by Glenn Meade
Before he could even bank to glimpse the dogfight, another two 109s appeared on either side of him. He glimpsed the pilot on his port side giving him a series of hand signals.
“What does he want?” Skorzeny asked.
“To talk on the radio.” Neumann tuned in, found the frequency, listened, then said to Skorzeny, “The mission’s aborted. We’re to follow him back to Crete.”
“What?”
“Orders from Berlin. And I have no objection to that.”
“Let me talk to him.”
Neumann handed Skorzeny the headphones and neck microphone. The colonel slipped them on, made contact with the 109 pilot, and barked, “Repeat your orders.”
He listened, his face twisting with disgust, then tore off the headset and mike and tossed them back at Neumann. “Curse it. Curse it all! ”
Neumann glanced back. “You don’t look too happy to be alive, Colonel.”
“You don’t understand. It’s a catastrophe.”
“True. Our men in the other aircraft—”
“I didn’t mean that.” Skorzeny was utterly depressed. “I meant the mission. Aborting could lose us the war.”
“It’s that bad?”
“You’ve absolutely no idea, Neumann.”
GIZA
2:15 A.M.
Ali liked being a policeman. The pay was miserly but the work had advantages. Not least of all a good dinner at the station house each day, a free uniform, and the envious respect of his friends. Best of all was the opportunity to make a little baksheesh.
He had a fifty-piastre note tucked into his pocket, not as much as the sergeant, because the greedy son of a flea-ridden tramp had pocketed most of the money the American professor had given him, but at least Ali had got a share. The sergeant was gone now, slipped off home to lie with his grumbling wife, leaving Ali alone to guard the barrier.
Half asleep, looking up at the stars as he lay on a rush mat he’d placed on one of the boulders near the sentry box, his rifle propped at his elbow, he heard the sound of an engine approaching. He yawned, scratched himself as he rose lazily, then picked up his rifle and dusted his uniform. He wondered who it could be at such an hour.
Some nights, Allied soldiers brought women out from the city in taxis or horse-drawn gharries, begged Ali to let them visit the tombs and pyramids by moonlight, and for a little baksheesh he would always oblige. He licked his lips in anticipation as the vehicle approached up the incline. With luck, he might be able to add to his fifty piastres. In the moonlit darkness, he could make out a motorcycle, two people on board. He flicked on his flashlight, frowned as he recognized the faces of the man and woman from the professor’s car earlier in the evening.
Ali relaxed his grip on the rifle as the motorcycle halted and the couple climbed off. It was well after midnight. What did they want this time? He bowed his head politely. “Effendi, madam.”
“You remember us?” Deacon said in perfect Arabic.
“Of course.”
“There’s a problem,” Deacon went on. “We left something at the excavation site and have to return. I need to speak to your sergeant.”
“The sergeant is not here, effendi.”
“Then where is he?”
Ali hesitated. The sergeant was asleep in his bed when he should have been on duty, but to tell the truth would have been unthinkable, so he simply said, “He’s away on important police business, and will return by sunrise.”
Deacon nodded, understanding. “So, you’re alone here?”
“Alas, effendi, I am the only person on duty.” Ali grinned, the grin he always used when the smell of baksheesh was in the air. He rubbed his forefinger and thumb together in the universal gesture, so the man would notice.
“Perhaps it might be possible for you to return to the site.”
Deacon smiled back, made to reach inside his jacket for his wallet. “Of course.”
Ali hadn’t been watching the woman, which was his mistake. For some reason, she had gone over to search among the boulders off to one side of the barrier, and when she came back she nodded to her companion. “He’s telling the truth. The sergeant’s not here.”
Ali frowned in puzzlement, knowing something wasn’t right, and as he turned back the man brought out his hand, not with a wallet, but with a pistol. The metal smashed hard against the side of Ali’s skull, there was a ringing pain that made him want to vomit, and darkness smothered him.
