by Glenn Meade
“It appears to be an internal memo from an army intelligence officer, Hauptmann Berger, to his commanding officer in Tunis.” Sanson handed it to one of the NCO translators, a young sergeant with black-framed glasses. “Give us an accurate translation, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir. ‘Rommel urgently pressing for more details: troop numbers, armor, and artillery movements. Berlin instructs Phoenix to proceed Cairo at once. Besheeba will rendezvous. Hopes combined efforts will produce more resuits.’ ” The sergeant looked up. “That’s about the gist of it, sir.”
Sanson said to Weaver, “It seems our friend Besheeba got himself some help.”
“Why was that?”
“Easy enough to understand. Nine months ago, Jerry was having a bad time of it from Monty, and needed all the intelligence he could get. Pretty much everything passed through here—signals, reinforcements, equipment.” Sanson shrugged. “Not that it matters much at this stage, except that if they’re still working together, we could have a double act on our hands.” He yawned, rolled down his sleeves, pulled on his jacket, and dismissed the two NCOs.
“What next?” Weaver asked tiredly. He needed to sleep, had stayed up half the previous night making love to Helen Kane, and his body was full of pleasant aches and pains. In the office that day, it had been difficult to keep their relationship strictly formal. Whenever she came near him, she would give him a knowing smile, and he couldn’t ignore the heightened sexual electricity between them. If it weren’t for the problem of having to find the Arab, he would have liked to have seen her that night. He looked back as Sanson replied, felt sympathy for him now that he knew Sanson’s personal tragedy.
“We’ll carry on searching here after we get some sleep, in case anything else turns up. And I’ll check with the prison camps and see if we captured Hauptmann Berger, or his CO, when we took Tunis.”
Despite their discovery, Weaver felt oddly deflated. He knew they were still no closer to finding Besheeba. If Signals couldn’t locate him or decipher the Cairo Code, their chances were even slimmer.
“That sounds like a long shot I wouldn’t bet on. We still haven’t got much hope of catching him, have we?”
Sanson rubbed his good eye. It stared back at Weaver. “In a city of two million? Not much. But we’ve got to, Weaver. We’ve got to.”
• • •
The Sultan Club was packed that Tuesday evening. There was a band playing on the stage, a group of displaced Frenchmen wearing ridiculous fezzes. Harvey Deacon went down the steps just before ten and clicked his fingers at the head waiter. “Find me a table near the back, Sammy. Number seven would be perfect.”
“Of course, sir.” The waiter scurried off, anxious to please his employer. Deacon watched as he went over to a group of American soldiers sitting in the back shadows. An argument developed as the waiter tried to convince them the table was reserved. The men grumbled, but eventually agreed to move with the promise of a complimentary beer. When the waiter came back, he led Deacon over to the table.
“I’ll have a glass of champagne.” Deacon looked at his watch moodily. “What the bloody devil’s keeping the performance?”
“It begins any moment now, sir.”
When the waiter poured his champagne, Deacon lit a cigar. He was tense and had hardly slept in the last twenty-four hours. Dark circles blotted his eyes and he felt exhausted, but with it came a sense of elation. The signal from Berlin had been clear and the intention unambiguous. Four people arriving to set up the operation, and then the paratroops. It was certainly a daring plan; only time would tell if it was brilliant. One thing he was certain of. If it worked, the war was as good as won.
But just as important, he’d have revenge for what had happened to Christina.
He still felt a chill go through his blood when he thought of how she had died. During the first American daylight raid on Berlin six months ago, her apartment had been blown to pieces. They never found her body, and Deacon was devastated when he heard the news, delivered via his Spanish courier. The thought of killing Roosevelt and Churchill sent a surge of vengeful adrenaline through his veins.
But things had to move fast, and Deacon didn’t particularly like the sense of urgency. These were deep waters he was getting into, and he had to tread carefully. But there was no doubt the feeling it caused was electric.
