City of the Sun (39 page)

“I will not meet you at Café Riche later. It’s too dangerous.” The Egyptian hung up the phone before Kesner could respond, infuriating him.

He should never have given the fool his number, but at least Abdoul didn’t know where he lived. He picked up an ashtray and threw it against the wall. “May Samina rot in hell!” He summoned up the teachings of Sun Tzu, reminding himself to keep a cool head. He would deal with Abdoul later. Today he had an important mission, perhaps the most important of his life.

Parked behind a huge ficus benjamina three houses down from the American Embassy, Kesner waited for the car carrying the Blumenthals to emerge from the garage and take them to the Heliopolis airport for their seven o’clock flight to Lisbon. Kesner had the ambush all figured out. Hassan al-Banna had generously made his best men available for the mission, and they were already in place, ready to pounce. The only complication was that there were two routes to the airport, and Kesner had no way of knowing which one the American car would take until it reached Sharia Kasr el-Aini, near the Semiramis Hotel. So he would have to follow the car up to that point and telephone his fellow conspirators, advising them of the route chosen. Men had been placed on both routes to cover either eventuality.

Sitting in the back of a taxi driven by Rafat, one of the sheik’s most trusted lieutenants, whose fourteen-year-old son sat at his side, Kesner tapped his front teeth with his fingernails, his eyes
locked on the garage, his stomach in a knot. He was wearing a brown galabeya, which he kept twisting.

“There it is!” Rafat’s son suddenly warned.

An official black car with the American flag on its fender, its curtains drawn, drove out of the garage.

Kesner checked his watch: 6:10. “That must be him. Perfect. No escort, just as I suspected.” His eyes were transfixed. “
Yalla
! Let’s go,” he ordered, feeling euphoric.

“With the help of Allah, we will be successful today,” Rafat said softly as he made a U-turn and started to tail the American sedan.

With Friday morning prayers marking the beginning of the Egyptian weekend, most Arabs were still asleep and there was little traffic. They crossed Garden City and arrived downtown in no time. The city was just waking up as European café owners opened their doors and laid out tables on the sidewalks. They were now on Sharia Kasr el-Aini, and Kesner waited on pins and needles to see which turn the American car would make. It made a left turn just before reaching the Semiramis Hotel, and Kesner let out an excited cry.

“They’re taking the Salah al-Din route!” Kesner said.

Rafat jerked the car to a halt. He took his boy’s head between his hands and kissed it. “Dying in the way of Allah is our highest hope, my son.”

The boy thrust the door open and shot from the car like a bullet, vanishing around the corner to alert the Brothers of the route the embassy car was taking.

The Salah al-Din route was by far the most desirable. The embassy car would be going through a large intersection in front of the Citadel with arms that reached out like an octopus, feeding many of the city’s main arteries. That was where Kesner had planned to ambush the car after blocking it with the Brotherhood’s vehicles that would converge on it from all directions. They would pull Blumenthal out and drag him to Kesner, who would be waiting
in his taxi between two monumental mosques that stood side by side across from the Citadel. Blumenthal’s father and sister would also be taken, but only if the task proved easy. Should anything go wrong, there were many escape routes into the city or out into the desert behind the Citadel.

A soldier of Allah, Rafat pushed down on the gas pedal, his eyes fixed, his ears closed to unwanted distractions, and took a shortcut through the City of the Dead, which he knew well. The roof of the taxi had been painted white so it would be easily recognized from above, and as they reached the back of the Citadel, Kesner and Rafat looked up and saw a man waving a small red flag at them.

“It’s all good by the grace of God,” Rafat said.

They had men posted on the roofs and minarets of the Citadel as well as the two mosques across from it, which made for easy signaling.

The street was empty except for two large camel trucks heading toward them, both of which turned into the back entrance of the Citadel before passing the taxi.

“The camel market is open on the Sabbath?” Kesner asked, finding it odd that the trucks would go inside the Citadel.

“Every day. The market starts very early in the morning,” Rafat replied, then with his eyes on his rearview mirror, he calmly said, “Police behind us.”

Kesner twisted around and saw the green and white Egyptian police car. “Let it pass,” he suggested, barely breathing.

They drove around the Citadel and crossed the intersection, but as Rafat began to turn into the passageway between the two mosques, he had to brake suddenly to allow two farmers and their herd of sheep to pass.

“Where did that imbecile come from?” Kesner fumed.

Rafat didn’t say a word, his eyes darting in all directions, then relaxing, he stretched his arm around the back of the passenger seat
and waited patiently for the animals to pass. But after the sheep came another farmer with a pack of goats.

“Is this a joke?”

Rafat didn’t budge.

Kesner took a deep breath. Patience.

Finally, the way was clear and Rafat drove into the alley between the two mosques. He turned the car around so that it faced the intersection, ready to pounce like a tiger once the ambush was under way.

Kesner’s attention turned to the two camel lorries, which were exiting from the front entrance of the Citadel. Camels were brought to Cairo from the Sudan after a long trek through the desert, and Kesner found the lorries surprisingly clean. He also found it odd that the driver was not the usual black Nubian, but an Arab.

Something was not right.

He jumped out of the taxi and slammed the door over Rafat’s protests. He scanned the premises. Nothing unusual. There was nothing unusual either in front of the mosques, just a handful of faithful scattered about. Very few. Too few. He walked to the entrance of one of the mosques, where two men collected the shoes of worshipers in exchange for a small
baksheesh
.

“
Samaa Allah leman hamad
(God listens to what one says),” Kesner greeted them.

