Glenn Meade (24 page)

The
village
of
Nazlat
as-Saman was no more than a collection of mud-brick houses and ramshackle shops
along a dusty main street. The pyramids stood several hundred yards away, and
the village existed only because of the tiny shops selling trinkets and an
assortment of inferior leather goods to visiting tourists.

Harvey Deacon's car was covered in
dust, and as soon as he halted, a half-dozen ragged, barefoot village children
crowded round the Packard. He beckoned the toughest-looking boy and gave him
ten piastres.

'You get another ten when I
return. Allow anyone to touch my car and I'll cut your ears off.'

Deacon patted the boy's cheek and
turned into a flagged courtyard with a couple of fig trees on either side. It
brought him to the far end of the village. He walked across the unpaved road
towards the pyramids. The ancient site was on a plateau, with a sweeping view
of the
Nile
valley, and he started to walk up
the incline, past a scattered herd of goats cropping at the sparse grass near
the edge of the desert. He noticed that sandbags were still in place in front
of the Sphinx, shielding the human face of the ancient god of death, a blast
wall built by the British to protect the monument from German aerial bombing.

The site was busy. Several
military staff cars and a dozen or more horse-drawn gharries were parked near
by. Groups of American GIs and British squaddies who had travelled out from the
city in the hired gharries were having their photographs taken sitting on
Bedouin camels, while dozens of officers and civilians wandered among the
ancient mastabas - large rectangular stones that marked the tombs of the
pharaohs' nobles and royal princesses - pestered endlessly by local villagers
trying to sell them trinkets and paper fans, or offering their services as
guides. Most of the tombs dated from the fourth and fifth dynasties, in the
third millennium BC. Deacon knew that many had already been excavated, but the
work was painfully slow and ongoing, and groups of Arab students and
archaeologists were still busily digging among the ruins of several.

There were no troops guarding any
part of the site; the only military presence was the off-duty soldiers. He
walked further up the incline and halted near the top. To the south he could
make out the distant outline of the
Sakkara
pyramids. He shielded his eyes from the strong sun and stood there, pretending
to admire the view down to the
Nile
. When he
was sure no one was watching him, he turned casually towards the north.

The Mena House compound lay below,
less than half a kilometer away. He stared hard at the view, made a careful
mental note of everything he could see - the outline of the perimeter, the
machinegun emplacements, and the daunting sight of several tanks and armoured
cars parked in front of the hotel entrance. He would add any differences he
spotted to the observation notes he had already made over the last few days,
and that night he would send off his signal, informing
Berlin
he was ready.

What happened at the Imperial
still bothered him, but he had made up his mind that it wouldn't deflect his
work. He still couldn't understand how the army had located Hassan - it had to
have been luck, or chance - but he reasoned that they'd have their work cut out
from now on trying to find him. There was nothing to link Tarik Nasser back to
either of them. And the man was safely out of the way - dead from a heart
attack. A phone call to the hotel on the pretence of booking a room, and a few
gentle questions posed to the gullible clerk who answered, had told him enough
to figure out what had happened. Feeling reasonably pleased with himself, he
walked back down to the village.

The boy was still there,
scratching himself as he sat in the sun, guarding the Packard. Deacon tossed
him another ten piastres, climbed in, started the engine, and headed south for
Shabramant airfield.

When Weaver returned to GHQ, he
went to his office and sat at his desk, totally confused. The handful of staff
at the Imperial had been thoroughly questioned, and it was obvious they knew
nothing about Gabar. The room had been searched and no personal effects had
been found. There were no clues, nothing more to go on that might help them.
Briggs had barely glimpsed the Arab climbing on to the roof from the fire
escape - or at least he thought it was him - except to note that the man
appeared to be wearing a suit, not a djellaba, and he hadn't got a look at his
face before he challenged him and fired two warning shots.

None of the guests who had been
questioned had admitted seeing anyone resembling Gabar. But Weaver knew it had
to be him.

The city brothels were being
visited by the police, as well as the alms-houses, and the army was mounting
mobile checkpoints in every district, but time was running out, fast. He
glanced at his desk, at the mound of paperwork he'd been ignoring for the last
five days. His eye caught sight of the photograph taken at
Sakkara
,
and for no particular reason he picked it up, looked at the faces of Rachel
Stern and Jack Haider.

