by Len Deighton
Alice smiled nervously. ‘I do love him, Peggy.’
‘Of course,’ said Peggy.
As they were going along the corridor they met the brigadier on his way out. Spaulding was with him, wearing shiny new captain’s pips and looking somewhat comical in his shorts. Under his arm he had a fat bundle of papers and a notebook. It was a hot day and Spaulding was suffering in the heat. Both men stopped as they caught sight of the women.
‘Ah, Sister West … and Miss Stanhope!’ said the brigadier. He took off his cap upon catching sight of Alice. ‘I was with your mother last week. Such a charming lady. She was at a cocktail party in Alex. We talked about you.’
Peggy smiled. Alice nodded and Spaulding looked from one to the other. He was standing in the exaggerated posture that he assumed when being photographed. He was very upright, with his peaked cap tucked under one arm. But today the effect was marred by the bundle of papers he was balancing.
‘I just heard about Major Cutler,’ said Alice.
By now the brigadier had got over his initial surprise at seeing her, and remembered that Alice Stanhope was on Cutler’s staff. ‘If it’s about the spy business, you can rest your mind. Spaulding has been taking notes during Major Cutler’s verbal report to me.’ His face clouded over as he thought about it. ‘There is going to be the biggest damned scandal Cairo has ever known.’
‘If it gets out,’ said Spaulding warningly. He wiped his brow with a khaki-coloured handkerchief.
The brigadier caught his eye. ‘Quite so. It mustn’t get out. Top secret.’
‘I have to see him,’ said Alice, edging away to continue on her way.
‘He’s been under a terrible strain,’ explained the brigadier. ‘He was out there alone in the desert for two days.’
‘Yes, I know. Sister West told me.’
The brigadier shook his head. ‘He was the only survivor of an armoured car crew. It was a burial party that found him. Dead and dying all round the landscape apparently. Germans and British. The Germans had left him for dead. Goodness knows exactly what happened; Cutler will enlarge on it in the fullness of time, I’m sure. He had a dead South African handcuffed to him. What a terrible business. The chaplain with the burial parties thought Cutler was another corpse at first. He’d already buried half a dozen before looking at him.’
‘I must leave you now, brigadier. It’s important that I talk to him.’
‘Why?’ said the brigadier with the simple directness that rank affords. He gave her his most winning smile. He was in prime condition. The brigadier revelled in this hot weather. ‘Why?’
‘I’m going to be his next of kin,’ said Alice.
When they knew the brigadier was coming, they’d given Jimmy Ross a private room. He was sitting up in bed there. The overhead fan was revolving slowly, bringing little change in temperature but emitting a regular squeak. Sunlight was streaming through the windows, striking a khaki uniform hanging on the end of the bed. Crowns had been removed from the shoulder flaps and new corporal’s stripes had been stitched onto the sleeves. This handiwork was that of Sergeant Ponsonby, who was sitting by the bedside.
‘You gave your name as Corporal James Ross,’ said Ponsonby, shaking his head sadly. ‘That chaplain who found you, wrote out a ticket for you in that name. You came in here with that name on your docket. It was Sister West who recognised you when they were preparing you for surgery.’
‘Tell me the worst,’ said Ross.
‘I have all your documentation here,’ said Ponsonby. He opened a heavy brown envelope stuffed with official records. On the outside it said, ROSS, JAMES. Over that a large rubber stamp mark said DECEASED. ‘Here’s your death certificate.’ He held up a flimsy sheet of paper so that Ross could see it.
‘Nothing else?’
‘I hope you never stood trial for that other business?’ Ross shook his head. ‘Good. Good. That’s what I thought: just charged, weren’t you? It gives you a clean sheet, see. When a man dies, all charges against him are dropped. There is no alternative to that. You’ve come back to life, but they can’t charge you again: that would be double jeopardy, wouldn’t it?’
‘You mean I’ll be resurrected?’
‘These things happen a lot out here. A man is captured and then escapes weeks later. Or he’s left for dead and then recovers.’
‘And they all have any charges against them dropped?’
