Swiftly, the woman cut Sonja’s hair. As the heavy locks fell away the woman dropped them in Sonja’s lap. Sonja screamed, cursing Vandam and Jakes and the British in language which Vandam had never heard from a woman.
The woman officer took a smaller pair of scissors and cropped Sonja’s hair close to the scalp.
Sonja’s screams subsided into tears. When he could be heard Vandam said: “You see, we don’t care much about legality and justice anymore, nor do we care about Egyptian public opinion. We’ve got our backs to the wall. We may all be killed soon. We’re desperate.”
The woman took soap and a shaving brush and lathered Sonja’s head, then began to shave her scalp.
Vandam said: “Wolff was getting information from someone at GHQ. Who?”
“You’re evil,” said Sonja.
Finally the woman officer took a mirror from her bag and held it in front of Sonja’s face. At first Sonja would not look in the glass, but after a moment she gave in. She gasped when she saw the reflection of her totally bald head. “No,” she said. “It’s not me.” She burst into tears.
All the hatred was gone, now; she was completely_demoralized. Vandam said softly: “Where was Wolff getting his information?”
“From Major Smith,” Sonja replied.
Vandam heaved a sigh of relief. She had broken: thank God.
“First name?” he asked.
“Sandy Smith.”
Vandam glanced at Jakes. That was the name of the major from MI6 who had disappeared—it was as they had feared.
“How did he get the information?”
“Sandy came to the houseboat in his lunch break to visit me. While we were in bed Alex went through his briefcase.”
As simple as that, Vandam thought. Jesus, I feel tired. Smith was liaison man between the Secret Intelligence Service—also known as M16—and GHQ, and in that role he had been privy to all strategic planning, for MI6 needed to know what the Army was doing so that it could tell its spies what information to look for. Smith had been going straight from the morning conferences at GHQ to the houseboat, with a briefcase full of secrets. Vandam had already learned that Smith had been telling people at GHQ he was lunching at the MI6 office, and telling his superiors at MI6 he was lunching at GHQ, so that nobody would know he was screwing a dancer. Vandam had previously assumed Wolff was bribing or blackmailing someone: it had never occurred to him that Wolff might be getting information from someone without that someone’s knowledge.
Vandam said: “Where is Smith now?”
“He caught Alex going through his briefcase. Alex killed him.”
“Where’s the body?”
“In the river by the houseboat.”
Vandam nodded to Jakes, and Jakes went out.
Vandam said to Sonja: “Tell me about Kemel.”
She was in full flood now, eager to tell all she knew, her resistance quite crushed; she would do anything to make people be nice to her. “He came and told me you had asked him to have the houseboat watched. He said he would censor his surveillance reports if I would arrange a meeting between Alex and Sadat.”
“Alex and whom?”
“Anwar el-Sadat. He’s a captain in the Army.”
“Why did he want to meet Wolff?”
“So the Free Officers could send a message to Rommel.”
Vandam thought: there are elements to this that I never thought of. He said: “Where does Sadat live?”
“Kubri al-Qubbah.”
“The address?”
“I don’t know.”
Vandam said to the woman officer: “Go and find out the exact address of Captain Anwar el-Sadat.”
“Yes, sir.” The woman’s face broke into a smile that was astonish ingly pretty. She went out.
Vandam said: “Wolff kept his radio on your houseboat.”
“Yes.”
“He used a code for his messages.”
“Yes, he had an English novel which he used to make up the code words.”
“Rebecca.”
“Yes.”
“And he had a key to the code.”
“A key?”
“A piece of paper telling him which pages of the book to use.”
She nodded slowly. “Yes, I think he did.”
“The radio, the book and the key have gone. Do you know where?”
“No,” she said. She got scared. “Honestly, no, I don’t know, I’m telling the truth—”
“It’s all right, I believe you. Do you know where Wolff might have gone?”
“He has a house ... Villa les Oliviers.”
“Good idea. Any other suggestions?”
“Abdullah. He might have gone to Abdullah.”
“Yes. Any more?”
“His cousins, in the desert.”
“And where would they be found?”
“No one knows. They’re nomads.”
“Might Wolff know their movements?”
“I suppose he might.”
