World War II Thriller Collection (13 page)

Here it was a little quieter. Women were banned, and serious drinking was the order of the day. It was here that a lonely officer would come.

Wolff sat at the bar. He was about to order champagne, then he remembered his disguise and asked for whiskey and water.

He had given careful thought to his clothes. The brown shoes were officer pattern and highly polished; the khaki socks were turned down at exactly the right place; the baggy brown shorts had a sharp crease; the bush shirt with captain's pips was worn outside the shorts, not tucked in; the flat cap was just slightly raked.

He was a little worried about his accent. He had his story ready to explain it—the line he had given Captain Newman, in Assyut, about having been brought up in Dutch-speaking South Africa—but what if the officer he picked up was a South African? Wolff could not distinguish English accents well enough to recognize a South African.

He was more worried about his knowledge of the Army. He was looking for an officer from GHQ, so he would say that he himself was with BTE—British Troops in Egypt—which was a separate and independent outfit. Unfortunately he knew little else about it. He was uncertain what BTE did and how it was organized, and he could not quote the name of a single one of its officers. He imagined a conversation:

“How's old Buffy Jenkins?”

“Old Buffy? Don't see much of him in my department.”

“Don't see much of him? He runs the show! Are we talking about the same BTE?”

Then again:

“What about Simon Frobisher?”

“Oh, Simon's the same, you know.”

“Wait a minute—someone said he'd gone back home. Yes, I'm sure he has—how come you didn't know?”

Then the accusations, and the calling of the military police, and the fight, and finally the jail.

Jail was the only thing that really frightened Wolff. He pushed the thought out of his mind and ordered another whiskey.

A perspiring colonel came in and stood at the bar next to Wolff's stool. He called to the barman:
“Ezma!”
It meant “Listen,” but all the British thought it meant “Waiter.” The colonel looked at Wolff.

Wolff nodded politely and said: “Sir.”

“Cap off in the bar, Captain,” said the colonel. “What are you thinking of?”

Wolff took off his cap, cursing himself silently for the error. The colonel ordered beer. Wolff looked away.

There were fifteen or twenty officers in the bar, but he recognized none of them. He was looking for any one of the eight aides who left GHQ each midday with their briefcases. He had memorized the face of each one, and would recognize them instantly. He had already been to the Metropolitan Hotel and the Turf Club without success, and after half an hour in Shepheard's he would try the Officers' Club, the Gezira Sporting Club and even the Anglo-Egyptian Union. If he failed tonight he would try again tomorrow: sooner or later he was sure to bump into at least one of them.

Then everything would depend on his skill.

His scheme had a lot going for it. The uniform made him one of them, trustworthy and a comrade. Like most soldiers they were probably lonely and sex-starved in a foreign country. Sonja was undeniably a very desirable woman—to look at, anyway—and the average English officer was not well armored against the wiles of an Oriental seductress.

And anyway, if he was unlucky enough to pick an aide smart enough to resist temptation, he would have to drop the man and look for another.

He hoped it would not take that long.

In fact it took him five more minutes.

The major who walked in was a small man, very thin, and about ten years older than Wolff. His cheeks had the broken veins of a hard drinker. He had bulbous blue eyes, and his thin sandy hair was plastered to his head.

Every day he left GHQ at midday and walked to an unmarked building in the Shari Suleiman Pasha—carrying his briefcase.

Wolff's heart missed a beat.

The major came up to the bar, took off his cap, and said:
“Ezma!
Scotch. No ice. Make it snappy.” He turned to Wolff. “Bloody weather,” he said conversationally.

“Isn't it always, sir?” Wolff said

“Bloody right. I'm Smith, GHQ.”

“How do you do, sir,” Wolff said. He knew that, since Smith went from GHQ to another building every day, the major could not really be at GHQ; and he wondered briefly why the man should lie about it. He put the thought aside for the moment and said: “I'm Slavenburg, BTE.”

“Jolly good. Get you another?”

It was proving even easier than he had expected to get into conversation with an officer. “Very kind of you, sir,” Wolff said.

“Ease up on the sirs. No bull in the bar, what?”

“Of course.” Another error.

“What'll it be?”

“Whiskey and water, please.”

“Shouldn't take water with it if I were you. Comes straight out of the Nile, they say.”

Wolff smiled. “I must be used to it.”

“No gippy tummy? You must be the only white man in Egypt who hasn't got it.”

“Born in Africa, been in Cairo ten years.” Wolff was slipping into Smith's abbreviated style of speech. I should have been an actor, he thought.

Smith said: “Africa, eh? I thought you had a bit of an accent.”

“Dutch father, English mother. We've got a ranch in South Africa.”

Smith looked solicitous. “It's rough for your father, with Jerry all over Holland.”

Wolff had not thought of that. “He died when I was a boy,” he said.

“Bad show.” Smith emptied his glass.

“Same again?” Wolff offered.

“Thanks.”

Wolff ordered more drinks. Smith offered him a cigarette: Wolff refused.

Smith complained about the poor food, the way bars kept running out of drinks, the rent of his flat and the rudeness of Arab waiters. Wolff itched to explain that the food was poor because Smith insisted on English rather than Egyptian dishes, that drinks were scarce because of the European war, that rents were sky-high because of the thousands of foreigners like. Smith who had invaded the city, and that the waiters were rude to him because he was too lazy or arrogant to learn a few phrases of courtesy in their language. Instead of explaining he bit his tongue and nodded as if he sympathized.

In the middle of this catalogue of discontent Wolff looked past Smith's shoulder and saw six military policemen enter the bar.

