by Glenn Meade
His voice trailed off and Rachel said, “Is that why you came to see me?”
“No, that’s not the reason. But I’d like to talk. Do you feel up to it?”
“Talk about what?”
He placed the file on the table in front of him, opened it, and looked up. “You’ve had a hard time of it, by all accounts. A prisoner here for four years, and your father in Dachau. I’m sure it’s been far from pleasant.”
For a moment she didn’t reply, and then there was an unexpected flash of defiance in her eyes. “Who are you working for, Jack? The Gestapo?”
“Hardly.”
She looked at him, noticing the slouch hat and leather coat. “The way you’re dressed might suggest otherwise.”
He shook his head. “A bad choice, then, I’m afraid. I’m a major in the Abwehr. Military intelligence. I have a proposition for you, Rachel. Or rather my superiors have a proposition they’d like me to put to you. How would you like to go back to Egypt with me?”
He saw the puzzled reaction on her face. “Bear with me while I explain. Do you want to see your father again, and for you both to go free?”
She looked completely taken aback. “Of—of course.”
“Then I can promise that he’ll be released from Dachau, quartered in an excellent private hospital, and receive the services of a top physician to help regain his health. But best of all, I can promise that you’ll both be freed and allowed to leave Germany. In return, you’ll agree to be part of a mission. It’s a rather straightforward operation—to gather some important intelligence information in Cairo. No doubt you’re unaware, but the city is in Allied hands.”
“I don’t understand. What kind of information?”
Halder shook his head. “That’s a security matter, and doesn’t concern you. All you’d have to do is be part of an undercover team, on the pretext of being a group of archeological experts stranded in North Africa because of the war. It’s as simple as that. A few days’ work at most, and then you and your father are released.”
“On whose word?”
“On the word of Heinrich Himmler, Reichsführer of the SS, and Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, the head of the Abwehr.”
She stared at him as if he were mad, then she laughed. Halder said, “What’s so funny?”
“I’d sooner trust Satan himself. You want me to help the Nazis? How can I trust them after what they’ve done to my father and me?”
“The answer is you can’t. But let’s just say I’m stuck in the same boat. Caught between the Devil and the deep blue sea.”
“How?”
“A long story that doesn’t really concern you. For now, all you have to do is decide.”
“And what would happen if I agreed?”
“You’d be released and transferred to a barracks in Berlin, where you’d meet the rest of the group and be briefed on exactly what’s expected of you. Soon after that, we’d be flown to Egypt. I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t an element of danger. If you were caught on Allied territory, you’d run the risk of being shot as an enemy spy. But if everything goes according to plan, the risks should be minimal. When our mission is complete we’ll be flown back to Germany. After that, you and your father would be set free and put on a ship for Sweden within twenty-four hours.”
“And if I don’t agree?”
Halder stood very slowly, crossed to the window. The rain was coming down in sheets. He hesitated before looking back. “If you don’t, I’m informed you’ll both be shot by morning.”
She stared back at him with no expression, like a woman who had long used up all her emotional reserves. He shook his head, his own distaste obvious. “I’m sorry, Rachel, this is none of my doing. I’m simply a messenger, and an unwilling one at that. But if you ask me, a few days in Egypt and a chance of freedom sounds a lot better than a firing squad. I know you’re wondering if you can believe the promises you’ve been given. But you’ll have to trust me when I tell you that I have to believe them, too.”
“You’re really serious about all this, aren’t you?”
“Very. No doubt you wondered why they gave you extra rations, and the camp doctor seemed interested in your health all of a sudden. Now you know. But as I told you, I’m just a messenger. The fate of you and your father is beyond my control. Nothing I could say or do would change matters.”
He came back to the table and sat down. He felt a catch in his throat. “But there is something I have wanted to tell you for a long time, if it’s any consolation. And whatever you choose, I’d like you to know.”
“What?”
“Something I never told you because I knew Harry felt the same way. And because we were always such close friends, I didn’t want to ruin that friendship. But the first time I saw you at Sakkara, I fell instantly in love. Coup de foudre, the French call it. The thunderclap. The most potent kind of love of all.”
