Glenn Meade (34 page)

'Move!' And they ran across the
square towards the bazaar.

They ran through the bazaar's maze
of narrow streets, Haider frantically pushing people out of their way, knocking
over merchants' stalls.

It was a nightmare.

In the packed market, bodies
pressed in on them, and it was bedlam as they tried to keep moving. Ten minutes
later they had left the bustling alleyways behind and the human traffic had
thinned out. Haider slowed to a brisk walking pace, both of them out of breath.
He constantly checked over his shoulder but saw no one pursuing them, although
he knew it wouldn't last.

Moments later his dread was
justified.

The high-pitched whine of a
motorcycle approached. He pulled Rachel into a foul-smelling lane. 'Don't move.
Stay absolutely still.'

An MP motorcycle rider suddenly
roared by, quickly followed by another. Haider waited until they had driven
past, then peered out into the alleyway. He wiped a mask of sweat from his
face. 'I think we've given them the slip for now. But we can't stay here. Take
my arm, like we're out for a stroll.'

They left the lane and eventually
found their way once more into busy back streets, heading towards the seafront,
and ten minutes later came out on to the Corniche. Haider saw no sign of the
checkpoint they'd seen earlier, and he led Rachel to one of the benches on the
promenade.

He saw the strain on her face. 'We
can't stay here for long.

And the longer we hang around in
broad daylight, the more likely we are to get caught.'

'What can we do?'

'You can bet Harry and his friends
will seal off every exit road after what's happened, so it's pointless even
trying to make it to Rashid. Once it's dark we'll have to try and slip out of
the city, across the desert. It's about the only hope we have.'

'Why Rashid?'

'I forgot. You didn't know.' He
explained about the boat. 'It was meant to be a bolthole in case we ran into
trouble. Except it's not much use to us now.'

'But you said trying to cross the
desert would be suicidal.'

'I'm afraid we don't have much
choice.' He consulted the map. 'If we could steal a suitable vehicle, a truck
maybe, and find a gap in the army cordon, we might get lucky. They can hardly
surround the entire city. It's too sprawling, and they just wouldn't have the
manpower. So there's bound to be a gap or two somewhere. The problem is finding
one.'

'And what happens in the
meantime?'

'We'll need somewhere secure to
stay until tonight, while we work things out.' Haider stood, looked down at
her.

Suddenly she looked very
vulnerable and childlike. 'I'm sorry, Rachel. Sorry you ever got involved in
this mess.'

'What - what happened back at the
station with Harry. I still can't quite believe it. It's like a nightmare. I'm
still shaking inside.'

He put a hand gently to her face,
with a sober look that suggested he was trying to contain his own emotions. The
too.

But let's not talk about it now.
Please.'

Across the sunny Corniche an
endless line of hotels, lodging houses and brothels stretched down the curve of
the seafront. The buildings were very British, late Victorian and with steps
leading up, but most were run-down and in need of repair.

Rachel looked over at them. 'The
army's bound to search the hotels and lodging houses. Nowhere's going to be
safe.'

Haider forced a valiant smile.
'True.' The smile vanished and his face became more serious. 'But I have an
idea. It's a bit drastic, and probably our only hope, but it just might work if
we can both endure the embarrassment.'

It was hard to believe that
Gabrielle Pirou had once been one of the most desired women in
Marseilles
. Her sixty-year-old face was
heavily rouged, her lips were a slash of red lipstick, some of it smeared on
her teeth, and she walked with a pronounced limp.

The only reminder of her past
beauty was her slim figure and her sensuous Mediterranean eyes, but even they
had become corrupted with age, witness to every sexual vice imaginable.

The French toy poodle clasped to
her ample bosom yapped as Gabrielle clicked her fingers, assembling her girls
in front of the group of men who stood around the brothel salon. 'Quiet, Donny,
mon cheri,' she admonished the dog. 'Can't you see the gentlemen are trying to
make up their minds?'

The 'gentlemen' in question were
four Allied officers who had dropped in after a bout of drinking in a local
bar. The 'girls' were a mixture of European and Arab, some in harem dress,
low-cut sequinned tops and loose, see-through pants, others wearing pencil
skirts and revealing blouses. All were very pretty, two were exquisitely
beautiful, and every one of them oozed sex. They smiled and giggled at the
officers and playfully displayed their bodies, hinting at what could be enjoyed
in the bedrooms upstairs, 'Well, gentlemen, aren't you very glad you visited?
The ladies are tres enchanting, n'est-cepas?' Gabrielle still spoke with a
heavy accent, her sentences sprinkled with her native French.

