by Glenn Meade
They were dimmed with blue paint because of the blackout regulations, and when Weaver flicked on the beams, they hardly made a difference.
Halder leaned forward, looked left and right. “Head towards the sea. Keep your speed down, unless I tell you otherwise.”
“How about telling me what’s going on?”
“We’ll leave the talk until later. Just concentrate on driving.”
Weaver swung left and eventually came to a junction with the Corniche. Across the street, the Mediterranean shimmered in the moonlight. An open army truck sped past along the seafront, dozens of armed troops standing in the back, followed by several Jeeps.
“Wait! Keep your foot off the pedal,” Halder ordered.
The vehicles pulled up outside Madam Pirou’s, men climbing down and taking up positions on the street.
“It looks like we got out just in time.” Halder checked left and right. “OK, the road’s clear. Pull out and turn right.”
When Weaver hesitated, Halder pushed the pistol into his ribs. “You heard me, Harry. Do it.”
Weaver turned right, along the Corniche. “Where am I supposed to be going?”
“Just continue east out of the city. That’s all you need to know for now.”
They drove on in silence along the seafront, the tension in the car unbearable. Weaver glanced across at Rachel. She looked at him.
“Keep your eyes on the road,” Halder intervened.
“You’ll never make it out of Alex alive. Surrender, Jack, it’s your only chance.”
“We have an ace, remember.”
“And what’s that?”
“You, Harry. You’re going to get us out of this mess.”
• • •
Up ahead, they all saw a barrier strung across the road, several MPs and Egyptian policemen with rifles and machine guns manning the blockade. A military truck was parked on the footpath, a radio operator sitting on the back running board.
Halder tensed. “I guess this is the acid test. When we get close, explain who you are and show your ID. Tell them you’re making a checkpoint inspection. If anyone asks any questions, we’re with you, and you’re in a hurry. Think you can manage that?”
“And if I don’t?”
“There’ll be shooting, and we’re all in trouble. But somehow I don’t think you want that.”
Weaver flicked a glance at Rachel. She looked frightened, and touched his hand. “Please, Harry. Just do as he says.”
Moments later they were at the checkpoint and Weaver eased the Citroën to a halt. A sergeant came forward and flashed a flashlight in their faces. Weaver rolled down the window and the sergeant saluted.
“Sorry, sir, but we’ll have to check your vehicle and papers.” He looked in at the passengers. “Yours too, sir, madam.”
Weaver handed across his ID. “Lieutenant Colonel Weaver, military intelligence. I’m overseeing this operation. Have you anything to report?”
The sergeant examined Weaver’s ID under the light, handed it back, and snapped to attention. “Sorry, sir. Nothing.”
“Are you stopping every vehicle and pedestrian?”
“Yes, sir, civilian and military, exactly as we were ordered.”
Weaver jerked a thumb at Rachel and Halder. “These people are with me, there’s no need to check their documents. We’re in a hurry.”
The sergeant looked in at the passengers. For a second or two he hesitated, as if unsure about something, then Weaver said, “Get a move on with the barrier, Sergeant. I’ve got more checkpoint inspections to make and I haven’t got all night.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I have orders to examine every passenger’s documents—”
“Of course you have. Those were my orders. Now do as I say.”
“Yes, sir. Very good, sir.” The sergeant saluted and ordered his men to move the barrier. Weaver drove through. When he looked in the rearview mirror he saw the sergeant stare after the Citroën, scratching his jaw, before he strode over to the radio operator sitting at the back of the truck.
Halder let out a breath. “You did well, Harry. Let’s just hope our luck holds.”
“What now?” Weaver asked grimly.
“Take the next turning for Rashid.”
8:10 P.M.
The seafront bristled with troops, and Sanson climbed briskly out of his Jeep and went over to a corporal with a Sten gun hanging from his shoulder. “Sanson, Intelligence. What’s happening?”
“We only just got here ourselves, sir. We tried knocking on the door but got no reply.”
Sanson looked up at the building. The lights were out and it appeared deserted. “You’re certain this is the place?”
