World War II Thriller Collection (35 page)

He thought: Christ, I hope no one is watching.

Smith went under. He was facedown in the water now, with Wolff's knees in his back, and his head held in a firm grip. He continued to thrash around under water, turning, jerking, flailing his arms, kicking his legs and trying to twist his body. Wolff tightened his grip and held him under.

He felt Smith's jaws open and knew the man was at last breathing water. The convulsions grew more frantic. Wolff felt he was going to have to let go. Smith's struggle pulled Wolff under. Wolff squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath. It seemed Smith was weakening. By now his lungs must be half full of water, Wolff thought. After a few seconds Wolff himself began to need air.

Smith's movements became feeble. Holding the major less tightly, Wolff kicked himself upward and found air. For a minute he just breathed. Smith became a dead weight. Wolff used his legs to swim toward the houseboat, pulling Smith with him. Smith's head came up out of the water, but there was no sign of life.

Wolff reached the side of the boat. Sonja was up on deck, wearing a robe, staring over the side.

Wolff said: “Did anybody see?”

“I don't think so. Is he dead?”

“Yes.”

Wolff thought: What the hell do I do now?

He held Smith against the side of the boat. If I let him go, he'll just float, he thought. The body will be found near here and there will be a house-to-house search. But I can't carry a body half across Cairo to get rid of it.

Suddenly Smith jerked and spewed water.

“Jesus Christ, he's alive!” Wolff said.

He pushed Smith under again. This was no good, it took too long. He let Smith go, pulled out his knife, and lunged. Smith was underwater, moving feebly. Wolff could not direct the knife. He slashed wildly. The water hampered him. Smith thrashed about. The foaming water turned pink. At last Wolff was able to grab Smith by the hair and hold his head still while he cut his throat.

Now
he was dead.

Wolff let Smith go while he sheathed the knife again. The river water turned muddy red all around him. I'm swimming in blood, he thought, and he was suddenly filled with disgust.

The body was drifting away. Wolff pulled it back. He realized, too late, that a drowned major might simply have fallen in the river, but a major with his throat cut had unquestionably been murdered. Now he had to hide the body.

He looked up. “Sonja!”

“I feel ill.”

“Never mind that. We have to make the body sink to the bottom.”

“Oh, God, the water's all bloody.”

“Listen to me!” He wanted to yell at her, to make her snap out of it, but he had to keep his voice low. “Get . . . get that rope. Go on!”

She disappeared from view for a moment, and returned with the rope. She was helpless, Wolff decided: he would have to tell her exactly what to do.

“Now—get Smith's briefcase and put something heavy in it.”

“Something heavy . . . but what?”

“Jesus Christ . . . What have we got that's heavy? What's heavy? Um . . . books, books are heavy, no, that might not be enough . . . I know, bottles. Full bottles—champagne bottles. Fill his briefcase with full bottles of champagne.”

“Why?”

“My God, stop dithering, do what I tell you!”

She went away again. Through the porthole he could see her coming down the ladder and into the living room. She was moving very slowly, like a sleepwalker.

Hurry
,
you fat bitch, hurry!

She looked around her dazedly. Still moving in slow motion, she picked up the briefcase from the floor. She took it to the kitchen area and opened the icebox. She looked in, as if she were deciding what to have for dinner.

Come on.

She took out a champagne bottle. She stood with the bottle in one hand and the briefcase in the other, and she frowned, as if she could not remember what she was supposed to be doing with them. At last her expression cleared and she put the bottle in the case, laying it flat. She took another bottle out.

Wolff thought: Lay them head to toe, idiot, so you get more in.

She put the second bottle in, looked at it, then took it out and turned it the other way.

Brilliant, Wolff thought.

She managed to get four bottles in. She closed the icebox and looked around for something else to add to the weight. She picked up the sharpening steel and a glass paperweight. She put those into the briefcase and fastened it. Then she came up on deck.

“What now?” she said.

“Tie the end of the rope around the handle of the briefcase.”

She was coming out of her daze. Her fingers moved more quickly.

“Tie it very tight,” Wolff said.

“Okay.”

“Is there anyone around?”

She glanced to left and right. “No.”

“Hurry.”

She finished the knot.

“Throw me the rope,” Wolff said.

She threw down the other end of the rope and he caught it. He was tiring with the effort of keeping himself afloat and holding on to the corpse at the same time. He had to let Smith go for a moment because he needed both hands for the rope, which meant he had to tread water furiously to stay up. He threaded the rope under the dead man's armpits and pulled it through. He wound it around the torso twice, then tied a knot. Several times during the operation he found himself sinking, and once he took a revolting mouthful of bloody water.

At last the job was done.

“Test your knot,” he told Sonja.

“It's tight.”

“Throw the briefcase into the water—throw it as far out as you can.”

She heaved the briefcase over the side. It splashed a couple of yards away from the houseboat—it had been too heavy for her to throw far—and went down. Slowly the rope followed the case. The length of rope between Smith and the case became taut, then the body went under. Wolff watched the surface. The knots were holding. He kicked his legs, underwater where the body had gone down: they did not contact anything. The body had sunk deep.

Wolff muttered:
“Liebe Gott
, what a shambles.”

He climbed on deck. Looking back down, he saw that the pink tinge was rapidly disappearing from the water.

A voice said: “Good morning!”

Wolff and Sonja whirled around to face the towpath.

“Good morning!” Sonja replied. She muttered to Wolff in an undertone : “A neighbor.”

The neighbor was a half-caste woman of middle age, carrying a shopping basket. She said: “I heard a lot of splashing—is there anything wrong?”

“Um . . . no,” Sonja said. “My little dog fell in the water, and Mr. Robinson here had to rescue him.”

“How gallant!” the woman said. “I didn't know you had a dog.”

