World War II Thriller Collection (22 page)

“Yes, I do,” Jakes said. “It was a massacre.”

And it was my fault, Vandam thought. Bogge had been right about that: Vandam's job was to stop secrets getting out, and when secrets got out it was Vandam's responsibility.

One man could not win the war, but one man could lose it. Vandam did not want to be that man.

He stood up. “All right, Jakes, you heard what Bogge said. Let's get on with it.”

Jakes snapped his fingers. “I forgot what I came to tell you: you're wanted on the field telephone. It's GHQ. Apparently there's an Egyptian woman in your office, asking for you, refusing to leave. She says she has an urgent message and she won't take no for an answer.”

Vandam thought: Elene!

Maybe she made contact with Wolff. She must have—why else would she be desperate to speak to Vandam? Vandam ran to the command vehicle, with Jakes hard on his heels.

The major in charge of communications handed him the phone. “Make it snappy, Vandam, we're using that thing.”

Vandam had swallowed enough abuse for one day. He snatched the phone, thrust his face into the major's face, and said loudly: “I'll use it as long as I need it.” He turned his back on the major and spoke into the phone. “Yes?”

“William?”

“Elene!” He wanted to tell her how good it was to hear her voice, but instead he said: “What happened?”

“He came into the shop.”

“You saw him! Did you get his address?”

“No—but I've got a date with him.”

“Well done!” Vandam was full of savage delight—he would catch the bastard now. “Where and when?”

“Tomorrow night, seven-thirty, at the Oasis Restaurant.”

Vandam picked up a pencil and a scrap of paper. “Oasis Restaurant, seven-thirty,” he repeated. “I'll be there.”

“Good.”

“Elene . . .”

“Yes?”

“I can't tell you how grateful I am. Thank you.”

“Until tomorrow.”

“Good-bye.” Vandam put down the phone.

Bogge was standing behind him, with the major in charge of communications. Bogge said: “What the devil do you mean by using the field telephone to make dates with your bloody girlfriends?”

Vandam gave him a sunny smile. “That wasn't a girlfriend, it was an informant,” he said. “She's made contact with the spy. I expect to arrest him tomorrow night.”

WOLFF WATCHED SONJA EAT. THE LIVER WAS UNDERDONE, PINK AND SOFT, JUST as she liked it. She ate with relish, as usual. He thought how alike the two of them were. In their work they were competent, professional and highly successful. They both lived in the shadows of childhood shocks: her father's death, his mother's remarriage into an Arab family. Neither of them had ever come close to marrying, for they were too fond of themselves to love another person. What brought them together was not love, not even affection, but shared lusts. The most important thing in life, for both of them, was the indulgence of their appetites. They both knew that Wolff was taking a small but unnecessary risk by eating in a restaurant, and they both felt the risk was worth it, for life would hardly be worth living without good food.

She finished her liver and the waiter brought an ice-cream dessert. She was always very hungry after performing at the Cha-Cha Club. It was not surprising: she used a great deal of energy in her act. But when, finally, she quit dancing, she would grow fat. Wolff imagined her in twenty years' time: she would have three chins and a vast bosom, her hair would be brittle and graying, she would walk flatfooted and be breathless after climbing the stairs.

“What are you smiling at?” Sonja said.

“I was picturing you as an old woman, wearing a shapeless black dress and a veil.”

“I won't be like that. I shall be very rich, and live in a palace surrounded by naked young men and women eager to gratify my slightest whim. What about you?”

Wolff smiled. “I think I shall be Hitler's ambassador to Egypt, and wear an SS uniform to the mosque.”

“You'd have to take off your jackboots.”

“Shall I visit you in your palace?”

“Yes, please—wearing your uniform.”

“Would I have to take off my jackboots in your presence?”

“No. Everything else, but not the boots.”

Wolff laughed. Sonja was in a rare gay mood. He called the waiter and asked for coffee, brandy and the bill. He said to Sonja: “There's some good news. I've been saving it. I think I've found another Fawzi.”

