Hellfire (2011)

by James Holland

  5

  Sunday, 9 August. A phone call to her flat early in the morning: that same voice, light and conversational. What switchboard operator could ever suspect a thing? This time the address was in the Moski, it being the day of rest for the Europeans in the city; no need to be close to the Polish Red Cross office this time. The rendezvous was eight thirty a.m., the perfect time for a young woman to go shopping in the bazaars of the old Muslim city. Nothing suspicious about that.

  Tanja washed, dressed and, a little after half past seven, set out. It was already warm but nothing compared to what it would be later. She was wearing a light blue cotton dress with a belt round her waist, coral lipstick, a plain, wide-brimmed straw hat and polarized glasses. Normal attire for an off-duty European woman.

  She walked to the Opera House and then, feeling hot, took a gharry. The driver, a small man with silvery hair and a large moustache, stepped down, offered his hand to help her and nimbly jumped up beside her. He cracked his whip and they drove forward. There was a clump of leaves for the mule at the driver’s foot, which implied the beast was better looked after than its protruding ribs suggested. Already the streets were busy – pullulating with people, animals, trams and other vehicles.

  At the edge of the Moski, their way was barred. A car had evidently hit a cart laden with watermelons, most of which had rolled off on to the street. Men were shouting and gesticulating. Tanja began to fret: she did not want to be late. Then a whistle blew and several Egyptian policemen arrived. A few minutes later, car and cart had been moved to the side of the road, the fruit retrieved, and the way was clear once more.

  A short distance further on, the gharry turned and the open streets of the city were replaced by a web of narrow, overhung lanes, the delicate iron balconies above so close they were almost touching. They enclosed Tanja in a different world, one that always reminded her of the Arabian Nights stories. The gharry inched its way forward, through a sea of bobbing turbans, deep red tarbooshes, and black yashmaks. The lanes were lined with an array of brightly coloured shops and stalls, pots and pans hanging from one, fruit in another, then a line of dead fowls hanging above cages of live ones, right next door to a jewellery shop that glittered gold and silver against the cavernous black interior. And the smell! The exotic aroma of spice and animal dung. The lanes seemed to go on for ever, a true labyrinth that made the great Khan al Khalili bazaar appear almost magical in its size. A place one could easily get lost in. A place ideal for spies.

  At a crossroads, familiar to her by the shops rather than the Arabic names, she asked the man to stop, paid him ten piastres and continued the last part of her journey on foot. It was now twenty past eight; she had made good time, after all. Tanja walked slowly, pausing here and there, ignoring the imploring sales patter of the shop-owners, occasionally casting glances to ensure she was not being followed.

  At half past eight exactly she slipped into one of the many jewellery shops in the bazaar, took off her glasses, nodded at the old man sitting in the gloom and went through a door at the back, up rickety stairs to a room that was lined with rugs and cushions, and heavily scented with frankincense.

  As always, Artus was waiting for her, sitting cross-legged in the corner, sipping coffee and smoking a hookah.

  ‘Punctual as ever, Madame Zanowski,’ he said, making no effort to get to his feet. ‘The Muslim Brothers are, as ever, eternally grateful to you.’

  Tanja tapped the end of a cigarette against her small tortoiseshell case. ‘I’m not doing this for you.’ She put the cigarette between her lips and lit it. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘What is the message this time?’

  Artus raised a hand. ‘A moment, please. Why the hurry?’

  Tanja sighed. ‘Just give me the message.’

  Artus did not move, instead taking another sip of his coffee. ‘You want coffee? Tea?’

  ‘No, thank you. I just want the message.’

  Artus smiled. ‘Why do you do this?’

  ‘I’m beginning to wonder.’

  ‘But, like us, you hate the British?’

  ‘No.’ She exhaled a cloud of smoke, one arm crossed over her chest.

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘Please,’ she said, ‘the message.’

  Artus nodded. ‘The British are sending through another convoy – a big one – but there is one ship above all that must be sunk. Malta needs fuel and only one ship can deliver enough for the British there.’ He felt inside his jacket, pulled out a slip of paper and held it towards her. Tanja snatched it and read the typed instructions:

  Fourteen ship convoy PEDESTAL passing through Straits of Gibraltar tonight 9 August to Malta. Fuel ship OHIO must be sunk.