As he sat there a spotlight went on and the red curtains parted. A half-dozen women paraded onto the stage, wearing sequined tops and harem pants, and accompanied by the sound of an Egyptian drumbeat. Tanya, the star of the show, was in the middle, and her charms were obvious: long dark hair and brown almond-shaped eyes, complemented by a voluptuous body with splendid curves and breasts. She was half Italian, half Arab—a potent combination.
The band struck up and the girls danced and peeled away a layer of clothes, revealing even skimpier outfits. The musicians tried their best to keep the whole thing in tempo, but the girls were a pretty hopeless bunch of dancers. Not that the audience cared.
A man wove his way through the crowd, carrying a glass of champagne high above his head, his eyes glinting appreciatively as he watched the girls perform. He was tall and dashing with a devil-may-care look about him, his manicured hands and expensive Western suit hinting at a privileged upbringing. A Royal Egyptian Air Force captain, Omar Rahman was the son of a senior government minister and an ardent Nazi sympathizer. He couldn’t keep his eyes off Tanya as she undressed. “I have to say, she’s some woman. And that figure of hers could drive any man crazy.”
Deacon smiled indulgently. “Time for the introductions later. You have the information I need?”
Omar deftly slipped an envelope from his pocket, handed it under the table. “It’s all there, everything you asked for.”
Unseen, Deacon tucked the envelope into his pocket. “Well, Omar, can you do it?”
The captain smiled. “You know me, I’m always willing to take a risk.”
“But can it be done?”
“Stealing the aircraft isn’t a big problem. Until a few months ago, the British controlled the Egyptian Air Force with a tight fist—we couldn’t take off or land without their permission, and our fuel was rationed. But since Rommel’s gone, they’ve relaxed things a bit. And I’m certain the plan you suggest is workable. So long as you keep to your end of the bargain.”
“You can be sure of that.” Deacon beamed. “Good, that’s settled, then.” The girls’ performance was coming to an end. A solitary drumbeat struck up. Tanya stepped forward, a couple of sequined tassels on her breasts. She proceeded to swing the tassels in circles, at the same time sashaying her hips and giving a ridiculous rendition of “Let Me Entertain You.” Her erotic gyrations whipped the audience into a frenzy until the drumbeat climaxed with a bang and she finished performing. There was a moment of silence, and then the men at the tables went wild, getting to their feet, cheering and clapping. Tanya took a bow, and Deacon saw Omar lick his lips.
“You’d like to get to know her better?”
Omar grinned. “My friend, that would be heaven on earth.”
Deacon laughed. “Come, I’ll take you to her dressing room.”
• • •
Back in his office ten minutes later, Deacon had finished reading the contents of the envelope when there was a knock on the door. Hassan came in. Deacon barely recognized him. The beard was gone, and so was the djellaba, a suit in its place. He looked like a changed man. The Arab flopped into the chair beside him. The swelling had gone down on his jaw and lower lip, the flesh dark and yellow from healing.
“Well, did you see Salter?” Deacon asked.
“He’s expecting us at the warehouse in half an hour.”
“Excellent.” Deacon relaxed a little. Berlin had been specific about its needs, and he had a feeling Reggie Salter could help him solve most of them.
“I don’t trust Salter, or that conniving Greek partner of his,” Hassan said moodily.
“Short of stealing the vehicles and uniforms
ourselves, which would be highly dangerous, we haven’t much choice. He might be one of the biggest gangsters in Cairo but he can supply everything we need, and with a guarantee he won’t go to the police. Who can ask for more than that?”
Hassan gingerly massaged his jaw. “But will he do as you ask?”
Deacon finished his champagne, crushed out his cigar. “Let’s bloody well hope so, or we’re finished before we start.”
MALTA
Twelve hundred miles away that same night, Prime Minister Winston Churchill had just finished a simple meal of boiled chicken and fresh vegetables in the small private dining room set aside for him on board the battle cruiser HMS Renown, anchored off Valetta, the Maltese capital, for a brief stopover en route to Egypt.
Having spent the earlier part of the evening at the governor’s residence pinning North Africa ribbons on Generals Eisenhower and Alexander, he had returned to ship to attend to a hefty pile of urgent paperwork before a late supper. He followed his meal, not with dessert, but with his customary indulgence, a cigar and a large brandy and soda, poured for him by one of the ship’s officers.
