‘Thank you,’ said Maunsell. His brows knotted immediately.
‘Bad news?’ asked Maddox.
‘It’s the convoy,’ he said quietly. ‘They’ve sunk Eagle.’
Tanner knew of the ship – it was one of Britain’s few aircraft carriers.
‘That means we’ve lost twenty-five per cent of our air strength already,’ said Maddox.
‘What it means,’ said Maunsell, ‘is that we haven’t a moment to lose.’
Major Sansom was a short, fleshy man, with dark hair brilliantined on to his scalp and a trim moustache that made him look middle-aged when in fact he was still in his early thirties. He wore khaki drill, with a polished Sam Browne, although his revolver lay on his desk, as casually placed as a pen. The contrast with Maddox – thin-faced and slight – could not have been greater. Sansom’s office on the third floor was almost identical to Maunsell’s, although there were several more filing cabinets, and the view from his large metal-framed window was better.
‘I’ve heard of you,’ said Sansom, as Maddox introduced Tanner.
‘Really?’ said Tanner. ‘How’s that?’
‘One gets to hear things in this line,’ he said, with a wry smile. ‘There are not too many men as decorated as you. Men on leave will tell the world their stories when they’ve had a skinful.’
‘There’s not much that gets past Sammy,’ said Maddox.
‘That’s good,’ said Tanner. ‘But I’m a bit in the dark here. You’re Field Security, but you’re not Defence Security?’
‘No, we’re a part of SIME but we’re at the coal-face of the counter-intelligence operation. We’re the ones out on the street.’
‘So how many men do you have?’
‘Five sections of twelve. Each section is led by a lieutenant with a warrant officer as his number two, and then ten NCOs, but I’ve also got a number of agents and informers. I try to make it our business to know what’s what in this city. There’s not much going on that we don’t know about, which is why I’m a bit surprised about this Axis spy circuit you seem to think you’re on to.’
‘You don’t think it’s real, then?’ asked Tanner.
‘I’m not saying that. I’m saying it would be very difficult for any Axis network operating in Cairo to get any meaningful information. I’ve lived in this city all my life, Jack. I was born here, I speak Arabic better than English, and I know these streets and the people who live here very well. Since I took charge of Field Security at the end of 1940, we’ve caught a number of Axis spies and not one of them has ever managed to pass on any really critical intelligence – neither have they shown much aptitude for the task.’ He chuckled. ‘Frankly, they’ve been a rather cack-handed bunch, to be honest. Female émigrées ensnaring sex-starved GHQ desk-wallahs and Egyptian subversives, mostly. And then there was Eppler.’
‘I’ve heard that name mentioned a few times,’ said Tanner. ‘Who is this bloke?’
‘A German spy,’ said Maddox, ‘caught by Major Sansom and his men last month.’
‘It seemed like a feather in our cap at the time,’ said Sansom, ‘but, really, the more I think about it, the more I realize what a hopeless spy he was. Eppler was as German as I’m British but had also been born and brought up in Egypt, spoke Arabic fluently and had the kind of tanned skin that enabled him to pass as an Egyptian – and, although he’d been born a Catholic, he’d converted to Islam. Then war comes along and he buggers off to Germany to fight for Hitler. Anyway, he was sent here by Rommel. The obvious problem for any spy is how to get into Egypt – it’s not so easy – but they had a pre-war Hungarian explorer, a certain Count Almásy, to lead Eppler and his radio operator, a character called Peter Sandsetter, across the desert. Incidentally, we know quite a lot about Almásy because he knew all those LRDG types in the thirties. Anyway, they eventually reached the Nile some way to the south and caught a train to Cairo. Our radio monitoring people picked up an unidentified transmitter in the Cairo area, which came on air every night without fail at around midnight, and was sending out brief coded messages. We couldn’t decipher them but agreed that we’d try to jam any future messages. That same day, I got a call from a British officer who was in the Turf Club and wanted to report some suspicious behaviour. It seemed there was a King’s Royal Rifle Corps officer, who kept buying people drinks. Nothing very unusual in that, you might think, but it turned out he’d been paying for them in English pound notes.’