It all seemed such a long time
ago, and a happier time.

'Get out of this black mood,
Harry,' he scolded himself. He replaced the photograph on his desk and pressed
the intercom.

Helen Kane came in. 'What's
happening with the checks on the hotels, Helen?'

'They were completed this
afternoon.’

'And?'

'I'm afraid there's been nothing.
They've drawn a blank.'

Weaver sighed. He could think of
nothing else to do. He was exhausted, had barely slept or eaten since returning
from
Bitter
Lakes
. 'Where's Lieutenant-Colonel
Sanson?'

'He left word to say he's gone to
RAF GHQ. It's something to do with the air patrols the general spoke about. He
said he shouldn't be long.'

Weaver's neck hurt but he didn't
want to take any more morphine. It made him drowsy, and it became difficult to
think straight. 'The files on Arab sympathisers, I want to have a look at them
again. I guess we'll have to skip dinner. Unless we try the Kalafa? Then we can
come back here and trawl through the files together.'

The Kalafa was only a street away.
The food wasn't up to much and the cheap restaurant was usually packed with
military staff, but Helen Kane smiled at the offer. 'I'll leave word with the
duty officer where we'll be, in case anything comes in.'

Deacon observed the airfield as he
drove past the approach road.

There was no proper fence, just a
barbed-wire perimeter, no more than a meter and a half high, and he could see
the dirt runway with a couple of barrack huts and two hangars near by, two old
Gloster Gladiators and another biplane of some sort parked on the tarmac.

It was his second journey out to
Shabramant in the last three days, and nothing had changed. The two sentry huts
at the entrance were still manned by a pair of Royal Egyptian Air Force
privates, sitting in the shade out of the blazing sun, swatting away flies with
their paper fans. They looked up lazily as Deacon drove by, barely showing
interest.

Apart from a couple of mechanics
tinkering away at one of the planes, there appeared to be little activity on
the airfield. He knew from Captain Rahman that it was used mainly for training
flights - there were no navigational aids, and during the day the place was
never manned by more than two dozen men. At night even less. By 6 p.m. and
usually earlier, all of the officers had returned to
Cairo
, while only half a dozen soldiers
remained behind on sentry duty. Deacon knew that even then, security was
pathetic. According to Rahman, some of the guards had a habit of disappearing
into the local town after hours, or cycling home to the city for the night.

The airfield was perfect - a
straight run from there to
Giza
and the Mena House, a distance of no more than five miles. The question was,
could it be safely secured and held until the SS paratroops landed, and without
alerting trouble?

Deacon drove past the field and on
for two miles towards the dusty little town of Shabramant, where he wasted
twenty minutes buying fresh vegetables in the local market, then did a U-turn
and came back, heading towards Cairo as the sun began to set.

When he was almost past the
airfield again, he had to halt for several minutes until a wizened old man
herded some goats across his path, ushering them towards the rolling, parched
landscape across the road from the camp. As Deacon sat there patiently, he used
the time to etch again in his mind everything he could see, to verify the notes
and drawings he had already made from memory: the distance from the sentry
posts to the barrack huts, the hangar and airfield; the overhead telephone
lines that ran up from the village, and the radio aerial on top of one of the
buildings.

But what he failed to see was the
motorcyclist who had followed him at a good distance from
Cairo
, and stopped a safe five hundred yards
behind, observing the Packard through a pair of powerful British army field
glasses.

The Kalafa was busy, but they got
a table near the door. The food was lousy - greasy and overcooked - and as they
finished their coffee, Weaver said, 'I guess we haven't seen much of each other
these last few days. I'm sorry, Helen.’

'Don't be.' She put a hand on his.
'When this is over, we'll make up for it.'

The restaurant door opened and
Sanson strode up to their table. 'There you are, Weaver. Could you excuse us
for a moment, Helen? I'd like a private word.'

She blushed, took her hand away.
'Of course. I'd better be getting back anyway.' She looked at Weaver,
embarrassed. 'I'll get those files ready for you, sir.'

