by Ken Follett
"What happens to them when you've caught them?"
"They hang, usually."
"Oh."
He had managed to throw her off balance for a change. She shivered. He said: "Losers generally die in wartime."
"Is that why you don't love it--because they hang?"
"No. I don't love it because I don't always catch them."
"Are you proud of being so hard-hearted?"
"I don't think I'm hard-hearted. We're trying to kill more of them than they can kill us." He thought: How did I come to be defending myself?
She got up to pour him another drink. He watched her walk across the room. She moved gracefully--like a cat, he thought; no, like a kitten. He looked at her back as she stooped to pick up the cocktail shaker, and he wondered what she was wearing beneath the yellow dress. He noticed her hands as she poured the drink: they were slender and strong. She did not give herself another martini.
He wondered what background she came from. He said: "Are your parents alive?"
"No," she said abruptly.
"I'm sorry," he said. He knew she was lying.
"Why did you ask me that?"
"Idle curiosity. Please forgive me."
She leaned over and touched his arm lightly, brushing his skin with her fingertips, a caress as gentle as a breeze. "You apologize too much." She looked away. from him, as if hesitating; and then, seeming to yield to an impulse, she began to tell him of her background.
She had been the eldest of five children in a desperately poor family. Her parents were cultured and loving people--"My father taught me English and my mother taught me to wear clean clothes," she said--but the father, a tailor, was ultraorthodox and had estranged himself from the rest of the Jewish community in Alexandria after a doctrinal dispute with the ritual slaughterer. When Elene was fifteen years old her father began to go blind. He could no longer work as a tailor--but he would neither ask nor accept help from the "back-sliding" Alexandrian Jews. Elene went as a live-in maid to a British home and sent her wages to her family. From that point on, her story was one which had been repeated, Vandam knew, time and again over the last hundred years in the homes of the British ruling class: she fell in love with the son of the house, and he seduced her. She had been fortunate in that they had been found out before she became pregnant. The son was sent away to university and Elene was paid off. She was terrified to return home to tell her father she had been fired for fornication--and with a gentile. She lived on her pay-off, continuing to send home the same amount of cash each week, until the money ran out. Then a lecherous businessman whom she had met at the house had set her up in a flat, and she was embarked upon her life's work. Soon afterward her father had been told how she was living, and he made the family sit shiva for her.
"What is shiva?" Vandam asked.
"Mourning."
Since then she had not heard from them, except for a message from a friend to tell her that her mother had died.
Vandam said: "Do you hate your father?"
She shrugged. "I think it turned out rather well." She spread her arms to indicate the apartment.
"But are you happy?"
She looked at him. Twice she seemed about to speak and then said nothing. Finally she looked away. Vandam felt she was regretting the impulse that had made her tell him her life story. She changed the subject. "What brings you here tonight, Major?"
Vandam collected his thoughts. He had been so interested in her--watching her hands and her eyes as she spoke of her past--that he had forgotten for a while his purpose. "I'm still looking for Alex Wolff," he began. "I haven't found him, but I've found his grocer."
"How did you do that?"
He decided not to tell her. Better that nobody outside Intelligence should know that German spies were betrayed by their forged money. "That's a long story," he said. "The important thing is, I want to put someone inside the shop in case he comes back."
"Me."
"That's what I had in mind."
"Then, when he comes in, I hit him over the head with a bag of sugar and guard the unconscious body until you come along."
Vandam laughed. "I believe you would," he said. "I can just see you leaping over the counter." He realized how much he was relaxing, and resolved to pull himself together before he made a fool of himself.
"Seriously, what do I have to do?" she said.
"Seriously, you have to discover where he lives."
"How?"
"I'm not sure." Vandam hesitated. "I thought perhaps you might befriend him. You're a very attractive woman--I imagine it would be easy for you."
"What do you mean by 'befriend'?"
"That's up to you. Just as long as you get his address."
