World War II Thriller Collection (32 page)

They sat down, and Gaafar served the soup.

Elene said: “I like your son very much.”

“So do I,” Vandam said.

“He's old beyond his years.”

“Do you think that's a bad thing?”

She shrugged. “Who knows?”

“He's been through a couple of things that ought to be reserved for adults.”

“Yes.” Elene hesitated. “When did your wife die?”

“May the twenty-eighth, nineteen-forty-one, in the evening.”

“Billy told me it happened in Crete.”

“Yes. She worked on cryptanalysis for the Air Force. She was on a temporary posting to Crete at the time the Germans invaded the island. May twenty-eighth was the day the British realized they had lost the battle and decided to get out. Apparently she was hit by a stray shell and killed instantly. Of course, we were trying to get live people away then, not bodies, so . . . There's no grave, you see. No memorial. Nothing left.”

Elene said quietly: “Do you still love her?”

“I think I'll always be in love with her. I believe it's like that with people you really love. If they go away, or die, it makes no difference. If ever I were to marry again, I would still love Angela.”

“Were you very happy?”

“We . . .” He hesitated, unwilling to answer, then he realized that the hesitation was an answer in itself. “Ours wasn't an idyllic marriage. It was I who was
devoted . . .
Angela was fond of me.”

“Do you think you will marry again?”

“Well. The English in Cairo keep thrusting replicas of Angela at me.” He shrugged. He did not know the answer to the question. Elene seemed to understand, for she fell silent and began to eat her dessert.

Afterward Gaafar brought them coffee in the drawing room. It was at this time of day that Vandam usually began to hit the bottle seriously, but tonight he did not want to drink. He sent Gaafar to bed, and they drank their coffee. Vandam smoked a cigarette.

He felt the desire for music. He had loved music, at one time, although lately it had gone out of his life. Now, with the mild night air coming in through the open windows and the smoke curling up from his cigarette, he wanted to hear clear, delightful notes, and sweet harmonies, and subtle rhythms. He went to the piano and looked at the music. Elene watched him in silence. He began to play “Für Elise.” The first few notes sounded, with Beethoven's characteristic, devastating simplicity; then the hesitation; then the rolling tune. The ability to play came back to him instantly, almost as if he had never stopped. His hands knew what to do in a way he always felt was miraculous.

When the song was over he went back to Elene, sat next to her, and kissed her cheek. Her face was wet with tears. She said: “William, I love you with all my heart.”

 

They whisper.

She says, “I like your ears.”

He says, “Nobody has ever licked them before.”

She giggles. “Do you like it?”

“Yes, yes.” He sighs. “Can I . . . ?”

“Undo the buttons—here—that's right—aah.”

“I'll put out the light.”

“No, I want to see you—”

“There's a moon.”
Click
. “There, see? The moonlight is enough.”

“Come back here quickly—”

“I'm here.”

“Kiss me again, William.”

They do not speak for a while. Then:

“Can I take this thing off?” he says.

“Let me help . . . there.”

“Oh! Oh, they're so
pretty.
”

“I'm so glad you like them . . . would you do that harder . . . suck a little . . . aah, God—”

And a little later she says:

“Let me feel
your
chest. Damn buttons—I've ripped your shirt—”

“The hell with that.”

“Ah, I knew it would be like this . . . Look.”

“What?”

“Our skins in the moonlight—you're so pale and I'm nearly black, look—”

“Yes.”

“Touch me. Stroke me. Squeeze, and pinch, and explore, I want to feel your hands all over me—”

“Yes—”

“—everywhere, your hands, there, yes, especially there, oh, you
know
, you know
exactly
where, oh!”

“You're so soft inside.”

“This is a dream.”

“No, it's real.”

“I never want to wake up.”

“So soft . . .”

“And you're so hard . . . Can I kiss it?”

“Yes, please . . . Ah . . . Jesus it feels good—
Jesus
—”

“William?”

“Yes?”

“Now, William?”

“Oh, yes.”

“. . . Take them off.”

“Silk.”

“Yes. Be quick.”

“Yes.”

“I've wanted this for so long—”

She gasps, and he makes a sound like a sob, and then there is only their breathing for many minutes, until finally he begins to shout aloud, and she smothers his cries with her kisses and then she, too, feels it, and she turns her face into the cushion and opens her mouth and screams into the cushion, and he not being used to this thinks something is wrong and says:

“It's all right, it's all right, it's all right—”

—and finally she goes limp, and lies with her eyes closed for a while, perspiring, until her breathing returns to normal, then she looks up at him and says:

“So
that's
how it's supposed to be!”

And he laughs, and she looks quizzically at him, so he explains:

“That's exactly what I was thinking.”

Then they both laugh, and he says:

“I've done a lot of things after. . . you know, afterwards . . . but I don't think I've ever laughed.”

“I'm so glad,” she says. “Oh, William, I'm so glad.”

ROMMEL COULD SMELL THE SEA. AT TOBRUK THE HEAT AND THE DUST AND THE flies were as bad as they had been in the desert, but it was all made bearable by that occasional whiff of salty dampness in the faint breeze.

Von Mellenthin came into the command vehicle with his intelligence report. “Good evening, Field Marshal.”

Rommel smiled. He had been promoted after the victory at Tobruk, and he had not yet gotten used to the new title. “Anything new?”

“A signal from the spy in Cairo. He says the Mersa Matruh Line is weak in the middle.”

Rommel took the report and began to glance over it. He smiled when he read that the Allies anticipated he would try a dash around the southern end of the line: it seemed they were beginning to understand his thinking. He said: “So the minefield gets thinner at this point . . . but there the line is defended by two columns. What is a column?”

“It's a new term they're using. According to one of our prisoners of war, a column is a brigade group that has been twice overrun by Panzers.”

