Hellfire (2011)

by James Holland

  Vaughan glanced at his watch – nearly twenty past seven – then at the corner of the Continental Hotel, glanced down towards Opera Square and saw what appeared to be Tanja waiting to cross the road. Is it her? She was wearing khaki uniform, had blonde hair of the right length, but she was a couple of hundred yards away so he couldn’t be sure. Quickening his step, he walked past the Continental, keeping his eyes on her as she crossed Opera Square and headed on down Sharia Abdin. He was getting closer, although she was still some way ahead of him, but from her walk he was certain it was Tanja. He wondered where she was going – certainly, it was a long way round to take to her flat. Oh, well, he thought, glad to have spotted her. A piece of serendipity.

  Then, suddenly, she turned off down a narrow street. Where the hell are you going, Tanja? A network of narrow streets in the old Islamic part of the city. He was struck with curiosity.

  Tanja fought off the urge to walk quickly, or to look behind her. Act normally. That was the key. It was why meetings were always during the day, and never at night. It was quite possible to avoid being seen at night, but why defy the curfew? To do so was to act abnormally. Abnormal behaviour aroused suspicion. Normal behaviour did not.

  Outside the shop, a scrawny cat stood on a table still piled with watermelons and oranges. She stepped inside, nodded to the shopkeeper, then went on through the beaded curtain to the room beyond.

  ‘As punctual as ever,’ said Artus, rising to his feet and stepping towards her. ‘I am going to be quick. Why have you not sent a message?’

  Tanja was startled. How does he know? ‘I will. I have been wondering what to say. How to phrase my signal.’

  He stepped closer still, until he was just inches away. She could smell his cologne, could see his dark eyes fixed on hers. ‘Do it. Do it right away.’

  ‘Very well. I will.’

  ‘You know Aladdin was found dead?’ he said softly. ‘Dumped in the river. I would hate that to happen to you.’

  ‘Do not threaten me,’ said Tanja.

  He ran a finger across his throat.

  ‘You wouldn’t dare. This circuit is nothing without me.’

  Artus smiled. ‘Go now, Marlin. Send that signal to Cobra.’

  Tanja turned, her heart thumping, pushed through the beaded curtain and went out on to the street, where she paused, her eyes closed.

  ‘Tanja!’

  She froze. Alex. Think. Think quickly. And act normally. Her heart was in her mouth and her hands were shaking. Artus, my God. She turned towards Vaughan and her face lit up with a smile. From the corner of her eye she saw Artus in the doorway. He stepped back inside.

  ‘Alex!’ she said, hurrying towards him. ‘How lovely!’ She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. ‘Have you been following me?’

  ‘I have, as it happens.’

  She laughed. What did he see?

  ‘A bit off the beaten track, isn’t it?’ he said.

  ‘I suppose,’ she said, looping her arm through his and gently steering him back the way she had come.

  Don’t look back.

  ‘I like the older parts of town. The bazaars. The back-streets. I was looking for some Turkish Delight,’ she said. ‘That kind of shop is just the type that sells it.’

  ‘But not that one?’

  ‘They didn’t have any. So,’ she said, ‘does this mean you are now mine for the rest of the night?’

  ‘Yes,’ he grinned, ‘if you’d like me to be.’

  ‘I would, actually.’ She gripped his arm tighter, leaning her head against his shoulder.

  ‘Where first? Some dinner?’

  ‘Perfect. Near your flat?’

  ‘All right. This way, then,’ he said, wheeling her around. As they turned, she saw Artus leaving the shop, with a furtive glance in their direction, then walking away from them. Tanja’s stomach lurched. She wanted to turn round again, to lead Alex away from Artus, but she knew she could not: the risk was too great. Act normally.

  ‘Where do you think, then?’ she asked. Vaughan did not answer, so she looked up at him, and saw, with mounting dread, that he was frowning, his brow pinched, staring after the man.

  ‘Alex?’ she said. ‘Where shall we go?’

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘Oh, um, how about the Mohammed Ali Club again?’

  He looked back towards the disappearing figure, striding between numerous passers-by and under awnings, until the red tarboosh and the dark head disappeared from view.

