Hellfire (2011)

by James Holland

  ‘Good morning,’ said Maddox.

  The tailor bowed. ‘Yes, indeed, sir.’

  ‘Could I take your name, please?’ Sansom asked.

  ‘Certainly. It is Gyasi Moussa.’

  ‘Date of birth?’

  ‘May the twenty-first, 1902.’

  ‘Does anyone else live here?’

  ‘Sadly, no.’

  ‘Do you employ anyone?’

  ‘Masud Efrahim. He is my apprentice.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘In the next room, cutting. Shall I fetch him?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  The tailor went to a curtain at the back of the room, opened it and called. A moment later a young man in his twenties appeared. ‘Yes?’ he said.

  Sansom asked him a few questions, noted the answers, then said, ‘Thank you. You’ve been most helpful,’ and turned to leave.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Moussa, ‘but may I ask what this is regarding?’

  Sansom turned back. ‘It’s something rather serious, actually. But don’t worry. If you’ve nothing to hide you’ve nothing to worry about.’

  At that Tanner, who had been watching him closely, saw the tailor glance out of the window. It was a spontaneous momentary reaction that passed in an instant. But it was a look Tanner recognized immediately. He had seen it in men’s faces many times.

  Fear.

  7

  At the offices of the Polish Red Cross, Tanja Zanowski was helping to make up supply parcels to send to Polish troops, now building strength and training in northern Iraq, when the telephone rang. Sophie was in the main office and picked up the call.

  ‘You want Tanja?’ she said. ‘Yes, all right. Please wait one moment.’

  She called, but Tanja was already through. ‘Who is it?’ she asked.

  Sophie’s hand was cupped over the receiver. ‘Major Vaughan?’

  Tanja smiled to herself and took the receiver. ‘Hello, Major,’ she said. ‘How nice. And what can I do for you?’

  ‘Oh, nothing very demanding, I assure you. Just allow me to take you out to dinner.’

  ‘Hmm, well, I’m not sure that I should, you know.’

  ‘Really? Why not?’

  ‘I barely know you.’

  ‘Which is why we should have dinner. Then you can know me a little bit better.’

  ‘You have a point, I suppose, Major.’

  ‘I’m glad you agree.’

  ‘When were you thinking?’

  ‘This evening, actually. About seven o’clock.’

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘Why wait?’

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Where?’

  ‘Where would you like to go?’

  ‘Not Shepheard’s and not the Continental.’

  ‘How about the Union? Nice fresh air there.’

  ‘That sounds lovely.’

  ‘Perfect. I’ll pick you up. What’s your address?’

  ‘No,’ said Tanja. ‘No – I’ll meet you there. Seven o’clock.’

  ‘I’ll be waiting for you in the garden.’

  She replaced the phone, smiled at Sophie and began walking back towards the other room.

  ‘A date, Tanja?’ Sophie asked.

  ‘Yes. A free dinner – but I have a feeling I might rather like him. He’s good-looking and seems funny and nice.’

  ‘He sounds marvellous,’ laughed Sophie.

  ‘I hope so,’ Tanja replied.

  An hour later, she was walking back to her flat. As she crossed El Maghrabi, a tram hurtled past and she lurched backwards. She gasped and put a hand to her chest. It had missed her by a hair’s breadth, but her mind had been elsewhere, thinking about the message she had been asked to transmit that evening and about the meeting she had just had with Artus. That morning he had deliberately bumped into her as she had been on her way to work, slipping a note into her hand as she had made her way through a busy throng of people. It was not the first time he had contacted her in that way, but she didn’t like being caught unawares. The note had been terse: Five o’clock. Zawass. Zawass. That was the shop in the alley close to the Polish Red Cross office.

  He had been waiting for her, as he always was – as oily as ever. He had told her the message immediately.

  Tanja had repeated it back to him.

  ‘Good,’ he had said. ‘So Rommel had better get a move on. The British now have American muscle. Those tin cans they used to have will be history soon.’

  ‘What about Orca?’ Tanja had asked.

