The Cairo Code (45 page)

Weaver came away from the window, sat at the desk, and put his head in his hands, overcome with anguish and confusion. If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn't have believed it. The couple outside the station were Jack Halder and Rachel Stern. And there wasn't a shred of doubt in his mind: They were the same pair who had fooled the sergeant that morning. None of it made any sense, none at all. The whole thing was totally insane. His body was shaking, and he was still in shock.

The dead didn't get up and walk, and yet he'd seen the dead.
He'd seen Rachel.

He remembered the look of surprise on her face the instant he saw her. A face he'd recalled in his mind every day for the last four years, a face he'd wept over, remembering. At that moment, he had convinced himself he was dreaming, or that he'd seen her double. But when he saw Jack Halder, standing there in the flesh, saw him shoot Sanson and the two plainclothes MPs, he knew he wasn't hallucinating.

The question raged inside his head:
How was it possible?

What had happened at the station was a disaster. Sanson and two men wounded, one of them still in the operating theater at the French Hospital, a bullet lodged in his chest. Halder and Rachel had escaped in the chaos. He had pursued them into the crowded alleyways, searched the area for almost an hour, but they'd vanished like ghosts. Afterwards, he had even doubted his own sanity, but there were witnesses and there were wounded. The incident wasn't a figment of his imagination. He shook his head in utter confusion, a terrible hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach that made him want to throw up. He felt palpitations in his chest.

He heard a knock on the door. A corporal came in, saluted. “Phone call for you, sir.”

“Put it through. And tell Captain Myers I'd like to see him when he's finished outside.” The phone rang moments later. He picked it up. “Lieutenant Colonel Weaver.”

“Hello, Harry. Can you talk?”

He heard Helen Kane's voice. Instead of being glad to hear her, he felt his heart sink.

“Helen,” he said hoarsely.

“You sound strange. Is everything all right?”

“Yes. Everything's fine,” he lied.

“I just called to say hello. That I miss you. And to ask if you'd made any progress with the Dakota.”

Weaver didn't reply, his mind still in turmoil.

“I'm not interrupting anything, am I, Harry?”

“Look, I'm busy, Helen,” he said shortly. “Can we talk later?”

There was silence at the other end. He was certain she was hurt by his abruptness, and he felt bad. But Rachel was alive, and at that moment he couldn't think of anything else. “I'm sorry. You've caught me at a bad time.”

“Of—of course. I understand. Good-bye, Harry.”

The line clicked dead.

•  •  •

He tried to compose himself when Myers came in. “The men are ready, sir, and we're rounding up everyone we can to help with the search. The police are calling on every hotel and lodging house in the city, and they've been warned to be extra careful. The couple can't have gone far. We'll scour Alex until we find them.”

The captain sounded confident, but Weaver knew it wasn't going to be easy. Egypt's second city teemed with refugees of all nationalities. As in Cairo, there were hundreds of cheap hotels and lodging houses that didn't even bother to register guests. It would take days to search them all thoroughly. “Any word about Lieutenant Colonel Sanson?”

“He's still being attended to at the hospital.” The captain glanced out at the last of the men climbing into the trucks. “I'd better get under way. Will you be joining us, sir?”

“As soon as I've called at the hospital. If anything turns up, contact me by radio immediately.”

The captain saluted, turned to go, and Weaver said, “One more thing.”

“Sir?”

“Try and take the couple alive. Pass the word to your men.”

The captain looked astonished. “That might not be an option, or even wise, especially after what's happened.”

“You heard me. Alive, if at all possible. Give them every chance to surrender. That's an order.”

The captain frowned. “May I ask why, sir?”

“I have my reasons,” Weaver said simply.

“I'll do what I can,” the captain said grimly. “But they've already killed two officers, not to mention wounding three others. If it comes to the worst, I can't put the lives of my men at risk.”

