by Glenn Meade
Halder ignored the provocation, covered himself with a blanket, and tipped his hat over his eyes. The drone of the Dakota’s twin engines lulled him to sleep.
23
* * *
CAIRO
20 NOVEMBER, 1:45 P.M.
“It’s called the Imperial,” said Reeves. “Twenty rooms in all. Looks like a proper dive inside. I think I’d rather take my chances sleeping in a rat-infested sewer.”
Weaver had just climbed into the back of an unmarked staff car next to Sanson, both of them armed and wearing civilian clothes. Arriving by taxi in the hot, crowded back streets of the Ezbekiya, they joined two of Sanson’s men already detailed to watch the Imperial. One of them, Reeves, a young intelligence officer with a thin mustache, sat in the driver’s seat, also wearing civilian clothes.
Across the street, the Imperial looked far from what its name suggested: a cheap, run-down hotel with peeling shutters, cracked exterior walls that looked as if they were about to collapse—four derelict floors sandwiched between a long row of similar cheap hotels and decaying tenement buildings. The painted sign above the entrance was badly faded.
“What’s the owner’s background?” Weaver asked.
Sanson had his notebook open on his lap. “Tarik Nasser’s a small-time businessman with no known convictions. The hotel was visited by the local police three days ago as part of our checks, but they claim the register was in order and the clerk told them no one of Farid Gabar’s description had looked for a room. The only reason we reckon Tarik Nasser’s a likely sympathizer is the word of one of our informers. During the flap he was overheard boasting that he’d be welcoming the Germans with open arms as soon as they reached Cairo. Hardly unusual, you might say, but it turns out he’s probably got a good motive—a number of years ago his younger brother was shot dead while pilfering from British army stores. And as of now, Nasser’s the only likely suspect we’ve come up with.”
Three other hotels in the district were under observation, and Sanson seemed impatient to make progress. “Give me the story,” he said to Reeves.
“I asked for a room and the clerk told me they’re full right now,” Reeves replied. “All twenty rooms bursting at the seams, and not a chance of getting one for another two months. It’s the same with all the others around here. You can’t get a room for love nor money.”
Sanson let out a sigh. The intention had been to get one of the men inside the Imperial to see if they could spot anyone among the guests who resembled Gabar. “That messes up our plans. Which means we probably don’t have much option except to raid the place and pull in Nasser for questioning. What about the customers?”
“Mostly European refugees, but some Arabs, too, so far as I could see.”
“Did you get a look at the register?”
“No, sir. That wasn’t possible.”
“Did you see anyone who might resemble Gabar entering or leaving?”
“No, sir.”
“What about Nasser?”
“I asked to see the owner after I tried to book a room, just to get a proper look at him. He came out himself. I gave him my spiel about needing accommodation badly and that I’d pay over the odds, but it made no difference—he told me he was full to the gills. He left just over an hour ago and hasn’t come back since. Briggs went to follow him, sir.” Reeves looked out of the window. “Hang on a minute. Here’s Briggs now.”
A man came up alongside the car, wearing a civilian suit and hat, and climbed in beside the driver. “Where’s Nasser?” Sanson asked.
Briggs nodded out of the window. “That’s him, sir. He went for lunch in a Greek restaurant two streets away. Then he bought some groceries in a store around the corner.”
Across the road, they saw a barrel-chested man waddle along the pavement. He wore a fez and carried a bag of groceries, his triple chins rippling as he munched an apple. He turned into the hotel and climbed up the short flight of steps with difficulty, his stubby legs under strain, his fat cheeks puffing air.
Sanson opened the car door. “Right, let’s nab him while we can. Reeves, you come with us. Briggs, go round the back. Anyone tries to make a run for it, you drop them, but don’t kill the sods. If they run, they’ve got something to hide, and I want to know what it is.”
• • •
Hassan lay on the bed, idly cleaning the Walther pistol with an oily rag.
