by Glenn Meade
“I told you—I can’t.”
“So be it.” Halder removed his jacket, took off his shirt, and twisted it to make a gag.
“Jack, listen to me—”
Halder tied the gag around Weaver’s mouth, then slipped his jacket back on. He retrieved the storm lamp and moved towards the door. “It’s been good seeing you again, and I mean that, despite the circumstances. And I’d love to stay and finish our talk, but I’ve got a boat waiting and duty beckons. So long, Harry.”
Weaver struggled behind the gag, the storm lamp went out, the door banged shut, and the boathouse was plunged into darkness.
* * *
PART FOUR
* * *
NOVEMBER 22–23, 1943
51
* * *
CAIRO
MONDAY, 22 NOVEMBER, 9:30 A.M.
The Douglas C-54 transport plane, with the Stars and Stripes emblem on its fuselage, touched down on the heavily guarded runway at RAF Cairo West airport, exactly two and a half hours behind schedule. After a ten-hour night flight from Tunis over barren desert and in total radio silence, a distance of almost two thousand miles, the crew and passengers were exhausted.
Waiting on the runway apron were dozens of troop-filled trucks and armored vehicles, Secret Service agents, squads of MPs mounted on motorcycles, and a cavalcade of staff cars. When the aircraft taxied to a halt, there was a flurry of activity, and two of the staff cars drove up to meet the plane.
A group of anxious-looking senior officers stepped out of the vehicles, among them the commanding general of U.S. Army forces in the Middle East, Major General Royce, his chief of staff, and the American ambassador, Alexander C. Kirk. They waited while the aircraft door opened, and then the Secret Service agents on board climbed down, tough-looking men wearing suits and felt hats and carrying Thompson submachine guns, who acted like a law unto themselves as they surrounded the plane.
The Douglas C-54, nicknamed the Sacred Cow, had been uniquely modified by the manufacturers, for as well as the usual exits a special hydraulic door had been installed in the fuselage. Moments later it whirred open and an electrical elevator cage began to lower the familiar white-suited figure of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, seated in his wheelchair. Once he had been surrounded and helped to disembark by the Secret Service men, his personal entourage of uniformed military and naval personnel, tired-looking men all of them, came down the metal steps.
Ambassador Kirk was the first to step forward, offering his hand. “Good to see you again, Mr. President. Welcome to Cairo.”
Roosevelt gave a warm handshake, smiled despite his exhaustion. “Hello, Alex. I guess I kept you all waiting, but better late than never.”
Kirk and his companions were visibly relieved. Because of the secrecy of the president’s flight plan, his pilot had maintained total radio silence. Two different groups of fighter escorts had been appointed to rendezvous with the plane at scheduled times during the flight, but they had failed to make visual contact and returned to their bases, leaving some very anxious senior officers fearful that the aircraft had been shot down.
“You certainly caused us some concerns, Mr. President,” one of them commented. “We were just about to send up search planes.”
Roosevelt smiled. “You can blame Major Bryan, my pilot. He reckoned the only way to avoid any enemy fighters that might cross our path by accident or design was to fly the longest route south.” He greeted each of the senior officers present by name, then turned his attention back to Kirk. “And how have you been, Alex?”
“Fine, sir. I thought I should let you know that Prime Minister Churchill sends his best wishes, and is looking forward to your preliminary private discussion at 11:00 a.m. at the Mena, as scheduled, after you’ve both had a chance to greet the chiefs of staff.”
“He arrived yesterday, I believe?”
“Yes, sir.” Before Ambassador Kirk could speak further, the motorized cavalcade started up and the heavily armed Secret Service detail went into action, taking up their positions, forming a solid wall of flesh as the president was wheeled towards a waiting black Packard. No one could have failed to notice the extraordinary number of troops, military vehicles, and Bofors antiaircraft guns guarding the airfield, least of all the president. “Security seems pretty tight this morning,” Roosevelt remarked lightly.
