by Jana Petken
It was evident by now that the man wasn’t going to give his name. Anubis had told Max that the leader was a man called Sarraf, and Max presumed that was who he was talking to now. “Brother, I agree, but all this will change when Adolf Hitler is victorious.”
Sarraf crunched into a date, then spat out the stone. “At the end of June and into much of July, we believed the Germans would be successful, but now we are not confident General Rommel will make further advances. What do you know of the battles?”
“Not much. I hear gossip at the dining tables … not secrets and all one-sided, of course. Sadly, I agree with you the Germans may have hit a vorübergehend … a temporary stumbling block.”
“The Royal Air Force has relentlessly attacked Rommel’s supply lines, forcing him to draw back for want of petrol, but Rommel is not a man to retreat and give up,” Sarraf said in impeccable English. “Some believe he will still find a way to break through the British defences.”
Max accepted a small tubular glass of mint tea, then continued, “I am a selfish man, Brother. Merchants like me like conflict … we make money in war. We see demand, and we supply. There are thousands of weapons lying around the desert, from Libya to El Alamein. The trick is to follow the battles from a safe distance, picking up what’s been abandoned. Hot winds cover the dead, but with keen eyes one can spot jutting limbs and rifle butts – ja, one must be able to look – so weit das Auge reicht – as far as the eye can see, and with great patience. I have become quite the Bedouin in the last year.”
Max glanced at Sarraf’s German Mauser K98 rifle leaning against the table next to the teapot, and the pistol head just visible in the folds of his thawb; reminders that he was talking to a dangerous man and surrounded by men who would shoot him at their boss’ nod. He smiled to break the uneasy silence. “Why am I telling you this? Well, I presume you know the desert better than I. I am just an ignorant Swiss man. To be honest, I am surprised you have not collected those abandoned weapons for yourselves.”
Sarraf’s pervasive eyes remained steady.
“Tell me, how many rifles do you need…?”
The deafening sound of a gunshot hit Max’s left eardrum. His hands shot up to press against the pain and high-pitched ringing that was coursing through his head. Grimacing, he looked to his left and saw Anubis, face down on the ground with a bullet hole in the back of his head.
Chapter Thirteen
Max lurched to his feet, knocking his stool over. He brought his arm up and stared stupidly at the red, warm fluid staining his left hand. He lifted it, swabbed the side of his face, also slick with Anubis’ blood and brain matter, then righting the stool caught a glimpse of the man holding the offending pistol by his side. Terrified, he resumed his seat, faced forward, and like a torpid fool, flicked his eyes from Sarraf to the bodyguard standing behind him.
Although furious, Max couldn’t halt the flood of terror rushing through him. He hid his trembling hands between his shaking knees, then finally found voice enough to rasp, “Why? Why did you kill Anubis?”
Sarraf shrugged, as though the answer were obvious. “I did not trust him. He was … how do I say in English? Ah, yes, too easily persuaded for my liking.” Sarraf stared at the hole in Anubis’ head. “I like William Shakespeare.”
“Oh?”
“Ah, you think it strange that an Arab could enjoy such complicated use of language?”
“No. I’m not following what this has … I don’t read Shakespeare,” Max stuttered.
Sarraf spread his arms, a dramatic gesture to match his equally dramatic speech. “Ah, but you must! Hamlet is my favourite. ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’ What a flowery way to call a person a liar.” Sarraf leant in, his brows meeting in a frown. “Your friend Anubis … we saw through him as soon as he asked for this meeting. He was a big, fat liar.” He spread his arms even further, then clicked his tongue. “We had to silence him.”
Max, trying to contain the anxiety, which was beginning to push past his shock, stared at Anubis’ body. “I didn’t spot his lies. He seemed honest to me.”
I’m going to die, Max thought. Like a character in a poorly written, predictable fiction novel without a plot twist in sight, he was going to follow John Bryant to the grave. Section MI6 was taking a bloody beating from scum like Sarraf, because men sitting behind their desks in London were repeating a flawed mission. A blind man could have seen this coming.
Sarraf got abruptly to his feet and stared down at Max. “Walk with me.”
