by Glenn Meade
Kleist inclined his head, clicked his heel, and grinned. “A pleasure, I’m sure, Fräulein.”
Rachel pointedly ignored him, and said to Schellenberg, “If Major Halder is supposed to be an American, why isn’t he in uniform?”
Schellenberg smiled charmingly. “A good point, and I’m glad to see you’re entering into the spirit of things, but this has already been taken care of. A suitable medical condition was recorded in the professor’s papers, which meant he was unfit for army service. Now, let’s move things along.”
There were several Gladstone bags on the table, and he handed one to each of them, then gave a set of identity papers to Rachel. “Your personal belongings, and your necessary documents. I advise you again to thoroughly familiarize yourself with the cover story you’ve been given. If you’re stopped and questioned on Egyptian soil, the slightest slip could cost you your life, and those of the others. Now, everyone had better examine their belongings.”
They opened their bags. Inside were clothes and personal items. Civilian desert kits with water canteens, safari suits, and broad-rimmed khaki hats, along with more conventional casual attire. All of the clothing looking suitably well-worn.
“I think you’ll find the tailors have done an excellent job with the alterations. The clothing and personal items were all taken from Allied prisoners and refugees in North Africa, so they won’t arouse suspicion if you’re searched. Sufficient quantities of currency will be given to you before you depart.”
Halder held up a carton of Lucky Strikes he had removed from his Gladstone bag. “It seems you’ve remembered everything. Thoughtful of you.”
Schellenberg smiled. “The German variety would rather give you away—so you’d better get used to them. Egyptian brands are rather hard to come by in Berlin, as you can imagine. But these will do just as well.” He helped himself to a pack of the American cigarettes, removed one and lit it, then put his hands on his hips, all business.
“Now, let’s go over things one more time. Just the necessary, salient facts that the fräulein here will need to be aware of. Then I’ll leave you alone to go try on your outfits for size, familiarize yourselves with the maps and routes, and let you all get better acquainted.”
• • •
Halder was studying a map of Cairo, Rachel by his side, when Kleist came up behind them and gestured at the map. “A long time since I’ve been in that stinking hellhole of a city. Not that I ever wanted to see it again—it’s a filthy mess.”
“A pity you only saw it that way,” Halder answered drily. “You obviously missed out on over six thousand years of history. Perhaps you might have learned something from it.”
“For what purpose? The real history’s happening here, in the Fatherland.” Kleist grinned. “The Egyptian women were all right, though, I’ll give it that. Some of the best brothels I’ve had the pleasure to frequent were in Cairo and Alexandria. In my experience, the women you pay for are always the best.”
“No doubt you’re an expert in such affairs.”
Kleist laughed. “I think you could say that.” He glanced over at Rachel. “Schellenberg tells me you and the woman already know each other.”
“What of it?”
This time Kleist looked blatantly at Rachel, taking in her body, and leered. “I’m looking forward to getting to know the fräulein better. I’ll even admit that for a Jew she looks tempting.”
Halder fixed him with a steely look. “Let’s make one thing clear. You misbehave towards her in any way and I’ll personally put a bullet in you, understand?”
“Is that a threat, Halder?”
“Think of it as a friendly warning. And I’d heed it if I were you.” As Halder moved to lead Rachel away, Kleist grabbed him by the arm, pulled him round, leaned in close, and stared him in the face. “Is that a fact, now?” The big SS man smirked, but his eyes were hard and dangerous. “Are you sure you can back it up?”
In an instant, Halder’s knee jerked up, hitting Kleist in the groin. Kleist doubled over in agony, then Halder grabbed one of his arms, twisted it painfully hard, and pushed him against the wall.
“Let go! You’re breaking my arm!”
“Next time, it’ll be your head. We might share the same rank, Kleist, but just remember who’s in charge of this part of the operation. So in the future you’ll accord me suitable respect as a fellow officer and address me as Major. Is that understood?”
Kleist was white-faced with pain. “Yes . . . yes, Major. As you say, Major.”
Halder let go and pushed him away. There was a frightening rage in Kleist’s eyes, and Halder said, “I really wouldn’t pursue this any further. Not unless you want trouble. Another outburst like that and you’ll have Schellenberg’s wrath to deal with, as well as mine. Now get back to work.”
Kleist bit back his anger and went to join Doring.
Halder took Rachel’s hand and led her to the door. As they walked across the compound, he said, “My apologies. The man’s a bully, who doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut. I’ll have a word with Schellenberg before the fool gets out of hand. In the meantime, try to be very careful when you’re around him. He’s a dangerous animal, likely to kill you if you cross him. If I had my way, he’d be thrown off the mission, but unfortunately I don’t have any say in the matter.”
“You don’t have to stand up for me.”
There was a hardness in her voice, and Halder stopped, gently took her arm, and turned her round to face him. “The camp’s completely changed you, hasn’t it?” He raised a hand to her face. “My poor Rachel.”
She pulled away. “I told you before—don’t touch me. And I don’t need your protection. I can look after myself.” And with that she turned abruptly and walked away.