‘Rather than Egyptian ones,’ added Tanner.
‘Exactly – everyone knows you pay in Egyptian money in Cairo rather than sterling. So that was a big mistake. Second, when we recovered some of the notes we quickly realized they were counterfeit, so that was mistake number two.’
‘There can’t be that many KRRC subalterns on leave at any one time.’
‘Quite – so it was straightforward enough to discover that there was no one answering to his description. Mistake number three.’
‘But then he went to ground,’ said Maddox.
‘It later turned out that that was the last time he posed as a British officer. He kept sending short messages every night but we still couldn’t locate the transmitter. Until we had a really lucky break. A couple of Hun signallers were captured in the desert and had copies of an English novel, even though neither spoke any English. Anyway, those books still had the Portuguese price tag on them.’
‘So we contacted Lisbon,’ said Maddox.
‘Who in Lisbon?’ asked Tanner, surprised.
Maddox smiled. ‘We have an embassy there – and where there is an embassy or a legation, we also have intelligence services. Anyway, we soon got a message back saying that the wife of one of the German Embassy staff had bought six copies of the same novel, all in English.’
‘The novel was the codebook,’ said Tanner.
‘Yes,’ said Maddox.
‘But, actually, we caught him part by hunch, part by chance and part by his own stupidity,’ said Sansom. ‘There were reports of an Egyptian trying to use dud British five-pound notes, so I started going to various haunts in town and eventually caught up with him at the Kit Kat Club. He was sitting at the bar lighting a cigarette with one of these fivers. Incredible, really.’
‘What a bloody idiot,’ said Tanner.
‘So I befriended him and eventually went back with him and a belly dancer friend of his, called Hekmat Fahmy, to a houseboat on the Nile.’
‘So then you had him.’
‘Yes, but we had the houseboat watched for a few days so that we might round up any contacts he had. Eventually we went in at two one morning and got him, his radio man, Hekmat Fahmy and one of his Egyptian contacts in the Muslim Brotherhood.’
‘And we also cracked the code,’ added Maddox. ‘They were about to send some details of troop movements and that sort of thing, but nothing to compare with the details of Gott’s flight or the latest Malta convoy.’
‘This Eppler bloke sounds like a complete half-wit to me,’ said Tanner.
‘He certainly made a number of mistakes,’ said Sansom, ‘but it still took six weeks to track him down. It wasn’t easy, Tanner.’
‘And did he ever send anything meaningful at all?’
Maddox shook his head. ‘No. Eppler was on the outside. He arrived in Cairo with a deep knowledge of the city but not of any top-grade intelligence.’
‘I suppose it’s a different kettle of fish if our spy is already on the inside,’ said Tanner.
‘Have you got any hard evidence yet that he is?’ asked Sansom.
‘Enough,’ said Maddox.
Sansom scratched his cheek absently.
‘Look,’ said Maddox, ‘Tanner’s suggested that we have a starting point. A set of assumptions, if you like, that we’re going to work with.’
Sansom looked at them doubtfully, then took out a cigarette from a small silver case. ‘So what’s your first assumption?’ he said, cigarette between his lips.
‘That the information is coming out of GHQ and being d
elivered face to face to someone in the circuit,’ said Tanner.
‘Why assume that?’
‘Because,’ continued Tanner, ‘in the case of Gott’s movements, he wouldn’t have had time to fix up a meeting. He’d have learned of the general’s movement plan, then had to act quickly. The decision to fly Gott was made last minute, right? Our man wouldn’t have been able to phone because obviously the switchboard operator would have heard what he said, and nor would he have been able to go to a prearranged meeting point or assignation.’
Sansom leaned forward, his interest clearly rising. ‘Go on.’
‘So there must have been someone he could pass this information to quickly,’ Tanner continued. ‘Someone nearby to GHQ. Someone that our mole could visit without arousing suspicion. A tobacconist, for example. Our mole nips out for a packet of cigarettes. What could be less suspicious than that?’
Sansom nodded thoughtfully. ‘There are no shops in Garden City itself. The nearest would be on Sharia El Fasqiya.’