The tiny room was driving him insane, and he felt like a caged animal. A pile of Arab newspapers lay on the floor; he’d read each at least a half-dozen times. He was restless, needed to walk. His stomach rumbled. It was still lunchtime, and the Greek restaurant two streets away served excellent food. Wearing the suit, and with his beard gone, he had begun to feel reasonably secure in his disguise.
He put aside the pistol, got up from the bed, took his tie and suit jacket from the hanger on the back of the door, and started to get dressed.
• • •
Weaver went into the lobby with Sanson, Reeves behind them. The place was threadbare, smelled of stale food and cigarette smoke. There was a wooden counter on the left, a young Arab clerk behind it, idly fingering a set of worry beads, and Sanson said, “Tarik Nasser. Where is he?”
The clerk blinked at his visitors. “I—I don’t know, sir.”
“Don’t lie to me. I saw him enter just a moment ago.”
The young man gestured nervously towards a door. “Mr. Nasser’s office over there. Perhaps you find him inside—”
Sanson smartly crossed to the door with Weaver and Reeves, pushed it open, and they found themselves in a tiny office. Tarik Nasser was seated at a desk set against the far wall, looking through some correspondence, and he wobbled uncertainly to his feet at the sudden intrusion. “Yes?”
“Tarik Nasser?”
“Yes, I’m Nasser.”
“I’m Lieutenant Colonel Sanson, military intelligence. This is Lieutenant Colonel Weaver.”
Nasser tried not to swallow, felt his legs begin to shake, as if they were about to collapse under his weight. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Sanson nodded to Reeves. “Check the registration book. Be quick about it.”
“What’s going on here?” Nasser protested.
Reeves left and Sanson said, “Sit down, Mr. Nasser.”
Nasser sat, felt sweat rise on the back of his neck, and his heart began to palpitate. He thought of reaching for the buzzer under his desk, but reconsidered. “You haven’t told me what this is about.”
“Then I’ll get directly to the point. You’re suspected of harboring German spies, Mr. Nasser. And of being a German agent yourself.”
He was in trouble. Nasser felt a sudden pain tightening his chest, but he gave a dry, nervous laugh that didn’t sound very convincing. “Is—is this some kind of funny business?”
“Cut the innocent act, Nasser. We have the word of a captured German intelligence officer.”
Nasser swallowed, reached for a handkerchief on his desk, dabbed his brow. “There—there must be a mistake, certainly? I’m—I’m an honest businessman.”
Reeves came back moments later with a thick guest ledger. “There’s no one named Gabar registered for any time over the last nine months, sir. Or at present.”
As soon as he heard the name, Nasser’s chest pain got worse. He felt like throwing up, but he made to reach for the buzzer instead, his hand shaking. He quietly took it away as Sanson looked back at him.
“We’re going to search the hotel. Tear it apart if we have to, and check the guests in every room, one by one. Then we’re going to take you to GHQ for interrogation. Before we do so, I’m going to give you the opportunity to confess. Well, Nasser?”
Nasser made up his mind. Trembling, the handkerchief still in his hand, he reached under the desk and pressed the button twice. Sanson grabbed his arm in an instant, twisted it behind his back. “What the devil are you playing at—?”
Nasser yelled in pain.
Sanson heaved him out of the way,
searched under the desk, spotted the button. “The clever rogue’s warned someone.” He drew his revolver. “A pound to a penny the Arab’s here. Watch him, Reeves, and cover the lobby. Follow me, Weaver, quickly.”
• • •
Hassan had finished putting on his suit. He was examining himself in the cracked mirror, almost ready to leave, when he heard the buzzer go off, a sharp, brutal noise that sounded like a giant angry mosquito had invaded the room.
His heart skipped. He looked up sharply at the buzzer, just as it stopped for a second, then sounded again.
Once for caution. Twice to get out.
In one fluid movement he picked up the Walther, scanned the room to make sure he’d left nothing behind, and moved to the door.
