by Glenn Meade
The captain frowned. “What the heck for?”
Johnson thrust the receiver into the captain’s face, desperately snatched up another phone and began to dial. “There’s a frantic woman on the other line. Claims she’s Lieutenant Kane, British Intelligence Corps. And sir, I think you’d better listen to what she’s saying.”
2:25 A.M.
She climbed to the top of the trellis, staying in the shadows, then slipped over the railing onto the tiled balcony. The light was still on beyond the mosquito screen, and when she peered into the room she saw the familiar figure of Roosevelt, alone, seated in a wheelchair, a pair of spectacles on as he read through some papers.
Her heart raced. She removed the silenced Luger from her tunic and cocked it. Using her identity card, slipping it carefully into the crack between the French windows, she silently lifted the safety latch and moved into the bedroom.
Roosevelt looked up, startled, the glasses almost falling from his face. He saw the young woman standing there threateningly, the silenced Luger in her hand. “Don’t you think it’s a little late for callers, Lieutenant?” he said casually.
He saw something in her face then, not fear, but a kind of self-loathing that was almost pitiful, just as she aimed the pistol at his head. “Sir, I truly regret having to do this.”
Roosevelt looked into her eyes, held her stare, then his gaze shifted to the metal bell by the bedside. Too far to reach. There was just a frightening second of hesitation, then he looked back at the woman and said very calmly, “Madam, if you’re going to shoot, I suggest you do it now.”
2:25 A.M.
Griffith was napping in the suite’s lounge when the telephone rang. He picked it up, and at the same moment there was a loud, urgent knocking on the door, Anderson on his feet in an instant, moving towards it, the Thompson submachine gun at the ready. “I’ve got it.”
But Griffith was barely listening, concentrating on the frantic voice from the signals room on the line. His face draining, he jumped to his feet, tugging the Smith & Wesson from his shoulder holster, shouting at Anderson, already opening the door to the password.
“Leave it, Howie! Battle stations! We’ve got an assassin in the grounds—!”
But everything seemed to be happening at once, loud voices in the hallway now, a kind of desperate bedlam as a flurry of anxious Secret Service men burst in, their weapons drawn, taking positions by instinct, covering the doorway, hall, and lounge window. A breathless Sanson pushed in behind them, screamed, “For God’s sake get to the president!”
But Sanson’s words were redundant, drowned by a clatter of frantic activity, barked orders, and Griffith already lunging recklessly down the short hall that led to Roosevelt’s bedroom, Anderson behind him.
2:25 A.M.
They lay in the hollow until it was safe to move, then Weaver led the way smartly across the lawns towards the front of the hotel, Halder beside him. They saw a sudden eruption of chaotic activity, dozens of sentries and military police appearing from nowhere. There was an abandoned Jeep parked out front on the gravel, the two Sherman tanks were starting up, their engines roaring to life, the antiaircraft batteries on the roof coming alert, swiveling their guns skyward.
A flustered MP lieutenant went past. Weaver grabbed his arm. “What’s going on?”
“There’s a security alert in operation, sir. We’ve reason to believe there’s a—”
At that precise moment gunfire erupted from somewhere, two quick shots, and then a siren went off, filling the air with a pitiful wail. The lieutenant darted into the hotel, screaming at a group of military police to follow, dozens of them piling into the lobby after him.
Halder’s face tightened, said it all. “We’re too late.”
Weaver’s heart pounded. His expression was drawn but he was still in command of himself. He nodded towards the side of the building. “The gunfire came from round there.” He started to move away. More troops were already racing into the hotel from the compound, orders being shouted by confused-looking officers.
“Don’t run, Jack. It’ll only attract attention. And whatever you do, stay close to me.”
• • •
When Griffith burst into the bedroom, Anderson was right behind him, the Thompson cocked and ready, Sanson charging in after them, his revolver drawn, more Secret Service men barreling in behind.
