The Cairo Code (66 page)

“Get on the bike. You're driving.” He pushed Hassan forward. The Arab swung round, the blade in his hand. Salter's eyes were beacons of horror as he tried desperately to raise the Sten. The knife slashed at his throat, a deep gash opened in his neck, and his head went back, spouting blood. Hassan moved in for the kill, planted the blade deep in his chest.

Salter screamed, and as he staggered back Hassan snarled, “Go keep the Devil company, Englishman.”

Salter collapsed, his tunic drenched in blood, and Hassan retrieved his knife, picked up the Sten, hung the weapon by its sling from his shoulder. He climbed unsteadily onto the Moto Guzzi, his jaw still on fire, just as a Jeep skidded around the corner, three soldiers on board. He raised the Sten, let go with a long chattering burst, and the vehicle reversed wildly.

•  •  •

Sanson led the men towards the barrack office, taking cover behind the troop carrier. It was the last building to be stormed; the others had already been taken, Salter's gang putting up heavy resistance until they realized that the odds were overwhelming. A group of confused and shaken Egyptian air force men had been led out from one of the huts, their hands tied behind their backs, several injured from flying glass, but neither Halder nor Salter was among the dead or captured, and with only one building remaining, Sanson was getting anxious. “Give them a warning to surrender.”

The major raised the bullhorn.
“Lay down your weapons and come out with your hands in the air. Fail to obey the order, and we open fire.”

There was no reply, and Sanson said, “Give me a couple of grenades.”

The major handed over the grenades and Sanson lobbed one through a shattered window, then another. Two flashes and two explosions followed, then he ordered the machine gunner on top of the carrier to rake the front of the building. The Bren gun stitched a hail of fire across the veranda. Wood splinters erupted, the remaining windows shattered, and the door was shot off its hinges.

When the firing died, Sanson moved forward, his pistol at the ready. “Right, let's see what we've got.”

•  •  •

Someone switched on the lights and Sanson saw the bullet-riddled field radio and Doring's tortured corpse sprawled in a corner. “Fetch one of the prisoners. Find out what's been happening here.”

When a burly-looking prisoner with a broken nose was ushered in, his hands cuffed behind his back, Sanson went up to him. “Where's Salter?” he promptly demanded.

When the man hesitated, Sanson struck him a blow on the jaw. He reeled back, and Sanson cocked his revolver, a murderous look on his face. “If I have to ask again, you'll be minus an eye.”

The man massaged his jaw. “He—he was in here last time I saw him, honest.”

Sanson pointed to the body. “Who's that?”

“One—one of Deacon's mates, a Jerry name of Doring. Reggie had words with him, and the Arab—”

“You'd better tell me
everything
that went on here.
Fast.
And I want to know exactly who was present when you raided the airfield, descriptions included.”

Sanson listened as Salter's man talked, then said urgently to a couple of the troops, “See if you can find the Arab and Salter, or if anyone's spotted them. They have to be still on the airfield. And be careful how you go, they're both wily scum, and dangerous.” He knelt over Doring's body. “What did he tell your boss?”

“Nothing. Kept his mouth shut to the end, the poor sod.”

Sanson stood. “Deacon's friend you mentioned—the one dressed as an officer. I've reason to believe he's a wanted German agent named Halder. I need to find him. Where is he?”

Salter's man looked totally confused. “Bloody heck! That's news to me. You mind me asking what's going on?”

“Just answer the bloody question.”

“He was with us when we took the airfield, but left with one of his men. Only the wog and Doring stayed behind. Reggie said they'd be back before the aircraft landed.”

Sanson sighed bitterly with frustration, examined the shattered radio. “Did anyone contact Doring and his friends before or after we arrived?”

“Not that I know of.”

“What time are the aircraft due to land?”

“The boss wasn't sure exactly, not until Deacon's mates returned.”

There was a noise behind him, as one of the men Sanson had dispatched came into the room. “The Arab's been spotted, sir. It seems our lads drove round the back a few minutes ago and saw him escape on a motorcycle. They went after him.”

“What about Salter?”

“I think we found him. He's in a bad way.”

