by Glenn Meade
Compared to the mess below, the visibility above the fog ceiling was excellent—a crisp night, stars sparkling in full, clear moonlight. Below them, a vast gray shroud obliterated the nighttime landscape. Neumann banked left, until they were at right angles to their takeoff heading, and then below them and to the left they saw the second Dakota erupt out of the fog and climb steadily after its takeoff.
“Thank God for that,” muttered Neumann. “No unwelcome problems.” He glanced back at Skorzeny. “Except, of course, those that might lie ahead.”
Skorzeny put a hand on his shoulder. “Good work, Neumann. I’ll see you get a commendation for this.”
“At my funeral, no doubt?”
“Don’t be smart. Now, push those throttles hard forward. I want to make this crossing in record time.”
SHABRAMANT
11:50 P.M.
Salter was perplexed. He wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve, the barrack office uncomfortably hot, not even an overhead fan to move the stifling air. “You’re sure it was German he spoke?”
“That’s what it sounded like to me, boss.”
Doring stirred again, his face bathed in perspiration, twisted in agony. “Wasser—”
“There he goes again. I think that’s what he said last time.”
“Yeah, but what’s he bloody saying?” Salter demanded.
“I picked up a few words when I was guarding Jerry prisoners in the Western Desert. Sounds to me like he wants water.”
Salter frowned, nodded at the metal bucket. “Fetch a cup and give him some. Then ask him his name, in German this time.”
Salter watched as the man ladled water from the bucket with an enamel cup and offered it to Doring. He was still almost out of it, could barely sip. “Was ist ihre name?”
When Doring didn’t respond, Salter grabbed a handful of hair. “Ask him again.”
“Ihre name? Was ist ihre name?”
The young German groaned, eyes rolling to the ceiling. “Doring.”
“What’s that supposed to bleeding mean?” asked Salter.
“I think he said his name’s Doring. He’s a Jerry, boss, no question. But what’s he doing with Deacon and his mates?”
Salter’s face creased in confusion. “Ask him who his friends are, and what they’ve got planned. Ask him—”
“Hold on a second, boss. My German ain’t that good.”
Salter exploded with exasperation, fury in his face. “Then it had better improve fast. I want to know what we’re bloody well dealing with here!”
“But I’ve only got a few Jerry words—”
In a rage, Salter picked up the metal bucket and threw the contents, drenching Doring completely, then flung the bucket against the wall. It landed with a clatter, and Doring jerked and shook water from his hair as he became conscious.
“Well, what do you know,” grinned Salter. “He’s back in the land of the living. Get the ropes.” As two of his men grabbed Doring’s hands and secured them to the chair’s armrests, Salter pulled a chair over, gripped Doring’s scalp.
The German’s eyes snapped fully open with horror when he saw the pair of heavy pliers.
“Take a good look at these, mate. Not exactly a pleasant way to accompany a chat, but I’m afraid you’ve left me no option. Now, we’re going to start again. Nice and easy this time. Tell me what I want to know, and you’ve got my word you’ll walk away from here a free man. But try holding back, and I promise, it’ll be blood and thorns all the way.”
11:55 P.M.
Weaver felt frustration grow inside him, and it fueled his anger. He was in the back of the staff car as it headed towards Garden City, Sergeant Morris in the seat beside him.
There was no way he could attempt to save Rachel unless he could make it to the airfield before Sanson, and the agony was torturing him. And even if he could reach her first, what could he do?
He looked out of the window. The car was going too fast to jump, but as they came towards the Old Town, the driver slowed as they rounded a corner. Weaver saw his chance. He reached for the door, pushed it half open, but Morris grabbed him and shouted to the driver, “Stop the bloody car!”
It screeched to a halt, Weaver was flung back against the seat, and before he knew it Morris had an arm locked around his neck. “I really wouldn’t try that, sir. You’ll only get us both in deeper trouble.”
