It was typical of the British. They did not make a public announcement to help the businessmen of Cairo to avoid being cheated. They simply sat back and confiscated the dud notes. The businessmen of Cairo were used to this kind of treatment, and they stuck together. The grapevine worked well.
When Ibrahim received the counterfeit notes from the tall European who was dining with the famous belly dancer, he was not sure what to do next. The notes were all crisp and new, and bore the identical fault. Ibrahim double-checked them against one of the good notes in his till: there was no doubt. Should he, perhaps, explain the matter quietly to the customer? The man might take offense, or at least pretend to; and he would probably leave without paying. His bill was a heavy one—he had taken the most expensive dishes, plus imported wine—and Ibrahim did not want to risk such a loss.
He would call the police, he decided. They would prevent the customer running off, and might help persuade him to pay by check, or at least leave an IOU.
But which police? The Egyptian police would probably argue that it was not their responsibility, take an hour to get here, and then require a bribe. The customer was presumably an Englishman—why else would he have sterling?—and was probably an officer, and it was British money that had been counterfeited. Ibrahim decided he would call the military.
He went over to their table, carrying the brandy bottle. He gave them a smile. “Monsieur, madame, I hope you have enjoyed your meal.”
“It was excellent,” said the man. He talked like a British officer.
Ibrahim turned to the woman. “It is an honor to serve the greatest dancer in the world.”
She gave a regal nod.
Ibrahim said: “I hope you will accept a glass of brandy, with the compliments of the house.”
“Very kind,” said the man.
Ibrahim poured them more brandy and bowed away. That should keep them sitting still for a while longer, he thought. He left by the back door and went to the house of a neighbor who had a telephone.
If I had a restaurant, Wolff thought, I would do things like that. The two glasses of brandy cost the proprietor very little, in relation to Wolff’s total bill, but the gesture was very effective in making the customer feel wanted. Wolff had often toyed with the idea of opening a restaurant, but it was a pipe dream: he knew there was too much hard work involved.
Sonja also enjoyed the special attention. She was positively glowing under the combined influences of flattery and liquor. Tonight in bed she would snore like a pig.
The proprietor had disappeared for a few minutes, then returned. Out of the comer of his eye, Wolff saw the man whispering to a waiter. He guessed they were talking about Sonja. Wolff felt a pang of jealousy. There were places in Cairo where, because of his good custom and lavish tips, he was known by name and welcomed like royalty; but he had thought it wise not to go to places where he would be recognized, not while the British were hunting him. Now he wondered whether he could afford to relax his vigilance a little more.
Sonja yawned. It was time to put her to bed. Wolff waved to a waiter and said: “Please fetch Madame’s wrap.” The man went off, paused to mutter something to the proprietor, then continued on toward the cloakroom.
An alarm bell sounded, faint and distant, somewhere in the back of Wolff’s mind.
He toyed with a spoon as he waited for Sonja’s wrap. Sonja ate another petit four. The proprietor walked the length of the restaurant, went out of the front door, and came back in again. He approached their table and said: “May I get you a
taxi?”
Wolff looked at Sonja. She said: “I don’t mind.”
Wolff said: “I’d like a breath of air. Let’s walk a little way, then hail one.”
“Okay.”
Wolff looked at the proprietor. “No taxi.”
“Very good, sir.”
The waiter brought Sonja’s wrap. The proprietor kept looking at the door. Wolff heard another alarm bell, this one louder. He said to the proprietor: “Is something the matter?”
The man looked very worried. “I must mention an extremely delicate problem, sir.”
Wolff began to get irritated. “Well, what is it, man? We want to go home.”
There was the sound of a vehicle noisily drawing up outside the restaurant.
Wolff took hold of the proprietor’s lapels. “What is going on here?”
“The money with which you paid your bill, sir, is not good.”
“You don’t accept sterling? Then why didn’t—”
“It’s not that, sir. The money is counterfeit.”
The restaurant door burst open and three military policemen marched in.