Ponsonby gave an artful grin. ‘Oh, no. They’re all posted as missing. You were lucky; you were certified dead.’
‘So it’s all over.’
‘You’ve been posted to India and they’re sending you to some other hospital for recuperation. You’ll have to recover first. You should be able to fiddle some sick leave, plus the fourteen days leave you usually get before embarkation. But they are in a hurry to get you out of Cairo.’
‘Why?’
Ponsonby paused for a moment before explaining it. ‘I spoke to the sergeant major in records. It would make it easier for them if Major Cutler died out in the desert two days ago. The brigadier is agreeable to that. In fact, he’s recommended Major Cutler for a Military Cross.’
‘Wait a minute. For getting that stuff about the attaché?’
‘Yes, I knew you’d be a bit ratty about that. But we can’t alter the fact that Corporal James Ross wasn’t out there, and Major Cutler was.’
‘I earned that medal.’
‘That’s not on. Military Cross is for officers only. You can’t be a corporal and have an MC ribbon on your chest. Be reasonable.’
‘Why can’t they put me down as Corporal Ross for the last month?’
‘Because you’ve been drawing major’s pay, son.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ Ross thought about it. A few days ago all he wanted was to be pardoned and have the clock put back. It was only a piece of coloured ribbon. ‘Corporal Ross, yes, I see. No charges of absence or desertion?’
‘You weren’t absent, were you? You were in the SIB office every day, working hard on behalf of law and order. Anyone standing up before a court-martial board saying you were absent could be made to look a right bloody fool. I heard Captain Marker explaining that in words of one syllable to some cocky lawyer from GHQ.’
‘Have you and Captain Marker cooked all this up for me, Sergeant Ponsonby?’
‘Not me. I just do everything by the book. You know that.’
‘The brigadier, then?’
‘He doesn’t want to know. I talked with him, of course. But he feels it better if he’s not officially notified of this sort of detail.’
‘So I’m a free man?’
‘No, son. You’re in the bloody army.’
It was at that moment that Alice came in.
‘Bert!’
‘I was just leaving, miss.’
The message for Peggy West came by phone to the Hotel Magnifico, very late in the afternoon. The caller gave the name of an Austrian dentist in Alexandria. It was not far from Garden City to the far side of the island. In the cool of a summer evening it was a pleasant walk.
‘Hello? Hello?’ Peggy West called more than once before going aboard but there was no reply. Always before, the servant had met her even before she set foot upon the gangway. This evening the boat was silent. The only lights to be seen were the small hooded ones along the deck. They shone on the woodwork and the dark water of the Nile that rippled past the hull.
She would not have been so tentative if she had not had the strong feeling that she was not alone. She looked around her and then called again. ‘Hello! Hello, Solomon!’ She’d never called him Solly.
She knew the boat well by now. She knew the narrow companionway that led from the afterdeck to the galley and the lower deck. She went down the steep companionway. The door was unlocked, and she let herself into the salon, which was more like a drawing room, with big windows that looked out on the far bank. There was enough light coming through the windows for her to see that the furniture all seemed to be in its usual places. She
found the light switch – ‘Oh!’
For one moment she thought it was a corpse that was facing her, slumped in the big armchair near the far door. Peggy had seen plenty of dead bodies, and although surprised she was not frightened. ‘Solomon! My God!’
The figure stirred. ‘Take it easy. Don’t be scared. It’s me. Walk across to the windows and close the curtains. Do it naturally.’
She did as he ordered.
‘The boat is being watched. I want them to think you are the only one aboard. Were you followed?’
Her impulse was to answer in some jokey way, to say No, only whistled at, or something of that sort, to mock his melodramatic manner, but now, as she turned to look at him, the words dried up. She could see that he was hurt. The usual stylishly dressed Solomon was unrecognisable. This man was dirty, his white linen suit stained and torn, and his face screwed tight with pain.
‘What time is it?’
‘Nearly ten. What’s happened?’ she said.
‘I stopped a bullet.’ He wiped his lips and then dabbed at them with a blood-specked handkerchief. ‘Yigal is dead.’
