Hellfire (2011)

by James Holland

  Close the net, Maunsell had told them. It would be a process of elimination to begin with. The first person they had spoken to had been the station commander, Wing Commander Robinson. In his office next to the control tower at the aerodrome, he had patiently answered all of Vaughan’s questions as innumerable flies had crawled over the whitewashed stone walls. Yes, he had known that Gott was going to be on board. Normally, he had explained, transport flights took off early, before the heat made flying – and life – more difficult. He had resisted telling Squadron Leader Attwell, commander of 216 Squadron, but had felt obliged to inform him when the Bombay and its crew were stood down at 1100 having been waiting at dispersal since 0700. Apparently they had been getting frustrated and somewhat agitated by the delay. The only other person who had known was the cipher clerk who had received the original message from Tactical Headquarters, Desert Air Force, at Burg El Arab, then two further communications updating them on Gott’s likely departure time. As far as he was aware, Squadron Leader Attwell had not told his pilot or crew the reason for the delay.

  The wing commander had then summoned Squadron Leader Attwell, who had confirmed that he had not told a soul that Gott would be on board, least of all the pilot. ‘They were bloody annoyed by the endless delays,’ he told them. ‘It does happen from time to time, though.’ Attwell’s testimony tied in with what Flight Sergeant James had told them.

  Next had been the cipher clerk, who had been at the station for at least a year, with an unimpeachable record. There had been other clerks in the signals office and they all testified that they had not seen him speaking to anyone other than those in the office all day. There was a signals log, which they showed to Vaughan and Walker. Apart from the encrypted messages received, there was no outgoing cipher traffic.

  So that was that. The leak could not have come from Heliopolis.

  The following day, they would fly down to Burg El Arab and find out exactly who had known of the general’s movements at both Air and Army Tac HQs. That agreed, they had then driven back to Cairo in silence, Vaughan immersed in his thoughts. There had been nothing untoward in anything the men had said and, in any case, there was no motive. RJ’s argument that they might not know what that motive was held true – but only to a point. He supposed they would have to check up on Robinson’s wife, but Attwell had no family in Egypt and neither did the cipher clerk. All three would be properly vetted but Vaughan instinctively knew that none of these men was responsible. And there had to be a motive. Suddenly he felt a surge of hope. Someone would stand out, he was sure of it.

  They reached the railway station, heaving, as always, with troops, trams and hawkers. Walker drove on, weaving a passage through, and suddenly the traffic lessened as they travelled down the long, straight stretch of Sharia El Tur’a El Bubaqiya, along the canal and towards the cathedral and the Egyptian Museum.

  ‘A bit more like it,’ said Walker, leaning his head out of the open window.

  ‘At last,’ agreed Vaughan. ‘I’m surprised we haven’t melted.’

  He wondered whether Maddox had made any progress, and whether there was any news on the convoy heading towards Malta. What would happen if Malta fell now? Bloody hell. There was so much at stake with that convoy. Get the fuel through, and the island would be safe, her forces operating against the enemy sea lanes once more. Fail, and only God knew what would happen. If Malta fell, the knock-on effect could be catastrophic. What it boiled down to was whether the handful of men manning that tanker and those protecting it could get the ship to the island, and whether those comparatively few enemy pilots and seamen could sink her. For all the vast manpower now lining up in the desert, the war might be turned on the efforts of a handful of people.

  As they passed the barracks at Kasr El Nil, the sight of large numbers of troops made him think of Tanner. What a surprise that had been! It had been good to see him. He had liked him well enough when they’d been on Crete, but it was more than that: Tanner was so dependable. Honest, too, with the kind of intelligence that was rooted in sound common sense and more experience than most men had had in a lifetime.

  A thought struck him. Tanner was kicking his heels in Cairo for the rest of the week and they had a potential crisis on their hands. He might be able to make good use of him. It was already his intention to talk to him that evening about his coastal raiding party idea, but now he wondered whether he should ask RJ if Tanner might be briefly seconded to SIME.