She was suddenly very still, looking at him intently. “Who is she?” she said quietly.

“I went to the grocer's yesterday. Aristopoulos has his niece working with him.”

“A shopgirl!”

“She's a real beauty. She has a lovely, innocent face and a slightly wicked smile.”

“How old?”

“Hard to say. Around twenty, I think. She has such a girlish body.”

Sonja licked her lips. “And you think she will . . . ?”

“I think so. She's dying to get away from Aristopoulos, and she practically threw herself at me.”

“When?”

“I'm taking her to dinner tomorrow night.”

“Will you bring her home?”

“Maybe. I have to feel her out. She's so perfect, I don't want to spoil everything by rushing her.”

“You mean you want to have her first.”

“If necessary.”

“Do you think she's a virgin?”

“It's possible.”

“If she is . . .”

“Then I'll save her for you. You were so good with Major Smith, you deserve a treat.” Wolff sat back, studying Sonja. Her face was a mask of sexual greed as she anticipated the corruption of someone beautiful and innocent. Wolff sipped his brandy. A warm glow spread in his stomach. He felt good: full of food and wine, his mission going remarkably well and a new sexual adventure in view.

The bill came, and he paid it with English pound notes.

 

It was a small restaurant, but a successful one. Ibrahim managed it and his brother did the cooking. They had learned the trade in a French hotel in Tunisia, their home; and when their father died they had sold the sheep and come to Cairo to seek their fortune. Ibrahim's philosophy was simple: they knew only French-Arab cuisine, so that was all they offered. They might, perhaps, have attracted more customers if the menu in the window had offered spaghetti bolognaise or roast beef and Yorkshire pudding; but those customers would not have returned, and anyhow Ibrahim had his pride.

The formula worked. They were making a good living, more money than their father had ever seen. The war had brought even more business. But wealth had not made Ibrahim careless.

Two days earlier he had taken coffee with a friend who was a cashier at the Metropolitan Hotel. The friend had told him how the British paymaster general had refused to exchange four of the English pound notes which had been passed in the hotel bar. The notes were counterfeit, according to the British. What was so unfair was that they had confiscated the money.

This was not going to happen to Ibrahim.

About half his customers were British, and many of them paid in sterling. Since he heard the news he had been checking carefully every pound note before putting it into the till. His friend from the Metropolitan had told him how to spot the forgeries.

It was typical of the British. They did not make a public announcement to help the businessmen of Cairo to avoid being cheated. They simply sat back and confiscated the dud notes. The businessmen of Cairo were used to this kind of treatment, and they stuck together. The grapevine worked well.

When Ibrahim received the counterfeit notes from the tall European who was dining with the famous belly dancer, he was not sure what to do next. The notes were all crisp and new, and bore the identical fault. Ibrahim double-checked them against one of the good notes in his till: there was no doubt. Should he, perhaps, explain the matter quietly to the customer? The man might take offense, or at least pretend to; and he would probably leave without paying. His bill was a heavy one—he had taken the most expensive dishes, plus imported wine—and Ibrahim did not want to risk such a loss.

He would call the police, he decided. They would prevent the customer running off, and might help persuade him to pay by check, or at least leave an IOU.

But which police? The Egyptian police would probably argue that it was not their responsibility, take an hour to get here, and then require a bribe. The customer was presumably an Englishman—why else would he have sterling?—and was probably an officer, and it was British money that had been counterfeited. Ibrahim decided he would call the military.

He went over to their table, carrying the brandy bottle. He gave them a smile. “Monsieur, madame, I hope you have enjoyed your meal.”

“It was excellent,” said the man. He talked like a British officer.

Ibrahim turned to the woman. “It is an honor to serve the greatest dancer in the world.”

She gave a regal nod.

Ibrahim said: “I hope you will accept a glass of brandy, with the compliments of the house.”

