Glenn Meade (9 page)

You've already worked deep behind
enemy lines in
Egypt
, speak
fluent Arabic, and you're familiar with
Cairo
.'

'There have to be better reasons
than that. You're bound to have agents who speak Arabic and know the city
better than me.'

Schellenberg shook his head. 'Not
many, actually, and certainly not of your caliber with a proven track record.
You've impersonated American and British officers to perfection many times, so
a repeat performance shouldn't be beyond your abilities.' He opened his
briefcase and unfolded a map on the table. 'I've brought along a map to help you
refamiliarise yourself with
Cairo
.'

'You're getting ahead of yourself.
I haven't decided on anything yet. And you've told me nothing about the rest of
the team.'

'I anticipate three others - two
SS men and a woman.'

'Tell me about them.’

'The two SS are Major Dieter
Kleist and Feldwebel Hans Doring. Both serving with Otto Skorzeny's Commando
group.'

'Dieter Kleist?' Haider looked
across with contempt. 'He's a ruthless animal, the worst kind of brute in
uniform. I came across his work in the Balkans. He had the nasty habit of
shooting suspected partisans out of hand, and raping his female prisoners
before he put them out of their misery.'

'Perhaps, but even a brute has his
uses. He's a very efficient and deadly weapon, our Kleist, recently transferred
to Skorzeny's command, and an excellent man in the field. He also speaks
reasonable English and Arabic, and he's acquainted with
Egypt
.

He once worked for a German
company, surveying for oilfields.'

'What about Doring's background?'

'He spent some time in the
Middle East
before the war, as a driver-mechanic for a
German archaeological crew. Now he's a specialist in covert operations behind
enemy lines, and comes highly recommended.'

'By whom?'

'Skorzeny himself. Himmler insists
on having Skorzeny's SS as part of the first team. I'm sure that between the
lot of you, you should be able to do the necessary business.'

Haider shook his head. 'So far, I
still don't like it very much.

What about the woman?'

'Her name's Rachel Stern.'

Haider was thunderstruck. After a
long silence Schellenberg lit a cigarette. 'Understandably, you're shocked. I
believe you once knew her.'

Haider was still white-faced and
didn't reply. Schellenberg said, 'What's the matter?'

'It's been a long time since I
heard that name.'

Schellenberg smiled. 'I've been
looking through your file again, with Canaris's permission, of course. Among
the archaeological team you joined in '39 were several Germans working for the
SD. One of them was code-named Nightingale, the very best agent we had. I
checked back through Nightingale's reports out of curiosity. Your name and the
girl's were mentioned. It appears you were quite fond of her. It was rather
daring of you, Jack, considering the girl's half Jewish. Does my information
surprise you?'

'Nothing surprises me any more.
Where has she been all this time? What's happened to her and her family?'

'An interesting man, the
professor. A renowned archaeologist with several significant finds to his
credit. However, he was also virulently anti-Nazi. Despite the fact that he
spent much of his time abroad, the Gestapo were anxious to get their hands on
him. They eventually succeeded with a stroke of luck.'

'What do you mean?'

'Four years ago the girl and her
father were rescued in the
Mediterranean
by
the Kriegsmarine. They were passengers on a Turkish vessel bound for
Istanbul
. It was sunk by
an engine room explosion, and the professor's wife perished. Since then, the
girl's been in Ravensbruck women's camp, detained at the Fiihrer's pleasure,
and her father's serving thirty years in
Dachau
.'

Haider flushed with rage. 'You
suddenly remind me why I started to dislike Hitler.'

'Come now, Jack. Not my doing. If
the truth be known, I find this whole anti-Jewish thing quite repulsive. And
I'll forget what you just said - it really doesn't do to broadcast such
remarks.'

'What I don't understand is what
part Rachel plays in your little scheme. Why do you need her?'

'She'll be your insurance - think
of her as a temporary, but very necessary, policy.'

'What do you mean?'

