by Glenn Meade
Weaver knew from the report Sanson had delivered that two Egyptian policemen had gone missing late the previous afternoon, not far from a village called Birqash, over twenty miles north of Cairo. Their bodies had been discovered early that morning, buried in a shallow grave, their throats cut. At ten the previous evening, their car was found abandoned near a railway station on the city outskirts. A Bedouin family living several miles from Birqash had been questioned by the police and claimed to have seen two men driving a military truck late the previous afternoon, heading in the general direction of the village. The truck had been found a couple of miles outside—a Fiat with an Italian army registration.
“The men were too far away for the Bedouin to provide descriptions,” Sanson had told Clayton. “But we know Halder and the woman were in Alex, so it couldn’t have been them. It now looks like we’re dealing with at least four German agents.”
The general crossed to the French windows, still enraged. “What about the Fiat? Someone must have owned the darned thing.”
“So far as we can tell, it wasn’t on the register of confiscated enemy vehicles,” Sanson answered. “I’ve requested a list of all military vehicles missing in the last twenty-four hours. But the Fiat still had its original Italian army plates on, so unless it’s reported stolen, it’s unlikely we’ll trace the owner.”
“You mind telling me why not?”
“General, there’s enough surplus military hardware floating around this country to start another war. It’s more than possible the truck was somebody’s loot before it was stolen or borrowed by the Germans, so it’s unlikely the owner would report it missing.”
The general came back and slumped into his chair. “The whole thing’s a godforsaken mess. The president arrived this morning, Prime Minister Churchill yesterday afternoon. The fact that we’ve got at least four ruthless German agents at large in the same city doesn’t bear thinking about.”
“If I might make a suggestion,” Sanson offered. “We ask the president and prime minister to cancel or delay their meeting until we locate these people.”
The general shook his head firmly, slapped his fist on the desk. “That’s not even an option. Have either of you any idea of the amount of planning that’s gone into this thing? Thousands of man-hours spent at meetings, communications, organization. VIPs and senior officers to be transported from all over the world—not an easy thing in wartime. It could take months to reorganize everything, and that’s time we just don’t have.”
“With respect, sir, these are exceptional circumstances.”
“The ambassador already put that point to the president and prime minister. They both refused point-blank to change their schedule. You must know the kind of men they are. They’re not going to be intimidated by a handful of Nazi agents. As far as the president goes, he’s got a favorite saying. There’s nothing to fear but fear itself. With a philosophy like that it’s impossible to frighten the man. And I think I’d be right in saying Mr. Churchill is made of the same kind of iron—he doesn’t scare easily. Their personal security details have been briefed about the situation, and they’ve assured me they’ll be taking extra precautions. But it’s still your job to find these Germans.”
There was a knock on the door and the general’s aide appeared. “Your car is ready to take you to the Mena House, sir.”
“I’ll be right there.” The door closed and Clayton said sternly, “I want no more excuses—just results. What we need is a little bit of luck—and we won’t have that unless we police every hotel, bar, restaurant, and bawdy house in the city and outskirts, check everyone’s identity papers, and haul in anyone we see who’s acting suspiciously. I don’t give a curse who they are or how authentic their credentials. If you suspect them, round them up and haul ’em in. The same applies to the home of every Nazi sympathizer on our lists. Somebody’s got to be helping the Arab and Germans to hide out. And they’re out there somewhere.”
The general stood, picked up his cap, looked sternly at Weaver. “Muster as many men as you need, but you find every one of those Krauts, fast. I want them dead.”
• • •
As they drove back through the city, Weaver felt exhausted. He had tried to think everything through, but still it didn’t make any sense. Rachel was dead, and now she’s alive. And there didn’t seem to be any way he could save her, or Jack Halder.
Sanson said, “I’ll have a list made of all American vehicles registered in Cairo, military or civilian, including any that may have been stolen, and we’ll see what it turns up. I’ve already put out a general alert for anyone with the identities of Mallory and Tauber to be immediately arrested, warning that they’re armed and dangerous. Though my guess is they’ll have the sense not to use the same identity papers again. Meanwhile, you’d better grab a few hours’ sleep. If anything develops, I’ll call you.”
