De Guingand produced a slim leather case and slid it along the table-top towards Rose. ‘This contains the dispatches,’ the Auk said. ‘You are to take them to London and present them to Prime Minister Winston Churchill himself. They are for his eyes only. I have seen to it that you have the highest clearance, and I am sure I have no need to repeat that Operation Runefish has the top security classification. Not a word of it must be breathed to anyone outside this room.’
‘I'm fully aware of that, sir.’
‘Good. Now, you have been prepared for every eventuality. If for any reason the documents are endangered, you are to destroy them – the attaché case has a self-destruct mechanism that Captain Avery will show you how to initiate. If necessary you will repeat the message verbally to the Prime Minister. I understand that among your many accomplishments is a retentive memory, therefore I am going to say it only once and I expect you to memorize it perfectly.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘You will tell Mr Churchill that there is no longer any chance of holding Tobruk, either in isolation or as part of a defensive line. The Eighth Army has been more fragmented by its recent defeat at Gazala than the Axis knows. Our armour has been destroyed or put out of action. Our infantry divisions are wheeling aimlessly through the desert with no safe harbour. More than half of our aircraft are missing. We have lost more than eighty thousand men, large numbers of guns and vehicles, and tons of fuel and supplies. Our logistical system is in ruins. Worst of all, Eighth Army's morale has reached rock bottom. The men have lost confidence in their officers, and officers are now openly questioning the decisions of the High Command. More than twenty-five thousand men have deserted, and the Army is a hair's breadth from mutiny. Our assessment is that Rommel is likely to push into Egypt immediately, following up his Gazala victory. If so, the Eighth Army will almost certainly be destroyed. You will say that the Commander-in-Chief therefore requests permission to evacuate Egypt forthwith. He wishes to withdraw to Palestine or even up the Nile to Port Sudan. That completes the text of the message, Miss Rose. The dispatches are coded in a cipher known only to the Prime Minister's office. They contain the casualty figures and damage assessment as accurately as we know at present, but the final figures may be much worse. Now, repeat the message, please.’
Maddy repeated it flawlessly – it wasn't much, after all, compared with some of the massive texts she'd had to memorize in her time.
When she'd finished, she found Auchinleck and the others staring at her sombrely, as if the gravity of the message had sunk in for the first time. ‘Very good, First Officer,’ the Auk said. ‘Now, what are the arrangements, Avery?’
Julian Avery stepped forward, looming over Auchinleck's shoulder. As tall as de Guingand but much slimmer, he was twenty-six years old, with a pale moustache and wayward straw-coloured hair. The most junior officer present, he was also the only one wearing full service-dress, complete with Sam Browne belt, the red collar-tabs of the General Staff, and parachute wings on his sleeve. He smiled encouragingly at Rose, and she beamed back – while Clarke had been in charge of her training, it was Jules Avery who had been her instructor. A close bond had grown up between them during the course, but it had never transcended the teacher-student relationship. Maddy was aware that Avery was attracted to her, but had her private reasons for remaining distant.
Avery produced a clipboard and glanced at his watch. ‘We're running a little late, ma'am,’ he said, ‘but no problem – we left a wide margin. A staff car will be here to pick you up within the hour.’ Maddy's eyes widened slightly at the formality of ‘ma'am’, but she put it down to the presence of the C-in-C, and the fact that, technically, she outranked Avery – a Wren first officer was the equivalent of an army major. ‘Your aircraft, an RAF Bombay of 276 Squadron, is waiting for you at Helwan,’ Avery went on, ‘and is due to take off at 1830 hours. You've already met your pilot, Flight Sergeant Orton, who has been fully briefed on the mission. If there is still time you can go through the emergency drills with him. You will find on board everything you might need in an emergency – parachute, medical kit, survival kit and a biscuit-tin transmitter with details of an emergency SOS frequency. Your personal code, as you know, is Runefish. Do you have any last questions?’
Maddy thought it over for a second. ‘Yes. If I am asked why this message was delivered in person, what am I to say?’
Avery nodded with approval to indicate that he'd anticipated the question. ‘You will say that we have reason to believe all wireless messages from GHQ are being intercepted by the German “Y” service, and that our codes have been compromised. In view of the grave nature of this message, we could not risk it to the airwaves.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Anything else?’ Auchinleck enquired.