She flicked ash from her ivory cigarette
holder, some of it landing on her blouse and her poodle.

The British officer standing
beside her coughed politely. 'Yes - yes they are, rather.'

'And all are positively clean, I
promise you. The doctor comes once a month.' Gabrielle smiled mischievously.
'He's a fastidious man, the doctor, absolutely fanatical about hygiene, so I m
certain discerning gentlemen like yourselves can rest assured.'

The officers smiled nervously.
They were certainly a little drunk, but more than polite. Gabrielle always preferred
officers to enlisted men; they usually didn't drink themselves legless, argue
the price or abuse the girls, not like some of the enlisted soldiers, who
behaved like drunken savages, so she wanted to give her customers the best of
attention and ensure their return.

A French officer, middle-aged and
overweight, cleared his throat and whispered, 'Would madam have two ladies
available?'

Gabrielle smiled charmingly, glad
to double her profit.

Whatever the customer wanted, she
provided. 'But of course, whatever monsieur wishes. Madam Pirou caters to every
desire.'

The officers began to pair off
with the girls, moving to sit in the comfortable red velvet chairs scattered
around the pleasantly decorated salon. Gabrielle relaxed, her work done.

She had come to Alex twenty years
ago to open her own salon, far from her brutish French pimp who'd left her a
cripple.

Now she was madame of one of the
best, a deluxe brothel along the seafront, with a reputation for catering to a
discerning clientele. And it had proved extremely profitable, especially I
since the war. Battle-weary troops, hot-blooded and missing wives and
girlfriends, panted for sex and company. Business was positively booming.

The doorbell rang out in the
hallway. Gabrielle clutched her poodle, gave a regal wave to one of the girls,
and hobbled out of the room. 'I'll attend to the door, Suzette. Pour some
refreshments for the gentlemen.
Champagne
if they wish. See they're I treated royally before the ladies take them
upstairs.'

When she opened the front door,
she received a mild surprise. It wasn't often a couple visited her salon, but
it was by no means unusual. A man and a woman stood on the steps. They were a
handsome pair, and she smiled politely. ' Qui? Can I help you?'

The man looked apprehensive. 'A
friend suggested we visit your establishment.'

Gabrielle thought: L'amour is
never simple. Occasionally, adventurous Bohemian couples liked to indulge in a
threesome with one of her girls. Usually they were either rich, the husband
sexually bored, or the wife had lesbian tendencies, and sometimes all three.
This couple didn't look rich, just anxious, but so long as they could pay and
didn't harm the girls, they could play whatever bedroom games they wished.

'Please, step inside. We're rather
busy this afternoon. I'm not sure you can be accommodated right away.'

Gabrielle led them into a lounge
off the hall, brightly decorated with several vases of flowers and tasteful,
erotic Arab wall prints. She looked at the woman. Very pretty, but a little too
much make-up. She prided herself on her judgment of human nature, and usually
the eyes told her everything she needed to know, but this one she couldn't
figure out at all. Her eyes were unfathomable. The man's were easier to read:
honest enough, and he had the look of a military man, despite his civilian
clothes.

'Don't be afraid to tell Madam
Pirou what it is you desire.' Gabrielle offered a friendly smile, anxious to
make the couple feel at ease. 'We cater to all tastes. So long as one can pay.'

It was a gentle question, not a
statement, and the man nodded. 'Of course.'

'And how can madam help you?'

The man faltered, still uneasy,
but definitely trying to hide it.

'We'd like to spend the evening
with a discerning lady. A private room, of course.'

'Ah, something to add a little
spice to your love life?'

Gabrielle raised her eyes. 'But
that's a rather long time.'

'Money isn't a problem.'

Gabrielle brightened at the
prospect of a handsome profit.

'Then I'm certain we can
accommodate madame and monsieur.

One of my most pleasant young
ladies will be available shortly.

She is very comfortable in such
situations - tres sensitive and rather beautiful. Unless, of course, you would
prefer to choose a different girl?'

'No. That would be fine.'

The lady will request five Egyptian
pounds an hour for her services.'

'How long can we stay?'

Gabrielle gave a tittering laugh
as she waved her hand. 'As long as you wish, cheri, providing you pay in
advance. Now, if you'd come this way, I shall arrange a private room and a
bottle of champagne. On the house, of course. The young lady will join you
shortly and you can enjoy your evening undisturbed.'

Weaver stood alone at the window
in Myers's office.

He felt numb, as if he had just
recovered from an anaesthetic.