“I’ll be OK.”
Sanson said gruffly, “I’m not being kind to you, Weaver. We’ve got a busy time ahead, so take the rest while you can. Something else you ought to know. I had one of my men check back through the maritime reports at Port Said. It seems the Izmir went to the bottom all right, and the ship had a history of engine trouble, but there was something the newspapers neglected to mention at the time.”
“What?”
“They reported that a Maltese fishing trawler rescued a life raft with four Turkish sailors from the Izmir the day after it sank. But what they didn’t say was that the trawler’s skipper spotted a German naval frigate in the same area.”
“What are you saying?”
“The German frigate’s too much of a coincidence. The Sterns were the only passengers on board the Izmir, according to the ship’s manifest. The vessel was Turkish, and the Turks are notoriously pro-German. For all we know the frigate could have been planning a rendezvous somewhere at sea to pick them up, before things went wrong and the boat blew up.”
“Pick them up for what reason?”
“The Sterns had never intended to travel on to Istanbul, but back to Germany. They were spies, one or all of them, working for the Nazis.”
“Oh, come on, Sanson,” Weaver said angrily. “The Germans have always used the Med. Their frigate could have been there by pure chance. Rachel or her parents were never spies. It’s crazy.”
They reached Garden City, and Sanson pulled up outside GHQ. “I’ll have Lieutenant Kane drop you at your villa—I’ve got work to do. You’d better meet me back here at six. There’s someone I want you to meet who should help clear all this up.”
“Who?”
“You’ll find out later. But I’ll tell you this much—I reckon you’ve got a bloody big surprise in store, Weaver. And I hope you’re ready for it.”
• • •
When they reached Zamalek, Helen Kane took the door key from Weaver and let them into the villa. “You look terrible. I’ll run you a bath. Then I’ll let you get some rest.”
They went up to Weaver’s room and she ran the bath and found some fresh towels. When he’d undressed, he went to lie in the steaming water. She came in with two glasses of Scotch and handed him one. “I figured you might need this. Mind if a girl keeps you company?”
He’d been away less than forty-eight hours, but it felt like as many days, and there was a tension between them he could sense. “I guess not.”
She smiled uncertainly, leaned against the door frame, and sipped her drink. “You seem distracted. Want to tell me about it?”
Weaver’s mind was in turmoil. “Do I have to?”
“No, but I think from the look on your face you need to tell someone.”
He lay back in the hot water, exhausted, ran a washcloth over his eyes and face, and told her everything. When he had finished, she barely reacted. “You don’t seem surprised.”
“I have a confession to make. Sanson phoned me from Alex and had me report what happened to General Clayton.”
“I see.”
She put her glass down. “Except I don’t understand any o
f it. I could accept your friend Halder being involved, but not Rachel Stern, at least not from what you told me about her. None of it makes any sense. She was dead, and now she’s alive. And according to Sanson, he suspects she’s a Nazi agent.”
“She couldn’t be, Helen. Not with her background. Even Halder made a point of telling me she was innocent in all this. Sure, the German frigate probably picked her up. After that, I would have thought prison was likely, or one of those camps we’ve all been hearing about.”
He finished bathing, and she handed him a towel and left as he dried himself. When he had dressed and came out of the bathroom, she was sitting on the couch. She looked preoccupied, and said quietly, “Can I ask you something, Harry?”
“What?”
“Are you still in love with her?”
“Now how did I know you’d ask me that?”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
He hesitated. “I don’t know.”
She looked hurt. “That means you’re still in love with her.”
His heart sank as he said, “Maybe the truth is I never stopped loving her.”
She bit her lip, put down her glass. “I understand.” She stood, clearly upset. “I’ll let you get some rest.”