70
* * *
MAISON FLEUVE
23 NOVEMBER,1:35 A.M.
Sanson squinted through the binoculars. With only one good eye, he could barely see the villa in the silvery darkness.
“No wonder we couldn’t find Halder and the woman after they fled Rashid—this is probably where they’ve been hiding out. And I’ll make a bet it’s where Deacon’s been making his radio transmissions from, too.”
“Sir?”
Sanson put down the binoculars, looked back at the major. “Another part of the story. Remind me to tell you sometime.”
They had halted on the private road leading up to the villa, left the Jeep and truckload of troops behind them, and walked ahead in the darkness—Sanson, the major, and one of the men—until they came to a small rise, within 150 yards of the property. Without the binoculars this time, Sanson peered towards the whitewashed villa, the walled gardens dotted with palm trees. He saw no lights on and the windows were shuttered, but he thought he’d noticed what looked like the end of a private pier, jutting into the Nile from the back of the property.
“You’d better send half a dozen men down to the water to try and secure the rear. It’s likely Deacon and his friends have a boat. I don’t want anyone getting away. These people have to be caught, dead or alive.”
The major didn’t reply but squinted ahead into the darkness, and Sanson said, “What’s the matter?”
“There’s a vehicle parked just forward, to the right of the track. If I’m not mistaken, it looks like a staff car.”
The major pointed. Sanson saw the shadowy outline of a staff Humber, drew his pistol. “Let’s have a look.”
When they approached the Humber it was empty, the front doors ajar, the keys still in the ignition. The major shone a torch as Sanson looked inside. He caught sight of the hacksawed remains of a pair of handcuffs discarded on the passenger floor, and his mouth tightened in fury. “Weaver. I might have bloody known.”
From the direction of the villa, they heard the rasp of an engine starting up, and Sanson cocked an ear. “What was that?”
“It sounded like a motorcycle, sir.”
Sanson heard the engine rev and fade. “They may be on the move. Signal the men at once. We’re going in.”
1:40 A.M.
In the cellar, Helen Kane struggled with the ropes. Perspiration ran down her slip. Her wrists were tied painfully tight, and it was impossible to free herself. A crack of moonlight seeped through a metal door at the far end of the cellar, barely enough to see by. She heard something move in the dimness and recoiled in horror as a rat scurried past her legs.
She tried to move the chair, with great effort managed to shift it round, almost toppling it over. She looked over at the racks of wine bottles. If she could only manage to break one of the bottles, she might be able to use the glass to cut the ropes. She inched forward, grating her heels against the stone floor, every movement an effort. She reached the nearest rack, tilted her head forward, and tried to nudge out a cobwebbed bottle with her mouth. It moved an inch, but no more. She tried again. This time the bottle moved out a little farther.
She brushed it with her cheek, teased it out. The bottle crashed to the stone floor, splashing liquid, glass shards splintering everywhere. She inched back, tilted the chair, and crashed to the floor, landing painfully on some glass chips, and grazing her arm and shoulder.
She muffled her cry, but at that precise moment the cellar door opened and Hassan stood in the doorway with the lamp. He scowled, raced down the ste
ps in an instant. “Stupid woman!” He slapped her hard across the face, grabbed her by the hair, and dragged her upstairs.
1:42 A.M.
As Kleist ushered Weaver and Halder towards the French windows at gunpoint, they all heard the roar of engines outside, followed by the screech of tires.
Hassan pushed Helen Kane roughly into the room and hurried to the window, peered through a crack in the shutters. “We’ve got company—soldiers, many of them.”
“Verdammt!” Kleist pushed Helen Kane over to join Halder and Weaver. “Cover them,” he told Hassan, and crossed to the nearest window, the M3 at the ready. He peered through the shutter, and in the darkness outside saw a uniformed officer, a patch over one eye, his pistol drawn as he rushed through the open gate. Before Kleist had a chance to open the shutters and fire the machine pistol, the man darted into the blackness of the garden and vanished, soldiers jumping down from a truck as it drew up outside the villa’s walls.