Kirk dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief, waited until the Secret Service men had quickly transferred the president to the backseat of the Packard. “Sir, there’s something of importance I’d like to discuss. Would you mind if I rode with you?”
“I was kind of hoping you would. Why, is there a problem?”
“I think you could say that, Mr. President.”
• • •
Four hundred yards across the airfield, a Royal Egyptian Air Force liaison officer with the RAF was on duty that morning in one of the Nissen huts. He stood at the window, watching the arrival proceedings with a pair of powerful binoculars, well out of range of the security cordon. When the cavalcade drove out through the main exit gates, he laid down the binoculars and picked up the desk telephone.
MAISON FLEUVE
8:15 A.M.
Halder came awake from a fitful doze to the sound of lapping water and a hot sun on his face. The boatman was busy guiding the vessel through some reeds towards the private jetty of a whitewashed villa with overgrown gardens. Rachel was asleep on Halder’s shoulder and he roused her. “We’re here.”
Banyan trees overhung the water’s edge, steps leading up to a flagstone patio at the back, a wicker table and chairs set out. The villa looked sadly neglected, the walls peeling and covered with ragged creepers. Cairo’s outline rose up in the near distance, and the unmistakable Giza pyramids farther west. The Arab was waiting for them on the jetty, and he didn’t look happy to see them.
“Not exactly the warm welcome I’d hoped for,” Halder commented.
Rachel studied the villa. “Where are we?”
“A couple of miles south of Cairo, by the looks of it. Happy to be back?”
“Under these circumstances, I’m not so sure.”
“If you’re still worried about Harry, don’t be. He’ll be perfectly safe until he’s found.”
“I’m more worried about what happens afterwards.” Her face darkened. “He’s not going to stop until he finds us, but then I presume you know that.”
“I didn’t think he would. But war or no war, I could hardly kill him now, could I? Even though something tells me we might live to regret it.”
The Arab helped the boatman tie the ropes, then glared at them sullenly and jerked his head towards the patio.
Halder stepped onto the jetty and held his hand out to Rachel. “Come on. There should be someone waiting to meet us.”
• • •
As they stepped onto the patio, a French door opened and a rugged-looking man came out. His hands were thrust into the pockets of his linen jacket, his graying hair greased off his forehead, and he frowned worriedly as he came forward. “So, you finally made it. You must be Major Halder?” He offered his hand. “Harvey Deacon. Besheeba to my friends in Berlin. I hope your river journey wasn’t too unpleasant?”
“Apart from the boatman having to hide our vessel in the reeds for two solid hours to avoid a river patrol.”
“Unfortunate, but you’re here now, which is what’s important.” Deacon turned to Rachel, the frown gone as he smiled charmingly and kissed her hand. “Berlin told me to expect a woman, but I never expected one so pretty. Delighted, I’m sure.” He made a gesture towards the villa. “But perhaps for now you’d be good enough to step inside and make yourself at home? There’s some private business I need to discuss with the major.”
Rachel went in through the French doors, leaving Halder alone with Deacon and Hassan. When Deacon turned back, the worried look returned. “A terrible catastrophe, your aircraft crashing. It’s not going to help matters.”
“How did you know?”
Deacon sighed. “A long story, which I’ll explain later, but among other things, I radioed Berlin last night. Your contact at the airfield sent them a signal. As of now, our friend Schellenberg isn’t aware of your safe arrival in Cairo, but he’ll know tonight when I send my report.” He glanced at Hassan before turning back. “I believe you both had a small disagreement last night?”
“He failed to carry out my orders.”
“You should have let me kill the American,” Hassan said bitterly. “He’ll only bring us trouble after this. You’re a fool if you think otherwise.”
Halder stared him down. “And you ought to remember who’s in charge of this operation.”
“Gentlemen,” Deacon interrupted, and jerked his thumb at Hassan. “Go inside and look after the woman, then do as I told you.”
When he had left, Halder lit a cigarette. “Does your friend have a name?”