When she left, Sanson removed his
cap, placed it on the table, and took her chair. 'All very cosy. I'm surprised
you have time for that sort of thing in a crisis like this.'

'We came to eat. What's on your
mind?'

'I've spoken with RAF command.
They'll let us know immediately if anything turns up. One of us had better stay
in the office overnight, in case anything comes in. I thought I'd allow you the
honor.'

'What about Gabar?'

'At this stage, all we can hope
for is that the checkpoints and the brothel and alms-house searches turn up something.'
Sanson looked bothered. 'One other thing. I take it you had a chat with the
general?'

'That's right.'

'Good. Then you'll be absolutely
clear about your role from now on. This is a harsh war, Weaver, and whatever
tactics I deem necessary are my business. If you don't like it, by all means
take it up with your superiors, but you don't ever countermand my orders again,
especially in front of a prisoner. Is that plain enough?'

'It couldn't be plainer.'

Sanson picked up his cap. 'I'll be
at my flat catching up on some sleep if you need me. Otherwise, you'll see mg
bright and early.' He stared at Weaver. 'I really do hope everything's crystal
clear. If by any slim chance the Germans manage to get this team of theirs past
our air defenses, it'll be our job to hunt them down. Kill them if we have to.
The last person I need on my side is an officer who's not prepared to follow
orders and do his duty.'

The Dakota came in over the sea
and touched down at Practica di Mare military aerodrome on the coast just after
seven that evening. It turned off the runway and taxied towards a large hangar.
The doors were open and the inside was lit by powerful Klieg lamps, the area
around it guarded by half a dozen armoured troop carriers filled with crack SS
troops.

Once the plane rolled inside,
Falconi cut the engines and the hangar doors were shut. A half-dozen Luftwaffe
mechanics immediately made busy, preparing to give the aircraft a final check,
while a paint crew set about rigging up metal gantries to paint American
markings on the fuselage and wings. Haider noticed that two other identical
Dakota aircraft were already parked inside, freshly painted in desert
camouflage and bearing US decals.

Schellenberg led his fellow
passengers down the metal steps and across the hangar to a private office that
served as a rest room. There was a table and some easy chairs, half a dozen
crew bunks, and refreshment of sandwiches and real, freshly made coffee. The
co-pilot and Falconi followed them in, and the Italian beamed when he smelled
the aroma.

'Real coffee. I don't believe it.
You've really outdone yourself, Walter. I just hope this isn't some kind of
ominous Last Supper?’

'Let's hope not, so enjoy it while
you can.'

Falconi filled a cup and swallowed
a mouthful. 'My God, that's good. You can keep that lousy ersatz stuff they
serve in
Berlin
.
I suppose there's no chance of a few free hours to visit the
Eternal
City
?'

'Absolutely not. You're confined
to base.'

Falconi smiled. 'A pity. There's a
certain young lady I wouldn't mind seeing again.' He took a handful of
sandwiches and headed towards the door with his co-pilot. 'Try and save some
more coffee for Remer and me while we go and check the latest weather reports.'

When Falconi and Remer had left,
an SS adjutant entered and saluted. 'Signal for you, Herr General.'

Schellenberg stuck his riding crop
under his arm, tore open the flimsy, read the contents, then dismissed the
adjutant. 'You may leave, there's no reply. But you'd better find Colonel
Skorzeny and tell him we've arrived.'

'I believe the colonel is already
on his way, Herr General.'

'Excellent.' Schellenberg took
Haider aside and said to the others, 'And now, please enjoy the refreshments
while I have a private word with the major.'

He led Haider across the hangar
floor to a private office at the back which overlooked the darkened sea in the
near distance, closed the door and placed his briefcase on the desk. ¦'

'What's up?' Haider asked.

'I had thought I might be able to
bring you better news, but our U-boats have still failed to intercept
Roosevelt
's battleship.

The latest indications are that it
passed through the
Gibraltar
Straits
yesterday
evening, but the convoy accompanying- it is heavily armed and altered course so
frequently it- again proved impossible to get anywhere close enough to torpedo
the vessel.

