Vaughan stared at her, aware of the blood rising to his cheeks, as stung as if he had been slapped. ‘Tanja—’
‘I’m sorry, Alex, but I have to go.’
Vaughan nodded. He wished she wouldn’t – but what could they say to each other now? Too much had been said too soon for them to revert to cosy chats about future holidays. Instead he watched her push back her chair and get to her feet.
She looked at him as though she was about to say something, then briefly laid a hand on his shoulder and walked away.
At a little after eight p.m. Kirk had still been in his office, although as Tanner had laid the report in front of him, the major had seemed more than a little irritated by the sudden intrusion.
‘What is this?’ he said, his eyes scanning the typewritten sheet.
‘It’s a report of a telephone conversation, sir, that you received in May last year.’
Kirk frowned. ‘And what of it?’
‘Sorry, sir,’ Tanner said, ‘I just wondered whether you can remember anything about it.’
Kirk sat back in his chair, and held the paper up in front of him. ‘No need to call me “sir”, Jack,’ he muttered, as he read the report again. ‘George is fine.’
‘It’s this bloke, Moussa, I’m interested in,’ said Tanner.
‘Moussa, Moussa,’ said Kirk. ‘I do vaguely remember. It was during the trouble with El Masri. Have you looked at the rest of the files?’
‘Not yet, sir – George.’
‘Then I suggest you do. This was quite a while ago now and you’ll appreciate that one receives a lot of these calls, and especially back then. But my guess is that a watch would have been put on the father, and the son brought in for questioning. There should be reports on both.’ He continued to hold the paper a few inches away from his face. ‘Hold on a moment,’ he said. ‘This chap is the tailor just down the road, isn’t he?’
‘I’m guessing so.’
‘Moussa is not an uncommon name for Egyptians, but I don’t suppose there are too many who are also tailors.’
‘That’s what I was hoping.’
Kirk passed him back the report. ‘You’ll be able to confirm that too.’ He eyed Tanner with curiosity. ‘Does this mean you’ve got some kind of a lead?’
‘Possibly,’ said Tanner. ‘Less a lead, more a possible line of enquiry.’
Kirk chuckled. ‘One day in the job and our soldier is already talking like a seasoned detective.’
*
Tanner hurried back up to the third floor, and returned to the file room.
‘Was he there?’ said Astley, still sitting at the table.
‘Yes. Doesn’t remember it much, but said there should be a file on the son and that a watch would probably have been put on the father. He reckoned there’d be a report on that too.’
‘I’d had the same thought, which is why I’ve been looking for a report on that suspect watch, but I’ve found nothing. And there’s no file on the son either – which is also odd as there should be if he was interrogated.’
‘Damn,’ muttered Tanner. ‘Perhaps no one put a watch on the tailor after all.’
‘Well, the thing is, I do faintly recall it happening. I didn’t remember the name at first but it’s coming back to me now.’
‘Sansom didn’t mention it this morning.’
‘I wouldn’t read anything into that. There was a lot going on then. Sammy probably had nothing to do with the watch – it could have been any of the sections, or even the Egyptian secret police. But the curious thing is that I can’t find anything. It’s even odder that there’s nothing on the son.’
‘Perhaps we should have another look,’ said Tanner. ‘One file might have got caught in another.’
‘Always possible, I suppose.’
Tanner pulled out each file in turn, starting at ‘Mamet’ and working his way through, one by one. There were photographs – mostly police head shots – as well as transcriptions of interrogations, letters, related messages and papers – but no missing Moussa file. Tanner then took down a buff file entitled ‘Mustafa, Eslem’, because it was fatter than the others, brought it back to the table and sat down.
‘What have you got there?’ asked Astley.
‘Eslem Mustafa.’
‘I remember him. He was an El Masri acolyte. Major Tilly interrogated him, but got nowhere. We tailed him for a while and then he disappeared, never to be seen since.’
