by Jana Petken
In the passenger seat, Max studied the bodyguard as he whipped off the scarf around the bottom half of his face then removed his ghutra from his head.
“Did you know they were going to kill Anubis?” Max asked, eyes blazing as he glowered at Gaidar Shalhoub.
Gaidar retorted with equal heat. “Of course, I didn’t. I was as shocked as you were. Sarraf doesn’t tell me everything, Max. You heard him say he trusts me with his children’s lives, but he’s a devious bastard by nature. He keeps things to himself and then springs his plans on me at the last minute. I found out he’d killed John Bryant and the Egyptian boy because he needed me to give him an alibi should the military police come to his door.” Gaidar sighed, and running his fingers through his dishevelled hair, warned, “Trust me, your biggest danger isn’t the Abwehr finding out you’re a British agent; it’s Sarraf getting into trouble with the authorities and giving you and your operation up.”
Chapter Fourteen
Max and Gaidar, his face again covered, arrived at Sarraf’s detached house on the morning after the meeting on the hill. It was shabbily constructed, as though cement boxes had been piled together at odd angles. Like most of the homes in Cairo’s suburbs, it boasted unpainted grey walls that were interrupted by bare red bricks where frequent sandstorms had eroded the façade’s exterior. Decorative, lattice shade panels protected the outside of the multiple narrow, arched windows, which were the construction’s most attractive components, along with the intricate wood carvings on the door and the high wall that surrounded the property.
“It’s opulent for an old cobbler, don’t you think?” Max remarked to Gaidar.
“Wait until you see the inside. Sarraf has expensive tastes.”
Sarraf opened the front door and escorted Max into the majlis, which Max learnt was the Arabic term for a sitting room or waiting room for guests. An extensive library of books housed in solid wood shelving stretched from one side of the wall to the other. At the far end of the spacious room, a semi-circular couch that could seat at least ten people was decorated with gold cushions. In front of the couch, inviting-looking silver bowls full of dates and boiled, honeyed candies sat on each of the five small octagonal tables. The thick cream brocade curtains with golden rope tiebacks and the cream Persian rug seemed out of place in this dusty, desert-like district at the edge of Cairo, as did the old Arab, Sarraf.
“As you can see, I am an educated man. I like my books and my solitude,” Sarraf said, following Max’s eyes to the bookshelves. “You are impressed with my home, are you not, Herr Fischer?”
Max’s sickly-sweet smile hid his dislike for the man. “Who would not be impressed? You certainly like your home comforts,” he said.
“And you will enjoy them as well. You’ll see, you will never want to leave this house.”
Obelisk appeared, looking even worse in the daylight than he had the previous night. His eyes were bright with pain, his skin grey and sleek with sweat. Max, genuinely concerned, said, “You should go to a hospital.”
“Herr Fischer, glad you could make it,” Obelisk replied in German. “We’re going to have to shorten my handover, I’m afraid. I will return to Italy for treatment. I’m taking a flight out of Egypt tonight.”
“Ah, Italy. I have always wanted to see the Colosseum in Rome,” Sarraf said in German before popping a yellow, un-ripened date into his mouth.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Max said to Obelisk. He was also sorry to hear Sarraf speaking German, the sly old fox.
Gaidar spoke to Sarraf in Arabic while Obelisk sat on the couch and immediately closed his eyes.
Max, who’d been invited to tour the house alone, looked at the landscape through the lattice on an upper-floor window. The district was quiet, with no cars in sight apart from Gaidar’s. From this top floor, Max saw the unstructured streets with a few houses surrounded by walls. The ground was coated with hard, sun-baked mud and a layer of sand from the desert that blew back and forth like gentle waves. Instead of people, he saw mules and carts, a couple of donkeys, bicycles, goats, and chicken and pigeon coops. He wouldn’t have found Sarraf in a hundred years, had Gaidar not led him to the front door.
Max returned to the majlis, beaming with pleasure. “Wunderschön – nice place,” he complimented Sarraf.
