by Glenn Meade
“Sure, Captain.” The man rummaged in his pocket and handed over a box of matches. Halder took his time lighting his cigarette and observed the entrance. The grounds were very heavily patrolled, sentries moving singly or in pairs out in the gardens. He could see no obvious way they could gain entrance to the hotel without being spotted or challenged.
He handed back the matches. “What’s your name, Sergeant?”
“Grimes, sir.”
“Where are you from, Grimes?”
“Speedwell, Tennessee, sir.”
Halder smiled. “So how does it feel for a boy from the sticks to be guarding the president of the United States and the prime minister of England?”
The young sergeant beamed. “I guess it’s quite an honor, Captain.”
“You can say that again. So make sure you stay alert.”
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant snapped off a perfect salute, Halder returned it, and he and Kleist moved away from the tanks. The SS man let out a sigh of relief and grinned in the darkness. “I’ll say this for you, Halder, you have a neck as hard as brass. And clever with it.”
“If I was that, I’d never have allowed myself to get involved in this mess. And we can hardly take the sergeant’s word for it that Roosevelt and Churchill are here. We’ll have to make certain for ourselves.”
Kleist looked aghast. “You mean you’re going to try and get inside the hotel?”
“Let’s face it, how else can we confirm their presence?”
“And what if we’re caught? It would ruin everything.”
“All part of the risk. And really there’s no other way. Remember, a nice leisurely pace, and don’t even think about reaching for that pistol unless I tell you to.”
• • •
They strolled along one of the flower-bordered paths that wended around the grounds. Sandbagged machine-gun nests were dotted on the front lawns, and behind the hotel hundreds of tents were visible in the pale moonlight, dozens of trucks and half-tracks parked nearby. Troops were moving about them in the darkness.
“These defenses are tighter than the Führer’s lair,” Kleist said, dispirited.
“Just keep walking. Keep your eyes open for any chink in the armor. We simply have to find a way in.”
They walked on, towards the hotel grounds at the back.
It was the same everywhere they went, more sentries and gun emplacements, and on the roof they noticed another antiaircraft position and several more machine-gun nests. As they came towards the rear service entrance, Halder saw a parked army delivery truck, two soldiers in fatigues unloading crates of provisions and carrying them into the hotel kitchens, while an armed corporal with a clipboard supervised at the door. There was a busy scene inside, army cooks and soldiers in fatigues working away in clouds of steam, a wall of heat wafting out.
Halder paused, and Kleist seemed to read his thoughts. “Well, what do you think?”
“Let’s give it a try.”
Kleist sounded doubtful. “You’re sure about this?”
“I’m sure of nothing, so be ready to cover me if anything goes wrong. Otherwise, just keep your mouth shut and do exactly as I say.” Halder brazenly walked over to the corporal supervising the unloading. “What’s going on here?” he demanded.
The man saluted. “Kitchen deliveries, Captain.”
As one of the soldiers made to move past him carrying a crate of supplies, Halder laid a hand on the man’s arm. “Did you check this man’s papers, Corporal?”
“They were examined thoroughly at the gate, Captain. No one gets past without inspection—”
“I’m well aware of that, Corporal, but that wasn’t the question I asked. Did you check them?”
The man looked flustered. “Well—no, sir, I didn’t rightly see the need.”
“Didn’t see the need?” Halder exploded. “It’s that kind of negligence that can cost us the war, Corporal. What about the supplies in the truck?”
“They were examined at the gate, too, sir.”
“And that’s good enough for you, is it?” Halder raised an eyebrow sarcastically, and shot a look at the men. “Let me see your papers.”
The men saluted and proffered them. Halder scrutinized the documents. “They look in order, right enough.” He handed them back to the corporal. “But in future, you double-check everyone who comes through here. And the contents of any delivery vehicle. Starting right now. Is that clear, Corporal?”
“Yes, Captain.”