Weaver struggled to get out of the door, but Morris produced a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, snapped them onto his wrists. “Calm down, sir, or you’ll do yourself an injury.”
“You don’t understand—”
“You can say that again. But mine is not to reason why.”
As Morris checked that the handcuffs were secure, Weaver protested. “Is there really any need for these?”
“Sorry, sir, but I have my orders.” Morris pulled the door shut, the car moved off again, and Weaver slumped back in even deeper frustration.
63
* * *
BERLIN
23 NOVEMBER, 00:15 A.M.
When Schellenberg was led down to Hitler’s private office in the Chancellery underground bunker, the Führer was already waiting. Himmler was there also, the two men in splendid mood as they relaxed in leather armchairs. They rose from their seats, and Himmler actually smiled as he raised his arm in salute. “Walter. Excellent news. Truly excellent!”
Hitler clasped a hand on Schellenberg’s forearm. “This gives me hope, Walter. Lifts my spirits immeasurably. But what news of Skorzeny?”
“The word came from Rome as I left the communications room. He took off ten minutes ago, despite heavy fog. But he’s well on his way by now.”
Hitler was excited. “Let me see the message from Cairo.”
Schellenberg handed across the decoded signal from Deacon, and said as Hitler read, “It’s all happened quicker than we thought. As you can see, Halder has successfully located Roosevelt at the Mena House, breached the tunnel—which turns out to be of use to gain entry to the hotel grounds—and has taken the airfield and successfully secured the necessary transport to ferry Skorzeny’s men to the target. He and the others are awaiting the colonel’s arrival for the final act to begin. All we can do now is bite our nails and wait.”
Hitler finished reading and looked up. “So, there’s no need for this ace you’ve kept up your sleeve.”
Schellenberg smiled. “It seems not.”
Hitler was overcome. “If Skorzeny can finish this business, I’ll make him a general. No—a field marshal! He’s an amazing man, capable of anything.”
“He’s certainly that.”
As Hitler handed back the signal, for a moment his expression became despondent.
“But it’s hardly over yet. And I’m disappointed about Churchill.”
“But at least we have Roosevelt clearly in our sights. And granted, it’s not over. But what a promising beginning, mein Führer.”
Hitler’s mood swung again, and he collapsed into his chair, gripping the armrests, the excitement almost too much to bear. His joy was obvious, a radiance in his face that neither Schellenberg nor Himmler had witnessed in a long time. “A very promising beginning, indeed.”
SHABRAMANT
00:15 A.M.
Doring’s scream rang around the room. It sounded like the utterance of a wild animal in pain, and when it died, his body twitched and his head fell to one side. One of Salter’s men put a hand to his neck, felt for a pulse. “He’s—he’s dead, boss.”
“I can bloody see that.” Salter tossed the pliers on the desk. The German hadn’t told him a thing, not even after he’d pulled out three nails. In his anger, Salter had whacked him hard across the skull with the heavy pliers. It was a blow too many; the German screamed, his eyes bulged wildly, blood hemorrhaged from his nose, and then he fell still.
Salter wiped a film of greasy sweat from his face, lit another cheroot to steady his nerves. “You’d swear the kraut was sworn to secrecy. Anyone in his right mind would have crac
ked before it went this far. He was a tough nut, I’ll say that much for him.” He frowned suspiciously, looked at Doring’s body. “I’ve got a funny feeling about this, a very funny feeling indeed, and I don’t bloody like it. What’s Deacon and that captain doing working with a German? Look at him. You ask me, he’s the military type.”
“Maybe he’s an escaped POW?”
“Maybe.” Salter looked unconvinced.
“What do we do, boss?”
Salter checked his watch. “We’re in for the full shilling’s worth now, ain’t we? Deacon’s pals get back here in less than an hour.” He paced the room, mulled things over, but more frustrated than ever, the confusion eating him. He dropped the cheroot to the floor, ground it with his boot. “Get the Jerry out of the chair, and bring in the wog. I’ll get to the bottom of this if it’s the last bleeding thing I do.”
