World War II Thriller Collection (27 page)

Wolff said: “I wonder if I should keep my date with that girl, Elene, tonight.”

“Why not? She's nothing to do with the British. You picked her up in a shop!”

“Maybe. I just feel it might be safer to lie low. I don't know.”

“No,” said Sonja firmly. “I want her.”

He looked up at her through narrowed eyes. She wondered whether he was considering the issue or thinking about her newfound strength of will. “All right,” he said finally. “I'll just have to take precautions.”

He had given in. She had tested her strength against his, and she had won. It gave her a kind of thrill. She shivered.

“I'm still cold,” Wolff said. “Put some more hot water in.”

“No.” Without removing her nightdress, Sonja got into the bath. She knelt astride him, facing him, her knees jammed against the sides of the narrow tub. She lifted the wet hem of the nightdress to the level of her waist. She said: “Eat me.”

He did.

 

Vandam was in high spirits as he sat in the Oasis Restaurant, sipping a cold martini, with Jakes beside him. He had slept all day and had woken up feeling battered but ready to fight back. He had gone to the hospital, where Dr. Abuthnot had told him he was a fool to be up and about, but a lucky fool, for his wound was mending. She had changed his dressing for a smaller, neater one that did not have to be secured by a yard of bandage around his head. Now it was a quarter past seven, and in a few minutes he would catch Alex Wolff.

Vandam and Jakes were at the back of the restaurant, in a position from which they could see the whole place. The table nearest to the entrance was occupied by two hefty sergeants eating fried chicken paid for by Intelligence. Outside, in an unmarked car parked across the road, were two MPs in civilian clothes with their handguns in their jacket pockets. The trap was set: all that was missing was the bait. Elene would arrive at any minute.

Billy had been shocked by the bandage at breakfast that morning. Vandam had sworn the boy to secrecy, then told him the truth. “I had a fight with a German spy. He had a knife. He got away, but I think I may catch him tonight.” It was a breach of security, but what the hell, the boy needed to know why his father was wounded. After hearing the story Billy had not been worried anymore, but thrilled. Gaafar had been awestruck, and inclined to move around softly and talk in whispers, as if there had been a death in the family.

With Jakes, he found that last night's impulsive intimacy had left no overt trace. Their formal relationship had returned: Jakes took orders, called him sir, and did not offer opinions without being asked. It was just as well, Vandam thought: they were a good team as things were, so why make changes?

He looked at his wristwatch. It was seven-thirty. He lit another cigarette. At any moment now Alex Wolff would walk through the door. Vandam felt sure he would recognize Wolff—a tall, hawk-nosed European with brown hair and brown eyes, a strong, fit man—but he would make no move until Elene came in and sat by Wolff. Then Vandam and Jakes would move in. If Wolff fled the two sergeants would block the door, and in the unlikely event that he got past them, the MPs outside would shoot at him.

Seven thirty-five. Vandam was looking forward to interrogating Wolff. What a battle of wills that would be. But Vandam would win it, for he would have all the advantages. He would feel Wolff out, find the weak points, and then apply pressure until the prisoner cracked.

Seven thirty-nine. Wolff was late. Of course it was possible that he would not come at all. God forbid. Vandam shuddered when he recalled how superciliously he had said to Bogge: “I expect to arrest him tomorrow night.” Vandam's section was in very bad odor at the moment, and only the prompt arrest of Wolff would enable them to come up smelling of roses. But suppose that, after last night's scare, Wolff had decided to lie low for a while, wherever it was that he was lying? Somehow Vandam felt that lying low was not Wolff's style. He hoped not.

At seven-forty the restaurant door opened and Elene walked in. Vandam heard Jakes whistle under his breath. She looked stunning. She wore a silk dress the color of clotted cream. Its simple lines drew attention to her slender figure, and its color and texture flattered her smooth tan skin: Vandam felt a sudden urge to stroke her.

She looked around the restaurant, obviously searching for Wolff and not finding him. Her eyes met Vandam's and moved on without hesitating. The headwaiter approached, and she spoke to him. He seated her at a table for two close to the door.