Orders were being screamed in the darkness, and there was the sound of wood splintering out in the hallway, someone trying to force the front door. Kleist turned frantically to Hassan. “Get down to the cellar. Quickly!”
Hassan glared at Weaver and the others. “What about them?”
“Leave it to me.” As Hassan moved off towards the door, Kleist swung the M3 round. “This is where it ends for you and your friends, Halder. No time for prayers, I’m afraid.” He laughed like a madman and brought up the machine pistol, his finger tightening on the trigger.
There was a click, and nothing happened. The laughter died in Kleist’s throat and his face sagged, but in one fluid movement he recocked the weapon, ejected an unspent cartridge onto the floor, and squeezed the trigger again.
Click.
“You’re right,” Halder said. “This is where it ends.” He lunged forward, his fist smashing hard into Kleist’s jaw, sending the SS man reeling back. At the door, Hassan was already reacting, turning as he moved to bring up his pistol, but Halder was quicker. He yanked the pistol from Kleist’s trouser belt, firing as he rolled onto the floor, hitting the Arab in the chest, sending him flying backwards, another shot catching him in the throat, the pistol flying from his grasp, his body reeling in an obscene dance of death.
As a dazed Kleist made to scramble to his feet and reach for Hassan’s weapon, Weaver got to it first, shot him twice in the chest, punching the SS man back, then fired again, hitting him in the head.
“You did better than I expected, old friend.” Halder bent to pick up the M3. “Either the gods are smiling on us, or Kleist was one unlucky man—two dud cartridges one after another almost beggars belief.” He drew back the machine pistol’s bolt, examined it. “Looks like I’m wrong on both counts. The firing pin’s been tampered with. Very thoughtful of someone.”
Weaver turned white. “Rachel?”
“It’s a distinct possibility, considering she deliberately gave Kleist the weapon.” A look like remorse crossed his face. “So, she’s redeemed herself, at least on our account. And maybe that says something. But I’m quite sure your president’s another matter.”
From the hallway came further sounds of splintering wood, and the clatter of boots out beyond the French windows, troops moving round the back. A heavy burst of fire splintered one of the wooden shutters, and lead ripped in through the windows, shattering glass.
“Down!” roared Weaver. He grabbed Helen Kane and the three of them dropped to the floor.
As Halder lay there, he looked at Weaver. “Your friends will be on top of us any second. The bar on the front door isn’t going to hold out for ever. Well, what’s it to be, Harry? Surrender? Or do we try to put the brakes on this before it’s too late?”
“What do you mean?”
“Me, I’m a dead man walking. But Rachel might be a different matter. I’d hate to stake my life on it, but when you consider why she’s doing this, I’d like to think a military court might at least spare her the noose. That’s assuming we can stop her in time. If we can somehow make it out to Giza, we just might stand a chance. It’s your decision.”
“And how are we supposed to get out of here?”
“If we reach the hall, there’s a way out through the cellar, and a boat waiting for us on the river.”
“And after that?”
“For now, let’s just worry about getting out alive. Well?”
Another burst of fire stitched across the shutters, chunks of wall masonry exploding, splinters of wood flying into the room. Weaver nodded. “Let’s go.”
1:43 A.M.
Sanson was enraged. He kicked savagely at the front door again and in frustration fired another two rounds into the lock, then heaved against it with his shoulder, but it still wouldn’t budge.
“Give me a grenade,” he said to the private nearest him. The man handed him a grenade from his pouch.
“Stand back.” Sanson placed it against the bottom of the door, ordered the men to move for cover, pulled the pin, and flattened himself against the side wall. The explosion came seconds later, a tremendous crump that blew the door off its hinges.
1:45 A.M.
Sanson stood in the middle of the room, surveying the carnage. The Arab’s body lay on the floor, and another corpse sprawled in a corner, blood still dripping from two bullet wounds to his chest and another through the head.