‘No, sir.’
‘Well, then, I have one final duty to perform.’ He took a small cardboard container like a jewel-box from his shirt pocket and placed it on the table. He opened it and picked out what looked like an ancient and slightly yellowing molar. He held it up for her inspection. ‘Potassium cyanide,’ he said. ‘Inside a hollow tooth made of bakelite, fitted to your gum by gutta-percha. Bite hard on the tooth and the poison kills instantly.’ He replaced the authentic-looking tooth gingerly into the box. ‘If, God forbid, the worst came to the worst, you might wish to do the right thing, rather than let such secrets fall to the enemy.’ Auchinleck fixed his clear blue eyes on her. It was, Maddy thought, a superb performance. ‘Should you wish to avail yourself of it, there is a Medical Corps dentist downstairs who can do the job. However, I am not ordering you to take it, Miss Rose. That choice is yours.’
The other officers, she noticed, were all standing stiffly now, their eyes riveted on her. She supposed they were wondering if she would be shocked. In fact, she'd accepted death as her wages for this job the moment she'd volunteered for it. She picked up the box and put it away without ceremony. No one made any comment. If they hadn't been in the presence of the C-in-C, she felt, they would have cheered.
The C-in-C rose. Maddy took the attaché case and followed suit. She was about to salute when the Auk put his hand out. She shook it, feeling her own hand small and frail in his larger one. ‘The message you're carrying is of crucial importance to the future of the Eighth Army, of the North African campaign, and ultimately of the war,’ Auchinleck said. ‘I can't tell you, Miss Rose, how much I appreciate your commitment or how greatly I admire your courage. You set an example that many men would envy. Thank you, God speed, and the very best of luck.’
For the first time, Maddy felt a lump rise in her throat and had to fight back the tears. She forced herself to think of Peter Fairfax, tortured and murdered by the Gestapo in France, and was quickly filled with the rage she knew would soon disperse them. She saluted the C-in-C, then turned and marched out of the room, flanked by Avery and Clarke.
Auchinleck watched them until they were out of sight. ‘A remarkable woman that, Tom,’ he said to de Guingand. ‘Think she can pull it off?’
‘She seems a pussycat on the surface, but underneath she's got steel claws. She was engaged to an SOE agent, Peter Fairfax, who was dropped into France last year. His network had been infiltrated by the Nazis and he was betrayed. The Gestapo gave him the full works – electric shocks, burning cloths on the genitals – horrible business. When he wouldn't talk, they shot him and cut his hands off. Rose is carrying the cross.’
‘In times like these, it helps.’
‘She won't be overlooked, sir, that's for certain. She stands out like the fairy on a Christmas tree.’
5
Less than a mile away, the man who called himself Hussain Idriss, was leaning on the radiator of a beaten-up Standard, with a hand-scrawled sign reading, ‘Taxi’ in the windscreen. Hussain had been many things in his life, but today he was a taxi driver. He had borrowed the banger from a friend, and it had been parked at the junction of a side-street near GHQ for the past ninety minutes. He was dressed in cheap Europe
an clothes and shoes so old that the soles were almost worn through. His thick dark hair was ruffled and there was a blue shadow on his chin. He must have looked the part, Hussain told himself as he lit up his sixth Cleopatra, because he'd already had to turn down two prospective fares.
Hussain could pass as a Cairene anywhere, even though he did not possess a drop of Egyptian blood. In fact, he was a German and his real name was Johann Eisner. Born in Cairo of German parents, his mother had been widowed early and had remarried a wealthy Egyptian business-man, who had raised Johann as a Muslim. Eisner's education at English schools in Egypt had alternated with spells at boarding school in Germany. When war broke out and he was called up for military service, the Abwehr – German Military Intelligence – realized they had a unique asset – a German who could pass undetected as an Egyptian, and who knew Egypt like the back of his hand. Eisner had passed all tests with flying colours. Not even his closest instructors had divined the one serious flaw in his character that might clash with his excellence as a field agent.