Wolff stared at them openmouthed. It was all happening so quickly, he couldn’t catch his breath ... Military police. Counterfeit money. He was suddenly afraid. He might go to jail. Those imbeciles in Berlin had given him forged notes, it was so
stupid,
he wanted to take Canaris by the throat and
squeeze—
He shook his head. There was no time to be angry now. He had to keep calm and try to slide out of this mess—
The MPs marched up to the table. Two were British and the third was Australian. They wore heavy boots and steel helmets, and each of them had a small gun in a belt holster. One of the British said: “Is this the man?”
“Just a moment,” Wolff said, and was astonished at how cool and suave his voice sounded. “The proprietor has, this very minute, told me that my money is no good. I don’t believe this, but I’m prepared to humor him, and I’m sure we can make some arrangement which will satisfy him.” He gave the proprietor a reproachful look. “It really wasn’t necessary to call the police.”
The senior MP said: “It’s an offense to pass forged money.”
“Knowingly,” Wolff said. “It is an offense
knowingly
to pass forged money.” As he listened to his own voice, quiet and persuasive, his confidence grew. “Now, then, what I propose is this. I have here my checkbook and some Egyptian money. I will write a check to cover my bill, and use the Egyptian money for the tip. Tomorrow I will take the allegedly counterfeit notes to the British paymaster general for examination, and if they really are forgeries I will surrender them.” He smiled at the group surrounding him. “I imagine that should satisfy everyone.”
The proprietor said: “I would prefer if you could pay entirely in cash, sir.”
Wolff wanted to hit him in the face.
Sonja said: “I may have enough Egyptian money.”
Wolff thought: Thank God.
Sonja opened her bag.
The senior MP said: “All the same, sir, I’m going to ask you to come with me.”
Wolff’s heart sank again. “Why?”
“We’ll need to ask you some questions.”
“Fine. Why don’t you call on me tomorrow morning. I live—”
“You’ll have to come with me. Those are my orders.”
“From whom?”
“The assistant provost marshal.”
“Very well, then,” said Wolff. He stood up. He could feel the fear pumping desperate strength into his arms. “But either you or the provost will be in very deep trouble in the morning.” Then he picked up the table and threw it at the MP.
He had planned and calculated the move in a couple of seconds. It was a small circular table of solid wood. Its edge struck the MP on the bridge of the nose, and as he fell back the table landed on top of him.
Table and MP were on Wolff’s left. On his right was the proprietor. Sonja was opposite him, still sitting, and the other two MPs were on either side of her and slightly behind her.
Wolff grabbed the proprietor and pushed him at one of the MPs. Then he jumped at the other MP, the Australian, and punched his face. He hoped to get past the two of them and run away. It did not work. The MPs were chosen for their size, belligerence and brutality, and they were used to dealing with soldiers desert-hardened and fighting drunk. The Australian took the punch and staggered back a pace, but he did not fall over. Wolff kicked him in the knee and punched his face again; then the other MP, the second Englishman, pushed the proprietor out of the way and kicked Wolff’s feet from under him.
Wolff landed heavily. His chest and his cheek hit the tiled floor. His face stung, he was momentarily winded and he saw stars. He was kicked again, in the side; the pain made him jerk convulsively and roll away from the blow. The MP jumped on him, beating him about the head. He struggled to push the man off. Someone else sat on Wolff’s feet. Then Wolff saw, above him and behind the English MP on his chest, Sonja’s face, twisted with rage. The thought flashed through his mind that she was remembering another beating that had been administered by British soldiers. Then he saw that she was raising high in the air the chair she had been sitting on. The MP on Wolff’s chest glimpsed her, turned around, looked up, and raised his arms to ward off the blow. She brought the heavy chair down with all her might. A corner of the seat struck the MP’s mouth, and he gave a shout of pain and anger as blood spurted from his lip.
The Australian got off Wolff’s feet and grabbed Sonja from behind, pinning her arms. Wolff flexed his body and threw off the wounded Englishman, then scrambled to his feet.
He reached inside his shirt and whipped out his knife.
The Australian threw Sonja aside, took a pace forward, saw the knife and stopped. He and Wolff stared into each other’s eyes for an instant. Wolff saw the other man’s eyes flicker to one side, then the other, seeing his two partners lying on the floor. The Australian’s hand went to his holster.