• • •
Weaver had his Colt automatic out as he went back into the lobby with Sanson.
“We’ll take one floor each, one at a time,” said Sanson, the Smith & Wesson in his hand. “I’ll take the second, you the third, then move up from there. And for the love of God be careful.”
They both went up the staircase, Sanson leading the way, and parted company on the second-floor landing as Weaver raced up to the third. He found himself in a short hallway, a window at the far end, the same smells and shabby red carpet as the lobby, three rooms on either side.
He saw no open doors. He tried the first, on his right. Locked. He moved his shoulder hard against it, pushed, and heard a noise behind the door. It opened and a middle-aged European man made to come out, a shabby briefcase in his hand. He looked alarmed.
“Get your hands above your head.” Weaver pointed the gun in his face and pushed him back inside the room.
“I—I have papers,” the man stammered, his hands shaking violently. “My—my name is Josef Esher. I am Hungarian refugee—”
The man obviously wasn’t Gabar, and Weaver saw there was no one else in the room.
“I’m looking for an Arab.” He described Gabar. “Have you seen him?”
The trembling man shook his head. “I—I see no one like that.”
“Stay in your room and lock the door,” Weaver ordered, then moved back out into the hallway. The door closed after him, and he heard the lock click.
He tried the next room. Locked. He moved to the door opposite, tried the handle. It opened. He was in a tiny single room. The bed was ruffled, an indent in the bedclothes where someone had lain. Newspapers lay scattered on the floor. It looked as if someone had left in a hurry. Weaver noticed a key in the inside lock. He went back out into the hallway. The window at the end was half open. He hurried towards it and looked out. A rusting fire escape led down to a back alley, but he saw no one outside.
“Darn.”
Two pistol shots cracked in quick succession from somewhere below in the hotel, then came another two, which seemed to echo out in the alley. He raced back along the hall and down the stairs.
• • •
“He’s dead, sir. He tried to escape—made a move towards the front door. I fired a couple of warning shots to scare him and he just keeled over, clutching his chest. Looks like the shock must have given him a heart attack. I tried to revive him but it was useless. The clerk’s called an ambulance, not that it’s going to do much good.”
As Reeves spoke, Weaver looked down at Tarik Nasser’s overweight body sprawled on the lobby carpet. The blubbery face had turned blue.
Sanson knelt, felt his pulse to be certain. “That’s all we needed. We still had to question the sod. Did you see anything, Weaver?”
“There’s a window open on the third floor. I think someone might have got down the fire escape, but there’s no sign of anyone.” He looked at Reeves. “I heard two more shots. Where’s Briggs?”
“He should be still covering the rear, sir.”
Sanson paled, got to his feet. “Let’s get out the back—”
As they made to move, Briggs rushed in the front door, panting, his revolver still in his hand, and Sanson said urgently, “Did you get the Arab?”
“He got away, sir.”
“Terrific.”
2:45 P.M.
Deacon reversed the Packard into the deserted alleyway near the Rameses station.
He was fuming. There were important things he had planned to do that afternoon before he sent his signal to Berlin that night, but this unexpected disaster had ruined his schedule. It could even ruin everything.
He halted the car, jerked on the hand brake, rolled down the window. The alleyway was a filthy, stinking place, not a sinner in sight. He lit a cigar to ward off the stench before he stepped out of the car and said aloud, “You can come out. It’s safe.”
A second later, Hassan appeared from a recessed doorway, the Walther in his hand. He slipped it into his waistband. “What kept you? I phoned half an hour ago.”
“I got here as fast as I could.” Deacon looked enraged. “Never mind that. What happened? Out with it.”
Hassan told him, his face puzzled. “I don’t understand. I was careful entering and leaving the hotel. How did the army know I was there? Tarik told me the police were searching all the hotels in the city. They called on him a few days ago, but he said they didn’t seem suspicious. Perhaps they were, but pretended not to be. They could have been watching the hotel all along.”
