by Glenn Meade
“Isn’t there anything we can do?”
Halder beckoned to Achmed, who stood with Kleist and Doring at the foot of the bed.
“Surely there must be someone in the village with medical knowledge?”
Achmed shrugged. “There’s an old crone who passes for a midwife and has the cheek to call herself a nurse. But if you ask me she’s hopeless. She also has a mouth that works better than my transmitter. Before you know it, the whole village would know your business.”
“How long would it take to fetch the doctor?”
“A couple of hours, assuming he hasn’t been called away. But even so, you can’t bring him here. It would be far too dangerous, and he’d probably want to inform the military authorities.”
“He’s right,” Kleist interrupted. “Our chances are slim enough. Why make it worse?”
“You’d better ask the old woman if she can help,” Halder told Achmed. “Tell her we’re strangers who came to you for assistance—as far as she’s concerned, our friend’s had an automobile accident. Does she speak English?”
“No.”
“Then introduce me as a British officer and leave it at that.”
“I warn you, the old woman’s useless,” Achmed advised. “I’d sooner put my trust in the local butcher.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers. Bring her as quickly as you can.”
9:15 A.M.
The old woman was completely toothless, in her eighties at least. She was dressed in black from head to toe, and despite being almost bent double and hobbling on a stick, she looked as if she had an inflated air of self-importance. Achmed and his wife helped her up the stairs, and when she came into the room her hooded eyes regarded them warily.
“Her name’s Wafa,” Achmed said in English. “I told her as you suggested. She says she’ll do what she can to help.”
The woman carried an ancient doctor’s bag. Her heavily wrinkled face, the color of walnut, peered out from under a black net veil. Halder couldn’t help noticing that her fingernails were filthy. She went over to Falconi and arranged the basins of hot water and the clean towels. As she rolled up her sleeves and made to scrub her hands in one of the basins, she called Achmed over and cackled something in a heavy dialect which Halder didn’t understand. “What did she say?”
“She can’t work with men looking over her shoulder. She only wants the women to help, the rest of us are to leave the room.”
“No, I stay,” Halder insisted in Arabic.
The midwife prodded a finger towards the door, scolding him, and this time Halder understood. “Men outside! Outside!”
Achmed shrugged and said in English, “She’s a bad-tempered old witch at the best of times. You’d better do as she says.”
“You think you could give her a hand?” Halder asked Rachel.
“I’ll do what I can.”
“Call me if you need help.”
Halder gestured to the others and they left. Before he followed, he spoke to the midwife in Arabic. “Do you think you’ll be able to save him?”
The old woman drew herself up self-importantly. “Wafa has helped birth many children in the village—she knows as much as any doctor. Now go—your friend is in good hands.”
9:30 A.M.
Achmed took Halder and the others down to a kitchen at the back of the hotel. The table was set with a plate of fresh bread and dates, foul-smelling goat’s cheese, and a silver pot of Arabic coffee. He poured tiny glass cups of the black treacly liquid for each of them. “Help yourselves to some food. All you can do now is wait and pray.”
Halder accepted the coffee, ignored the food while the two SS men ate, and said to Achmed, “On account of our trouble, it seems we may have to abandon our original plan, which was for you to drive us into Alex in the guise of archeologists. So we’ll have to come up with another. Have you any maps of the area, as far as Alex?”
Achmed shook his head. “All I’ve got is an old Baedeker guidebook some tourist left behind. But it’s at least twenty years old, and the maps are not very detailed.”
“No matter, bring it here.”
When Achmed left the room, Kleist swallowed a lump of bread and cheese and wiped his mouth with his hand. “Doring and I have talked things over. We can’t stay here for much longer. Before you know it, enemy patrols are going to be swarming all over the place. We’d be better off splitting up into two pairs and trying to reach Cairo separately—at least that way we increase whatever chances we have. Remaining together would be suicidal.”
“What would you suggest?”
“You and the girl, Doring and me.” Kleist shrugged. “Or whichever way you want.”
Halder considered for a moment. “And what about Falconi?”
“I still say taking him with us would be stupid. Leave him with the hotel keeper. If the Italian’s caught, at least he might get proper medical attention.”
Halder thought about it, then shook his head. “Let’s see how he fares with the old woman first, then I’ll decide. Meanwhile, we’ll have a look at the map and consult with Achmed. He’ll know the lie of the land better than us.”
Achmed came back with a tattered Baedeker guidebook. He opened it on the table and pointed to one of the maps. “We’re here. Roughly twenty-five miles from Alex, if you take the inland route. Several minor desert tracks lead to the city, or you can cut towards the coast road and approach it from the sea, but that way’s longer. The direct route, using the main road, is the quickest, less than an hour by automobile.”
Halder studied the map. “Are there any troops stationed in this immediate area?”
“Not since the fighting stopped. The nearest camp is at Amiriya, about fifteen miles away.”
“How many men?”
“Easily several hundred. It’s a large enough base.”
“Do they ever come by the village?”
Achmed shrugged. “Now and then they drive through. But once they learn what’s happened to their comrades, they’ll be like angry bloodhounds, looking for a scent.”