  ‘Are you all right, Alex?’ she asked. ‘You look as though you have seen a ghost.’

  ‘Actually, Tanja, I think I just may have done.’

  A dull weight filled her stomach. He recognized him. He knows Artus.

  12

  Wednesday, 19 August, 0755. The large mess tent smelt of dust, canvas, tobacco smoke and a faint residual whiff of beer. So they’ve had some Stella brought up. Tanner supposed the proximity to the base depots had its advantages: it wasn’t only plentiful supplies of fuel and ammo that could be quickly amassed, but beer too. And it certainly helped keep the men in good heart. A light breeze had got up, drifting across the Sahara, so the camouflage netting was flapping.

  Tanner glanced around at his fellow officers, some twelve in all, himself included: the OC, the 2i/c, Major Tom Arliss – new to the battalion since Tanner had been away – the company commanders and their second in commands, all gathered for a briefing by the commander of 7th Motor Brigade, Brigadier Tom Bosville. He was not there yet; in front of the map, Colonel Vigar was talking in hushed tones with the brigade intelligence officer. Behind, at the back of the mess, a large sketch map had been unfurled, the sea to the north, the Qattara Depression to the south, with various lines, coloured symbols and other markings drawn on it.

  The previous evening, Tanner had assumed they would be going straight up to their forward positions and had felt a flush of frustration when they were told they would be leaguering for the night; having reached the front, a large part of him wished they could get on with the task in hand. However, he had soon accepted that this was not to be, and now realized that a further day of preparation for the front line was no bad thing. A day of travelling took its toll. Vehicles needed to be checked over and serviced; two of the carriers in A Company needed replacement sections of track. It also took time to acclimatize to the living and operating conditions of the desert. It was one thing being based at Mena Camp, but quite another at the front. As much as anything, it took a day or two to get used to the hordes of flies. They were a minor nuisance back at Mena, but out at the front, during the heat of the day, they were a constant source of discomfort. The dead were always buried quickly, but even so, the flies were quick to gorge on and breed in the many chunks and gobbets of flesh that had been blown to smithereens throughout the recent fighting in July.

  Tanner had been thinking about these things when the brigadier strode into the tent and made his way to the front.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘and welcome back to Brigade. We’re certainly very pleased to have you with us once more, refreshed, replenished and ready to send Rommel and his Panzer Army packing.’ He paused and looked at the assembled Rangers officers in front of him. The two Rifle Brigade battalions, he went on to explain, had already retrained as semi-mobile anti-tank gunners and were positioned towards the southern end of the line in the low ground of the Munassib. It was to be the role of the King’s Royal Rifle Corps and the Yorks Rangers in the coming battle to act as the fully mobile arm of the brigade.

  ‘Your task,’ the brigadier told them, ‘is to patrol the southern half of the line alongside 4th Light Armoured Brigade, and should the enemy attack in our sector, to lure him towards our waiting anti-tank screen.’ He pointed to the map, on which had been marked the principal minefields and Eighth Army’s dispositions. The main line ran roughly north to south, but then halfway down, and curving back in a great sweeping arc up to the coast, there was another set of interrupted minefields, running along the base of two rid
ges, first the smaller Alam Nayil, and then the longer, more pronounced Alam Halfa Ridge.

  ‘Most of our armour is dug in along and between these two ridges,’ said Bosville. ‘For all Rommel’s supposed tactical brilliance, experience so far has suggested that he likes nothing more than a good outflanking manoeuvre, so the Army Commander is confident he’ll try it again. A feint in the north seems most likely, followed by an assault with his armour in the south here, where you chaps will be.’ He pointed to the less extensive minefields across the southern stretch of the line. ‘Of course, he’s welcome to try in the north, if he likes, but he’ll hit something of a brick wall if he does.’ A collective chuckle. ‘Thick with minefields and our infantry dug in – in depth too. Here, though,’ he continued, pointing to the southern end of the line with his stick, ‘the minefields are not laid in such depth, and the going is pretty good, lots of light gravel – ideal for the Deutsches Panzer Korps to try and exploit. Let’s assume he does attack here. He sweeps through and he’s then got all our chaps dug in firing at his flanks, so he’s going to have to attack those positions head on. The difference is that our boys are dug in and his won’t be. So long as our chaps stay where they are and don’t follow them, we’ll beat him.’