His mouth was dry, and there was a
gloss of sweat on his forehead. Outside on the barrack square, dozens of armed
troops were climbing into covered trucks. He watched as Myers and several other
officers directed the men. A massive search was about to begin, covering the
entire city.

Weaver came away from the window,
sat at the desk, and put his head in his hands, suddenly overcome with anguish
and confusion. If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn't have
believed it. The couple outside the station were Jack Haider and Rachel Stern.
And there wasn't a shred of doubt in his mind: they were the same pair who had
fooled the sergeant that morning.

None of it made any sense, none at
all. The whole thing was totally insane. His body was shaking, and he was still
in shock.

The dead didn't get up and walk,
and yet he'd seen the dead. He'd seen Rachel.

He remembered the look of surprise
on her face the instant he saw her. A face he'd recalled in his mind every day
for the last four years, a face he'd wept over, remembering. At that moment, he
had convinced himself he was dreaming, or that he'd seen her double. But when
he saw Jack Haider, standing there in the flesh, saw him shoot Sanson and the
two plainclothes MPs, he knew he wasn't hallucinating.

The question raged inside his
head: How was it possible?

What had happened at the station
was a disaster. Sanson and two men wounded, one of them still in the operating
theatre at the
French
Hospital
, a bullet lodged
in his chest. Haider and Rachel had escaped in the chaos. He had pursued them
into the crowded alleyways, searched the area for almost an hour, but they'd
vanished like ghosts. Afterwards, he had even doubted his own sanity, but there
were witnesses and there were wounded. The incident wasn't a figment of his
imagination. He shook his head in utter confusion, a terrible hollow feeling in
the pit of his stomach that made him want to throw up. He felt palpitations in
his chest.

There was a knock on the door. A
corporal came in, saluted.

'Phone call for you, sir.'

'Put it through. And tell Captain
Myers I'd like to see him when he's finished outside.' The phone rang moments
later. He picked it up. 'Lieutenant-Colonel Weaver.'

'Hello, Harry. Can you talk?'

He heard Helen Kane's voice.
Instead of being glad to hear her, he felt his heart sink.

'Helen,' he said hoarsely.

'You sound strange. Is everything
all right?'

'Yes. Everything's fine,' he lied.

'I just called to say hello. That
I miss you. And to ask if you'd made any progress with the Dakota.'

Weaver didn't reply, his mind
still in turmoil.

'I'm not interrupting anything, am
I, Harry?'

'Look, I'm busy, Helen,' he said
shortly. 'Can we talk later?'

There was silence at the other
end. He was certain she was hurt by his abruptness, and he felt bad. But Rachel
was alive, and at that moment he couldn't think of anything else. 'I'm sorry.

You've caught me at a bad time.'

'Of- of course. I understand.
Goodbye, Harry.'

The line clicked dead.

He tried to compose himself when
Myers came in. 'The men are ready, sir, and we're rounding up everyone we can
to help with the search. The police are calling on every hotel and lodging
house in the city, and they've been warned to be extra careful.

The couple can't have gone far.
We'll scour Alex until we find them.'

The captain sounded confident, but
Weaver knew it wasn't going to be easy. Egypt's second city teemed with
refugees of all nationalities. As in Cairo, there were hundreds of cheap hotels
and lodging houses that didn't even bother to register guests. It would take
days to search them all thoroughly. 'Any word about Lieutenant-Colonel Sanson?'

'He's still being attended to at
the hospital.' The captain glanced out at the last of the men climbing into the
trucks. 'I'd better get under way. Will you be joining us, sir?'

'As soon as I've called at the
hospital. If anything turns up, contact me by radio immediately.'

The captain saluted, turned to go,
and Weaver said, 'One more thing.'

'Sir?'

'Try and take the couple alive.
Pass the word to your men.'

The captain looked astonished.
'That might not be an option, or even wise, especially after what's happened.'

'You heard me. Alive, if at all
possible. Give them every chance to surrender. That's an order.'

The captain frowned. 'May I ask
why, sir?'

'I have my reasons,' Weaver said
simply.

'I'll do what I can,' the captain
said grimly. 'But they've already killed two officers, not to mention wounding
three others. If it comes to the worst, I can't put the lives of my men at risk.'

The casualty room in the French
Hospital was empty except for Hanson, who was being attended to in a cubicle by
a doctor and a nurse. Weaver waited until they'd finished and Sanson appeared
from behind the curtain. His right hand was heavily bandaged and he looked
pale.

'How do you feel?'

Sanson produced a pack of
cigarettes, lit one with difficulty.

