The Cairo Code (71 page)

The major didn't reply but squinted ahead into the darkness, and Sanson said, “What's the matter?”

“There's a vehicle parked just forward, to the right of the track. If I'm not mistaken, it looks like a staff car.”

The major pointed. Sanson saw the shadowy outline of a staff Humber, drew his pistol. “Let's have a look.”

When they approached the Humber it was empty, the front doors ajar, the keys still in the ignition. The major shone a torch as Sanson looked inside. He caught sight of the hacksawed remains of a pair of handcuffs discarded on the passenger floor, and his mouth tightened in fury.
“Weaver.
I might have bloody known.”

From the direction of the villa, they heard the rasp of an engine starting up, and Sanson cocked an ear. “What was that?”

“It sounded like a motorcycle, sir.”

Sanson heard the engine rev and fade. “They may be on the move. Signal the men at once. We're going in.”

In the cellar, Helen Kane struggled with the ropes. Perspiration ran down her slip. Her wrists were tied painfully tight, and it was impossible to free herself. A crack of moonlight seeped through a metal door at the far end of the cellar, barely enough to see by. She heard something move in the dimness and recoiled in horror as a rat scurried past her legs.

She tried to move the chair, with great effort managed to shift it round, almost toppling it over. She looked over at the racks of wine bottles. If she could only manage to break one of the bottles, she might be able to use the glass to cut the ropes. She inched forward, grating her heels against the stone floor, every movement an effort. She reached the nearest rack, tilted her head forward, and tried to nudge out a cobwebbed bottle with her mouth. It moved an inch, but no more. She tried again. This time the bottle moved out a little farther.

She brushed it with her cheek, teased it out. The bottle crashed to the stone floor, splashing liquid, glass shards splintering everywhere. She inched back, tilted the chair, and crashed to the floor, landing painfully on some glass chips, and grazing her arm and shoulder.

She muffled her cry, but at that precise moment the cellar door opened and Hassan stood in the doorway with the lamp. He scowled, raced down the steps in an instant. “Stupid woman!” He slapped her hard across the face, grabbed her by the hair, and dragged her upstairs.

As Kleist ushered Weaver and Halder towards the French windows at gunpoint, they all heard the roar of engines outside, followed by the screech of tires.

Hassan pushed Helen Kane roughly into the room and hurried to the window, peered through a crack in the shutters. “We've got company—soldiers, many of them.”

“Verdammt!”
Kleist pushed Helen Kane over to join Halder and Weaver. “Cover them,” he told Hassan, and crossed to the nearest window, the M3 at the ready. He peered through the shutter, and in the darkness outside saw a uniformed officer, a patch over one eye, his pistol drawn as he rushed through the open gate. Before Kleist had a chance to open the shutters and fire the machine pistol, the man darted into the blackness of the garden and vanished, soldiers jumping down from a truck as it drew up outside the villa's walls.

Orders were being screamed in the darkness, and there was the sound of wood splintering out in the hallway, someone trying to force the front door. Kleist turned frantically to Hassan. “Get down to the cellar. Quickly!”

Hassan glared at Weaver and the others. “What about them?”

“Leave it to me.” As Hassan moved off towards the door, Kleist swung the M3 round. “This is where it ends for you and your friends, Halder. No time for prayers, I'm afraid.” He laughed like a madman and brought up the machine pistol, his finger tightening on the trigger.

There was a click, and nothing happened. The laughter died in Kleist's throat and his face sagged, but in one fluid movement he recocked the weapon, ejected an unspent cartridge onto the floor, and squeezed the trigger again.

Click.

“You're right,” Halder said. “This is where it ends.” He lunged forward, his fist smashing hard into Kleist's jaw, sending the SS man reeling back. At the door, Hassan was already reacting, turning as he moved to bring up his pistol, but Halder was quicker. He yanked the pistol from Kleist's trouser belt, firing as he rolled onto the floor, hitting the Arab in the chest, sending him flying backwards, another shot catching him in the throat, the pistol flying from his grasp, his body reeling in an obscene dance of death.

