The Key to Rebecca

by Ken Follett

  Wolff opened the briefcase and began to read.

  Once again Smith had come to the houseboat straight from the morning conference at GHQ, at which Auchinleck and his staff discussed Allied strategy and decided what to do.

  After a few minutes' reading Wolff realized that what he held in his hand was a complete rundown of the Allies' last-ditch defense on the El Alamein Line.

  The line consisted of artillery on the ridges, tanks on the level ground and minefields all along. The Alam Halfa Ridge, five miles behind the center of the line, was also heavily fortified. Wolff noted that the southern end of the line was weaker, both in troops and mines.

  Smith's briefcase also contained an enemy-position paper. Allied Intelligence thought Rommel would probably try to break through the line at the southern end, but noted that the northern end was possible.

  Beneath this, written in pencil in what was presumably Smith's handwriting, was a note which Wolff found more exciting than all the rest of the stuff put together. It read: "Major Vandam proposes deception plan. Encourage Rommel to break through at southern end, lure him toward Alam Halfa, catch him in quicksand, then nutcracker. Plan accepted by Auk."

  "Auk" was Auchinleck, no doubt. What a discovery this was! Not only did Wolff hold in his hand the details of the Allied defense line--he also knew what they expected Rommel to do, and he knew their deception plan.

  And the deception plan was Vandam's!

  This would be remembered as the greatest espionage coup of the century. Wolff himself would be responsible for assuring Rommel's victory in North Africa.

  They should make me King of Egypt for this, he thought, and he smiled.

  He looked up and saw Smith standing between the curtains, staring down at him.

  Smith roared: "Who the devil are you?"

  Wolff realized angrily that he had not been paying attention to the noises from the bedroom. Something had gone wrong, the script had not been followed, there had been no champagne-cork warning. He had been totally absorbed in the strategic appreciation. The endless names of divisions and brigades, the numbers of men and tanks, the quantities of fuel and supplies, the ridges and depressions and quicksands had monopolized his attention to the exclusion of local sounds. He was suddenly terribly afraid that he might be thwarted in his moment of triumph.

  Smith said: "That's my bloody briefcase!"

  He took a step forward.

  Wolff reached out, caught Smith's foot, and heaved sideways. The major toppled over and hit the floor with a heavy thud.

  Sonja screamed.

  Wolff and Smith both scrambled to their feet.

  Smith was a small, thin man, ten years older than Wolff and in poor shape. He stepped backward, fear showing in his face. He bumped into a shelf, glanced sideways, saw a cut-glass fruit bowl on the shelf, picked it up and hurled it at Wolff.

  It missed, fell into the kitchen sink, and shattered loudly.

  The noise, Wolff thought: if he makes any more noise people will come to investigate. He moved toward Smith.

  Smith, with his back to the wall, yelled: "Help!"

  Wolff hit him once, on the point of the jaw, and he collapsed, sliding down the wall to sit, unconscious, on the floor.

  Sonja came out and stared at him.

  Wolff rubbed his knuckles. "It's the first time I've ever done that," he said.

  "What?"

  "Hit somebody on the chin and knocked him out. I thought only boxers could do that."

  "Never mind that, what are we going to do about him?"

  "I don't know." Wolff considered the possibilities. To kill Smith would be dangerous, for the death of an officer--and the disappearance of his briefcase--would now cause a terrific rumpus throughout the city. There would be the problem of what to do with the body. And Smith would bring home no more secrets.

  Smith groaned and stirred.

  Wolff wondered whether it might be possible to let him go. After all, if Smith were to reveal what had been going on in the houseboat he would implicate himself. Not only would it ruin his career, he would probably be thrown in jail. He did not look like the kind of man to sacrifice himself for a higher cause.

  Let him go free? No, the chance was too much to take. To know that there was a British officer in the city who possessed all of Wolff's secrets... Impossible.

  Smith had his eyes open. "You ... " he said. "You're Slaven burg ..." He looked at Sonja, then back at Wolff. "It was you who introduced ... in the Cha-Cha... this was all planned ..."