The previous night Eisner had been playing a role that suited him better – a millionaire Egyptian playboy, at the exclusive Kit-Kat cabaret on the Nile Corniche. His main reason for going there was to catch the floorshow of his friend, the belly-dancer Hekmeth Fahmi, but the club was a magnet for GHQ staff as well as officers on leave from the front, and a place where he frequently picked up snippets of information. It was astonishing how rapidly British officers dropped their guard in the presence of half-dressed young women, especially after a couple or four of the Kit-Kat's special cocktails.
One of the cabaret girls, a sensuous French blonde called Natalie, was in his pay. She had no idea that he was German. Last night, after the tumultuous applause for Hekmeth Fahmi had died down, Natalie had sidled up to his table in the subdued light and asked him to buy her a bottle of champagne. When the Veuve-Cliquot was duly brought and opened with a flourish, Natalie folded her long, sinuous legs, fitted a cigarette into an ivory holder, and graciously accepted the light Eisner offered her from his gold Ronson. ‘You know I have many lovers?’ she said in French.
Eisner, whose French was as fluent as his Arabic, peered at her from behind the dark glasses that were de rigueur for rich Egyptians in Cairo nightspots. He nodded. ‘Mais naturellement,’ he said, ‘you are the most charming girl in Cairo, Natalie.’
‘Earlier tonight,’ she purred, ‘I was entertaining one of them in my flat – a young and amorous captain from British headquarters. I think he had already had many drinks before he arrived. He was upset, so I gave him more whisky and coaxed the problem out of him. He said that he'd been given a most important assignment carrying papers to London, but at the last minute the job had been given to another officer – a woman officer of the Royal Navy.’
Eisner's ears pricked up with genuine interest. He had a spy's passion for anomalies, and this certainly sounded unique. He poured Natalie a second glass of bubbly. ‘Did he mention the nature of these papers?’ he asked.
She brushed back an unruly lock of blond hair with a movement that was enticingly seductive. She picked up the glass, sipped her champagne and smiled. ‘He did not say,’ she said, ‘but he told me that they were for the British Prime Minister himself. That is why he was so angry – he felt that his work might have been noticed at last. It would also be his first chance to get back to England since the start of the war. I asked if this was the only thing that angered him, and he admitted that the woman was young and pretty and that he suspected her of being the lover of his superior. I myself suspected that he liked this woman – perhaps she had been his lover, and the real reason he was angry was because she had betrayed him. I did not tell him this of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘Later he fell asleep in my bed, and I went through his briefcase. Most of the papers were of no interest, but among them was a schedule entitled Operation Runefish. I copied it down.’
Natalie paused, opened a small sequinned handbag, and extracted a neatly wadded sheet of paper. She handed it to him. Eisner unfolded it and squinted at it in the dim light. It was, as she'd told him, a schedule:
1300 hours – lunch
1330 hours – Runefish to draw personal weapon: .45 Colt auto with spare clips
1400 hours – private briefing with Runefish
1430 hours – Runefish to meet C-in-C and collect dispatches. Cyanide pill to be issued
1530 hours – Runefish to leave GHQ in staff car
1630 hours – Runefish to arrive Helwan airstrip. Aircraft, Bombay of 276 Squadron RAF, to be fuelled and ready. Runefish to go through emergency procedures with pilot, Flt Sgt Orton, Peter, RAF. Runefish to find emergency equipment on board: 1) Parachute 2) Medical Pack 3) Survival Pack 4) Emergency transmitter, packed in haversack, with SOS frequencies
1830 hours – aircraft takes off
Eisner read it carefully. One item of information caught his attention in particular: ‘Cyanide pill to be issued’. That alone suggested this was no ordinary assignment. And Natalie had mentioned ‘Mr Churchill’. Cyanide and Mr Churchill: together they indicated that something of significance might be happening here. He realized that an important item was missing from the schedule. ‘Where is the date, my dear?’ he enquired.
Natalie grimaced. ‘I am an imbecile. I have forgotten to write it down. The date was tomorrow, 12 June 1942.’
‘You're sure?’
‘Yes, I am sure.’
‘Excellent. I don't suppose your lover told you the real name of the woman involved?’ he asked.
She blew out a stream of cigarette smoke and shook her head provocatively. ‘No, but I found out his real name. He calls himself Richard Ross, but he is really Captain Julian Avery.’