As a dazed Kleist made to scramble to his feet and reach for Hassan's weapon, Weaver got to it first, shot him twice in the chest, punching the SS man back, then fired again, hitting him in the head.

“You did better than I expected, old friend.” Halder bent to pick up the M3. “Either the gods are smiling on us, or Kleist was one unlucky man—two dud cartridges one after another almost beggars belief.” He drew back the machine pistol's bolt, examined it. “Looks like I'm wrong on both counts. The firing pin's been tampered with. Very thoughtful of someone.”

Weaver turned white. “Rachel?”

“It's a distinct possibility, considering she deliberately gave Kleist the weapon.” A look like remorse crossed his face. “So, she's redeemed herself, at least on our account. And maybe that says something. But I'm quite sure your president's another matter.”

From the hallway came further sounds of splintering wood, and the clatter of boots out beyond the French windows, troops moving round the back. A heavy burst of fire splintered one of the wooden shutters, and lead ripped in through the windows, shattering glass.

“Down!” roared Weaver. He grabbed Helen Kane and the three of them dropped to the floor.

As Halder lay there, he looked at Weaver. “Your friends will be on top of us any second. The bar on the front door isn't going to hold out for ever. Well, what's it to be, Harry? Surrender? Or do we try to put the brakes on this before it's too late?”

“What do you mean?”

“Me, I'm a dead man walking. But Rachel might be a different matter. I'd hate to stake my life on it, but when you consider why she's doing this, I'd like to think a military court might at least spare her the noose. That's assuming we can stop her in time. If we can somehow make it out to Giza, we just might stand a chance. It's your decision.”

“And how are we supposed to get out of here?”

“If we reach the hall, there's a way out through the cellar, and a boat waiting for us on the river.”

“And after that?”

“For now, let's just worry about getting out alive. Well?”

Another burst of fire stitched across the shutters, chunks of wall masonry exploding, splinters of wood flying into the room. Weaver nodded. “Let's go.”

Sanson was enraged. He kicked savagely at the front door again and in frustration fired another two rounds into the lock, then heaved against it with his shoulder, but it still wouldn't budge.

“Give me a grenade,” he said to the private nearest him. The man handed him a grenade from his pouch.

“Stand back.” Sanson placed it against the bottom of the door, ordered the men to move for cover, pulled the pin, and flattened himself against the side wall. The explosion came seconds later, a tremendous crump that blew the door off its hinges.

Sanson stood in the middle of the room, surveying the carnage. The Arab's body lay on the floor, and another corpse sprawled in a corner, blood still dripping from two bullet wounds to his chest and another through the head.

The major rushed into the room. “There's no sign of anyone alive. Upstairs or down.”

“You're
sure
the men didn't see anyone escape on the river?” Sanson asked, livid.

“No, sir. We didn't hear an engine, and there's a motorboat still out there. I don't see how anyone could have got away. Unless they left on the motorcycle we heard earlier?”

“Have the men
thoroughly
search outside.”

“They're already doing that, sir.” The major nodded towards Kleist's body. “One of the Germans?”

“If it is, it's not Halder. Check every room again. Go through them with a fine-tooth comb—every closet and nook and cranny, upstairs and down. And see if there's a cellar.”

They had heard the grenade explosion as they hurried down the darkened cellar steps. Halder pulled open the metal door at the end of the room, and a draft of fresh warm air greeted them, moonlight washing in. The boat was still there, nestled among the reeds, and he pulled off the tarpaulin. “We'll use the oars. The engine noise will only give us away. And we'd better try to stay among the reeds—we might be spotted if we move out onto open water.” He looked back grimly at Weaver. “It might be wiser if the lady remained and tried to surrender. No sense in risking her life if we're fired on out on the river.” Before Helen Kane could say a word, Halder took her hand, brushed it with a kiss. “You've been a very brave woman, Helen. Another time, and different circumstances, and I'm sure it could have been a pleasure to get to know you. But forgive me. Harry and I have serious work to do. I'm sure he'll explain.”

