World War II Thriller Collection (37 page)

Shut up.

He decided to risk a cigarette. He moved behind the hump to light it, then cupped it in his hand, army fashion, to hide the glow as he returned to his vantage point.

Five cigarettes later the car doors opened.

The cloud had cleared and the moon was out. The whole landscape was dark blue and silver, the complex shadow work of the pyre amids rising, out of shining sand. Two dark figures got out of the car and walked toward the nearest of the ancient tombs. Vandam could see that Elene walked with her arms folded across her chest, as if she were cold, or perhaps because she did not want to hold Wolff's hand. Wolff put an arm lightly across her shoulders, and she made no move to resist him.

They stopped at the base of the monument and talked. Wolff pointed upward, and Elene seemed to shake her head: Vandam guessed she did not want to climb. They walked around the base and disappeared. behind the pyramid.

Vandam waited for them to emerge on the other side. They seemed to take a very long time. What were they doing behind there? The urge to go and see was almost irresistible.

He could get to the car now. He toyed with the idea of sabotaging it, rushing back to the city, and returning with his team. But Wolff would not be here when Vandam got back; it would be impossible to search the desert at night; by the morning Wolff might be miles away.

It was almost unbearable to watch and wait and do nothing, but Vandam knew it was the best course.

At last Wolff and Elene came back into view. He still had his arm around her. They returned to the car, and stood beside the door. Wolff put his hands on Elene's shoulders, said something, and leaned forward to kiss her.

Vandam stood up.

Elene gave Wolff her cheek, then turned away, slipping out of his grasp, and got into the car.

Vandam lay down on the sand again.

The desert silence was broken by the roar of Wolff's car. Vandam watched it turn in a wide circle and take the road. The headlights came on, and Vandam ducked his head involuntarily, although he was well concealed. The car passed him, heading toward Cairo.

Vandam jumped up, wheeled his cycle onto the road and kicked the starter. The engine would not turn over. Vandam cursed: he was terrified he might have gotten sand in the carburetor. He tried again, and this time it fired. He got on and followed the car.

The moonlight made it easier for him to spot the holes and bumps in the road surface, but it also made him more visible. He stayed well behind Wolff's car, knowing there was nowhere to go but Cairo. He wondered what Wolff planned next. Would he take Elene home? If so, where would he go afterward? He might lead Vandam to his base.

Vandam thought: I wish I had that gun.

Would Wolff take Elene to his home? The man had to be staying somewhere, had to have a bed in a room in a building in the city. Vandam was sure Wolff was planning to seduce Elene. Wolff had been rather patient and gentlemanly with her, but Vandam knew that in reality he was a man who liked to get his way quickly. Seduction might be the least of the dangers Elene faced. Vandam thought: What wouldn't I give for a phone!

They reached the outskirts of the city, and Vandam was obliged to pull up closer to the car, but fortunately there was plenty of traffic about. He contemplated stopping and giving a message to a policeman, or an officer, but Wolff was driving fast, and anyway, what would the message say? Vandam still did not know where Wolff was going.

He began to suspect the answer when they crossed the bridge to Zamalek. This was where the dancer, Sonja, had her houseboat. It was surely not possible that Wolff was living there, Vandam thought, for the place had been under surveillance for days. But perhaps he was reluctant to take Elene to his real home, and so was borrowing the houseboat.

Wolff parked in a street and got out. Vandam stood his motorcycle against a wall and hurriedly chained the wheel to prevent theft—he might need the bike again tonight.

He followed Wolff and Elene from the street to the towpath. From behind a bush he watched as they walked a short distance along the path. He wondered what Elene was thinking. Had she expected to be rescued before this? Would she trust that Vandam was still watching her? Would she now lose hope?

They stopped beside one of the boats-Vandam noted carefully which one—and Wolff helped Elene onto the gangplank. Vandam thought: Has it not occurred to Wolff that the houseboat might be under surveillance? Obviously not. Wolff followed Elene onto the deck, then opened a hatch. The two of them disappeared below.

Vandam thought: What now? This was surely his best chance to fetch help. Wolff must be intending to spend some time on the boat. But supposing that did not happen? Suppose, while Vandam was dashing to a phone, something went wrong—Elene insisted on being taken home, Wolff changed his plans, or they decided to go to a nightclub?

I could still lose the bastard, Vandam thought.

There must be a policeman around here somewhere.

“Hey!” he said in a stage whisper. “Is anybody there? Police? This is Major Vandam. Hey, where are—”

A dark figure materialized from behind a tree. An Arab voice said: “Yes?”

“Hello. I'm Major Vandam. Are you the police officer watching the houseboat?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, listen. The man we're chasing is on the boat now. Do you have a gun?”

“No, sir.”

“Damn.” Vandam considered whether he and the Arab could raid the boat on their own, and decided they could not: the Arab could not be trusted to fight enthusiastically, and in that confined space Wolff's knife could wreak havoc. “Right, I want you to go to the nearest telephone, ring GHQ, and get a message through to Captain Jakes or Colonel Bogge, absolutely top priority: they are to come here in force and raid the houseboat immediately. Is that clear?”

“Captain Jakes or Colonel Bogge, GHQ, they are to raid the houseboat immediately. Yes, sir.”

“All right. Be quick!”

The Arab left at a trot.

Vandam found a position in which he was concealed from view but could still watch the houseboat and the towpath. A few minutes later the figure of a woman came along the path. Vandam thought she looked familiar. She boarded the houseboat, and Vandam realized she was Sonja.