“You will be comfortable here,” Sarraf said, the matter a foregone conclusion in his mind.
“Yes. It will do just fine. It’s tidy. Do you have someone to clean it or to cook for you?”
“No!” Sarraf looked horrified. “We clean and cook for ourselves, do we not, my friend?” he said to Obelisk.
“Yes, and that is probably why my guts are on fire,” Obelisk managed to joke.
Sarraf waved Obelisk away. “Ah, take no notice of him.”
“How many people know about this house?” Max asked Sarraf.
“No one knows, apart from we four in this room. I told you last night, the Muslim Brotherhood and its Supreme Guide, Allah protect him, would not understand or condone my … how do I say … my love of life’s indulgences? I have not even told my family about this place. It is my secret, and it will remain my secret. Also, while you are here, you will remove your shoes if you want to walk on my Persian rug.”
Through Gaidar, Max already knew the answers to his questions, but he needed Sarraf to confirm the information he had, lest nasty surprises kick him in the backside later. “Where does your family think you are?”
“Living above my shop in Alexandria. My wife is not an easy woman to live with. She stays with her sister in Cairo, and my children are married. I do not see them often.” His face lit up. “Ah, but when this war is over and I am a rich man, I will share my wealth with them. I despise seeing Egyptians bend to the British lash like brainless goats. It is better to have a goal that profits oneself, despite the dire circumstances in which one lives. I will not be an accepting victim of foreign tyranny and conflict … no, that is not who I am.”
Sarraf was, as Gaidar had pointed out to Max on numerous occasions, in it for the money and probably didn’t give a damn about what was going on under his nose for as long as he got paid. As with most hypocritical religious zealots, rewards and pleasures in this life were much more interesting than those being offered to the pious in the afterlife.
“I see … quite right,” Max said absently, while glancing at Gaidar.
Sarraf, fond of his own voice, added, “When I am in Alexandria, Gaidar will come here each Saturday morning. You will pay him my rent money. I want English pounds, no Egyptian pounds or piastres – only British currency. Understand? And if you have any juicy gossip you can share with me … you know, about Britain’s plans for Egypt, I will be most grateful to you.”
Sarraf flicked his eyes to Obelisk who was still sitting on the couch and taking no part in the conversation. “You look tired, my friend. You have always paid me on time, and sometimes with a bonus attached – hmm, is that not so? Perhaps Herr Fischer will also be kind to me.” His gaze slipped back to Max. “Tell me, Herr Fischer, do you enjoy a game of chess?”
Max crossed the room to Sarraf. Gaidar, still undercover as Sarraf’s bodyguard, stood slightly behind his charge.
Max gave Sarraf a wry smile and said, “Yes, I like to play chess on occasion, but now I have work to do.”
Like a striking cobra, Gaidar’s right hand shot out and cupped Sarraf’s mouth while his left arm locked around his victim’s neck.
Sarraf’s eyes bulged like a bullfrog being squeezed in a tight-fisted hand, his face reddening as his throat was constricted in the death grip. He struggled in Gaidar’s grasp, but was incapable of reacting to Max, who was calmly playing with the dagger he’d been concealing in his trouser waistband.
Max plunged the serrated blade in centimetres below Sarraf’s ribs. Releasing his anger at the man who had murdered the MI6 agent, John Bryant, his Arab boy, Farid, and Max’s asset, Anubis, the previous night, he jerked the knife out, then stabbed his victim again, this time deliberately
twisting the blade inside his gut.
Blood spurted from Sarraf’s mouth and splattered Max’s face. Cursing, Max pulled the blade out and grunted, “I won’t be renting this house after all. Go to hell, Brother.”
Gaidar released his grip on the dying man’s neck and stepped backwards as Sarraf fell to the floor like a felled tree and landed face first.
Max rolled Sarraf over. His thawb, stained red with blood, was stretched tight over his knees and the thin cotton garment tore open to display his open wounds, and below them, the strange sight of his manhood’s erection at death.
“What was that for?” Obelisk gasped. “He was harmless – he was useful!”