Vandam caught the eye of one of the sergeants and inclined his head in Elene's direction. The sergeant gave a little nod of acknowledgment and checked his watch.

Where was Wolff?

Vandam lit a cigarette and began to worry. He had assumed that Wolff, being a gentleman, would arrive a little early; and Elene would arrive a little late. According to that scenario the arrest would have taken place the moment she sat down. It's going wrong, he thought, it's going bloody wrong.

A waiter brought Elene a drink. It was seven forty-five. She looked in Vandam's direction and gave a small, dainty shrug of her slight shoulders.

The door of the restaurant opened. Vandam froze with a cigarette halfway to his lips, then relaxed again, disappointed: it was only a small boy. The boy handed a piece of paper to a waiter then went out again.

Vandam decided to order another drink.

He saw the waiter go to Elene's table and hand her the piece of paper.

Vandam frowned. What was this? An apology from Wolff, saying he could not keep the date? Elene's face took on an expression of faint puzzlement. She looked at Vandam and gave that little shrug again.

Vandam considered whether to go over and ask her what was going on—but that would have spoiled the ambush, for what if Wolff should walk in while Elene was talking to Vandam? Wolff could turn around at the door and run, and he would have only the MPs to get past, two people instead of six.

Vandam murmured to Jakes: “Wait.”

Elene picked up her clutch bag from the chair beside her and stood up. She looked at Vandam again, then turned around. Vandam thought she was going to the ladies' room. Instead she went to the door and opened it.

Vandam and Jakes got to their feet together. One of the sergeants half rose, looking at Vandam, and Vandam waved him down: no point in arresting Elene. Vandam and Jakes hurried across the restaurant to the door.

As they passed the sergeants Vandam said: “Follow me.”

They went through the door into the street. Vandam looked around. There was a blind beggar sitting against the wall, holding out a cracked dish with a few piasters in it. Three soldiers in uniform staggered along the pavement, already drunk, arms around each other's shoulders, singing a vulgar song. A group of Egyptians had met just outside the restaurant and were vigorously shaking hands. A street vendor offered Vandam cheap razor blades. A few yards away Elene was getting into a taxi.

Vandam broke into a run.

The door of the taxi slammed and it pulled away.

Across the street, the MPs' car roared, shot forward and collided with a bus.

Vandam caught up with the taxi and leaped onto the running board. The car swerved suddenly. Vandam lost his grip, hit the road running and fell down.

He got to his feet. His face blazed with pain: his wound was bleeding again, and he could feel the sticky warmth under the dressing. Jakes and the two sergeants gathered around him. Across the road the MPs were arguing with the bus driver.

The taxi had disappeared.

ELENE WAS TERRIFIED. IT HAD ALL GONE WRONG. WOLFF WAS SUPPOSED TO have been arrested in the restaurant, and now he was here, in a taxi with her, smiling a feral smile. She sat still, her mind a blank.

“Who was he?” Wolff said, still smiling.

Elene could not think. She looked at Wolff, looked away again, and said: “What?”

“That man who ran after us. He jumped on the running board. I couldn't see him properly, but I thought he was a European. Who was he?”

Elene fought down her fear.
He's William Vandam, and he was supposed to arrest you.
She had to make up a story. Why would someone follow her out of a restaurant and try to get into her taxi? “He . . . I don't know him. He was in the restaurant.” Suddenly she was inspired. “He was bothering me. I was alone. It's your fault—you were late.”

“I'm so sorry,” he said quickly.

Elene had an access of confidence after he swallowed her story so readily. “And why are we in a taxi?” she demanded. “What's it all about? Why aren't we having dinner?” She heard a whining note in her voice, and hated it.

“I had a wonderful idea.” He smiled again, and Elene suppressed a shudder. “We're going to have a picnic. There's a basket in the trunk.”