One of the French windows was open wide. The woman dressed as a lieutenant was standing a couple of feet from Roosevelt, the silenced pistol raised in her hand. She started, panicked, jerked the gun and fired, hitting Anderson in the hand. He dropped the Thompson, but Griffith brought up his .38, got off a shot that hit the woman in the shoulder, then another, the force sending her flying back through the open French window, as a wounded Anderson threw himself bodily across Roosevelt as a human shield.
There was brief but utter bedlam in the room, Griffith giving cover while Anderson yanked the wheelchair round, aided by two more Secret Service men, and they pushed Roosevelt from the room and out into the corridor with frightening speed, chaos reigning outside in the hall and lounge as more Secret Service men swiftly helped move the president away from danger and out of the suite.
Back in the bedroom, Sanson grabbed the Thompson and darted through the open French window onto the balcony just as the sirens went off. He scoured the shadows but saw nothing moving, the silenced Luger lying discarded on the tiles, then he raced to the end of the balcony and looked down just as a uniformed figure moved away from the trellis below the balcony and ran across the lawn.
“Halt or I fire!”
The woman kept moving, clutching her shoulder. He brought up the Thompson, fired from the hip, a ragged burst that tore up the lawns, but the woman was still moving, fleeing towards the darkness of the gardens. He fired again, a long sustained burst this time, and finally the woman spun, as if hit, stumbled, and fell forward. This time Sanson raised the submachine gun fully, got her in his sights, and squeezed the trigger again.
Click.
The magazine had emptied. Out in the garden the woman got up, clutching her side, dragging herself away. He yanked out his pistol, aimed, managed to fire off two quick rounds before she disappeared into shadows.
Down on the lawns, dozens of confused troops piled into the gardens. “Stop that woman!” Sanson roared from the balcony, pointing. “Get after her!”
• • •
When they reached the side of the hotel, they saw Sanson on the balcony, a Thompson in his hands, the submachinegun spouting flame as he directed his fire out towards the darkened lawns in a sustained and savage burst.
Halder pointed to a moving figure out in the gardens. “She’s over there. Rachel!”
Weaver saw her hit by the tail end of Sanson’s burst of fire. She spun, stumbled, and fell, clutching her side, before Sanson’s firing ended abruptly and she staggered to her feet.
Up on the balcony, Sanson was yanking out his pistol, firing wildly, the siren still sounding as Rachel vanished into the shadows. Troops appeared from everywhere, and Sanson roared orders at them, then moved back inside the French windows. With barely a second’s pause, Halder touched Weaver’s arm, and they ran across the lawns towards where Rachel had disappeared.
2:36 A.M.
The heavily guarded room at the far end of the hotel was bustling with Secret Service men and dozens of anxious military police standing guard in the corridors outside. The bedlam had subsided, controlled now, and in the middle of the room Roosevelt looked at Griffith, who was shaking a little, his face bleached. “Are you OK, son?”
“I—I think so, Mr. President. That sure was close.”
“Let’s pray it never gets any closer. Where’s Howie, son? Is he badly wounded?” Roosevelt asked, deeply concerned.
“The doc’s attending to him right now—it’s nothing serious. He’ll be fine, sir.”
“Thank heaven for that. Where’s the lieutenant colonel? I believe I owe him my thanks.”
“They’
re bringing him now, sir.”
A passageway was cleared in the throng, and when Sanson pushed through, Roosevelt thrust out his hand. “Lieutenant Colonel Sanson, I presume? They tell me you’re the man who helped save my life. And in the nick of time.”
“I think your own men deserve credit for that, sir,” Sanson replied honestly.
“From what I hear, you more than played your part, and I’m deeply indebted to you.” Roosevelt’s face darkened, and he said quietly, “What about the young woman?”
Sanson flushed with embarrassment. “I’m afraid we’re still trying to apprehend her, sir. It’s just taking a little longer than we thought.”
“That uniform she wore sure looked pretty convincing. But how in the heck did she get past our security?”