“Not so much soda, young man. It bloody well kills the taste.” Churchill’s gaze swung from the officer to General Hastings “Pug” Ismay, his chief of staff, who had shared his table. “Well, Hastings, shall we stroll back to my cabin?”
“Of course, sir.”
Churchill thanked the officer who handed him his brandy, and led the way out on deck, clutching his glass. It was a mild night, a gentle Mediterranean breeze blowing, the moonlit waters lapping against the hull. Churchill, out of respect for fire regulations on board, rightly desisted from lighting his cigar until they reached his cabin. It was quite small, spartan almost, just a bedside locker, a couple of chairs, and a metal bunk, the simplicity not at all in keeping with the man’s perceived larger-than-life personality, but then few among the public realized what a simple warrior their prime minister was, cigars and brandy apart.
“Take a seat, Hastings.”
As Churchill slumped into a chair and touched a match to his cigar, Ismay saw that the prime minister looked pasty-faced and far from well; a severe throat infection and the effect of his typhoid and cholera inoculations for the trip had already kept him in bed for days. To make matters worse, a punishing three-week schedule of top-secret conferences lay ahead: five days in Cairo with Roosevelt to discuss Operation Overlord, the invasion of Europe, and with Chiang Kai-shek, the Chinese leader, to decide tactics in the Far East and Pacific, then on to Teheran with Roosevelt to confer with Stalin on Allied strategy, then back to Cairo again with Roosevelt to attempt to resolve the tactical considerations the conferences had raised. A critical point had now been reached in the war: With the invasion of Sicily and the Italian mainland, the tide was slowly turning in the Allies’ favor. The judgments made in the coming weeks, Ismay knew with certainty, would clearly decide their success or failure.
“You’re looking forward to the conference, Prime Minister?” Ismay said, pulling up the other chair.
“I’m growing tired of bloody conferences, Hastings, and weary of war. I wish to God this whole wretched business was over. Which is why we’ve got to tie it all up at Cairo. Every last thread. Our strategy from Europe and the Balkans, to Russia and the Far East. Then take the ball on the hop and run with it as fast as we bloody can.” Churchill gave his chief of staff a steely look, which could have been frightening had it not been meant to convey his complete honesty. “If we don’t, I fear we could find ourselves losing the entire war.”
Ismay sat forward anxiously. “I know security is going to be extraordinarily tight for the conferences, sir, but have you read the recent intelligence reports from London? Apparently, the Germans have a whiff that there’s something in the air. Their spies in Lisbon and Istanbul have been doing their utmost to get information about your movements, and those of President Roosevelt.”
“So I read.”
“Our intelligence chaps are even suggesting Berlin might be tempted to try something desperate, sooner rather than later, now that we’re pushing Hitler hard.”
“I read that, too. Kill us, you mean.”
“It makes sense. The death of any one of you, Roosevelt, Stalin, or yourself, would be a godsend for the Nazis—especially yourself or Roosevelt. It would throw everything in a muddle and likely as not put the brakes on the Allied offensive. Who knows which way the tide might turn if a catastrophe like that occurred?”
“Don’t I know it.” Churchill eased himself from his chair, crossed to the porthole, looked out, and spoke without turning back. “But personally I’ve never put much faith in the Nazis’ ability to carry out an operation like that.”
“But they got Mussolini out of Abruzzi. And very daring it was, too. I wouldn’t put anything past them, sir. They could as easily have assassinated Il Duce as rescued him. And this Skorzeny chap who led the SS paratroops, you have to admit his entire operation was first-class.”
‘True. Are you trying to frighten me, Hastings?”
“I doubt I could do that, sir. I’m simply pointing out the possibility of danger ahead, if these reports are to be believed. Perhaps it might be wise, if it’s found necessary, to reschedule the conferences?”