  His smile had vanished. ‘Why do you want to see Orca?’ he asked, his voice sharp. ‘You know you must never break the chain and yet you always ask. Why? Why?’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ Tanja said, ‘because I’m sick of getting my messages from you. Because I want to know that what I’m risking my life for is worth it.’

  Artus had regained his normal composure. ‘I am sorry.’ He took a step towards her and held out his arms. ‘But it is not possible. Not now at any rate.’

  The faceless man, she thought, now safely across El Maghrabi. Or, the man with no name. And who was Artus? She knew so little about him too, except that he had been working against the British for years, part of an organization called the Ring of Iron. What Artus’s role was within it, she had no idea. All she knew was that somehow, via Orca, Artus managed to obtain highly sensitive top-secret information that would materially help the Axis.

  As she reached her flat, she said good evening to the bawaeb and climbed the stairs to her door, her heart pounding in the now familiar way, while nausea gripped her stomach. She shut and locked the door behind her, took out the copy of Hausboot Muschepusche and, with a pencil and a piece of paper, began to work out the message. She jotted down what Artus had told her: Three hundred and seventeen new Sherman tanks arriving in the first week of September. More Shermans to follow.

  Artus was right. Soon it would be too late for Rommel. He needed to strike soon. Very soon.

  At the same time, a short way across the city, Tanner was sitting in the corner of Vaughan’s small office reading reports and notes about the various dissident organizations active in Cairo. On their return to SIME that morning, Sansom had, as planned, sent a section to watch the street. A government-owned flat opposite had been temporarily requisitioned in impressively quick time, and from there, Sansom’s men had set up their vigil. Everyone who came and went was to be noted: staff from GHQ, the owners of the shops and various services. Meanwhile, all the names they had taken were passed on to the Egyptian secret police to be vetted and verified. Tanner had found it a considerable eye-opener. He was a soldier; up until now what had happened behind the scenes had just happened, as far as he had been concerned. It had not been something to which he had given much thought. This was an entirely different part of the military machine – a clandestine world, in which a handful of people rather than great armies and vast amounts of weaponry played what appeared to be a crucial part as well. And while he was glad his secondment at SIME was for a short period only, he had found the experience more exhilarating than he had at first imagined he would.

  The working hours were agreeable too. At one o’clock, he had been sent home. ‘Unless it’s absolutely critical,’ Maddox had told him, ‘we tend to take a couple of hours off. We rather feel it’s too hot to think clearly at this time of year. Get some sleep, and come back around four.’

  Tanner had been surprised: the war in the desert never stopped for a siesta, but he could see the logic in it. Start early before the cool of the night had worn off, work through the morning, sleep through the worst heat of the day, then work some more in the late afternoon and evening. He was happy with that, and so was Lucie, who had not expected to see him again that day. Two hours in bed, one of which had been spent sleeping with her in his arms, had been most restorative.

  He had returned to Red Pillars to find Vaughan back from Burg El Arab. As they had expected, he and Walker had found no obvious gaps in security. Eighth Army T
actical Headquarters had initially spoken face to face with Air Headquarters, who had then transmitted the signal regarding Gott’s movements. As Gott had then twice been delayed, this information had been passed between headquarters by field telephone, but the messages had been oblique. Arrival now 1200 hours. Then, Delayed. New arrival 1430. No German listening in would have been able to understand what was being said without having had an original tip-off signal from Cairo. Moreover, the number of people who had known about the general’s movements at either headquarters had been few. Furthermore, there had been no obvious way in which anyone there would have been able to inform the enemy.

  So a leak from the desert had been discounted. It was a process of elimination, Vaughan had reminded them. Closing the ring.

  ‘What now?’ Tanner had asked Vaughan and Maddox.

  ‘Sammy’s men are in place. We watch, we wait,’ Vaughan had replied. ‘Do you have any other ideas, Jack?’

  Tanner had, as it happened. Not ideas as such, but a line of enquiry, certainly. He had not told anyone of the look he had seen on the tailor’s face; he had felt it was not something he could explain convincingly. I saw something in his eyes. What exactly? A glance. It was just for a moment, but I saw it. No, he decided to keep that to himself, but it occurred to him that if this man was somehow involved – and he had to admit the chances were that he wasn’t – it would be worth trying to discover a motive; after all, it was motive that Kirk believed was lacking.

