by Glenn Meade
GIZA
2:30 A.M.
Deacon led the way through the passageway, holding up one of the storm lamps they had left in the tomb recess. When they came to the end and saw the boulder, he put down the lamp, looked back at Rachel Stern. “You’d better change into that uniform. Meanwhile, I’ll see how the land lies.”
He climbed up onto the rock, struggled up through the shaft, and five minutes later came back down again and slid from the boulder. “There’re a couple of sentries about a hundred meters away, but they’re on the move, so they’ll pass soon enough and then it should be safe for you to go up.” There was a fanatical glint in his eyes, his voice almost hoarse with excitement. “Well, the moment of truth’s arrived. Are you ready to do your duty, Fräulein Stern?”
She had already changed into Helen Kane’s uniform and looked back at him grimly, her face strained, marble-white. “Is that what you call it?”
“What else?” Deacon clapped a hand firmly on her shoulder, his expression uncompromising. “From this moment on, the future of the Reich depends on your success. Don’t let the Führer down. And if you make it back, I can promise you a night to remember in Berlin—champagne and roses all the way. Good luck.”
Deacon looked as if he were about to stretch out his arm and give her the Nazi salute, but she pushed his hand from her shoulder before tucking the silenced Luger inside her tunic. “Forget the Nazi sentiment, Deacon. It’s not why I’m doing this.”
Deacon raised an eyebrow, grinned. “Motives don’t interest me, liebchen, so long as you do what needs to be done. And let’s just hope that traitor Halder told me the truth about the location of Roosevelt’s room. Now, you’d better move.”
He gave her a hand onto the boulder, and she climbed up before disappearing through the shaft.
Moments later, Deacon stepped well back into the passageway, dimmed the lamp to a faint glow, and the light in the tunnel faded to a ghostly semidarkness. He lit a cigar from the tiny flame to steady his nerves, blew out a puff of smoke. “You poor wench,” he whispered softly to himself. “Whatever your chances of pulling this off, I’ll bet you haven’t a hope of making it back alive.”
71
* * *
MENA HOUSE
23 NOVEMBER, 1:55 A.M.
“Move me over to the window, son. I’d like to see them again.”
“Yes, sir.”
Griffith wheeled Roosevelt to the bedroom’s French windows and pulled back the hinged mosquito screen. A large covered patio with terra-cotta tiles lay outside, scattered with earthenware flowerpots, some cane tables and chairs. In the gardens one floor below, armed sentries paced the darkened lawns. Several hundred yards away the massive shapes of the pyramids loomed, almost obliterating the night sky. It was a truly awesome scene, and Roosevelt marveled at the view from his private room.
“Quite a sight, isn’t it, Jim?”
The president nearly always called his personal bodyguards by their first names, a familiarity that charmed them. Duty aside, Griffith knew with certainty there wasn’t a guy on the roster who wouldn’t lay down his life for the man, including himself and Howie Anderson, whom he’d left back in the lounge, flicking through some magazines to pass the time, now that the ambassador and general had gone. “Yes, sir. It sure is.”
“You know, all this excitement isn’t good for an old man. One of the Seven Wonders of the World right on my doorstep, and a team of German commandos hell-bent on trying to kill me. I guess you might say it’s been an interesting trip.”
Griffith smiled. “I guess you’re right, sir. But let’s be grateful the general’s pretty much wrapped up those Germans. Are you ready to go back to bed, Mr. President?”
Roosevelt had looked restless since he’d been woken, the heat in the room unbearable. There was a ceiling fan overhead, but it made little difference. “While I’m up, I’ve a mind to have a look at some paperwork. Bring me my briefcase, will you, Jim?”
“Whatever you say, Mr. President.”
Griffith pulled the wheelchair back from the window, put the mosquito screen back in place, then fetched the briefcase. He knew from experience that whenever Roosevelt woke in the middle of the night, it could be hours before the man went back to sleep. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“I guess that’ll be all.”
“Yes, sir.” Griffith moved towards the bedroom door to let himself out, out of habit made one final check, glanced back. “You’re sure you’ll be OK, Mr. President?”