  "Shut up," Wolf said mildly. Kill him or let him go: what other options were there? Only one: to keep him here, bound and gagged, until Rommel reached Cairo.

  "You're damned spies," Smith said. His face was white.

  Sonja said nastily: "And you thought I was crazy for your miserable body."

  "Yes." Smith was recovering. "I should have known better than to trust a wog bitch."

  Sonja stepped forward and kicked his face with her bare foot.

  "Stop it!" Wolff said. "We've got to think what to do with him. Have we got any rope to tie him with?"

  Sonja thought for a moment. "Up on deck, in that locker at the forward end."

  Wolff took from the kitchen drawer the heavy steel he used for sharpening the carving knife. He gave the steel to Sonja. "If he moves, hit him with that," he said. He did not think Smith would move.

  He was about to go up the ladder to the deck when he heard footsteps on the gangplank.

  Sonja said: "Postman!"

  Wolff knelt in front of Smith and drew his knife. "Open your mouth."

  Smith began to say something, and Wolff slid the knife between Smith's teeth.

  Wolff said: "Now, if you move or speak, I'll cut out your tongue."

  Smith sat dead still, staring at Wolff with a horrified look.

  Wolff realized that Sonja was stark naked. "Put something on, quickly!"

  She pulled a sheet off the bed and wrapped it around her as she went to the foot of the ladder. The hatch was opening. Wolff knew that he and Smith could be seen from the hatch. Sonja let the sheet slide down a little as she reached up to take the letter from the postman's outstretched hand.

  "Good morning!" the postman said. His eyes were riveted on Sonja's half-exposed breasts.

  She went farther up the ladder toward him, so that he had to back away, and let the sheet slip even more. "Thank you," she simpered. She reached for the hatch and pulled it shut.

  Wolff breathed again.

  The postman's footsteps crossed the deck and descended the gangplank.

  Wolff said to Sonja: "Give me that sheet."

  She unwrapped herself and stood naked again.

  Wolff withdrew the knife from Smith's mouth and used it to cut off a foot or two of the sheet. He crumpled the cotton into a ball and stuffed it into Smith's mouth. Smith did not resist. Wolff slid the knife into its underarm sheath. He stood up. Smith closed his eyes. He seemed limp, defeated.

  Sonja picked up the sharpening steel and stood ready to hit Smith while Wolff went up the ladder and onto the deck. The locker Sonja had mentioned was in the riser of a step in the prow. Wolff opened it. Inside was a coil of slender rope. It had perhaps been used to tie up the vessel in the days before she became a houseboat. Wolff took the rope out. It was strong, but not too thick: ideal for tying someone's hands and feet.

  He heard Sonja's voice, from below, raised in a shout. There was a clatter of feet on the ladder.

  Wolff dropped the rope and whirled around.

  Smith, wearing only his underpants, came up through the hatch at a run.

  He had not been as defeated as he looked--and Sonja must have missed him with the steel.

  Wolff dashed across the deck to the gangplank to head him off.

  Smith turned, ran to the other side of the boat, and jumped into the water.

  Wolff said: "Shit!"

  He looked all around quickly. There was no one on the decks of the other houseboats--it was the hour of the siesta. The t
owpath was deserted except for the "beggar"--Kemel would have to deal with him--and one man in the distance walking away. On the river there were a couple of feluccas, at least a quarter of a mile away, and a slow-moving steam barge beyond them.

  Wolff ran to the edge. Smith surfaced, gasping for air. He wiped his eyes and looked around to get his bearings. He was clumsy in the water, splashing a lot. He began to swim, inexpertly, away from the houseboat.

  Wolff stepped back several paces and took a running jump into the river.

  He landed, feet first, on Smith's head.

  For several seconds all was confusion. Wolff went underwater in a tangle of arms and legs--his and Smith's--and struggled to reach the surface and push Smith down at the same time. When he could hold his breath no longer he wriggled away from Smith and came up.

  He sucked air and wiped his eyes. Smith's head bobbed up in front of him, coughing and spluttering. Wolff reached forward with both hands, grabbed Smith's head, and pulled it toward himself and down. Smith wriggled like a fish. Wolff got him around the neck and pushed down. Wolff himself went under the water, then came up again a moment later. Smith was still under, still struggling.