•  •  •

The casualty room in the French Hospital was empty except for Sanson, who was being attended to in a cubicle by a doctor and a nurse. Weaver waited until they'd finished and Sanson appeared from behind the curtain. His right hand was heavily bandaged and he looked pale.

“How do you feel?”

Sanson produced a pack of cigarettes, lit one with difficulty. “Like Boris Karloff, playing the Mummy. Still, I've got all my fingers intact, which is something.” He studied Weaver. “We need to talk, somewhere private.”

He nodded towards a whitewashed veranda with a couple of wooden benches, and led the way outside. They sat. “You're acquainted with the couple at the station, aren't you, Weaver?”

He said palely, “How did you know?”

Sanson pulled on his cigarette. “I saw your faces. The three of you looked like you'd seen Lazarus rise from the dead. Besides, the man said he knew you.”

“What do you mean?”

Sanson explained. “I think you'd better tell me exactly what's going on, Weaver.”

It took several minutes to explain everything and Sanson sat there, showing no reaction, until Weaver had finished. Then the Englishman stood and sighed.

“It's quite a coincidence. But Halder's presence is the kind of coincidence I can understand. He speaks fluent Arabic and he's familiar with Egypt. He also speaks English like a native, obviously has no trouble impersonating a British officer, and I can vouch that his American accent was flawless. He's probably Abwehr, or with one of the specialist German commando forces, so it's hardly surprising he's involved. But it's the girl that really baffles me. Considering what you just said, she shouldn't even be alive.”

“I don't understand either.” Weaver shook his head, totally perplexed. “None of it makes any sense.”

“What was the name of the ship that sank?”

“The
Izmir.”

“And you're quite sure it was the same woman?”

“Positive.”

“I'll have the
Izmir
story checked out. On the surface, it seems highly unlikely that someone with a Jewish background would be helping the Germans, unless she's been forced to. But there's always another possibility.”

“What?”

“She wasn't who she said she was in the first place. The German-Jewish thing was a cover, and she was working for the Nazis all along—probably your friend Halder was, too.”

Weaver said angrily, “Look, Sanson, I don't know what's going on here, or why they're both involved. But I know one thing for certain. Rachel Stern and her family were totally anti-Nazi. And I've known Halder's family all my life—they were never Nazis.”

Sanson tossed his cigarette on to the veranda, crushed it with his shoe. “Let me tell you something, Weaver. Before this war started, military intelligence and the Egyptian police kept watch on anyone suspected of being a foreign spy or agent. The Germans sent quite a number of their intelligence people over here, posing as tourists or international salesmen, or on the pretense of being archeological experts. They were feeling out fascist sympathies among the Egyptians and making useful contacts for later use. The reasons should be obvious. They knew North Africa would be part of any future conflict—on the route to the Middle East oilfields, it had to be. The Italians played the same intelligence game. There were even a number of Americans operating here undercover, working for your State Department.”

Weaver shook his head. “There's no way Jack Halder or Rachel Stern were spies. I'd stake my life on it.”

“I really wouldn't if I were you. Not until we find out if the police knew anything about either of them back then. We can all keep our secrets well hidden, if we need to. And your friend Halder seems a very capable man. Handy with a gun, fluent in several languages, and a killer into the bargain. Quite a deadly combination all round. But at least we know what we're dealing with.”

“I can't believe Halder murdered those officers in cold blood.”

“Somebody did. And I mean to find them. Halder and the woman might have company, but so far we've no evidence of that. And there's no question they're anything but enemy agents.” Sanson stood, added briskly, “What's happening with the search?”

Weaver told him. Sanson considered for a moment. “You'd better have every church, mosque, almshouse, and brothel visited as well. I wouldn't dismiss anywhere that's a likely refuge. Even if we have to tear this city apart, we're going to catch them.”

Weaver wiped perspiration from his brow. Sanson came over and felt his forehead, looked into his eyes. “Your adrenaline level's as high as a ruddy kite. You'll need a shot of something to calm you down.”

“I'll be OK.”