“Just fine.” Roosevelt nodded at the metal bell he always kept by his bedside. “But if I need anything I’ll ring.” A thoughtful look appeared on his face as he made to open the briefcase. He sighed, adjusted the glasses on his nose, and his expression sagged, hinting at some private torment. “You know, it all seems such a waste. A terrible, futile waste.”
“Sir?”
“Those casualties—Germans included. It pains me deeply, the loss of more fine young lives, and all in vain.”
“I guess that’s the price of war, Mr. President.”
“And what a high price it is, son.”
2:15 A.M.
Weaver kept his foot hard on the accelerator, the Humber’s engine straining, kicking up a formidable plume of dust as they sped along the desert track, the suspension taking an almighty hammering. “Another five minutes and we should make Nazlat as-Saman.”
“You mean assuming this crate doesn’t blow a track or a gasket.”
Weaver tried to concentrate on the track ahead, the blue-painted headlights barely illuminating the way. “From what you told me, your friend Schellenberg sounds like a conniving swine.”
“It’s just a game to him, Harry. People’s lives don’t figure at all.”
“What happened to your father and son—I’m truly sorry, Jack.”
Halder barely nodded in reply, his face grim with remorse, before he peered back through the rear window. It was impossible to see through the dust cloud behind them, as the Humber bumped and skidded along at over fifty miles an hour. He opened the passenger door, made to step out. “Try not to hit any bumps. I don’t want you to lose me.”
“What?”
“I need to see if we’ve got company.” He kept a foot on the running board, held on to the open door and leaned out as far as he could. Back through the dust haze, he could make out a pair of blue headlights in the near distance. He pulled himself back into the cab, shut the door.
“We have. Your friend Sanson, no doubt, hot on our heels, about a mile back, I’d say.”
“You’d better hold on.” Weaver pushed his foot hard to the floor, giving it everything. The wheels skidded, gripped, and the Humber’s engine snarled like an enraged animal.
2:16 A.M.
“I think I see them.”
Sanson had on a pair of sand goggles as he stood upright in the passenger seat, gripping the Jeep’s dust shield as they bumped over the rock-strewn ground. The desert was a ghostly silver-gray under the quarter-moon, but about a mile ahead he could distinguish a ferocious plume of dust.
“I’d say it’s definitely a vehicle, sir,” the major said from the back, squinting through his sand goggles.
“Too bloody right it is,” Sanson answered. “I’d bet it’s Weaver and Halder.”
“I just hope Lieutenant Kane gets the message through to the hotel in time.”
Sanson sat down in the Jeep, his face covered in sweat. He’d sent Helen Kane and the rest of the men back towards Cairo in the truck to search for a telephone. “If she doesn’t, I’ve got a feeling we can whistle good-bye to a victory parade through the streets of Berlin.” He slapped the driver on the shoulder. “Get that foot down hard, man!”
2:17 A.M.
She lay in the hollow in the ground, aware of the intense pounding in her chest, her palms wet with perspiration. She saw the two sentries pass fifty meters away, and when they had gone, she dusted her uniform and stood, moved out from the bushes, and started to walk towards the ho
tel building.
She had barely gone twenty paces when she saw another two GI sentries on patrol, their M1 carbines slung over their shoulders. She started to reach for the Luger, but the men snapped off salutes as they went past. For a second she almost forgot she was wearing the lieutenant’s uniform, and there was a moment of blind panic before she returned the salute.
One of the sentries noticed the reaction, stopped, and came back. “Is everything all right, Lieutenant?”
“I—I just needed some air, Corporal. It’s pretty hot inside the hotel. But thank you.”
The corporal studied her suspiciously. When she looked down she saw a heavy patch of dust on her uniform. She brushed it away. The corporal frowned, as if seeking an explanation.
“I was feeling a little faint and had to sit down, I’m afraid. But I’m fine now.”
The corporal noticed the green Intelligence Corps flash on her uniform sleeve, the moment of suspicion seemed to pass, and he saluted again. “You need any help, Lieutenant, or you want us to find you a doc, you let us know.”