Weaver told her, explaining what had to be done. “Try and stall Sanson until we get away, then tell him to get in touch with the Mena as fast as he can, and let them know what's been happening. And make sure he knows about Deacon's aircraft pickup near Sakkara. Think you can manage that?”

“If you say so.”

“Give us a couple of minutes, then scream your head off. Let them know whose side you're on, in case anyone comes down the cellar stairs shooting first before they ask questions.”

Halder was already in the boat, and as Weaver moved to join him, she touched his arm. “The car—it might still be where we parked, if you can get to it. Watch yourself, Harry.”

Weaver saw the genuine concern on her face, kissed her on the cheek. “You're a wonderful woman, you know that?”

“Or just a complete fool.”

“Let's move,” Halder said urgently.

Weaver climbed into the boat, and Halder sank the oar into the water and pushed them out through the reeds.

Sanson was still fuming as he paced one of the bedrooms upstairs, supervising the search, when he heard a scream from somewhere downstairs, then a sudden commotion. He raced down the stairs just as two soldiers came up out of the cellar, Helen Kane between them. Her uniform was gone, and she stood there in her slip, hugging herself.

Sanson looked astounded. “Helen—!”

“We found the lady in the cellar, sir,” one of the soldiers said.

Sanson was red-faced, tried to compose himself as he stared at her. “What the devil are you doing here? Where's Weaver? Where's Halder and the woman?”

“You've got to listen to me. There's no time to lose.”

Less than a hundred meters along the river, Halder eased the boat through the reeds and pushed it into the bank. They stepped out into the darkness, climbed up through the reeds, and Weaver led the way towards the private track. They saw the staff Humber still parked there, scurried towards it and climbed in. “You really think this thing can make it across rough desert?” Halder asked doubtfully.

“We'll have to try.”

“With the head start that Deacon's got, let's hope it's not a wasted trip.”

Weaver hit the ignition, and it started first time. “You still haven't told me how you got yourself into this mess.”

“Unless you want a dead president, just drive like the devil, Harry. Time enough to explain on the way.”

Up ahead, they saw troops pile out of the villa and climb back into the Jeep and truck, engines roaring to life. “It looks like Sanson got the message. Let's see if we can beat him to it.” Weaver yanked the steering wheel round, hit the accelerator, the wheels kicked up dust, and they sped towards the desert track that led to Nazlat as-Saman.

Deacon led the way through the passageway, holding up one of the storm lamps they had left in the tomb recess. When they came to the end and saw the boulder, he put down the lamp, looked back at Rachel Stern. “You'd better change into that uniform. Meanwhile, I'll see how the land lies.”

He climbed up onto the rock, struggled up through the shaft, and five minutes later came back down again and slid from the boulder. “There're a couple of sentries about a hundred meters away, but they're on the move, so they'll pass soon enough and then it should be safe for you to go up.” There was a fanatical glint in his eyes, his voice almost hoarse with excitement. “Well, the moment of truth's arrived. Are you ready to do your duty, Fräulein Stern?”

She had already changed into Helen Kane's uniform and looked back at him grimly, her face strained, marble-white. “Is that what you call it?”

“What else?” Deacon clapped a hand firmly on her shoulder, his expression uncompromising. “From this moment on, the future of the Reich depends on your success. Don't let the Führer down. And if you make it back, I can promise you a night to remember in Berlin—champagne and roses all the way. Good luck.”

Deacon looked as if he were about to stretch out his arm and give her the Nazi salute, but she pushed his hand from her shoulder before tucking the silenced Luger inside her tunic. “Forget the Nazi sentiment, Deacon. It's not why I'm doing this.”

Deacon raised an eyebrow, grinned. “Motives don't interest me,
liebchen,
so long as you do what needs to be done. And let's just hope that traitor Halder told me the truth about the location of Roosevelt's room. Now, you'd better move.”

He gave her a hand onto the boulder, and she climbed up before disappearing through the shaft.