“Very kind,” said the man.

Ibrahim poured them more brandy and bowed away. That should keep them sitting still for a while longer, he thought. He left by the back door and went to the house of a neighbor who had a telephone.

 

If I had a restaurant, Wolff thought, I would do things like that. The two glasses of brandy cost the proprietor very little, in relation to Wolff's total bill, but the gesture was very effective in making the customer feel wanted. Wolff had often toyed with the idea of opening a restaurant, but it was a pipe dream: he knew there was too much hard work involved.

Sonja also enjoyed the special attention. She was positively glowing under the combined influences of flattery and liquor. Tonight in bed she would snore like a pig.

The proprietor had disappeared for a few minutes, then returned. Out of the corner of his eye, Wolff saw the man whispering to a waiter. He guessed they were talking about Sonja. Wolff felt a pang of jealousy. There were places in Cairo where, because of his good custom and lavish tips, he was known by name and welcomed like royalty; but he had thought it wise not to go to places where he would be recognized, not while the British were hunting him. Now he wondered whether he could afford to relax his vigilance a little more.

Sonja yawned. It was time to put her to bed. Wolff waved to a waiter and said: “Please fetch Madame's wrap.” The man went off, paused to mutter something to the proprietor, then continued on toward the cloakroom.

An alarm bell sounded, faint and distant, somewhere in the back of Wolff's mind.

He toyed with a spoon as he waited for Sonja's wrap. Sonja ate another petit four. The proprietor walked the length of the restaurant, went out of the front door, and came back in again. He approached their table and said: “May I get you a taxi?”

Wolff looked at Sonja. She said: “I don't mind.”

Wolff said: “I'd like a breath of air. Let's walk a little way, then hail one.”

“Okay.”

Wolff looked at the proprietor. “No taxi.”

“Very good, sir.”

The waiter brought Sonja's wrap. The proprietor kept looking at the door. Wolff heard another alarm bell, this one louder. He said to the proprietor: “Is something the matter?”

The man looked very worried. “I must mention an extremely delicate problem, sir.”

Wolff began to get irritated. “Well, what is it, man? We want to go home.”

There was the sound of a vehicle noisily drawing up outside the restaurant.

Wolff took hold of the proprietor's lapels. “What is going on here?”

“The money with which you paid your bill, sir, is not good.”

“You don't accept sterling? Then why didn't—”

“It's not that, sir. The money is counterfeit.”

The restaurant door burst open and three military policemen marched in.

Wolff stared at them openmouthed. It was all happening so quickly, he couldn't catch his breath . . . Military police. Counterfeit money. He was suddenly afraid. He might go to jail. Those imbeciles in Berlin had given him forged notes, it was so
stupid
, he wanted to take Canaris by the throat and
squeeze
—

He shook his head. There was no time to be angry now. He had to keep calm and try to slide out of this mess—

The MPs marched up to the table. Two were British and the third was Australian. They wore heavy boots and steel helmets, and each of them had a small gun in a belt holster. One of the British said: “Is this the man?”

“Just a moment,” Wolff said, and was astonished at how cool and suave his voice sounded. “The proprietor has, this very minute, told me that my money is no good. I don't believe this, but I'm prepared to humor him, and I'm sure we can make some arrangement which will satisfy him.” He gave the proprietor a reproachful look. “It really wasn't necessary to call the police.”

The senior MP said: “It's an offense to pass forged money.”

“Knowingly,” Wolff said. “It is an offense
knowingly
to pass forged money.” As he listened to his own voice, quiet and persuasive, his confidence grew. “Now, then, what I propose is this. I have here my checkbook and some Egyptian money. I will write a check to cover my bill, and use the Egyptian money for the tip. Tomorrow I will take the allegedly counterfeit notes to the British paymaster general for examination, and if they really are forgeries I will surrender them.” He smiled at the group surrounding him. “I imagine that should satisfy everyone.”