by Glenn Meade
Halder’s face tightened with anxiety. “Save me the thought. It’s bad enough I’m up against the closest friend I ever had. The last thing in the world I’d want is for Harry and me to have to face each other in a showdown. So nice and easy does it, and stay close to me.”
• • •
As they moved back into the crowd, Halder squeezed her hand.
“Once we make it outside, we’ll try to head back towards the promenade.”
“You mean if we make it.”
“Remember that old Arab saying? To survive, you have to laugh in the face of despair. If we look desperate, we’re dead. So just try to act perfectly calm and normal, even if we’re stopped.” He shot a quick glance back over his shoulder, but there was no sign of Harry Weaver or the sergeant following them. He steered Rachel towards the station exit, looming ahead through the mob of passengers. “This is it. Here we go.”
The walk towards the exit seemed to take an eternity. Bodies milled past them in either direction, and as they pushed their way through, Halder anxiously watched the crowd for any sign of danger, but they reached the exit doors without anyone stopping them. He paused before they stepped out, trying to scan the busy square outside the station. Buses were lined up on the curb, but he didn’t see any parked military vehicles. The pavement was too packed to get a proper look, but he noticed no one who looked as if he might be plainclothes military or police. The two Egyptian traffic cops he’d seen earlier were still there, chatting and smoking, totally uninterested in anything happening around them. Directly across the square was a maze of back alleyways, the entrance to a teeming bazaar.
“That’s where we’re headed,” he told Rachel. “Everything seems normal enough. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
Halder tightened his grip on the revolver under his jacket. “Keep your fingers crossed. And remember, if anyone stops us, let me handle it.”
They pushed into the crowds pouring through the station’s massive floor-to-ceiling doors, and stepped out on to Ramleh Square. Out of the corner of his eye, Halder noticed a tall, well-built man in civilian clothes near the station wall. He had a patch over his left eye and a livid scar on his jaw. Halder knew instinctively that the man was watching the crowds entering and leaving the station, and he saw him stare over in their direction. He felt his pulse race; he had no option but to keep moving.
They’d hardly gone a dozen paces when a voice said from behind, “Excuse me, sir, madam.”
Halder turned. His heart sank. It was the man with the eye patch.
2:15 P.M.
Weaver was getting frustrated. So far, the sergeant had spotted no one else resembling the man and woman. The train for Cairo was ready to leave the platform, whistles sounding and the flag men moving up and down the carriages, slamming doors. As the ticket inspector hurried the last passenger through, the sergeant said, “We’re not having much luck, are we, sir?”
“I guess not.” Weaver called Myers over. “The couple still might turn up. You’d better keep the men posted. When does the train for Port Said leave?”
“In an hour, sir. And the next one for Cairo at six.”
“Tell your men to take turns having a break, but to keep watching the local arrivals and departures.”
“You want me to tell Lieutenant Colonel Sanson, sir?”
Weaver shook his head and loosened his tie, feeling totally despondent. The station was stifling hot and he needed air, and a break from the milling crowds. “No, I’ll tell him myself.”
• • •
Halder was trying to decide whether to shoot the man with the eye patch when another burly figure in plainclothes joined him. He spotted a third man in civilian clothes positioned near the entrance, watching the proceedings as he had his shoes polished by a shoeshine boy. He guessed the men were military police or intelligence. The bazaar was only fifty meters across the square, but too far to make a run for it without the risk of being shot.
“May I see your papers, sir?” the man with the eye patch said briskly. His comrade stood beside him, a bulge under his open jacket, one hand on his waistband, ready to move.
Halder tried to look affronted as he regarded the two men. “Who the devil are you?”
“Lieutenant Colonel Sanson, military intelligence.” Eye Patch showed his ID.
Halder said calmly, “Well, in that case, sure.” He handed over his ID wallet.
Sanson said, “You, too, madam, if you don’t mind.”