Max steeled himself for the end of his life, commanding his spine to straighten and his head not to bow by force of will alone as he followed the Arab into the thick treeline. Would it be a bullet to his head, or would they torture him before throwing him off the cliff? Behind him, the tall, broad-shouldered masked henchman tagged along, his rifle barrel grating against a shrub’s branches.
Breaking through the trees, the three men arrived at a ridge overlooking the city. The moon was rising, surrounded by a blood-red haze.
“It is spectacular, is it not? The moon is a tempest. It makes men’s blood boil and renders them mad. Did you know that?” Sarraf asked, as he sat on a large rock and stared up at the heavens.
“If you’re going to kill me, do it. No need to make a verdammt – a damned meal out of it,” Max retorted, refusing to take part in the man’s theatrics. “You should have done your homework on me. You would have seen that I am who I say…”
“Ah, but we did.” Sarraf spun around to Max. “You are Rolf Fischer, and you do indeed sell watches and steal guns. We know this.”
Sarraf gestured with his head to his faceless ogre of a guard. “You see him? I trust this guard with my life, unlike your friend Anubis. I trust my man here with my children’s lives. He has been following you for quite some time … even before your dead Anubis introduced you to us. He saw you weeks ago, Herr Fischer. He questioned friends of ours who work in the Shepheard Hotel and other places where foreigners go to enjoy life’s many temptations and commit their sins against Allah. He believes you are sincere, and I believe in his judgement. Were that not the case, you would be lying dead on the ground beside Anubis, the big, fat liar.”
With effort, Max kept the relief from his face. It appeared his hard-won cover story had stood the test of time. Anubis, however, had slipped up somewhere along the line, and it was important that Max find out how his asset’s cover had been blown when his own had prevailed. Guilt flooded him, but with a stone-cold look, he said, “I’m glad to hear it. Now, can we talk about guns?”
“I do not want guns from you. They are not hard to come by, and I don’t need to go to the graveyards in the desert to get them…”
Sarraf turned sharply as nearby leaves rustled. A man appeared. Dressed in western clothes, he had pale skin, fair-coloured hair, and a short, stubbed, piggy nose on a gaunt face. He walked laboriously to the group whilst cradling his stomach.
Max, standing unobtrusively behind the Egyptians, watched the new arrival stoop to kiss Sarraf’s shoulder; a mark of respect usually reserved for royal persons and those in high governmental positions. It was evident by the black rings around the newcomer’s eyes and the grey-tinged skin on his clean-shaven face that the man was ill, and this was made more apparent when he grimaced with pain as he straightened.
“Is this him?” the stranger asked Sarraf in clipped English laced with a heavy Italian accent.
“Yes.” Sarraf pulled Max forward. “I believe he could be the man you are looking for. We should go back to the campsite. You are not well, my friend.”
Max followed the men to the campfire and stools. Anubis’ body had vanished, and all evidence, including his blood, had been wiped clean with a new sand covering.
Sarraf shouted in his harsh sounding Arabic to the four Muslim Brotherhood men who’d been waiting for his return. They disappeared into the trees. Max wondered if they were taking lookout positions or if they were not privy to the discussion that was about to begin. The m
ission, as outlandish as it was on paper, might be a go after all. It had certainly taken him long enough to get to this point.
The bodyguard threw logs onto the fire. Cairo was blazing hot even after the sun went down. The temperature, coupled with a cooking fire less than a metre from where they sat, caused sweat to trickle down the back of Max’s neck.
As though feeling the same discomfort, Sarraf removed his face scarf and ghutrah, making a point of looking at Max as he coiled the strip of cotton around his hand.
Max was surprised by the man’s advanced years. He was well into his sixties, with dark skin on a well-lined face and an almost white, thick bedraggled beard. His muscular arms, broad shoulders, and upright gait belied his age and suggested years of manual labour.
“I am Brother Sarraf, but you are not in our Society, therefore, I am no Brother to you, Herr Fischer. You may call me Sarraf.”