00:20 A.M.
The staff car trundled through a rabbit warren of side streets, five minutes away from GHQ.
Weaver’s mind was working feverishly. There was no way of retrieving the handcuff key from the sergeant. The situation looked completely hopeless, but he knew he had to take his last shot, and very soon, otherwise he’d be locked up in a cell with no chance of escape. They came out of the side streets, cut right, and the car began picking up speed, heading along the darkened Nile bank. The driver, a young corporal, was concentrating on the road ahead, Morris staring idly out of the window. As the driver swung right to overtake a donkey and cart, Weaver picked his moment and lunged sideways, shoving all his weight against Morris. “What the—”
The sergeant gasped, exhaling, all the breath forced out of him from the impact as Weaver reached across and slapped his palms hard against the door handle. The door opened, he grabbed at the frame, held on, and shouldered Morris. The sergeant rolled out of the moving car with a startled cry.
The corporal glanced back, horrified, slammed on the brakes, and the car skidded to a halt thirty yards on. “Bloody heck, you could have killed—”
Weaver thrust both his fists forward, hitting the man square in the jaw. As the dazed corporal reeled back, he was already climbing out of the car.
• • •
Ten minutes later he stepped into a back-street hotel, breathless, his body drenched in sweat. An elderly Egyptian sat behind an ancient reception desk, toying with a set of worry beads. “Effendi?”
“I need to use your telephone,” Weaver panted.
“Apologies, effendi. The telephone is only for hotel guests.”
“Just show me the darned telephone!”
The old man noticed the handcuffs and thought better of arguing. “Down—down the hall there is a booth.”
Weaver found it at the end of the lobby, stepped in, fumbled to lift the receiver, and asked for the operator.
• • •
He heard the car pull up in the back street. His heart skipped, and he hoped it wasn’t the military police. Then he saw Helen Kane come through the front door, wearing her uniform. She stared at the handcuffs. “Harry, what’s going on—?”
“Did you bring the things I asked?”
“Yes, but—”
He took her arm, moved towards the door. “I’ll explain on the way.”
00:10 A.M.
At the Shabramant crossroads, Sanson was getting impatient. He paced up and down beside the Jeep, about to check his watch again with a flashlight, when one of his men called out, “I think this is them, sir.”
Sanson peered along the darkened road and saw a long line of headlights coming towards him fast from the direction of the city, clouds of dust in their wake. He counted three open-back trucks filled with British soldiers, a staff car and a Jeep, and an armored car and a troop carrier taking up the rear, a Bren gun mounted on top. He ran forward to meet them. The major in the front passenger seat of the staff car had a bullhorn in his hand, and Sanson jumped onto the running board, thrust his ID through the open window, and said urgently, “Lieutenant Colonel Sanson. How many men have you brought?”
“A hundred. You mind me asking what the reason for all this is, sir?”
Sanson ignored the question, yanked open the rear door, climbed in, and said to the driver, “Move up to the head of the line and take the lead position.” He turned back to address the major. “You know the airfield at Shabramant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want you to listen to me very carefully . . .”
• • •
Helen Kane headed south from the city on a dark, palm-lined country road, until Weaver said, “Pull in.”
She swung the staff car into the side. Weaver got out. “Bring the gun.”
“You’ll only get yourself in deeper trouble, Harry. Do you really think this is wise?”
“The gun, Helen.”
She took a Colt automatic from under her seat. “I haven’t fired a weapon since basic training.”
“Now’s your time to get some practice.” Weaver knelt at the side of the road, placed his palm flat on the ground, stretching the handcuff chain. “Do it.”
She knelt in front of him, moved the tip of the barrel close to the chain, cocked the pistol.
“Pull the trigger,” Weaver urged.
She squeezed, there was an explosion, the earth kicked up a cloud of dust, and the chain shattered. Weaver stood, rubbing his wrists, the metal cuffs that remained still chafing his skin. “Did you manage to get the wire cutters?”
