by Glenn Meade
Weaver looked at the MP standing to attention in Myers’s office. “At ease, Sergeant.”
The sergeant stood at ease, put his hands behind his back.
Sanson removed his cap, his face and eye patch flecked with sand dust. He sat on the edge of the desk. “You’d better tell me exactly what happened.”
Weaver had had Sanson radioed as soon as he heard Myers’s news, and Sanson had sped back to HQ, leaving the patrols to carry on searching the villages. Weaver had filled him in and told him about the identities of the two dead officers.
The MP appeared uncomfortable in the presence of three officers. “Speak up, Sergeant,” Weaver prompted.
“There wasn’t a sight of the two men anywhere. I had some of our lads cover the main roads out of town, but they didn’t see any staff car. And there was no report of any other civilian or military vehicle stolen. But when we got back to the station, I checked out the abandoned Jeep. Turns out it belonged to the two officers who’d gone missing.”
“What did this young woman look like?”
“Very attractive. Late twenties. Blond-haired, blue-eyed. Slim, average height. And a bloody good actress, I’d have to say.”
“She claimed she was South African?”
“Yes, sir. Said her father was a colonel, serving in Alex.”
“And yet you didn’t check her bloody papers?” Sanson said angrily.
The MP blushed. “She told me she’d forgotten them, sir. And then I reckoned there was no need—not when it seemed the officer could vouch for her.”
Sanson made an effort to control his anger. “You say he presented himself as Captain Jameson?”
The MP nodded. “That’s what’s frightening, sir. He played it as cool as you like. Spoke with a perfect upper-class English accent—” He broke off and glanced at Myers. “Begging your pardon, sir, I meant—”
Myers nodded abruptly. “I know what you meant, Sergeant. Go on.”
“He was about thirty, I reckon. Give or take a couple of years. Tall, handsome enough, dark hair and eyes. Capable-looking chap, I would have said. Then, when I checked with Amiriya, they told me Captain Jameson and another officer, Lieutenant Grey, had gone missing. And then I heard they’d been—”
“We know what you heard.”
“Would you recognize either of them if you saw them again?” Weaver asked.
“Oh, yes, sir. Not a shred of doubt about that.”
“What about his papers?” Sanson interrupted. “The photographs couldn’t have matched.”
The sergeant blushed again. “Sometimes it’s difficult to tell with photographs, sir, especially if someone’s wearing a uniform and there’s a passing resemblance. But he was a cool customer—told me to go ahead and check with his CO when I noticed his ID was a week out of date. He seemed so convincing, I took his word for it.”
“He’s certainly a ruthless, clever sod, whoever he is,” Sanson said to Weaver, and walked over to the wall map. “You say they took the local train, heading west towards here?”
“Yes, sir,” the MP replied. “I questioned the stationmaster. He saw the man and woman board together after I’d left. That’s when I radioed HQ.”
Sanson said to Myers, “Where’s the final stop?”
“The Ramleh, the main station. But they’d have reached there long ago—it only takes about half an hour. I’m assuming, of course, that was their destination—there are several other stops along the way.”
“Get some men to the outlying stations on the route and question the railway staff. Find out if anyone saw a couple matching the descriptions get off at any of them.” Sanson looked over at the sergeant, his anger at the man’s incompetence barely controlled. “That’ll be all for now. Wait outside.”
The man left, and Sanson said, “They’ve got only two options. Move on, or stay in town.”
Myers glanced at his watch. “There’s a train leaving for Cairo in just over an hour, sir. The two-fifteen. And there’s another for Port Said an hour later. If they decide to keep running while their luck’s good, it might do no harm to keep an especially close watch on Ramleh station, as Lieutenant Colonel Weaver has suggested.”