"I see." Suddenly her mood had changed, and there was bitterness in her voice. The switch astonished Vandam: she was too quick for him to follow her. Surely a woman like Elene would not be offended by this suggestion? She said: "Why don't you just have one of your soldiers follow him home?"
"I may have to do that, if you fail to win his confidence. The trouble is, he might realize he was being followed and shake off the tail--then he would never go back to the grocer's, and we would have lost our advantage. But if you can persuade him, say, to invite you to his house for dinner, then we'll get the information we need without tipping our hand. Of course, it might not work. Both alternatives are risky. But I prefer the subtle approach."
"I understand that."
Of course she understood, Vandam thought; the whole thing was as plain as day. What the devil was the matter with her? She was a strange woman: at one moment he was quite enchanted by her, and at the next he was infuriated. For the first time it crossed his mind that she might refuse to do what he was asking. Nervously he said: "Will you help me?"
She got up and filled his glass again, and this time she took another drink herself. She was very tense, but it was clear she was not willing to tell him why. He always felt very annoyed with women in moods like this. It would be a damn nuisance if she refused to cooperate now.
At last she said: "I suppose it's no worse than what I've been doing all my life."
"That's what I thought," said Vandam with relief.
She gave him a very black look.
"You start tomorrow," he said. He gave her a piece of paper with the address of the shop written on it. She took it without looking at it. "The shop belongs to Mikis Aristopoulos," he added.
"How long do you think this will take?" she said.
"I don't know." He stood up. "I'll get in touch with you every few days, to make sure everything's all right--but you'll contact me as soon as he makes an appearance, won't you?"
"Yes."
Vandam remembered something. "By the way, the shopkeeper thinks we're after Wolff for forgery. Don't talk to him about espionage."
"I won't."
The change in her mood was permanent. They were no longer enjoying each other's company. Vandam said: "I'll leave you to your thriller."
She stood up. "I'll see you out."
They went to the door. As Vandam stepped out, the tenant of the neighboring flat approached along the corridor. Vandam had been thinking of this moment, in the back of his mind, all evening, and now he did what he had been determined not to do. He took Elene's arm, bent his head and kissed her mouth.
Her lips moved briefly in response. He pulled away. The neighbor passed by. Vandam looked at Elene. The neighbor unlocked his door, entered his flat and closed the door behind him. Vandam released Elene's arm.
She said: "You're a good actor."
"Yes," he said. "Good-bye." He turned away and strolled briskly down the corridor. He should have felt pleased with his evening's work, but instead he felt as if he had done something a little shameful. He heard the door of her apartment bang shut behind him.
Elene leaned back against the closed door and cursed William Vandam.
He had come into her life, full of English courtesy, asking her to do a new kind of work and help win
the war; and then he had told her she must go whoring again.
She had really believed he was going to change her life. No more rich businessmen, no more furtive affairs, no more dancing or waiting on tables. She had a worthwhile job, something she believed in, something that mattered. Now it turned out to be the same old game.
For seven years she had been living off her face and her body, and now she wanted to stop.
She went into the living room to get a drink. His glass was there on the table, half empty. She put it to her lips. The drink was warm and bitter.
At first she had not liked Vandam: he had seemed a stiff, solemn, dull man. Then she had changed her mind about him. When had she first thought there might be another, different man beneath the rigid exterior? She remembered: it had been when he laughed. That laugh intrigued her. He had done it again tonight, when she said she would hit Wolff over the head with a bag of sugar. There was a rich vein of fun deep, deep inside him, and when it was tapped the laughter bubbled up and took over his whole personality for a moment. She suspected that he was a man with a big appetite for life--an appetite which he had firmly under control, too firmly. It made Elene want to get under his skin, to make him be himself. That was why she teased him, and tried to make him laugh again.
That was why she had kissed him, too.
She had been curiously happy to have him in her home, sitting on her couch, smoking and talking. She had even thought how nice it would be to take this strong, innocent man to bed and show him things he never dreamed of. Why did she like him? Perhaps it was that he treated her as a person, not as a girlie. She knew he would never pat her bottom and say: "Don't you worry your pretty little head ..."