“Fine. Sarraf, it is,” Max said, with a respectful nod. Under any other circumstances, he would have initiated a polite conversation with the newcomer, but he had witnessed his asset being gunned down, execution-style, and was desperate to get this over with and leave with his head attached.
“If you don’t want guns from me, what do you want?” he asked Sarraf.
Sarraf placed a hand on the newcomer’s shoulder but kept his eyes on Max. “This is Obelisk. That is the only name you need to know. I want you to help him, Herr Fischer.”
Obelisk studied Max again with a pensive tilt of his head, as though he had not yet decided whether to trust or kill the Swiss man. “I am an agent for the German Abwehr – have you heard of the Abwehr, Herr Fischer?”
“I know the name. It is a German military intelligence section, is it not?” Max said in stilted English.
“Correct,” Obelisk replied.
Max, frowning with confusion, looked at Sarraf, then back to Obelisk. “You have me at a disadvantage. What is this about? Why are you telling me about the Abwehr? What does the Muslim Brotherhood have to do with them?”
“Listen with an open mind.” Sarraf gave Max a patronising pat on the arm.
Max nodded, the skin on his arm crawling from Sarraf’s touch.
Obelisk, again cradling his stomach, lifted his hand to silence Sarraf. “I will tell him.” He focused on Max and began to speak in rapid German, perhaps testing Max’s fluency in that language. “I was born in Genoa, Italy, but I was raised in Munich until my sixteenth birthday, after which I returned to Italy. I also have a British passport, which has been successfully active for two years. I have a small but efficient network of people in Cairo who help me maintain radio contact with the Germans on a twice-weekly basis, however, unlike you, I cannot conduct business with British officers.
He grimaced as though hit by a painful spasm. “My British passport has saved me from an internment camp, Herr Fischer, but being Italian forces me to keep a low profile in the city. I have been here for over a year, and thank God, I have not been suspected of any espionage activities, as far as I know.”
The bodyguard offered Obelisk a cup, and the latter paused again to breathe in the fresh mint before sipping the tea. “Ach, it always smells good – ja?”
Max nodded absently. “Ja – go on.”
Obelisk burped. “You must excuse me. It cannot be helped.” After softly punching his own chest, he cleared his throat and continued, “I give my friends in the Abwehr information to help them make the best possible decisions on when and where to advance, when to hold, where to target their weapons at sea, and general insight into the Allies’ strategies. The British, for all their arrogance in MI6, MI5, and their other intelligence apparatus, have not come close to detecting me, even though I average two transmissions a week to the Abwehr – I am the German’s master spy in the Middle East.”
Max, looking like a clueless idiot, scratched his stubbled chin. “I see. This is all very interesting, but what have spies to do with me? I’m a thief, a conman, a natural liar who makes friends easily. I know nothing of radios, or how to use a network, or anything about your murky world of espionage. Are you asking me to work for you?”
Evidently satisfied with Max’s flawless German – with a Swiss accent to boot – Obelisk returned to English. “You came to the Muslim Brotherhood’s attention because you are a conman and a thief, and despite being a Swiss national you have managed to stay out of British military police custody.”
“Hmm … that’s not quite true. I was taken in for questioning shortly after my arrival in Cairo. I learnt quickly after that to never as much as mumble in my own language,” Max responded in German.
“Nonetheless, you have established yourself since then. That is good enough for me. You see, I have been looking for a replacement for almost two months. I know what you are thinking – and yes, the Abwehr did try to send someone, but the man wasn’t right. He had no common sense, no initiative, and a terrible Bavarian accent. He’d have been arrested for spying within a week. I sent him back to the Germans with a note saying, nutzloser Dummkopf – useless fool.”
Max chuckled.
Obelisk sipped more tea, then panted as though he’d run a marathon. “I am not a well man – I may be dying.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“No, no. I don’t want pity. I want you to take over from me. From all accounts, you’re clever, efficient, and most importantly, someone who will be acceptable to the Abwehr … a reliable spy who will not be turned by British bribes or coercion if caught … a man I can introduce to the Abwehr as a dedicated and loyal supporter of Adolf Hitler and the Fatherland. I believe in him and in Rommel. I do not want to let the Germans down.”