As he handed back the men’s papers, Halder moved towards the kitchen doors and snapped back at Kleist, “Stay here, Sergeant, and make sure this vehicle is thoroughly searched and these men properly supervised. I want to make sure no one’s slipped past this idiot here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Captain, you can take my word—” the embarrassed corporal began, but Halder totally ignored him, stepping through the door and into the kitchen.
8:30 P.M.
The provost’s office was busy that evening. Weaver asked for Sergeant Morris at the front desk. It was ten minutes before the man appeared—a burly military policeman who looked under pressure. “Sorry for keeping you waiting, sir. How can I help?”
Weaver showed his ID. “It’s about a call you made to Lieutenant Colonel Sanson’s office, concerning a number of stolen vehicles and uniforms.”
The sergeant scratched his head. “You caught me at a bad time, sir. I’m up to my eyes. Is it urgent?”
“Very.”
The sergeant sighed audibly. “Right. You’d better come into my office, sir.”
Morris led him down the hall to a communal room with some desks and typewriters, where a couple of NCOs were busily working away. He sat down at one of the desks, searched for a file, found it, and glanced through the pages inside.
“Three Ford two-and-a-half-ton canvas-top trucks, a Jeep, and three MPs’ uniforms—all American equipment, and all stolen from Camp Huckstep stores in the last five days. You mind me asking why you’re interested, sir?”
“It’s a security matter,” Weaver said simply. “I believe you have information about the thefts?”
“I thought if Lieutenant Colonel Sanson had any clues about the matter, we might have been able to help each other. There’s someone we think may have been responsible, but we’re a bit shy on evidence.”
“He doesn’t. It was an American staff or civilian sedan we were interested in. But who’s the suspect?”
“A Sergeant Wally Reed, British army. ‘Baldy’ to his friends. He’s a pen-pusher attached to our quartermaster’s office. We believe he’s been responsible for quite a bit of pilfering from army stores—everything from diesel to provisions destined for the officers’ mess—except so far we can’t prove a thing.”
“But Reed’s British army, and the stolen vehicles and uniforms are American?”
The sergeant grinned. “Easy to explain, sir. Reed’s got an arrangement with the stores master sergeant at Camp Huckstep. If either has a shortage of vehicle parts and equipment, they help each other out. It’s all perfectly aboveboard.”
“And what makes you think Reed might be responsible for the thefts?”
“I’ve had my eye on him for quite a while. Your MPs made inquiries and discovered he was a visitor at Camp Huckstep the day the Jeep and uniforms went missing. The same with the trucks. They questioned the store’s personnel and turned up nothing—but they heard a whisper that Reed might have had a hand in it, though there isn’t a shred of proof. No one saw him steal the equipment—he probably had the stores people do it for him, and paid them to keep their traps shut. You get a nose for these things after a while, and I’m pretty certain he’s the culprit, but he’s a slippery customer, that Baldy. It’ll be hard to catch him red-handed. We need to nab him in the act, or somehow link him back to the stuff he’s nicked.”
“What does he do with the supplies he steals?”
The sergeant shrugged. “Sells them on the black market, I should imagine. There�
�s a lot of call for that sort of thing in Cairo. If something’s not nailed down, it sprouts legs and walks. But I don’t see how any of this can help you, sir. You said you were looking for a stolen sedan?”
Weaver frowned. “I am, but this sounds a lot more interesting. Any idea what anyone would want with U.S. military vehicles?”
The sergeant scratched his head. “Now there you’ve got me, which is why I phoned Lieutenant Colonel Sanson. The Arabs wouldn’t take the risk of dealing in stuff like that. An army truck or Jeep isn’t exactly the kind of thing you can paint over and disguise. And I reckon most of the parts wouldn’t be much use to them. But it’s the uniforms that really get me. Pretty odd that. Any blokes I know are trying to get out of the bloody things, not into them.”
“Maybe it’s time you questioned this Sergeant Reed.”