Sanson grimaced. “You can bet your backside we’ll be watching. Plainclothes only. Don’t have your men trooping in together—filter them into the station in twos and threes, through the front and back entrances. Tell them to be discreet—one wrong slip and we could ruin any chance we’ve got of catching them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you’d better find us some civilian clothes. Arrange it with the stationmaster so that all passengers have to pass through only one or two barriers, so we can keep a close watch on things. Have medical assistance standing by, too, in case we need it.”
“We’re cutting it a bit fine for me to organize all that, sir.”
“No excuses, Captain. Just see that it’s done.” Sanson picked up his cap, slapped off the sand dust. “Anything else you can think of, Weaver?”
“I guess you’ve covered everything.” Weaver nodded towards the door. “Except we’d better take the sergeant along. He saw them once. He’ll recognize them again.”
1:45 P.M.
It took Halder and Rachel almost half an hour to reach the Ramleh station. There was a small café—the Petite Paris—on the corner opposite, and Halder led them to one of the tables and beckoned a waiter.
“What’s wrong?” Rachel asked.
“A little reconnaissance might be in order first. Let’s have some coffee. I can recommend the Yemeni, it’s first class. And we’d better eat something while we can.”
They ordered coffee and pastries, and Halder watched the station entrance across the street. There were the usual soldiers in transit, entering and leaving the massive entrance, kit bags over their shoulders, and a couple of Egyptian traffic policemen stood chatting on the square. They didn’t seem to be paying much attention to anyone, and Halder noticed no obvious military presence.
“It seems quiet enough. But then again, they could have men posted undercover. It’s a risk we’ll just have to take.”
He observed the station for ten more minutes, then finished his coffee. “If there’s even a whiff of trouble, you stick close to me. Understand?”
Rachel nodded.
He felt for the revolver in his pocket, stood, looked down, and offered her his arm. “Time to test the water. Ready?”
She stood and took his arm.
40
* * *
RAMLEH STATION
21 NOVEMBER, 2:00 P.M.
The Ramleh was chaotic, a massive stone building with high vaulted ceilings. There were several filthy-looking food stalls just inside the entrance, busy with passengers, mostly Arab peasants. They crowded the station, many of them barefoot and wearing djellabas, accompanied by wives and children, carrying boxes tied with string, wooden crates packed with chickens and pigeons.
Weaver stood behind the ticket barrier, wearing a linen suit loaned by one of Myers’s staff. The air was clammy with smells and stifling hot. The sergeant was by his side, sporting a blazer and flannels, his skull-cropped haircut covered by a Panama hat. The train for Cairo left in fifteen minutes, the one for Port Said an hour after. There was only one barrier through which all passengers had to pass to gain access to the platforms, and Weaver and the sergeant stood a short distance away from the uniformed Arab ticket inspector, but close enough to see the faces of everyone who passed through.
Weaver glanced at the station clock. The hands struck 2:00 p.m.
A long queue had formed and there were murmured protests from some of the European passengers, but the Arabs took the inconvenience in stride, used to mindless bureaucracy and delays. So far, the sergeant had spotted no one resembling the couple. Another checkpoint had been set up farther down the platform, out of view of the passengers, where two plainclothes MPs were double-checking the identity cards of everyone who was allowed through.
Weaver felt confident that if the
y spotted the couple they couldn’t escape.
It had been a manic rush to organize everything. He’d arrived only five minutes ago through the back way, changing into the borrowed clothes in one of the army trucks parked at the rear. Ten armed plainclothes men were posted around the station, six farther along the platforms, and another two dozen uniformed troops were holed up in the stationmaster’s office, if needed. Sanson had chosen to position himself outside the main entrance with two plainclothes MPs, ready to block any escape, and a couple of motorcycle riders were parked in a nearby side street, alongside a waiting ambulance and two doctors, in case there was shooting.
The station was a chaos of human traffic, which made the job all the more difficult. Weaver saw Myers and another plainclothes officer lounging against a pillar twenty yards away, smoking cigarettes and standing over a couple of battered suitcases, pretending to be waiting passengers. Myers looked over and Weaver shook his head. They had seen no suspects so far.