Deacon said sourly, “There’s got to be more to it than that, or they would have nabbed you days ago. You’re sure Tarik didn’t inform on you?”
Hassan looked insulted. “Never. He is my cousin. He saved my life.”
Right now, Deacon couldn’t think clearly enough to reason things out. He knew only that he had a terrible gut feeling there was trouble brewing.
“Did anyone get a good look at you as you left the hotel?”
Hassan shook his head. “I escaped the back way, over the rooftops.”
“That doesn’t mean they won’t get a secondhand description. Some of Tarik’s guests are bound to have seen you in the hotel. You said there was shooting?”
“They had a man waiting in the back alley. I think he saw me climb onto the roof and fired two shots. I heard another two shots inside the hotel. And I saw the American officer, Weaver.”
“What?”
“I saw him look out onto the fire escape as I waited on the roof until it was safe to move.” Malice flashed in Hassan’s eyes. “If Tarik is harmed, I will kill the American.”
Deacon gritted his teeth in exasperation, unlocked the trunk. He had neglected to tell Hassan that he’d been delayed because he’d driven past the hotel on his way and spotted an ambulance outside, two attendants carrying out a body covered with a blanket. He’d tell him later, once he had found out what had happened. “You’ll kill no one. Get in the trunk. I can’t have you traveling up front in the car, it’s too risky. Don’t worry, you’ll be able to breathe.”
Hassan reluctantly made to climb into the trunk. “Where are you taking me?”
“To the villa. It’s about the only place left. You stay there from now on, until I say it’s safe to go out on the streets again. Understand? And start praying no one searches the bloody car if I’m stopped at a checkpoint.”
24
* * *
CAIRO
20 NOVEMBER, 4:00 P.M.
Weaver sat in the Jeep’s passenger seat as Helen Kane drove him towards Giza. “Did Sanson say what it was about?”
“Only that he and General Clayton wanted to see you urgently at Mena House.”
They crossed the English Bridge, and the city gave way to mud-brick villages and sugar-cane fields, until they reached the edge of the desert. Soon they were eight miles west of Cairo, the dusty road busy with American and British military traffic, motorcycle dispatch riders speeding past in both directions.
Weaver felt bad about hardly having seen her in three days and had the nagging feeling he’d overstepped the mark by sleeping with her. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened the other night, Helen.”
“But I’m not.”
“You
mean that?”
“Of course. I just wish you didn’t look so troubled about it.” She glanced at his face. “My poor Harry. Have I disturbed the ordered pattern of your existence?”
“Something like that.”
She smiled, playfully. “You ought to know by now that women are the Devil.”
“You don’t think it might complicate things?”
“Only if you let it. We’re human, there’s a war on, and it happens all the time, no matter what the military rule books say. I think we can still do our duty and keep a face on things, don’t you?”
He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “You’re a terrific girl, you know that?”
She smiled back. “Careful. Otherwise I might be tempted to take it further. If you can spare the time, we could always have dinner tonight.”
“It’s the best offer I’ve had in days, but we’d better wait and see what General Clayton has in store. After what happened at the Imperial, somehow I don’t think he’s going to be in the best of moods.”
The mud-brick dwellings of the poor gave way to the luxury country villas of wealthy Cairenes, until eventually they came to the untidy little village of Nazlat as-Saman, at the foot of the Sphinx and the three Giza pyramids. Farther up the road from the village, at the end of a broad, palm-lined avenue, was a magnificent white-painted building surrounded by individual guest lodges and set in its own private grounds.
Originally an Ottoman hunting lodge in the last century, the Mena House had been bought by an English couple and transformed into a world-famous luxury hotel, a favorite haunt of royalty and the rich, complete with viewing balconies overlooking the pyramids, swimming pools, and lush gardens, all done in lavish colonial style.
“What does a girl have to do to earn a weekend here?”
