He touched his ears with his hands, then clasped his hands in front of him, the left within the right. He bowed, then knelt down. Touching his forehead to the floor at appropriate moments, he recited the el-fatha:
“In the name of God the merciful and compassionate. Praise be to God, the lord of the worlds, the merciful and compassionate, the Prince of the day of judgment; Thee we serve, and to Thee we pray for help; lead us in the right way, the way of those to whom Thou hast shown mercy, upon whom no wrath resteth, and who go not astray.”
He looked over his right shoulder, then his left, to greet the two recording angels who wrote down his good and bad acts.
When he looked over his left shoulder, he saw Abdullah.
Without interrupting his prayer the thief smiled broadly, showing his steel tooth.
Wolff got up and went out. He stopped outside to put on his sandals, and Abdullah came waddling after him. They shook hands.
“You are a devout man, like myself,” Abdullah said. “I knew you would come, sooner or later, to your father’s mosque.”
“You’ve been looking for me?”
“Many people are looking for you.”
Together they walked away from the mosque. Abdullah said: “Knowing you to be a True Believer, I could not betray you to the British, even for so large a sum of money; so I told Major Vandam that I knew nobody by the name of Alex Wolff, or Achmed Rahmha.”
Wolff stopped abruptly. So they were still hunting him. He had started to feel safe—too soon. He took Abdullah by the arm and steered him into an Arab café. They sat down.
Wolff said: “He knows my Arab name.”
“He knows all about you—except where to find you.”
Wolff felt worried, and at the same time intensely curious. “What is this major like?” he asked.
Abdullah shrugged. “An Englishman. No subtlety. No manners. Khaki shorts and a face the color of a tomato.”
“You can do better than that.”
Abdullah nodded. “This man is patient and determined. If I were you, I should be afraid of him.”
Suddenly Wolff
was
afraid.
He said: “What has he been doing?”
“He has found out all about your family. He has talked to all your brothers. They said they knew nothing of you.”
The café proprietor brought each of them a dish of mashed fava beans and a flat loaf of coarse bread. Wolff broke his bread and dipped it into the beans. Flies began to gather around the bowls. Both men ignored them.
Abdullah spoke through a mouthful of food. “Vandam is offering one hundred pounds for your address. Ha! As if we would betray one of our own for money.”
Wolff swallowed. “Even if you knew my address.”
Abdullah shrugged. “It would be a small thing to find out.”
“I know,” Wolff said. “So I am going to tell you, as a sign of my faith in your friendship. I am living at Shepheard’s Hotel.”
Abdullah looked hurt. “My friend, I know this is not true. It is the first place the British would look—”
“You misunderstand me.” Wolff smiled. “I am not a guest there. I work in the kitchens, cleaning pots, and at the end of the day I lie down on the floor with a dozen or so others and sleep there.”
“So cunning!” Abdullah grinned: he was pleased with the idea and delighted to have the information. “You hide under their very noses!”
“I know you will keep this secret,” Wolff said. “And, as a sign of my gratitude for your friendship, I hope you will accept from me a gift of one hundred pounds.”
“But this is not necessary—”
“I insist.”
Abdullah sighed and gave in reluctantly. “Very well.”
“I will have the money sent to your house.”
Abdullah wiped his empty bowl with the last of his bread. “I must leave you now,” he said. “Allow me to pay for your breakfast.”
“Thank you.”
“Ah! But I have come with no money. A thousand pardons—”
“It’s nothing,” Wolff said. “
Alallah
—in God’s care.”
Abdullah replied conventionally:
“Allah yisallimak
—may God protect thee.” He went out.
Wolff called for coffee and thought about Abdullah. The thief would betray Wolff for a lot less than a hundred pounds, of course. What had stopped him so far was that he did not know Wolff’s address. He was actively trying to discover it—that was why he had come to the mosque. Now he would attempt to check on the story about living in the kitchens of Shepheard’s. This might not be easy, for of course no one would admit that staff slept on the kitchen floor—indeed Wolff was not at all sure it was true—but he had to reckon on Abdullah discovering the lie sooner or later. The story was no more than a delaying tactic; so was the bribe. However, when at last Abdullah found out that Wolff was living on Sonja’s houseboat, he would probably come to Wolff for more money instead of going to Vandam.
