World War II Thriller Collection (21 page)

“A half case of champagne.”

The cardboard box containing six full bottles was heavy. She dragged it out of the back room. “I expect you'd like us to deliver this order,” she said. She tried to make it sound casual. She was slightly breathless with the effort of bending to drag the case, and she hoped this would cover her nervousness.

He seemed to look through her with his dark eyes. “Deliver?” he said. “No, thank you.”

She looked at the heavy box. “I hope you live nearby.”

“Close enough.”

“You must be very strong.”

“Strong enough.”

“We have a thoroughly reliable delivery man—”

“No delivery,” he said firmly.

She nodded. “As you wish.” She had not really expected it to work, but she was disappointed all the same. “Something else?”

“I think that's all.”

She began to add up the bill. Wolff said: “Aristopoulos must be doing well, to employ an assistant.”

Elene said: “Five pounds twelve and six, you wouldn't say that if you knew what he pays me, five pounds thirteen and six, six pounds—”

“Don't you like the job?”

She gave him a direct look. “I'd do
anything
to get out of here.”

“What did you have in mind?” He was very quick.

She shrugged, and went back to her addition. Eventually she said: “Thirteen pounds ten shillings and fourpence.”

“How did you know I'd pay in sterling?”

He was
quick
. She was afraid she had given herself away. She felt herself begin to blush. She had an inspiration, and said: “You're a British officer, aren't you?”

He laughed loudly at that. He took out a roll of pound notes and gave her fourteen. She gave him his change in Egyptian coins. She was thinking: What else can I do? What else can I say? She began to pack his purchases into a brown-paper shopping bag.

She said: “Are you having a party? I love parties.”

“What makes you ask?”

“The champagne.”

“Ah. Well, life is one long party.”

She thought: I've failed. He will go away now, and perhaps he won't come back for weeks, perhaps never; I've had him in my sights, I've talked to him, and now I have to let him walk away and disappear into the city.

She should have felt relieved, but instead she felt a sense of abject failure.

He lifted the case of champagne onto his left shoulder, and picked up the shopping bag with his right hand. “Good-bye,” he said.

“Good-bye.”

He turned around at the door. “Meet me at the Oasis Restaurant on Wednesday night at seven-thirty.”

“All right!” she said jubilantly. But he was gone.

 

It took them most of the morning to get to the Hill of Jesus. Jakes sat in the front next to the driver, Vandam and Bogge sat in the back. Vandam was exultant. An Australian company had taken the hill in the night, and they had captured—almost intact—a German wireless listening post. It was the first good news Vandam had heard for months.

Jakes turned around and shouted over the noise of the engine. “Apparently the Aussies charged in their socks, to surprise 'em,” he said. “Most of the Italians were taken prisoner in their pajamas.”

Vandam had heard the same story. “The Germans weren't sleeping, though,” he said. “It was quite a rough show.”

They took the main road to Alexandria, then the coast road to El Alamein, where they turned onto a barrel track—a route through the desert marked with barrels. Nearly all the traffic was going in the opposite direction, retreating. Nobody knew what was happening. They stopped at a supply dump to fill up with petrol, and Bogge had to pull rank on the officer in charge to get a chitty.

Their driver asked for directions to the hill. “Bottle track,” the officer said brusquely. The tracks, created by and for the Army, were named Bottle, Boot, Moon and Star, the symbols for which were cut into the empty barrels and petrol cans along the routes. At night little lights were placed in the barrels to illuminate the symbols.

Bogge asked the officer: “What's happening out here? Everything seems to be heading back east.”

“Nobody tells me anything,” said the officer.

They got a cup of tea and a bully-beef sandwich from the NAAFI truck. When they moved on they went through a recent battlefield, littered with wrecked and burned-out tanks, where a graveyard detail was desultorily collecting corpses. The barrels disappeared, but the driver picked them up again on the far side of the gravel plain.

They found the hill at midday. There was a battle going on not far away: they could hear the guns and see clouds of dust rising to the west. Vandam realized he had not been this near the fighting before. The overall impression was one of dirt, panic and confusion. They reported to the command vehicle and were directed to the captured German radio trucks.

Field intelligence men were already at work. Prisoners were being interrogated in a small tent, one at a time, while the others waited in the blazing sun. Enemy ordnance experts were examining weapons and vehicles, noting manufacturers' serial numbers. The Y Service was there looking for wavelengths and codes. It was the task of Bogge's little squad to investigate how much the Germans had been learning in advance about Allied movements.

They took a truck each. Like most people in Intelligence, Vandam had a smattering of German. He knew a couple of hundred words, most of them military terms, so that while he could not have told the difference between a love letter and a laundry list, he could read army orders and reports.

There was a lot of material to be examined: the captured post was a great prize for Intelligence. Most of the stuff would have to be boxed, transported to Cairo and perused at length by a large team. Today's job was a preliminary overview.

Vandam's truck was a mess. The Germans had begun to destroy their papers when they realized the battle was lost. Boxes had been emptied and a small fire started, but the damage had been arrested quickly. There was blood on a cardboard folder: someone had died defending his secrets.

Vandam went to work. They would have tried to destroy the important papers first, so he began with the half-burned pile. There were many Allied radio signals, intercepted and in some cases decoded. Most of it was routine—most of everything was routine—but as he worked Vandam began to realize that German Intelligence's wireless interception was picking up an awful lot of useful information. They were better than Vandam had imagined—and Allied wireless security was very bad.

At the bottom of the half-burned pile was a book, a novel in English. Vandam frowned. He opened the book and read the first line: “Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.” The book was called
Rebecca
, and it was by Daphne du Maurier. The title was vaguely familiar. Vandam thought his wife might have read it. It seemed to be about a young woman living in an English country house.

