by Glenn Meade
“You’re absolutely sure they’re deserters, not enemy agents?”
“Certain. I questioned them myself, sir. Their stories checked out.”
Weaver looked out at the darkened road. The traffic was backed up for almost a quarter of a mile, headlights on as darkness settled in, horns blaring irritably as the traffic inched forward at a snail’s pace towards the barriers. Army motorcycle riders drove up and down the two lanes, making sure no one tried to make a run for it. Ahead, fires flickered in the hillside villages around the city, while behind him the desert road to Cairo grew darker by the minute. More horns blared and angry shouts filled the dusk.
“They’re getting bloody impatient,” Myers commented.
“Tough.” Weaver strode towards the barriers. “Let’s see how the men are doing.”
7:20 P.M.
The road was in chaos as Hassan sat in the Packard. It had taken him over two hours to reach the outskirts of Alex, driving as fast as he dared. Now the traffic ahead was bumper to bumper, and he’d joined the queue a hundred yards back. The army was searching every vehicle. He knew it meant they hadn’t found the Germans yet, or at least not all of them. The truck ahead of him, laden with a cargo of melons, inched forward. He slipped into gear and moved up in the line. There was an arc light blazing at the checkpoint barrier, and he jolted with shock.
He noticed two officers, one British, one American, striding towards the barrier. The American who led the way was the intelligence officer he had encountered at the apartment.
Weaver.
Hassan swore and slammed his fist on the steering wheel. The American was unlikely to forget the face of someone who had tried to kill him—they had seen each other close up. He rubbed his jaw. The bruising hadn’t completely gone away, more proof if Weaver needed it, so there was a chance he might be recognized, despite his disguise. Hassan thought frantically. He knew the risk was too great, and he made the decision instantly. He had to get away. He started to swing the Packard out of the line, ready to turn round and head back towards Cairo. An armed military policeman on a motorcycle roared past, and screeched to a halt.
“Oi! You! Where do you think you’re going, mate?”
Hassan shrugged. “The road’s too slow and I have an important business appointment. I must go another route.”
“Not bloody likely. There’s a search in progress. You stay in line, understand?”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
The military policeman glared back, then roared off. Hassan sat there, trying not to panic, but his heart was racing. If he tried to flee, he risked being shot before he had moved a hundred yards. He had no option but to stay in the queue. But if Weaver recognized him, he was finished.
He sweated in the clammy heat of the car, and five endless minutes later he was only one vehicle away from the head of the queue. The truck in front moved forward to be searched, then one of the soldiers beckoned Hassan to take its place.
He was next.
He saw Weaver still at the barrier, his hands on his hips as he watched the soldiers swarm over the truck. But just as Hassan was about to move ahead, the American looked up, past the truck, and stared at the Packard.
Hassan shifted back into the shadows and swore to himself, unsure if he had been recognized. There was no way out. He reached into the glove compartment and removed the ivory-handled knife. Tarik was dead and the American had a debt to pay. He felt the anger well inside him. He made up his mind to kill Weaver and take his chances trying to escape, if it came to it. If he could smash through the barrier and flee towards the outskirts of Alex he stood a chance—the Packard was faster and more powerful than any army vehicle that would pursue him.
The soldier beckoned him again. “Come on, mate. Move it, move it!”
Hassan shifted into gear and inched the car forward.
7:20 P.M.
Weaver was growing tired and impatient. He watched as a corporal examined the identity papers of an Egyptian truck driver, while one of his men climbed in to inspect the cabin. Another looked under the chassis with a flashlight, and two more climbed on the back to search through the cargo of melons.
Halder and Rachel had to be somewhere in the city, but more than likely they were trying to get out. With so many checkpoints and searches, Weaver reasoned, they couldn’t have escaped. His gut instinct told him they had to be out there, somewhere in the long queue of traffic, trying to flee, and probably in disguise with false papers, which was why he wanted to be present to identify them.
And then what? Weaver didn’t want to think about that.
But at least he might have a chance of convincing Halder to surrender peacefully, before anyone else got hurt. He sighed with frustration and looked back at the traffic waiting to enter the city.
A big, dark American Packard was next in the queue. A private beckoned for the driver to move up in line and take the truck’s place, but he hesitated. Weaver strained to see the driver, but he moved back into the shadows.
The private waved again. “Come on, mate. Move it, move it!”
The Packard finally crept forward, the driver’s face still hidden.
Weaver approached the car, faintly suspicious.
An engine roared.
Weaver spun round and saw a Jeep speeding towards the barrier, from the direction of the city. It drove on the rim of the road, tilted at an angle, the outside wheels running on sand. Someone was trying to make a break for it.
He wrenched out his pistol, was about to aim when he recognized Sanson in the passenger seat. The Jeep screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust.
“I almost shot you.”
“Get in,” Sanson said urgently. He called Myers over. “Follow us, and bring a radio operator.”
“What’s up?” Weaver demanded.
“We’ve hit pay dirt, that’s what. The police got an anonymous tip-off. There’s a suspicious couple in a brothel near the seafront. I’ve got two squads on their way to surround the place—there’s no way they can escape. If we put our skates on, we can be there in ten minutes.”