The situation was under control—for the moment.
Wolff left a few milliemes on the table and went out.
The city had come to life. The streets were already jammed with traffic, the pavements crowded with vendors and beggars, the air full of good and bad smells. Wolff made his way to the central post office to use a telephone. He called GHQ and asked for Major Smith.
“We have seventeen of them,” the operator told him. “Have you got a first name?”
“Sandy.”
“That will be Major Alexander Smith. He’s not here at the moment. May I take a message?”
Wolff had known the major would not be at GHQ—it was too early. “The message is: Twelve noon today at Zamalek. Would you sign it: S. Have you got that?”
“Yes, but if I may have your full—”
Wolff hung up. He left the post office and headed for Zamalek.
Since Sonja had seduced Smith, the major had sent her a dozen roses, a box of chocolates, a love letter and two hand-delivered messages asking for another date. Wolff had forbidden her to reply. By now Smith was wondering whether he would ever see her again. Wolff was quite sure that Sonja was the first beautiful woman Smith had ever slept with. After a couple of days of suspense Smith would be desperate to see her again, and would jump at any chance.
On the way home Wolff bought a newspaper, but it was full of the usual rubbish. When he got to the houseboat Sonja was still asleep. He threw the rolled-up newspaper at her to wake her. She groaned and turned over.
Wolff left her and went through the curtains back into the living room. At the far end, in the prow of the boat, was a tiny open kitchen. It had one quite large cupboard for brooms and cleaning materials. Wolff opened the cupboard door. He could just about get inside if he bent his knees and ducked his head. The catch of the door could be worked only from the outside. He searched through the kitchen drawers and found a knife with a pliable blade. He thought he could probably work the catch from inside the cupboard by sticking the knife through the crack of the door and easing it against the spring-loaded bolt. He got into the cupboard, closed the door and tried it. It worked.
However, he could not see through the doorjamb.
He took a nail and a flatiron and banged the nail through the thin wood of the door at eye level. He used a kitchen fork to enlarge the hole. He got inside the cupboard again and closed the door. He put his eye to the hole.
He saw the curtains part, and Sonja came into the living room. She looked around, surprised that he was not there. She shrugged, then lifted her nightdress and scratched her belly. Wolff suppressed a laugh. She came across to the kitchen, picked up the kettle and turned on the tap.
Wolff slipped the knife into the crack of the door and worked the catch. He opened the door, stepped out and said: “Good morning.”
Sonja screamed.
Wolff laughed.
She threw the kettle at him, and he dodged. He said: “It’s a good hiding place, isn’t it?”
“You terrified me, you bastard,” she said.
He picked up the kettle and handed it to her. “Make the coffee,” he told her. He put the knife in the cupboard, closed the door and went to sit down.
Sonja said: “What do you need a hiding place for?”
“To watch you and Major Smith. It’s very funny—he looks like a passionate turtle.”
“When is he coming?”
“Twelve noon today.”
“Oh, no. Why so early in the morning?”
“Listen. If he’s got anything worthwhile in that briefcase, then he certainly isn’t allowed to go wandering around the city with it in his hand. He should take it straight to his office and lock it in the safe. We mustn’t give him time to do that—the whole thing is useless unless he brings his case here. What we want is for him to come rushing here straight from GHQ. In fact, if he gets here late and without his briefcase, we’re going to lock up and pretend you’re out—then next time he’ll know he has to get here fast.”
“You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?”
Wolff laughed. “You’d better start getting ready. I want you to look irresistible.”
“I’m always irresistible.” She went through to the bedroom.
He called after her: “Wash your hair.” There was no reply.
