of the M3 to Halder's forehead, smirked. “We'll give the Nile crocodiles something to chew over, and get rid of the major and his friends on the river.”

Neumann had made excellent time, much better than he had anticipated, the strong southeasterly winds at their backs all the way. They were at five thousand meters, and there was very little cloud. The second Dakota had moved slightly ahead of them, taking the lead, and they could make out its faint outline no more than a mile away. In the darkened cockpit, lit only by the dim glow of the instrument panel and the pale moonlight, Skorzeny was getting impatient.

“How much longer?”

“If the winds stay in our favor, no more than fifteen minutes to the Egyptian coast. Less than an hour to our target airfield—assuming, that is, we don't come across any enemy aircraft that may have other ideas.” Neumann glanced round. “This business of keeping our altitude extremely low approaching Cairo, it's going to be tricky, you know?”

Skorzeny put a hand on his shoulder, grinned. “Neumann, I have every faith in you.”

At that precise moment, they were startled by a sudden blaze of tracer fire arcing through the night sky, its target the Dakota ahead of them. From nowhere, two Tomahawk fighters with RAF markings rocketed out of the darkness from the east, cannons blazing.

“Oh, no!” muttered Neumann. “We've got company.”

Instinctively, he pulled up sharply, and the Dakota in front tried to do the same, as one of the Tomahawks attacked its port side with withering cannon fire. The Dakota took a hit, the port wing almost disintegrating in the hail of lead, and the aircraft exploded like a massive firework, its flaming debris plunging towards the sea.

“Oh, my God.
The poor souls!”

“Neumann, get us out of here,” Skorzeny roared above the engine noise.

“It's pointless,” Neumann answered frantically. “The Tomahawks have us for speed.”

“Do something, man!” Skorzeny screamed.

Neumann pushed the column hard forward, and the Dakota nosed down sharply, speeding towards the sea below at a frightening rate of knots. Sweat on his face, Neumann said, “Better hold tight, Colonel. We're in for a rough ride.”

The suite had a small lounge area for guests, complete with a couple of leather couches and a coffee table, the white-painted walls adorned with Arabic prints and wood carvings. As the ambassador and the general waited anxiously, Griffith wheeled in Roosevelt. He wore a dressing gown, his silver hair was tousled, and he looked the worse for having been woken. But there was no sign of bad temper, just a wry smile. “I'm hoping you gentlemen have a good reason for this. You know how an old man like me needs his sleep.”

“We have, sir,” Kirk answered, and told him the news.

“So,” Roosevelt said flatly, no triumph in his voice. “It's over. Berlin tried and failed.”

“I'm afraid it's not completely over yet, Mr. President,” Clayton explained. “Three of the Germans escaped and they're on the run. But they haven't a chance getting anywhere near the hotel. Not that it's likely they'll try and continue with their mission with a posse after them, every barracks alerted, and a ring of steel around the compound, but we're doubling the patrols to make absolutely certain.”

“That's reassuring to hear, General. I guess if over a thousand troops can't protect me, no one can.”

“There's really no threat, sir. We've put every available fighter aircraft we've got in North Africa on alert, and air patrols are scouring the skies as we speak. The extra measures are purely a precaution. I'm pretty confident we'll have those Krauts rounded up pretty soon.”

“But no doubt there were casualties?”

“Half a dozen troops wounded, and six dead, so far as we know. Two of our own men, and four others. It could have been a lot worse.”

Roosevelt sighed heavily. “The sooner this lousy war is over, the better.” He glanced at his watch. “I guess there's nothing more to be said. Except I owe you and your men a debt of gratitude, General.”

Clayton saluted. “I can assure you you're in safe hands, Mr. President.”

“Of that, I've no doubt. And now, I'd better let you both get back to whatever it is you have to do. Gentlemen, I'll bid you good morning.”

In the Dakota, the tension was frightening. Neumann kept the column pushed hard forward as they continued their rapid descent. He hadn't the faintest belief that he could shake off the high-speed Tomahawks, and knew with certainty that it was all over, nothing but primitive animal instinct keeping him in there, fighting against the odds.

Although he couldn't see the Tomahawks behind him, their tracer fire streaked past on the left and right as the attacking aircraft followed him down all the way, the Dakota jolting fiercely with the mounting speed, the vibrations unbearable, the engines screaming in protest.

Neumann shot a glance at his altimeter; the hands were spinning down fast, the Dakota plunging headlong towards the sea, and he could barely read the instrument with the vibration.

A thousand meters.

“We'd better pull up soon, sir!” the copilot shouted anxiously. “We won't be able to break out of our dive!”

“Wait!” screamed Neumann.

Eight hundred.

Five hundred.

“Sir! We'll never make it!”

The Tomahawks were still on his tail, tracers hurtling past, raking into the sea directly ahead of him. Neumann chose his moment and pulled back hard on the column and the Dakota lifted, sluggishly at first, then swooping up, just barely clearing the water. He was hoping that one or both Tomahawks, faster machines, wouldn't be able to pull up in time and would crash into the sea, but he was out of luck, because within seconds of leveling out the tracers started hammering at him again. “I'm afraid that's it,” he said to Skorzeny in defeat. “We're finished.”

“More enemy aircraft, sir! Dead ahead!” the copilot interrupted.