Weaver jumped into the back of the Jeep. It swung round and roared away.
• • •
Hassan let out a sigh of relief as Weaver sped off. He was certain the American had spotted him, but he’d been saved by the arrival of the British officer. He looked familiar, and Hassan remembered where he’d seen him. One of the men who had burst into the apartment to rescue Weaver.
If both of them were involved in the hunt, how much did they know? That worried Hassan even more. Something else struck him: the way they had driven off in such a terrible hurry. Perhaps they had found the Germans? Hassan licked the hollows in his gums, remembered Tarik, and a powerful desire for revenge for what the American had done raged inside him.
“Out of the car, sir, and let’s be having your papers,” a sergeant ordered.
Hassan climbed out. The sergeant examined his papers carefully, as a couple of soldiers checked inside the car and opened the trunk.
“Your business in Alex, sir?”
“I’m visiting my father. He’s very ill.” If he’d been wearing a djellaba instead of a suit, and driving a donkey cart instead of the Packard, Hassan knew the sergeant wouldn’t have shown him such courtesy. “The car’s clean, Sarge, but I found this.” A corporal handed over the knife. “A pretty dangerous weapon,” the sergeant remarked, and raised his eyes, waiting for an explanation.
Hassan shrugged, confident he was safe. “I’m a businessman. I’m sure you know how it is, Sergeant. In Egypt, a man like myself must protect himself from hoodlums and thieves.”
The sergeant didn’t seem to doubt it for a minute. He handed Hassan back his knife.
“May I inquire why all this searching?”
“No, sir, you may not. Move on, please.” Hassan got back into the car and started the engine. On the long stretch of desert road up ahead, he saw the taillights of Weaver’s Jeep, and the second one behind it, racing towards the c
ity. Deacon had told him to find the policeman. But a thought sparked in Hassan’s head.
He had a better idea.
47
* * *
7:30 P.M.
Halder was woken by the sound of traffic. It was dark outside, a wash of moonlight filtering into the room through the open shutters. When he put out his hand for Rachel, she wasn’t there. He reached for the revolver under the pillow, climbed out of bed, and was about to flick on the light when he saw her sitting in a cane chair near the window. “You gave me a fright—for a moment there, I thought you’d gone.” He relaxed, saw the Baedeker lying open on her knees. “What are you doing?”
“Thinking.”
He kissed her forehead. “I thought you wanted to sleep.”
“I decided to have a look at the guidebook. There are a couple of routes we hadn’t considered.”
“Such as?”
“The harbor, for one. From there, we could make it to Rashid and on to Cairo.” She handed him the book. “See for yourself.”
Halder slipped the revolver into his trouser belt and turned on the light. He glanced at the book before putting it aside, shaking his head. “You can bet Harry and his friends will have the harbor covered. Besides, it’s too slow a route, and there’s nowhere to run to once you’re out on the open sea.”
“The book says there’s an airfield.”
“Two, actually. But how do we get past the guards?”
“You’ve got a military ID. You bluff your way in, and we hitch a ride.”
“It’s not that easy, Rachel. Even if we manage to get anywhere near an aircraft, there are all sorts of complications. They’d probably want to verify my military ID before they let us board, or they could already have been alerted in case we tried something like that.”
“But we can’t just sit here and wait to be caught. We have to do something.” A note of desperation crept into her voice.
“The desert is still our best bet. Probably our only one.”
“And how do we steal transport?”
“Leave that to me.” He took her hand and pulled her up beside him, cupped her face in one of his palms. “Do you have any regrets about what happened between us?”
She shook her head, and then he saw tears at the edges of her eyes. “Do you want to know the truth?”
“Tell me.”
“I could never make up my mind between you and Harry. You see, I loved you both.”
“And now?”
She bit her lip and seemed distracted, on the verge of tears again, and then her arms went around his neck and she pulled him close. When they kissed, she put her head against his chest, clutching him tightly. He held her for a long time, until she said, “It’s so quiet up here.”
“Maybe they’ve forgotten about us.”
“A while ago I thought I heard someone out on the landing. Maybe we should look?”
“Let’s hope our friend Safa kept her end of the bargain. I’d hate to think what might happen if she didn’t.”
As Halder went towards the door, they heard a screech of tires. He flicked off the bedroom light and crossed to the window. Half a dozen army trucks had drawn up in the street below, dozens of soldiers climbing down, unslinging their rifles. He came away from the window, his face taut.
“It looks like we’ve got company.” He took out his pistol. “Get dressed, quickly.”
They heard banging on the door, and a voice roared, “Open up! Military police.”
Halder froze. A split second later there was more pounding, and another voice shouted, “Come out with your hands up—you’re surrounded!”
In their panic, it took them a moment to realize that the noise hadn’t come from outside their door, but through the open window, from one of the landings in the buildings directly opposite. Halder looked out and Rachel joined him. Soldiers and police were coming from all directions. A Jeep had pulled up and Harry Weaver was in the back. He climbed down, accompanied by the British intelligence officer, Sanson, whom Halder had shot at the station. The man’s right hand was heavily bandaged. Both men raced up the steps of the building across the street.
