by Glenn Meade
“We’re still checking, but it’s going to take at least another day or two before we get through them all. So far, we’ve drawn a blank. As for the tenement landlord, according to his wife he’s in Alex on business. He’s not due back for a couple of days, but we’ll try and locate him in the meantime.” Sanson picked up the folder he’d brought, and Weaver noticed that the cover was marked in red lettering: Top Secret. “However, I’d like you to take a look at something.”
“What is it?”
“A record of decrypted and untraced transmissions that Signals have picked up over the last year.”
Weaver knew that the British “Y” section at GHQ and the U.S. Army Signal Corps unit based in the former Italian colony of Eritrea scanned the airwaves nightly, when most agent transmissions were made. They recorded everything on punched tape, and signals originating in North Africa that could not be accounted for by any of the military services were assumed to be messages from spies, which were then sent to London and Washington for the boffins to work on.
Sanson opened the folder and showed Weaver a radio intercept about troop reinforcements in Cairo. “It was made about a year ago, from an agent code-named Besheeba our monitoring boys stumbled upon. They call his transmissions the Cairo Code, because they’ve usually transmitted from somewhere within the city, and they haven’t been able to decipher them.”
“What’s so interesting about all this?”
“Apart from the fact we haven’t caught Besheeba yet, you’ll see a rather remarkable coincidence in one of the signals. But have a look at these other ones first.” He showed Weaver two other radio messages recorded six months earlier. This time, they gave details of the morale of British and American troops stationed in the city, and the arrival of New Zealand replacements in Maadi, a Cairo suburb.
“Is any of this stuff true?”
“The information’s faultless. He’s not a low-grade collector of rumor and gossip—he’s definitely a highly trained pro. Look at his messages. Terse but detailed. Signals have picked him up a couple of dozen times in the last eighteen months, but he usually keeps it short, which makes it difficult for us to get a fix on his transmitter.”
“Do we know anything about him?”
“He provides excellent information, probably lives in Cairo and comes into contact with military personnel, and signs himself Besheeba. But apart from all that, sweet nothing.”
“What about this coincidence you mentioned?”
Sanson rubbed his scarred jaw. “Now that’s where it definitely becomes interesting.” He handed Weaver one more intercept. “It was picked up last Thursday morning, just after midnight.”
This time the message was long and just a series of unintelligible letters and numbers. Weaver looked at Sanson. “I don’t get it. It’s still in code.”
“Shortly after Eppler was caught, the Germans tightened up their operation and Besheeba’s code changed. It seems he probably switched to one-time pads which are impossible to decipher. Still, that’s not the point. Besheeba doesn’t transmit that often, and when he does, the information is usually important. We reckon Evir was murdered sometime last Wednesday evening. Not long after, Y Section picked up this transmission. I’m not for a moment saying we’ve linked the two events, though it’s an interesting coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”
“But you think Besheeba transmitted the signal?”
“I’d bet my nuts on it.”
“Why?”
“Not only did he use one of the same frequencies, but every Morse key operator has what the signals boys call a signature. It’s a kind of individual style, if you like—a distinct way in which the Morse key is handled. Heavy or light, fast or slow, there’s always a certain tempo and emphasis unique to the person working the key, so much so that trained signals personnel listening in can usually differentiate one sender from another, no problem. And the chap who picked up the signal last Thursday morning is an experienced fellow who had heard Besheeba transmit on many occasions before. He knows his signature style, and swears it was him—he thinks we’ve got another Cairo Code.”
“Do you reckon Besheeba might be our Arab friend?”
“God only knows, but I suppose it’s a possibility. Like I said, he’s a pro, and by my estimation there can’t be that many thoroughbred Nazi spies left in Cairo.” Sanson looked up. It was past nine o’clock and dark outside. He put the intercepts back in the folder and stood. “OK, we’d better call it a day. Let’s meet back here at six a.m. You can carry on with the files.”