Rachel fumbled in her bag and offered her papers. Sanson scrutinized both sets of documents, as carefully as a bank clerk might study bills he believed to be counterfeit, taking his time as he studied the photographs, then rubbing his thumb on the print. Finally, he looked up, and Halder saw the suspicion in his face. “Were you about to board a train, sir?”
“Why do you ask?” Halder sounded irritated.
“I noticed you both enter the station ten minutes ago. Now you’ve come out again. I wondered if there was any reason you might have changed your mind about traveling.”
“Listen, buddy, we got off the train from Cairo earlier. My lady friend here realized she mislaid one of her bags. Now it turns out it’s been lost, and we’ll be lucky to get the darned thing back.” Halder tried to sound suitably upset. “But that’s the Egyptian rail service for you. Pretty useless.”
Sanson gave a brief, cold smile. “Your papers say you’re an American and your name’s Paul Mallory.”
“What about it?”
Sanson seemed unsure of something as he looked Halder up and down. “You mind me asking why you’re not serving in the military, sir?”
“I hardly think that’s any of your business.”
“I could make it my business.”
“If you must know, a medical condition ruled me out. There’s a document in my ID wallet to state that fact. Now, how about you telling me what’s up here?”
Sanson found the medical document in the wallet, examined it. Then he studied them both again, still suspicious. “May I ask the purpose of your visit to Alex?”
“I’m an archeologist, lecturing with the American University in Cairo.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“The chief curator of the Alex Museum invited us to examine some artifacts discovered recently near Rashid.” Halder smiled. “But I guess it’s really an excuse to visit old friends.” He could see that Sanson still wasn’t convinced. In desperation, he tried his last card. “In fact, we just bumped into one in the station. Harry Weaver. Seeing as you’re in the same line of work, I take it you know him?”
Sanson raised his eye. “You’re friends of Lieutenant Colonel Weaver’s?”
“Harry and me go way back.”
Sanson appeared to relax. “I see. You’re German-Jewish, Miss Tauber?”
“Yes.”
“Might I ask what exactly your relationship is to this gentleman?”
“We’re colleagues. I’m an archeologist also.”
Sanson handed back their papers. “I won’t detain you any longer. Thank you, madam. And you, sir.”
Halder slipped his papers inside his pocket. “You still haven’t said what all the fuss is about.”
“There’s a major security operation in progress,” Sanson answered simply. “Or didn’t Lieutenant Colonel Weaver tell you?”
Halder smiled. “Not a word, but then that’s Harry for you. Always plays his cards close to his chest.” The smile vanished as he looked past Sanson and froze as Harry Weaver came out through the station doors. He looked away sharply.
“Is something the matter?” Sanson asked.
“Nothing.” Halder forced a smile. “I think we’ve delayed enough. Good day. This way, my dear.”
He held tightly on to Rachel’s arm, started to cross the square towards the bazaar, but he knew they were already too late. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Harry Weaver stop dead in his tracks as he came towards Sanson. There was a look of incomprehension on his face, as
if he had seen the dead get up and walk. He stared at them open-mouthed, his eyes falling on Rachel, and his face went chalk white.
It happened quickly. Sanson registered their reactions, sensing that something was wrong, but in an instant Halder pulled out his revolver.
Sanson stepped back, fumbling for his gun. “Bloody h—!”
Halder shot him in the hand and the big Englishman staggered back, clutching his wound. The square erupted with screams as people ran for cover, and the area around them cleared almost instantly. Sanson’s comrade already had his gun out, but Halder fired first, hitting him in the shoulder, and the man screamed in pain and went down. As the plainclothes man near the station entrance tried to get off a shot, Halder fired twice again, punching him back against the wall.
Harry barely reacted. He was still in shock, looking from Jack to Rachel in utter disbelief. Halder raised his gun, aimed at him, but still Weaver didn’t move, and then Halder broke the spell and grasped Rachel’s arm.
“Move!” And they ran across the square towards the bazaar.
42
* * *
They ran through the bazaar’s maze of narrow streets, Halder frantically pushing people out of their way, knocking over merchants’ stalls.
It was a nightmare.