•  •  •

They carried Salter in and laid him on the desk. His breath came in labored gasps, his throat a crimson gash.

“We've got a medic coming. Try to hold on,” Sanson told him, but knew it was useless. Salter was bleeding to death from a horrible chest wound. Lying there on the desk, he looked like a corpse already, chalk-white, his hands clutching his chest. Sanson leaned over. “Listen to me, Salter. Deacon's friends, they're German infiltrators. I've got to find them. Do you understand me?”

Salter coughed up blood, stared up at the ceiling, eyes wide. For a few moments it seemed as if he had regained his senses. He managed to claw Sanson's tunic, raw anger in his eyes, his voice a hoarse rattle. “The—sodding Arab—he did for me—”

Sanson could barely control his impatience. “If you know where they are, tell me, man!”

Salter gurgled, relaxed his grip, his breath coming in tortured gasps.

“Hang in there. The medic's on his way,” Sanson urged.

“No—no good. Won't help me—”

“Where are they, Salter? If you know, then tell me!”

•  •  •

Weaver saw the flashes of light two hundred yards from the airfield. Gunfire crackle and grenade explosions filled the night air, and his heart sank. He told Helen Kane to pull up and he climbed out of the car. “We're too late. It's already started.”

She got out of the driver's seat and came up beside him. Weaver looked towards the airfield, his face grim, watching the flashes of light from the welter of small-arms fire. She put a hand on his arm. “There's nothing you could have done, Harry. I hate to say it, but it's over for your friends. Now let's get out of here, before we both get shot.”

He took the pistol from the car, made to move off into the darkness. “If I'm not back in fifteen minutes, get out of here and back to Cairo.”

“Harry, please—by now it's pointless.”

“I need to know what's happened.”

Hassan revved the Moto Guzzi as he sped along the edge of the runway.

A burst of machine-gun fire ripped into the ground to his right, and he glanced over his shoulder. A Jeep raced after him in the darkness, three soldiers on board, clouds of dust pluming in its wake. Hassan revved the throttle harder, tried to widen the gap, but he was barely able to control the motorcycle, his hand ablaze with pain as he gripped the handlebars.

The runway came to an abrupt end and he veered left onto open ground. He was on hard-packed sand that rolled beneath the wheels in rough waves, bouncing the front absorber struts madly, sending agonizing shock waves through his body. He peered ahead into the moonlit darkness but saw only more rolling scrubland all the way to the barbed-wire perimeter. He was trapped. Gunfire raked the soil ahead of him and he glanced back again. The Jeep bounced over the rough ground, gaining on him fast.

He drove on, zigzagging, frantically searching for a sharp rise somewhere near the perimeter, until he saw a long, rising mound no more than fifty yards to his left, near the edge of the wire. Another burst of fire riddled the ground dangerously close on his left, and he swung right, then veered left again in a narrow arc, straightened the front wheel, and headed directly towards the mound, revving hard.

The Moto Guzzi accelerated sharply, eating up the final twenty yards at full power, until it looked certain he was about to crash into the mound. At the last moment, he jerked up the handlebars and opened the throttle full. The engine screamed, the back wheels hit the rise at ferocious speed, and he sailed through the air. The motorcycle rose for a few terrifying seconds, he felt something claw savagely at his leg as he cleared the wire, and then he started to sink fast. The front wheel hit the ground forcefully, the Moto Guzzi bucked, and he came off and landed hard, grunting, the breath knocked out of him.

Dazed, he looked back to see the driver slam on his brakes to avoid hitting the mound. Too late, he skidded, and the Jeep kicked up a cloud of dust and rolled over on its side. One of the soldiers was thrown free, his body hurtling through the air. The Jeep rolled again, landed on top of the wire, and Hassan heard the muffled screams of the other two men as they were crushed beneath the vehicle.

He staggered painfully to his feet and checked the Moto Guzzi. The engine was still running, and he climbed back on and pushed the machine forward to assess the damage. The front wheel had been slightly warped. It still spun, but grated against the forks and would slow him down. The Sten gun had bruised his side when he'd fallen, the barbed wire had cut a jagged gash down his right calf, and his jaw had started to bleed again.