“Impossible. It’s taken too much hard work, planning, and compromise to arrange them in the first place. And it’s vital they take place at this juncture, with everything so critical. You know that better than anyone. Lives depend on it. The sooner we can win and finish this battle the better, lest there be more death and destruction.”
“But if it’s deemed necessary.”
“Then it will ultimately be my decision.” Churchill sipped his drink, continued to gaze out of the porthole. “But I’m sure I’m in much safer hands than Mussolini. And there’s one thing Berlin hasn’t figured on.”
“And what’s that, sir?”
“Rather than succumb at the hands of Hitler’s assassins, I have every bloody intention of dying in my sleep, at a ripe old age and with my family around me. There’s a lot to be said for it, Hastings.”
Ismay couldn’t help but smile cheekily. “No doubt with a cigar in your mouth and a brandy by your side?”
Churchill turned back, raised his glass. “That’s it, exactly.”
17
* * *
CAIRO
The big old warehouse in the teeming market area of the Khan-el-Khalili looked on the outside like any other in the bazaar, a shambling brick building with soot-blackened walls.
Inside, it was something else entirely.
A treasure-house of supplies that any merchant or NAAFI store would have been proud of, packed from floor to ceiling with crates of assorted alcohol, medical supplies, boxes of shoes, bedcovers, canned food and olive oil, reams of cloth, and just about anything that would fetch an inflated price on the black market.
Reggie Salter was sitting at a desk in the second-floor office, counting through several thick wads of dirty Egyptian banknotes, sweat on his face as there always was when he counted money. He was a small man in his early thirties, stockily built and wearing a sweat-stained linen jacket, a Browning automatic tucked away neatly in a leather shoulder holster underneath. The heat and humidity were unbearable that evening, and every now and then he wiped his face with a handkerchief.
Across the room, a thin, barefoot Egyptian boy, no more than ten, sat on a couple of sacks of flour, turning a set of bicycle pedals as fast as he could with his hands, working a complex mechanical contraption of chains and pulleys that kept a couple of large wooden fan blades spinning in the ceiling overhead, although the air was too oppressive for it to make much difference.
“Can’t you turn those bleeding things any faster?” Salter snapped. The child was lathered in sweat, but did his best to obey. There was a knock on the door and Salter scowled but didn’t bother to look up as he carried on counting the notes.
“I’m busy. What is it?”
The door opened and one o
f his bodyguards appeared. He looked thoroughly dangerous, well over six feet, broad and muscular, tiny scars crisscrossing his face like a spider’s web.
“Baldy Reed is here to see you, Reggie. And Deacon’s arrived. He’s waiting downstairs.”
Salter scooped the money into a drawer and locked it. “Keep Deacon waiting and send Baldy in first. Then find Costas down in the cellars and tell him I need him up here, pronto.”
“Right you are, boss.”
When the door closed, Salter crossed the room and jerked a thumb at the boy. “Get out, kid. You’re bloody useless.”
The exhausted child lowered himself from the sacks, but when he didn’t move fast enough, Salter lashed out and kicked his backside. “Are you bleeding deaf? I said out. Now!”
The boy scurried out through the door and a little later it opened again and a shifty-looking man in a British army sergeant’s uniform appeared. Wally Reed was no more than twenty-five, boyishly thin-faced, but when he removed his forage cap there was barely a wisp of hair on his smooth young head. Salter came round from behind the desk, flashed a smile, all charm now, and shook his hand.
“Good to see you again, Baldy. And what do you have for me this time? Something interesting, I hope?”
“Two forty-gallon drums of petrol, a dozen bottles of the best claret, and four sides of beef.”
“And who did you have to murder to get those?”
Reed laughed. “A man’s got to live. Are you interested?”
“How much?”
“Forty quid.”
“You’re a bigger thief than I am. Thirty, and not a penny more.” Salter grinned. “But just to show there’s no hard feelings, I’ll throw in a bottle of Scotch.”
“Done. You want me to drop the stuff off at the usual place?”
“I’d appreciate it.” Salter slapped a hand on the sergeant’s shoulder and led him to the door. “And do it after midnight, as always. Good to do business with you again, Baldy.”