By my reckoning, the President
should reach Cairo within the next forty-eight hours, even allowing for any
stop-offs on the way.'

'So that's it. We definitely go
in.'

Schellenberg nodded. 'All we need
now is a signal confirming we're all clear for the drop, which I'm anticipating
shortly.' He unlocked his briefcase. 'I told you there was another reason
Rachel Stern is a vital part of the mission, and now it's time you knew. As
you're probably well aware, the ancient Egyptians had a fondness for secret
passages. A practice, I'm told, that has continued until modern times. They say
all of
Cairo
is
a warren of secret tunnels.'

'What about it?'

'While you were in
Egypt
in '39, there was a rather interesting and
important discovery at the site of the
Giza
pyramids, not far from the Mena House. A secret passageway was uncovered, one
that led towards Cheops pyramid. It seems most of the passageway forms part of
a natural underground cavern, and the rest of it "was burrowed out by
grave-robbers in ancient times.'

I Haider frowned. 'I never heard
about that.'

'For a very good reason, which I'll
explain in a moment. You recall your dig at
Sakkara
?'

'Of course. Why?'

'The passageway I refer to was
discovered by Professor Stern.

His wife and daughter worked with
him on the excavation. But they kept it a family secret.'

Haider looked totally surprised.
'How do you know all this?'

'I told you, Jack, I always do my
homework thoroughly. The professor's notes and maps were found in his
possession when the Kriegsmarine picked him up. The truth came out during his
interrogation by the Gestapo.'

'You're sure Rachel was involved?'

'Positive. The professor intended
to return to
Egypt
after the
war and continue the work at
Giza
.
Rather sly of him, don't you think?'

'And how is this passageway going
to help us?'

Schellenberg raised his shoulders.
'I don't know that it can exactly, not until you see it for yourself and
decide, but it certainly suggests an interesting strategy if all else fails.
One which just might help Skorzeny's men to mount their attack with a strong
element of surprise.'

'Skorzeny's been told about the
tunnel?’

'Of course. It was necessary for
him to know exactly what tactics he might have to work with.' Schellenberg took
out a tattered map and spread it on the table. It showed the
Giza
pyramids and the surrounding area. 'The
map belonged to the professor. The passageway entrance lies somewhere here,
about two hundred meters from Cheops pyramid. It ends under the tomb of an
unknown noble, but for some reason the professor found the burial place to be
undisturbed. He was looking forward to excavating the tomb, and seemed to think
it might have led to an important find, but war broke out and he never got the
chance to complete his work.'

'You still haven't told me where
all this is leading.'

'According to Professor Stern, the
Mena House was originally a royal hunting lodge. Thousands of years before
that, it may have been the site of an encampment for the stonemasons and
craftsmen who toiled on the pyramids. Stern considered it possible that certain
of the workmen somehow discovered the natural cavern, and might have been
greedy and daring enough to risk their lives by using it to help them burrow
into the pharaoh's tomb and try to steal the immense riches in gold and jewels
contained there, or have grave-robbers try and do it for them.

'All entirely irrelevant, of
course, except that used in reverse, the passageway may help you gain entrance
to the compound area or, with luck, close to the hotel itself. But you can't
know for certain unless the tunnel is opened again and explored.

Besheeba confirmed in his report
last night that there's still some archaeological activity going on at Giza,
which means you may be able to use your cover story to examine the site.' He
looked at Haider. 'What's wrong? You look troubled by something.'

'Now you mention it, I seem to
remember the professor’s and his wife had a fondness for disappearing at
night.'

Schellenberg grinned. 'There you
are, then. You should know by now you can't trust anyone. But you'd better say
nothing to Fraulein Stern for now. At least not until you reach
Cairo
, and the need
arises for her help. Well, what do you think?'

Haider shrugged. 'It might be of
use. But a lot will depend on how heavily guarded the area is, and the condition
of the tunnel.'

'You'll have to do infinitely
better than that, Jack. I told you, this can't fail. We need to know precisely
where we stand before Skorzeny's paratroops can go in. Memorise what you can of
the map. You can't take it with you for obvious reasons, in case you're stopped
and searched, but the Fraulein will have remembered the details, you can be
sure of it.'