He put a hand to her face. “I’m sorry, Helen. But you asked for the truth.”
She took his hand away, gently. “Don’t feel bad. I’m just feeling sorry for myself, that’s all.” She gave a nervous smile, then made to go, but turned back, brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Life’s never that simple, is it, Harry?” There was a hint of tears at the edges of her eyes. “I’ll see you around.”
Weaver heard her footsteps go down the stairs, was almost overcome by a terrible wave of guilt, but he didn’t try to stop her.
54
* * *
BERLIN
22 NOVEMBER, 12:30 P.M.
The Adlon, Berlin’s famous landmark hotel, was a five-minute drive from Canaris’s office. It was cold and blustery when he stepped out of his staff-driven Mercedes and entered the plush foyer, leaving his coat and hat at the cloakroom desk. Looking tired and drawn, he moved past the sweeping staircase, noticed that the once splendid chandelier overhead and the ceiling plasterwork had been badly damaged by the bombing, and stepped into the dining room. Most of the lunchtime crowd hadn’t yet arrived, just a few tables occupied by bleak-looking businessmen and a handful of uniformed officers.
The headwaiter, hovering near the door, recognized Canaris immediately, escorted him to one of the private dining booths at the end, and pulled back the red velvet curtain. Schellenberg was already there, a bottle of brandy and a full glass in front of him, a fork in his hand as he tucked into a meal of sauerkraut, potatoes, and pickled beef.
“Ah, Wilhelm. You’ve arrived at last. I’ve started without you, as you can see. The beef’s excellent. I’d recommend it.”
“I was delayed. But no matter. I’m not hungry.”
“But you’ll have a brandy, of course?” Schellenberg grinned. “It’s only Polish, I’m afraid, the French stocks have been depleted, so you risk losing the enamel from your teeth.”
“I’ve risked a lot more in my time.” Canaris waved the headwaiter away, then took a seat opposite. “Well, what’s this urgent news you spoke of?”
Schellenberg poured him a large measure of brandy. “Naturally, I couldn’t tell you on the telephone.”
“Then tell me now, damn you. I’ve heard nothing since yesterday, when you told me Halder and the others survived the crash. I’ve hardly slept since, so don’t keep me in suspense.”
Schellenberg swallowed a forkful of sauerkraut, washed it down with the remains of his brandy, and slapped the glass on the table. “It’s of the good and bad news variety.”
“Go on,” Canaris said expectantly, ignoring his drink.
“We received a signal early this morning from Deacon. Our friends Kleist and Doring managed to arrive safely in Cairo and make contact. Which cheered me up somewhat. Not to mention Himmler and the Führer.”
Canaris was on the edge of his seat. “What about Halder and the woman?”
“No news of them yet. It seems the team split up into two pairs after the crash, and tried to make it to Cairo separately. Kleist and Doring, and Halder and Rachel Stern. I’ve no information other than that.”
“I see.” Canaris sat back and sighed inwardly with relief, not disappointment. “It still doesn’t look good, then?”
Schellenberg refilled his own glass to the brim, swallowed a mouthful. “In this case, no news is hardly good news.”
“But you seem rather pleased, and in good spirits. Why?”
Schellenberg smiled broadly. “Because there’s a glimmer of hope, considering two of our team got through. And you should have more faith in Halder, Wilhelm. After all, he’s one of your best men, and infinitely more resourceful than either Kleist or his comrade. If the pair of them could make it, I expect Halder can.” A nervous excitement crept into Schellenberg’s voice. “In fact, I know he’ll make it, and carry on with the mission. I can feel it in my bones. Any man who can easily pass himself off as an enemy officer, British or American, as he’s done in the past, must surely stand more than a chance.”
“I’m well aware of Halder’s abilities.” Canaris glanced at the bottle on the table. “But you’re sure it’s not the brandy making you optimistic?”
Schellenberg’s mouth tightened. “Don’t be smart, Wilhelm.”