Eisner had made a mental note of the name, and had realized suddenly that this talk of Natalie's lovers had unleashed an urge he hadn't experienced in months. He had glanced back at her appraisingly, surveying her sleek legs, supple figure and gently pouting lips, and pictured her tied to his bed, naked and whimpering – an image so chillingly vivid that it had him fingering the hilt of the razor-sharp stiletto he carried concealed at his waist. He'd been sorely tempted to invite her back to his houseboat that night, but had fought off the compulsion. To bring his ‘extracurricular activities’ home could have been fatal in more ways than one, and Natalie was far too valuable an asset to lose.
6
Eisner had never heard of Captain Julian Avery, but after leaving the club he had telephoned his two contacts at GHQ – Egyptian clerical workers with Axis sympathies who had slipped through the British screening net. The first didn't know the name Avery, but the second, a woman, did. She told him that Avery's department was G(R) – the Cairo wing of the Special Operations Executive. She was also able to confirm that a First Officer of the Women's Royal Naval Service had been seen at GHQ, but was unable to give her name or to describe her. It wasn't much, but it was enough to convince Eisner that this case was worth the investment of a little time and effort.
Now, leaning on his ‘taxi’, he was beginning to feel nervous. He had been hanging around in Garden City too long, and a Military Police jeep had already passed once. Sooner or later it would come back again, and the MPs in it would wonder why he was still there. He'd brought a brand-new Leica camera with him in case there was an opportunity for a shot of the girl. It was in a bag on the back seat of the car, and he didn't relish the idea of having to explain to the MPs why a down-at-heel taxi driver should be lurking near GHQ with a camera worth more than he was.
He squashed out yet another Cleopatra butt with one decrepit shoe, and looked at his watch. It was half past four, which meant that, if Natalie had been right about the date, Runefish was an hour behind schedule. But had she been right? Perhaps the schedule had been dated yesterday, 11 June, and the bird had already flown. For all he knew it might have been dated last week.
He was about to give up, when a Humber staff car rumbled past. Eisner looked up in time to get an impr
ession of a figure in the back seat – blue shoulder-rings, rich blond hair under a blue and white Wren's hat. He jumped into his vehicle, started up, and followed the staff car into the stream of traffic. Luckily it wasn't as busy as usual – the news of Rommel's victory at Gazala had cleared the streets. Shops had been hurriedly closed down, and, there had been a 50 per cent drop in the value of foreign currency on the black market. This was a great embarrassment to Eisner, who had smuggled in cash in sterling pounds. The only way he could now obtain its true value was by applying to the British Army Pay Corps office – an establishment he had good reason to avoid. He felt ambivalent about the prospect of Rommel's arrival in Cairo. On the one hand, he hoped for a German victory, on the other, it would mean an abrupt end to his luxurious amoral life as Rommel's spy.
The Humber turned left on to the Corniche opposite Roda island, following the dark waters of the Nile upstream. It was the right direction for the airstrip at Helwan. GHQ cars normally beetled through the city at breakneck speed, but even if the occupant of this car was late, she seemed in no hurry – the vehicle dawdled along at a steady thirty miles an hour. He tagged on behind, staying a hundred and fifty yards to the rear, allowing other vehicles to overtake him but never losing sight of his quarry. Roda fell away and as the minutes ticked by Eisner became increasingly confident that he hadn't been spotted. The driver made no attempt to go faster, never turned off the main road and never halted or slowed down to let him pass. Soon, the road veered away from the Nile into the narrow, tortuous streets of Maadi. Teetering tenements lined the road, with lines of washing fluttering from the balconies like strings of flags.
The traffic slowed as the road became congested with donkey-carts, donkey-trains and flocks of goats and sheep marshalled by broad-backed fellahin in turbans and tobacco-coloured shifts. Women in black headscarves with gold pins in their noses peered down from the balconies, and urchins in tattered striped gallabiyas ran along the gutter. Eisner was so intent on not losing the Humber that he only just noticed the flash of brake lights in time. He jammed his foot hard on his brake pedal, evoking a cacophony of honks from behind him. He leaned on his horn in response, craning his neck to see what was happening. Two vehicles ahead of him, the staff car had been brought to a standstill by a vast horde of goats and sheep.
Death or Glory I: The Last Commando: The Last Commando Page 4