The sergeant touched Weaver’s arm. “There’s a couple about twenty feet from the barrier, sir—”
“Where?”
“The lady’s fair-haired, wearing a blue dress. The man with her’s wearing a light-colored jacket.”
Weaver tensed and glanced down the queue, trying not to make it obvious. He saw the couple. They looked like European refugees. The sergeant said, “They’re a bit far away to get a proper look, but there’s definitely a resemblance.”
“You’re not certain it’s them?”
“Well—no, sir. At this distance I couldn’t be sure. And the lady looks like she’s wearing a lot of makeup.”
Weaver knew that if it was the wrong couple and they approached them, it could jeopardize everything. Other passengers in the queue would see the incident, and if the real suspects were among them, they might smell trouble and slip out of the queue. Myers and his companion were waiting by the pillar in case that happened, but the queue was so congested and the station so busy, Weaver just hoped the strategy worked. He looked back at the couple. They had moved up in the queue, maybe fifteen feet away, and he avoided looking at them directly. “You still think there’s a resemblance?”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant answered.
“When they get near enough, move closer and try to get a better look. Be as discreet as you can.”
He gave a faint nod to Myers, waiting at the pillar. The captain tossed away his cigarette, said something to his companion, and they both got ready to move. Minutes later, the couple had almost reached the ticket inspector. Weaver saw the man produce a pair of tickets, and gripped the Colt in his pocket.
“Now,” he prompted the sergeant.
While the couple were busy with the inspector, the sergeant stepped closer. As he studied their faces, the woman looked up, saw him, and smiled disarmingly. The sergeant turned, came back, and shook his head. “Sorry about that, sir. It looked like the two I saw, but it’s definitely not them.”
“You’re very sure about that?”
“Certain.”
Weaver felt deflated. He looked over at Myers and shook his head, saw the captain relax.
He glanced at the station clock: 2:05.
Dozens more passengers, many of them Europeans, some military but mostly civilian, were still joining the end of the queue in the final rush to board. Weaver felt on edge and wiped his brow. The boiling afternoon heat that penetrated the packed station was overpowering, and the tension of waiting didn’t help. He guessed that if the Germans were out there, they’d try and leave it until the last minute, just before the carriages pulled out.
“Keep your eyes open,” he told the sergeant. “If they’re going to try and board, it’ll happen soon.”
2:00 P.M.
Halder stepped into the crowded station with Rachel on his arm. He looked around cautiously. The only soldiers he saw were obviously off duty, drinking beer at the Arab food stalls while they waited for their trains, others heading towards the platforms carrying kit bags over their shoulders.
“Everything looks normal enough, but you never can tell.” He led Rachel towards a timetable on a pillar near the ticket booths. “Achmed was right. Two-fifteen. We’ve got fifteen minutes before the train leaves. Think you could buy us a couple of tickets?”
“What if the train’s full?”
Halder smiled. “I think you’ll find a little baksheesh will work wonders.” He gave her some money. “Buy returns—they’re always less suspicious than singles. And don’t worry, I’ll be right here, watching.”
He waited as Rachel went to join the ticket queue. He noticed a young man in civilian clothes standing off to one side of the row of busy ticketing counters, idly reading a newspaper. Halder saw him glance over at Rachel a moment before he returned to reading his newspaper. Halder felt uneasy. The man might be military police, or he could simply be waiting for someone. It was hard to tell. He made no attempt to approach Rachel or anyone else in the ticket line, but his presence made Halder feel distinctly unsettled. The platforms were too far away for him to get a good look and see if there were any military checks in progress, and he didn’t want to leave Rachel alone. He looked at the station clock. It read five minutes past two.
Rachel came back with the tickets, and Halder said, “Any problems?”
“No. Two returns, like you asked.”
“Right, here goes. Keep your fingers crossed.”