Deacon plucked a cigar from his breast pocket, lit it, tossed the match into the river.
“Hassan. He tells me you already know this American intelligence officer, Weaver?”
“Since before the war.” Halder explained briefly and Deacon frowned.
“I see. An unwelcome surprise. But you’ll have to understand about Hassan. He’s headstrong and arrogant, and never forgives a slight. But apart from that, he’s worth his weight in gold. Try to humor him. He’s been very useful to us.”
“From now on he’ll have to get used to taking my orders—so I’d suggest you make sure he follows them. We’re on fragile ground as it is, and I’m not going to tolerate disobedience.”
Deacon said icily, “You can talk about disobedience all you like, Major, but the fact is Hassan was right—you should have killed Weaver when you had the chance. It was very stupid to have let him live. He can only cause us more trouble.”
Halder ignored the rebuke. “There’s something much more troubling you should be aware of. He knew exactly what we’re up to.”
Deacon was stunned. “But—how?”
Halder shrugged. “Guesswork, or maybe there’s more to it. But it’s unlikely he knows of your involvement, otherwise you’d have had a visit from military intelligence long before now.”
“But it doesn’t bode well, does it?”
“My sentiments exactly. The fact of it is, we’ve been dealt a lousy hand, but we’ve no choice except to play the game. And it’s going to be an uphill battle from now on.”
“You’re still committed to carrying on?”
Halder nodded. “But our misfortune rather puts you in greater danger.”
Deacon had a look of steely resignation. “Risk is something I willingly accepted long ago, Major.”
Halder glanced towards the jetty. “Can the boatman be trusted?”
“Absolutely.”
Strain and tiredness showed on Halder’s face. “We’ve had a trying time of it since we crashed. We’ll need to get cleaned up. And a decent meal wouldn’t go amiss.”
“It’s all been organized. I’ll take you to your rooms and get you settled in. Afterwards, we’ll have a talk, in private. There are some other serious difficulties you’ll need to be aware of.”
“You mean there’s more bad news?”
Deacon sighed. “I’m afraid I’ve run into a snag with your transport.” He flicked away his unfinished cigar, and it cartwheeled into the river. “But we can discuss that later. You never told me the woman’s name.”
“Rachel Stern.”
“Hassan informs me you’ve no idea what’s happened to your two comrades.”
“The last I knew, they tried to make their escape across the desert.”
“As I said, I’ll inform Berlin tonight of your arrival. But the signal I sent them last night contained some welcome news. In fact, you have a surprise in store.”
Deacon looked towards the French doors as Hassan stepped out onto the patio. Behind him came Kleist and Doring, wearing fresh civilian clothes. A slow grin spread on Kleist’s face. “It seems we’re back in business, Herr Major.”
52
* * *
MENA HOUSE
22 NOVEMBER, 11:30 A.M.
The heavily guarded room on the ground floor was large and magnificent, decorated with delicate Arabic woodwork, the walls painted a pastel blue, but the air was gray with cigarette smoke and thick with uniforms. Officially the hotel’s main dining room, now it thronged with military chiefs of staff and senior Allied officers, deep in serious conversation.
Churchill was already there, wearing a white linen suit, in excellent mood as he mingled with the crowd, the usual cigar clenched between his fingers, and when they wheeled in Roosevelt there was a spontaneous round of applause from everyone present as the two great men warmly greeted each other. Finally, after they had chatted briefly with most of the senior officers, an aide in charge of the proceedings announced, “And now, gentlemen, as I’m sure you can appreciate, the prime minister and president need some time in private. Refreshments will be served in the room next door if you’ll kindly follow me, please.”
Moments later the room had been emptied, the doors had been closed, and the two men were completely alone, Roosevelt’s Secret Service men and Churchill’s Scotland Yard bodyguards, who accompanied him at all times, waiting politely outside.