Vandam scratched his head. It was, to say the least, peculiar reading for the Afrika Korps.

And why was it in English?

It might have been taken from a captured English soldier, but Vandam thought that unlikely: in his experience soldiers read pornography, hard-boiled private eye stories and the Bible. Somehow he could not imagine the Desert Rats getting interested in the problems of the mistress of Manderley.

No, the book was here for a purpose. What purpose? Vandam could think of only one possibility: it was the basis of a code.

A book code was a variation on the one-time pad. A one-time pad had letters and numbers randomly printed in five-character groups. Only two copies of each pad were made: one for the sender and one for the recipient of the signals. Each sheet of the pad was used for one message, then torn off and destroyed. Because each sheet was used only once the code could not be broken. A book code used the pages of a printed book in the same way, except that the sheets were not necessarily destroyed after use.

There was one big advantage which a book had over a pad. A pad was unmistakably for the purpose of encipherment, but a book looked quite innocent. In the battlefield this did not matter; but it did matter to an agent behind enemy lines.

This might also explain why the book was in English. German soldiers signaling to one another would use a book in German, if they used a book at all, but a spy in British territory would need to carry a book in English.

Vandam examined the book more closely. The price had been written in pencil on the endpaper, then rubbed out with an eraser. That might mean the book had been bought secondhand. Vandam held it up to the light, trying to read the impression the pencil had made in the paper. He made out the number 50, followed by some letters. Was it
eic?
It might be
erc,
or
esc
. It was
esc,
he realized—fifty escudos. The book had been bought in Portugal. Portugal was neutral territory, with both German and British embassies, and it was a hive of low-level espionage.

As soon as he got back to Cairo he would send a message to the Secret Intelligence Service station in Lisbon. They could check the English-language bookshops in Portugal—there could not be very many—and try to find out where the book had been bought, and if possible by whom.

At least two copies would have been bought, and a bookseller might remember such a sale. The interesting question was, where was the other copy? Vandam was pretty sure it was in Cairo, and he thought he knew who was using it.

He decided he had better show his find to Lieutenant Colonel Bogge. He picked up the book and stepped out of the truck.

Bogge was coming to find him.

Vandam stared at him. He was white-faced, and angry to the point of hysteria. He came stomping across the dusty sand, a sheet of paper in his hand.

Vandam thought: What the devil has got into him?

Bogge shouted: “What do you do all day, anyway?”

Vandam said nothing. Bogge handed him the sheet of paper. Vandam looked at it.

It was a coded radio signal, with the decrypt written between the lines of code. It was timed at midnight on June 3. The sender used the call sign Sphinx. The message, after the usual preliminaries about signal strength, bore the heading: OPERATION ABERDEEN

Vandam was thunderstruck. Operation Aberdeen had taken place on June 5, and the Germans had received a signal about it on June 3.

Vandam said: “Jesus Christ Almighty, this is a disaster.”

“Of course it's a bloody disaster!” Bogge yelled. “It means Rommel is getting full details of our attacks before they bloody begin!”

Vandam read the rest of the signal. “Full details” was right. The message named the brigades involved, the timing of various stages of the attack, and the overall strategy.

“No wonder Rommel's winning,” Vandam muttered.

“Don't make bloody jokes!” Bogge screamed.

Jakes appeared at Vandam's side, accompanied by a full colonel from the Australian brigade that had taken the hill, and said to Vandam: “Excuse me, sir—”

Vandam said abruptly: “Not now, Jakes.”

“Stay here, Jakes,” Bogge countermanded. “This concerns you, too.”

Vandam handed the sheet of paper to Jakes. Vandam felt as if someone had struck him a physical blow. The information was so good that it had to have originated in GHQ.

Jakes said softly: “Bloody hell.”

Bogge said: “They must be getting this stuff from an English officer, you realize that, do you?”

“Yes,” Vandam said.

“What do you mean, yes? Your job is personnel security—this is your bloody responsibility!”

“I realize that, sir.”

“Do you also realize that a leak of this magnitude will have to be reported to the commander in chief?”

The Australian colonel, who did not appreciate the scale of the catastrophe, was embarrassed to see an officer getting a public dressing down. He said: “Let's save the recriminations for later, Bogge. I doubt the thing is the fault of any one individual. Your first job is to discover the extent of the damage and make a preliminary report to your superiors.”

It was clear that Bogge was not through ranting yet; but he was outranked. He suppressed his wrath with a visible effort, and said: “Right, get on with it, Vandam.” He stumped off, and the colonel went away in the other direction.

Vandam sat down on the step of the truck. He lit a cigarette with a shaking hand. The news seemed worse as it sunk in. Not only had Alex Wolff penetrated Cairo, and evaded Vandam's net, he had gained access to high-level secrets.

Vandam thought: Who is this man?

In just a few days he had selected his target, laid his groundwork, and then bribed, blackmailed or corrupted the target into treachery.

Who was the target; who was giving Wolff the information? Literally hundreds of people had the information: the generals, their aides, the secretaries who typed written messages, the men who encoded radio messages, the officers who carried verbal messages, all Intelligence staff, all interservice liaison people . . .

Somehow, Vandam assumed, Wolff had found one among those hundreds of people who was prepared to betray his country for money, or out of political conviction, or under pressure of blackmail. Of course it was possible that Wolff had nothing to do with it—but Vandam thought that unlikely, for a traitor needed a channel of communication with the enemy, and Wolff had such a channel, and it was hard to believe there might be two like Wolff in Cairo.

Jakes was standing beside Vandam, looking dazed. Vandam said: “Not only is this information getting through, but Rommel is using it. If you recall the fighting on five June—”