In the packed market, bodies pressed in on them, and it was bedlam as they tried to keep moving. Ten minutes later they had left the bustling alleyways behind and the human traffic had thinned out. Halder slowed to a brisk walking pace, both of them out of breath. He constantly checked over his shoulder but saw no one pursuing them, although he knew it wouldn’t last.
Moments later his dread was justified.
The high-pitched whine of a motorcycle approached. He pulled Rachel into a foul-smelling lane. “Don’t move. Stay absolutely still.”
An MP motorcycle rider roared by, followed by another. Halder waited until they had driven past, then peered out into the alleyway. He wiped a mask of sweat from his face. “I think we’ve given them the slip for now. But we can’t stay here. Take my arm, like we’re out for a stroll.”
They left the lane and eventually found their way once more into busy back streets, heading towards the seafront, and ten minutes later came out on to the Corniche. Halder saw no sign of the checkpoint they’d seen earlier, and he led Rachel to one of the benches on the promenade.
He saw the strain on her face. “We can’t stay here for long. And the longer we hang around in broad daylight, the more likely we are to get caught.”
“What can we do?”
“You can bet Harry and his friends will seal off every exit road after what’s happened, so it’s pointless even trying to make it to Rashid. Once it’s dark we’ll have to try and slip out of the city, across the desert. It’s about the only hope we have.”
“Why Rashid?”
“I forgot. You didn’t know.” He explained about the boat. “It was meant to be a bolthole in case we ran into trouble. Except it’s not much use to us now.”
“But you said trying to cross the desert would be suicidal.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have much choice.” He consulted the map. “If we could steal a suitable vehicle, a truck maybe, and find a gap in the army cordon, we might get lucky. They can hardly surround the entire city. It’s too sprawling, and they just wouldn’t have the manpower. So there’s bound to be a gap or two somewhere. The problem is finding one.”
“And what happens in the meantime?”
“We’ll need somewhere secure to stay until tonight, while we work things out.” Halder stood, looked down at her. She looked very vulnerable and childlike.
“I’m sorry, Rachel. Sorry you ever got involved in this mess.”
“What—what happened back at the station with Harry, I still can’t quite believe it. It’s like a nightmare. I’m still shaking inside.”
He put a hand gently to her face, with a sober look that suggested he was trying to contain his own emotions. “Me, too. But let’s not talk about it now. Please.”
Across the sunny Corniche an endless line of hotels, lodging houses, and brothels stretched down the curve of the seafront. The buildings were very British, late Victorian and with steps leading up, but most were run-down and in need of repair.
Rachel looked over at them. “The army’s bound to search the hotels and lodging houses. Nowhere’s going to be safe.”
Halder forced a valiant smile. “True.” The smile vanished and his face became more serious. “But I have an idea. It’s a bit drastic, and probably our only hope, but it just might work if we can both endure the embarrassment.”
• • •
It was hard to believe that Gabrielle Pirou had once been one of the most desired women in Marseilles. Her sixty-year-old face was heavily rouged, her lips were a slash of red lipstick, some of it smeared on her teeth, and she walked with a pronounced limp. The only reminder of her past beauty was her slim figure and her sensuous Mediterranean eyes, but even they had become corrupted with age, witness to every sexual vice imaginable.
The French toy poodle clasped to her ample bosom yapped as Gabrielle clicked her fingers, assembling her girls in front of the group of men who stood around the brothel salon. “Quiet, Donny, mon chéri,” she admonished the dog. “Can’t you see the gentlemen are trying to make up their minds?”
The “gentlemen” in question were four Allied officers who had dropped in after a bout of drinking in a local bar. The “girls” were a mixture of European and Arab, some in harem dress, low-cut sequined tops and loose, see-through pants, others wearing pencil skirts and revealing blouses. All were very pretty, two were exquisitely beautiful, and every one of them oozed sex. They smiled and giggled at the officers and playfully displayed their bodies, hinting at what could be enjoyed in the bedrooms upstairs.