He looked at his watch. Time was running out. He went around the houseboat hiding traces of his own occupation, putting away his shoes, his razor, his toothbrush and his fez. Sonja went up on deck in a robe to dry her hair in the sun. Wolff made the coffee and took her a cup. He drank his own, then washed his cup and put it away. He took out a bottle of champagne, put it in a bucket of ice and placed it beside the bed with two glasses. He thought of changing the sheets, then decided to do it after Smith’s visit, not before. Sonja came down from the deck. She dabbed perfume on her thighs and between her breasts. Wolff took a last look around. All was ready. He sat on a divan by a porthole to watch the towpath.
It was a few minutes after noon when Major Smith appeared. He was hurrying, as if afraid to be late. He wore his uniform shirt, khaki shorts, socks and sandals, but he had taken off his officer’s cap. He was sweating in the midday sun.
He was carrying his briefcase.
Wolff grinned with satisfaction.
“Here he comes,” Wolff called. “Are you ready?”
“No.”
She was trying to rattle him. She would be ready. He got into the cupboard, closed the door, and put his eye to the peephole.
He heard Smith’s footsteps on the gangplank and then on the deck. The major called: “Hello?”
Sonja did not reply.
Looking through the peephole, Wolff saw Smith come down the stairs into the interior of the boat.
“Is anybody there?”
Smith looked at the curtains which divided off the bedroom. His voice was full of the expectation of disappointment. “Sonja?”
The curtains parted. Sonja stood there, her arms lifted to hold the curtains apart. She had put her hair up in a complex pyramid as she did for her act. She wore the baggy trousers of filmy gauze, but at this distance her body was visible through the material. From the waist up she was naked except for a jeweled collar around her neck. Her brown breasts were full and round. She had put lipstick on her nipples.
Wolff thought: Good girl!
Major Smith stared at her. He was quite bowled over. He said: “Oh, dear. Oh, good Lord. Oh, my soul.”
Wolff tried not to laugh.
Smith dropped his briefcase and went to her. As he embraced her, she stepped back and closed the curtains behind his back.
Wolff opened the cupboard door and stepped out.
The briefcase lay on the floor just this side of the curtains. Wolff knelt down, hitching up his galabiya, and turned the case over. He tried the catches. The case was locked.
Wolff whispered:
“Lieber Gott.”
He looked around. He needed a pin, a paper clip, a sewing needle, something with which to pick the locks. Moving quietly, he went to the kitchen area and carefully pulled open a drawer. Meat skewer, too thick; bristle from a wire brush, too thin; vegetable knife, too broad ... In a little dish beside the sink he found one of Sonja’s hair clips.
He went back to the case and poked the end of the clip into the keyhole of one of the locks. He twisted and turned it experimentally, encountered a kind of springy resistance, and pressed harder.
The clip broke.
Again Wolff cursed under his breath.
He glanced reflexively at his wristwatch. Last time Smith had screwed Sonja in about five minutes. I should have told her to make it last, Wolff thought.
He picked up the flexible knife he had been using to open the cupboard door from the inside. Gently, he slid it into one of the catches on the briefcase. When he pressed, the knife bent.
He could have broken the locks in a few seconds, but he did not want to, for then Smith would know that his case had been opened. Wolff was not afraid of Smith, but he wanted the major to remain oblivious to the real reason for the seduction: if there was valuable material in the case, Wolff wanted to open it regularly.
But if he could not open the case, Smith would always be useless.
What would happen if he broke the locks? Smith would finish with Sonja, put on his pants, pick up his case and realize it had been opened. He would accuse Sonja. The houseboat would be blown unless Wolff killed Smith. What would be the consequences of killing Smith? Another British soldier murdered, this time in Cairo. There would be a terrific manhunt. Would they be able to connect the killing with Wolff? Had Smith told anyone about Sonja? Who had seen them together in the Cha-Cha Club? Would inquiries lead the British to the houseboat?
It would be risky—but the worst of it would be that Wolff would be without a source of information, back at square one.
Meanwhile his people were fighting a war out there in the desert, and they needed information.
Wolff stood silent in the middle of the living room, racking his brains. He had thought of something, back there, which gave him his answer, and now it had slipped his mind. On the other side of the curtain, Smith was muttering and groaning. Wolff wondered if he had his pants off yet—