“I shouldn’t think he’ll be there at this hour—”
“No. Get his address. We’ll wake him up.”
Jakes went into the building. Vandam stared ahead through the windshield. Dawn was on its way. The stars had winked out, and now the sky was gray rather than black. There were a few people about. He saw a man leading two donkeys loaded with vegetables, presumably going to market. The muezzins had not yet called the first prayer of the day.
Jakes came back. “Gezira,” he said as he put the car in gear and let in the clutch.
Vandam thought about Jakes. Someone had told Vandam that Jakes had a terrific sense of humor. Vandam had always found him pleasant and cheerful, but he had never seen any evidence of actual humor. Am I such a tyrant, Vandam thought, that my staff are terrified of cracking a joke in my presence? Nobody makes me laugh, he thought.
Except Elene.
“You never tell me jokes, Jakes.”
“Sir?”
“They say you have a terrific sense of humor, but you never tell me jokes.”
“No, sir.”
“Would you care to be candid for a moment and tell me why?”
There was a pause, then Jakes said: “You don’t invite familiarity, sir.”
Vandam nodded. How would they know how much he liked to throw back his head and roar with laughter? He said: “Very tactfully put, Jakes. The subject is closed.”
The Wolff business is getting to me, he thought. I wonder whether perhaps I’ve never really been any good at my job, and then I wonder if I’m any good for anything at all. And my face hurts.
They crossed the bridge to the island. The sky turned from slate-gray to pearl. Jakes said: “I’d like to say, sir, that, if you’ll pardon me, you’re far and away the best superior officer I’ve ever had.”
“Oh.” Vandam was quite taken aback. “Good Lord. Well, thank you, Jakes. Thank you.”
“Not at all, sir. We’re there.”
He stopped the car outside a small, pretty single-story house with a well-watered garden. Vandam guessed that the chief of detectives was doing well enough out of his bribes, but not too well. A cautious man, perhaps: it was a good sign.
They walked up the path and hammered on the door. After a couple of minutes a head looked out of a window and spoke in Arabic.
Jakes put on his sergeant major’s voice. “Military Intelligence—open up the bloody door!”
A minute later a small, handsome Arab opened up, still belting his trousers. He said in English: “What’s going on?”
Vandam took charge. “An emergency. Let us in, will you?”
“Of course.” The detective stood aside and they entered. He led them into a small living room. “What has happened?” He seemed frightened, and Vandam thought: Who wouldn’t be? The knock on the door in the middle of the night...
Vandam said: “There’s nothing to panic about, but we want you to set up a surveillance, and we need it right away.”
“Of course. Please sit down.” The detective found a notebook and pencil. “Who is the subject?”
“Sonja el-Aram.”
“The dancer?”
“Yes. I want you to put a twenty-four-hour watch on her home, which is a houseboat called
]ihan
in Zamalek.”
As the detective wrote down the details, Vandam wished he did not have to use the Egyptian police for this work. However, he had no choice: it was impossible, in an African country, to use conspicuous, white-skinned, English-speaking people for surveillance.
The detective said: “And what is the nature of the crime?”
I’m not telling you, Vandam thought. He said: “We think she may be an associate of whoever is passing counterfeit sterling in Cairo.”
“So you want to know who comes and goes, whether they carry anything, whether meetings are held aboard the boat ...”
“Yes. And there is a particular man that we’re interested in. He is Alex Wolff, the man suspected of the Assyut knife murder; you should have his description already.”
“Of course. Daily reports?”
“Yes, except that if Wolff is seen I want to know immediately. You can reach Captain Jakes or me at GHQ during the day. Give him our home phone numbers, Jakes.”
“I know these houseboats,” the detective said. “The towpath is a popular evening walk, I think, especially for sweethearts.”
Jakes said: “That’s right.”
Vandam raised an eyebrow at Jakes.
The detective went on: “A good place, perhaps, for a beggar to sit. Nobody ever sees a beggar. At night ... well, there are bushes. Also popular with sweethearts.”
Vandam said: “Is that right, Jakes?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir.” He realized he was being ribbed, and he smiled. He gave the detective a piece of paper with the phone numbers written on it.