  They reached Garden City, the hubbub giving way to the calmer tree-lined boulevards, and then Walker was pulling up outside Red Pillars, and there was Abdu on his trolley, peering out of the doorway.

  If there’s a role for him, Vaughan thought, there’s room for Tanner too.

  It was a little before six and Vaughan was about to leave to meet Tanner when the intercom on his desk buzzed.

  ‘Alex, it’s RJ. I think you’d better come here.’

  What was it? Vaughan hurried out, down the corridor, tapped lightly and walked into Maunsell’s office without waiting for a reply. Maddox was already there, as was another man, a major in khaki drill, whom Vaughan recognized as Rodney Dennys, in charge of all SIS signals operations in Cairo.

  Maunsell was standing behind his desk. ‘Alex, good chap, there you are.’

  What’s going on?

  ‘You’ve met Rodney Dennys?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Vaughan, extending his hand.

  ‘His team have intercepted another message,’ said Maunsell. ‘Here.’ He passed him a piece of thin pink paper on which the message had been typed.

  ‘Numbers again.’

  ‘There’s a clear pattern,’ said Dennys. ‘Three, sometimes four, figures. We’re pretty certain this is a book code. The first number represents the page, the second the line, the third the number of the letter on that line.’

  ‘Hence three numbers,’ said Vaughan. ‘But what about when there are four?’

  ‘It might be a less common letter that simply doesn’t occur within the single-digit option.’

  ‘Eppler was using a similar code, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes – it seems a popular method among Axis spies,’ agreed Dennys. ‘And with good reason. Without the book it’s almost unbreakable because no one letter corresponds to a single number, making it almost impossible to get a pattern. And a pattern, of course, is key to breaking the cipher. The GC and CS people back home are already working on it, but it’s extremely doubtful that they’ll get anywhere.’

  Vaughan looked at the sheet of paper again. ‘Sent yesterday. What happened yesterday?’

  ‘Alexander arrived late the previous evening,’ said Maddox.

  ‘Pedestal passed through the Strait of Gibraltar last night,’ said Maunsell. ‘If my theory’s right, it could refer to that.’

  ‘And tonight the PM and CIGS leave for Tehran,’ said Vaughan.

  ‘Yes.’ Maunsell looked grim.

  For a moment no one spoke. Vaughan handed back the cipher sheet to Maunsell. ‘But we know this message was sent from Cairo, do we?’ he asked.

  ‘Quite definitely,’ said Dennys. ‘Somewhere within three to four miles.’

  ‘In other words, any part of the city,’ said Maddox, rubbing his eyes. ‘Any one of nearly two and a half million people could have sent it.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ said Dennys, ‘but we can do better than that from now on. The message was picked up by our Y Service in Britain and the response from the Mersa area by our chaps in Alexandria. But we can fix up a listening post here in the city. If our spy sends another message, we’ll be able to pin the signal down to a few hundred yards. It’s not perfect, but—’

  ‘It’s a damn sight better than three miles,’ agreed Maunsell.

  At just before half past six, Tanner walked past a bowing suffragi and up the steps to the terrace of Shepheard’s Hotel. He had passed this place, one of the best known landmarks in all of Cairo, numerous times, but it was only now, as a commissioned officer, that he was able
to set foot inside. Far from relishing the prospect, he felt absurdly conspicuous and uncomfortable. I don’t belong here.

  At the top of the steps, he stood still. Come on, you bugger, be here. He glanced around. A sea of people: civilian suits and uniforms, mostly men, but a fair few ladies as well, sitting in wicker chairs around small, square-topped tables. Half were under the hotel balcony, the rest jutting out overlooking the street, penned in by an elegant iron railing. At the piano, a man was tinkling Cole Porter numbers. A captain sitting on his own nearby mouthed the words to himself, but otherwise no one seemed to be listening.

  Tanner noticed that none of the officers there were wearing their caps so he took his off, then wiped his brow and whisked away a fly.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  Tanner turned to see a suffragi beside him, dressed, like the others, in a long white robe, tarboosh and maroon sash. ‘I’m looking for a friend, but he doesn’t appear to be here yet.’ He was not sure what to do next – whether he should choose a table and sit down or whether he should be seated by one of the staff.