“No, but there’s a hacksaw and some tools in a kit I put in the boot.”
“They’ll do. Give me the keys to the car. I’ll drive back some of the way. We’ll find you a taxi—”
“There isn’t time. Besides, I’m going with you.”
“This isn’t your business, Helen, so don’t be a fool. You’re already risking a court-martial. I’m not going to have you risk your life as well—”
There was a sudden, steely determination in her voice. “If you think after all this I’m going to miss the final act, then you’ve got another thing coming, Harry Weaver.” She found the tools in the trunk, tossed them onto the backseat, and climbed back into the car. “Get in. I’m driving.”
SHABRAMANT
00:25 A.M.
Sanson ordered the convoy to halt five hundred yards from the airfield, on the dirt road that led past the entrance. Every headlight had already been doused farther back on the road, so that their approach wouldn’t be seen. He got out of the cab and studied the airfield, as much of it as he could see in the moonlight. He could barely make out the half-dozen or so huts and two hangars. There was no proper fence, just a barbed-wire run a couple of meters high on the left-hand side of the road. The opposite side stretched towards desert, nothing but low-rolling scrubland, hard-packed sand dunes tufted with rough grass and the odd palm tree.
He called the major over. “Pick two of your best men and send them ahead as scouts. And bring a radio operator up here.”
“Yes, sir.” The major returned minutes later with the operator and a couple of sergeants. “These are my best men for the job, sir.”
Sanson addressed them. “Recce the airfield and see if you can spot anything amiss. Keep an eye out for any American trucks in particular. And make sure you’re not seen. It’ll ruin everything. Black up and off you go. Try to get back here as quick as you can.”
The men blackened their faces and hands with axle grease from one of the trucks, then moved off into the darkness as Sanson said to the radio operator, “Get in touch with RAF GHQ. Alert them to keep a radar watch for any unidentified aircraft entering Cairo airspace—they may be enemy intruders. And I want a couple of night fighters to circle the airfield. It’s absolutely imperative nothing’s allowed to land there.”
00:45 A.M.
“Well?” Sanson demanded when the scouts returned.
“It looks all quiet, sir,” the first man reported. “There’re a couple of sentries in place at the main gate.”
“Did you notice any unusual activity?”
>
“I can’t say that we did, sir. Everything looks fairly normal. But we spotted three American trucks parked just inside the gates.”
Sanson turned to the major. “We’re going in. Get the men ready for a briefing. Make sure they’ve got descriptions of who we’re after, especially Salter, Halder, and the woman.”
1:00 A.M.
Hassan was doused with a bucket of water and dragged into the room, blood caked on his face from the gash Salter had inflicted. He was groggy from the blow to his skull, but when he saw Doring’s body sprawled in a corner, he came awake.
“The lad should have been more cooperative,” Salter remarked moodily. “Let’s hope you’ve got more sense. Otherwise you’re in for the same.” He nodded at the corpse. “An interesting thing. Your pal was a Jerry, name of Doring. There’s something very fishy about this whole business. So how about you and me put our differences aside, and you fill me in?”
Hassan glared back at him, not a shred of fear in his face. “I tell you nothing.”
Salter glanced at Doring’s body. “What is it with you and your friend? You part of some kind of secret society, or what? Put him in the chair, boys. Tie down his hands.”
The men held Hassan down, lashed his forearms to the armrests with the ropes, and Salter picked up the pliers. He grabbed Hassan’s right hand and placed the tips of the pincers on the index fingernail. “I’ll ask again, just to be polite.”
Hassan spat defiantly in Salter’s face.
Salter wiped away the spittle, barely able to control his rising temper, and snarled, “Tough bleeding wog, ain’t you? Well, we’ll see how tough you are when I’ve finished pulling your nails and go to work on your testicles.” He grinned maliciously, tightened his grip on the pliers. “You know something, old flower? I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to this.”