A little boy in pajamas walked into the room, rubbing his eyes. He was about five or six years old. He looked around the room sleepily, then went to the detective.
“My son,” the detective said proudly.
“I think we can leave you now,” Vandam said. “Unless you want us to drop you in the city?”
“No, thank you, I have a car, and I should like to put on my jacket and tie and comb my hair.”
“Very well, but make it fast.” Vandam stood up. Suddenly he could not see straight. It was as if his eyelids were closing involuntarily, yet he knew he had his eyes wide open. He felt himself losing his balance. Then Jakes was beside him, holding his arm.
“All right, sir?”
His vision returned slowly. “All right now,” he said.
“You’ve had a nasty injury,” the detective said sympathetically.
They went to the door. The detective said: “Gentlemen, be assured that I will handle this surveillance personally. They won’t get a mouse aboard that houseboat without your knowing it.” He was still holding the little boy, and now he shifted him onto his left hip and held out his right hand.
“Good-bye,” Vandam said. He shook hands. “By the way, I’m Major Vandam.”
The detective gave a little bow. “Superintendent Kernel, at your service, sir.”
14
SONJA BROODED. SHE HAD HALF EXPECTED WOLFF TO BE AT THE HOUSEBOAT when she returned toward dawn, but she had found the place cold and empty. She was not sure how she felt about that. At first, when they had arrested her, she had felt nothing but rage toward Wolff for running away and leaving her at the mercy of the British thugs. Being alone, being a woman and being an accomplice of sorts in Wolff’s spying, she was terrified of what they might do to her. She thought Wolff should have stayed to look after her. Then she had realized that that would not have been smart. By abandoning her he had diverted suspicion away from her. It was hard to take, but it was for the best. Sitting alone in the bare little room at GHQ, she had turned her anger away from Wolff and toward the British.
She had defied them, and they had backed down.
At the time she had not been sure that the man who interrogated her had been Major Vandam, but later, when she was being released, the clerk had let the name slip. The confirmation had delighted her. She smiled again when she thought of the grotesque bandage on Vandam’s face. Wolff must have cut him with the knife. He should have killed him. But all the same, what a night, what a glorious night!
She wondered where Wolff was now. He would have gone to ground somewhere in the city. He would emerge when he thought the coast was clear. There was nothing she could do. She would have liked him here, though, to share the triumph.
She put on her nightdress. She knew she ought to go to bed, but she did not feel sleepy. Perhaps a drink would help. She found a bottle of Scotch whiskey, poured some into a glass, and added water. As she was tasting it she heard footsteps on the gangplank. Without thinking she called: “Achmed ... ?” Then she realized the step was not his, it was too light and quick. She stood at the foot of the ladder in her nightdress, with the drink in her hand. The hatch was lifted and an Arab face looked in.
“Sonja?”
“Yes—”
“You were expecting someone else, I think.” The man climbed down the ladder. Sonja watched him, thinking: What now? He stepped off the ladder and stood in front of her. He was a small man with a handsome face and quick, neat movements. He wore European clothes: dark trousers, polished black shoes and a short-sleeved white shirt. “I am Detective Superintendent Kernel, and I am honored to meet you.” He held out his hand.
Sonja turned away, walked across to the divan and sat down. She thought she had dealt with the police. Now the Egyptians wanted to get in on the act. It would probably come down to a bribe in the end, she reassured herself. She sipped her drink, staring at Kemel. Finally she said: “What do you want?”
Kemel sat down uninvited. “I am interested in your friend, Alex Wolff.”
“He’s not my friend.”
Kemel ignored that. “The British have told me two things about Mr. Wolff: one, that he knifed a soldier in Assyut; two, that he tried to pass counterfeit English banknotes in a restaurant in Cairo. Already the story is a little curious. Why was he in Assyut? Why did he kill the soldier? And where did he get the forged money?”
“I don’t know anything about the man,” said Sonja, hoping he would not come home right now.
“I do, though,” said Kemel. “I have other information that the British may or may not possess. I know who Alex Wolff is. His stepfather was a lawyer, here in Cairo. His mother was German. I know, too, that Wolff is a nationalist. I know that he used to be your lover. And I know that you are a nationalist.”