  The 2i/c from Ivo McDonald’s D Company put up his hand.

  ‘Yes?’ said the brigadier.

  ‘What if Jerry tries to go round the back of the line, sir?’

  Brigadier Bosville smiled.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said Vigar. ‘Lieutenant Ramsay is new to the battalion.’ Another laugh. Tanner watched the young lieutenant reddening.

  ‘Would someone like to explain?’ Bosville looked around and spotted Tanner. ‘Yes, Lieutenant,’ he said, ‘you’re an old hand at this kind of caper. Would you kindly explain to Lieutenant Ramsay?’

  ‘If they do that they’ll soon find themselves cut off from the rest of the Panzer Army, and probably by us. With their supply lines cut, they’ll run out of fuel and ammo and we’ll destroy every last one of them. Sir.’

  ‘Bravo. Exactly that,’ said Bosville.

  Now Tanner put up his hand. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said, ‘but has our armour been specifically ordered to stay put? I’ve noticed there’s a tradition of our tanks racing after the enemy the moment they see them falling back and then they always get knocked to hell.’

  ‘A fair point,’ said Bosville. ‘I’m glad to say that I think something of a sea-change is taking place out here. We’ve had the pleasure of seeing the new Army Commander down here at Division, and I can tell you, he means business. He’s insisting that if and when Rommel attacks, we fight a defensive battle only. Push Rommel back, then build up strength until we can deliver a knock-out blow. Not send him back to Mersa or Sidi Barrani or Tobruk, but out of Africa altogether. That’s the plan. So he’s issued very strict orders that all our armour is to remain hull-down and not be lured out into the open. A damn sensible idea, if you ask me.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you’ll be heading up to the front line tonight. I want you to do what you do best. Patrol, reconnoitre, capture a few Jerries and Eyeties, and then, when Rommel attacks, as we’re all expecting him to do any moment now, take a few pot shots, and lead him back to our guns. The Rifle Brigade will hold them up as much as they can, then they’ll be pulling back too. Keep your distance, but make life as difficult for them as possible. Clear?’ Nods, and Yes, sir. Simple, when you put it like that.

  A short while later, Tanner and Peploe walked back out. Brigade and Divisional HQ were almost as one: a cluster of tents and lorries in a very shallow bowl in the middle of the desert, all draped with camouflage netting. Wires and telephone cables littered the ground, running from the brigade commander’s tent to the signals lorry and the operations tent, then to Division, a little further away. Brigade and divisional flags fluttered lightly in the breeze. The men of the 7th Armoured Division were the original Desert Rats, and the jerboa, the symbol that had come to mean so much, was there for anyone to see. Not for the first time, Tanner marvelled at the sheer logistic effort of keeping and maintaining such an army in the field.

  ‘Sounded like a good plan to me, Jack,’ said Peploe, as they stepped over wires and headed back to the company encampment.

  ‘I agree. If they stay put. I know what these cavalry boys are like, though. They still think their tanks are chargers. They see a panzer on the run and they think it’s bloody Waterloo all over again.’

  High above, more aircraft flew over.

  ‘Ours?’ said Peploe, squinting in the sun.

  ‘I reckon so. Haven’t seen a single enemy plane since we got here.’

  ‘They’re saving themselves. It’s all about fuel.’

  Clangs and hammer sounds could be heard as maintenance work was carried out. A jeep drove past. Somewhere to the north, guns boomed.

  ‘Do you think I could take some of the boys on a recce?’ Tanner asked Peploe, as they approached the company. ‘I could take my truck with someone from each of the platoons. If we’re going to be operating mostly by night, it would be good to give them some markers, particularly up around Alam Halfa. Get a feel for the lie of the land and who’s where.’

  Peploe nodded. ‘Good idea.’