Sanson explained and Roosevelt’s eyebrows rose. “Well, I’ll be darned—so that’s how she did it.”
“We think she made it back to the tunnel. But we’ve got over five hundred troops scouring the compound, as well as a couple of truckloads of GIs on their way to search the area around the pyramids. And one of my majors and his men are trying to find the tunnel entrance. One way or another, she won’t get away, you can be certain of that.”
“I’m sure she won’t,” Roosevelt said flatly, with no hint of pleasure. He looked puzzled. “But you know, it’s the strangest thing.”
“Sir?”
“She had her chance, but didn’t take it. She heard the commotion in the hallway before you burst into the room, and yet she still didn’t fire. Just stood there, looking at me, like her heart wasn’t in it—almost as if she wanted to fail.” The president removed his glasses, looked up. “It seems to me she was either a very brave woman with a conscience, or a very foolish one with a death wish.”
There was a commotion at the door, and Sanson saw the major trying to make his way into the room, his uniform scuffed with dirt, the Secret Service men blocking his way. He said to Roosevelt, “Would you excuse me, sir? There’s something I need to attend to urgently.”
“Of course, work away. And again, you have my deepest gratitude, Lieutenant Colonel Sanson. You’ve done a remarkable job.”
Sanson snapped off a salute, turned and made his way to the door. “He’s with me,” he vouched to the guards, as the major saluted. “Well?” Sanson demanded. “Did you find her?”
“We found the tunnel shaft, sir. Only it seems Weaver might have gone down after her, along with Halder.”
“What?”
The major swallowed. “From what I can gather, somehow they managed to reach the shaft just before my men got to it. I sent a search party down after them with torches.”
“And?”
“We think we’ve found Deacon, tied up and unconscious. And there’re signs of blood in the passageway. You definitely must have wounded the woman, sir. But she’s gone.”
“What do you mean, gone?”
“Disappeared.”
“Where?”
“One of my men crawled through into the tomb. He says he’s pretty certain he heard an engine roar away.”
Sanson’s jaw tightened as if he were grinding his teeth to dust. “She’s probably trying to make it to the landing strip. You’d better make certain Lieutenant Kane’s information about the desert rendezvous near Sakkara was passed on to GHQ.”
The major nodded. “I already did. They’ve got a convoy on its way to the location right now. And I’ve got our Jeep waiting outside to join them, whenever you’re ready, sir.”
“I’m ready now.” Sanson moved briskly down the hall and pushed through the military guards, taking two steps at a time towards the foyer. “The woman will be lucky to make the landing strip if she’s been wounded. But even if she does, she’ll have a bloody big surprise in store.” Almost as an afterthought, he asked, “What about Weaver and Halder?”
“They’ve disappeared too, sir.”
73
* * *
3:25 A.M.
Captain Omar Rahman had taken off from the Royal Egyptian Air Force field at Almaza, northeast of Heliopolis. Twenty minutes later he banked the Bristol sharply, the aircraft jolting a little as he came in at three thousand feet over the cane fields above Memphis, where the rich Nile delta ended and the desert began. He was looking for marker lights in the silvery blackness of the sands below, telling him where to land.
He saw none.
It was odd, his passengers should have been down there by now, and he checked his watch. He was right on time. He nudged the control stick forward and the Bristol dropped lower. The terrain was endlessly flat, apart from the Sakkara pyramids, and he could easily make out their giant silhouettes, five or six miles away.
As Rahman scanned the ground again, ahead of him in the dark of the desert a light sprang on. Then another, and finally one more, the three lights marking out the shape of an “L.” He smiled. “Excellent! You made it, my friends.” He nudged the stick and the Bristol descended.
SAKKARA
They had tried to follow Rachel’s motorcycle across the desert from Giza, chasing the single tire track in the sand, until they saw the trail weave up towards the Sakkara pyramids. Weaver came to the end of the gravel road that led up to the site, and they saw the Moto Guzzi lying discarded on the ground. He grabbed the flashlight from the car, removed his pistol, and when they had climbed out, Halder went over and knelt as he examined the machine. “A bullet ruptured the tank. She must have run out of fuel.”