She didn’t reply. There was a strained silence between them. Halder stood, and pushed back hís chair. He was conscious of a powerful emotion welling up inside him as he looked down at her face.
“I’m going to leave you for a while, and let you think about the offer.”
• • •
It was after midnight when the driver dropped Halder back at the Wannsee cottage. The rain was still coming down in sheets as he went up the veranda. There was a black Opel sedan parked on the gravel in front of the house, two leather-coated Gestapo men sitting inside. Schellenberg’s Mercedes was parked next to it, and he was already waiting in the front room, smoking a cigarette and relaxing on the sofa, the fire lit and blazing, a glass of champagne in his hand. “A filthy night, so I thought I’d make myself at home and help myself to some refreshment. I hope you don’t mind?” He grinned. “Well, how did it go?”
Halder shook rain from his coat and said angrily, “She agreed. Though it hardly surprises me, the offer you put to her.”
“The way of the world, Jack.” Schellenberg seemed excited and got to his feet. He drained the champagne and put down the glass. “It really looks like we’re on our way. Excellent.”
“I just hope she’s up to it.”
“Nonsense. She’s in reasonably good health. And it’s too late to find someone else, even if we could. You’ll just have to keep an eye on her, and make sure she does what’s expected. Naturally, I’ll give her an account of the war situation—having been in Ravensbruck, she won’t know the present state of play.” Schellenberg smiled. “It’ll be a selective account, of course. Just as much as she needs to know.”
“I want you to do something for me.”
“What?”
“My son needs morphine. The hospital says its supplies have been cut. I don’t want Pauli to be in any more pain than he is already. And I’d like him transferred to a hospital outside Berlin, somewhere where there’s less bombing.”
Schellenberg nodded. “Very well. I’ll see what I can do.”
Halder flared. “Don’t see, just do it,”
“Temper, Jack,” Schellenberg snapped back. “I promised he’d be looked after and I intend keeping my pledge. What’s got into you?”
“Let’s just say I’m not overly fond of your tactics. And you know something? I’ve got a bad feeling about this. A very bad feeling indeed.”
“Nonsense. It’ll work—it has to.”
“Another thing. If Rachel Stern gets out of this alive, you’d better keep to your promise. Otherwise, I’ll come gunning for you, Walter. On my life, I will. Even if it means a firing squad.”
“Harsh words indeed, and I’m not sure I like your tone,” Schellenberg answered firmly. “But the promise will be kept, you can be sure of that.”
Halder tossed his wet coat on a chair. “What happens now?”
“You get to meet your fellow travelers tomorrow morning. Seven a.m. at Lichterfeld SS barracks. The girl will be transferred there tonight. I’ll send a driver to pick you up at six-thirty.”
“Then what?”
“Time is a
gainst us, so we need to move fast. There’ll be a rigorous briefing, starting early tomorrow, for yourself, Kleist, and Doring, to explain the plan in detail and go over your cover story—that should take no more than three days—then you’ll have the following day to all get acquainted. After that—assuming our U-boats or the Luftwaffe haven’t miraculously succeeded in doing the dirty deed for us, and with Himmler’s final approval—you’ll be flown to Rome and from there on to Egypt, probably on the same night. A detailed message will be on its way to our principal agent in Cairo, informing him of our intentions, and with instructions to obtain what equipment you’ll need, and to prepare for your arrival.”
“It all sounds too rushed to me.”
“Apart from the obvious time constraints, the long-range weather reports for the Mediterranean regions are pretty grim. So I want you well under way in case we can’t make the drop later. We simply can’t take the risk of having to delay or cancel.”
“Then I’ll need to see my son one last time before I go.”
Schellenberg shook his head. “Not possible, I’m afraid, for obvious security reasons. From this moment on, you’re all committed to the mission and under my protection. By right, you should be sleeping in Lichterfeld barracks tonight.”