  ‘Shall I take you to a table, sir?’ said the man.

  Good. ‘Thank you.’

  The suffragi led him to one under the shade of the balcony, not far from the piano. There were four empty chairs, two with their backs against the wall. Tanner took one of these, which gave him a good view. He would be able to spot Vaughan the moment he arrived. He glanced at his watch – six thirty-five – then drummed his fingers on the table.

  At the next table there were two young lieutenants, one obviously good-looking, with fair hair slicked back and sharp, refined features, the other rather red-faced, with deep-set eyes that were too close together. The fair-haired one was also sitting with his back to the wall, a few feet from Tanner. They were drinking champagne, the bottle standing in a cooler on the table.

  The fair-haired one glanced at him and Tanner nodded, then glanced around. Christ. Look at this lot. He took out his cigarettes and lit one just as a different suffragi came over. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I’ll have a Stella, please.’ The man nodded and left him. Tanner glanced again at his neighbours and saw the dark-haired one looking at him as he spoke in a low voice to his friend. He felt a flush of irritation.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said the fair-haired man, a smirk on his face, ‘but I couldn’t help noticing your accent.’

  Tanner saw that the other was trying not to laugh too. Anger welled within him. His West Country burr had been more pronounced as a boy, but over the years had softened considerably. It was still there, though – and Tanner had always spoken in a soft, measured way, unless riled, which was also different from most. The officers from public schools tended to speak in a clipped way, the vowels sharp and precise.

  ‘What did you notice about it?’ said Tanner, looking the man square in the eyes.

  The man chuckled. ‘Forgive me, I suppose I just don’t recognize it.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Tanner, still holding the man’s gaze. He inhaled deeply on his cigarette.

  ‘Well? Aren’t you going to tell us?’ said the dark-haired one.

  ‘It’s not a patois I’ve often heard in an officer, I must say,’ added the other.

  ‘You have now.’

  ‘He’s not going to say,’ said the fair-haired man. ‘We’ve offended him.’

  Had Tanner been having this conversation in the street, he would have warned them to shut their mouths immediately. But he was on the terrace at Shepheard’s and threatening other officers was, no doubt, unappreciated here. Where the hell are you, Vaughan? The suffragi returned with a large bottle of beer and a glass. He placed them on the table.

  ‘A beer,’ said the fair-haired man, as he brought his champagne glass to his lips. ‘A man of the people, clearly.’

  The dark-haired man sniggered, and Tanner briefly closed his eyes.

  ‘Somerset,’ said the fair-haired man. ‘I bet he’s from Zummerzet.’

  ‘I think you’re right, Harry.’

  They were silent for a moment, then the fair-haired one turned to Tanner again, still smirking. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, in an overly polite manner, barely able to contain his laughter, ‘but what school did you go to?’

  At this the other could contain himself no longer and began laughing uncontrollably.

  Tanner had had enough. Moving his chair, he brought himself closer to their table, put his right arm around the shoulders of the fair-haired man and, pretending to laugh too, reached out his left hand, grabbed the man’s crotch and gripped tightly.

  ‘You’re being rude,’ Tanner said quietly, his hand still gripping the man’s testicles. ‘Very rude.’

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ said the dark-haired man, not laughing now.

  ‘Ssh,’ said Tanner, still smiling. ‘Now listen, you tit, unless you want your bollocks ripped off, I want you to pay your bill and leave. I’m meeting a friend in a moment and I don’t want to have to sit next to you any longer.’

  ‘How dare you?’ gasped the fair-haired man, his face turning puce with agony.

  Tanner tightened his grip, and the man let out a cry of pain. ‘You’re picking on the wrong man,’ Tanner hissed. With his arm still around the man’s shoulders, he took the identity card from his breast pocket and opened it. ‘Henry Rhodes-Morton, Lieutenant,’ he read aloud. ‘Unit: the Rutland Yeomanry. Never heard of you. Must be new.’