‘How did it happen?’
‘We shot Mahmoud, the banker. He was informing on us.’
‘Let me look at you.’ As soon as she opened his shirt she could see it was a serious wound. She wondered how he’d got this far, with his chest matted with blood and the huge blue bruise that a bullet causes at close range.
‘Umm!’ He bit his lip, trying not to admit to pain.
She gently ran her fingers across his chest, speaking more to herself than to him. ‘I can’t do much without instruments. I can’t find the exit wound, but sometimes they are very small. I’ll have to get you to hospital. I need –’
‘I’m all right. I’ve got no time to go to hospital right now. I’m on the run from the law. Put on a new dressing for me.’ He rummaged in his pocket, found a fresh army field dressing, and gave it to her. Then he produced a small bottle of iodine.
‘It’s an open wound. This stuff will hurt like the devil,’ Peggy warned him.
‘You sound like my mother.’
She got some water and, kneeling beside him, cleaned up the wound as best she could. There was a pistol in his pocket, but she pretended she hadn’t noticed it. ‘It might have nicked the lung.’ She wiped his mouth and looked for fresh blood on the handkerchief. She found none, but that wasn’t conclusive evidence. ‘You must be X-rayed as soon as possible.’ She ripped open the dressing and applied it. ‘You must see a doctor,’ she said, as she helped him back on with his shirt. ‘That’s just a first field dressing. It’s not designed for nursing work.’
‘Stop fussing. I’ve seen a doctor. I’ll be all right.’
‘You won’t be all right. You are badly hurt. You have internal damage. And it will go septic if you don’t change the dressing every day.’
‘Don’t fuss.’ Slowly and carefully he got a wallet from his inside pocket. He laid it on his knee and flipped it open. ‘Here’s the money from Karl.’
‘Thank you.’
‘That’s all you come here for, isn’t it?’
This deliberate offensiveness was all part of his makeup: his determination to show that he didn’t need her, didn’t need anyone. ‘What else would I come here for?’ she said, and got to her feet with a sigh. She’d had a long day.
He smiled. ‘Rommel’s coming, Peggy. What will your money be worth then?’
‘He won’t get to Cairo.’ She moved away from him, straightening her dress, and touching her hair, as she sat down in a soft chair.
‘I say he will,’ said Solomon. ‘He’s taken Tobruk and crossed the Egyptian frontier. Hitler’s made him a field marshal, and he’s just a few miles along the road.’
‘He will need nurses,’ she said, with a calm she did not feel.
‘What time is it?’
‘Why do you keep asking the time?’ When he gave no answer, she looked at her watch and said, ‘Five past ten.’
‘I’ve missed the BBC news. A boat is coming for me.’
‘Are you going back to Palestine?’
She noticed the way in which he moved his hand very slightly so that he could feel the shape of the pistol under his coat. ‘I think they will try and grab me when the boat comes. But they won’t get me.’
‘Who will?’
‘This boat is staked out. I told you. We are being watched at this minute.’
‘Are you talking about the British, the Special Investigation Branch?’
‘That bloody Cutler; he’s a madman.’
‘You are both madmen. But Cutler is somewhere in the blue.’
He shook his head. ‘You know that’s not true, Peggy,’ he said good-naturedly. ‘Not any longer. They flew him back this morning. The rumours say he was chained to someone when they found him. It is also rumoured that the British have had some sort of breakthrough about their security failure.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘What do you think I do in Cairo, twiddle my thumbs all day?’
‘But how do you know about Cutler?’
‘I have agents everywhere.’
‘Jews?’
‘Some doctors and nurses have a proper sense of duty,’ he said, looking at her.
‘I did what I could, Solomon. It’s not my fault that Prince Piotr is just a windbag. I told you that, right from the start. I told you spying on him would be a waste of time.’
He nodded. What she said was true. It was not her fault; it was his. ‘Perhaps I got that one wrong,’ he said.
She’d not heard him express such self-doubt before. Perhaps it was the chronic pain that had brought him down so low. ‘You did what you thought was right,’ she said vaguely. ‘You’re not in the right condition to make important decisions.’