Halder made to protest, but Schellenberg said, “Forget it, Jack, you’re wasting your time. It’s Himmler’s personal instruction, and the two Gestapo men outside have orders to ensure you don’t go anywhere without my permission.” He stood. “And now you’d better get some sleep. You’ve a busy day tomorrow.” He crossed to the door, opened it, looked out at the pouring rain. “Thank God the weather’s stopped the bombers.” He shivered, pulled up his collar, and looked back, a curious expression on his face. “Do you still have feelings for the woman, Jack?”
“What’s it to you?”
Schellenberg shrugged. “I’m simply curious.”
“Drop it. That was all in the past.”
“I take it Canaris told you about Himmler’s threat?”
“He told me.”
“Old Heinrich means what he says. Unpleasant, I know, but there you have it. So I wouldn’t even think about failing, Jack, or putting anything less than a hundred percent into this. Life wouldn’t be worth living, as they say, for either you or your son.” Schellenberg gave a wicked grin as he turned back towards the door. “But rest assured, the boy will be well looked after until your safe return.”
12
* * *
CAIRO
Weaver tilted his head and tried to sit still as the female doctor stitched his neck. He was in a cubicle in the Anglo-American hospital. A nurse had given him a shot of morphine, and all he felt was a warm feeling of elation. The pain would come later, when the drug wore off.
The doctor finished another stitch, smiled, and said, “A wonderful thing, morphine. Makes you forget all your troubles. That’s a pretty nasty gash. You’re lucky you’re still alive.” She was British, very attractive, and had sensitive blue eyes. “So, tell me, what happened?”
“Someone cut me with a knife.”
“That much is obvious.”
The incident was an intelligence matter and not something Weaver wanted to discuss, no matter how attractive the doctor. “Are we almost done?”
“One more to go.” She pierced the flesh again, finishing the last suture. She tied the stitch, cut the thread with scissors, then put a protective dressing on Weaver’s neck and wrapped a bandage around it.
“Will I be OK?”
“You’ll be fine, apart from a nasty scar when the wound heals. But you’re a bit shaken and you’ll have to rest up for a week or two. Stick to liquids for a few days, soup and some glucose mixed with water, otherwise swallowing’s going to hurt. I’ll give you some morphine pills to help keep the pain at bay. Meantime, try not to move your neck too much, otherwise the stitches might be disturbed.”
“Do I really have to rest up?”
“Lieutenant Colonel Weaver, you’ve lost quite a bit of blood and the cut’s deep. A quarter-inch deeper and you’d probably be in the morgue. So it’s straight home to bed.”
The door opened and Helen Kane came in. She looked concerned. “How is he, Doctor?”
“He’ll live.” She handed Weaver a bottle of pills. “Take two whenever the pain gets too bad. They’ll make you a little slow and light-headed, but that’s a small price to pay. Try to be more careful in future.”
She smiled playfully and went out with the nurse. Helen Kane said, “How are you feeling, sir?”
“Lousy.”
“Well, there’s one good thing.”
“What?”
“I think the doctor liked you. She made a lot of eye contact.”
Weaver was tempted to smile back, but resisted. He touched the bandage around his neck. It felt tight. He could barely move his head and he felt groggy. He hardly remembered being taken to the hospital—everything that had happened after the Arab had slashed him was a blur. He slid off the bed and reached for his jacket. Helen Kane put out a hand to support him. “Don’t you think you’d better rest for a while?”
“Time for that later. What’s happening about the Arab, Helen?”
“Lieutenant Colonel Sanson wants to see you. He’s waiting down the hall.”
• • •
Sanson was in one of the waiting rooms when Weaver and Helen Kane entered, the windows open, a ceiling fan whirring away. When he saw Weaver’s bandaged neck and the dried blood caked into his shirt and tunic, he looked mildly sympathetic. “That looks pretty bad. Do you feel up to talking?”
“Sure.”
Sanson said politely, “If you don’t mind waiting out in the car, Helen.”
“Yes, sir.”