“
Sobhan rabina el A’ la
(God is high),” one of them responded, putting down the Qur’an he had been reading behind his pulpit.

“Why so few faithful?”

“Only the students of the
madrasa
next door are allowed in the morning. The rest not until the midday prayers.”

Kesner glanced into the dark, quiet recessed entrance. Nothing unusual. “
Allah akbar
(God is great),” he bid good-bye and strode away.

He quickened his pace back to the taxi, his eyes darting right and
left before resting on a street sweeper, whose broom barely touched the pavement as he stared at one of the mosque’s arched windows. Following his gaze Kesner could see the silhouette of a man in a khaki uniform. A soldier? The Brotherhood men were civilians. The street sweeper was awfully young and robust for a job normally held by stooped, old men. Kesner tried to quiet his suspicions, attributing them to his general edginess, but as he approached the taxi, he saw that the street behind the mosque complex was now clogged with camels, several of them just sitting in the road. He squinted. Then he saw it—a man in a white galabeya plunging a syringe into the hindquarters of one of the standing beasts. The animal’s leg buckled immediately and it collapsed to the ground.

This was a trap. The plan had to be called off.

His chest pounding, he continued toward the taxi, careful not to run and draw attention to himself. Anyone around him could be part of this trap. Then all hell broke loose as the embassy car reached the intersection and the Brotherhood’s cars converged on it, only to find themselves surrounded by police vehicles, which appeared out of nowhere. Kesner let out a cry when he saw the doors of the American sedan burst open, yielding not the Blumenthals but half a dozen heavily armed commandos. It was total chaos as cars screeched and gunfire echoed everywhere. Allied soldiers, many disguised in galabeyas, rushed out of the surrounding buildings, brandishing their weapons and shouting war cries.

“
Yalla
! Come!” Rafat yelled.

Frantic, Kesner glanced back at the square. Allied soldiers were streaming out of the camel trucks and rushing toward the trapped Brotherhood cars. Behind him, camels, goats, and sheep were blocking the back streets. They were surrounded. He pulled up his galabeya and started to sprint for his life.

“There’s another bloke. Get him!” a soldier yelled in a Kiwi
accent, chasing after him and alerting a small contingent of fellow soldiers, who followed suit.

Racing toward one of the arched gateways, Kesner was near panic. Gunshots rang past him. He approached the gate, praying to God he would find it unguarded, when a man came out of a wooden shack behind the mosque, running toward him and cutting him off. Kesner swerved left, away from the gate.

“I’ll get him,” the man yelled as he raced behind Kesner.

Kesner climbed up a stairway as fast as he could and vaulted over a small wall onto a terrace. He stumbled over the planted shrubbery and flowerbed and ran toward a small mound of rubble. He couldn’t tell what was on the other side. In a desperate dash, he ascended the debris and leaped over, sliding on the other side and creating a small avalanche as he fought to retain his balance. Reaching the bottom, he found himself in a small open patch enclosed by a wooden fence. Below him, he could see merchants setting up their food stalls for the morning market. How far was the drop to the street below? Six feet? Eight feet? Sweating and gasping for air, he raced toward the fence, the sound of his shoes on the gravel resounding in his head as a spray of bullets exploded near him. He reached the edge and grimaced when he saw that the fence was a good ten feet from the ground. He looked back.
Shit
. His pursuer was none other than Mickey Connolly, the American spy with a gun in his hand, twenty feet away, with a pack of soldiers close behind him. The decision was obvious: Better to break an ankle than be dead. He jumped, landing hard on his feet, scaring the pigeons away. He wobbled for a moment, then hurled himself down the street without looking back.

He heard a torrent of angry voices and curses echoing behind him, but clearly not aimed at him: “You idiot! He was heading right into our hands and you made us lose him!”

CHAPTER 37

Kesner sat in his communication room, his head slumped over his radio, waiting for his appointed airwaves rendezvous with the Abwehr agent in Tripoli. He felt nauseous, the bitter taste of defeat in his mouth, humiliated at having to admit that he’d failed at his mission. The Americans had tricked him. They obviously knew that the Germans had broken their code. He shut his eyes tight, swallowing hard to wash away the shame that stuck in his throat. The fantasy of his dream house on the Danube was crumbling. He felt alone and vulnerable. Many of his accomplices had been arrested, and even the pathetic Abdoul would not return his calls. For God’s sake, he had almost been caught himself. He had underestimated the American. Oh, the pleasure he would get out of snapping his neck! His watch said 5:00 PM. It was time. He’d prepared the text in advance and started to tap:

It is with abject mortification that I must report that the mission was a failure. I was fed misinformation by the Americans, who must have known that I was listening and that we had broken their code. I narrowly eluded capture, and our entire operation is now in jeopardy. I swear that I will strive to my last breath to complete my assignment. I already have some thoughts. I remain faithfully committed to the Reich, and …

Kesner suddenly stopped, realizing he’d been transmitting for too long a stretch, creating a risk by staying on the air for so long. He could not allow himself to get sloppy. Short bursts only. He sat back and waited a few minutes before resuming, but as he leaned forward again, he felt his boat rock slightly. He jerked upright. A passing vessel? All ears, he waited. Nothing. But then came the sound of muffled footsteps overhead, echoing off the water. It couldn’t be his servant; he’d gone home already. His neighbor? But the man always whistled when he wanted to see him. He started up the ladder and felt the boat sway again as the sounds of footsteps got louder. There was more than one man up there.