“Well, gentlemen, aren’t you very glad you visited? The ladies are trés enchanting, n’est-ce pas?” Gabrielle still spoke with a heavy accent, her sentences sprinkled with her native French. She flicked ash from her ivory cigarette holder, some of it landing on her blouse and her poodle.
The British officer standing beside her coughed politely. “Yes—yes they are, rather.”
“And all are positively clean, I promise you. The doctor comes once a month.” Gabrielle smiled mischievously. “He’s a fastidious man, the doctor, absolutely fanatical about hygiene, so I’m certain discerning gentlemen like yourselves can rest assured.”
The officers smiled nervously. They were certainly a little drunk, but more than polite. Gabrielle always preferred officers to enlisted men; they usually didn’t drink themselves legless, argue the price, or abuse the girls, not like some of the enlisted soldiers, who behaved like drunken savages, so she wanted to give her customers the best of attention and ensure their return. A French officer, middle-aged and overweight, cleared his throat and whispered, “Would madam have two ladies available?” Gabrielle smiled charmingly, glad to double her profit. Whatever the customer wanted, she provided. “But of course, whatever monsieur wishes. Madam Pirou caters to every desire.”
The officers began to pair off with the girls, moving to sit in the comfortable red velvet chairs scattered around the pleasantly decorated salon. Gabrielle relaxed, her work done.
She had come to Alex twenty years ago to open her own salon, far from her brutish French pimp who’d left her a cripple. Now she was madame of one of the best, a deluxe brothel along the seafront, with a reputation for catering to a discerning clientele. And it had proved extremely profitable, especially since the war. Battle-weary troops, hot-blooded and missing wives and girlfriends, panted for sex and company. Business was positively booming.
The doorbell rang out in the hallway. Gabrielle clutched her poodle, gave a regal wave to one of the girls, and hobbled out of the room. “I’ll attend to the door, Suzette. Pour some refreshments for the gentlemen. Champagne if they wish. See they’re treated royally before the ladies take them upstairs.”
• • •
When she opened the front door, she received a mild surprise. It wasn’t often a couple visited her salon, but it was by no means unusual. A man and a woman stood on the steps. They were a handsome pair, and she smiled politely. “Can I help you?” The man looked apprehensive. “A friend suggested we visit your establishment.”
Gabrielle thought: L’amour is never simple. Occasionally, adventurous Bohemian couples liked to indulge in a threesome with one of her girls. Usually they were either rich, the husband sexually bored, or the wife had lesbian tendencies, and sometimes all three. This couple didn’t look rich, just anxious, but so long as they could pay and didn’t harm the girls, they could play whatever bedroom games they wished.
“Please, step inside. We’re rather busy this afternoon. I’m not sure you can be accommodated right away.”
Gabrielle led them into a lounge off the hall, brightly decorated with several vases of flowers and tasteful, erotic Arab wall prints. She looked at the woman. Very pretty, but a little too much makeup. She prided herself on her judgment of human nature, and usually the eyes told her everything she needed to know, but this one she couldn’t figure out at all. Her eyes were unfathomable. The man’s were easier to read: honest enough, and he had the look of a military man, despite his civilian clothes.
“Don’t be afraid to tell Madam Pirou what it is you desire.” Gabrielle offered a friendly smile, anxious to make the couple feel at ease. “We cater to all tastes. So long as one can pay.”
It was a gentle question, not a statement, and the man nodded. “Of course.”
“And how can madam help you?”
The man faltered, still uneasy, but definitely trying to hide it. “We’d like to spend the evening with a discerning lady. A private room, of course.”
“Ah, something to add a little spice to your love life?” Gabrielle raised her eyes. “But that’s a rather long time.”
“Money isn’t a problem.”
Gabrielle brightened at the prospect of a handsome profit. “Then I’m certain we can accommodate madame and monsieur. One of my most pleasant young ladies will be available shortly. She is very comfortable in such situations—trés sensitive and rather beautiful. Unless, of course, you would prefer to choose a different girl?”