He heard the roar of an aircraft as a Spitfire came in low, its engines snarling, then another on its tail, the landing lights of both ablaze as they flew over the airfield, before they screamed up into the night. As he revved the motorcycle, he saw the soldier who had been thrown clear stagger to his feet, clutching his shoulder. He brought up the Sten, squeezed off a burst and, as the dazed man dropped for cover, sped away.

•  •  •

Weaver was halfway along the airfield perimeter road, moving fast, when he heard a motorcycle engine somewhere behind him and looked back.

A hundred yards beyond the wire he saw a rider being pursued by a Jeep, one of the passengers firing wildly at the motorcycle as it twisted across the rough scrubland. To Weaver's amazement, the rider started to drive at high speed towards the barbed-wire. A split second before the bike hit the wire, the front wheel lifted, and the machine roared over the fence, its engine whining. The pursuing Jeep skidded wildly, rolled twice, and crashed, belly up.

Weaver had started to run back when he saw the rider get to his feet and check his machine, as a Spitfire howled low overhead, then another, before the motorcyclist let off a volley of machine-gun fire and roared off in the opposite direction.

When Weaver reached the wire he saw a sergeant sway to his feet on the other side, clutching his shoulder. He climbed over the wrecked Jeep towards him. “Lieutenant Colonel Weaver, military intelligence. What's happened here?”

The sergeant fell to his knees. Weaver reached him just as he was about to keel over. The man's face was creased in agony, his arm limp, and it looked as if his shoulder was broken. He stared over at the tangled bodies under the wreckage. “The poor sods.”

“What happened? Where's Lieutenant Colonel Sanson?”

“Back at the airfield, mopping up, sir.”

Weaver removed the sergeant's belt and buckled it. He made a crude sling, placed the arm inside, and the sergeant groaned. “Who was on the motorcycle?”

“An Arab escaped from one of the huts. We went after him.”

Weaver said urgently, “Two Germans. A man and a woman. Were they caught?”

“I didn't hear about no woman being caught, sir. Or Germans either.”

Weaver heard the sound of engines. A string of blue-painted headlights raced towards him across the scrubland. Frantically, he looked back along the road where the motorcycle had disappeared. It had left a distinct wheel track in the sandy dirt. Weaver made the decision instantly. “Help's on its way, sergeant. They'll get you to a medic.” He clambered over the wreckage and raced back towards Helen Kane's car.

•  •  •

“We lost the Arab, sir.”

Sanson fumed when he heard what had happened. “Send out a couple of men to try and pick up his trail. And have them take a radio operator with them to keep in touch.”

“We'll do our best, sir, though we're probably a bit late. But it seems an American officer arrived on the scene and might have gone after him. Name of Weaver, sir.”

“What?”

“Lieutenant Colonel Weaver—I'm told that's how he identified himself, sir. He gave first aid to the injured sergeant then left in a hurry, hared off in the same direction as the Arab.”

Sanson flared. “Detail some men to get after him. Have them search along the road. Weaver's to be arrested on sight.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me.” Sanson was enraged. “He's an escaped prisoner. Now get me a map of Cairo,
fast.
”

The confused major relayed the orders to one of his officers and came back promptly with a map. He looked at Salter, lying unconscious on a stretcher in a corner as a medic attended him. “Do you think he'll make it, sir?”

“I don't give a damn if he does or not,” Sanson snapped back, then rolled out the map, slammed a fist on the table to hold it down. “This villa he mentioned on the western bank, Maison Fleuve, have you ever heard of it?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“On second thought, have the radio operator remain here, in case the Germans attempt to land, and reinforcements are needed. But first, have him get in touch with the American embassy and General Clayton, urgently. Let him know exactly what's happened here.”

“What about the airfield, sir?”

“Put a couple of trucks on the field and make absolutely
certain
nothing can land. I want twenty of your men to come with me, the rest to stay here and guard the prisoners. Seeing as the field radio's out, the villa could be where the Arab's headed. And if Salter's right, that's where Deacon and the Germans are holed up.”