The major rushed into the room. “There’s no sign of anyone alive. Upstairs or down.”
“You’re sure the men didn’t see anyone escape on the river?” Sanson asked, livid.
“No, sir. We didn’t hear an engine, and there’s a motorboat still out there. I don’t see how anyone could have got away. Unless they left on the motorcycle we heard earlier?”
“Have the men thoroughly search outside.”
“They’re already doing that, sir.” The major nodded towards Kleist’s body. “One of the Germans?”
“If it is, it’s not Halder. Check every room again. Go through them with a fine-tooth comb—every closet and nook and cranny, upstairs and down. And see if there’s a cellar.”
1:45 A.M.
They had heard the grenade explosion as they hurried down the darkened cellar steps. Halder pulled open the metal door at the end of the room, and a draft of fresh warm air greeted them, moonlight washing in. The boat was still there, nestled among the reeds, and he pulled off the tarpaulin. “We’ll use the oars. The engine noise will only give us away. And we’d better try to stay among the reeds—we might be spotted if we move out onto open water.” He looked back grimly at Weaver. “It might be wiser if the lady remained and tried to surrender. No sense in risking her life if we’re fired on out on the river.” Before Helen Kane could say a word, Halder took her hand, brushed it with a kiss. “You’ve been a very brave woman, Helen. Another time, and different circumstances, and I’m sure it could have been a pleasure to get to know you. But forgive me. Harry and I have serious work to do. I’m sure he’ll explain.”
Weaver told her, explaining what had to be done. “Try and stall Sanson until we get away, then tell him to get in touch with the Mena as fast as he can, and let them know what’s been happening. And make sure he knows about Deacon’s aircraft pickup near Sakkara. Think you can manage that?”
“If you say so.”
“Give us a couple of minutes, then scream your head off. Let them know whose side you’re on, in case anyone comes down the cellar stairs shooting first before they ask questions.”
Halder was already in the boat, and as Weaver moved to join him, she touched his arm. “The car—it might still be where we parked, if you can get to it. Watch yourself, Harry.”
Weaver saw the genuine concern on her face, kissed her on the cheek. “You’re a wonderful woman, you know that?”
“Or just a complete fool.”
“Let’s move,” Halder said urgently.
Weaver climbed into the boat, and Halder sank the oar into the water and pushed them out through the reeds.
1:48 A.M.
Sanson was still fuming as he paced one of the bedrooms upstairs, supervising the search, when he heard a scream from somewhere downstairs, then a sudden commotion. He raced down the stairs just as two soldiers came up out of the cellar, Helen Kane between them. Her uniform was gone, and she stood there in her slip, hugging herself.
Sanson looked astounded. “Helen—!”
“We found the lady in the cellar, sir,” one of the soldiers said.
Sanson was red-faced, tried to compose himself as he stared at her. “What the devil are you doing here? Where’s Weaver? Where’s Halder and the woman?”
“You’ve got to listen to me. There’s no time to lose.”
1:51 A.M.
Less than a hundred meters along the river, Halder eased the boat through the reeds and pushed it into the bank. They stepped out into the darkness, climbed up through the reeds, and Weaver led the way towards the private track. They saw the staff Humber still parked there, scurried towards it and climbed in. “You really think this thing can make it across rough desert?” Halder asked doubtfully.
“We’ll have to try.”
“With the head start that Deacon’s got, let’s hope it’s not a wasted trip.”
Weaver hit the ignition, and it started first time. “You still haven’t told me how you got yourself into this mess.”
“Unless you want a dead president, just drive like the devil, Harry. Time enough to explain on the way.”
Up ahead, they saw troops pile out of the villa and climb back into the Jeep and truck, engines roaring to life. “It looks like Sanson got the message. Let’s see if we can beat him to it.” Weaver yanked the steering wheel round, hit the accelerator, the wheels kicked up dust, and they sped towards the desert track that led to Nazlat as-Saman.