'Like you, she speaks fluent
English and Arabic, and knows her way around
Egypt
. But best of all, she's an
expert archaeologist, like her father. No disrespect, but you on the other hand
have never been more than a keen amateur in such matters.'

'Why's her profession so
important?'

'Simple, really. For the sake of
appearances, as part of the mission, I intend your cover to be that of an
international archaeological team, stranded in the
Middle
East
because of the war. My intelligence sources tell me there are
several such groups still languishing in the area because of the hostilities.

Needless to say, I can't go over
the exact details of the entire plan until I know you're committed, but you can
take it you'd have the usual faultless forged papers and documents that'll pass
the stiffest test. Not that you'll need to use your cover story for very long.
You shouldn't have to spend more than two or three days in
Cairo
at the most.'

'There are other cover stories you
could have come up with.

You're sure you're not just using
her as another pawn to get me to go along with this?'

Schellenberg grinned. 'Perceptive
of you, Jack, and valid enough, but actually there is another reason why we
need her.

And perhaps a very important one,
though it'll have to keep for now. You'll be told in good time, if you agree to
come on board.'

'You're forgetting one important
fact. What makes you so sure she'll cooperate?'

Schellenberg smiled knowingly.
'There are always ways to entice. Besides, she'll know nothing about our true
intentions.

As far as she's concerned, it'll
be just a little intelligence gathering operation in
Cairo
.'

Haider shook his head. 'I don't
like the idea of using her. If she's been in a prison camp, she'll have been
through enough as it is.'

'I'm afraid there's no one else
quite suitable. Himmler's already read her file and thinks she's an ideal
choice. And I must say, I agree.'

There was a sudden, pleading look
in Haider's voice. 'Not her, Walter. I'm asking this as a favour.'

'I'm sorry, but it's out of my
hands.' Schellenberg paused, deliberately. 'I'm sure the girl would be safer if
you went along.

Especially if she had to endure
Kleist. I'd rather fear for her safety once she'd outlived her usefulness.'

Anger erupted on Haider's face.
'You're a bastard, Walter.'

'And I have a war to win.
Sentiment can play no part in it.'

'You can't honestly believe this
crazy business stands a chance?'

'Quite the contrary. I'm convinced
it does. What Skorzeny accomplished in
Italy
can be repeated in
Egypt
,
and with deadlier consequences. It'll be a hit-and-run operation - our men will
be in and out so fast the Allies won't know what's going on until it's too
late.' He paused. 'As regards your team, I'm told
Cairo
's quite cosmopolitan right now. Crammed
with displaced Europeans and lots of Americans, not to mention troops from
every nationality. In a big, sprawling city with a population of over two
million, a few more faces won't look amiss. You should be able to move around
with impunity. And by the way, Himmler's even promised you the Knight's Cross
if you accept.'

'You can keep the damned medal.'

Schellenberg laughed. 'I thought
you might say that. More importantly, he's agreed to offer you safe passage to
Sweden
, for you
and your son. And onward to wherever you want to go.'

'I don't know. It all sounds too
risky to me.'

'Trust me, it can work. And think
about it. A German American, sent to help kill
Roosevelt
?
Surely it's almost a kind of poetic justice. You know what could happen if the
Allies win and you're caught by the Amis.' Schellenberg used the contemptuous
German word for Americans. 'It's either a long prison sentence or a long rope.
This way, you have a chance.

One last mission and that's it.
And there's a bonus.'

'What?'

Schellenberg nodded at the file on
the desk. 'The report on the
Hamburg
bombings - you ought to read it.
Roosevelt
gave his complete approval for the raids - in fact, he publicly urged the
bombing crews to be merciless. Now
Germany
has a score to settle and
you have the chance to repay what happened to your father and son. Personal, of
course, but I always think the personal helps in such matters.'

'Who says I want revenge?'

'I can see it in your eyes, Jack.
It's written on your face. Your mother's country killed your father and maimed
your child. This offers you a chance for retribution.'

'And if I don't accept?'