He took her arm again and they walked towards the platforms. There was a long queue waiting in line for just one ticket barrier, which immediately aroused Halder’s suspicion. When he looked ahead he noticed two men in civilian clothes standing to one side of the barrier, near the uniformed Arab inspector. As one of the men lifted his Panama hat to wipe his brow, Halder froze. It took a second or two, but he recognized the sergeant from the station that morning.
“Bad luck. That’s all we need.”
He was just about to turn away when he noticed the face of the second man standing next to the sergeant. “My God, I don’t believe it.”
“What’s wrong?” Rachel asked.
Halder’s eyes were wild with disbelief, and he didn’t reply. Instead, he took a firm hold of Rachel’s arm, slipped out of the queue, and pulled her into the crowd.
41
* * *
Halder fought his way through the crowd towards the station food stalls, busy with a group of boisterous Australian soldiers. He bought two beers and they made their way to one of the upright tables. Rachel said, “What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Don’t look now,” Halder said hoarsely. “But there are two men in civilian clothes near the barrier. They’re plainclothes military and they’re looking for us.”
“How do you know?”
“One of them is the sergeant we sent on a wild-goose chase.”
Rachel was stricken. Halder said, “You’d better prepare yourself for another shock—the second man is Harry Weaver.”
For a moment she looked totally astonished, then she turned round sharply, looking towards the ticket barrier. It was a distance away, and Halder saw her try to focus. “Don’t stare. You’ll only attract attention,” he warned.
But Rachel was hardly listening. She had noticed the sergeant, standing near the ticket inspector, and from the look on her face she had recognized Harry Weaver instantly. He was looking a little older, and wearing a lightweight linen suit. He was too far away to notice them, preoccupied as he watched the passenger queue.
“Rachel—” Halder’s voice brought her back. She was completely stunned.
“I—I can’t believe it.”
Halder swallowed a mouthful of beer. “It’s certainly a small world, full of surprises. The kind of destiny the ancient Egyptians liked to believe in—meeting again in another life.”
Rachel made to look round again, but Halder caught her hand. “Don’t make it obvious. It’s Harry, all right, no question.”
“But—what’s he doing here?”
&n
bsp; “A good question. But I suppose it makes some kind of sense. He speaks reasonable Arabic, so it’s hardly surprising he’s serving in Egypt. At a guess, he’s probably military police or army intelligence.” He looked at her. Her face was still confused. “Are you all right?”
“It—it seems so unreal. Seeing him again in these circumstances. I don’t know what to think.”
“That makes two of us. And I’m pretty sure Harry would be surprised if he knew.”
Rachel seemed totally bewildered. “You don’t think he knows that it’s us he’s looking for?”
“I doubt it. How could he? But as much as I’ve always loved Harry’s company, I don’t think we ought to stick around for a chat.” He shook his head, added uneasily, “Whoever would have guessed? Harry and us on different sides of the fence at a time like this. It’s a frightening thought, and I’m not sure I like it very much. It makes you wonder if there’s someone up there pulling strings and laughing at us.”
Halder guessed she wanted to look back at Weaver one more time, but he reached across the table and gripped her hand. “We’re going to leave now. Better drink up—you’re going to need some Dutch courage. Seeing as Harry and the sergeant are in plainclothes, you can bet there are others close by, and they’re probably covering the exits, which could make things difficult. I spotted a man at the ticket booths earlier who looked suspicious. He’s probably one of Harry’s comrades.”
Rachel hadn’t touched her beer and Halder noticed that her hands were shaking. “Are you sure you’ll be OK?”
“I think so.”
“If anyone tries to stop us, let me do the talking. But be ready to move if I tell you.”
“You don’t give up easily, do you, Jack?”
“I never could see the point.” He forced a smile, took off his jacket, and loosened his tie. Then he slipped the revolver from his pocket and put it under his jacket.
“What happens if Harry and his friend should come after us?”