‘I agree,’ said Maddox, ‘but what about the Nile? There are always hawkers along the riverbank.’
‘But how often would staff officers buy things from street hawkers? It’s troops on leave who do that sort of thing. I think we should have a look at Sharia El Fasqiya first.’
‘How far is that from GHQ?’ asked Tanner.
‘No distance,’ said Sansom. He stood up and went over to the window. ‘Just over there.’ He pointed. ‘Hear that rumble of traffic? That’s Kasr El Aini, which runs parallel. Four or five hundred yards. A five-minute walk.’
‘So he could be back in less than fifteen minutes,’ said Tanner.
‘Yes, he could,’ agreed Sansom, still standing by the window. The smoke from his cigarette wafted lazily outside. ‘One thing I would say is that most people are less suspicious than you might think. I know GHQ is surrounded by wire and guards but I think that gives them a false sense of security.’
‘You’re probably right,’ said Maddox.
‘I’ll tell you something,’ said Sansom. ‘When I first took over here, my number two, Captain Astley, and I conducted a little experiment. The city was swarming with troops, just as it is now, but we wanted to gauge how security-minded most were, so we got two of our men to put on ordinary German Army desert uniforms and walk about town until they were stopped.’
Tanner grinned. ‘Let me guess – they weren’t challenged once?’
‘No, not once in the two whole days they tramped the streets.’
‘Incredible,’ said Maddox.
‘Well, yes, it is, but it proves that this mole, if he exists, probably has less to worry about than he might think. He could slip out and no one would think it at all suspicious because, as you say, a man needs his cigarettes, or newspaper, or morning coffee or whatever, and second, no one’s on the look-out because it wouldn’t occur to most that there could possibly be a traitor in their midst.’
‘Like Major Kirk,’ said Maddox. ‘He’s been citing lack of motive.’
‘There has to be one, though,’ said Tanner.
Sansom nodded. ‘Absolutely, although God knows what.’ He flicked his cigarette stub out of the window. ‘So, shall we go over to Kasr El Aini now?’
‘Are you beginning to feel less sceptical?’ asked Maddox.
‘Put it this way, I agree that it’s certainly a starting point.’
They walked down Tolombat Street until they reached Sharia El Fasqiya. Along the nearside, the buildings were the same ornate belle-époque designs that were a feature of Garden City, and the road was lined with high palms and other trees. The other side looked less salubrious, shops and offices running along its length. They strolled along slowly, noting each building in turn. There was a mixture of services and artisans: the ubiquitous fruit seller, with his half-green oranges, dusty strawberries and huge watermelons; a dentist and doctor in a shared building; a tiny coffee-house, or ahwa, with a few old men inside smoking hookahs; a general store; another fruit seller; a butcher; a tailor; and then a cut-through to the main thoroughfare of Kasr El Aini. Beyond that, heading north up the street, there were no other shops for a hundred yards or more.
‘So, what now?’ said Tanner.
‘We should just watch for a bit,’ said Sansom. ‘See how many staff officers come and go and who goes where. We’ll soon get some idea of whether or not we’re barking up the wrong tree.’
The ahwa had two rickety wooden tables outside, both empty, so they sat down. Tanner looked up at the endless blue sky. The street ran north–south, and although the buildings and trees were of sufficient height for them to be shaded, the heat was rising. Tanner adjusted his cap and wiped his brow, then took out his cigarettes and offered them to Sansom and Maddox. Sansom declined, producing a silver case. ‘No offence, but I prefer Turkish.’
‘You can still get them?’ asked Tanner.
‘You can get almost anything.’
An elderly Egyptian came out, a thick white moustache on his upper lip, the rest of his face flecked with white where he had not shaved. Sansom spoke to him and the man shrugged, then pointed inside. Sansom asked him another question and he pointed again, first one way up the street then the other, before shuffling back inside.
‘I was asking him whether British officers from GHQ ever use his coffee-house,’ Sansom explained.
‘And what did he say?’ asked Maddox, flicking away a fly.