Schellenberg shrugged. 'A wise
hound will always run with the pack. But if you refuse, I can assure you
Himmler's displeasure will be unforgiving. Think about the girl, too. She'd be
safer in your hands, rather than Kleist's.'

'Who'd be in charge?'

'The first phase of the operation
would be entirely under your command. Kleist and you are the same rank,
obviously, but I'll see to it that he's answerable to you, and obeys your
direct orders. Until our paratroops land in
Cairo
, that is. Once that happens, Skorzeny
takes complete charge.'

'The Allies control the skies over
the southern
Mediterranean
.

You'd need either a very brave
pilot or a very reckless one to attempt the crossing to
Egypt
in an
unarmed plane, without a Luftwaffe escort. I presume that's how you intend
doing it?'

Schellenberg nodded. 'I'm sure
you're familiar with some of our best fliers, those who've worked on Abwehr
missions. So if it's any consolation, I'll let you pick your own.' He paused,
gave it one final smile. 'Well, are you in? This one last thing and then you're
free.'

Harry Weaver woke with a blinding
pain between his eyes. The window in his bedroom was open, sunlight pouring in,
and through the curtains came the din of voices and the hooting horns of
morning traffic. He raised himself from the bed and swore.

His body was full of small pains
and his head throbbed. He climbed out of bed, ran the shower, and looked at
himself in the mirror. His eyes were hooded with pain, swollen and bloodshot,
and the flesh on his face looked like folds of rubber. And then he remembered
why. He'd been to a farewell party at Shepheard's Hotel, given by a couple of
British officers from GHQ who were being transferred home, and the celebration
had lasted until 3 a.m.

He shaved, then stepped under the
steaming-hot water which brought him back to life, before he toweled himself
dry and got dressed. He wore the uniform of a US Army lieutenant-colonel. When
he went downstairs Ali was in the kitchen making scrambled eggs, bacon and
coffee over a wood stove. The house servant was an elderly, grey-haired Nubian.

'Good morning, Ali. Have the
others left?'

'They've all gone, sir. You're the
last for breakfast. The effendi doesn't look well this morning.’

'The gin they serve in
Shepheard's, do you think it's real?

Someone told me last night that
the taxi drivers use it in their cabs instead of gas.'

Ali smiled. 'Who's to say? But you
might be right.'

Weaver laughed and went out to the
patio. The table had been set, and he picked the shaded end, out of the warm
sunlight. There was fresh bread and iced mango juice, and he poured a glass,
drank it down quickly, then buttered some bread.

He shared the big old villa in
Zamalek with two other American officers, a signals lieutenant and a translator
at the American embassy. Zamalek was one of the better districts in
Cairo
, situated on a large island in the middle of the
Nile
, and the villa had once been the home of a wealthy
Italian merchant. It had its own private gardens, well stocked with lemon and
orange trees, and a large, stone-flagged patio at the rear with cool palms and
a bubbling stone fountain.

There was a newspaper on the table,
the Egyptian Gazette. When Ali had served him, Weaver glanced through the
pages.

Several reports caught his
interest. The Red Army had crossed the River Dnieper and broken through the
German defenses; the invasion of
Italy
had pushed towards the south of
Rome
,
and it was rumoured that the Germans soon planned to loot and evacuate the
city. Churchill had claimed that sixty Uboats had been destroyed in the last
three months, and President Roosevelt had promised Congress that the US Air
Force would continue to step up its bombing of German cities, until Hitler had
been crushed or accepted defeat. All good news, though somehow Weaver didn't
think any of it was going to make the Germans surrender. But it sure had them
on the run.

He put aside the paper, glanced at
his watch, and quickly finished his breakfast. It was way past nine and he was
late for work.

'Good news, effendi?'

Weaver drained his coffee, pulled
on his jacket, and smiled at Ali. 'It looks like we're really winning the war.’