“What’s going on?” Rachel asked.
“Either they’ve gone to the wrong address, or it’s not us they’re after.”
They waited anxiously, then came the crash of splintering wood from one of the landings opposite, like the sound of a door being kicked in. Five minutes later they saw Weaver and Sanson come out of the building. There was a buzz of activity as half a dozen military policemen followed them out, escorting a tall, blond young man and an Arab woman. They had their hands on their heads, and were bundled into one of the trucks and driven off.
Weaver and Sanson stayed outside on the steps, talking earnestly for several minutes, until Sanson strode over to his Jeep, climbed in, and it drove away. They saw Harry Weaver remain behind, looking totally frustrated. He glanced up and down the street, towards the busy café, studying the scene. Then his eyes moved up to the windows of the buildings around him, as if he were considering something, before he strode over to a uniformed British captain sitting in another Jeep. He seemed to be arguing with the officer.
Halder stepped back into the shadows and pulled Rachel after him. “I’m afraid Harry looks like he’s under stress. And I didn’t like the look on his face—he’s up to something.”
“What was all that business about across the street?”
Halder heard an engine start up and looked out of the window again. Weaver had climbed back into the Jeep, and it moved off, its red taillights disappearing up the street.
“By the looks of it, they’ve arrested the wrong couple. Harry’s gone for now, but if he decides to search the area, it won’t be long before someone knocks on our door.” He turned back to Rachel. “As they say in American movies—it’s time to get out of Dodge City.”
• • •
“Why weren’t all the brothels checked?” Weaver demanded angrily.
He was in Myers’s Jeep, speeding towards the city center. The captain blushed. “Well, sir, some of them are popular with our senior brass. It wouldn’t do to go barging in and—”
Weaver cut him off, furious. “How many?”
“I—I couldn’t rightly say, sir—probably no more than half a dozen. Besides, a bordello didn’t seem a likely refuge for a couple.”
Weaver gritted his teeth in frustration. Sanson had gone to oversee the checkpoints. The couple they’d arrested had turned out to be a German deserter who’d escaped from a POW camp and a prostitute he’d befriended. Weaver had stood in the street afterwards, looking up at the shabby buildings. The red-light district was an ideal hiding place, a maze of back alleyways seething with European refugees lodging in its run-down hotels and flophouses. Which was why, when he strode back to Myers, he’d asked if every hotel and brothel in the area had been checked, just to be certain.
“No, sir,” Myers had reluctantly admitted.
Now that Weaver had heard the explanation, he exploded. “Stop the lousy car,” he ordered the driver. The man pulled into the curb and Weaver rounded angrily on the captain. “Find out exactly how many were ignored, and fast. Get on the radio. And I don’t give a fig how many generals are caught with their pants down.”
“Yes—yes, sir.” Myers switched on the radio, picked up the hand mike, put the receiver to his ear, and spoke for several minutes on the crackling set. “There are only five we didn’t search, sir.”
“Where the heck are they?” Weaver demanded.
“One’s near the docks area, another’s back at the Corniche. The other three are in the suburbs of San Stefano and Sidi Bishr. Most of them are high-class establishments with European girls.” Myers blushed again. “I’d still suggest we don’t go kicking in any doors, sir. It could upset any brass who might be visiting, and there’ll be hell to pay.”
“That’s my worry, not yours. We’ll take the docks and Corniche first, they’re the nearest.” Weaver tapped the driver on the
shoulder. “Get moving.”
7:50 P.M.
Hassan sweated as he drove the Packard through the narrow streets. He’d lost Weaver twice as the army vehicles sped towards the city, then found him again in the suburbs. Five minutes later he saw Weaver’s driver enter the red-light area and turn down a back street lined with military trucks, troops everywhere. Hassan pulled a sharp left into the curb and hit the brakes.
It appeared that some sort of raid was in progress. Dozens of soldiers and police had cordoned off the street. Weaver and the officer with the eye patch disappeared into a building, and came out a short time later, followed by a group of MPs guarding a man and a woman with their hands on their heads. The couple were bundled into the back of a truck and driven off.
Hassan swore. They had obviously found two of the Germans.
He saw Weaver walk back towards the Jeep and argue with a captain. Hassan was trying to figure out what was going on when an Egyptian policeman came over.
“You’ll have to move on, sir.”
“What’s happening here, officer?”
The policeman took in Hassan’s suit, the American car, and seemed to consider that he was someone of importance. He saluted. “We caught a German deserter,” he said proudly.
Hassan frowned. “It seems a lot of fuss for a deserter.”
The policeman simply shrugged. “I’m afraid you’ll have to move on, sir.”
Hassan saw Weaver climb into his Jeep again and drive off in a different direction to the truck. He couldn’t understand what was going on. If they had found two of the Germans, why hadn’t Weaver followed the prisoners? He started the car and tried one last time with the policeman. “Who was the woman you arrested?”
“The deserter’s girlfriend. A local sharmoota. Move on now, sir.”
A prostitute. Hassan grinned and understood. No wonder Weaver looked angry. The army had obviously got the wrong couple. He reversed out of the alley, shifted into forward gear, and drove after Weaver’s Jeep.