As Haider studied the map, there
was a knock on the door.

Otto Skorzeny entered. The colonel
carried a baton under his arm, his paratrooper's blouse over his SS uniform. He
raised his arm in salute. 'Herr General. You arrived safely.'

'Ah, Otto. This should interest
you.' He handed him the signal flimsy, which Skorzeny read.

'So, it's all down to us,'
Skorzeny replied when he looked up, a slight smile on his face which suggested
he actually relished the news.

'It appears so. I was just
explaining to Haider about the tunnel.'

'An interesting possibility.'
Skorzeny tapped his baton on the professor's map. 'Let's hope it can be of some
use.' He looked at Haider, his bullish stare almost a threat. 'See that you
don't let me or my troops down. We're going into the lion's den on this one. So
much depends on you accomplishing your tasks. You have two of my best men under
your command - they'll do their duty, whatever it takes. See you do yours,
Haider.'

'I have a question, Colonel. No
doubt the Allied defenses will include an air exclusion zone around
Cairo
. How will you
manage to avoid the risk of being spotted on radar and shot down?'

Skorzeny smiled broadly. 'With
relative ease. The two other Dakota aircraft you saw on your arrival are our
transport.

Fortunately for us, the desert
terrain on the lead-in to the city is reasonably flat. Once we're fifty kilometers
from the airfield we'll descend to no more than two hundred meters above the
ground. Radar detection would be impossible at such a low altitude. The
equipment would be useless. And even if the enemy makes a visual sighting of
our aircraft from then on, they'll see our Allied markings and think we're
going about our rightful business.'

'I told you, Jack,' Schellenberg
said with a smirk. 'Ways and means.'

'There's also the other tricky
problem we discussed,' Haider went on. 'And one that needs answering. The
question of getting the colonel's men safely from the airfield to
Giza
. What if the
vehicles are stopped and searched for any reason? Surely the game would be up?'

'Let's give him his answer, Otto,'
Schellenberg said.

'My pleasure, Herr General.'
Skorzeny went to the door, opened it, and barked, 'Lieutenant Eberhard, your
presence is required.'

Haider looked on with surprise as
a blond-haired, boyish faced young man in his early twenties, who had obviously
been waiting outside, smartly entered the room. He wore a
US
infantry
officer's uniform, summer issue, with a peaked cap, and carried a Colt.45
automatic in a leather side holster. He snapped off a neat salute and stood to
attention.

'Very good, Eberhard,' Skorzeny
said. 'Tell us a little about your background in
America
.'

'I lived in
Philadelphia
for twelve years, sir,' Eberhard
replied in perfect, American-accented English. 'My parents emigrated with me
when I was a child. My pop worked as a machine-shop foreman, until he and my
mom eventually decided to return to Germany in '34.'

'Open your tunic, Eberhard,'
Skorzeny ordered.

'Yes, sir.' Eberhard undid the
buttons of his tunic to reveal an SS officer's shirt, with silver-threaded
runes.

'Button up again, Eberhard. You're
dismissed.' £ The lieutenant closed his shirt, and when he had left the room
Skorzeny turned to Haider with a grin. 'Eberhard is a fluent English speaker,
as you heard. And with an impeccable American accent. An all-round clean-cut
American boy, wouldn't you agree, Haider?'

'With respect, Colonel, one man
out of a hundred in the disguise of a marine, no matter how good his accent, is
hardly going to be enough to fool anybody if those trucks are stopped and
searched.'

'I don't think you understand,
Jack,' Schellenberg interrupted.

'When the time conies for the
colonel to fly to
Cairo
, all of his men will be
wearing
US
military garb over the shirts and pants of their German uniforms.'

'I see.' Haider raised his eyes.
'Again, it seems you've thought of everything.'

'Once they enter the hotel they
can discard the American uniforms and slip on their own SS paratroop blouses,
which they'll carry in kit-bags, along with their helmets and weapons.

But until then the subterfuge of
pretending to be US troops ought to help them get inside the building. And at
least a dozen of the men speak English with acceptable American accents.'