Tanner leafed through the file. Mustafa had been a squadron leader in the Egyptian Air Force and had been seen not only visiting El Masri but also the Romanian mission, which was why he had been initially tailed and subsequently arrested. The interrogation had revealed little. Tanner glanced at the typed transcript. Of course he wanted the British out, Mustafa had told them, but he was hardly unique in that. In any case, there was no crime in wishing something. He had visited the Romanian mission because he had been seeing a secretary there. So it went on: a stream of questions and accusations, each of which he had batted back. ‘Subject is highly intelligent,’ someone had written in ink at the end of the interrogation, ‘and quick-witted and is clearly guilty of plotting against the British and of stirring anti-British sentiment, although there is no hard evidence to support this.’
There was a list of Mustafa’s alleged contacts, reports on the Ring of Iron and the Muslim Brotherhood, and written allegations that Mustafa had purloined the aircraft in which El Masri had unsuccessfully tried to flee to Iraq. Mustafa had also been present at a lunchtime meeting between El Masri and Lieutenant Colonel Thornhill of the SOE in May 1941. When later questioned by Sansom’s team, El Masri had told them he had intended to go to Iraq to help quell the rebellion there, not inflame it. Colonel Thornhill, he said, had known about it and had supported such a move.
Tanner showed this report to Astley. ‘How the hell did that happen?’
‘Let’s just say we weren’t quite so communicative with one another at the time. We were all livid, as you can imagine. We were trying to prepare treason charges against El Masri, only to find bloody SOE had kyboshed the whole thing.’
A canny bugger, thought Tanner. There were also Mustafa’s discharge papers from the Egyptian Air Force, then several sheets of paper in Arabic, followed by a translation that had been paperclipped together. It was a report by the Egyptian secret police outlining how they had tailed Mustafa but had repeatedly lost him: ‘It is our opinion that Eslem Mustafa has many connections both high up and among the criminal underground.’
‘The criminal underground?’ Tanner said. ‘Is there one in Cairo?’
‘Is that an Egyptian report?’ asked Astley.
‘Yes.’
‘There are criminals, of course,’ said Astley. ‘Cairo’s full of thieves and ne’er-do-wells, but that just means the lower classes. The uneducated impoverished mass. Street urchins and the like.’
In June 1942, Mustafa seemed to vanish entirely. There was speculation as to where he had gone. One reported sighting suggested he was up-country, south of Luxor, another that he was hiding at St Catherine’s monastery in the Sinai. Kirk had written a conclusion the previous August, two months after Mustafa was last known to be in the city:
Numerous sightings have been made of Eslem Mustafa but, frankly, none is credible. Knowing as we do that most Egyptians are endemically corrupt and will happily lie if they think it will make them money, none of these sightings is to be taken seriously. Most likely, the subject has fled to Palestine where he is known to have connections, or has been killed by his own. Since the stabilizing of the front and the lessening of the Masri faction, the risk to security posed by the Ring of Iron and Muslim Brotherhood is now considered slight.
In other words, thought Tanner, who bloody cares where he is?
At the back of the file there was a green envelope with a metal fastener. Tanner opened it and discovered a number of photographs, which he let slide out on to the desk. A set of police shots showed a handsome man with oiled black hair, a trim
military moustache and pale, intense eyes that seemed to be laughing at – mocking, even – the photographer. There were others, most taken from a distance, of Mustafa at various places in Cairo – presumably from when he had been tailed. Tanner shuffled through them, one by one, until suddenly he stopped. He looked again. The picture was slightly out of focus, but it seemed to be of Mustafa emerging from a building and glancing to his right as he did so.
‘My God,’ he said.
‘What have you found?’ asked Astley.
‘Have a look at this,’ said Tanner.
Astley took it and squinted. ‘Looks like Mustafa,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Tanner. ‘But look where it is.’
Astley stared at it again. ‘Of course,’ he said, after a moment, ‘that’s Sharia El Fasqiya.’
‘Exactly, but look at the building he’s coming out from.’
Astley peered closer.
‘There,’ said Tanner, pointing. ‘You can just see the wording on the board above. ‘I-L-O-R. I recognize it. I was bloody well there this morning.’
‘And the missing letters are T-A.’
‘Yes,’ said Tanner. ‘That’s not any old tailor. That’s Moussa’s place.’
