They’d been back from Libya a fortnight: they’d largely recovered from their ordeal, though none of them could be classed A1 fit. The worst, for Caine, had been the flashbacks: times when the familiar world had come apart at the seams, when he sensed monstrous creatures lurking in dark portals beyond his ordinary, everyday life – if you could call life in wartime Cairo ordinary. Even more terrifying, he sometimes sensed a fugitive half-human beast padding the lost labyrinths of his own mind, as if there was something inside him that wasn’t himself. The quack said these symptoms were the last vestiges of his exposure to Olzon-13: it was some comfort to know that Fred Wallace was experiencing them too, though there were also occasions when Caine looked at the big gunner and broke out in a cold sweat, seeing the ghost of that great minotaur demon in his blackbead eyes. At these times, his only comfort lay in Nolan.
The table was littered with ‘dead soldiers’ – empty wine and beer bottles – cheek by jowl with discarded glasses, coffee cups, quarts of whisky and cognac. At one end, Paddy Mayne and John Stocker sat hunched over their elbows, deep in conversation. Mayne puffed a cigarette, Stocker pumped out smoke signals of Dark Empire Shag from his pipe.
Stirling sat back, his continuous dark eyebrow furrowed. He picked up his empty pipe and stuck it upside down in his mouth, then removed it again. ‘Don’t feel bad about being part of a decoy plan, Tom,’ he said. ‘We all were. The whole build-up to Lightfoot was one vast deception – Op Bertram, they called it. Only two or three people knew the entire picture. Obviously, when two armies face each other across open desert, you’ve got to use some pretty sly sort of trick or the result will be stalemate.’ He paused, chewed his pipestem. ‘First, the GOC was going north but had to make the Axis think he was going south: hence the dummy divisions deployed down there, like the one you … er … ran into.’
Caine swallowed hard, remembering Maskelyne and Roger Glenn.
‘Second,’ Stirling went on, ‘he had to deceive them as to when he would move, or the entire shebang would have been a waste of time. Do you know he even built a dummy water pipeline going south, constructing it at a measured daily rate, so that the enemy could calculate at what date it would be completed, and conclude that the push would begin on that date? Same sort of idea as Sandhog, really.’
Caine raised an eyebrow. ‘How many men were killed building the pipeline?’
Stirling shook his head, irritated. ‘Look, Tom. I know we lost men: they were my men, after all, and no one regrets it more than I do. The point is that it wasn’t just us who were bamboozled. It was all part of the same scheme, to make the Hun believe the offensive was coming later than it really was. And it worked. Lightfoot has been a huge success, despite all the men we lost on it. The Panzer Army is no longer a threat to Egypt, or to the Middle East. Rommel’s finished. This time, he won’t be back.’
Stirling picked up a glass of cognac and took a hefty swig. Caine sipped his whisky, placed the glass back on the table. He lit another Player’s Navy Cut, blew smoke, thinking that it still didn’t excuse the loss of good mates. He noticed that Stirling was watching him intently. ‘You should be proud, lad,’ his CO said. ‘You and Nolan – and your men, of course – have played a major role in this campaign. You played a part in luring Rommel into Egypt with Runefish, and in Sandhog, you helped to ensure that he withdrew with his tail between his legs. You thoroughly deserve the DSO I’ve put you in for, and – after the stuff she went through with Eisner and Hekmeth – Miss Nolan more than deserves the bar to her George Cross …’ He leaned over conspiratorially. ‘Monty is so delighted with you that he wants to meet you in person. In fact, he’s coming here tonight to congratulate you all.’
Caine stiffened, almost dropped his cigarette. ‘Coming here?’ he mumbled. ‘The GOC?’
Stirling shrugged. ‘Why not? It’s time the SAS got some recognition.’
Caine smiled wanly. Montgomery coming in person to greet an SAS subaltern, a female staff officer and a trio of other ranks? No wonder his commanding officer was chuffed. Through Caine, 1st SAS Regiment had been redeemed: there would be no more talk of scrapping it, at least for the time being.