Vandam sat looking at her for a little while longer. She was no actress: she could not have faked this. She was totally broken down, not only willing but eager to betray her friends and tell all her secrets. She was telling the truth.
“I’ll see you again,” Vandam said, and went out.
The woman officer handed him a slip of paper with Sadat’s address on it, then went into the cell. Vandam hurried to the muster room. Jakes was waiting. “The Navy is lending us a couple of divers,” Jakes said. “They’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“Good.” Vandam lit a cigarette. “I want you to raid Abdullah’s place. I’m going to arrest this Sadat fellow. Send a small team to the Villa les Oliviers, just in case—I don’t suppose they’ll find anything. Has everyone been briefed?”
Jakes nodded. “They know we’re looking for a wireless transmitter, a copy of Rebecca, and a set of coding instructions.”
Vandam looked around, and noticed for the first time that there were Egyptian policemen in the room. “Why have we got bloody Arabs on the team?” he said angrily.
“Protocol, sir,” Jakes replied formally. “Colonel Bogge’s idea.”
Vandam bit back a retort. “After you’ve done Abdullah, meet me at the houseboat.”
“Yes, sir.”
Vandam stubbed his cigarette. “Let’s go.”
They went out into the morning sunshine. A dozen or more jeeps were lined up, their engines idling. Jakes gave instructions to the sergeants in the raiding parties, then nodded to Vandam. The men boarded the jeeps, and the teams pulled out.
Sadat lived in a suburb three miles out of Cairo in the direction of Heliopolis. His home was an ordinary family house in a small garden. Four jeeps roared up outside, and the soldiers immediately surrounded the house and began to search the garden. Vandam rapped on the front door. A dog began to bark loudly. Vandam knocked again. The door was opened.
“Captain Anwar el-Sadat?”
“Yes.”
Sadat was a thin, serious young man of medium height. His curly brown hair was already receding. He wore his captain’s uniform and fez, as if he was about to go out.
“You’re under arrest,” Vandam said, and pushed past him into the house. Another young man appeared in a doorway. “Who is he?” Vandam demanded.
“My brother, Tal’at,” said Sadat.
Vandam looked at Sadat. The Arab was calm and dignified, but he was hiding some tension. He’s afraid, Vandam thought; but he’s not afraid of me, and he’s not afraid of going to prison; he’s afraid of something else.
What kind of deal had Kernel done with Wolff this morning? The rebels needed Wolff to help them get in touch with Rommel. Were they hiding Wolff somewhere?
Vandam said: “Which is your room, Captain?”
Sadat pointed. Vandam went into the room. It was a simple bedroom, with a mattress on the floor and a galabiya hanging from a hook. Vandam pointed to two British soldiers and an Egyptian policeman, and said: “All right, go ahead.” They began to search the room.
“What is the meaning of this?” Sadat said quietly.
“You know Alex Wolff,” Vandam said.
“No.”
“He also calls himself Achmed Rahmha, but he’s a European.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
Clearly Sadat was a fairly tough personality, not the kind to break down and confess everything just because a few burly soldiers started messing up his house. Vandam pointed across the hall. “What’s that room?”
“My study—”
Vandam went to the door.
Sadat said: “But the women of the family are in there, you must let me warn them—”
“They know we’re here. Open the door.”
Vandam let Sadat enter the room first. There were no women inside, but a back door was open as if someone had just stepped out. That was okay: the garden was full of soldiers, no one would escape. Vandam saw an army pistol on the desk holding down some sheets of paper covered with Arabic script. He went to the bookshelf and examined the books: Rebecca was not there.
A shout came from another part of the house: “Major Vandam!”
Vandam followed the sound into the kitchen. A sergeant MP was standing beside the oven, with the house dog yapping at his booted feet. The oven door stood open, and the sergeant lifted out a suitcase-radio.
Vandam looked at Sadat, who had followed him into the kitchen. The Arab’s face was twisted with bitterness and disappointment. So this was the deal they had done: they warned Wolff, and in exchange they got his radio. Did that mean he had another? Or had Wolff arranged to come here, to Sadat’s house, to broadcast?
Vandam spoke to his sergeant. “Well done. Take Captain Sadat to GHQ.”
