Glenn Meade (18 page)

Deserters, dressed in navy uniforms
and driving stolen navy trucks, and good luck to them, I say. It smells to me
like it could be something along those lines.'

Costas frowned, rubbed his
moustache. 'I could never imagine Deacon getting involved in anything like
that.'

Salter looked round. 'And that's
the point. There's got to be much more to all this than meets the eye. Sure,
someone could be using Deacon to do their shopping. Only they're not hardened
criminals, or they'd deal direct with the likes of me. But whatever's going on it
definitely must be something big, especially with all that hardware involved.'

There was a sudden noticeable
glint in Salter's eyes, and Costas looked at him with a lopsided grin. 'I know
that look on your face, Reggie. You're up to something.'

Salter winked deviously, cracked
his knuckles. 'Not yet, old son. But I've got a funny feeling we could be on to
something interesting here. And it might be worth a lot more than three grand.'

Weaver studied the faces of the
two Arab men standing in front of him. They had been picked up that evening by
the Egyptian police and delivered to the Provost's office at the Kasr-el-Nil
barracks. One of the men was clean-shaven, the other had a ragged beard, and
they looked pathetic creatures as they stood there in handcuffs. Finally,
Weaver turned to Sanson and shook his head.

'You're sure?'

'Positive.'

Sanson nodded to the two sergeants
waiting at the door.

'Right, you can take them outside
for now.'

Weaver had known as soon as the
suspects were led into the room that neither was the man who had stabbed him.
Their faces bore no evidence of bruising, but even so he had carefully studied
both men, especially the bearded one, to be absolutely certain. When the
sergeants led the men out, Sanson sat down with a sigh, removed his cap, and
opened the folder in his hand.

'As regards the other four
suspects you picked from the lists of sympathisers, the police say one of them
- the Turkish businessman - moved back to Istanbul almost a year ago, another's
been serving a sentence in
Luxor
for theft, and a third had a watertight alibi.'

'What kind of alibi?'

'He's dead and buried. Stabbed
three months ago in a fight he picked with a British marine.'

'What about the last one?'

Sanson referred to the folder
before looking up. 'Don't hold your breath. The police have been trying to
arrest him for at least five months. He's a Moslem Brotherhood extremist,
wanted for attempted murder and arson - he took a pot shot at a Guards officer
and stabbed another, set fire to a couple of army trucks, and he's made himself
scarce ever since. The police have his home under watch and the word's out that
we want him, but the feeling is he's hiding out down south, in Assyut or
Luxor
.

They could be wrong, of course, he
could still be somewhere in the city.'

'Is there a chance he might be our
man?'

'Difficult to say. He's definitely
a Nazi sympathiser, and he's fond of using a knife. But Cairo Special Branch
are really a bit doubtful that he could be a German spy.'

Weaver slumped into a chair. 'So
we're back at square one.'

'It looks like it,' Sanson said,
dispirited, and slapped the file' on the table.

Weaver was beginning to despair.
Three days had passed without any leads turning up and he was exhausted, his
neck still hurting like hell. He tried to ignore the pain, needing to keep his
senses focused, but he knew they were fast running into a dead end.

The landlord had been interviewed
and told them that the tenant who rented the flat had given his name as Farid
Gabar, and had moved in almost nine months ago. He had always paid his rent on
time, but the only information he had offered about himself was that he worked
for a well-known cotton merchant in the
Old
Town
, and came from
Luxor
, but the landlord thought his accent
sounded Cairene. When questioned, the merchant and his staff claimed they had
never heard of Farid Gabar. A close watch was being kept on the premises just
in case he made an appearance, every cotton merchant in the city was being
visited by the police, and Gabar's details had been passed on to the
authorities in
Luxor
,
in the hope that something might turn up.

'Not that we should hold out much
hope,' Sanson had admitted. 'The name's probably an alias and he's unlikely to
have told the truth about coming from
Luxor
.'