  Wolff thought: How long does it take a man to drown?

  Smith gave a convulsive jerk and freed himself. His head came up and he heaved a great lungful of air. Wolff tried to punch him. The blow landed, but it had no force. Smith was coughing and retching between shuddering gasps. Wolff himself had taken in water. Wolff reached for Smith again. This time he got behind the major and crooked one arm around the man's throat while he used the other to push down on the top of his head.

  He thought: Christ, I hope no one is watching.

  Smith went under. He was facedown in the water now, with Wolff's knees in his back, and his head held in a firm grip. He continued to thrash around under water, turning, jerking, flailing his arms, kicking his legs and trying to twist his body. Wolff tightened his grip and held him under.

  Drown, you bastard, drown!

  He felt Smith's jaws open and knew the man was at last breathing water. The convulsions grew more frantic. Wolff felt he was going to have to let go. Smith's struggle pulled Wolff under. Wolff squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath. It seemed Smith was weakening. By now his lungs must be half full of water, Wolff thought. After a few seconds Wolff himself began to need air.

  Smith's movements became feeble. Holding the major less tightly, Wolff kicked himself upward and found air. For a minute he just breathed. Smith became a dead weight. Wolff used his legs to swim toward the houseboat, pulling Smith with him. Smith's head came up out of the water, but there was no sign of life.

  Wolff reached the side of the boat. Sonja was up on deck, wearing a robe, staring over the side.

  Wolff said: "Did anybody see?"

  "I don't think so. Is he dead?"

  "Yes."

  Wolff thought: What the hell do I do now?

  He held Smith against the side of the boat. If I let him go, he'll just float, he thought. The body will be found near here and there will be a house-to-house search. But I can't carry a body half across Cairo to get rid of it.

  Suddenly Smith jerked and spewed water.

  "Jesus Christ, he's alive!" Wolff said.

  He pushed Smith under again. This was no good, it took too long. He let Smith go, pulled out his knife, and lunged. Smith was underwater, moving feebly. Wolff could not direct the knife. He slashed wildly. The water hampered him. Smith thrashed about. The foaming water turned pink. At last Wolff was able to grab Smith by the hair and hold his head still while he cut his throat.

  Now he was dead.

  Wolff let Smith go while he sheathed the knife again. The river water turned muddy red all around him. I'm swimming in blood, he thought, and he was suddenly filled with disgust.

  The body was drifting away. Wolff pulled it back. He realized, too late, that a drowned major might simply have fallen in the river, but a major with his throat cut had unquestionably been murdered. Now he had to hide the body.

  He looked up. "Sonja!"

  "I feel ill."

  "Never mind that. We have to make the body sink to the bottom."

  "Oh, God, the water's all bloody."

  "Listen to me!" He wanted to yell at her, to make her snap out of it, but he had to keep his voice low. "Get ... get that rope. Go on!"

  She disappeared from view for a moment, and returned with the rope. She was helpless, Wolff decided: he would have to tell her exactly what to do.

  "Now--get Smith's briefcase and put something heavy in it."

  "Something heavy... but what?"

  "Jesus Christ ... What have we got that's heavy? What's heavy? Um... books, books are heavy, no, that might not be enough ... I know, bottles. Full bottles--champagne bottles. Fill his briefcase with full bottles of champagne."

  "Why?"

  "My God, stop dithering, do what I tell you!"

  She went away again. Through the porthole he could see her coming down the ladder and into the living room. She was moving very slowly, like a sleepwalker.

  Hurry, you fat bitch, hurry!

  She looked around her dazedly. Still moving in slow motion, she picked up the briefcase from the floor. She took it to the kitchen area and opened the icebox. She looked in, as if she were deciding what to have for dinner.

  Come on.

  She took out a champagne bottle. She stood with the bottle in one hand and the briefcase in the other, and she frowned, as if she could not remember what she was supposed to be doing with them. At last her expression cleared and she put the bottle in the case, laying it flat. She took another bottle out.

  Wolff thought: Lay them head to toe, idiot, so you get more in.