“A weak force, then.”

“Yes.”

Rommel tapped the report with his forefinger. “If this is correct, we can burst through the Mersa Matruh Line as soon as we get there.”

“I'll be doing my best to check the spy's report over the next day or two, of course,” said von Mellenthin. “But he was right last time.”

The door to the vehicle flew open and Kesselring came in.

Rommel was startled. “Field Marshal!” he said. “I thought you were in Sicily.”

“I was,” Kesselring said. He stamped the dust off his handmade boots. “I've just flown here to see you. Damn it, Rommel, this has got to stop. Your orders are quite clear: you were to advance to Tobruk and no farther.”

Rommel sat back in his canvas chair. He had hoped to keep Kesselring out of this argument. “The circumstances have changed,” he said.

“But your original orders have been confirmed by the Italian Supreme Command,” said Kesselring. “And what was your reaction? You declined the ‘advice' and invited Bastico to lunch with you in Cairo!”

Nothing infuriated Rommel more than orders from Italians. “The Italians have done
nothing
in this war,” he said angrily.

“That is irrelevant. Your air and sea support is now needed for the attack on Malta. After we have taken Malta your communications will be secure for the advance to Egypt.”

“You people have learned nothing!” Rommel said. He made an effort to lower his voice. “While we are digging in the enemy, too, will be digging in. I did not get this far by playing the old game of advance, consolidate, then advance again. When they attack, I dodge; when they defend a position I go around that position; and when they retreat I chase them. They are running now, and now is the time to take Egypt.”

Kesselring remained calm. “I have a copy of your cable to Mussolini.” He took a piece of paper from his pocket and read: “The state and morale of the troops, the present supply position owing to captured dumps and the present weakness of the enemy permit our pursuing him into the depths of the Egyptian area.” He folded the sheet of paper and turned to von Mellenthin. “How many German tanks and men do we have?”

Rommel suppressed the urge to tell von Mellenthin not to answer: he knew this was a weak point.

“Sixty tanks, Field Marshal, and two thousand five hundred men.”

“And the Italians?”

“Six thousand men and fourteen tanks.”

Kesselring turned back to Rommel. “And you're going, to take Egypt with a total of seventy-four tanks? Von Mellenthin, what is our estimate of the enemy's strength?”

“The Allied forces are approximately three times as numerous as ours, but—”

“There you are.”

Von Mellenthin went on: “—but we are very well supplied with food, clothing, trucks and armored cars, and fuel; and the men are in tremendous spirits.”

Rommel said: “Von Mellenthin, go to the communications truck and see what has arrived.”

Von Mellenthin frowned, but Rommel did not explain, so he went out.

Rommel said: “The Allies are regrouping at Mersa Matruh. They expect us to move around the southern end of their line. Instead we will hit the middle, where they are weakest—”

“How do you know all this?” Kesselring interrupted.

“Our intelligence assessment—”

“On what is the assessment based?”

“Primarily on a spy report—”

“My God!” For the first time Kesselring raised his voice. “You've no tanks, but you have your spy!”

“He was right last time.”

Von Mellenthin came back in.

Kesselring said: “All this makes no difference. I am here to confirm the Fuehrer's orders: you are to advance no farther.”

Rommel smiled. “I have sent a personal envoy to the Fuehrer.”

“You . . . ?”

“I am a Field Marshall now, I have direct access to Hitler.”

“Of course.”

“I think von Mellenthin may have the Fuehrer's reply.”

“Yes,” said von Mellenthin. He read from a sheet of paper. “It is only once in a lifetime that the Goddess of Victory smiles. Onward to Cairo. Adolf Hitler.”

There was a silence.

Kesselring walked out.

WHEN VANDAM GOT TO HIS OFFICE HE LEARNED THAT, THE PREVIOUS EVENING, Rommel had advanced to within sixty miles of Alexandria.

Rommel seemed unstoppable. The Mersa Matruh Line had broken in half like a matchstick. In the south, the 13th Corps had retreated in a panic, and in the north the fortress of Mersa Matruh had capitulated. The Allies had fallen back once again—but this would be the last time. The new line of defense stretched across a thirtymile gap between the sea and the impassable Qattara Depression, and if that line fell there would be no more defenses, Egypt would be Rommel's.

The news was not enough to dampen Vandam's elation. It was more than twenty-four hours since he had awakened at dawn, on the sofa in his drawing room, with Elene in his arms. Since then he had been suffused with a kind of adolescent glee. He kept remembering little details: how small and brown her nipples were, the taste of her skin, her sharp fingernails digging into his thighs. In the office he had been behaving a little out of character, he knew. He had given back a letter to his typist, saying: “There are seven errors in this, you'd better do it again,” and smiled at her sunnily. She had nearly fallen off her chair. He thought of Elene, and he thought: “Why not? Why the hell not?” and there was no reply.

He was visited early by an officer from the Special Liaison Unit. Anybody with his ear to the ground in GHQ now knew that the SLUs had a very special, ultrasecret source of intelligence. Opinions differed as to how good the intelligence was, and evaluation was always difficult because they would never tell you the source. Brown, who held the rank of captain but was quite plainly not a military man, leaned on the edge of the table and spoke around the stem of his pipe. “Are you being evacuated, Vandam?”

These chaps lived in a world of their own, and there was no point in telling them that a captain had to call a major “sir.” Vandam said: “What? Evacuated? Why?”

“Our lot's off to Jerusalem. So's everyone who knows too much. Keep people out of enemy hands, you know.”

“The brass is getting nervous, then.” It was logical, really: Rommel could cover sixty miles in a day.

“There'll be riots at the station, you'll see—half Cairo's trying to get out and the other half is preening itself ready for the liberation. Ha!”

“You won't tell too many people that you're going . . .”