“He might have been useful to you, but this is my operation now, and he is surplus to requirements,” Max retorted, then added, “and you should never have involved him in the first place. Because of you, this handover is behind schedule, and your extraction was unnecessarily delayed. What the hell were you thinking?”
Gaidar, also angry, spat, “He murdered our MI6 colleague and Max’s asset last night. Heller will not be happy about this situation.”
Obelisk leant back on the couch, folded his arms and let rip in German. “You come here over a year after I have set this whole thing up, after I have tricked the Germans too many times to count and saved countless British lives. You dare tell me what I should and should not have done when I have had more success than you could dream of. How dare you! Did Jonathan Heller sanction this murder?”
“No,” Max said, looking at the blade. “He didn’t know Sarraf even existed. That’s why you’re going to get a bollocking when you get back to London.” Max turned to Gaidar. “Check his pockets.”
They were empty apart from a clean handkerchief which Gaidar handed to Max.
“We’ll dump the body after dark tonight,” Max said, using the handkerchief to clean the blood off his face and then his knife.
“I suggest we leave his corpse behind Opera Square. It’ll be found quickly…”
“What if Sarraf is missed? What about his connection to the Muslim Brotherhood?” Obelisk pressed.
Max wiped the remaining blood off the knife whilst listening to Gaidar explain to Obelisk why killing Sarraf had been the proper action.
“… and he won’t be missed. You heard him … no one knows about this place, not even his family,” Max joined the heated discussion.
“The Muslim Brotherhood won’t be a problem, either,” Gaidar now said. “There are eight men in Sarraf’s group, and none of them liked the man. I was his number two. I’ll take over as their leader until it’s safe for me to withdraw.”
Max said, “When the police discover the body tonight, they’ll uncover Sarraf’s unsavoury background. Gaidar has written a report about Sarraf’s involvement with the Muslim Brotherhood and in the murders of John Bryant and Farid. The British will be happy to toss him into the Nile and forget about him.”
“I will make sure of it,” Gaidar confirmed. “What is your problem, Obelisk? He’s one less radical for the authorities to worry about.”
“I don’t have a problem,” Obelisk shrugged, “but this is still my operation, and you should have told me you were going to kill him. What happens to this house now?”
Obelisk is right, Max admitted to himself. He and Gaidar should have given the Italian the courtesy of a head’s up before they had dispatched Sarraf.
Unwilling to apologise, Max said, “We will walk out of the house together and let the devil take it. As soon as I pack up the radio and all the other gear you’ve accumulated, we’re out of here.”
Max checked the time on his wristwatch. Four hours to go until dusk, and another hour after that for darkness to fall. Then he and Gaidar would have to wait until well after midnight before trying to dump the body unseen. Counting down, he had less than ten hours to get up to speed with Obelisk’s operation.
“When is the next scheduled transmission to my operators in England?” Max asked Obelisk.
“In two hours.”
“Good. Make tea while Gaidar and I get this murdering piece of shit out of our sight. We’ll use his Persian rug to cover him, seeing as he was so fond of it.”
Chapter Fifteen
Dieter Vogel
London, England
September 1942
Dieter Vogel and Jonathan Heller ate a light lunch in Heller’s office. Their weekly luncheons at MI6 headquarters had begun after Dieter brushed off his earlier fears of being recognised by any remaining German spies milling around the capital. As in the previous year, the handful of German agents who had been captured had turned to British Intelligence and were now working for MI5 and MI6. The chances of being spotted by a German spy on British shores nowadays were slim to none; the Abwehr was losing the intelligence war against the British. Also, Dieter looked nothing like his old self since he’d stopped dying his hair blond months earlier and now had a mop of snow-white curls accompanied by a thick white beard.
During their lunches, the two men discussed everything from the weather to family matters, but they made a point of skirting all war-related conversations until after they had finished eating. On this day, Dieter had brought Laura to the capital. Before meeting Heller, he’d left her in a restaurant with her sister, Cathy. He loved it when his Laura got excited about something, for there was so little to get excited about these days.