Weaver's office was a short walk
away at British GHQ,
Middle East
, on

He had been transferred to intelligence
a month after completing his officer training, where his specialist background
and knowledge of Arabic was soon put to good use, first with the US Army's
invasion of North Africa, Operation Torch, and later when he was seconded to
the Cairo embassy, with the brevet rank of lieutenant-colonel. He was glad to
be back in
Egypt
, but found
intelligence work in
Cairo
pretty boring. Far from the battlefield, intelligence officers spent their time
shuffling papers and engaging in endless bureaucratic skirmishes, a practice
which Weaver had little time for. There was a hectic social life, of course.
Drinks at Shepheard's bar and the Gezira Club, where there was a constant round
of socialising, golf and tennis, polo matches, sailing and dinner parties, not to
mention beautiful women.
Cairo
was in full bloom now that Rommel's threat had been lifted.

Weaver took the lift to his office
on the second floor and took off his jacket. There was a silver-framed
photograph on his desk, the one taken at
Sakkara
,
of himself, Rachel and Jack Haider. After he had learned of Rachel's death he
had had a copy framed, and sometimes he liked to look at the snapshot and
recall with fondness the best summer of his life. There was also a pile of
paperwork on the desk, reports to be filed and written, and he had just started
making headway when there was a knock on his door.

'Come in.'

A woman lieutenant entered. Helen
Kane had been Weaver's aide for the last six months. Despite her name, she was
half English, half Egyptian, dusky and faintly exotic, with expressive brown
eyes, her dark hair trimmed into a pageboy bob, its ends curling inward, as
regulation demanded, just over the collar of her uniform jacket, the green
flash of the Intelligence Corps on her sleeve. She had been at the party at
Shepheard's and he'd danced with her for most of the night, the first time
since working together that they'd had any social contact. He still remembered
the pleasant feel of her body against his, the faint scent of her perfume, but
he'd been a little drunk and he felt slightly embarrassed.

'Good morning, sir. If you don't
mind me saying so, you look a little under the weather.'

'It shows?'

'I'm afraid so.'

'I hope I didn't make a fool of
myself last night, Helen.'

She smiled back, playfully. 'No
more than most.'

'Is there anything happening I
should know about?'

'Lieutenant-Colonel Sanson asks if
he can see you in his office.'

British military intelligence had
two chief sections: the DDMI (O) - for Operational - and DDMI (I) - for
Intelligence.

Alfred Sanson came under the
latter, and was responsible for security leaks. Weaver and he were not exactly
friends, but he knew that Sanson had formerly served as a police inspector with
the British-controlled
Cairo
constabulary before the war, having risen up through the ranks. He had a
reputation as a tough, meticulous officer, a loner wedded to his job. At
Shepheard's the previous night, Weaver had noticed him sitting alone at one of
the tables, a drink in front of him, watching Helen and him with more than a
passing interest.

'Did he say what it was about?'

'No, sir.'

Weaver stood, pulled on his
uniform jacket. It was difficult to accept her still calling him sir, after
they had danced so intimately the night before. 'Then I guess I'd better see
what he wants.'

Sanson's office was across the
hall, a cramped room with peeling walls, a rusting filing cabinet, a scratched
wooden desk and a couple of chairs. It was also scrupulously neat, everything
in its place. There was a tray of tea and some cups ready on the desk that
morning, as Weaver was led in by a corporal.

Sanson stood, but didn't offer his
hand. 'Lieutenant-Colonel Weaver. Please, sit down. Some tea?'

The Englishman was tall, well
built, with a prize fighter's physique and a disfigured face. A black leather
patch covered his left eye and there was a thick mass of pink scar tissue on
his left jaw. The facial injury had been badly sewn by the surgeon, and gave
the impression of a tortured smile. The effect was unsettling.

Weaver took a seat.

'Thanks.'

Sanson poured a cup and pushed it
across the desk. 'I take it you're enjoying your posting in
Cairo
?'

'Sure.' Weaver ignored the tea,
knowing Sanson wasn't the type to waste time on social chit-chat. 'What did you
want to see me about?'