'Like Boris Karloff, playing the
Mummy. Still, I've got all my fingers intact, which is something.' He studied
Weaver. 'We need to talk, somewhere private.'

He nodded towards a whitewashed
veranda with a couple of wooden benches, and led the way outside. They sat.
'You're acquainted with the couple at the station, aren't you, Weaver?'

He said palely, 'How did you
know?'

Sanson pulled on his cigarette. 'I
saw your faces. The three of you looked like you'd seen Lazarus rise from the
dead. Besides, the man said he knew you.'

'What do you mean?'

Sanson explained. 'I think you'd
better tell me what the hell's going on, Weaver.'

Weaver told him how he knew Haider
and Rachel. It took several minutes to explain everything and Sanson sat there,
showing no reaction, until he had finished. Then the Englishman stood and
sighed.

'It's quite a coincidence. But
Haider's presence is the kind of coincidence I can understand. He speaks fluent
Arabic and he's familiar with Egypt. He also speaks English like a native,
obviously has no trouble impersonating a British officer, and I can vouch that
his American accent was flawless. He's probably Abwehr, or with one of the
specialist German commando forces, so it's hardly surprising he's involved. But
it's the girl that really baffles me. Considering what you just said, she
shouldn't even be alive.'

'I don't understand either.'
Weaver shook his head, totally perplexed. 'None of it makes any sense.'

'What was the name of the ship
that sank?'

'The Izmir.'

'And you're quite sure it was the
same woman?'

'Positive.'

'I'll have the Izmir story checked
out. On the surface, it seems highly unlikely that someone with a Jewish
background would be helping the Germans, unless she's been forced to. But
there's always another possibility.’

'What?'

'She wasn't who she said she was
in the first place. The German-Jewish thing was a cover, and she was working
for the Nazis all along - probably your friend Haider was too.'

Weaver said angrily, 'Look,
Sanson, I don't know what the hell's going on here, or why they're both
involved. But I know one thing for certain. Rachel Stern and her family were
totally anti-Nazi. And I've known Haider's family all my life - they were never
Nazis.'

Sanson tossed his cigarette on to
the veranda, crushed it with his shoe. 'Let me tell you something, Weaver.
Before this war started, military intelligence and the Egyptian police kept
watch on anyone suspected of being a foreign spy or agent. The Germans sent
quite a number of their intelligence people over here, posing as tourists or
international salesmen, or on the pretence of being archaeological experts.
They were feeling out fascist sympathies among the Egyptians and making useful
contacts for later use. The reasons should be obvious. They knew North Africa
would be part of any future conflict - on the route to the Middle East
oilfields, it had to be. The Italians played the same intelligence game. There
were even a number of Americans operating here undercover, working for your
State Department.'

Weaver shook his head. 'There's no
way Jack Haider or Rachel Stern were spies. I'd stake my life on it.'

'I really wouldn't if I were you.
Not until we find out if the police knew anything about either of them back
then. We can all keep our secrets well hidden, if we need to. And your friend
Haider seems a very capable man. Handy with a gun, fluent in several languages,
and a killer into the bargain. Quite a deadly combination all round. But at
least we know what we're dealing with.'

I can't believe Haider murdered
those officers in cold blood.'

'Somebody did. And I mean to find
them. Haider and the woman might have company, but so far we've no evidence of
that. And there's no question they're anything but enemy agents.' Sanson stood,
added briskly, 'What's happening with the search?’

Weaver told him. Sanson considered
for a moment. 'You'd better have every church, mosque, alms-house and brothel
visited as well. I wouldn't dismiss anywhere that's a likely refuge.

Even if we have to tear this city
apart, we're going to catch them.'

Weaver wiped perspiration from his
brow. Sanson came over and felt his forehead, looked into his eyes. 'Your
adrenalin level's as high as a ruddy kite. You'll need a shot of something to
calm you down.'

'I'll be OK.'

'No you won't, Weaver. You're
badly stressed.' Sanson turned to go. 'I'll fetch the doctor.'

'What's going to happen when we
find them?'

Sanson looked back. 'I think you
already know the answer to that. They might have been your friends once, but
now they're the enemy and they've got blood on their hands. There's a list of
charges a mile long. Provocateurs, impersonating a British officer, not to
mention murdering two others, wounding three more and resisting arrest. I'm
sure there's a lot more a military court could sling at them. And God only
knows what they intended before we were on to them.' Sanson shook his head.

'Let's face it, Weaver. Even
assuming we don't kill them first and they're captured alive, it's the
hangman's noose for the pair of them. They'll be strung up so high the buzzards
won't reach them. That I can promise you.'