He seemed not to have heard her. ‘Yigal always argued with me. He was always going on about helping the British. He liked to fool himself that fighting Hitler and the Fascists is the only important task for any Jew.’
‘You don’t agree?’
‘It’s more complicated than that,’ said Solomon, as if he didn’t want to pursue the question.
‘Jews have a wide choice of enemies,’ said Peggy.
He touched the dressing she’d applied, as if trying to test himself with the pain. ‘Perhaps you think I should be trying to stop Rommel?’
‘In your present state you won’t do much to swing the balance.’
‘The British are collapsing. They’re on the run in the desert. They won’t fight.’
‘They’ll fight,’ said Peggy. ‘You don’t know them as I do. They will fight.’
‘Go up on deck. Take the flashlight. Watch for the boat … a felucca. They’ll repeatedly flash a green light three times. You keep the light switched on.’
She looked at him. ‘Repeatedly flash a green light three times.’ She repeated his exact words. How precise: and how childish. He was always playing the conspirator. It was an essential part of his character; he should have been an actor. ‘I’ll go and look.’
She was glad to have some time to collect her thoughts. She stood on the deck, staring into the gloom. The coming of night had brought a sudden change of temperature, and a ghostly mist lay upon the water of the Nile. There were bats. They swooped through the lights on the other boats, and across the water, down into the layer of mist, and through the bridge. She’d got used to them now, but at first the swarms of bats in Cairo had been one of her irrational terrors. There were so many things she had wasted time worrying about. Only now that her parents were dead could she start to see her life in some sort of real perspective. Why hadn’t she settled down in England and got a good job, a good husband, beautiful children, and a comfortable house? Why had she spent her adult life working with second-rate surgical equipment, and living in primitive apartments in hot dusty towns? Had she been entirely self-indulgent, or was she after some romantic goal that didn’t exist?
Solomon must have heard the approach o
f the boat – or sensed it in some way. He was remarkably prescient at times. He appeared at her side in time to see the second lot of signals. She answered with the flashlight. It was a big lateen-rigged felucca, the sort of boat that had sailed African waters for centuries. But it was no ordinary felucca, judging by the soft sound of that powerful diesel engine. Its engine cut. It drifted on the current and discharged a rowboat which moved across the water towards them. Solomon buttoned his coat, readying himself to climb aboard it.
‘Do you have luggage?’ she asked him.
He shook his head. ‘I have nothing.’
She looked into his face. ‘Take care of yourself. You must see a doctor.’
‘You can have the houseboat,’ he said, as if it was a sudden impulse. ‘It’s furnished. There is a bill of sale, signed and notarised; it’s in the top drawer of the bureau. The mooring fees are paid up to the end of 1943. Sell it if you don’t want it.’
‘Thank you, Solomon.’ She knew it wasn’t an impulse. Solomon was never impulsive; he was a man for whom planning was sacred. Even when seriously wounded, the plan – whatever it was – would have to be carried through.
‘Karl is dead,’ he said, as if explaining his gift.
‘Yes, I know.’
‘How could you know?’
‘I guessed. You never brought anything that was in his handwriting.’
‘There were notes from him.’
‘Typewritten. Karl couldn’t type.’
‘Perhaps he learned.’
‘Not Karl.’
She expected him to say something fulsome about Karl, something about him dying bravely or giving his life for the Jewish Homeland. But he didn’t enlarge on what he’d said.
The rowboat missed the fenders, and bumped against the hull as it came alongside. ‘Is this the city of gold?’ said one of the men at the oars.
At first she thought it was a coded challenge, but then she remembered that the houseboat was called the City of Gold.
‘I’m here,’ said Solomon. He steadied himself by gripping her arm. Then, carefully, he started down the ladder from the stern. At the bottom rung he stopped and watched the rowboat bobbing on the water. With great difficulty, he stepped aboard it. His weight made the rowboat dip alarmingly. He swayed. For a moment it seemed as if he might tumble into the water. Then one of the men caught him and put an arm around him as he dropped onto a seat.