  Half escort leaving convoy Cap Bon.

  ‘When should I send this?’

  ‘As soon as possible.’

  Tanja nodded. ‘And now I have a message for you to pass on.’

  Artus raised an eyebrow. Oh, yes?

  ‘I want to see Orca.’

  Artus smiled. ‘I’m not sure that will be possible.’

  ‘It has to be.’

  ‘You know as well as I do that the chain of command has to be kept secure. If it is compromised, then so is the entire circuit.’

  ‘Arrange it, Artus.’

  ‘And if he does not agree?’

  ‘Make sure he does.’ She turned and left the room.

  Monday, 10 August. With Lucie back at the flat and already asleep, Tanner had headed to GHQ armed with his letter of commission and a further note from Colonel Vigar. Now that he was an officer, he needed new papers: an officer’s identity card and an amended pay-book. He had only been to Grey Pillars once before, not long after he had first arrived in Egypt. Now, walking through the curving boulevards of Garden City, he was surprised by the vast compound enclosed by curls of wire. General Headquarters, Middle East no longer occupied just one belle-époque building, but a number of villas, apartment blocks and other houses.

  He approached the main guardhouse, braced to make a lengthy and frustrating explanation as to why an apparent warrant officer was wearing the pips of a lieutenant. Despite the seemingly tight security measures, however, and much to his relief, he was saluted and waved on through. More sentries had been placed outside Grey Pillars, but again Tanner saluted casually and walked on past, up the steps and straight into the building. He would never have got in so easily had he still been a mere NCO.

  In the hallway, he was directed to the Army Administration Office, accessed via several long corridors and doors in another building. A number of questions, his accompanying letters handed over for inspection, followed by a short wait on a bench in the corridor outside the office, and then he was called back in and his photograph taken in a cubby-hole of a room.

  ‘We won’t keep you too long,’ said the civilian clerk, a middle-aged woman. Egyptian? Not European, at any rate, but wearing European dress.

  Tanner nodded. ‘While I’m here,’ he said, ‘I don’t suppose you can help me find someone?’

  ‘Army?’

  ‘Yes. I know he’s in Cairo somewhere but I’m not sure where.’

  She looked at him sceptically.

  ‘He’s an old friend,’ Tanner added. ‘Alex Vaughan. Captain last time I saw him, but that was over a year ago.’

  ‘What regiment?’ said the woman, a pencil poised over a scrap of paper.

  ‘Middle East Commando – before that Coldstream Guards, I think.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. You can wait in the corridor.’

  Tanner thanked her and did as he was told. Half an hour later, he was called back in to collect his new officer’s identity pass and amended pay-book. Tanner looked at it, the stamp across the photograph, and the words ‘John Tanner, Lieutenant’ in ink: Height: 6 6’. Colour of Eyes: grey. Colour of Hair: dark brown. Other Distinguishing Marks (if any): scar on face, broken nose. His nose had been broken twice, but not badly; and the scar – well, it barely showed.

  ‘Your friend is a major now,’ s
aid the clerk. ‘He works in the Defence Security Office.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Tanner. ‘Any idea where it is?’

  She shook her head. ‘Ask at Reception.’

  Tanner did so and was given directions by the duty sergeant. ‘It’s beyond the guardhouse, almost dead opposite, with the red pillars at the front.’ He chuckled. ‘Almost anyone could walk into it – it’s supposed to be the security office around here but it’s outside the wire. Where’s the logic in that?’

  Sure enough, it was beyond the vast barbed-wire barrier that protected the GHQ compound, and was guarded by a lone Egyptian policeman. Flashing his new identity card and receiving a curt nod, Tanner stepped into the hallway, to be met by a legless Egyptian sitting on a wheeled square of wood.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said the man, ‘please may I see your papers?’

  Tanner stopped, startled. He was further surprised to see the man wore a shoulder holster and an army service revolver. ‘Here,’ he said, handing over his card.

  The man eyed him carefully, glancing up and then down at his card. ‘Who are you here to see?’

  ‘Major Alex Vaughan.’