  They reached their tent, hastily erected the previous night. Tanner was used to wrapping himself up in a greatcoat and tarpaulin; he couldn’t remember once having slept under canvas up in the blue, but as an officer, he shared this standard GS tent with Peploe. He doubted they would have much opportunity to use it again before they were next out of the line, but it had been produced from Peploe’s truck, not his, so he wasn’t complaining.

  Inside, Tanner grabbed his kit to take back to his truck, then paused, looking again at his map. He could envisage Rommel’s Afrika Korps sweeping through this southern end of the line, and he could also picture the battalion then falling back further, towards the edge of the Depression, and from there snapping at the heels of the enemy as they faced up to the onslaught from the Alam Niyal and Alam Halfa ridges. No, he could see there was logic to the plan. As long as we don’t get carried away.

  A restless night in Cairo. Was it the heat, or a troubled mind? Vaughan had woken at nearly four and been unable to get back to sleep. Beside him, breathing softly, lay Tanja. He was losing his heart to her. Last night they had walked arm in arm to the Mohammed Ali Club, but then had changed their minds and eaten at the French restaurant, Au Petit Coin de France, in Sharia El Maghrabi. A nice meal – good food, and Tanja as clever, funny and attentive as ever. Since that first disastrous date they had had barely a cross word between them. Back at his flat, she had made love with a passion that made him feel quite lost with desire. No English girl had ever consumed him so, or seemed so open towards him, and yet in other ways, she was not really open at all. He still knew so little about her. Poland, her home, her background – it was off-limits, an unspoken acknowledgement between them.

  But the man he had seen. He was sure it had been Eslem Mustafa. If only he had been twenty yards closer! I know it was him. I’m sure of it. And walking out of the same shop from which he’d seen Tanja emerge, looking, he had first thought, slightly – what was the word? – shaken. But then she had turned to him and seemed so genuinely happy to see him. Nothing she had said or done during the rest of the evening had, in any way, suggested something was wrong, or that there was anything to cause him even the slightest concern. And yet he was concerned. It had nagged away at him. Or perhaps he was just paranoid. Perhaps it was as Kirk had suggested: that if one worked in the world of secret intelligence, one started to view everything with suspicious eyes. More often than not there was a perfectly rational and normal reason for most things. Perhaps Tanja really had been looking for Turkish Delight. Why not? Surely it was more likely than her being an associate of Eslem Mustafa?

  Good God, there was still no hard evidence even that Mustafa was directly involved in the spy circuit. It was all circumstantial. He cursed to himself. There was nothing.
It was all hints, suggestions, chance meetings, tenuous links. Flitting shadows, nothing more.

  These thoughts rolled round his mind, one part of his brain acting as defence, the other as prosecutor. Neither won. Stalemate, prompting repetition. Gradually, night gave way to the first streaks of dawn and Tanja was still sleeping peacefully, the crumpled sheet covering her legs and buttocks. She did not look tormented as she slept. She looked quite at peace – and beautiful.

  Round and round, getting nowhere. But had it really been Mustafa? Eventually he got up, moved next door and took his briefcase to the battered desk he had bought some months before. Inside it he had put a copy of some reports on Mustafa, plus several photographs of him. Vaughan stared at them: the dark, oiled hair, the dark eyes, narrow nose, and neat pencil moustache.

  When he heard movement behind him, he hastily thrust the file back into his briefcase. Turning he saw Tanja, naked, walking sleepily towards him, her hair dishevelled. She draped her arms around him, her breasts pressing against his back. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Just couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘Come back to bed,’ she said, her lips on his ear.

  Of course he’d said nothing. Instead he had carried his doubts around like a heavy case. He had called in on SIME on his way to GHQ, catching Maunsell and Maddox to tell them he was sure he had seen Mustafa the previous evening. He had not mentioned the shop, although he knew he should have done. Instead he would visit it himself.

  He was not only troubled about Tanja. The plan to attack Tobruk and Benghazi simultaneously was a massive distortion of his original coastal raiding party plan. Whatever concerns he had had on first hearing about the plan had been stifled by his excitement over his new directive, and by finding himself face-to-face with the C-in-C and his chief of staff.