“He's a puppy, a gift.”

“What kind?”

Wolff wanted to scream: Go away, you stupid old woman!

“A poodle,” Sonja replied.

“I'd love to see him.”

“Tomorrow, perhaps—he's been locked up as a punishment now.”

“Poor thing.”

Wolff said: “I'd better change my wet clothes.”

Sonja said to the neighbor: “Until tomorrow.”

“Lovely to meet you, Mr. Robinson,” the neighbor said.

Wolff and Sonja went below.

Sonja slumped on the couch and closed her eyes. Wolff stripped off his wet clothes.

Sonja said: “It's the worst thing that's ever happened to me.”

“You'll survive,” Wolff said.

“At least it was an Englishman.”

“Yes. You should be jumping for joy.”

“I will when my stomach settles.”

Wolff went into the bathroom and turned on the taps of the tub. When he came back Sonja said: “Was it worth it?”

“Yes.” Wolff pointed to the military papers which were still on the floor, where he had dropped them when Smith surprised him. “That stuff is red-hot—the best he's ever brought us. With that, Rommel can win the war.”

“When will you send it?”

“Tonight, at midnight.”

“Tonight you're going to bring Elene here.”

He stared at her. “How can you think of that when we've just killed a man and sunk his body?”

She stared at him defiantly. “I don't know. I just know it makes me feel very sexy.”

“My God.”

“You
will
bring her home tonight. You owe it to me.”

Wolff hesitated. “I'd have to make the broadcast while she's here.”

“I'll keep her busy while you're on the radio.”

“I don't know—”

“Damn it, Alex, you
owe
me!”

“All right.”

“Thank you.”

Wolff went into the bathroom. Sonja was unbelievable, he thought. She took depravity to new heights of sophistication. He got into the hot water.

She called from the bedroom: “But now Smith won't be bringing you any more secrets.”

“I don't think we'll need them, after the next battle,” Wolff replied. “He's served his purpose.”

He picked up the soap and began to wash off the blood.

VANDAM KNOCKED AT THE DOOR OF ELENE'S FLAT AN HOUR BEFORE SHE WAS due to meet Alex Wolff.

She came to the door wearing a black cocktail dress and high-heeled black shoes with silk stockings. Around her neck was a slender gold chain. Her face was made up, and her hair gleamed. She had been expecting Vandam.

He smiled at her, seeing someone familiar yet at the same time astonishingly beautiful. “Hello.”

“Come in.” She led him into the living room. “Sit down.”

He had wanted to kiss her, but she had not given him the chance. He sat on the couch. “I wanted to tell you the details for tonight.”

“Okay.” She sat on a chair opposite him. “Do you want a drink?”

“Sure.”

“Help yourself.”

He stared at her. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing. Give yourself a drink, then brief me.”

Vandam frowned. “What is this?”

“Nothing. We've got work to do, so let's do it.”

He stood up, went across to her, and knelt in front of her chair. “Elene. What are you doing?”

She glared at him. She seemed close to tears. She said loudly: “Where have you been for the last two days?”

He looked away from her, thinking. “I've been at work.”

“And where do you think I've been?”

“Here, I suppose.”

“Exactly!”

He did not understand what that meant. It crossed his mind that he had fallen in love with a woman he hardly knew. He said: “I've been working, and you've been here, and so you're mad at me?”

She shouted: “Yes!”

Vandam said: “Calm down. I don't understand why you're so cross, and I want you to explain it to me.”

“No!”

“Then I don't know what to say.” Vandam sat on the floor with his back to her and lit a cigarette. He truly did not know what had upset her, but there was an element of willfulness in his attitude: he was ready to be humble, to apologize for whatever he had done, and to make amends—but he was not willing to play guessing games.

They sat in silence for a minute, not looking at one another.

Elene sniffed. Vandam could not see her, but he knew the kind of sniff that came from weeping. She said: “You could have sent me a note, or even a bunch of bloody flowers!”

“A note? What for? You knew we were to meet tonight.”

“Oh, my God.”

“Flowers? What do you want with flowers? We don't need to play that game anymore.”

“Oh, really?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Listen. We made love the night before last, in case you've forgotten—”

“Don't be silly—”

“You brought me home and kissed me good-bye. Then—nothing.”

He drew on his cigarette. “In case you have forgotten, a certain Erwin Rommel is knocking at the gates with a bunch of Nazis in tow, and I'm one of the people who's trying to keep him out.”

“Five minutes, that's all it would have taken to send me a note.”

“What
for
?”

“Well, exactly, what for? I'm a loose woman, am I not? I give myself to a man the way I take a drink of water. An hour later I've forgotten—is that what you think? Because that's how it seems to me! Damn you, William Vandam, you make me feel cheap!”

It made no more sense than it had at the start, but now he could hear the pain in her voice. He turned to face her. “You're the most wonderful thing that's happened to me for a long time, perhaps ever. Please forgive me for being a fool.” He took her hand in his own.

She looked toward the window, biting her lip, fighting back tears. “Yes, you are,” she said. She looked down at him and touched his hair. “You bloody, bloody fool,” she whispered, stroking his head. Her eyes spilled tears.

“I've such a lot to learn about you,” he said.

“And I about you.”

He looked away, thinking aloud. “People resent my equanimity—always have. Those who work for me don't, they like it. They know that when they feel like panicking, when they feel they can't cope, they can come to me and tell me about the dilemma; and if I can't see a way through it, I'll tell them what is the best thing to do, the lesser evil; and because I say it in a calm voice, because I see that it's a dilemma and I don't panic, they go away reassured and do what they have to do. All I do is clarify the problem and refuse to be frightened by it; but that's just what they need. However . . . exactly the same attitude often infuriates other people—my superiors, my friends, Angela, you . . . I've never understood why.”