Glenn Meade (29 page)

The SS men climbed in, and Haider
went across to Rachel and took the revolver from her. 'From the look on your
face you were quite prepared to use this.' He raised his eyes. 'What a change
war brings in people. Do you really think you could have pulled the trigger?'

'I don't know.' She smiled, very
faintly. 'But at least the threat of it seemed to frighten the hell out of
Doring. Are you all right?'

He rubbed his jaw. 'I've felt
worse. But Kleist certainly hasn't helped our situation.' Haider looked towards
the wreckage, anger in his voice. 'I'm sorry it's come to this. Those men
didn't deserve to die.' He turned back to Rachel. 'You can be sure it won't be
long before enemy patrols are out looking for us. With luck, if our compass is
working, we could reach the airfield in twenty minutes. We can only pray our
contact's still there. But after that, I'm afraid everything's in the lap of
the gods.'

There was a military police Jeep
with a canvas hood waiting on the airfield when they landed, a British
lieutenant and a driver seated in front. When Weaver and Sanson climbed out of
the Avro Lancaster, the officer came forward.

'Lieutenant-Colonel Sanson? I'm
Lieutenant Lucas, sir, Field Security.' He saluted them. 'I've been ordered to
liaise with you by Captain Myers at Alex HQ. He sends his apologies he couldn't
meet you personally, but he has a staff meeting to attend.'

Sanson returned the salute. 'This
is Lieutenant-Colonel Weaver,
US
military intelligence. He'll be joining us.'

'A pleasure to meet you, sir.' The
lieutenant turned-back to Sanson. 'Captain Myers said you were interested in
this missing Dakota, that it might be a German intruder.'

'Have you made any progress?'

'We just had word ten minutes ago,
sir. One of our spotter planes sighted the wreckage of an American-flagged
Dakota in the desert, about twenty-five miles south-west of here. The pilot
also thinks he might have found the Beaufighter, about five miles further
north.'

'Good. Any signs of survivors?'

The lieutenant shook his head.
'Not as far as the Beaufighter's concerned. It's a complete mess, ploughed
straight into a sand ridge. And one of the wings appears to have sheared off
the Dakota. But the spotter says the fuselage still looks intact, so it's
possible the passengers made it.'

'Have you sent anyone to
investigate?' Weaver asked.

The lieutenant indicated a field
radio with a whip antenna on the Jeep's back seat. 'I have a patrol on its way,
as of five minutes ago, and they'll keep in touch. Military personnel are
pretty thin on the ground in that particular sector, but I've put a bulletin
out, to be on the alert for any survivors.'

'How long will it take us to reach
the crash sites?'

'If we push it, less than an
hour.'

Achmed Farnad was in the yard at
the back of the hotel, cleaning the windscreen of his Fiat truck with a
tattered leather chamois.

The glass was covered with dust
and insects after his drive to the airfield that morning, and he really didn't
know what to make of the whole confusing business. He had waited over two
hours, but the Germans hadn't appeared. The sandstorm had been pretty bad, of
course, and he guessed they had either been forced to abandon their mission, or
else the poor bastards had been shot down en route, or maybe even crashed.

If they had, he hoped for his sake
there were no survivors.

There was always the risk he might
somehow be compromised if they were captured and interrogated, and the
uncertainty of what had happened made him feel uneasy. He finished cleaning the
Fiat's windscreen, rinsed the chamois and tossed out the bucket of dirty water,
then crossed to the barn, scattering the chickens in his path.

He stepped into an empty goat pen
and kicked away part of the thick layer of cane-leaf fodder covering the floor.
Underneath was a wooden trapdoor, and he lifted it to reveal a neat recess.

A piece of filthy sackcloth lay on
top, and when he removed the covering, his radio transmitter was concealed
below, a Luger pistol next to it. He had made the coded transmission two hours
ago, questioning why the aircraft hadn't arrived, and the signal had been
acknowledged, but there wasn't any possibility of a reply until eleven that
evening, when he kept his frequency open. At least by then he ought to have an
explanation, but for now he wanted to make sure the radio battery was fully
charged.