“Positive, sir.”
“Where’s Lieutenant Colonel Weaver?”
“He went looking for a back way in.”
“When?”
“About five minutes ago.”
Sanson called over an officer and flashed his ID. “I’m taking charge. Get a couple of dozen men round the back—I want the alleyways sealed off.”
“I believe Captain Myers and some men went round the back a few minutes ago, sir, looking for Lieutenant Colonel Weaver.”
“Have they got a radio?”
“No, sir.”
“Then send some more men after them and find out what the bloody heck’s going on. Make certain both ends of the street are blocked off, front and back—no one gets in or out. And find Lieutenant Colonel Weaver.”
“Yes, sir.”
The officer was about to turn away when light showed through the glass above the hall door, and the corporal said to Sanson, “Something’s happening, sir.”
“Tell the men to take positions. No one’s to shoot unless I give the order. Pass it on.”
The officer barked the order and soldiers raced for cover, readied their weapons. Sanson bounded up the steps to the front entrance, drawing his pistol, a couple of men behind him. They positioned themselves on either side of the door. A moment later came the rattle of bolts.
“Is that you, Weaver?” Sanson called out. “Are you in there?”
The door began to open very slowly and an elderly woman appeared. Her face was a mask of smudged lipstick and rouge, and her mouth dropped when she saw the array of weapons pointed at her.
“Oh, my Lord! Please don’t shoot!” she screamed.
“Put your bloody hands in the air, where I can see them, and don’t try anything,” Sanson roared.
Behind the woman, a man’s voice said, “Don’t shoot, for pete’s sake!”
Myers appeared, a couple of infantrymen behind him. Sanson frowned as he lowered his gun, then he exploded. “What the devil’s going on? Where’s Weaver?”
“We got in the back way, sir. It seems he’s disappeared.”
8:15 P.M.
Sanson stormed into the garage and out through the double doors. The back street was crowded with soldiers, sealing off the area. He came back into the garage. “You’re absolutely certain Lieutenant Colonel Weaver came this way?”
Gabrielle Pirou nodded. “When he heard the couple took my car keys, he went after them.”
Sanson kicked one of the doors furiously, his face livid. “What’s the license number of your car?”
She told him, and a fuming Sanson said to an NCO nearby, “Get on the radio and alert every patrol and checkpoint. Give them the license number and tell them to be on the lookout for a black Citroën with three passengers. The car’s got to be stopped no matter what.”
Myers stumbled in through the garage doors, out of breath, and saluted. “I questioned the people in the café across the street like you said, sir.”
“Well? Spit it out, man!”
“The owner claims he saw someone drive out in Madam Pirou’s Citroën no more than a few minutes ago. He thinks there were three people inside, a woman and two men. A uniformed officer was behind the wheel. From the description I got, it sounds like Lieutenant Colonel Weaver.”
50
* * *
9:00 P.M.
The ancient fishing port of Rashid lay just over twenty miles east of Alexandria. Built on the marshlands of the Nile delta, dominated by the conquering Turks in the fifteenth century, and bombarded by the French during Napoleon’s campaign, the port and its broad estuary had been of strategic importance ever since the time of the pharaohs: The Nile flowed into the Mediterranean from Rashid, leaving an exposed artery running through the entire heartland of Egypt, all the way down to Cairo and Luxor.
It was pitch dark as Weaver drove through the town, a run-down shambles of Egyptian and French styles, with peeling shutters and crumbling stone buildings. “Take the next road south,” Halder told him.
A smell of salt air and rotting fish wafted into the Citroën as they trundled over cobblestone past the massive granite harbor. A couple of rusting Allied frigates lay at anchor, and it seemed to Halder the whole town had a sad, neglected look.
“It’s hard to believe Napoleon intended to conquer all of Egypt from here.”
“Save me the history lesson, Jack. What do you intend?”
“Ask me no questions, Harry, and I’ll tell you no lies.”
Halder pointed towards the Nile delta, lit by the moon, the riverbank dotted with the silhouettes of tall palm trees.