“Now, sir?” the sergeant protested. “But I haven’t got the evidence I need. And putting the screws on Reed right now could ruin any case I try to build against him.”
Weaver was already on his feet. “Now, Sergeant. I’ll explain on the way. It could be a matter of life and death.”
• • •
Halder went through the kitchen unchallenged and halted at a pair of swing-doors at the end. A dining room lay beyond, in use as a temporary mess, dozens of officers seated at tables being served by a battery of soldiers. The swing-doors opened and a GI came through carrying a tray of dirty dishes.
Halder moved out of the way and looked around for another exit. Off to his right was an open door, a narrow stairwell beyond, steps leading up. He went through and came up into a hallway on the second floor, doors leading off on either side. At the end of the hall he found himself in the deserted hotel lounge. Leather couches and easy chairs were scattered around the room, decorated in the style of an Egyptian hunting lodge, the walls lined with the trophy heads of game animals. An enormous chandelier hung from the ceiling, and a broad staircase led down to the lobby security desk. A couple of senior officers came up the staircase.
Halder saluted as they went past, then climbed the stairs to the next floor. At the end of a corridor, he saw two military police and a couple of burly-looking men in civilian clothes standing guard outside a room. Before he could move another step, an American two-star general came out of one of the rooms across the hall, carrying a briefcase.
Halder saluted, but the general frowned, keenly sized him up. “What’s your name, Captain?”
“Kowalski, sir.”
“You don’t look familiar. Have I seen you before?”
“They sent me over from Camp Huckstep, sir.”
“Is that a fact?” The general raised an eye. “Come down to the lobby, at the double.”
Before Halder could reply, the general moved down the stairs, pausing to look back when Halder hesitated. “Well, what are you waiting for, Captain? Are you deaf?”
“No, sir.”
Halder followed him down, not knowing what to expect, his heart pounding as he eased off his holster flap, ready to shoot the man if he had to. When they reached the lobby, the general went directly to the security desk, as the officer behind it put down a field telephone.
“Well, are we in business yet, Major?” the general asked brusquely.
“On their way, sir. They’ve just arrived at the gate.”
The general beckoned Halder with a finger. “Follow me, Kowalski.”
Halder anxiously followed the general out through the lobby and down the short flight of entrance steps. When the general appeared, the area in front of the hotel buzzed with a sudden activity, an almost palpable electricity in the air, the white-helmeted sentries bracing themselves, the tank crews jumping down from their turrets and standing to attention.
A black Packard and two Ford sedans swept up the driveway. The general checked his uniform, adjusted his cap, and said to Halder, “Captain, have a couple of the men get the ramp over here and hold it in place. And let’s do it very smartly, mind.”
But Halder was barely listening, a strange excitement flooding his veins. As the cavalcade came closer, he could hardly believe what he saw. In the rear of the middle car was President Franklin Delano Roosevelt wearing a pale linen suit, a blanket draped over his legs, looking frail and exhausted.
“Captain Kowalski!” The general barked aloud as the cars moved ever closer. “Didn’t you hear my order, man? Get that ramp securely in place, on the double!”
For a moment, Halder was totally lost, panic almost setting in, until he noticed a sloping wooden contraption on wheels off to his left, two MPs reacting to the general’s command as they smartly wheeled it into place in front of the steps. Halder joined them, relieved that the soldiers seemed to know exactly what they were doing. “You heard the general. On the double.”
“Sure, Captain,” one of the men said dryly, as if he were dealing with an idiot superior. “We got it under control.”
The general skewered Halder with a stare.
“God almighty, Kowalski. Does it always take you an age to issue a simple instruction?”