  A civilian at the table next to them shot them an anxious glance and a suffragi came over. ‘Is everything all right, sirs?’ he asked.

  Tanner smiled and stared at the dark-haired man. Well?

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ he said.

  ‘These gentlemen need their bill,’ said Tanner. ‘Don’t you, lads?’ He tightened his grip again.

  The fair-haired man winced.

  ‘Yes – our bill,’ said his friend, his face reddening with humiliation.

  The suffragi looked at them uncertainly, then bowed and left.

  ‘Good,’ said Tanner. ‘Very sensible. I know who you are now, Blondie, and if you ever talk to me like that again, I can promise you that you’ll regret it for a long time after. Is that understood?’

  Both men were silent, so Tanner moved his arm up a little and tightened his hand around Rhodes-Morton’s neck. ‘Is that understood?’ The man nodded.

  Tanner released his hands and Rhodes-Morton sat back, spluttering. ‘Christ, we were only having a bit of fun.’

  ‘At my expense.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ said Rhodes-Morton. ‘I’m supposed to be meeting my popsie.’

  ‘You’ve got a girl already, have you? How long have you been out here?’

  ‘A month,’ said the dark-haired man.

  ‘I’m meeting her here at seven,’ said Rhodes-Morton.

  ‘Then I’ll tell her you had to go. What does she look like?’

  The suffragi returned with the bill.

  ‘She’s a cracker,’ said the dark-haired one.

  ‘Who is?’ said a voice behind Tanner.

  ‘Alex,’ said Tanner. ‘Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Sorry. Got held up.’ He looked at the two other men. ‘Friends, Jack?’

  ‘No, they’re just leaving.’

  Rhodes-Morton stood up.

  ‘Go on,’ said Tanner. ‘Hop it.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ said Rhodes-Morton again. ‘No wonder they don’t let oiks like you into the cavalry.’

  Tanner pushed back his chair, but Vaughan moved in quickly between him and Rhodes-Morton. ‘If I were you,’ he said, ‘I’d be very, very careful what you say in front of this gentleman.’

  ‘Gentleman?’ said the other. ‘That’s a joke.’

  ‘Leave now,’ said Vaughan, quietly. ‘And that’s an order.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Rhodes-Morton, ‘but if you see a tall blonde lady in her twenties, tell her we’re at the Continental. She’s foreign. Polish.’

  ‘Just go,’ said Vaughan.

  T
anner moved his chair back to the wall and mopped his brow. A few people were looking at him, and at the two officers making their way out. Damn it all.

  Vaughan took the bucket of champagne and one of the glasses, and sat down. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘no one’s really looking. They’re too wrapped up in their own conversations. Anyway, they’ve probably seen far worse here.’

  Tanner sighed. ‘It’s true, though.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘I’m not a gentleman. I’m just the son of a gamekeeper.’

  ‘Come on, Jack. I’m not going to let you feel sorry for yourself for being awarded a commission. Who were those two, anyway?’

  ‘Just a couple of cavalry officers fresh out here.’

  ‘There you are then. They’ll learn. Probably go and get themselves killed first time in action. Forget it. What did you do to them, by the way?’

  Tanner told him.

  ‘Ouch.’ Vaughan laughed. ‘What you need is something to do rather than whiling away your time feeling resentful.’

  ‘And you’ve got just the thing for me, have you?’

  Vaughan grinned. ‘Yes, as it happens, I have. I want you to come and work with me for a week – or until you’re passed fit to go back to your battalion.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t like it much where you are. I got the impression you found it dull.’

  ‘Well, I did, but not any more. Something’s come up.’ He leaned in closer. ‘I can’t say much, but we’ve suddenly got a hell of a case on our hands – something potentially rather serious – and we need to crack it pretty damn quickly. If this wasn’t so important and, frankly, worrying, it would all be rather exciting.’

  ‘But I don’t know anything about your line of work.’

  ‘You know enough to help me. You’re street-wise, Jack. You’ve been around. And you’ve got common sense in bucketfuls. That’s all it is, really.’ He tapped his head with a finger. ‘Using a bit of nous.’