Sonja had gone cold. She sat still, her drink untouched, watching the sly detective unreel the evidence against her. She said nothing.
Kemel went on: “Where did he get the forged money? Not in Egypt. I don’t think there is a printer in Egypt capable of doing the work; and if there were, I think he would make Egyptian currency. Therefore the money came from Europe. Now Wolff, also known as Achmed Rahmha, quietly disappeared a couple of years ago. Where did he go? Europe? He came back—via Assyut. Why? Did he want to sneak into the country unnoticed? Perhaps he teamed up with an English counterfeiting gang, and has now returned with his share of the profits, but I don’t think so, for he is not a poor man, nor is he a criminal. So, there is a mystery.”
He knows, Sonja thought. Dear God, he knows.
“Now the British have asked me to put a watch on this houseboat, and tell them of everyone who comes and goes here. Wolff will come here, they hope; and then they will arrest him; and then they will have the answers. Unless I solve the puzzle first.”
A watch on the boat! He could never come back. But—but why, she thought, is Kernel telling me?
“The key, I think, lies in Wolff’s nature: he is both a German and an Egyptian.” Kernel stood up, and crossed the floor to sit beside Sonja and look into her face. “I think he is fighting in this war. I think he is fighting for Germany and for Egypt. I think the forged money comes from the Germans. I think Wolff is a spy.”
Sonja thought: But you don’t know where to find him. That’s why you’re here. Kemel was staring at her. She looked away, afraid that he might read her thoughts in her face.
Kernel said: “If he is a spy, I can catch him. Or I can save him.”
Sonja jerked her head around to look at him. “What does that mean?”
“I want to meet him. Secretly.”
“But why?”
Kemel smiled his sly, knowing smile. “Sonja, you are not the only one who wants Egypt to be free. There are many of us. We want to see the British defeated, and we are not fastidious about who does the defeating. We want to work with the Germans. We want to contact them. We want to talk to Rommel.”
“And you think Achmed can help you?”
“If he is a spy, he must have a way of getting messages to the Ger mans.”
Sonja’s mind was in a turmoil. From being her accuser, Kernel had turned into a coconspirator—unless this was a trap. She did not know whether to trust him or not. She did not have enough time to think about it. She did not know what to say, so she said nothing.
Kernel persisted gently. “Can you arrange a meeting?”
She could not possibly make such a decision on the spur of the moment. “No,” she said.
“Remember the watch on the houseboat,” he said. “The surveillance reports will come to me before being passed on to Major Vandam. If there is a chance, just a chance, that you might be able to arrange a meeting, I in turn can make sure that the reports which go to Vandam are carefully edited so as to contain nothing ... embarrassing.”
Sonja had forgotten the surveillance. When Wolff came back—and he would, sooner or later—the watchers would report it, and Vandam would know, unless Kemel fixed it. This changed everything. She had no choice. “I’ll arrange a meeting,” she said.
“Good.” He stood up. “Call the main police station and leave a message saying that Sirhan wants to see me. When I get that message I’ll contact you to arrange date and time.”
“Very well.”
He went to the ladder, then came back. “By the way.” He took a wallet from his trousers pocket and extracted a small photograph. He handed it to Sonja. It was a picture of her. “Would you sign this for my wife? She’s a great fan of yours.” He handed her a pen. “Her name is Hesther.”
Sonja Wrote: “To Hesther, with all good wishes, Sonja.” She gave him the photograph, thinking: This is incredible.
“Thank you so much. She will be overjoyed.”
Incredible.
Sonja said: “I’ll get in touch just as soon as I can.”
“Thank you.” He held out his hand. This time she shook it. He went up the ladder and out, closing the hatch behind him.
Sonja relaxed. Somehow she had handled it right. She was still not completely convinced of Kemel’s sincerity; but if there was a trap she could not see it.
She felt tired. She finished the whiskey in the glass, then went through the curtains into the bedroom. She still had her nightdress on, and she was quite cold. She went to the bed and pulled back the covers. She heard a tapping sound. Her heart missed a beat. She whirled around to look at the porthole on the far side of the boat, the side that faced across the river. There was a head behind the glass.