  It was why he had been reading up on subversion in Egypt. The tailor was a Copt, Sansom had said, an Egyptian Christian, and certainly there had been a Christian painting on the wall. Tanner had also seen a crucifix hanging around Moussa’s neck, yet from what he had read the main subversive organizations – the Muslim Brotherhood, the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem, Young Egypt – were all strongly Islamic. There was one other, the so-called Ring of Iron, but, according to the reports he was reading, it was finished.

  Outside, beyond the quiet calm of Garden City, he could hear the faint hooting of taxi horns and a donkey braying plaintively. He looked at the wall beside him, where several flies were marking time, then at Vaughan, who was at his desk, working on his coastal raiding party proposal.

  ‘When will you finish it?’ he asked.

  ‘Tomorrow morning, hopefully.’

  ‘Then straight round to GHQ?’

  Vaughan nodded. ‘How are you getting on?’

  ‘Are there any non-Islamic subversive groups?’

  ‘I’m not sure. You’d need to ask Rolo. What are you thinking?’

  Tanner rubbed a hand across his chin. ‘I’m not quite sure yet. Didn’t RJ say we should see Rolo?’

  ‘Yes, he did. Well remembered. We could see if he’s there now, if you like.’

  Paul Rolo was at his desk. He was young, in his twenties, and had been recruited by Maunsell a year earlier. He had lived in Egypt before the war and had been lecturing at the university. ‘I still consider myself more of a historian than an intelligence officer,’ he said, ‘but in wartime one must do one’s bit. I’d like to think I’m helping in some small measure.’

  ‘You can maybe help me,’ said Tanner.

  ‘I’ll certainly try,’ said Rolo, pushing his spectacles back up the bridge of his nose.

  ‘It’s about the subversive groups operating here. Do they all have strong Islamic tendencies?’

  ‘Well,’ said Rolo, picking up a pencil and scratching the side of his head with it, ‘the Muslim Brotherhood obviously does. And that’s the main one, although we have that pretty tied up now. They’ve been infiltrated so we pretty much know who’s who and what’s what in that organization.’

  ‘And there’s the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem,’ said Tanner.

  ‘Yes, but he’s in Jerusalem. He’s a pro-Axis Palestinian agitator, but although he has his supporters here, they’re not a very organized body. Young Egypt is most definitely Islamic in nature – their leader is a rather unsavoury fanatic called Ahmed Hussein – but the movement has no real support. The Ring of Iron was led by General Pasha El Masri.’

  ‘Former chief of staff of the Egyptian Army,’ said Tanner.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Rolo, ‘and always quite explicitly anti-British and pro-Axis but, thankfully, he’s now interned. When he went, the Ring of Iron rather went as well.’

  ‘But was it an Islamic organization?’

  ‘No, no, not at all. Well, that is to say, a number of its members were Muslim, but it was a military organization. I think elements of the Egyptian armed forces want us out and Axis support for their military government, headed, presumably, by General Pasha El Masri. But we think it has largely died. With El Masri out of the picture the movement has no leader. A number of Egyptian Army officers have also joined the Muslim Brotherhood.’

  ‘Which we’ve infiltrated,’ said Vaughan.

  ‘Yes. We’re not very worried about them, to be honest.’

  ‘But the Ring of Iron – it could still exist?’ said Tanner.

  ‘It could, I suppose, although we have little intelligence to suggest that it does. We have so many informers now, it’s hard to know how it could possibly have any great substance without us knowing it.’

  ‘And its goals,’ said Tanner, ‘are to overthrow the British, run the country as a military dictatorship and make a treaty with the Axis?’

  ‘That’s about the sum of it. At one point last year they seemed quite a threat. You couldn’t go anywhere in Cairo without seeing posters calling for revolution and leaflets all over the place.’

  ‘But cut off the head …’ said Vaughan.

  ‘That’s the theory,’ said Rolo. ‘Without leadership a movement dies.’