They had gone over each of the
statements from Gabar's neighbours. The few who admitted they had even met him
said he kept to himself, and had never spoken to them. None could recall the
licence number of the motorcycle. Nothing else had turned up in the remainder
of the captured German papers, but they had made one important connection. The
Arab had moved into the flat six days after the date on the memo.

'We can't really assume we're
dealing with the same man, this chap
Phoenix
,
but it's a possibility,' Sanson commented.

'I've put in an urgent request to
Y Section to see if they can get a proper fix if our friend transmits again.
They're keeping a round-the-clock watch on the frequencies he used in the
past.'

There was a knock on the door and
a lieutenant poked his head round and said to Sanson, 'Phone call for you,
sir.'

Weaver walked over to the window
after Sanson left, and stood there for several minutes, watching a platoon
marching in through the barrack gates. There was a bustle of activity in the
camp. The Kasr-el-Nil barracks and
Camp
Huckstep
, the American
base, were bristling with extra troops, drafted in to help with conference
security. He knew the only hope they had now was if Besheeba transmitted again
and they had enough time to locate the signal. But that depended on him staying
on the air long enough, and to judge by his past performance this was unlikely.

He glanced at the wall clock.
Midnight.

He rubbed his eyes. He had barely
seen Helen in two days, apart from passing her briefly in the office. She had
asked him back to her flat that night, and despite the exhaustion creeping in
on him, and the pain still flooding his brain, he was looking forward to being
with her again. He found the pill bottle, was about to pop one in his mouth
when Sanson came back, looking pleased.

'Some good news for once. I think
we've found our memo writer. According to the POW detention lists, a Hauptmann
Manfred Berger of German military intelligence was captured six months ago in
Tunis
.'

'Where is he now?'

'At
Bitter
Lakes
.
I just telephoned - they've definitely got him, according to the camp
commander.'

Bitter
Lakes
was a two-hour drive south-east
of
Cairo
, a collection of salt lakes near
Suez
that was a cauldron
of heat and mosquitoes. Thousands of Axis nationals were interned there,
Germans and Italians, along with prisoners of war.

Weaver snapped to full attention,
his pain forgotten. 'When can we talk to him?'

Sanson picked up his cap. 'As soon
as we can get there.'

Baldy Reed was drunk. Not so drunk
that he couldn't walk back to barracks from the brothel he'd just visited, but
he didn't notice the olive-green staff car following him until it pulled into
the kerb and a burly man in uniform hopped out. 'Reggie wants a word.'

Reed swallowed, moved into the
back shadows of the car.

Salter sat there in military
disguise, a British major's uniform jacket draped over his shoulders. The car
pulled out. 'Baldy, old son. Sorry about the dramatics, but something urgent's
come up and I need your help.'

Reed wiped his sweating face. 'For
a bleeding minute there I thought I'd been nicked.'

Salter laughed. 'Not you, old son.
You're too careful.' He handed over a wad of notes. 'That's five hundred on
account.

Another five hundred for when the
job's done.'

Reed frowned. 'What job?'

When Salter told him what he
needed, Reed paled, suddenly sober, and moved to hand back the money. 'Jesus,
Reggie.

Military vehicles, weapons and
uniforms? I'd be getting in the deep end on that kind of thing, honest-'

Salter turned on him. 'You do as I
tell you, mate. And I want the lot within forty-eight hours.’

'Reggie, have a heart-'

The car halted, Salter shoved the
money into Reed's tunic, patted him on the cheek, and showed him the door.
'It's an important deal, old son. So just do as I ask. Otherwise those balls of
yours are going to be dangling on the end of some Arab's worry beads.'

Schellenberg came into the barrack
hut with Rachel just after seven that Wednesday morning. It was bitterly cold
and dark outside, the tiled stove in the corner going full blast, but it was
still freezing in the room.