“Which is why we need to move as smartly as possible. They could be searching for us even as we speak.”
Achmed scratched his jaw. “It seems to me you have two options. First, there’s an old camel track Arab merchants used to use, about five miles from the village. Using the Jeep it’s a bumpy, slow journey over rough desert, and you’d have to be careful not to get stuck in the sand, but there are several wadis on the way in case you run out of water, and you can reach Cairo in about ten hours.”
“And the second?”
“The way I intended getting you there in the first place, by the scheduled train service that leaves Alex four times a day. There’s also a rail line that runs along the coast, north of here. The nearest station is El Hauwariya, perhaps a dozen miles away. If you want my advice, it’s probably your best way to get to Alex. The main roads are where the army’s most likely to set up roadblocks. The trains are frequent enough, and take you directly into the main city station, where you can make the connection for Cairo. But as you say, you don’t know if the army is already looking for you. If not, either way shouldn’t offer any difficulties. If they are, only Allah knows your chances.”
Kleist looked doubtful. “If we split up, the best bet for Doring and me is the desert route. The oil company I worked for operated south of here, so I’m reasonably familiar with the area. True, it’s difficult terrain, but with luck and a decent vehicle, we might make it.”
Halder shook his head. “The desert’s too open. You’re liable to be spotted from the air.”
“Maybe, but there’s something else to consider,” Kleist suggested. “Your English is better than ours. You’d stand some chance of bluffing your way past a checkpoint. Mine and Doring’s would be considerably less. I’d sooner take my luck out in the desert.”
“You’re certain you want to take the risk?”
“Be honest. You’d stand a better chance with just the girl. Two’s a couple, four’s
a crowd.”
“I suppose you’re right. Well, what do you say, Doring? Are you sure about this?”
“Either way, we could run into trouble. But with respect, I’d sooner go with Major Kleist.”
“Very well. The fräulein and I will try to make it to Alex by the coastal train, then on to Cairo.” Halder turned to Achmed. “It seems we’re going to split into two groups. We’ll have need of additional transport.”
Achmed despaired at the thought of losing his beloved Fiat, and he sighed. “I suppose you’d better take my truck. If anyone should ask, I can always claim it was stolen.”
“It’s going to look suspicious if we drive it out of the village,” Kleist said. “Better if you take us out to this camel track and show us the way.”
“It’s five miles away. How am I supposed to get back?”
“Walk,” Kleist said bluntly.
Achmed didn’t like the suggestion one little bit, but at least after that the Germans would be out of his hair.
“Well?” said Halder.
Achmed nodded reluctantly. “If I must.”
Kleist gave Halder the keys to the Jeep. “We’re not much use here, and the longer we delay, the more the cards are stacked against us. I suggest we leave straight away.”
Halder jerked a thumb at Doring. “Go with Achmed. Remove your things from our vehicle and get the truck ready—remember to take plenty of water for the journey.”
They left, and Halder and Kleist were alone. “If you make it to Cairo, you know how and where to meet our contact. If any of us are apprehended, we say nothing that might jeopardize our mission. You heard what Schellenberg said—everything depends on us. We carry on, until we’re dead or captured. And for what it’s worth, good luck.”
“The same to you. And I never thought I’d hear myself saying that, Halder. But it seems we’re all going to need more than luck.”
Halder was unmoved. “You’re still a callous thug, Kleist.”
Kleist grinned. “The next time we meet could well be in hell. I’ll make sure to keep the fires stoked and ready.”
Achmed came back. “My son’s helping your friend put your things in the truck,” he said to Kleist. “If you come with me I’ll give you a couple of cans of water and some food.”
“Did you radio Berlin when we didn’t make the rendezvous?” Halder asked.
Achmed nodded. “When I returned from the airfield. I told them you didn’t show up.”
“Send off another signal before you leave. Explain what happened, just the barest details, and that we’re doing our best to carry on.” Halder slipped the guidebook into his pocket. “I’ll keep the Baedeker, if you don’t mind.”
“As you wish.”
At that moment the kitchen door was flung open and Rachel stood there, grim faced. “I think you’d better come upstairs.”
35
* * *
11:10 A.M.
When he saw the two bodies, Weaver wanted to throw up. Sanson came into the cabin behind him. “My God.”
When Weaver had recovered, he knelt and examined the corpses. “They’re both still warm.”
The cabin was in disarray, the floor scattered with debris. He moved up to the cockpit with Sanson. The copilot was still strapped into his seat, dressed in a jump suit. His face was grotesque in death, and flies buzzed around a gaping wound in his side. Sanson searched through the dead man’s clothes and found a set of dog tags around his neck and identity papers in one of his pockets. “According to these, he’s an American flight lieutenant.”
Weaver examined the papers. They looked legitimate. He noticed that a trail of blood led from the pilot’s seat out to the cabin. “It looks like someone was badly injured.”
They both stepped out into the sun again. The lieutenant and the driver dismounted and came over. “Is there something wrong, sir?”
Sanson was grave as he jerked a thumb. “Take a look inside.”