  They left him, but once in the corridor, Vaughan said, ‘Come on then, Jack – let’s hear it.’

  ‘It’s supposition,’ said Tanner.

  ‘What, then?’

  Tanner said nothing until they were in Vaughan’s office with the door closed. Sod it, he thought. I’m going to tell him.

  ‘It was that tailor. Moussa,’ he said, in a low, conspiratorial voice. ‘I saw something in his eye this morning. I reckon he knows something. I’m not saying what – but something.’

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘A flicker, the briefest glance.’ Tanner was standing in the centre of the room and began pacing. ‘It was fear, Alex. He was scared. He hid it immediately, but it was there. I know what I saw.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say earlier?’

  ‘Because it would have sounded stupid. I don’t know Maddox or Sansom, and I wanted to find out whether it was likely that a Copt could be a secret revolutionary. But now, listening to Rolo, it suddenly seems possible. If the Axis are getting help running a spy circuit, then which underground organization are they most likely to turn to? A bunch of Muslim fundamentalists or the Egyptian military? I’ve read the reports on General El Masri – he clearly had contact with the Axis through the Romanian mission, if nothing else. I saw what RJ wrote about that. He reckoned the Romanian Legation was a nest of spies and that it even had its own radio transmitters. It’s funny how El Masri’s attempt to stir up trouble occurred when it was still fully operational.’

  ‘It’s shut down now, though.’

  ‘Yes, but it could have put everything in place with this spy racket when it was still there. For all we know, it might have been operating all that time. RJ made the point, didn’t he? That the best intelligence is that which is fed with something else. This circuit might have been feeding information about convoys for the past year and a bit, only no one’s noticed.’

  ‘RJ’s suspected for a while.’

  ‘He’s an old hand at this, isn’t he? He can smell a rat at fifty yards. But it wasn’t until Gott was shot down that his suspicion became something more solid. That signal about Gott might have been their first mistake. Maybe they thought it was worth the risk to kill the new Eighth Army commander.’

  ‘Time will tell.’

  ‘Not muc
h time. I reckon Rommel’s going to have to have a pop at us before long. Then we’ll see whether this new lad’s up to much.’ He paused and lit a cigarette, clouds of smoke swirling up to the ceiling. ‘But, as I say, it’s all supposition, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but it all fits bloody well. And if it all fits, there’s a decent chance you might be on to something. What we need to do now is have another look at this tailor.’

  ‘There must be records from the time when El Masri was stirring things up?’

  ‘Of course. Probably Sammy’s the person to go to. FS keep files on everyone.’

  ‘Let’s go and see him now, then.’

  Vaughan looked at his watch. ‘All right.’

  ‘You’ve got your date with the blonde bombshell, haven’t you?’ said Tanner.

  ‘Er, yes,’ said Vaughan, ‘but this is rather more important.’

  ‘Look,’ said Tanner, ‘let’s see Sansom, find out what he’s got, and if there is anything, I’ll stay and start going through it. Lucie’s on nights so I’m not missing anything.’

  Vaughan clapped him on the back. ‘Thanks, Jack. Let’s just see what Sammy has to say first.’

  Sansom was in his office with Captain Astley. Unlike Sansom, Astley was tall, lean, and with a full head of dark hair, which was still quite wavy despite a liberal amount of brilliantine. A pipe was wedged between his teeth.

  ‘How d’you do?’ said Astley, his voice clipped and precise. ‘Do call me Bones. Everyone else does.’

  ‘Jack,’ said Tanner. ‘Jack Tanner.’

  ‘Don’t usually have genuine fighting men around here,’ smiled Astley, genially, ‘Alex being the obvious exception.’

  ‘The trend we discovered this morning has been maintained,’ said Sansom. ‘Mostly the stores. A water-seller pitched up this afternoon. A few more visited the tailor too. He’s got a good little business there.’

  ‘What about the vetting?’ asked Tanner.

  ‘Not back yet.’

  ‘We’re quite interested in the tailor,’ said Vaughan. He turned to Tanner. ‘Do you want to explain?’

  Tanner did so. ‘It’s only a hunch, nothing more,’ he said, when he had finished.