“What do you say, Herr Fischer?” Sarraf asked, wringing his hands and looking excited about the whole affair.
Max let out a heavy sigh as he mulled over his answer. Everything was going to plan, apart from Anubis getting his head blown off, but his response now would be pivotal; not his words as much as how he expressed them. “Correct me if I am wrong, please,” he began. “You, Obelisk, are asking me to become an agent for the Abwehr in North Africa?”
“Yes.”
“Even though, as I said, I have no experience –” Max cut his words short, straightening his back and widening his eyes as though he were struck by a thought. “Will I have to meet with the Germans in person?”
“It is highly unlikely. You will not even be expected to speak with my handler face to face in the desert. I have not met with a single contact in Egypt. The Allies have their backs to us, and the logistics of going through their lines to get to the Germans are unrealistic … of course, one never knows what might happen in the future.”
Obelisk belched again, this time sounding like a growling dog. “Ah … gut. Where was I? Ja … Herr Fischer, no one has experience until they gain it in the field of battle. This is war, where each side makes new rules and breaks old ones. We are all learning how to kill, how to cheat and lie and trick our enemies to gain the upper hand. We search for situations to exploit, advantages to utilise. Being a spy is unlike any other profession. Every day is a test of skill and the broadening of one’s intuition … do you agree?” At last, Obelisk smiled.
“I believe I do.” Max turned his attention to Sarraf. “I understand Obelisk’s involvement with the Abwehr. I am not naïve … I lie and cheat for a living … but what is the Muslim Brotherhood’s involvement, apart from brokering this meeting?”
“I am not directly involved in this war or in espionage,” Sarraf answered. “The Muslim Brotherhood does not fight for the British or the Germans. They know nothing of my activities. I offer Obelisk transport and a safe house from where to send his transmissions, and I live in comfort away from Cairo’s glaring eyes. That is all I am doing, and when the conflict ends, I will not even be a footnote in history.”
That was the confirmation Max had been waiting for. The mission was a go, and he was in. Sarraf had verified he was on his own and did not have the Muslim Brotherhood’s backing to assist Obel
isk. For months, Max had pictured this moment, and the one soon to come where he told Heller his mission was on.
Obelisk stared at the mint leaf at the bottom of his empty cup and said, “Herr Fischer, you came to this meeting with a completely different objective in mind, but you were precisely the person I was looking for.” Then he lifted his eyes to Max. “I apologise for your friend’s untimely death. You must understand, we could not allow him to walk away from this meeting.”
“Anubis wouldn’t have told a soul,” said Max, sounding naïve.
Sarraf swept his arm around the clearing. “Nonsense. Every man talks for a price, and your Anubis was a well-known thief. He could not be trusted. My men – look, you see they have disappeared, and we are alone, us four. Only he has remained.” Sarraf pointed to his bodyguard who had been standing so still one could almost forget his presence. “We four know about Obelisk’s mission … no one else. I will put to death any man who endangers his spy network or my association with it. I admit, your Anubis was probably not a liar, after all, but he was a liability.”
“Well, will you give us your answer?” Obelisk asked.
There is only one answer, Max thought. A no and he’d be shot like a dog within seconds. “Yes. My answer is yes. I would rather see Germans in Egypt than British colonials.” After a moment, he added, “I find Englishmen obnoxious.”
“Gut! Das ist sehr gut – very good,” Obelisk sighed.
“You will go with him,” Sarraf told Max, pointing to the masked bodyguard. “He will take you to your home for your belongings. You will move to my safe house in the morning.”
“We will begin your training then. I don’t have much time,” Obelisk got the last word.
Max was pleasantly surprised when the bodyguard escorted him to a waiting vehicle at the other side of the trees where two cars were parked. This was probably the route Obelisk and the Arabs had used, he thought, wondering why Anubis had made him climb the hill like a bloody mountain goat.
The Egyptian’s death lay heavily on Max’s conscience. He wouldn’t be able to tell Anubis’ wife he had died. She would never know what had happened to her husband. He will simply have disappeared, never be seen again.