She did not know whether to believe him. Why had he pulled that stunt at the restaurant, sending a boy in with the message “Come outside.—A.W.” unless he suspected a trap? What would he do now, take her into the desert and knife her? She had a sudden urge to leap out of the speeding car. She closed her eyes and forced herself to think calmly. If he suspected a trap, why did he come at all? No, it had to be more complex than that. He seemed to have believed her about the man on the running board—but she could not be sure what was going on behind his smile.

She said: “Where are we going?”

“A few miles out of town, to a little spot on the riverbank where we can watch the sun go down. It's going to be a lovely evening.”

“I don't want to go.”

“What's the matter?”

“I hardly know you.”

“Don't be silly. The driver will be with us all the time—and I'm a gentleman.”

“I should get out of the car.”

“Please don't.” He touched her arm lightly. “I have some smoked salmon, and a cold chicken, and a bottle of champagne. I get so bored with restaurants.”

Elene considered. She could leave him now, and she would be safe—she would never see him again. That was what she wanted, to get away from the man forever. She thought: But I'm Vandam's only hope. What do I care for Vandam? I'd be happy never to see him again, and go back to the old peaceful life—

The old life.

She
did
care for Vandam, she realized; at least enough for her to hate the thought of letting him down. She
had
to stay with Wolff, cultivate him, angle for another date, try to find out where he lived.

Impulsively she said: “Let's go to your place.”

He raised his eyebrows. “That's a sudden change of heart.”

She realized she had made a mistake. “I'm confused,” she said. “You sprung a surprise on me. Why didn't you ask me first?”

“I only thought of the idea an hour ago. It didn't occur to me that it might scare you.”

Elene realized that she was, unintentionally, fulfilling her role as a dizzy girl. She decided not to overplay her hand. “All right,” she said. She tried to relax.

Wolff was studying her. He said: “You're not quite as vulnerable as you seem, are you?”

“I don't know.”

“I remember what you said to Aristopoulos, that first day I saw you in the shop.”

Elene remembered: she had threatened to cut off Mikis' cock if he touched her again. She should have blushed, but she could not do so voluntarily. “I was so angry,” she said.

Wolff chuckled. “You sounded it,” he said. “Try to bear in mind that I am not Aristopoulos.”

She gave him a weak smile. “Okay.”

He turned his attention to the driver. They were out of the city, and Wolff began to give directions. Elene wondered where he had found this taxi: by Egyptian standards it was luxurious. It was some kind of American car, with big soft seats and lots of room, and it seemed only a few years old.

They passed through a series of villages, then turned onto an unmade road. The car followed the winding track up a small hill and emerged on a little plateau atop a bluff. The river was immediately below them, and on its far side Elene could see the neat patchwork of cultivated fields stretching into the distance until they met the sharp tan-colored line of the edge of the desert.

Wolff said: “Isn't this a lovely spot?”

Elene had to agree. A flight of swifts rising from the far bank of the river drew her eye upward, and she saw that the evening clouds were already edged in pink. A young girl was walking away from the river with a huge water jug on her head. A lone felucca sailed upstream, propelled by a light breeze.

The driver got out of the car and walked fifty yards away. He sat down, pointedly turning his back on them, lit a cigarette and unfolded a newspaper.

Wolff got a picnic hamper out of the trunk and set it on the floor of the car between them. As he began to unpack the food, Elene asked him: “How did you discover this place?”

“My mother brought me here when I was a boy.” He handed her a glass of wine. “After my father died, my mother married an Egyptian. From time to time she would find the Muslim household oppressive, so she would bring me here in a gharry and tell me about . . . Europe, and so on.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

He hesitated. “My mother had a way of spoiling things like that. She was always interrupting the fun. She used to say: ‘You're so selfish, just like your father.' At that age I preferred my Arab family. My stepbrothers were wicked, and nobody tried to control them. We used to steal oranges from other people's gardens, throw stones at horses to make them bolt, puncture bicycle tires . . . Only my mother minded, and all she could do was warn us that we'd get punished eventually. She was always saying that—‘They'll catch you one day, Alex!'”