As he made to lift it out, his
wife suddenly came into the barn, ashen-faced, nervously clutching her apron.

'Achmed, there are soldiers
outside - they're coming into the hotel. I think they've arrested Mafouz!'

Achmed's jaw dropped with fright.
He stashed away the radio, replaced the trapdoor, and scattered the fodder on
top with his hands. 'Stay here, woman,' he told her, worriedly.

'Look busy feeding the chickens.
And try to remain calm.'

Haider waited with Rachel in the
area that passed for reception - a wooden desk with a half dozen keys hanging
from a rickety board on the wall - while Kleist and Doring sat outside in the
Jeep, tending to Falconi. A group of ragged children had gathered around them,
following the vehicle into the village the moment they appeared, and both
Kleist and Doring looked uncomfortable.

'It's like the circus come to
town,' Haider said. 'The whole damned village knows we're here. Still, it can
hardly be helped.'

Abu Sammar was no more than a
collection of wood and mud-brick buildings in the middle of nowhere,
crisscrossed with unpaved roads and narrow alleyways. Scrawny-looking chickens
and goats roamed among piles of rotting refuse, and the entire population of
men, women and children seemed to be watching them out of curiosity as they
pulled up outside the Seti. The hotel wasn't up to much, a three-storey affair
with an enclosed yard at the side, the place shabby with oddments of threadbare
carpet and flaking whitewashed walls, the only hotel in a village that looked
as if it didn't need one.* 'Not exactly the Ritz,' Haider said to Rachel. An
ancient marble staircase with broken metal banisters led upstairs, and the
building smelled of must and decay. There was a bell on the desk and Haider
smacked it again, much harder this time, the noise ringing around the walls,
before looking down at Mafouz.

'You're sure your father's here?'

They had found the boy at the
airfield, minding some goats in one of the Nissen huts, and it didn't take long
for Haider to discover what had happened.

'I will find him, sir.'

'Good lad.' Haider patted the
child's head, but as he made to go a thin-built man appeared, wearing a fez and
a djellaba. His unshaven face looked waxen with fear, and the moment he took in
Haider's British uniform his anxiety seemed to deepen.

'Can… can I help you, sir?'

'I'm looking for the proprietor,
Achmed Farnad,' Haider said in fluent Arabic.

'I… I am Achmed.'

'An acquaintance of ours in
Berlin
made a
reservation on our behalf, but we were unavoidably delayed.'

Achmed definitely heard the words,
but in his anxiety he didn't comprehend. He glanced out at the Jeep, before
turning back. 'Pardon?'

Haider said impatiently, 'Don't
you understand who we are, man? We came across your son at the airfield.'

It took another second for the
words to register, then Achmed let out a sigh of relief and wiped sweat from
his face, all caution gone, not imagining for a moment his visitors were §
anyone other than they said they were. He had left Mafouz at the airfield, in
case by some miracle the Germans showed up.

'When… when my wife said there
were soldiers, I thought you'd come to arrest me.'

'I'll explain about the uniforms
later. Right now we have urgent need of your help.'

A group of children appeared in
the doorway. They giggled at Achmed's visitors, and he waved them away. 'Be
gone!' He turned to Mafouz. 'Get some food and refreshment for our guests.'

'Forget that,' Haider said. 'We're
in trouble.'

'Trouble?' Achmed paled again, and
ushered Haider and Rachel towards a room at the back of the hotel. 'Come - this
way. We can talk in private.'

The grimy, blue-painted annexe
looked as if it passed itself off as a dining room, with several low tables and
scattered cushions.

Achmed led them inside and dabbed
his forehead with a filthy handkerchief, still trying to compose himself. 'What
kind of trouble? I waited for over two hours. What happened?'

'Our aircraft crashed, five miles
from here.'

The Arab frowned and took in
Haider's uniform again, his eyes begging an explanation.

'Where did you get the clothes and
the Jeep?'

'Another unfortunate problem we
ran into. A couple of British officers came across the wreckage.'

'British officers?' Achmed stared
back. 'Where are they?'

'Dead.'

Achmed looked alarmed, put a hand
to his face. 'It gets worse. This definitely won't help matters.'