'Time to meet the last member of
your team, gentlemen,' he announced, rubbing his hands briskly. 'Allow me to
introduce Fraulein Stern. From now on you'll know her as Maria Tauber, an
expert archaeologist and a displaced German Jew.' He turned to her. 'Major
Haider you already know. But for the purpose of the mission he's Paul Mallory,
an American professor of archaeology.

The papers he'll carry are
genuine, by the way. The real Mallory was captured by our troops in Sicily
three months ago - a lecturer with the American University in Cairo, helping
the US Army identify important Roman artifacts our troops liberated in North
Africa.' Schellenberg gestured to Kleist and Doring. 'These are the other two
gentlemen I told you about.

You'll know them as Karl Uder and
Peter Farnback, both South Africans.'

Kleist inclined his head, clicked
his heel, and grinned. 'A pleasure, I'm sure, Fraulein.'

Rachel pointedly ignored him, and
said to Schellenberg, 'If Major Haider is supposed to be an American, why isn't
he in uniform?’

Schellenberg smiled charmingly. 'A
good point, and I'm glad to see you're entering into the spirit of things, but
this has already been taken care of. A suitable medical condition was recorded
in the professor's papers, which meant he was unfit for army service. Now,
let's move things along.'

There were several
Gladstone
bags on the
table, and he handed one to each of them, then gave a set of identity papers to
Rachel. 'Your personal belongings, and your necessary documents.

I advise you again to thoroughly
familiarise yourself with the cover story you've been given. If you're stopped
and questioned on Egyptian soil, the slightest slip could cost you your life,
and those of the others. Now, everyone had better examine their belongings.'

They opened their bags. Inside
were clothes and personal items. Civilian desert kits with water canteens,
safari suits and broad-rimmed khaki hats, along with more conventional casual
attire. All of the clothing looking suitably well worn.

'I think you'll find the tailors
have done an excellent job with the alterations. The clothing and personal
items were all taken II from Allied prisoners and refugees in
North
Africa
, so they won't arouse suspicion if you're searched.
Sufficient quantities of currency will be given to you before you depart.'

Haider held up a carton of Lucky
Strikes he had removed I from his Gladstone bag. 'It seems you've remembered
everything.

Thoughtful of you.'

Schellenberg smiled. 'The German
variety would rather give I you away - so you'd better get used to them.
Egyptian brands are rather hard to come by in
Berlin
, as you can imagine. But these will
do just as well.' He helped himself to a pack of the American cigarettes,
tapped one from the box and lit it, then put his hands on his hips, all
business.

'Now, let's go over things one
more time. Just the necessary, salient facts that the Fraulein here will need
to be aware of. Then I'll leave you alone to go try on your outfits for size,
familiarise II yourselves with the maps and routes, and let you all get better
acquainted.’

Haider was studying a map of
Cairo
, Rachel by his
side, when Kleist came up behind them and gestured at the map. 'A long time
since I've been in that stinking hell-hole of a city. Not that I ever wanted to
see it again - it's a filthy mess.'

'A pity you only saw it that way,'
Haider answered dryly.

'You obviously missed out on over
six thousand years of history.

Perhaps you might have learned
something from it.'

'For what purpose? The real
history's happening here, in the Fatherland.' Kleist grinned. 'The Egyptian
women were all right, though, I'll give it that. Some of the best brothels I've
had the pleasure to frequent were in
Cairo
and
Alexandria
.

In my experience, the women you
pay for are always the best.'

'No doubt you're an expert in such
affairs.'

Kleist laughed. 'I think you could
say that.' He glanced over at Rachel. 'Schellenberg tells me you and the woman
already know each other.'

'What of it?'

This time Kleist looked blatantly
at Rachel, taking in her body, and leered. 'I'm looking forward to getting to
know the Fraulein better. I'll even admit that for a Jew she looks tempting.'

Haider rounded on him with a
steely look. 'Let's make one thing clear. You misbehave towards her in any way
and I'll personally put a bullet in you, understand?'