‘Congratulations, Mr Caine,’ a pedantic voice said, breaking into his thoughts. He looked up to see John Stocker, small, bald, beady-eyed, heavily bespectacled, holding out a hand. Caine stood up to shake it: Stocker sat down in the vacant chair next to him, stuck his pipe in his mouth, tracked smoke, took the pipe out. Unlike almost everyone else in the restaurant, he was wearing a battledress suit – a rather threadbare and dishevelled one at that. Caine remembered that the DSO had been a university professor before the war and reflected that he still looked like a boffin wearing a uniform that didn’t belong to him.
‘I’m sorry about the mess over Audley,’ Stocker said. ‘I mean, Private Higginbotham. He somehow slipped through the net. I wouldn’t have believed it possible for a Pioneer Corps private to have got away with masquerading full time as a Guards officer, but you live and learn.’
Caine glanced at Stirling and saw that a faint flush had come to his cheeks.
‘Yes, sir,’ he nodded, ‘but Audley – Higginbotham, that is – paid his dues in the end. He laid Lewes bombs and set timepencils on the target all on his own initiative. He proved himself a pretty brave and resourceful soldier. All right, he was a bit twitchy and unreliable in the field, but who knows? With proper training he might have made a good officer.’
‘True,’ Stocker agreed, ‘and how many more of them might there be? I mean, enlisted men who, given the opportunity, might have turned out to be excellent leaders …’
Stirling snorted. ‘But it’s not only Audley, Major. I must say, you Field Security boys haven’t exactly come out of this business with flying colours. What about Larousse? What about his attempt to sabotage Caine, which you blamed on the Gyppos? He’s another one who “slipped through the net”, eh?’
Caine traileyed Stirling: his cheeks were still pink, and he guessed that his CO’s uncharacteristically hostile manner was an attempt to disguise his embarrassment over ‘Audley’. Ater all, Stirling had claimed him as ‘a friend’, had insisted on his being included on Sandhog, over Caine’s implicit objections.
Stocker surveyed the lanky young half-colonel through intense blue eyes. ‘With all due respect, sir,’ he said quietly, ‘you accepted him in your regiment.’
‘Of course I did,’ Stirling replied hotly, reddening further. ‘Because Field Security approved his documents …’ He stopped short, perhaps realizing that he was on shaky ground. ‘Anyway,’ he added quickly, ‘what about Eisner? You allow Hekmeth to kidnap Miss Nolan, hoping to lure him into a trap: you have his house under surveillance for more than a week, then you let him get away. What about that for a botched job?’
Stocker slipped off his glasses and began to clean them with a white pocket handkerchief. He had gone very quiet: Caine remembered the spectacle-cleaning from their last meeting, and guessed it was Stocker’s habitual means of remaining centred.
Stocker didn’t look up. ‘You have me there, Colonel,’ he said offhandedly. ‘Eisner is, of course, a dangerous man, and he’s still on the loose. However, I think I can say that we have had some success with regard to his contacts. We know who he is now, for example: the stepson of Idriss Hussain, a gangster specializing in prostitution, who has the dubious honour of being the king’s pimp and is connected with the royal family through the palace major domo, the Italian, Antonio Pulli Bey …’
‘Pulli Bey? Really? ’ All of a sudden Stirling seemed genuinely interested: the subject of Audley, and the object of saving face, appeared forgotten.
‘Yes. The king’s Nazi sympathies are well known, and it may well be that there is an Axis conspiracy extending via Idriss right into the royal palace. I’m sure you’ll agree that this is important intelligence. I have no doubt, too, that Eisner can call on the support of his stepfather’s “mob” when he needs it: hence, I suspect, the twenty armed cutthroats who snatched
him from custody a few months ago.’
Stocker replaced his glasses, stared at Stirling again. There was a hardness and power in his glance that belied his mild manner, Caine thought. Stirling outranked him and was a much bigger man physically, yet Caine sensed that Stocker possessed a formidable intellect and an iron will that would make him a dangerous man even for Stirling to cross. ‘Then, of course, we also arrested the traitor Beeston,’ he continued, smiling faintly, ‘thus removing Eisner’s chief source of intelligence in GHQ. I’m confident that it was Beeston who gave away your operations at Benghazi, Tobruk, el-Gala and Fuja, through his lover, the bellydancer Hekmeth Fahmi, of course. Interestingly, Hekmeth also grew up in Idriss’s house, so she is a sort of sister to Eisner …’
‘Where is she now?’ Stirling enquired. ‘I heard she was convicted of treason.’