“What about you?”
“There’s a pile of intelligence reports we captured when Jerry evacuated Tunis. They’re stored in one of our depositories over in the Ezbekiya district. We haven’t sorted through them all yet, mainly because there hasn’t been much of an urgent need since Rommel got his comeuppance. My German’s reasonable enough, but I’ve arranged for a couple of translators to help me have a look through them, first thing tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“To see if there’s any reference to Besheeba.”
“You think that’s likely?”
Sanson shrugged. “Right now it’s all I can think of. It’s always possible that Rommel’s people knew about him, and were picking up his signals direct. It makes some kind of sense. At that time, the Germans were on a roll, and they needed their intelligence information fast—routing it through Berlin could have cost them valuable time.”
“When I get done here tomorrow, and if you don’t mind company, I’d like to come along.”
Sanson raised his good eye. “Are you looking for a medal, Weaver?”
Weaver reached for his coat. “No, just a dangerous German spy.”
• • •
Helen Kane’s apartment was on Ibrahim Pasha Street. Weaver showered and changed back at his villa, his neck still throbbing, but he was trying to avoid taking the morphine pills until the pain became unbearable. He hailed a cab in the street outside and took it as far as the Ezbekiya Gardens, where he decided he needed air and some exercise and would walk the rest of the way.
Taking his time, he strolled past the Birka, the notorious red-light district. It was a busy place, riotous with noise and sound, and patrolled by the military police. The area was bounded by white signs with a black “X,” denoting that it was out of bounds to all ranks, but that didn’t deter the soldiers. Young girls and middle-aged women leaned over little balconies, cooling themselves with paper fans. Most were Egyptian, some were dark-skinned Nubian and Sudanese, and they smiled and waved as they offered their bodies to the men passing below, while their Arab pimps solicited for business. “Hello, my friend, you like that girl? Very nice, very clean. Special price.”
Weaver waved them away. On occasion, he’d come to the Birka for comfort, as did most of the officers and men, single or married, but the experience always left him feeling empty afterwards. The truth was, if he cared to admit it to himself, in over four years he’d never got over Rachel Stern. It had seemed the one moment in his life when he had truly wanted someone, felt deeply in love, and everything afterwards was something infinitely less than that. He put the thought from his mind as he walked, reminded himself he was looking forward to seeing Helen Kane.
As always in the streets, officers and enlisted men had an endless obstacle course to contend with. Apart from pimps, they were pestered by cripples, vendors, and pitiful begging women with crying babies, their faces covered with dirt and flies. Urchin shoeshine boys ran alongside anyone who looked remotely foreign, pleading for business. A thought struck him: What chance did they have of finding an enemy agent in such a swarming, disordered city?
Five minutes later he reached Helen Kane’s apartment. It turned out to be a neat and tidy two-bedroom affair, with a tiny kitchen. There was a drinks trolley with a couple of bottles and some glasses. When she let him in, she was still in uniform.
“Jenny, my flatmate, has gone to Alexandria for a week.” She explained that the young woman she sh
ared with was a typist at U.S. military headquarters. “She met an RAF captain who swept her off her feet. Help yourself to a drink. I was just going to shower and change.”
When she left the room, Weaver poured himself a Scotch. The fire in his neck had become irritating, and he swallowed two morphine pills, washed them down, and looked around the apartment. Lots of books lined the shelves, mostly on Egypt, and some novels, and he noticed a photograph of an attractive man in naval uniform. The room was hot, and when Helen Kane came back she opened one of the windows. She wore a dark blue skirt and a white blouse and her hair was down around her shoulders. It was the first time Weaver had seen her out of uniform—even at the party in Shepheard’s she had been in khaki—and the change was remarkable.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“You look different, that’s all.”
“You mean I don’t look like an intelligence officer anymore?”
“I meant you look . . . very pretty.”