With Tanja gone, Vaughan had lost his appetite. He finished his soup, drank his wine, paid his bill and left, walking away in the darkening but still warm evening. He felt ashamed – of his insensitivity and his grandstanding. An image kept repeating itself in his mind: of himself sitting there, saying that line about it being a moral war. So bloody pompous. A crusade! Who the hell did he think he was? It was no wonder she had felt insulted and patronized. ‘Damn, damn, damn!’ he cursed. She was a beautiful, interesting – intriguing – girl, and he had ruined what had been shaping up to be a wonderful evening.
Vaughan sighed and paused to light a cigarette. The glow of the lights from the Gezira Sporting Club shone out over the lawns and playing fields as he walked slowly south towards the Khedive Ismail Bridge. Somewhere not far away across the Nile, several car horns hooted. And perhaps she had been right, in any case. It had not occurred to him that any Pole might feel less than grateful to Britain, yet he knew that the material aid to Poland during the invasion had been negligible. Of course Britain’s move had been self-interested: she had guaranteed Poland’s independence in an attempt to dissuade Germany from attempting further land grabs; and why did Britain want to deter German expansionism? Because an increasingly strong Germany, led by a despotic, murderous dictator, might one day threaten her sovereignty. It had had nothing to do with altruism towards Poland.
As he reached the bridge, a tram rattled past, full of troops heading back to Mena Camp. He still believed in the rightness of Britain’s cause: Nazism was evil, and the Nazis had to be defeated, not just for Britain’s sake but for the world’s. But the Communists? He instinctively disliked Communism, but had never thought the Stalinist regime was as bad as that of the Nazis. Since the German invasion of the Soviet Union, Uncle Joe had been depicted as a friend, yet Russia had invaded Poland and hundreds of thousands of Poles had been sent to labour camps in Siberia. He had chosen to put that to the back of his mind, as most British had. Indeed, if he was honest, he had barely given it a thought. Their task was to beat the Axis, not worry about the moral fibre of Stalin and his regime.
Now he wondered what had really happened to Tanja. She had somehow reached Cairo alone, her family split up, her home gone. She had not said what had happened to them, but perhaps she didn’t know. There had been anger in her words, and pain. Another wave of shame engulfed him.
On the other side of the bridge, he paused. He had thought to return to his flat and drink at least half a bottle of whisky, but now realized there was little sense in that. He had been feckless and arrogant: drowning his sorrows wouldn’t help. Crucially important matters were at hand within SIME and he had already abandoned Tanner. Far better that he head to Red Pillars and see whether there were any developments. If not, he could continue work on his proposal until the 2200 curfew. At the very least, it would be a welcome distraction.
Nearing Red Pillars, he saw Tanner and Astley heading out and called to them.
‘Alex,’ said Tanner. ‘What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be whispering sweet nothings?’
‘Don’t ask,’ he said, jogging over to them. ‘I fluffed my lines rather.’
Tanner grinned. ‘Oh dear.’
‘Who was she?’ asked Astley.
‘Only a stunning blonde Polish girl with a lovely accent,’ said Tanner.
‘But temperamental, eh?’ said Astley.
‘Justifiably so,’ said Vaughan. ‘I might be a little sensitive if I’d lost my home and family to the Bolsheviks.’
‘Ah,’ said Astley.
‘Send her some flowers tomorrow,’ said Tanner, ‘and say you’re sorry. She’ll probably come round. After all, she liked you well enough yesterday to agree to dinner tonight.’
Vaughan shifted his feet. ‘Yes, well … But enough of my romantic failures. What are you two doing?’
‘Going to bring in the tailor for questioning,’ said Astley. ‘We’ve had a breakthrough.’
‘Really?’ said Vaughan, brightening. ‘Tell me all.’
‘First, have a look at this,’ said Tanner, passing him the photograph of Mustafa outside the tailor’s shop. They stood under a streetlight; insects swirled and flitted above them.
‘Who is this man?’ asked Vaughan.
‘Eslem Mustafa. A former squadron leader in the Egyptian Air Force; he was heavily involved with El Masri and the agitation last year. He’s also had dealings with the Ring of Iron and the Muslim Brotherhood.’