He was relieved: at least Wolff could not molest Elene while there was another woman on the boat.

He settled down to wait.

THE ARAB WAS WORRIED. ‟Go TO THE NEAREST TELEPHONE,” THE ENGLISHMAN had said. Well, there were telephones in some of the nearby houses. But houses with phones were occupied by Europeans, who would not take kindly to an Egyptian—even a police officer—banging on their doors at eleven o'clock at night and demanding to use the phone. They would almost certainly refuse, with oaths and curses: it would be a humiliating experience. He was not in uniform, not even wearing his usual plainclothes outfit of white shirt and black trousers, but was dressed like a fellah. They would not even believe he was a policeman.

There were no public phones on Zamalek that he knew of. That left him only one option: to phone from the station house. He headed that way, still trotting.

He was also worried about calling GHQ. It was an unwritten rule for Egyptian officials in Cairo that no one ever voluntarily contacted the British. It always meant trouble. The switchboard at GHQ would refuse to put through the call, or they would leave the message until morning-then deny they had ever received it—or they would tell him to call back later. And if anything went wrong there would be hell to pay. How, anyway, did he know that the man on the towpath had been genuine? He did not know Major Vandam from Adam, and anyone could put on the uniform shirt of a major. Suppose it was a hoax? There was a certain type of young English officer who just loved to play practical jokes on well-meaning Egyptians.

He had a standard response to situations like this: pass the buck. Anyway, he had been instructed to report to his superior officer and no one else on this case. He would go to the station house and from there, he decided, he would call Superintendent Kemel at home.

Kemel would know what to do.

Elene stepped off the ladder and looked nervously around the interior of the houseboat. She had expected the decor to be sparse and nautical. In fact it was luxurious, if a little overripe. There were thick rugs, low divans, a couple of elegant occasional tables, and rich veilvet floor-to-ceiling curtains which divided this area from the other half of the boat, which was presumably the bedroom. Opposite the curtains, where the boat narrowed to what had been its stem, ways. a tiny kitchen with small but modern fittings.

“Is this yours?” she asked Wolff.

“It belongs to a friend,” he said. “Do sit down.”

Elene felt trapped. Where the hell was William Vandam? Several times during the evening she had thought there was a motorcycle behind the car, but she had been unable to look carefully for fear of alerting Wolff. Every second, she had been expecting soldiers to surround the car, arrest Wolff and set her free; and as the seconds turned into hours she had begun to wonder if it was all a dream, if William Vandam existed at all.

Now Wolff was going to the icebox, taking out a bottle of champagne, finding two glasses, unwrapping the silver foil from the top of the bottle, unwinding the wire fastening, pulling the cork with a loud pop and pouring the champagne into the glasses and
where the hell
was William?

She was terrified of Wolff. She had had many liaisons with men, some of them casual, but she had always trusted the man, always known he would be kind, or if not kind, at least considerate. It was her body she was frightened for: if she let Wolff play with her body, what kind of games would he invent? Her skin was sensitive, she was soft inside, so easy to hurt, so vulnerable lying on her back with her legs apart . . . To be like that with someone who loved her, someone who would be as gentle with her body as she herself, would be a joy—but with Wolff, who wanted only to use her body . . . she shuddered.

“Are you cold?” Wolff said as he handed her a glass.

“No, I wasn't shivering . . .”

He raised his glass. “Your health.”

Her mouth was dry. She sipped the cold wine, then took a gulp. It made her feel a little better.

He sat beside her on the couch and twisted around to look at her. “What a super evening,” he said. “I enjoy your company so much. You're an enchantress.”

Here it comes, she thought.

He put his hand on her knee.

She froze.

“You're enigmatic,” he said. “Desirable, rather aloof, very beautiful, sometimes naive and sometimes so knowing . . . will you tell me something?”

“I expect so.” She did not look at him.

With his fingertip he traced the silhouette of her face: forehead, nose, lips, chin. He said: “Why do you go out with me?”

What did he mean? Was is possible he suspected what she was really doing? Or was this just the next move in the game?

She looked at him and said: “You're a very attractive man.”

“I'm glad you think so.” He put his hand on her knee again, and leaned forward to kiss her. She offered him her cheek, as she had done once before this evening. His lips brushed her skin, then he whispered: “Why are you frightened of me?”

There was a noise up on deck—quick, light footsteps—and then the hatch opened.

Elene thought: William!

A high-heeled shoe and a woman's foot appeared. The woman came down, closing the hatch above her, and stepped off the ladder. Elene saw her face and recognized her as Sonja, the belly dancer.

She thought: What on earth is going on?

 

“All right, Sergeant,” Kemel said into the telephone. “You did exactly the right thing in contacting me. I'll deal with everything myself. In fact, you may go off duty now.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the sergeant. “Good night.”

“Good night.” Kemel hung up. This was a catastrophe. The British had followed Alex Wolff to the houseboat, and Vandam was trying to organize a raid. The consequences would be two-fold. First, the prospect of the Free Officers using the German's radio would vanish, and then there would be no possibility of negotiations with the Reich before Rommel conquered Egypt. Second, once the British discovered that the houseboat was a nest of spies, they would quickly figure out that Kemel had been concealing the facts and protecting the agents. Kemel regretted that he had not pushed Sonja harder, forced her to arrange a meeting within hours instead of days; but it was too late for regrets. What was he going to do now?

He went back into the bedroom and dressed quickly. From the bed his wife said softly: “What is it?”