“That’s very kind of you, Corporal. But I’ll be OK.”
• • •
The truck rattled along the narrow road, slowed as it came towards a private villa with high walls, and Helen Kane shouted, “Stop!”
The driver kept the engine running. She clambered out of the cab, and a sergeant armed with a Sten gun joined her. They approached a padlocked wrought-iron gate, a stone lily pond and some jacaranda and palm trees visible beyond in the gardens. The villa’s shutters were closed, the place in darkness, looking totally deserted, but there was a bellpull by the gate, and she tugged at it frantically, heard a hollow ring somewhere inside.
“It looks like there’s no one at home, Lieutenant.”
“There’s got to be,” Helen Kane answered. It was the second property they had tried in the last ten minutes, but she knew most of the big villas on the Giza side of the Nile were secluded weekend retreats for Cairo’s wealthy, vacant during the week except for servants. At the first one they had tried, they had managed to rouse the elderly caretaker from his bed, but the confused man told them the villa hadn’t got a telephone.
She tugged desperately at the bell again and rattled the locked gates. The sergeant was busy scanning the garden, then peered away, down the road. “There isn’t a telephone pole in sight, Lieutenant. I reckon they haven’t got a line.”
“But we simply have to find one.” Helen looked frantically along the darkened road, made a decision instantly and moved back towards the truck. “There’s a police station a couple of miles farther on, towards the English Bridge. We’ll have to try there.”
• • •
Weaver drove into Nazlat as-Saman like a thunderbolt, the Humber bumping like mad on the rutted streets, the darkened village deserted, except for a couple of mangy dogs who darted for cover when they heard the engine’s roar. He sped up past the Sphinx towards the pyramids. A hundred yards up the hill a red-and-white police barrier was strung across the road.
He slammed on the brakes and Halder jumped out. “I’ll move it.”
As he raised the pole, he saw the policeman tied up in the sentry hut, unconscious, a gag around his mouth. He felt the man’s pulse, then ran back to the car and climbed in as Weaver accelerated away. “Well?”
“They’ve been here. The guard’s out cold.” Halder pointed up the hill towards the tomb ruins, sweat on his face. “Keep going, straight on up until I yell stop.”
• • •
Sanson roared in through the village two minutes behind them. It was deathly quiet, no sign of Weaver’s car. “Carry on up the hill,” he ordered the driver frantically, and pointed up towards the road leading past the Sphinx.
When they reached the sentry box and the raised barrier, he told the driver to slow as they drove past. He saw the policeman, gagged and tied, then scanned among the shadows of the crumbling ruins and pyramids, looming at them out of the darkness, his frustration boiling. “Where the devil are they?”
“Shouldn’t we be looking for this tunnel, sir?” the major asked.
“There isn’t time, not now—the woman’s got too much of a head start. And if our message hasn’t got through we’re already in trouble.” Sanson drew his revolver, his eyes wild as he slapped the driver on the shoulder. “Drive straight to the hotel—as fast as you bloody can. I want Rachel Stern dead as soon as she’s spotted.”
72
* * *
GIZA
23 NOVEMBER, 2:18 A.M.
Weaver climbed out of the car, saw the motorcycle propped against one of the rocks near the tomb recess. Halder ignored it, led the way down towards the shaft opening. The tools he’d left earlier had been removed, lay scattered about. He lit one of the lamps, and when they crawled down and entered the tomb area, for a split second Weaver marveled at the splendid hieroglyphics, the undisturbed ancient stone coffin, but Halder was already kneeling in front of the rock shaft that led to the passageway. He wiped sweat from his face, ready to push himself through. “Be careful how you go. Deacon might be about.”
2:20 A.M.
She waited until the sentries had moved away, then strolled towards the hotel. As she came onto the lawns at the side of the building, she noticed the antiaircraft and machine-gun emplacements on the roof. Her eyes were instinctively drawn to a light in one of the rooms, one floor below the roof parapet.