Sanson lit a cigarette, opened his
desk drawer, and pulled out a file. 'Last night the
Cairo
police recovered the corpse of a man from the
Nile
,
near the old docks. Just the upper torso, to be precise. It was spotted by the
crew member on one of the local ferry boats. The remains had been in the water
for several days.'

Weaver knew it wasn't uncommon for
bodies to be washed up on the
Nile
's banks.
The river was noted for suicides and murder victims. 'So?'

'Despite the fact that the corpse
was badly mutilated, the police managed to identify the man. He was a criminal
well known to them, and me personally. His name was Mustapha Evir.'

'What's this got to do with me?'

'Evir was murdered. His throat had
been cut. When his house was searched, one of the policemen found this hidden
among his belongings.'

Sanson removed a crumpled-looking
piece of paper from the file, smoothed it out, and handed it over. Weaver saw
that it was a rough sketch in heavy pencil, a series of boxes and shapes, like
something a child might have drawn. It appeared to be of a large house and
gardens, marked off inside a rectangular shape. What looked like some clumps of
trees were pencilled inside the square, and an odd image, like a small
cupola-topped pavilion.

There were also two other box
shapes that Weaver couldn't figure out. He studied the sketch, then looked at
Sanson and shrugged. 'I still don't see your point.'

'The man in charge of the murder
investigation is Captain Arkhan, an old colleague of mine. For a time he was in
command of the police guard at the American ambassador's villa. He believes
that what you're looking at is a sketch of the same residence. The grounds have
a similar distinct shape, and there's a pavilion in the gardens. I also seem to
remember there are two sentry huts on the property, which correspond to the two
boxes in the drawing. Arkhan wanted you to have a look at it and give your
opinion.'

Weaver looked at the sketch again.
He recalled the layout, the pavilion and the sentry huts. 'You could be right.
But I still don't see what it has to do with me.'

'Mustapha Evir had a reputation as
an excellent safe-breaker and burglar. Among the criminal fraternity, he was
known as The Fox. But a while back he got caught and served eighteen months in
prison. He was released three months ago. He tried to lead an honest life after
his release, but he found only badly paid work.' Sanson paused. 'Captain Arkhan
believes Evir intended to return to his old career. That perhaps he meant to
break into the ambassador's residence, and that's why he had the drawing. He
also had a reputation for planning his burglaries meticulously, though to break
into the well-guarded home of a foreign ambassador wouldn't have been typical
of him. But because he was murdered, it crossed Arkhan's mind from the
information he's gathered that Evir might already have carried out his work,
and that it perhaps had something to do with his death.'

Weaver frowned. 'What
information?'

'The police questioned his wife.
Evir had little money and his wife was complaining. She said her husband told
her he had important business to attend to on the evening he was killed, and
boasted that he'd have a lot of money for her that night. But he never came
home.’

'You're suggesting he broke into
the ambassador's home and stole from the safe?'

Sanson pursed his lips, made a
steeple of his fingers, and nodded.

'Perhaps something valuable.
Something worth killing him for. A couple of things you should know. Evir
worked to order. Because of his talents, he was usually hired by other
criminals, with a particular theft in mind. We also suspected he might have
been behind the theft of confidential papers from the briefcase of one of our
officers a couple of years ago - carried out at the behest of a German agent or
sympathiser, no doubt. But the theft wasn't noticed for twenty-four hours and
by then it was too late. Evir never admitted to the crime when we took him in
for questioning, and seeing as we had no hard evidence, we had to let him go.'

'I haven't heard of any theft from
the ambassador's home.'

'There's always the chance it went
unnoticed.'

'I doubt it. The residency is
tightly guarded.'

Sanson gave a razor smile, as if
amused by Weaver's naivete.

'If I've learned one thing as a
policeman, Weaver, it's that no security is watertight in
Cairo
. I've known burglars who could rob a
place blind and nobody would see or hear a thing. Besides, Evir wasn't called
The Fox for nothing. Most of his burglaries went undetected, until he was long
gone.'