“You’ll see a road ahead. It runs alongside some cane fields by the water. There’s a track down to an old jetty. That’s where you’re headed.”
9:05 P.M.
Hassan had taken one of the minor roads, eventually cutting onto the coast, but he hadn’t seen the black Citroën on the way. He feared he might have been wrong about the Germans’ trying to make it to Rashid, or perhaps they had been caught en route. Either way, he would have to get rid of the boat. He drove to the end of a grass-strewn track lined with palms and halted. He was south of Rashid, on the delta marshlands.
A boathouse stood off to the left, a crumbling wooden affair once used by local fishermen which looked as if it hadn’t been occupied in years. He saw a wooden motor vessel with a sharp prow tied up at the jetty. He got out of the Packard, took a flashlight from the trunk and flashed it three times. A light flashed back at him, then a small, unshaven man wearing a greasy captain’s hat trotted out of the boathouse shadows, carrying a storm lamp.
He frowned, recognizing Hassan. “I didn’t expect to see you here. What’s up, cousin? Have we a cargo?”
“There’s been a change of plan. You must leave at once.”
The man looked relieved, but at that precise moment they heard an engine noise. Hassan turned and saw the lights of an approaching car back along the track. As it drew closer, the headlights flashed three times. Hassan’s spirits rose when he saw the distinctive black Citroën. He signaled with the flashlight, then turned to his cousin and grinned.
“It seems your cargo’s arrived after all. Get the boat ready.”
“Those friends of yours had better be fast—we can’t hang about all night if you want to avoid the river patrols.”
The man tossed away his cigarette, scurried down to the jetty with the storm lamp, and climbed into the boat. As he began to untie the ropes, Hassan saw the Citroën approach, Weaver still in the driver’s seat.
He grinned to himself. “Time to settle old scores, American.”
• • •
They all climbed out. Halder studied the Arab who came forward to meet them. “There are supposed to be four of you,” the man said gruffly. “Where’re the other two?”
“God only knows. We had some trouble—it’s what delayed us.” Halder jerked a thumb at Weaver. “This man’s our prisoner—an American intelligence officer. We had to take him with us.”
“I know all about your trouble. And I’ve met the American before.” Hassan produced the knife, pointed the tip at Weaver’s throat. “Remember me, Weaver?”
Halder saw gleeful menace in the Arab’s eyes. For a moment Weaver looked confused, until recognition sparked in his face. “I guess you can’t get rid of a bad thing.”
Halder frowned. “You obviously know each other. Care to explain?”
“Later,” Hassan said sharply. “The boat’s waiting. If you don’t leave at once, you risk being spotted by the river patrols.”
“You’re not coming with us?”
“I return to Cairo by car.”
Halder said to Rachel, “You’d better get down to the jetty.”
“I—I’d like a few moments with Harry.”
“You heard, there isn’t time. We could have company any minute. The boatman’s waiting. Go now.”
Rachel bit her lip as she looked over at Weaver, then she moved off towards the jetty.
Halder said, “Bring the storm lamp from the boat. And find some rope to tie his hands.”
“With pleasure.” Hassan grinned and moved off at a trot.
“Are you going to kill me?” Weaver asked.
“Come off it, Harry. We’ve been friends too long.”
“You still haven’t told me why you’re involved in this. And why Rachel? I thought she was dead—”
“There’s no time for all that, I’m afraid. With a bit of luck, someone will find you by morning. But by then, we’ll be long gone.”
Hassan came back with the storm lamp and a handful of rope. While he held the lamp, Halder yanked back Weaver’s arms and tied them. “Now take him to the boathouse.”
Hassan grinned. “And then I kill him.”
“No one’s going to kill anyone,” Halder snapped. “Just tie him securely and gag him. Make sure he can’t escape or call for help. When you’re finished, ditch the Citroën in the river.”
Hassan looked completely puzzled. “But he’s the enemy, and he’s seen our faces—”
“No buts, just do as you’re told. I don’t want him harmed,” Halder ordered. He gave a wave, and turned towards the jetty. “So long, Harry. Be good.”