“I protest,” Sadat said. “The law states that officers in the Egyptian Army may be detained only in the officers’ mess and must be guarded by a fellow officer.”
The senior Egyptian policeman was standing nearby. “This is correct,” he said.
Once again Vandam cursed Bogge for bringing the Egyptians into this. “The law also states that spies are to be shot,” he told Sadat. He turned to the sergeant. “Send out my driver. Finish searching the house. Then have Sadat charged with espionage.”
He looked again at Sadat. The bitterness and disappointment had gone from his face, to be replaced by a calculating look. He’s figuring out how to make the most of all this, Vandam thought; he’s preparing to play martyr. He’s very adaptable—he should be a politician.
Vandam left the house and went out to the jeep. A few moments later his driver came running out and jumped into the seat beside him. Vandam said: “To Zamalek.”
“Yes, sir.” The driver started the jeep and pulled away.
When Vandam reached the houseboat the divers had done their work and were standing on the towpath getting out of their gear. Two soldiers were hauling something extremely grisly out of the Nile. The divers had attached ropes to the body they had found on the bottom and then washed their hands of the affair.
Jakes came over to Vandam. “Look at this, sir.” He handed him a waterlogged book. The board covers had been torn off. Vandam examined the book: it was
Rebecca.
The radio went to Sadat; the code book went into the river. Vandam remembered the ashtray full of charred paper in the houseboat: had Wolff burned the key to the code?
Why had he gotten rid of the radio, the book and the key, when he had a vital message to send to Rommel? The conclusion was inescapable: he had
another
radio, book and key hidden away somewhere.
The soldiers got the body onto the bank and then stepped back as if they wanted nothing more to do with it. Vandam stood over it. The throat had been cut and the head was almost severed from the body. A briefcase was roped to the waist. Vandam bent down and gingerly opened the case. It was full of bottles of champagne.
Jakes said: “My God.”
“Ugly, isn’t it,” Vandam said. “Throat cut, then dumped in the river with a case of champagne to weigh him down.”
“Cool bastard.”
“And damn quick with that knife.” Vandam touched his cheek: the dressing had been taken off, now, and several days’ growth of beard hid the wound.
But not Elene, not with the knife, please.
“I gather you haven’t found him.”
“I haven’t found anything. I’ve had Abdullah brought in, just on general principles, but there was nothing at his house. And I called in at the Villa les Oliviers on the way back—same story.”
“And at Captain Sadat’s house.” Suddenly Vandam felt utterly drained. It seemed that Wolff outwitted him at every turn. It occurred to him that he might simply not be smart enough to catch this sly, evasive spy. “Perhaps we’ve lost,” he said. He rubbed his face. He had not slept in the last twenty-four hours. He wondered what he was doing here, standing over the hideous corpse of Major Sandy Smith. There was no more to be learned from it. “I think I’ll go home and sleep for an hour,” he said. Jakes looked surprised. Vandam added: “It might help me think more clearly. This afternoon we’ll interrogate all the prisoners again.”
“Very good, sir.”
Vandam walked back to his vehicle. Driving across the bridge from Zamalek to the mainland, he recalled that Sonja had mentioned one other possibility: Wolff’s nomad cousins. He looked at the boats on the wide, slow river. The current took them downstream and the wind blew them upstream—a coincidence of enormous importance to Egypt. The boatmen were still using the single triangular sail, a design which had been perfected ... How long ago? Thousands of years, perhaps. So many things in this country were done the way they had been done for thousands of years. Vandam closed his eyes and saw Wolff, in a felucca, sailing upriver, manipulating the triangular sail with one hand while with the other he tapped out messages to Rommel on the transmitter. The car stopped suddenly and Vandam opened his eyes, realizing he had been daydreaming, or dozing. Why would Wolff go upriver? To find his nomad cousins. But who could tell where they would be? Wolff might be able to find them, if they followed some annual pattern in their wanderings.
The jeep had stopped outside Vandam’s house. He got out. “I want you to wait for me,” he told the driver. “You’d better come in.” He led the way into the house, then directed the driver to the kitchen. “My servant, Gaafar, will give you something to eat, so long as you don’t treat him like a wog.”