'Our pilot is badly injured. We
had no option but to come here.'

'And in broad daylight. Every tongue
in the village will wag.'

'Unavoidable. Now, if you don't
mind, we'll need medical help. Is there a doctor in the village?'

'The nearest is fifteen miles
away. And he's not a man I'd trust - he's friendly with the British.'

'Then we'll have to do what we
can. I'll need some hot water and clean towels.'

Achmed nodded. 'I'll have my wife
fetch them.'

'You'd better find us a room.
We'll need somewhere private to attend to our comrade. Have you any other
guests?'

Achmed shook his head. 'Apart from
my wife and son, the hotel is empty.'

Haider turned to Rachel. 'Tell the
others to drive the Jeep into the back yard and bring in Vito - as quick as you
can.'

When Rachel went out, Achmed wrung
his hands. 'This is a disaster- the army will have patrols out looking. And
before you know it they'll be checking the village. You can't stay here for
long.'

'I'm well aware of that. But for
now, just do as I ask.'

Achmed reluctantly plucked a key
from the wall. 'My life will be at risk, and my family…'

'All our lives are at risk. Now,
that room, please, and the hot water and towels, quickly.'

Weaver sweated inside the covered
Jeep. They were twenty miles from Alex, speeding along a stretch of open road,
the brutal heat of the sun beating down. The endless desert on either side was
broken by occasional rocky outcrops and the scattered wrecks of burnt-out
military vehicles and tanks, the rusting remains of battles and retreats.

The lieutenant had a map open on
his knees, a compass in his hand. 'Go left,' he ordered the driver, and the man
swung out on to the open desert. The lieutenant looked back. 'According to the
pilot's co-ordinates, the Dakota should be about three miles directly south of
here.'

They had already examined the
Beaufighter wreckage. The patrol the lieutenant had dispatched earlier had
located the crash site and radioed back. They were still scouring the area when
Weaver and Sanson arrived. There wasn't much left of the aircraft. Its nose had
smashed into a sand ridge, the fuel tank had obviously exploded on impact, and
the plane had almost completely disintegrated, shards of aluminum wreckage and
engine parts scattered for several hundred yards, faint wisps of smoke still
coming from a few clumps of debris. One of the soldiers found a charred human
arm, fifty yards from the point of impact, but that was about all that appeared
to remain of the crew.

'Not a pleasant way to go, but at
least it must have been quick,' Sanson remarked.

They decided to press on, the
other patrol Jeep taking up the rear. Twenty minutes later they saw the Dakota
in the distance, and Weaver took the binoculars the lieutenant offered. The
aircraft seemed pretty much intact apart from a sheared wing, but the starboard
propeller had completely peeled back on impact with the ground. He noticed the
unmistakable Stars and Stripes on the fuselage and tail.

'Well?' Sanson asked.

Weaver handed him the binoculars.
As they drove closer, he could make out a faint set of tyre marks leading up to
the wreckage. 'Have a look for yourself. It seems quiet, no movement so far as
I can tell.'

'We'd better not take any
chances.' Sanson removed his pistol and said to the driver, 'Pull up about
fifty yards away.

We'll go the rest of the way on
foot.'

The room on the second floor of
the Seti was a dingy affair, stark as a bone. There was an ancient metal bed
with filthy sheets, and the peeling whitewashed walls were stained yellow from
tobacco smoke. They carried Falconi to the bed and Haider went to work
immediately. He cut away the flying suit and removed the blood-soaked bandages.
The leg wound was much worse than he had first thought. Bone protruded through
the flesh, and Falconi had lost a considerable amount of blood.

Haider felt the Italian's wrist,
then lifted the eyelids and examined the pupils. He slapped Falconi's face, but
there was no response. He looked over at Rachel, busy cleaning the wound. 'It
doesn't look good. He's completely out of it and his pulse is weak.'

'Isn't there anything we can do?'

Haider beckoned to Achmed, who
stood with Kleist and Doring at the foot of the bed. « 'Surely there must be
someone in the village with medical knowledge?’