• • •
Hassan shoved Weaver into the boathouse. There was a dirt floor and wooden rafters, ancient nets hanging overhead, and the place stank of rotting fish.
The Arab hung the storm lamp on one of the rafters and pushed Weaver into a corner.
“I should have killed you last time, American. It was my mistake.”
Weaver heard the boat’s engine start up outside and knew what was coming. Hassan tossed the rope aside and drew his knife out again. “But don’t worry, I’m going to finish it now. Slowly. Painfully.” He moved closer, a bloodthirsty look on his face “Then I’m going to cut out your heart.”
Hassan slashed with the blade and Weaver stepped back. “Give in to the will of Allah, American. Death will be quicker.”
Weaver lashed out helplessly with his feet and the Arab laughed. “Good. You’re angry. That way, dying will be more painful.”
He slashed again, and Weaver staggered back. The Arab moved in for the kill. Weaver kicked out with his foot, but Hassan caught it, twisted, and Weaver fell back into the corner. He was trapped. There was nowhere to turn.
“And now you die.”
Hassan raised the knife. There was a soft click and a voice said, “Put down the toothpick, there’s a good boy.”
Halder stood in the doorway, the pistol in his hand, livid anger on his face. Hassan frowned. “He tried to kill me once before. Now I kill him.”
He turned back smartly to finish Weaver off. The blade stabbed through the air, but before it reached its target there was a loud explosion and a bullet nicked Hassan’s ear, drawing blood. The knife clattered to the floor and he yelped in pain.
“You ought to wash out your ears,” Halder admonished. “And heed a warning when it’s given. I told you to tie him up—not kill him. Now get outside and take care of the Citroën, before I change my mind and finish the dirty deed.”
There was a curious look on the Arab’s face, rage mixed with confusion, as he clutched his ear. “Fool! You don’t know what you’re doing—”
Halder jerked the revolver impatiently. “Outside, I said. And
be quick about it. I haven’t got all night.”
Hassan stared over at Weaver and spat on the floor, “Inshallah. There’ll be another time, American.”
He went out, glaring at Halder, who tucked the gun into his trouser belt, took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, selected one, and lit it. “It’s so hard to find decent help these days.”
Weaver struggled to move. “Stay where you are, Harry.” Halder picked up the rope and tied him securely to one of the wooden posts.
“You came to kill Roosevelt and Churchill, didn’t you?”
Halder raised his eyes, his shock obvious. “And what makes you think that?”
“It’s true, isn’t it?”
“You always were quick off the mark, Harry. But this time you really do surprise me. Maybe it’s a reasonable deduction, maybe not. The question is, what makes you think so?”
“It’s an insane idea, Jack—a suicide mission. It doesn’t have to be this way. Give yourself up right now and—”
“And what? Face a firing squad?” Halder finished tying the knot, stepped back, and shook his head solemnly. “That’s about my only option, Rachel’s, too, even though she’s an innocent in all this. Call me an adventurous fool, but I know where our chances lie, and surrender’s not one of them. Besides, I’m in far too deep to wade out again.”
“Because you killed two officers?”
Halder shook his head, disgust etched on his face. “Not my doing, I promise you that.”
Weaver felt a welter of confusion. “I don’t understand any of this. Why you and Rachel? How is she still alive—?”
Halder put a finger to his lips. “No time for explanations, not now. Let’s just hope we don’t bump into each other again, at least for the duration of this war. Even the thought of us being temporary enemies is hard enough to stomach, and I’d hate to ruin whatever fellowship remains. So do me a favor and stay out of this.”
“I can’t do that.”
Halder ground out his cigarette with his shoe, his expression grim. “Then if it comes to the worst, a flower on my grave wouldn’t go amiss. One of those lilies my father was so fond of will do quite nicely. I’d do the same for you, if it came to it. But meantime let’s try to look on the bright side, and pray that doesn’t happen—for either of us.” A tortured look crossed his face. “I beg you, stay out of it, Harry,” he pleaded. “This is bigger than both of us.”