Weaver looked at the damage in the dim light, noticed dark stains on the machine, more of them on the ground nearby. He knelt, touched wet blood, his face darkening. “She’s badly wounded by the looks of it. She could have tried to make it on foot to the landing zone.”
Beyond the pyramids, they saw nothing move in the endless moonlit desert. Halder gestured towards the entrance to the ruins. “We’d better have a look inside, just to be certain.”
A stone archway led into the pyramids site, crumbling sandstone walls falling away on either side. As Weaver played the light, they went through and along a darkened passageway.
It came out into an open courtyard, bathed in shadowy moonlight, ghostly quiet. The towering pyramid of Pharaoh Zoser rose up off to the right, and straight ahead were the ancient remains of a scattering of nobles’ burial chambers, steps of solid rock leading down to the tomb entrances. They moved towards the nearest, and as soon as the torchlight hit the chamber’s pitch-dark entrance mouth, a flock of bats erupted from the blackness. The flurry of wings died away, and it was still again.
“Give me the flashlight,” Halder said.
“What’s wrong?”
“I think I see something.”
Weaver handed it over and Halder shone the cone of light on to the ground ahead.
“She’s been here.” He pointed to several more dark patches of blood in the sand, a couple of meters away, between two of the other tombs.
Weaver nodded towards the steps leading down to the first. “Let’s try this one.”
They heard the distant rasp of an aircraft engine overhead, and they both searched the night sky, but saw nothing. The sound of the engine grew closer. “I’ll bet it’s Deacon’s pickup,” said Halder. “Maybe she’s already made it to the landing area.”
“We’d still better make sure.” Shining the flashlight, Weaver scrambled down the steps towards the mouth of the tomb, and Halder moved after him.
• • •
Rahman came in low, his flaps already deployed, lining up the nose of the plane with the lights, trickles of sweat running down his face. Landing on a coarse desert strip was tricky enough at the best of times. In almost complete darkness, it was positively deadly. If he hit too much unseen debris he might damage the undercarriage, or slew into soft sand, and it might be impossible to take off again.
“Nice and easy does it.” He gently eased the stick forward a little, keeping his eyes on the L-shaped lights dead ahead. He was almost two hundred feet from the ground, getting ready to touch d
own, when he flicked on his landing lights.
The desert strip was sharply illuminated, and he scanned for any debris or obstacles. His blood turned to ice. Dozens of army trucks loomed to his left and right.
It was a trap.
“No,” he screamed, and pushed the throttles hard forward, at the same time taking in the flaps, pulling back on the stick, and the Bristol began to climb steeply, the engine snarling. Headlights sprang on below, and an almighty hail of machine-gun bullets and tracer fire erupted from the vehicles, ripping into the air around him.
The cockpit window shattered and a burst of lead hit him in the shoulder, spun him around, another burst ripping into his back. He shrieked, his body jerking forward on to the control stick.
He was already dead when the nose dipped violently, the black earth rushed up, and the Bristol screamed into the ground and exploded in a ball of orange flame.
• • •
They found her lying against one of the tomb walls, her tunic tied around her waist to cover the wound in her side. The material was drenched with crimson, and she looked like a little girl, lost and helpless. Her breathing was shallow, sweat ran down her face, and she was choking on her own blood. When she saw them her eyelids fluttered in recognition.
Weaver knelt beside her, his eyes welling with emotion. “Don’t try to move. Take it easy.”
She seemed to drift in and out of consciousness, her voice hoarse. “I—I really think it might be better if you left me be, Harry.”
“You’ll bleed to death.”
Halder moved beside her, gently loosened her tunic, examined the gaping wound the submachine gun had inflicted in her side. Then he looked into her eyes, touched her cheek, his voice anguished. “The firing pin on Kleist’s weapon—why did you do it?”