‘“Not often.” Apparently it’s mostly the old men who come here. Then I asked him which shops our chaps used, and he pointed to the general stores and to the tailor.’
‘I’ve used the tailor in the past,’ said Maddox. ‘He’s a Copt. I expect he does a good trade with the GHQ staff.’
‘Well, let’s see,’ said Sansom. ‘I’m also quite interested to know whether anyone appears to be using Kasr El Aini. It’s got shops and services all the way along it and it’s only fifty yards behind us.’
They remained there for an hour and a half until the heat and the flies became too much. The fruit on the street stall next door seemed to wilt before their eyes. At the top of Sharia El Fasqiya, the road shimmered. Yet they had learned something. Twenty-four people, all but two British staff officers, had used the general stores; none had remained inside for more than a few minutes. Two British civilian women had bought fruit, and five officers had called in at the tailor’s. Not one person had travelled further than the row of shops opposite the junction with Tolombat Street where they had been sitting. A number of cars and gharries had gone past, but if that ninety-minute period was anything to go by, staff from GHQ used this small collection of stores and services and no other on this side of Garden City.
‘Rather telling, if you ask me,’ said Sansom, pushing back his chair noisily.
‘I suppose it stands to reason, though,’ said Maddox. ‘In this heat one wants to use the easiest and nearest. No point travelling further than one needs to.’
‘I’d like to have a good look at all these places,’ said Tanner. ‘If there is someone receiving our man’s messages, why not let them know we suspect them?’
‘I can get one of my sections to do that,’ said Sansom, dabbing his brow with his handkerchief.
‘I’d like to have a look at them myself.’
Sansom shot a quick glance at Maddox, then nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘You’re right, Tanner. We should.’
They went inside the ahwa. The old men had barely moved. It was dark inside, and much cooler than out. A tiled floor, a worn counter and a sharp smell of tobacco smoke and spices. Just a few tables along one wall. The old men glanced up from their cards, pipes still burning gently.
Sansom asked the barman a number of questions, making notes on a small pad he had produced from his shorts pocket. Tanner watched the Egyptian carefully, but saw no darting eye movement, no shift of position; no sign of alarm.
‘It’s his ahwa,’ said Sansom, as they went back out into the dazzling brightness of the street.
‘H
e’s called Mahoud Ibrahim and is forty-seven. His son runs it with him but is not here today. His parents live with him and his wife above the bar, and also two children. This is entirely typical, I should add. Families tend to stick together – or, at least, the male side of the family.’
‘Can you verify this?’ asked Tanner.
‘Absolutely. Later, I’m going to have this part of the street watched, the places searched and the inhabitants vetted.’
Next door, in the general store, they entered another darkened, cool room, stacked floor to ceiling with shelves of tins, packets, bottles and other supplies. It had a similar distinctive smell of smoke and incense. Behind the wooden counter there were stacks of cigarettes, mostly cheap Egyptian brands. There were two men – one elderly, the other in his late twenties or possibly early thirties. They were, they told Sansom, father and son. Their wives were in the rooms beyond the store, as were the younger man’s children. Tanner again watched the men carefully: he detected their slight unease at being accosted by three uniformed men but nothing more.
It was a similar story with the fruit shop and the butcher’s, both of which appeared to be family-run concerns. The doctor was away – and had been for some time, according to the dentist, a portly, middle-aged man who was both gracious and co-operative.
Tanner was beginning to wonder whether they were barking up the wrong tree, after all. At the tailor’s, a British officer was collecting a shirt. It was a small place: a wooden door, a dusty glass front, and a room crammed with cloth of various colours and textures. There was a sewing machine, a table, a small desk and a wooden icon. The tailor looked to be in his late thirties. His hair and moustache were flecked with grey, and a pair of wire spectacles sat on the bridge of an aquiline nose.
‘There you are, sir,’ he said in English. ‘That will be one pound, please.’
The officer glanced at the three new arrivals, grunted and delved into his pocket for his wallet. Having paid, he squeezed past them and left without a word.
‘We’re just making a few enquiries,’ said Sansom.
The tailor smiled benignly.
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