• • •
Kleist stood at the barrack window, feeling sick as he massaged his groin. He watched Halder and the woman cross the compound. There was murder in his eyes, and at that moment his hatred was total and overwhelming, and went beyond all reasoning.
Doring came up to him, and they saw Rachel Stern walk away, leaving Halder alone, before he eventually moved off. “Cool bastard, isn’t he? Still, the woman doesn’t seem all that happy about what he did. I would have thought she’d be glad of someone playing the knight in shining armor.”
Kleist spat on the floor. “Maybe she’s got a lot more sense than you’d think. Halder’s typical of all those rich, spoiled Prussian aristocrats. And arrogant with it.”
“That’s his background?”
“Wouldn’t you know? The same toffee-nosed type who milked this country for centuries, and kept the peasants under their heels. My old man worked his backside ragged for that lot all his life, and for what? A pittance and an early grave. If you ask me, the Führer should have done to them what he’s done to the Jews. The likes of Halder make me bloody sick.”
Doring grinned. “So that’s it? I had the feeling it was something more personal. Still, he’s able to look after himself, I’ll give him that. That’s the first time I’ve ever seen anyone knee you in the groin and walk away alive.”
Kleist turned on him. “Wipe that smirk off your face, or I’ll wipe it off for you.”
Doring obeyed instantly. “Sorry, Herr Major.”
“I don’t know what you find so bloody funny. The Halders of this world like to think they’re above you and me, but they’ve kept us down for too long. That type have a lesson to learn. I didn’t join the SS to have some arrogant Prussian scumbag of the same rank treat me like dirt.”
“Have you got revenge in mind, Major?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll think of something.” A sinister grin spread over Kleist’s face. “And you can mark my words, Halder will definitely get his when the time comes.”
20
* * *
BITTER LAKES
The desert road was empty in the early hours, the air chilly, and they didn’t pass a single vehicle. Weaver drifted in and out of sleep, napping in the passenger seat un
til just after 4:00 a.m., when Sanson turned off the main road and drove for two miles down a desolate track.
“Wake up. We’re here.”
Weaver rubbed his eyes and saw a signpost in English and Arabic. “This area strictly off limits, except to authorized military personnel.”
They were in a shallow valley, the first rays of dawn barely tinting the horizon, and the place had an eerie feel.
He could make out a vast collection of wooden and corrugated-iron huts surrounded by barbed-wire runs, watchtowers jutting into the darkness.
They drove up to the camp’s main entrance barrier and halted. Two armed guards from the sentry hut examined their papers before telephoning the duty officer and allowing them to drive through. They were met outside the main administration building by a tired-looking British major who escorted them into his office. “I believe you’re here to interrogate Berger, sir?” he said to Sanson. “An odd hour for that sort of thing, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“It’s a security matter,” Sanson offered simply. “We’d like to have a look at the prisoner’s file.”
The major didn’t press his inquiry further. “As you wish.” He left and came back minutes later with a manila folder and handed it over.
“Do you know Berger personally?” Weaver asked.
“I think you could say that, sir.”
“What’s he like?”
“A very decent sort of German. You might say a model prisoner.” The major smiled. “And a highly intelligent chess player into the bargain. He usually beats me hands down, every time.” He shrugged, as if excusing his fraternization with the enemy, and the fact that the British generally treated their Axis prisoners with decency, which usually amazed most Americans. “Not much else to do around these parts, I’m afraid. A man could shoot himself for the bloody boredom. I’ll give you a few minutes to have a look at his file before we wake him, sir. You won’t need an interpreter, by the way. Berger speaks excellent English.”
The officer escorted them down the hall to a stark room with just a table and some chairs. After he left, Weaver and Sanson read Berger’s details. Apart from the usual name, rank, and serial number that he had been obliged to provide to his captors, various comments and notes had been added by his camp guardians, British officers and men with whom Berger had obviously become friendly and made casual, personal conversation. Aged twenty-five, and a career intelligence officer, he was married with an infant daughter and had a degree in mathematics from Dresden University.
After serving briefly in Russia, where he was badly wounded and had his left foot amputated, he had been posted to a desk job in North Africa eighteen months earlier.
Weaver said doubtfully, “Even if Berger admits to knowing about Besheeba and Phoenix, it’s unlikely he’d be aware of their true identities, or anything about their backgrounds. A junior intelligence officer wouldn’t be party to that kind of information, he’d simply be following orders.”
“Probably not. But he’s got to know more than we do.”
A little later two guards led in the prisoner. Berger was tall and pale, boyish-looking, with a pleasant face, gentle mouth, and restless, intelligent eyes. He limped noticeably, dragging one of his feet, an obvious false limb, and wore a ragged German uniform a size too large. His hair was tousled and he seemed confused and barely awake.
“Hauptmann Manfred Berger?”
The young German blinked. “Ja.”
“I’m Lieutenant Colonel Sanson, military intelligence. And this is Lieutenant Colonel Weaver. You speak English, I believe?”
“Yes, fluently. May I ask what this is about?”
“Take a seat.”
Berger rubbed his eyes and pulled up a chair facing them. Without preamble, Sanson showed him the memo. “Did you write this?”