She blushed. “Thank you.” She poured herself a drink and came to sit beside him. “Do you think we’ll find this Arab spy?”
“We’ve got to. There’s no telling what he might be up to. He has a radio. With a radio he could be in contact with Berlin, or with a listening post that relays his messages.”
Weaver put down his glass, looked at the photograph on the shelf, and before he had a chance to ask she said, “Peter was my boyfriend. He was on Crete when the Germans invaded, over two years ago. I’ve heard nothing about him since.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I got over it, but it took me a long time.”
“Tell me about yourself.”
She half smiled and Weaver said, “What’s so funny?”
“You, asking me a personal question like that. It’s sort of hard to get used to with all the military formality of the office. But there isn’t much to tell. My father worked in Cairo for a British legal firm, and met my mother. We lived here when I was a child and then moved to England.”
“Where’s your father now?”
“He died when I was twelve.”
“And your mother?”
“She lives in Boston. She eventually married again, a nice American lawyer.” She smiled faintly, then refilled his glass and handed it to him. “Now it’s your turn. How did you end up being posted to Egypt?”
He found himself telling her about his time at Sakkara, about Rachel Stern and Jack Halder. There was also something Weaver couldn’t ignore, a sexual chemistry he’d been aware of since the party at Shepheard’s. He could see the firm outline of her breasts through the cotton blouse, and the way her bare, lightly tanned legs were crossed excited him. This was wartime, death a real possibility, and people took their comfort where they could, but he knew if he stayed longer he might make a fool of himself.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Not a thing,” he lied. “I guess I’d better be going. Thanks for the drink.” When he stood, he felt dizzy. The mixture of morphine and alcohol had proved a deadly combination and had gone straight to his head. He swayed unsteadily on his feet.
“What’s the matter?”
“Just a little muzzy, that’s all. I’ll find a cab.”
“Maybe you should rest a while. You lost a lot of blood. I wouldn’t like to think of you collapsing in the back of some cab. Cairene taxi drivers aren’t the most trustworthy.” She hesitated. “There’s always Jenny’s bed if you’d like to stay.”
He looked at her face. It blurred in front of him. “You’re . . . you’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m very sure.”
• • •
She led him into a large bedroom with a narrow bed. The room smelled faintly of perfume and there was an unlit candle by the bedside. She lit it, then helped him take off his jacket. The alcohol and the pills were still having their effect. He leaned over and made to kiss her, was surprised when she opened her mouth eagerly. They kissed for a long time, and then she said, “How do you feel?”
“All of a sudden, a lot better.”
She laughed, and something seemed to spark between them, her eyes smiling invitingly. Weaver put a hand to her cheek. “You know what they say about Egyptian women?”
“No. Tell me.”
“They talk with their eyes. For centuries, it was the only way a veiled woman could communicate her feelings to a man, and the habit’s deeply ingrained.”
She smiled. “And what do my eyes say?”
“Lots of things.” Weaver blushed. “Some of them unspeakable.” He gently stroked her face with his fingertips. “Something else I noticed. At the party in Shepheard’s, Sanson couldn’t keep from looking at you. He and I haven’t exactly hit it off, but I also get the feeling he thinks there’s something going on between us. And he doesn’t like it.”
Her eyes held his. “And is there something between us?”
“I think that’s up to you. Tell me about you and him.”
“We had dinner a couple of times. He sent flowers, and seemed a little infatuated. He told me I reminded him of his wife. She died, you know. On one of those convoys taking officers’ wives back to Britain during the flap, sunk by a U-boat. They hadn’t been married long. I imagine that’s why he hates the Germans so much. The devastation he suffered because of her death probably hardened him to lots of things, and maybe it’s the reason he puts everything into his work. Sometimes it almost seems as if the war is personal, and he’s trying to pay the Germans back for what they did.” Her voice softened. “I think it took him a lot of effort to ask me out, and I truly liked him—”
“But?”
She put a finger to his lips. “Not as much as you.”