Sitting there in his wheelchair, after the strain of so much travel, Roosevelt looked pale and sickly. There were a few moments of silence, the only sound the rattan ceiling fans whirring overhead, and then Churchill said, “So, we have a busy schedule in front of us, Franklin. I take it you’re still firmly committed to Overlord going ahead?”
“As firmly as ever.”
Churchill smiled. “We’ll have our differences on strategy, of course, and you’ll hear them in the course of the next few days.”
“No doubt I will.”
“But on one thing we must agree. You know how much I enjoy a good party—it’s my one great weakness. Well, the day we crush Herr Hitler, I intend for us both to host the biggest bash you can bloody well imagine, and to heck with the expense.”
“I think I could go along with that,” Roosevelt answered with a slight grin. Then his face became a little more serious, and he said almost as an afterthought, “I guess you heard about this bunch of Germans on the loose?”
“The word reached me through my intelligence people. I must say, it certainly has my bodyguards on edge. They seem intent on keeping me under close watch. No doubt you’re suffering the same fate.” Churchill was irritated. “But if they think they’re going to keep me from a private drinks party I’m scheduled to attend in Cairo tonight at the British embassy with some very dear old friends, they’ve got another bloody thing coming. I’ve been looking forward to it for days.”
“What do you make of it all, Winston?”
There was a glint of humor in Churchill’s eyes. “I think Berlin has got a bloody cheek if they really intend trying to assassinate us. It just shows how desperate Hitler must be to have agreed such a gambit, but we can both see the logic behind it. However, I have every confidence that these people who crash-landed will be hunted down and dealt with—considering the odds against them, the poor fools are as good as dead. And speaking personally, I’ve no intention of being the first prime minister in British history to be assassinated.”
There was a soft knock on the door, and Roosevelt said, “Enter.”
One of the president’s senior aides stepped into the room, a middle-aged colonel in full dress uniform, and closed the door discreetly behind him. “I know you didn’t wish to be disturbed, Mr. President. But there’s a General Clayton here to see both you and the prime minister, urgently. He’s accompanied by Ambassador Kirk. I believe it has to do with these German infiltrators the ambassador informed you about, sir.”
“Speak of the Devil. I guess you’d better send them in.”
MAISON FLEUVE
9:00 A.M.
There was a meal laid out on the kitchen table, with some pita bread and fresh lime
juice. When they had eaten, Halder suggested to Rachel she go up to her room to get some rest. He went out onto the patio, where Deacon and the others sat waiting at the table.
“You mind telling me how you both managed to make it across the desert without getting caught?” Halder asked as he pulled up a chair.
“It wasn’t easy,” Kleist answered sourly. “We’d stopped at a wadi in the late afternoon when we heard a spotter plane overhead. We had to wait until it grew dark before taking the risk of moving out again. Then our truck broke down about five miles from a village called Birqash. We tried to make it on foot to the village and were stopped by a couple of Egyptian police manning a roadblock. We cut their throats, buried the bodies, and stole their car. Once we reached the outskirts of Cairo, we ditched it, took the train, and barely made the rendezvous last night.”
Halder’s face sagged with distaste as he said to Deacon, “More death. This war gets worse by the day.”
Deacon simply shrugged. “There’s no getting away from corpses in a battle, Major.”
“What did Berlin say when you informed them two of your contacts had arrived safely?”
“They simply acknowledged the message. I usually don’t invite too much comment on the air, and keep things to an absolute minimum. A lengthy communication time might allow the British radio detectors to pinpoint my transmitter. And I’ve been very careful not to let that happen. But no doubt they’ll have some comment tonight. Now, we’d better get down to business. Your misfortune may well have destroyed whatever chances we had of success. It’s certainly ruined the element of surprise. However, we’ll return to those problems later. Facts first. Roosevelt arrives at Cairo West airfield just after nine-thirty this morning. My sources tell me he’s being accommodated in the presidential suite at the Mena House. Churchill arrived yesterday, and he’s also being quartered at the hotel.”