When they reappeared moments later, the lieutenant said solemnly, “The two men in the cabin look like they might be ours, sir. They’re wearing British army underwear.”
“I’m well aware of that,” Sanson replied bitterly. “Take a walk around outside, see what you can find.”
“Yes, sir.”
While the lieutenant searched around the wreckage, Sanson lit a cigarette. “They must be a cold-blooded lot, whoever shot those lads.” His voice was thick with rage. “There’s no question we’re dealing with German infiltrators. The copilot’s papers might look in order, but you can bet they’re excellent forgeries. Well, don’t just stand there, Weaver. Have a look around. See if you can find anything.”
Sanson kicked among the debris, and Weaver went to look at the tracks in the sand he’d noticed earlier. They led towards the aircraft and appeared to have been made by a single vehicle, but the sand was too dry and powdery for any footprints to have been left behind. Sanson came over and Weaver pointed to the tracks.
“I’ll take a guess at what happened. The two men inside spotted the wreckage and came to investigate. They were shot for their trouble and their uniforms and vehicle stolen.”
Sanson nodded. “Which means we’re dealing with at least two men, probably more. And one’s wounded—the pilot by the looks of it.”
He called the lieutenant over and they consulted the map. “There aren’t that many villages within a twenty-mile radius,” the lieutenant explained. “Maybe half a dozen at most.”
“Have any of them got a doctor or a hospital?”
“The nearest hospital is in Alex. But there’s the army base at Amiriya, which has a doctor, I believe. And there’s probably another somewhere in the area who looks after the local villages.”
“How far’s Amiriya?”
“About twenty miles, perhaps less.”
“Get them on the radio and explain the situation. Find out if anyone sought medical treatment there in the last few hours, civilian or military. And tell them we need as many men as they have available to check the villages in the area. I want to know if any local doctor or anyone with medical knowledge was asked to treat a wounded patient this morning, especially someone in uniform. Then call up HQ. I want checkpoints on all roads leading into Alex. We’re looking for a stolen vehicle, most likely a military staff car or Jeep, with a wounded passenger on board. Number of occupants unknown, but at least two, and they’re probably wearing stolen military uniforms. They’re suspected enemy infiltrators, armed and highly dangerous.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And find out if any patrols or military personnel have gone missing in the area.”
The lieutenant ran back to the Jeep.
“We’ll make a start on the nearest villages ourselves,” Sanson told Weaver. “In this kind of terrain, they haven’t got many places in which to hide. We should find them quickly enough. Unless they’ve already made it to Alex, in which case we’ll have our work cut out. What was the name of the lieutenant’s CO back at Alex HQ?”
“Captain Myers.”
“One of us had better go back and oversee the search from that end, in case we’ve no luck here.” He nodded to the wrecked fuselage. “Let’s take another look inside, in case we missed anything.”
They moved into the cabin again. This time, Weaver noticed that the aircraft’s first-aid kit was missing from its recess, there was more blood on the floor in front of the pilot’s seat, and one of the rudder pedals was mangled. As he came back into the cabin, he caught sight of a crumpled white scarf discarded on the floor. He picked it up and saw that the cotton was stained dark with patches of blood.
Sanson came over. “Find anything, Weaver?”
He held up the scarf.
9:45 A.M.
When they reached the bedroom, Halder saw that the sheets were drenched crimson and the old woman was standing over Falconi, desperately trying to stem a faucet of blood from his injured leg, but without success. The woman looked totally flustered.
“What the hell’s go
ing on?” Halder demanded.
“She doesn’t know what she’s doing,” Rachel said. “She’s only made the bleeding worse, and now it won’t stop.”
“Get away from him,” Halder ordered the woman in Arabic.
“It wasn’t my fault,” she protested, pointing an accusing finger at Rachel. “She didn’t do as I told her. She’s to blame if he dies.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Achmed said. “The old crone’s a fool. You can be sure it was her fault.” He jerked a thumb at his wife. “Take the stupid old witch downstairs.”
Falconi seemed to become conscious just then, his eyes opening wide, sweat glistening on his forehead, and he gave a low moan. Halder saw to his horror that an artery had opened in Falconi’s leg and he was rapidly bleeding to death.
“Give me a towel. Quick!”
Rachel handed one over and felt for Falconi’s pulse, while Halder applied a tourniquet again, tight above the knee. The bleeding diminished. “You’d better fetch that doctor,” he told Achmed. “We’ll just have to worry about the consequences later.”
“But your friends need me to—”
“Get going, now!”
“Jack—”
Halder turned, saw Rachel let go of Falconi’s hand as his head rolled to one side. “I’m afraid it’s too late. He’s dead.”
10:20 A.M.
They were alone downstairs in the kitchen. Halder lit a cigarette, his hands trembling slightly. “He was a good man, Vito. One of the best I knew.”
“Are you all right?” Rachel asked.
He nodded, an edge of bitterness in his voice. “It just seems such a bloody waste, this whole lousy war. One death after another, and for what?”
“I—I’m sorry. I only did as the old woman told me. She seemed completely lost.”