And he had spoiled it all. Why was she so bothered by this thing with Wolff? One more insincere act of seduction would do her no harm. Vandam had more or less said that. And in saying so, he had revealed that he regarded her as a whore. That was what had made her so mad. She wanted his esteem, and when he asked her to "befriend" Wolff, she knew she was never going to get it, not really. Anyway the whole thing was foolish: the relationship between a woman such as she and an English officer was doomed to turn out like all Elene's relationships--manipulation on one side, dependence on the other and respect nowhere. Vandam would always see her as a whore. For a while she had thought he might be different from all the rest, but she had been wrong.
And she thought: But why do I mind so much?
Vandam was sitting in darkness at his bedroom window in the middle of the night, smoking cigarettes and looking out at the moonlit Nile, when a memory from his childhood sprang, fully formed, into his mind.
He is eleven years old, sexually innocent, physically still a child. He is in the terraced gray brick house where he has always lived. The house has a bathroom, with water heated by the coal fire in the kitchen below: he has been told that this makes his family very fortunate, and he must not boast about it; indeed, when he goes to the new school, the posh school in Bournemouth, he must pretend that he thinks it is perfectly normal to have a bathroom and hot water coming out of the taps. The bathroom has a water closet too. He is going there now to pee. His mother is in there, bathing his sister, who is seven years old, but they won't mind him going in to pee, he has done it before, and the other toilet is a long cold walk down the garden. What he has forgotten is that his cousin is also being bathed. She is eight years old. He walks into the bathroom. His sister is sitting in the bath. His cousin is standing, about to come out. His mother holds a towel. He looks at his cousin.
She is naked, of course. It is the first time he has seen any girl other than his sister naked. His cousin's body is slightly plump, and her skin is flushed with the heat of the water. She is quite the loveli est sight he has ever seen. He stands inside the bathroom doorway looking at her with undisguised interest and admiration.
He does not see the slap coming. His mother's large hand seems to come from nowhere. It hits his cheek with a loud clap. She is a good hitter, his mother, and this is one of her best efforts. It hurts like hell, but the shock is even worse than the pain. Worst of all is that the warm sentiment which had engulfed him has been shattered like a glass window.
"Get out!" his mother screams, and he leaves, hurt and humiliated.
Vandam remembered this as he sat alone watching the Egyptian night, and he thought, as he had thought at the time it happened: Now why did she,do that?
9
IN THE EARLY MORNING THE TILED FLOOR OF THE MOSQUE WAS COLD TO ALEX Wolff's bare feet. The handful of dawn worshipers was lost in the vastness of the pillared hall. There was a silence, a sense of peace, and a bleak gray light. A shaft of sunlight pierced one of the high narrow slits in the wall, and at that moment the muezzin began to cry:
"Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!"
Wolff turned to face Mecca.
He was wearing a long robe and a turban, and the shoes in his hand were simple Arab sandals. He was never quite sure why he did this. He was a True Believer only in theory. He had been circumcised according to Islamic doctrine, and he had completed the pilgrimage to Mecca; but he drank alcohol and ate pork, he never paid the zakat tax, he never observed the fast of Ramadan and he did not pray every day, let alone five times a day. But every so often he felt the need to immerse himself, just for a few minutes, in the familiar, mechanical ritual of his stepfather's religion. Then, as he had done today, he would get up while it was still dark, and dress in traditional clothes, and walk through the cold quiet streets of the city to the mosque his father had attended, and perform the ceremonial ablutions in the forecourt, and enter in time for the first prayers of the new day.
He touched his ears with his hands, then clasped his hands in front of him, the left within the right. He bowed, then knelt down. Touching his forehead to the floor at appropriate moments, he recited the el-fatha:
"In the name of God the merciful and compassionate. Praise be to God, the lord of the worlds, the merciful and compassionate, the Prince of the day of judgment; Thee we serve, and to Thee we pray for help; lead us in the right way, the way of those to whom Thou hast shown mercy, upon whom no wrath resteth, and who go not astray."