A terraced balcony with French windows jutted out from the room, protected by a safety railing. On the right-hand wall, a heavy wooden trellis clad with flowered creepers led up to the balcony, the entire area below it in shadow. The French windows appeared closed, but there was a light on beyond a gauze mosquito screen. She stood there, taking deep breaths, nausea in the pit of her stomach, then moved towards the shadowed trellis, put a hand on the wood and tugged. It felt secure. She started to climb towards the balcony.
2:21 A.M.
Deacon was getting restless. He checked his watch again. Fifteen minutes had passed. He heard a noise behind him in the passageway, froze, then stepped back into a corner of the cave and extinguished the lamp, his chest pounding.
To his horror, he saw a wash of light, shadows flickering on the walls. His fear and confusion mounted, and then Halder stepped through, followed by Weaver. He waited until Halder had climbed up onto the boulder, then stepped out, his pistol raised.
“I don’t think that would be wise, Major, unless you’ve changed your mind about being a traitor. Get off the rock, slowly. Both of you remove your firearms, toss them on the ground.”
Weaver didn’t move, but Halder slid off the boulder, stood there fearlessly. “Shoot me, Deacon, and you’ll give the game away to the guards above. But then I’m sure you thought of that. So on second thought, why don’t you go ahead and pull the trigger?”
Deacon’s brow glistened, and he nervously licked his lips. “Don’t tempt me, Halder, or you’ll be on your way to the undertakers.”
“Then let’s see if you’ve got the guts to do it.” Halder stepped closer, and for just a brief second there was blind panic on Deacon’s face, but it was long enough. Halder made a grab for the pistol and it exploded with an almighty bang, the shot ricocheting off the walls. Deacon struggled fiercely, but Halder punched him in the face, and Weaver stepped in, slammed the butt of the pistol into the back of Deacon’s skull. He gave a muffled cry and slumped to the ground.
“Get his belt, Harry. Tie his wrists.”
The gunshot seemed to go on forever, before fading to a ghostly echo. Deacon was unconscious as Weaver removed his belt and secured his hands behind his back.
“You took a risk—he could have killed you, Jack.”
“It seems it’s my day for playing hero—easy when you’ve nothing to lose. And I could have been wrong about the guards—the walls probably muffled the shot.” Halder wiped away a gloss of sweat with his sleeve, nodded up towards the roof shaft.
“Ready?”
“As I’ll ever
be. I just hope Rachel hasn’t already gone too far with this.”
“We’ll soon find out.” Halder climbed up onto the boulder, offered Weaver his hand, and pulled him up.
2:24 A.M.
In the signals room of the Mena House, a telephone jangled. Private Sparky Johnson blinked, came awake with a yawn. He had his feet up, enjoying a short nap during his shift.
At that hour of the morning, the communications traffic was pretty thin. In front of him, the two radio transmitter-receivers and the array of six telephones on the table had been relatively quiet for the last hour. The duty captain was across the room, making the most of the lull, fast asleep and snoring, his head cradled in his arms on the desk.
A second telephone jangled.
Johnson picked up the first.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the captain wake with a yawn. “Signals room, Mena compound,” Johnson said into the mouthpiece.
The second phone kept ringing.
Johnson ignored it, listening to the first caller. He frowned deeply, swiveled round, beckoned the captain, saw him stand and hitch up his pants.
“Got it, sir!” Johnson replied smartly into the receiver, and without a moment’s pause picked up the second phone and barked, “Signals room, Mena.”
He listened again, and this time it seemed as if someone had slit his veins.
The captain came over, yawned. “A problem, Sparky?”
Johnson had a finger in the air, asking for silence as he listened to the caller, cold beads of sweat rising on his brow. “Yes, Lieutenant, I sure hear what you’re saying—I sure do—but one moment, please.” He covered the mouthpiece and looked up, frantic. “First call’s from the front gate, sir. An intelligence officer named Sanson from GHQ just passed through, on his way to the president’s suite. He’s issued a security warning, wants the Secret Service detail alerted immediately.”