  She put the second bottle in, looked at it, then took it out and turned it the other way.

  Brilliant, Wolff thought.

  She managed to get four bottles in. She closed the icebox and looked around for something else to add to the weight. She picked up the sharpening steel and a glass paperweight. She put those into the briefcase and fastened it. Then she came up on deck.

  "What now?" she said.

  "Tie the end of the rope around the handle of the briefcase."

  She was coming out of her daze. Her fingers moved more quickly.

  "Tie it very tight," Wolff said.

  "Okay."

  "Is there anyone around?"

  She glanced to left and right. "No."

  "Hurry."

  She finished the knot.

  "Throw me the rope," Wolff said.

  She threw down the other end of the rope and he caught it. He was tiring with the effort of keeping himself afloat and holding on to the corpse at the same time. He had to let Smith go for a moment because he needed both hands for the rope, which meant he had to tread water furiously to stay up. He threaded the rope under the dead man's armpits and pulled it through. He wound it around the torso twice, then tied a knot. Several times during the operation he found himself sinking, and once he took a revolting mouthful of bloody water.

  At last the job was done.

  "Test your knot," he told Sonja.

  "It's tight."

  "Throw the briefcase into the water--throw it as far out as you can."

  She heaved the briefcase over the side. It splashed a couple of yards away from the houseboat--it had been too heavy for her to throw far--and went down. Slowly the rope followed the case. The length of rope between Smith and the case became taut, then the body went under. Wolff watched the surface. The knots were holding. He kicked his legs, underwater where the body had gone down: they did not contact anything. The body had sunk deep.

  Wolff muttered: "Liebe Gott, what a shambles."

  He climbed on deck. Looking back down, he saw that the pink tinge was rapidly disappearing from the water.

  A voice said: "Good morning!"

  Wolff and Sonja whirled around to face the towpath.

  "Good morning!" Sonja replied. She muttered to Wolff in an u
ndertone: "A neighbor."

  The neighbor was a half-caste woman of middle age, carrying a shopping basket. She said: "I heard a lot of splashing--is there anything wrong?"

  "Um ... no," Sonja said. "My little dog fell in the water, and Mr. Robinson here had to rescue him."

  "How gallant!" the woman said. "I didn't know you had a dog."

  "He's a puppy, a gift."

  "What kind?"

  Wolff wanted to scream: Go away, you stupid old woman!

  "A poodle," Sonja replied.

  "I'd love to see him."

  "Tomorrow, perhaps--he's been locked up as a punishment now."

  "Poor thing."

  Wolff said: "I'd better change my wet clothes."

  Sonja said to the neighbor: "Until tomorrow."

  "Lovely to meet you, Mr. Robinson," the neighbor said.

  Wolff and Sonja went below.

  Sonja slumped on the couch and closed her eyes. Wolff stripped off his wet clothes.

  Sonja said: "It's the worst thing that's ever happened to me."

  "You'll survive," Wolff said.

  "At least it was an Englishman."

  "Yes. You should be jumping for joy."

  "I will when my stomach settles."

  Wolff went into the bathroom and turned on the taps of the tub. When he came back Sonja said: "Was it worth it?"

  "Yes." Wolff pointed to the military papers which were still on the floor, where he had dropped them when Smith surprised him. "That stuff is red-hot--the best he's ever brought us. With that, Rommel can win the war."

  "When will you send it?"

  "Tonight, at midnight."

  "Tonight you're going to bring Elene here."

  He stared at her. "How can you think of that when we've just killed a man and sunk his body?"

  She stared at him defiantly. "I don't know. I just know it makes me feel very sexy."

  "My God."

  "You will bring her home tonight. You owe it to me."

  Wolff hesitated. "I'd have to make the broadcast while she's here."

  "I'll keep her busy while you're on the radio."

  "I don't know--"

  "Damn it, Alex, you owe me!"

  "All right."

  "Thank you."

  Wolff went into the bathroom. Sonja was unbelievable, he thought. She took depravity to new heights of sophistication. He got into the hot water.

  She called from the bedroom: "But now Smith won't be bringing you any more secrets."