Wolff turned and dashed for the door. One of his eyes was closing: he could not see well. The door was closed. He grabbed for the handle and missed. He felt like screaming. He found the handle and flung the door open wide. It hit the wall with a crash. A shot rang out.
Vandam drove the motorcycle through the streets at a dangerous speed. He had ripped the blackout mask off the headlight—nobody in Cairo took the blackout seriously anyway—and he drove with his thumb on the horn. The streets were still busy, with taxis, gharries, army trucks, donkeys and camels. The pavements were crowded and the shops were bright with electric lights, oil lamps and candles. Vandam weaved recklessly through the traffic, ignoring the outraged hooting of the cars, the raised fists of the gharry drivers, and the blown whistle of an Egyptian policeman.
The assistant provost marshal had called him at home. “Ah, Vandam, wasn’t it you who sent up the balloon about this funny money? Because we’ve just had a call from a restaurant where a European is trying to pass—”
“Where?”
The APM gave him the address, and Vandam ran out of the house.
He skidded around a corner, dragging a heel in the dusty road for traction. It had occurred to him that, with so much counterfeit money in circulation, some of it must have got into the hands of other Europeans, and the man in the restaurant might well be an innocent victim. He hoped not. He wanted desperately to get his hands on Alex Wolff. Wolff had outwitted and humiliated him and now, with his access to secrets and his direct line to Rommel, he threatened to bring about the fall of Egypt; but it was not just that. Vandam was consumed with curiosity about Wolff. He wanted to see the man and touch him, to find out how he would move and speak. Was he clever, or just lucky? Courageous, or foolhardy? Determined, or stubborn? Did he have a handsome face and a warm smile, or beady eyes and an oily grin? Would he fight or come quietly? Vandam wanted to know. And, most of all, Vandam wanted to take him by the throat and drag him off to jail, chain him to the wall and lock the door and throw away the key.
He swerved to avoid a pothole, then opened the throttle and roared down a quiet street. The address was a little out of the city center, toward the Old Town: Vandam was acquainted with the street but not with the restaurant. He turned two more corners, and almost hit an old man riding an ass with his wife walking along behind. He found the street he was looking for.
It was narrow and dark, with high buildings on either side. At ground level there were some shop fronts and some house entrances. Vandam pulled up beside two small boys playing in the gutter and said the name of the restaurant. They pointed vaguely along the street.
Vandam cruised along, pausing to look wherever he noticed a lit window. He was halfway down the street when he heard the crack! of a small firearm, slightly muffled, and the sound of glass shattering. His head jerked around toward the source of the noise. Light from a broken window glinted off shards of falling glass, and as he looked a tall man ran out of a door into the street.
It had to be Wolff.
He ran in the opposite direction.
Vandam felt a surge of savagery. He twisted the throttle of the motorcycle and roared after the running man. As he passed the restaurant an MP ran out and fired three shots. The fugitive’s pace did not falter.
Vandam caught him in the beam of the headlight. He was running strongly, steadily, his arms and legs pumping rhythmically. When the light hit him he glanced back over his shoulder without breaking his stride, and Vandam glimpsed a hawk nose and a strong chin, and a mustache above a mouth open and panting.
Vandam could have shot him, but officers at GHQ did not carry guns.
The motorcycle gained fast. When they were almost level Wolff suddenly turned a corner. Vandam braked and went into a back-wheel skid, leaning the bike against the direction of the skid to keep his balance. He came to a stop, jerked upright and shot forward again.
He saw the back of Wolff disappear into a narrow alleyway. With- , out slowing down, Vandam turned the corner and drove into the alley. The bike shot out into empty space. Vandam’s stomach turned over. The white cone of his headlight illuminated nothing. He thought he was falling into a pit. He gave an involuntary shout of fear. The back wheel hit something.
The front wheel
went down, down, then hit. The headlight showed a flight of steps. The bike bounced, and landed again. Vandam fought desperately to keep the front wheel straight. The bike descended the steps in a series of spine-jarring bumps, and with each bump Vandam was sure he would lose control and crash. He saw Wolff at the bottom of the stairs, still running.