Achmed shrugged. 'There's an old
crone who passes for a midwife and has the cheek to call herself a nurse. But
if you ask me she's hopeless. She also has a mouth that works better than my
transmitter. Before you know it, the whole village would know your business.'

'How long would it take to fetch
the doctor?'

'A couple of hours, assuming he
hasn't been called away. But even so, you can't bring him here. It would be far
too dangerous, and he'd probably want to inform the military authorities.'

'He's right,' Kleist interrupted.
'Our chances are slim enough.

Why make it worse?'

'You'd better ask the old woman if
she can help,' Haider told Achmed. 'Tell her we're strangers who came to you
for assistance - as far as she's concerned, our friend's had an automobile
accident. Does she speak English?'

'No.'

'Then introduce me as a British
officer and leave it at that.'

'I warn you, the old woman's
useless,' Achmed advised. 'I'd sooner put my trust in the local butcher.'

'Beggars can't be choosers. Bring
her as quickly as you can.'

The old woman was completely
toothless, in her eighties at least.

She was dressed in black from head
to toe, and despite being almost bent double and hobbling on a stick, she
looked as if she had an inflated air of self-importance. Achmed and his wife
helped her up the stairs, and when she came into the room her hooded eyes
regarded them warily.

'Her name's Wafa,' Achmed said in
English. 'I told her as you suggested. She says she'll do what she can to
help.'

The woman carried an ancient
doctor's bag. Her heavily wrinkled face, the colour of walnut, peered out from
under a black net veil. Haider couldn't help noticing that her fingernails were
filthy. She went over to Falconi and arranged the basins of hot water and the
clean towels. As she rolled up her sleeves and made to scrub her hands in one
of the basins, she called Achmed over and cackled something in a heavy dialect
which Haider didn't understand. 'What did she say?'

'She can't work with men looking
over her shoulder. She only wants the women to help, the rest of us are to
leave the room.'

'No, I stay,' Haider insisted in
Arabic.

The midwife prodded a finger
towards the door, scolding him, and this time Haider understood. Then outside!
Outside!'

Achmed shrugged and said in
English, 'She's a bad-tempered old bitch at the best of times. You'd better do
as she says.'

'You think you could give her a
hand?' Haider asked Rachel.

'I'll do what I can.'

'Call me if you need help.'

Haider gestured to the others and
they left. Before he followed, he spoke to the midwife in Arabic. 'Do you think
you'll be able to save him?'

The old woman drew herself up
self-importantly. 'Wafa has helped birth many children in the village - she
knows as much as any doctor. Now go - your friend is in good hands.'

Achmed took Haider and the others
down to a filthy kitchen at the back of the hotel. The table was set with a
plate of fresh bread and dates, foul-smelling goat's cheese, and a silver pot
of Arab coffee. He poured tiny glass cups of the black treacly liquid for each
of them. 'Help yourselves to some food. All you can do now is wait and pray.'

Haider accepted the coffee,
ignored the food while the two SS men ate, and said to Achmed, 'On account of
our trouble, it seems we may have to abandon our original plan, which was for
you to drive us into Alex in the guise of archaeologists. So we'll have to come
up with another. Have you any maps of the area, as far as Alex?'

Achmed shook his head. 'All I've,
got is an old Baedeker guidebook some tourist left behind. But it's at least
twenty years old, and the maps are not very detailed.'

'No matter, bring it here.'

When Achmed left the room, Kleist
swallowed a lump of bread and cheese and wiped his mouth with his hand. 'Doring
and me have talked things over. We can't stay here for much longer. Before you
know it, enemy patrols are going to be swarming all over the place. We'd be
better off splitting up into two pairs and trying to reach
Cairo
separately - at least that way we
increase whatever chances we have. Remaining together would be suicidal.'

'What would you suggest?'

'You and the girl, Doring and me.'
Kleist shrugged. 'Or whichever way you want.'

Haider considered for a moment.
'And what about Falconi?'

'I still say taking him with us
would be stupid. Leave him with the hotel-keeper. If the Italian's caught, at
least he might get proper medical attention.'

Haider thought about it, then shook
his head. 'Let's see how he fares with the old woman first, then I'll decide.
Meanwhile, we'll have a look at the map and consult with Achmed. He'll know the
lie of the land better than us.'