Berger studied the flimsy and a faint look of caution showed in his expression as he looked up. “I could have. As war goes, nine months ago is a lifetime.”
“Did you write it?” Sanson repeated.
“I’m afraid I really don’t recall.”
“Your name’s right here at the bottom. Hauptmann Manfred Berger.”
Berger shrugged. “Yes, I see that. But in the course of my duty I put my name to many papers, and was obliged to help send many of our agents across your lines. I cannot be expected to remember every one.”
“This agent in Cairo, code-named Besheeba, and the other one, Phoenix. What can you tell me about them?”
“I know nothing about either of these people.”
“The memo suggests otherwise, Berger,” Sanson pressed him. “You obviously knew what you were writing about, so don’t bloody lie to me.”
The German blushed at the hint of a threat. He studied both his interrogators. “May I be permitted an observation?”
“You’re permitted.”
“For Germany, the war is over in North Africa. Whatever agents we had here are no longer of any importance.” He raised his eyes, curious. “Yet two senior intelligence officers come here at four in the morning to interrogate me. May I ask why?”
Sanson ignored the question. “I’ll ask you one more time—”
“And may I please remind you that under the terms of the Geneva Convention I am obliged only to give my name, rank, and number. Nothing more. You are both soldiers, you know this.”
Sanson slammed his fist hard on the table, rattling it. “I don’t give a curse about the Geneva Convention, Berger. Answer the bloody question.”
Berger looked mildly shaken by Sanson’s hostility, but then he said quietly, “I’m sorry, I really cannot help you. You should know that minor intelligence officers such as myself are not usually privileged to know the true identities of field agents. That kind of information is confined to headquarters in Berlin.”
“Usually, but not always, Berger. And there are always barrack-room rumors floating around concerning the agents who work for you. No matter how small or insignificant that information seems, it may help us. And I’m sure you knew something about the operation in Cairo. How did Phoenix get across our lines? Was he taken, or did he go alone? Where did he stay in Cairo when he arrived? How did he rendezvous with Besheeba? So give me answers.”
Berger didn’t reply, and Sanson promptly flicked open the German’s folder. “You were arrested in Tunis wearing civilian clothes.”
“I was trying to avoid capture, naturally—”
“A soldier disguising himself in civilian clothes on enemy territory—that suggests he’s a spy. Spies are shot by firing squad, Berger. That’s the law. Even according to the Geneva Convention.”
The German paled. “Me, a spy? You’re making a joke, of course?”
Sanson held Berger’s stare and didn’t flinch. “Am I? You’re also an intelligence officer, double proof if it were needed.”
“I’m not a spy,” Berger answered nervously. “And even if I knew anything about this matter, which I don’t, I couldn’t help you.” He looked at Sanson defiantly, a faint hint of pride in his voice. “I’m still an honorable German officer. I would never betray my country’s trust in me to the enemy. Never.”
Sanson pushed back his chair with a clatter and stood. “I’ll give you five minutes alone to review that trust, and your memory. After that, I want answers, not bull, or you’ll suffer the consequences. And if I were you, I’d give some serious thought to a firing squad.”
• • •
Sanson paced angrily up and down the hall.
“You think he knows more than he’s telling us?”
“I’m bloody sure of it. He wrote the memo.” Sanson stopped pacing. “He won’t be able to help us crack the Cairo Code, it would have been written on one-time pads, but I’ll bet my life on it that he knows something about the agents he helped send in. We’re not the Gestapo, Weaver, but in a situation like this, you sometimes have to forget the rules.”
“What do you mean?”
Sanson took a leather truncheon from his pocket. “T
his. And worse, if necessary.”
Weaver saw the cold determination in the Englishman’s face. “Beating a prisoner is considered torture. It’s illegal, Sanson.”
“I don’t give a curse about legal niceties right now, Weaver. Or how nice a chap Berger is. This is war, not a bloody cricket match. Our backs are to the wall. If we had time, we could play the usual games and try to coax it out of him. But we haven’t got that luxury.”
“And what do you suggest?”
“If he still refuses to tell us what he knows, we take him back to Cairo for further interrogation.” Sanson slapped the truncheon hard into his palm. “But either way, if Berger knows anything, I’ll make the ruddy sod talk.”
• • •
When they stepped back into the room, Sanson blatantly placed the truncheon on the table. Berger looked at it anxiously.
“Well, have you reconsidered?”
When the German hesitated, Sanson had the truncheon in his hand in an instant, struck him a quick, stinging blow across the face. The young German cried out, almost fell from his chair, clutched his jaw in shock. “I—I don’t know anything about the Cairo operation.”
“We’ve established you wrote the memo. Which suggests you knew something about the people involved. Let me remind you again what it says.” Sanson removed the German flimsy from the folder, and read, “‘Rommel urgently pressing for more details: troop numbers, armor, and artillery movements. Berlin instructs Phoenix to proceed Cairo at once. Besheeba will rendezvous. Hopes combined efforts will produce more results.’ ”
Sanson looked up. “It’s that last line that gives it away, Berger. ‘Hopes combined efforts will produce more results.’ What results did you hope for? You must have known something about these two agents. So tell me.”