Stocker regarded him expressionlessly. ‘She was. She was sentenced to death, actually, but I managed to get the sentence commuted …’
Stirling looked puzzled, then he guffawed. ‘So even you are susceptible to a pretty face and a shapely bottom, eh, Major?’
Stocker didn’t look embarrassed. ‘No doubt I am,’ he chuckled, ‘and I have to admit that I’ve never met a woman who possessed such powerful sexual magnetism as Hekmeth. In a way, I pity Clive Beeston. I mean, he was a rabbit caught in a headlamp glare: he was powerless, absolutely trapped. I think he would even have committed murder if she’d demanded it. I admit, too, that she did try to turn her headlamps on me, although she soon gave up. I think she found me a little less … susceptible …’
A wry grin appeared on his face. ‘In any case,’ he went on rapidly, ‘that wasn’t why I got her sentence commuted. It became clear to me that she wasn’t a genuine Nazi supporter – unlike Eisner, who is wholly German. No, Hekmeth helped Eisner because he was like a brother to her but underneath she is an Egyptian nationalist. By showing her that her patriotic interests did not coincide with those of a victorious Germany, I was able to convince her to talk.’
Stirling was totally enthralled now. ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘Not bad at all. And what happened to Beeston in the end?’
Stocker sighed. ‘He was given an opportunity to play a key role in Op Bertram. He was asked to take a decoy map across an enemy minefield in an AFV. Naturally, the vehicle hit a mine, and the major was killed. The enemy discovered the map: it showed as “good going” an area of desert which was, in fact, extremely “bad going”. They were so convinced of its accuracy that they sent an entire Panzer division that way during their attempt to hold back Lightfoot. They consequently got the whole unit bogged down in soft sand, thus removing one vital link from the battle. So, in death, Major Beeston became a hero, and redeemed himself for all the secrets he’d given up.’
‘A rare touch of Machiavellian genius,’ Stirling chortled. ‘Whose idea was that?’
‘Mine,’ Stocker said.
Caine shivered, clocked the look of surprise, then of respect, on his CO’s sharp features. Stirling nodded. ‘Well,’ he said, picking up his glass, ‘I rather think it’s time for a toast.’
Caine moaned inwardly. They’d already drunk too many toasts – to his Britannic Majesty, to Monty, to the SAS Regiment, to Caine, to Nolan, to Caine’s boys – even to Angela. Stirling rose: Caine noticed that he was slightly unsteady on his feet. ‘I propose a toast to Torch,’ he announced, so loudly that many of the other customers stopped talking. Some of them staggered to their feet and raised their glasses, too. Caine grimaced and stood: the others followed suit.
‘What the ’ell is Torch?’ Wallace boomed.
Stirling lowered his glass, tipped the gunner a surprised look. ‘You don’t know?’ he asked incredulously. ‘Yesterday, a huge Anglo-American army landed in Morocco and Algeria – First Army. The Yanks have been with us since Pearl Harbour, of course, but this is their first big deployment of force …’
‘God help us,’ Cope groaned. ‘Green as grassstalks.’
‘Maybe, but we were all green once, Sergeant: there’s an awful lot of them, and they’ve got darn good kit. A whole new phase of the war has begun. Allied strategy is now to clamp Rommel in a vice from both sides, biff him into Tunisia, finish him off there …’ He paused, lifted his chin. ‘For your information, First Army is already forming its own SAS unit – 2nd SAS Regiment – under my brother, Bill. There might even be an SAS Brigade down the line. You boys had better enjoy your time in Cairo, because there’ll be a new job in Tunisia very soon.’
They drank the toast. Stirling paid the bill, and they wandered out on to the terrace, looking over Ezbekiya Square. The outside tables were sparsely populated, the famous botanic gardens all but hidden in the darkness. There was the familiar swirl of movement in the street: officers on elegant walkabout, cateyed girls in khaki, jibbering street-sellers. The air was cold, the night sky bedecked in stars. Caine paused for a moment at the head of the steps, wondering if Stirling had meant it when he’d said that the GOC would be coming to meet them. Nah, it couldn’t be: the old man was too busy for that. He watched Copeland, Wallace and Trubman chatting to the girls, was just about to ask Nolan if she wanted to leave, when a nasal voice rang out. ‘You are under arrest, Lieutenant Caine.’