‘But since last summer he’s gone to ground,’ added Astley.
‘And Moussa’s son was involved in subversive activities at the same time.’
‘Bloody hell, chaps – good work. Have you told Paddy and RJ?’
‘Just RJ – Paddy’s not in the office,’ said Astley.
‘I know it’s still not hard evidence of any link between the tailor and our mole,’ said Tanner.
‘But it’s something. There’s a clear thread.’
‘Which is why,’ said Astley, ‘RJ told us to bring him in.’
The flat the Field Security section had requisitioned was in a block built into the wedge between the end of Tolombat and Sharia El Fasqiya Streets. The entrance was in Tolombat Street. Taking the stairs to the first floor, they found the flat and knocked at the door. An FS sergeant opened it and led them into a lit hallway. From the darkened living room, the section commander, Lieutenant Matherson, emerged and saluted.
‘Any movement?’ asked Astley.
‘Not really, sir. It’s been pretty quiet.’
Astley nodded. ‘And the tailor? He’s still there?’
‘Yes. He was shut for most of the afternoon. He went next door for a coffee, returned about half an hour later and didn’t open up again until nearly seventeen hundred. He’s been working ever since. Look.’ He led them into the darkened living room. There was a small balcony, and although the glass doors leading out were closed, the shutters were open. In the shadows either side of the door, two men sat watching.
Tanner could see the faint light of the tailor’s shop, although Moussa was hidden by the awning that had been drawn down over the front. ‘Has anyone been to see him since he opened up again?’ he asked.
‘Two GHQ staff and one Egyptian.’
‘Did you get a good look at the Egyptian?’
‘No – but he was pukka,’ said Marriott. ‘Suit, tarboosh.’
Tanner felt in his pocket for the head-and-shoulders shots of Mustafa. ‘Was it this man?’
Marriott took the pictures, one face-on, one in profile.
He shook his head. ‘I couldn’t say. Possibly.’
‘Was any of your men using binoculars?’ asked Tanner.
‘Not at the time. I was watching with Sergeant Crosby.’
Tanner sighed, then rubbed his chin thou
ghtfully.
Vaughan glanced at his watch. ‘Shall we get him now? It’s nearly nine.’
‘Sir!’ said one of the sergeants by the balcony. ‘The tailor’s shutting up shop.’
‘We’d better get down there,’ said Vaughan.
‘He’s opening the front door,’ said the sergeant.
‘Let’s be quick then,’ said Vaughan. ‘Bones, Jack – come on!’
Tanner followed him out of the flat, then the three ran along the corridor, down the stairs and out into the warm evening air. At the corner of Tolombat Street and Sharia El Fasqiya they paused.
‘There!’ Vaughan pointed to the lone figure walking away from them. They crossed the road quickly, then slowed their pace. The tailor was some sixty yards ahead – and suddenly disappeared to the right.
‘Damn!’ hissed Vaughan, and they broke into a trot. Reaching the cut-through between Sharia El Fasqiya and the main thoroughfare of Kasr El Aini, they saw the tailor once more, silhouetted against the busy street ahead, but then he turned left and vanished once more.
‘Come on!’ said Vaughan. ‘We can’t lose him now!’
Reaching Kasr El Aini, they looked around. Although it was after nine, it was still busy. A group of drunken soldiers were staggering towards them singing ‘A Long Way To Tipperary’ as though it were a dirge.
‘Get out of the sodding way,’ muttered Tanner. A tram hurried past, its bell ringing. Cars and taxis hooted. Where the hell was the tailor? Tanner spotted him on the far side of the road. ‘There!’ he shouted and ran forward, dodging a cyclist, then a car, which screeched to a halt with a blaring horn. The driver yelled, but Tanner ignored him. Now the tailor was turning down an alley and Tanner glanced back – Astley and Vaughan were mid-way across the street, waiting for a couple of gharries to pass. He saw Vaughan catch his eye, then hurried on after Moussa. The alley was full of shops and stalls still open for trade. Awnings stretched into the street, while pyramids of produce lined the pavements. Tanner saw men and veiled women shopping, talking, walking. Another ahwa, busy with men playing cards, had spread on to the pavement.
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