When Helen Kane left, Sanson lit a cigarette and watched her stroll into the gardens outside. “She seems to have a keen interest in your well-being, Weaver. Is there something going on between you two?”
“As one equally ranked officer to another, and if you don’t mind me saying so, I really don’t think that’s any of your business.”
Sanson reddened. He seemed to take the rebuff personally, his expression icy as he nodded towards a bench. “Take a seat.”
They sat near one of the windows. Out on the sun-washed lawns, nurses strolled with their charges, limbless and seriously wounded men on crutches and in wheelchairs, recovering from the fighting in Italy. Looking at the injured patients, then back at Sanson’s scarred face and patched eye, Weaver felt grateful that he had only suffered a knife laceration. The last time he’d been wounded was in Algeria, when he’d sustained a shrapnel injury to his thigh from an enemy mortar blast. It had been a close call, because he’d lost a lot of blood and his unit was under heavy machine-gun fire at the time. He couldn’t move, but one of his fellow officers had heroically risked his life, crawling forward under withering fire and helping to get him back safely behind American lines. Had he not been rescued, Weaver would certainly have died, but after six weeks enduring the boredom of recovery in a hospital bed in Algiers, he had been almost glad to return to active duty.
“You had a lucky escape,” Sanson said sharply. “My sergeant wasn’t so fortunate. He died ten minutes ago in a ward down the hall.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that.”
“So was I. He was a bloody good soldier by any standards.” Sanson was angry. “And I’ll tell you something else, Weaver. Something that is my business. Had you kept a vigilant watch with the gun and waited until I returned before poking your nose around the flat, my sergeant might still be alive.”
Weaver said grimly, “Maybe you’re right. But from the look on the Arab’s face, he meant to kill anyone who got in his way. I meant it when I said I was sorry about the sergeant’s death. But it could just as easily have been me.”
Sanson took out a notebook, all business, and replied curtly, “Forget it, Weaver. Right now I’m not in the mood for arguing. You’d better tell me exactly what happened after I left the flat.”
Weaver told him and Sanson jotted down details. “If our friend is worth his salt, he’s probably got another safe house, but we’ll have to check the hotels, pensions, and lodging houses to see if anything turns up. It’s probably pointless keeping a watch on the flat—he’ll never go back there again. I’ve also given details of the incident to every police station in Cairo, and we’re questioning the other tenants and trying to get in touch with the landlord to see if he can tell us anything about the identity of this fellow.”
“Did you search the flat?”
“Top to bottom. We found nothing, apart from a radio battery hidden under the stove. But it wouldn’t stop him from transmitting. A car battery would probably do just as well. I’ll try to find out if there’s been any unidentified radio traffic out of Cairo recently, and ask Signals to keep a close monitor on the airwaves from now on. By the way, the camera we found is a type that’s ideal for photographing documents, and uses a miniature roll of film. With that and the radio, you can bet he’s up to serious business. Have you any experience of enemy spies, Weaver?”
Internal security in Egypt was the responsibility of the British; they had the most experience, and the U.S took a backseat. “I guess not.”
“You might say catching them is a personal crusade of mine.” Sanson pointed to his face, the patched eye and scarred jaw, an edge of bitterness in his voice. “No doubt you’ve wondered about this. It was a gift from a chap named Raoul Hosiny, who worked for the Germans. I tracked him down to a house in Alexandria eighteen months ago, while he was sending a radio transmission to one of Rommel’s bases. He was another good one with a knife, was Raoul. So good, he left me blind in one eye and looking on the bright side, permanently.”
“He escaped?”
“Not for long. I tracked him down again and shot the blighter dead.” Sanson dropped his cigarette on the floor, ground it out with his boot. “Catching Italian spies was always easy—you located the most beautiful women in town and looked under their beds. And being sensible fellows, the Italians nearly always gave up without a struggle. But the Germans are something else entirely. They have the most ruthless and professional agents you’ll ever meet. Hardly surprising when you consider some of them are trained by the Gestapo and SD.”