  ‘All right,’ said the man, handing back the card. ‘Take the stairs to the second floor and ask one of the secretaries. Major Vaughan is in at the moment.’

  At the second-floor landing he found a civilian secretary typing at a desk. In her thirties, Tanner guessed, no doubt an officer’s wife.

  ‘Good morning.’ She smiled. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I’m here to see Major Vaughan.’

  ‘Is he expecting you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not to worry. What is it regarding?’

  ‘I’m an old friend.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nice.’ She flashed him another warm smile, then lifted the phone on her desk. ‘May I take a name, please?’ she asked him.

  ‘Lieutenant Tanner.’

  She stared at the wall for a few moments, then said, ‘Hello, Alex, there’s a Lieutenant Tanner here to see you … Yes.’ She glanced at him. ‘Yes, that’s him.’ As she put down the receiver she said, ‘He’s just coming. He sounded very surprised.’

  Tanner smiled. ‘It’s been a while.’

  ‘My God, Jack!’ said Vaughan, seconds later, as he pumped his hand vigorously. ‘What have they done to you? A lieutenant in His Majesty’s Army!’

  ‘Scraping the barrel, I know – I think they’d killed all the others, sir.’

  Vaughan laughed. ‘Come into my office.’ He led Tanner back down the corridor and into an airy room with whitewashed walls, simply furnished. There was an old wicker chair and a side-table in one corner, which he offered to Tanner, then sat at his desk. ‘So, tell me, Jack, how have you been? What’s happened to you since Crete?’

  ‘Rejoined the battalion. It was still being brought up to strength and retraining, but we got back up into the blue in time for Crusader.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Vaughan. ‘I rejoined the Guards after Middle East Commando was disbanded and was given a company.’

  ‘Crusader?’

  Vaughan nodded. ‘A horrible fight. I was wounded at Sid Rezegh.’

  ‘Bad?’

  ‘Shell blast. Head was a bit sore and I’ve a nice scar on one of my arms, but I was lucky. Got away with it. I’m fine now. You obviously came through it?’

  Tanner nodded. ‘And the retreat back to Gazala – the retreat from there too. Always bloody retreating. It’s the story of my life.’

  ‘I missed that.’

  ‘You did well. I’ve witnessed some cock-ups in my time, but that was a bloody disgrace. Clueless, those generals were. We should never have lost.’ He shook his head. ‘We have Tobruk sitting there with all its wire and minefields and defences and we go and put our line fifteen miles to the west of it in the middle of the sodding desert, all spaced out in boxes and the Frogs right at the bottom. Rommel goes round the bottom, attacks in the middle and picks off the boxes one by one. We all thought it was bloody nonsense – and if we could see it was a crap plan, why couldn’t the generals?’

  ‘I don’t know, Jack. But things are changing. You’ve heard that Alexander’s taken over as C-in-C?’

  ‘Yes – a good move, I reckon.’

  ‘And Montgomery’s taking over Eighth Army.’

  ‘I hadn’t heard that. He was in France, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. He’s no-nonsense and decisive.’

  ‘Good – that’s what we need.’

  ‘So you’ve come through unscathed, have you?’ He took out a packet of cigarettes, helped himself to one, then threw another to Tanner, which he caught.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘No, I was wounded at Alamein at the beginning of July. Shell blast too. Buggered up my back and arm. It’s why I’m here now – I’m still convalescing.’

  ‘You look fit enough.’

  Tanner lit his cigarette. ‘Mm,’ he said, then flicked out his match and exhaled. ‘My arm’s a bit stiff, but I’m hoping the MO will sign me off this week. If I’m honest, I’m looking forward to getting back.’

  Vaughan sighed. ‘Yes, I know how you feel. I’m a soldier – I shouldn’t be sitting here in this office.’

  ‘Defence security – an important job, though, I should think.’

  ‘Yes, well, actually I’m working for SIME.’

  ‘Which is what?’

  ‘Secret Intelligence Middle East. When I recovered I was offered a job as assistant to the DMI over at Grey Pillars, but it wasn’t really my scene, and then Colonel Maunsell asked me to come and join his lot here. It’s not quite what I imagined.’

