World War II Thriller Collection (26 page)

“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.”

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 Kemel telling me?

“The key, I think, lies in Wolff's nature: he is both a German and an Egyptian.” Kemel 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.

Kemel 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 Germans.”

Sonja's mind was in a turmoil. From being her accuser, Kemel 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.

Kemel 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.

She screamed.

The face disappeared.

She realized it had been Wolff.

She ran up the ladder and out onto the deck. Looking over the side, she saw him in the water. He appeared to be naked. He clambered up the side of the little boat, using the portholes for handholds. She reached for his arm and pulled him onto the deck. He knelt there on all fours for a moment, glancing up and down the riverbank like an alert water rat; then he scampered down the hatch. She followed him.

He stood on the carpet, dripping and shivering. He
was
naked. She said: “What happened?”

“Run me a bath,” he said.

She went through the bedroom into the bathroom. There was a small tub with an electric water heater. She turned the taps on and threw a handful of scented crystals into the water. Wolff got in and let the water rise around him.

“What happened?” Sonja repeated.

He controlled his shivering. “I didn't want to risk coming down the towpath, so I took off my clothes on the opposite bank and swam across. I looked in, and saw that man with you—I suppose he was another policeman.”

“Yes.”

“So I had to wait in the water until he went away.”

She laughed. “You poor thing.”

“It's not funny. My God, I'm cold. The fucking Abwehr gave me dud money. Somebody will be strangled for that, next time I'm in Germany.”

“Why did they do it?”

“I don't know whether it's incompetence or disloyalty. Canaris has always been lukewarm on Hitler. Turn off the water, will you?” He began to wash the river mud off his legs.

“You'll have to use your own money,” she said.

“I can't get at it. You can be sure the bank has instructions to call the police the moment I show my face. I could pay the occasional bill by check, but even that might help them get a line on me. I could sell some of my stocks and shares, or even the villa, but there again the money has to come through a bank . . .”

So you will have to use my money, Sonja thought. You won't ask, though: you'll just take it. She filed the thought for further consideration. “That detective is putting a watch on the boat—on Vandam's instructions.”

Wolff grinned. “So it was Vandam.”

“Did you cut him?”

“Yes, but I wasn't sure where. It was dark.”

“The face. He had a huge bandage.”

Wolff laughed aloud. “I wish I could see him.” He became sober, and asked: “Did he question you?”

“Yes.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I hardly knew you.”

“Good girl.” He looked at her appraisingly, and she knew that he was pleased, and a little surprised, that she had kept her head. He said: “Did he believe you?”

“Presumably not, since he ordered this surveillance.”

Wolff frowned. “That's going to be awkward. I can't swim the river every time I want to come home . . .”

“Don't worry,” Sonja said. “I've fixed it.”

“You fixed it?”

It was not quite so, Sonja knew, but it sounded good. “The detective is one of us,” she explained.

“A nationalist?”

“Yes. He wants to use your radio.”

“How does he know I've got one?” There was a threatening note in Wolff's voice.

“He doesn't,” Sonja said calmly. “From what the British have told him he deduces that you're a spy; and he presumes a spy has a means of communicating with the Germans. The nationalists want to send a message to Rommel.”

Wolff shook his head. “I'd rather not get involved.”

She would not have him go back on a bargain she had made. “You've got to get involved,” she said sharply.

“I suppose I do,” he said wearily.

She felt an odd sense of power. It was as if she were taking control. She found it exhilarating.

Wolff said: “They're closing in. I don't want any more surprises like last night. I'd like to leave this boat, but I don't know where to go. Abdullah knows my money's no good—he'd like to turn me over to the British. Damn.”

“You'll be safe here, while you string the detective along.”

“I haven't any choice.”

She sat on the edge of the bathtub, looking at his naked body. He seemed . . . not defeated, but at least cornered. His face was lined with tension, and there was in his voice a faint note of panic. She guessed that for the first time he was wondering whether he could hold out until Rommel arrived. And, also for the first time, he was dependent on her. He needed her money, he needed her home. Last night he had depended on her silence under interrogation, and—he now believed—he had been saved by her deal with the nationalist detective. He was slipping into her power. The thought intrigued her. She felt a little horny.