After lunch, she was going to a shop in Piccadilly that sold handmade, embroidered baby clothes for their grandson. She still needed clothing coupons for the tiny garments like the rompers she wanted, she had warned Dieter. And the shop wouldn’t take into consideration her donations – baby Jack was growing so fast that she and Hannah had given many of his tiniest garments away to various shops. Dieter was perplexed with his daughter, Hannah, who had refused to take an allowance from him. She could not afford to buy such luxuries regardless of whether she had enough coupons. Her pride would be her downfall, Dieter had warned her.
After Heller’s secretary, Marjory, had removed the dinner plates, Heller and Dieter moved to the desk. Heller, now with his official face on, sat in his chair and uncoiled a piece of string that held a file closed, and then tapped the folder with his index finger.
“This is top secret. I thought it best we discuss it here because of its sensitive nature.”
“Everything is sensitive nowadays.”
Dieter always knew when Heller was going to say something a person might not want to hear. He watched now as the intelligence chief shuffled his large frame into his chair as though trying to nest in it and began with a ritual clearing of his throat, with two coughs at the end. A chill swept through Dieter, as his three sons came to mind. “Damn it, Jonathan, what is it?”
“I have in these pages Operation Lanner Falcon. It’s being played out in North Africa and run by MI6 at Bletchley. I want you to come onboard.”
“I see.”
“You don’t, not yet. When we concocted this operation, some thought it was at best audacious, and at worst, downright delusional, yet two years in, it is still operational and proving to be one of our most successful missions of the war, to date. Interested?”
Dieter nodded. “Go on.”
Heller continued, “We have a double agent in Egypt, codenamed Obelisk. I should say we had. He’s no longer in the field because of illness. We could run the whole operation from Bletchley in his absence, Dieter, feed the Germans a load of dribble as our agent Obelisk has been doing for over a year…”
“But?” Dieter prompted, raising an eyebrow.
“But we decided it would be better to have a replacement based in Cairo with up-to-date knowledge of what’s going on in Egypt on a day-to-day basis. We flew Obelisk out of Egypt on one of our transport planes three days ago. He’s in King’s Cross Hospital, here in London, recovering from a major stomach operation.”
“I presume someone has already stepped in for him?” Dieter was still confused.
“Yes. I’ll get to him in a minute. Obel
isk will hopefully return to Egypt at some point, but his recuperation in London could take some time. His benign tumour was the size of a melon … maybe a slight exaggeration, but still, it was a big bugger. It could take months to get him back to operational fitness. Dieter, this man has been crucial to our successes in North Africa, and when we found out in May that he would probably need surgery, we put together a mission to replace him with one of our own spies…”
Dieter leant in towards Heller. “I knew it. I bloody knew it. It’s Max, isn’t it? My son is in Egypt?”
Heller nodded. “Yes, it’s Max. He partnered up with one of our Egyptian-based officers in May, and since then, they’ve been working together to achieve the right circumstances for Max to step into his role as Obelisk’s temporary successor. Our delay has been because Obelisk took it upon himself to get an Arab involved, and not just any Egyptian, but a Muslim Brotherhood member – the silly sod could have blown the whole damn thing out of the water – and Max had to dispose of the man before taking over.”
Dieter’s fingers fumbled with his cigarette packet. He had no right to question Max’s actions in the field or Heller’s choice of agent or to make demands regarding his son. Max was doing his duty, and as such, even as a father, Dieter could not interfere or ask for more information than MI6 was willing to give. In this instance, however, Heller was offering direct access to Max if he’d read his earlier, come onboard correctly. “At least, I know where my son is. Thank you, Jonathan. I appreciate this. Tell me more about Obelisk.”
“He’s the son of an English father and an Italian socialite. She owns a string of hotels in Italy. He was raised in Germany – Munich – and he speaks four languages fluently. When you get to know him in this file, you’ll find he’s a cosmopolitan chap, flamboyant, loves to throw money around. He’s also an imaginative storyteller … probably why he was able to invent such an intricate fictional spy ring around himself.