Smith noticed his change of expression and said: “What's the matter—seen a ghost?”

There was an army MP, a navy MP in white leggings, an Australian, a New Zealander, a South African and a turbaned Gurkha. Wolff had a crazy urge to run for it. What would they ask him? What would he say?

Smith looked around, saw the MPs and said: “The usual nightly picket—looking for drunken officers and German spies. This is an officers' bar, they won't disturb us. What's the matter—you breaking bounds or something?”

“No, no.” Wolff improvised hastily: “The navy man looks just like a chap I knew who got killed at Halfaya.” He continued to stare at the picket. They appeared very businesslike with their steel hats and holstered pistols. Would they ask to see papers?

Smith had forgotten them. He was saying: “And as for the servants . . . Bloody people. I'm bloody sure my man's been watering the gin. I'll find him out though. I've filled an empty gin bottle with zibib—you know, that stuff that turns cloudy when you add water? Wait till he tries to dilute that. He'll have to buy a whole new bottle and pretend nothing happened. Ha ha! Serve him right.”

The officer in charge of the picket walked over to the colonel who had told Wolff to take off his hat. “Everything in order, sir?” the MP said.

“Nothing untoward,” the colonel replied.

“What's the matter with you?” Smith said to Wolff. “I say, you are entitled to those pips, aren't you?”

“Of course,” Wolff said. A drop of perspiration ran into his eyes, and he wiped it away with a too-rapid gesture.

“No offense intended,” Smith said. “But, you know, Shepheard's being off limits to Other Ranks, it's not unknown for subalterns to sew a few pips on their shirts just to get in here.”

Wolff pulled himself together. “Look here, sir, if you'd care to check—”

“No, no, no,” Smith said hastily.

“The resemblance was rather a shock.”

“Of course, I understand. Let's have another drink.
Ezma!”

The MP who had spoken to the colonel was taking a long look around the room. His armband identified him as the assistant provost marshal. He looked at Wolff. Wolff wondered whether the man remembered the description of the Assyut knife murderer. Surely not. Anyway, they would not be looking for a British officer answering the description. And Wolff had grown a mustache to confuse the issue. He forced himself to meet the MP's eyes, then let his gaze drift casually away. He picked up his drink, sure the man was still staring at him.

Then there was a clatter of boots and the picket went out.

By an effort Wolff prevented himself from shaking with relief. He raised his glass in a determinedly steady hand and said: “Cheers.”

They drank. Smith said: “You know this place. What's a chap to do in the evening, other than drink in Shepheard's bar?”

Wolff pretended to consider the question. “Have you seen any belly dancing?”

Smith gave a disgusted snort. “Once. Some fat wog wiggling her hips.”

“Ah. Then you ought to see the real thing.”

“Should I?”

“Real belly dancing is the most erotic thing you've ever seen.”

There was an odd light in Smith's eyes. “Is that so?”

Wolff thought: Major Smith, you are just what I need. He said: “Sonja is the best. You must try to see her act.”

Smith nodded. “Perhaps I shall.”

“Matter of fact, I was toying with the idea of going on to the Cha-Cha Club myself. Care to join me?”

“Let's have another drink first,” said Smith.

Watching Smith put away the liquor Wolff reflected that the major was, at least on the surface, a highly corruptible man. He seemed bored, weak-willed and alcoholic. Provided he was normally heterosexual, Sonja would be able to seduce him easily. (Damn, he thought, she had better do her stuff.) Then they would have to find out whether he had in his briefcase anything more useful than menus. Finally they would have to find a way to get the secrets out of him. There were too many maybes and too little time.

He could only go step by step, and the first step was to get Smith in his power.

They finished their drinks and set out for the Cha-Cha. They could not find a taxi, so they took a gharry, a horse-drawn open carriage. The driver mercilessly whipped his elderly horse.

Smith said: “Chap's a bit rough on the beast.”

“Isn't he,” Wolff said, thinking: You should see what we do to camels.

The club was crowded and hot, again. Wolff had to bribe a waiter to get a table.

Sonja's act began moments after they sat down. Smith watched Sonja while Wolff watched Smith. In minutes the major was drooling.

Wolff said: “Good, isn't she?”

“Fantastic,” Smith replied without looking around.

“Matter of fact, I know her slightly,” Wolff said. “Shall I ask her to join us afterwards?”

This time Smith did look around. “Good Lord!” he said. “Would you?”

The rhythm quickened. Sonja looked out across the crowded floor of the club. Hundreds of men feasted their eyes greedily on her magnificent body. She closed her eyes.

The movements came automatically: the sensations took over. In her imagination she saw the sea of rapacious faces staring at her. She felt her breasts shake and her belly roll and her hips jerk, and it was as if someone else was doing it to her, as if all the hungry men in the audience were manipulating her body. She went faster and faster. There was no artifice in her dancing, not any more; she was doing it for herself. She did not even follow the music—it followed her. Waves of excitement swept her. She rode the excitement, dancing, until she knew she was on the edge of ecstasy, knew she only had to jump and she would be flying. She hesitated on the brink. She spread her arms. The music climaxed with a bang. She uttered a cry of frustration and fell backward, her legs folded beneath her, her thighs open to the audience, until her head hit the stage. Then the lights went out.

It was always like that.

In the storm of applause she got up and crossed the darkened stage to the wings. She walked quickly to her dressing room, head down, looking at no one. She did not want their words or their smiles. They did not understand. Nobody knew how it was for her, nobody knew what she went through every night when she danced.