Achmed came back with a tattered
Baedeker guidebook.

He opened it on the table and
pointed to one of the maps.

'We're here. Roughly twenty-five
miles from Alex, if you take the inland route. Several minor desert tracks lead
to the city, or you can cut towards the coast road and approach it from the
sea, but that way's longer. The direct route, using the main road, is the
quickest, less than an hour by automobile.'

Haider studied the map. 'Are there
any troops stationed in this immediate area?'

'Not since the fighting stopped.
The nearest camp is at Aminya, about fifteen miles away.'

'How many men?'

'Easily several hundred. It's a
large enough base.'

'Do they ever come by the
village?'

Achmed shrugged. 'Now and then
they drive through. But once they learn what's happened to their comrades,
they'll be like angry bloodhounds, looking for a scent.'

'Which is why we need to move as
quickly as possible. They could be searching for us even as we speak.'

Achmed scratched his jaw. 'It
seems to me you have two options. First, there's an old camel track Arab
merchants used to use, about five miles from the village. Using the Jeep it's a
bumpy, slow journey over rough desert, and you'd have to be careful not to get
stuck in the sand, but there are several wadis on the way in case you run out
of water, and you can reach Cairo in about ten hours.'

'And the second?'

'The way I intended getting you
there in the first place, by the scheduled train service that leaves Alex four
times a day.

There's also a rail line that runs
along the coast, north of here.

The nearest station is El
Hauriwaya, perhaps a dozen miles away.

If you want my advice, it's
probably your best way to get to Alex. The main roads are where the army's most
likely to set up roadblocks. The trains are frequent enough, and take you
directly into the main city station, where you can make the connection for
Cairo
. But as you say,
you don't know if the army is already looking for you. If not, either way
shouldn't offer any difficulties. If they are, only Allah knows your chances.'

Kleist looked doubtful. 'If we
split up, the best bet for Doring and me is the desert route. The oil company I
worked for operated south of here, so I'm reasonably familiar with the area.
True, it's difficult terrain, but with luck and a decent vehicle, we might make
it.'

Haider shook his head. 'The
desert's too open. You're liable to be spotted from the air.'

'Maybe, but there's something else
to consider,' Kleist suggested. 'Your English is better than ours. You'd stand
some chance of bluffing your way past a checkpoint. Mine and Doring's would be
considerably less. I'd sooner take my luck out in the desert.'

'You're certain you want to take
the risk?'

'Be honest. You'd stand a better
chance with just the girl.

Two's a couple, four's a crowd.’

'I suppose you're right. Well,
what do you say, Doring? Are you sure about this?'

'Either way, we could run into
trouble. But with respect, I'd sooner go with Major Kleist.'

'Very well. The Fraulein and I
will try to make it to Alex by the coastal train, then on to
Cairo
.' Haider turned to Achmed. 'It seems
we're going to split into two groups. We'll have need of additional transport.'

Achmed despaired at the thought of
losing his beloved Fiat, and he sighed. 'I suppose you'd better take my truck.
If anyone should ask, I can always claim it was stolen.'

'It's going to look suspicious if
we drive it out of the village,'

Kleist said. 'Better if you take
us out to this camel track and show us the way.'

'It's five miles away. How am I
supposed to get back?'

'Walk,' Kleist said bluntly.

Achmed didn't like the suggestion
one little bit, but at least after that the Germans would be out of his hair.

'Well?' said Haider.

Achmed nodded reluctantly. 'If I
must.'

Kleist gave Haider the keys to the
Jeep. 'We're not much use here, and the longer we delay, the more the cards are
stacked against us. I suggest we leave straight away.'

Haider jerked a thumb at Doring.
'Go with Achmed.

Remove your things from our
vehicle and get the truck ready - remember to take plenty of water for the
journey.'

They left, and Haider and Kleist
were alone. 'If you make it to
Cairo
,
you know how and where to meet our contact. If any of us are apprehended, we say
nothing that might jeopardise our mission. You heard what Schellenberg said -
everything depends on us. We carry on, until we're dead or captured. And for
what it's worth, good luck.'