Halder didn’t have a chance to reply, because the ramp was barely in place on the front steps before the vehicles halted on the gravel. Several young men in suits tumbled out of the Packard, obviously Secret Service agents, armed with Thompson submachine guns and shotguns, as a host of senior uniformed officers carrying briefcases climbed out of the front and rear cars. With military precision, a number of the Secret Service men took up positions, and two of them began helping the president out of the car. Another agent already had the trunk open, the wheelchair appeared, and Roosevelt was helped in, his thin, metal-braced legs lifted into place.
The general saluted. “Mr. President, sir.”
Halder watched as the Secret Service men pushed the president’s chair smartly up the ramp. When they got to the top, the wheelchair bumped as it moved onto level ground, and the blanket slipped from Roosevelt’s legs. One of the Secret Service aides started to make a grab for it, but without thinking Halder reached across and beat him to it. He handed it back to the aide, who tucked the blanket around the president’s legs. When it was done, Halder found himself staring directly into Roosevelt’s face. “That’s most kind of you, Captain,” the president said charmingly.
“Not at all, sir.”
“What’s your name, son?”
“Kowalski, sir.”
“Captain Kowalski, I thank you for your courtesy.”
Halder saluted. “My pleasure, Mr. President, sir.”
The president’s party proceeded upstairs, four Secret Service men lifting Roosevelt’s wheelchair, two on either side, and Halder stood watching, almost in a trance. The general came over, still riled, and whispered fiercely under his breath. “Well, Kowalski, I’m still waiting for an explanation. You took your time getting that ramp into place. What in the heck got into you?”
Halder snapped out of his reverie. “My—my apologies, sir. But to tell the truth, it’s the first time I’ve seen the president in the flesh. I guess I was kind of awestruck.”
The general appeared to soften, then turned to stare at his commander-in-chief being carried up the staircase. There was real emotion in his voice. “And well you should be. For a man who spends most of his life in constant agony, you’ll never hear a single word of complaint. You know something, Kowalski? If half the men under my command were as courageous, we’d have won this war long ago.”
“Yes, sir.” Halder saw his chance, said to the general casually, “Will Prime Minister Churchill be returning tonight, sir?”
The general raised an eye and laughed. “Where in tarnation have you been, Captain? Don’t you know the man’s a night owl? He’s attending a party in Cairo. At a guess, we’ll be lucky to see his face before dawn.”
“Of course, sir.”
“That’ll be all, Kowalski. Dismissed. And try to keep your wits about you in future.” Halder saluted, watched as the general followed the president’s party upstairs. When it reached the top, t
he Secret Service men put down the wheelchair, and he had a perfect view of the back of Roosevelt’s head. Cold sweat broke out on Halder’s face, and he was smothered by a powerful anger. Ten yards away was the man ultimately responsible for maiming his son and killing his father, and Halder stood there, teetering on the brink, one hand resting on his holster flap.
Then the party disappeared upstairs. Without regard for his own safety, Halder followed, all reason evaporated, feeling his anger swell as he bounded up the steps two at a time. He reached the top just in time to see Roosevelt being wheeled down a corridor towards the door with the MPs outside. As the Secret Service men began to move the president inside, a gap opened among the clutter of aides, and Halder was presented with a clear shot.
One bullet and it would be over.
He casually opened his holster flap, mesmerized, but then cold reason took hold. “Back off, Halder,” he told himself. “You must be mad.”
He stood there, unable to decide if it was conscience about shooting a man in a wheelchair pricking him, or the simple fact that if he fired he’d be committing certain suicide.
One of the Secret Service men looked back, and their eyes locked. Halder caught the cold stare, offered the man a salute, then moved off smartly, the spell broken but his anger undiminished as he made his way back downstairs towards the kitchen.
• • •
Twenty minutes later he crawled out of the tomb, Kleist behind him. They had both changed out of uniform, and Deacon and Rachel looked relieved.
“Jack—thank God you’re back.” She moved into his arms, and Halder said, “You’d better get back to the car. We’ve overstayed our welcome here as it is. I’ll be along in a moment. Kleist, take her back. We’ll leave the rest of the tools and lamps here for now.”