Neumann felt his stomach sink. Sure enough, the dark figures of three aircraft were hurtling towards them, coming in low over the sea. Their cannons erupted, spewing flame, and Neumann instinctively moved to shield his face.

“They're ours!” the copilot screamed with joy. “One-oh-nines!”

Neumann looked again. They were Messerschmitt 109s all right, and they weren't firing at him, but at the Tomahawks. The 109s shot past, one above him, and one each to port and starboard. They'd make short work of the Tomahawks, of that Neumann was certain. “Thank heaven for that,” he breathed. “It was a close thing—I'm still bloody shaking.”

Before he could even bank to glimpse the dogfight, another two 109s appeared on either side of him. He glimpsed the pilot on his port side giving him a series of hand signals.

“What does he want?” Skorzeny asked.

“To talk on the radio.” Neumann tuned in, found the frequency, listened, then said to Skorzeny, “The mission's aborted. We're to follow him back to Crete.”

“What?”

“Orders from Berlin. And I have no objection to that.”

“Let me talk to him.”

Neumann handed Skorzeny the headphones and neck microphone. The colonel slipped them on, made contact with the 109 pilot, and barked, “Repeat your orders.”

He listened, his face twisting with disgust, then tore off the headset and mike and tossed them back at Neumann.
“Curse it. Curse it all!
 ”

Neumann glanced back. “You don't look too happy to be alive, Colonel.”

“You don't understand. It's a catastrophe.”

“True. Our men in the other aircraft—”

“I didn't mean that.” Skorzeny was utterly depressed. “I meant the mission. Aborting could lose us the war.”

“It's
that
bad?”

“You've absolutely no idea, Neumann.”

Ali liked being a policeman. The pay was miserly but the work had advantages. Not least of all a good dinner at the station house each day, a free uniform, and the envious respect of his friends. Best of all was the opportunity to make a little baksheesh.

He had a fifty-piastre note tucked into his pocket, not as much as the sergeant, because the greedy son of a flea-ridden tramp had pocketed most of the money the American professor had given him, but at least Ali had got a share. The sergeant was gone now, slipped off home to lie with his grumbling wife, leaving Ali alone to guard the barrier.

Half asleep, looking up at the stars as he lay on a rush mat he'd placed on one of the boulders near the sentry box, his rifle propped at his elbow, he heard the sound of an engine approaching. He yawned, scratched himself as he rose lazily, then picked up his rifle and dusted his uniform. He wondered who it could be at such an hour.

Some nights, Allied soldiers brought women out from the city in taxis or horse-drawn gharries, begged Ali to let them visit the tombs and pyramids by moonlight, and for a little baksheesh he would always oblige. He licked his lips in anticipation as the vehicle approached up the incline. With luck, he might be able to add to his fifty piastres. In the moonlit darkness, he could make out a motorcycle, two people on board. He flicked on his flashlight, frowned as he recognized the faces of the man and woman from the professor's car earlier in the evening.

Ali relaxed his grip on the rifle as the motorcycle halted and the couple climbed off. It was well after midnight. What did they want this time? He bowed his head politely. “Effendi, madam.”

“You remember us?” Deacon said in perfect Arabic.

“Of course.”

“There's a problem,” Deacon went on. “We left something at the excavation site and have to return. I need to speak to your sergeant.”

“The sergeant is not here, effendi.”

“Then where is he?”

Ali hesitated. The sergeant was asleep in his bed when he should have been on duty, but to tell the truth would have been unthinkable, so he simply said, “He's away on important police business, and will return by sunrise.”

Deacon nodded, understanding. “So, you're alone here?”

“Alas, effendi, I am the only person on duty.” Ali grinned, the grin he always used when the smell of baksheesh was in the air. He rubbed his forefinger and thumb together in the universal gesture, so the man would notice.

“Perhaps it might be possible for you to return to the site.”

Deacon smiled back, made to reach inside his jacket for his wallet. “Of course.”

Ali hadn't been watching the woman, which was his mistake. For some reason, she had gone over to search among the boulders off to one side of the barrier, and when she came back she nodded to her companion. “He's telling the truth. The sergeant's not here.”

Ali frowned in puzzlement, knowing something wasn't right, and as he turned back the man brought out his hand, not with a wallet, but with a pistol. The metal smashed hard against the side of Ali's skull, there was a ringing pain that made him want to vomit, and darkness smothered him.

Sanson squinted through the binoculars. With only one good eye, he could barely see the villa in the silvery darkness.

“No wonder we couldn't find Halder and the woman after they fled Rashid—this is probably where they've been hiding out. And I'll make a bet it's where Deacon's been making his radio transmissions from, too.”

“Sir?”

Sanson put down the binoculars, looked back at the major. “Another part of the story. Remind me to tell you sometime.”

They had halted on the private road leading up to the villa, left the Jeep and truckload of troops behind them, and walked ahead in the darkness—Sanson, the major, and one of the men—until they came to a small rise, within 150 yards of the property. Without the binoculars this time, Sanson peered towards the whitewashed villa, the walled gardens dotted with palm trees. He saw no lights on and the windows were shuttered, but he thought he'd noticed what looked like the end of a private pier, jutting into the Nile from the back of the property.

“You'd better send half a dozen men down to the water to try and secure the rear. It's likely Deacon and his friends have a boat. I don't want anyone getting away. These people
have
to be caught, dead or alive.”