“Try to see it realistically. Assuming Halder is still alive, and even if he manages to get to Cairo and make contact with Deacon, the Allies will be hunting him down. We have to expect that after the crash. The odds of Sphinx succeeding will be considerably diminished.”
“But he’s a clever man is Jack, and wily as a fox when the odds are stacked against him.” Schellenberg still sounded bullish. “And I’m convinced he’ll do his utmost to achieve his objectives, no matter what the obstacles. To pinpoint wherever Roosevelt and Churchill are, secure the airfield at Shabramant, transport Skorzeny and his paratroops to the required location once they land, and help them get past Allied security to carry out the necessary business. A tall enough order, I know, but unlike you, I still firmly believe Halder can accomplish what’s expected of him. I wouldn’t be surprised if we heard something positive from Deacon soon, in regard to Halder’s safe arrival.”
Canaris sighed, emptied his glass in one swallow, and tried not to show his distress at the unsettling thought of Sphinx actually succeeding. “So, what next? We wait for Deacon’s next radio transmission?”
Schellenberg nodded. “Exactly. Which should be tonight, around midnight or soon after. Then we should know better where we stand. Unless Deacon is tempted to transmit earlier if he has urgent news, though long-range radio transmission and reception is always poorer during daylight hours, as you know. Something to do with the atmosphere. But Rome and Athens have firm instructions to relay any hint of a signal they receive from Cairo immediately. Naturally, the Führer wants to be informed the moment we have any information. He’s anxious to know the mission status, and with every hour that goes by, he seems more convinced than ever its success is our only hope of winning this war.”
“Anything else I should know about?”
Schellenberg smiled broadly again. “Just one more thing. As a sign of my good faith in Halder, I’ve already put Skorzeny and his men on alert. They’ll be ready to fly to Cairo at a moment’s notice.”
CAIRO
4:30 P.M.
Halder was checking through the uniforms and the altered identity documents Deacon had delivered to his room when there was a knock on the door and Rachel came in. She had changed into a fresh blouse and khaki pants, and Halder said, “Feeling any better after your rest?”
“A little. Didn’t you sleep?”
“I managed to grab a couple of hours.”
The bedroom was a small affair, with a bare wooden floor. There was just an iron bed, a chair by the
balcony window, and an enamel jug and washbasin on a wicker table in a corner. Dusk had begun to fall, the shutters were open, the sound of crickets and the scent of flowers carrying into the room on the warm tropical air. The view of the Nile was exquisite, the dying orange light reflected on the waters, and Rachel stepped out on to the narrow wrought-iron balcony. “Did you ever miss it here after you returned to Germany?”
Halder joined her. “The happiest time I ever had was at Sakkara. I used to think I’d like to spend my life here, excavating ruins, and retire to live in a big old villa overlooking the Nile.” He smiled, took a deep breath. “It’s good to smell the warm air of Cairo again.”
“Do you think Harry will be all right?”
“His comrades will have found him by now, I’m certain.”
“You should have let me talk to him one last time before we boarded the boat.”
“What good would it have done, Rachel? And there really wasn’t time.”
Rachel sighed, and Halder said, “What’s the matter?”
“Just a feeling I have, that it could get much worse from now on. You told me when you asked Harry not to get involved he refused. It’s a frightening thought, both of you being up against each other. And no doubt his superiors will want him to be resolute to catch us. I’m sure he’s in a quandary, just like you.”
“I’d try not to dwell on it,” Halder said, dispirited. “It’s hard enough as it is, just the thought of him hunting us down. I’d hate to face the prospect of either of us having to decide which came first, duty or friendship, if it ever came down to it.”
As if to change the subject, Rachel pointed at an American captain’s uniform laid out on the bed. “What’s that for? A fancy-dress party at Shepheard’s?”
“Now there’s a thought.” Halder went back into the room, stuffed the uniform into a kit bag. “I’ve got a little work to do, along with our host and Kleist. I’ll probably be gone until late, so don’t wait up.”
Rachel followed him inside. “What about the others?”