“No you won't, Weaver. You're badly stressed.” Sanson turned to go. “I'll fetch the doctor.”

“What's going to happen when we find them?”

Sanson looked back. “I think you already know the answer to that. They might have been your friends once, but now they're the enemy and they've got blood on their hands. There's a list of charges a mile long. Provocateurs, impersonating a British officer, not to mention murdering two others, wounding three more, and resisting arrest. I'm sure there's a lot more a military court could sling at them. And God only knows what they intended before we were on to them.” Sanson shook his head. “Let's face it, Weaver. Even assuming we don't kill them first and they're captured alive, it's the hangman's noose for the pair of them. They'll be strung up so high the buzzards won't reach them. That I can promise you.”

The room was on the top floor. There was a double brass bed with clean cotton sheets, and the luxury of fresh towels in the tiny bathroom leading off. Tall shuttered windows overlooked the rear of the building, a private flagged courtyard below, complete with a couple of fig trees, an outhouse of some sort, and an arched wrought-iron gate that led out onto a narrow back street, lined with cheap hotels and more brothels. A small café stood directly opposite, rickety cane tables and chairs set outside on the pavement, the Arab customers smoking hookah pipes.

After Madam Pirou had left, Halder locked the door and opened the shutters. It wasn't yet evening, but already the streets were busy, troops and civilians wandering through the red-light district. He could see onto the landings of several of the buildings opposite, their windows open, and noticed a couple of tarty-looking girls leading customers into rooms.

“Do you really think it's safe here?” Rachel asked.

“As safe as can be. Let's just hope Harry and his friends stay well away.”

“I can't stop thinking about what happened, seeing him again in these circumstances.”

“Me, I'm trying hard not to. Frankly, it's a little too disturbing right now. And we need to keep our spirits up.” He closed the shutters and cracked open the bottle of iced champagne, a cheap Egyptian brand, and filled two of the three glasses the madame had left on a tray. He handed one to Rachel with a grim smile. “Not exactly vintage, but enjoy it while you can.”

Rachel swallowed hers thirstily and flopped back on the bed, exhausted. “I never thought I'd be so glad of a bed in a brothel.”

“The question is, how do we avoid the inevitable embarrassment when the young lady arrives?”

Rachel managed a tiny smile and Halder said, “What's the matter?”

“How did you keep a straight face with the madame? You talk about me, but you definitely missed your vocation—you should have been an actor. No wonder your friend Schellenberg picked you.”

“He's not a friend, and he didn't do me any favors. But I'm glad you see the funny side.”

“You still haven't told me how you knew about this place.”

“After a month here, undercover, I got to hear of certain salons by reputation, Madam Pirou's included. Now, let's be serious. Any minute now, a girl's going to appear—”

“If it means saving our necks.”

Halder was shocked. “You're not serious?”

“I could think of worse things to have to endure, if it keeps us from being caught. But I'm sure you'll think of something.” Rachel slid off the bed, ran a hand through her hair, and moved towards the bathroom, past a stunned Halder. “I need a warm bath and a change of clothes. I'd suggest you do the same while we can.”

There was a knock on the door and Halder froze. Another knock, and Rachel became serious. “I think you'd better answer it.”

Halder crossed to the door. When he unlocked it, a very delectable, chocolate-skinned Arab woman stood there. The madame was right, she was quite beautiful, with jet-black hair and dark brown eyes. She smiled at Halder, then looked past his shoulder at Rachel. “Monsieur, Madame. My name is Safa.”

Halder hesitated, unsure of what to do, but the woman came into the room, all business, and closed the door. She wore harem pants and a low-cut top that showed off her generous cleavage, and it was obvious from the way she made eyes at Rachel exactly where her tendencies lay.

“You're certain we won't be disturbed?” Halder asked.

Safa smiled wolfishly. “Of course. The room is ours for as long as you want.” She ran her fingers playfully down his lapels, but her stare moved hungrily onto Rachel. “Madame tells me you have special needs. I am here to please you both.”