He looked over his right shoulder, then his left, to greet the two recording angels who wrote down his good and bad acts.
When he looked over his left shoulder, he saw Abdullah.
Without interrupting his prayer the thief smiled broadly, showing his steel tooth.
Wolff got up and went out. He stopped outside to put on his sandals, and Abdullah came waddling after him. They shook hands.
"You are a devout man, like myself," Abdullah said. "I knew you would come, sooner or later, to your father's mosque."
"You've been looking for me?"
"Many people are looking for you."
Together they walked away from the mosque. Abdullah said: "Knowing you to be a True Believer, I could not betray you to the British, even for so large a sum of money; so I told Major Vandam that I knew nobody by the name of Alex Wolff, or Achmed Rahmha."
Wolff stopped abruptly. So they were still hunting him. He had started to feel safe--too soon. He took Abdullah by the arm and steered him into an Arab cafe. They sat down.
Wolff said: "He knows my Arab name."
"He knows all about you--except where to find you."
Wolff felt worried, and at the same time intensely curious. "What is this major like?" he asked.
Abdullah shrugged. "An Englishman. No subtlety. No manners. Khaki shorts and a face the color of a tomato."
"You can do better than that."
Abdullah nodded. "This man is patient and determined. If I were you, I should be afraid of him."
Suddenly Wolff was afraid.
He said: "What has he been doing?"
"He has found out all about your family. He has talked to all your brothers. They said they knew nothing of you."
The cafe proprietor brought each of them a dish of mashed fava beans and a flat loaf of c
oarse bread. Wolff broke his bread and dipped it into the beans. Flies began to gather around the bowls. Both men ignored them.
Abdullah spoke through a mouthful of food. "Vandam is offering one hundred pounds for your address. Ha! As if we would betray one of our own for money."
Wolff swallowed. "Even if you knew my address."
Abdullah shrugged. "It would be a small thing to find out."
"I know," Wolff said. "So I am going to tell you, as a sign of my faith in your friendship. I am living at Shepheard's Hotel."
Abdullah looked hurt. "My friend, I know this is not true. It is the first place the British would look--"
"You misunderstand me." Wolff smiled. "I am not a guest there. I work in the kitchens, cleaning pots, and at the end of the day I lie down on the floor with a dozen or so others and sleep there."
"So cunning!" Abdullah grinned: he was pleased with the idea and delighted to have the information. "You hide under their very noses!"
"I know you will keep this secret," Wolff said. "And, as a sign of my gratitude for your friendship, I hope you will accept from me a gift of one hundred pounds."
"But this is not necessary--"
"I insist."
Abdullah sighed and gave in reluctantly. "Very well."
"I will have the money sent to your house."
Abdullah wiped his empty bowl with the last of his bread. "I must leave you now," he said. "Allow me to pay for your breakfast."
"Thank you."
"Ah! But I have come with no money. A thousand pardons--"
"It's nothing," Wolff said. "Alallah--in God's care."
Abdullah replied conventionally: "Allah yisallimak--may God protect thee." He went out.
Wolff called for coffee and thought about Abdullah. The thief would betray Wolff for a lot less than a hundred pounds, of course. What had stopped him so far was that he did not know Wolff's address. He was actively trying to discover it--that was why he had come to the mosque. Now he would attempt to check on the story about living in the kitchens of Shepheard's. This might not be easy, for of course no one would admit that staff slept on the kitchen floor--indeed Wolff was not at all sure it was true--but he had to reckon on Abdullah discovering the lie sooner or later. The story was no more than a delaying tactic; so was the bribe. However, when at last Abdullah found out that Wolff was living on Sonja's houseboat, he would probably come to Wolff for more money instead of going to Vandam.