15
* * *
BERLIN
16 NOVEMBER, 7:00 A.M.
It was a frosty morning and still dark when the Mercedes staff car pulled up outside the commandant’s office in Lichterfeld SS training barracks. As Halder climbed out, he saw Schellenberg step out of the lighted doorway, his officer’s leather coat draped over his shoulders, a briefcase under his arm.
“Well, you made it, Jack, I see. I hope you slept well?”
“Forget the small talk. I’m not in the mood.”
“I take it you’re still angry about not being allowed to see your boy?”
“What do you think?”
“I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped. Right, let’s not waste any more time. I have a briefing room organized. Kleist and Doring are waiting. Colonel Skorzeny himself will be along later to meet you.”
“Where’s Rachel?”
“Asleep in one of the barrack huts. She’s been given medication to help with some extra rest, to build up her stamina. You can see her this evening.”
“You still haven’t told me the other reason she’s so important to the mission.”
“You’ll be told before the time comes for your departure. Follow me.”
Schellenberg led the way to a barbed-wire compound, guarded by a dozen SS troops with machine pistols and a couple of vicious-looking leashed Alsatian dogs. A sign outside said Strictly Authorized Personnel. Schellenberg showed his pass and they were allowed through. Across the compound yard was a long, single-story red-brick building, a floodlight over the entrance. Two SS guards with German shepherds were posted outside, and the men snapped to attention as Schellenberg came forward to unlock the door.
“Security precautions,” he remarked as he led Halder inside, then locked the door behind them. “The mission’s completely top secret, so we can’t be too careful. Anyone who tries to enter without my personal permission will be shot out of hand, if the dogs don’t get them first. Those animals can kill a man in seconds.”
The building was large and basic inside, and looked like a classroom, with a wooden desk facing three chairs, a blackboard, and a tiled wood stove in the middle. Two men stood beside it warming their hands, both wearing civilian clothes. One was in his late thirties and very obviously a military man, broad and bullish, with
a ravaged face and a flattened nose. He looked like a study in brutality, his dark eyes hinting at a savage nature. The second man was in his middle twenties, coarse-looking, with a sharp face and a thin, cruel mouth.
“You already know Major Kleist. And this young man is SS Feldwebel Doring. Meet Major Halder.”
Kleist was the first to thrust out his hand. “Well, Halder, we meet again. The last time was an antipartisan operation near Sarajevo, as I recall?”
Halder ignored the offered hand. “I remember it very well. And I can’t say it’s a pleasure seeing you again. Not after witnessing how you dealt with prisoners.”
Kleist flushed, offended, and his eyes narrowed dangerously. “Harsh methods are sometimes called for in war, Major. You ought to know that.”
“I’m a soldier, not a butcher, Kleist. Or perhaps you can’t understand the distinction? And I hardly call raping and torturing women an honorable way of conducting a war. Your behavior disgraced the German uniform. If I had my way, I’d have had you shot.”
Kleist grinned maliciously. “Strange you should have that opinion, considering I ended up getting a commendation for the operation. But obviously the major doesn’t have the stomach for such work.”
Halder ignored the provocation. Doring, the Feldwebel, had a sly grin on his face, as if amused by the proceedings, and Halder took an instant dislike to the man.
“A pleasure to meet you, sir,” Doring offered.
“Charmed, I’m sure.”
Schellenberg sighed and placed his briefcase on the desk. “Right, now that it’s quite obvious you’ll all get on like a house on fire, take your seats, gentlemen, and we’ll proceed.”
• • •
Schellenberg opened his briefcase, took out a number of maps, and unfolded a detailed one of northern Egypt. “I’ll give you the exact particulars in a moment, but simply and shortly put, the structure of your mission is this. You’ll be flown to northern Egypt and be met by one of our local agents at a disused desert airfield who’ll help you on your way to Cairo, under the guise of an archeological group.