40
At first he thought it must be a joke. Then he saw Major Robin Sears-Beach glowering at him not five yards away, his two prominent front teeth hanging out like paving stones. The deputy provost wore spotless BD, knifeblade creases, black MP armband, toecaps like polished ebony. He wore a pistol in a blancoed-white holster and carried his swaggerstick under his arm. Below him, six steps down, a squad of Redcaps was drawn up at attention, as if in review order: Caine couldn’t understand how he’d missed them before. There was a moment’s hiatus while Stirling’s little squad eyed the MP officer. Then Stirling strode over to him with Paddy Mayne at his side. Stirling was tall and powerful, but beside Mayne he looked like a telegraph pole next to a barn door. ‘What do you want, Major?’ he demanded.
Sears-Beech pointed at Caine. ‘I intend to arrest that man,’ he said. ‘There is a warrant out for him. He’s charged with kidnapping and abducting a superior officer, Major Jasper Maskelyne, and with the attempted murder of another, Captain Roger Glenn …’ His eyes were dark patches in the starlight. ‘Shot him in the kneecap,’ he went on. ‘Glenn’ll be lucky if he ever gets out of his wheelchair …’
‘I think you’ll find,’ Stirling said slowly, ‘that Mr Caine was following orders at the time.’
Sears-Beach chuckled crudely. ‘You won’t get away with that one, Colonel,’ he sniggered. ‘Caine’s done the dirty for the last time. He’s for the high jump …’ Sears-Beach hadn’t reached the end of his sentence when Paddy Mayne’s iron knuckles crunched into his jaw like a pile-driver. The MP’s mouth clicked shut, he dropped stonelike on to the carpet, where he lay panting, drooling blood, spitting out shards of broken teeth. Stirling looked down on him, his single mesh of eyebrow raised, as if surprised to find him there. ‘I did warn you, Major,’ he said.
There was a clamour among the onlookers: some sat and stared, others jumped to their feet. Sears-Beach was on his hands and knees now, coughing blood, his cap and swaggerstick beside him. The MP squad was moving cautiously up the stairs, batons at the ready: Mayne stood on the top step ready to repel them, bunching his cabbage-sized fists. Caine, Wallace, Copeland and even Trubman moved into place beside him: Stirling stood to the rear. Stocker put his arms around the shoulders of Nolan and Brunetto and led them away.
The leading MPs came to a stop on the middle step, realizing that they were in the weaker position. Studying their faces, Caine thought he recognized among them the two big lancejacks who’d helped Sears-Beach beast him in the holding cell. The Redcaps held their sticks at elbow-level, looking apprehensive. At that moment a Humber staff car screeched to a halt at the bottom of the steps. The back door opened, and out jumped a sprightly little officer with the features of a terrier, wearing battledress and an overlarge tankie
beret decorated with the badges of a dozen different units. Caine recognized Lieutenant General Bernard Law Montgomery, GOC the Eighth Army.
The Redcaps stuffed their batons away hurriedly, came to attention, saluted. Monty sauntered up the steps breezily, nodded to them, hands clasped behind his back. ‘Ah, there you are, Colonel Stirling,’ he said. ‘Thought you might have left without me. Got delayed, you know.’
Stirling snapped up a trim Guardee salute: Mayne and the others stood to attention. Monty returned the gesture with a flick of his lank fingers. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Where’s Caine?’
Caine stepped forward. Montgomery gripped his hand, shook it fiercely, stared into his eyes. ‘Congratulations, Lieutenant,’ he shouted. ‘You’ve done a splendid job. Outstanding. By golly, the war would be over in weeks if I had a few more chaps of your type.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Caine said. Monty seemed loath to let go of his hand. ‘Now where’s that little lady?’
Caine looked round, saw Stirling hustling Nolan forwards. Monty caught her hand, shook it with both his own. ‘My dear,’ he said. ‘You are beautiful, clever and courageous. As I was saying to Mr Caine here, our army could do with more men like you.’
Death or Glory II: The Flaming Sword: The Flaming Sword Page 36