  ‘I liked your security guard.’

  Vaughan laughed. ‘Abdu – yes, he’s quite a character. We’ve only been in this building three months or so, and he came with it – he’s sharp as a pin. Speaks English, French and Italian and is as canny as they come.’

  ‘What happened to his legs?’

  ‘A tram when he was a child. Sliced them clean off, apparently. Anyway, RJ’s had him vetted and he’s now an official ghaffir.’

  ‘I saw the revolver.’

  Vaughan sighed. ‘I know. It’s a bit eccentric here. First-name terms, and dress how you like.’ He leaned back, arms behind his head. ‘Anyway, how did you find me?’

  ‘Ah, yes. Well, you see, you were spotted. I’ve been staying in the flat of a lovely girl called Lucie Richoux. She’s a QA nurse. A captain, in fact.’

  ‘At the Ninth Scottish?’

  ‘Yes. She told me about the survivors of Strafer Gott’s crash coming in and mentioned that a Major Vaughan had been to see them. The description was right, so I guessed you must be in some intelligence job here in Cairo. When I got my papers, I asked them to look you up.’

  Vaughan smiled. ‘We could do with that kind of detective work around here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, really. We’re a mixed lot. Some boffins, some who’ve lived in Egypt all their lives. Regular army officers, honorary commissions. None of us have been specifically trained in counter-intelligence work, as far as I can make out. It’s a question of learning on the job. I’m not sure how much I’ve learned so far.’ He paused. ‘By the way, did your pretty nurse tell you why we were there?’

  Tanner looked sheepish. ‘Not really, sir.’

  ‘Less of the “sir”, Jack. It’s Alex. And what do you mean by that? It’s all right – you can speak plainly.’

  ‘She did mention you suspected Gott might have been deliberately killed.’

  ‘And what did you make of that?’

  Tanner shrugged. ‘Not much. How he died is irrelevant. He’s gone, and now we’ve got Montgomery. Presumably Jerry picked up some radio traffic.’

  Vaughan nodded thoughtfully. ‘So if you get the all-clear you’ll be back with the battalion at the end of the week?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you’re kicking your heels until then?’

  ‘Yes – Lucie’s on nights, so s
he sleeps most of the day. I’m bored stiff.’

  Vaughan leaned forward. ‘Look, I’ve got to get on, but are you around this evening?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good – I’ll meet you at Shepheard’s at, say, eighteen thirty?’

  ‘I don’t know – I’m not sure about that place.’

  Vaughan grinned. ‘Come on, Jack. You’re Lieutenant Tanner now. It’s a great place. Dinner on me. There’s something I’d love to talk to you about. A plan I’ve got.’

  Tanner got to his feet. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Eighteen thirty it is.’

  At four o’clock, as the car jerked its way back through Cairo, Vaughan felt the weight of the city compressing him. His shirt was dark with sweat. Every time the car halted when a cart or a camel blocked their path, the heat soared. Then they were away again, jerking forward, a faint breeze providing a glimmer of relief.

  Beside him sat Wing Commander Walker, an RAF Reserve officer attached to SIME. Another desk-wallah – he’d not flown in years – he had useful links to Air House, the headquarters of Air Marshal Tedder, the AOC-in-C in the Middle East. It was Walker who had arranged for SIME to have call on a couple of aircraft whenever required, which was why a Blenheim had been sent to photograph the Gott crash almost as soon as they had heard about it. In this city of endless bureaucracy and red tape, men like Wing-co Walker were worth their weight in gold.

  A busy day. Briefings with RJ and Paddy Maddox, then a visit upstairs to see Sammy Sansom and Francis Astley, the two men running the Field Security sections in Cairo. They had around sixty men directly under their command, and Sansom had recruited a number of agents and informers, but until they had a solid lead, there was little they could do. ‘Find me something or someone,’ Sansom had told him, ‘and we can get busy.’

  But how to get that lead? He and Maddox had agreed with Maunsell that first they would try to establish a list of those who had definitely known about the general’s movements. Maddox was to concentrate on those at GHQ, Vaughan on those at Heliopolis, and, with Walker to smooth the way with the RAF, Vaughan had headed out of the city towards the airfield.