'Is that a threat, Haider?'

'Think of it as a friendly
warning. And I'd heed it if I were you.' As Haider moved to lead Rachel away,
Kleist suddenly grabbed him by the arm, pulled him round, leaned in close and
stared him in the face. 'Is that a fact, now?' The big SS man smirked, but his
eyes were hard and dangerous. 'Are you sure you can back it up?'

In an instant, Haider's knee
jerked up, hitting Kleist in the groin. Kleist doubled over in agony, then
Haider grabbed one of his arms, twisted it painfully hard, and pushed him
against the wall.

'Let go, for Christ's sake! You're
breaking my arm!'

'Next time, it'll be your head. We
might share the same rank, Kleist, but just remember who's in charge of this
part of the operation. So in future you'll accord me suitable respect as a
fellow officer and address me as Major. Is that understood?'

Kleist was white-faced with pain.
'Yes… Yes, Major. As you say, Major.'

Haider let go and pushed him away.
There was a frightening rage in Kleist's eyes, and Haider said quickly, 'I
really wouldn't pursue this any further. Not unless you want trouble. Another
outburst like that and you'll have Schellenberg's wrath to deal with, as well
as mine. Now get back to work.'

Kleist bit back his anger, and
went to join Doling.

Haider took Rachel's hand and led
her to the door. As they walked across the compound, he said, 'My apologies.
The man's a bully, who doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut. I'll have a
word with Schellenberg before the fool gets out of hand.

In the meantime, try to be very
careful when you're around him. He's a dangerous animal, likely to kill you if
you cross him.

If I had my way, he'd be thrown
off the mission, but unfortunately I don't have any say in the matter.'

'You don't have to stand up for
me.'

There was a hardness in her voice,
and Haider stopped, gently took her arm, and turned her round to face him. 'The
camp's completely changed you, hasn't it?' He raised a hand to her face. 'My
poor Rachel.'

She pulled away. 'I told you
before - don't touch me. And I don't need your protection. I can look after
myself And with that she turned abruptly and walked away.

Kleist stood at the barrack
window, feeling sick as he massaged his groin. He watched Haider and the woman
cross the compound.

There was murder in his eyes, and
at that moment his hatred was total and overwhelming, and went beyond all
reasoning.

Doling came up to him, and they
saw Rachel Stern walk away, leaving Haider alone, before he eventually moved
off.

'Cool bastard, isn't he? Still,
the woman doesn't seem all that happy about what he did. I would have thought
she'd be glad of someone playing the knight in shining armour.’

Kleist spat on the floor. 'Maybe
she's got a lot more sense than you'd think. Haider's typical of all those rich
fucking Prussian aristocrats. And arrogant with it.'

'That's his background?'

'Wouldn't you know. The same
toffee-nosed type who milked this country for fucking centuries, and kept the
peasants under their heels. My old man worked his arse ragged for that lot all
his life, and for what? A pittance and an early grave. If you ask me, the
Fuhrer should have done to them what he's done to the Jews. The likes of Haider
make me fucking sick.'

Doring grinned. 'So that's it? I
had the feeling it was something more personal. Still, he's able to look after
himself, I'll give him that. That's the first time I've ever seen anyone bruise
your balls and walk away alive.'

Kleist turned on him. 'Wipe that
fucking smirk off your face, or I'll wipe it off for you.'

Doring obeyed instantly. 'Sorry,
Herr Major.'

'I don't know what you find so
fucking funny. The Haiders of this world like to think they're above you and
me, but they've kept us down for too long. That type have a lesson to learn. I
didn't join the SS to have some arrogant Prussian bastard of the same rank
treat me like shit.'

'Have you got revenge in mind,
Major?'

'Don't worry, I'll think of
something.' A sinister grin spread over Kleist's face. 'And you can mark my
words, Haider will definitely get his when the time comes.'