by Ken Follett
For a few moments the Schulzes were obscured from Towfik's view by a donkey pulling a cart loaded with Ali-Baba jars, their mouths stoppered with crumpled paper. When the cart passed, Towfik saw that Schulz was saying goodbye to his wife and getting into an oldish gray Mercedes.
Towfik cursed under his breath.
The car door slammed and it pulled away. Frau Schulz waved. Towfik read the license plate--it was the car he had followed from Heliopolis--and saw it go west then turn left into the Shari Port Said.
Forgetting Frau Schulz, he turned around and broke into a run.
They had been walking for about an hour, but they had covered only a mile. Towfik sprinted through the saddlery souq and the street market, dodging around the stalls and bumping into robed men and women in black, dropping his bag of tomatoes in a collision with a Nubian sweeper, until he reached the museum and his car.
He dropped into the driver's seat, breathing hard and grimacing at the pain in his side. He started the engine and pulled away on an interception course for the Shari Port Said.
The traffic was light, so when he hit the main road he guessed he must be behind the Mercedes. He continued southwest, over the island of Roda and the Giza Bridge onto the Giza Road.
Schulz had not been deliberately trying to shake a tail, Towfik decided. Had the professor been a pro he would have lost Towfik decisively and finally. No, he had simply been taking a morning walk through the market before meeting someone at a landmark. But Towfik was sure that the meeting place, and the walk beforehand, had been suggested by the agent.
They might have gone anywhere, but it seemed likely they were leaving the city--otherwise Schulz could simply have taken a taxi at Bab Zuweyla--and this was the major road westward. Towfik drove very fast. Soon there was nothing in front of him but the arrow-straight gray road, and nothing either side but yellow sand and blue sky.
He reached the Pyramids without catching the Mercedes. Here the road forked, leading north to Alexandria or south to Faiyum. From where the Mercedes had picked up Schulz, this would have been an unlikely, roundabout route to Alexandria; so Towfik plumped for Faiyum.
When at last he saw the other car it was behind him, coming up very fast. Before it reached him it turned right, off the main road. Towfik braked to a halt and reversed the Renault to the turnoff. The other car was already a mile ahead on the side road. He followed.
This was dangerous, now. The road probably went deep into the Western Desert, perhaps all the way to the oil field at Qattara. It seemed little used, and a strong wind might obscure it under a layer of sand. The agent in the Mercedes was sure to realize he was being followed. If he were a good agent, the sight of the Renault might even trigger memories of the journey from Heliopolis.
This was where the training broke down, and all the careful camouflage and tricks of the trade became useless; and you had to simply get on someone's tail and stick with him whether he saw you or not, because the whole point was to find out where he was going, and if you could not manage that you were no use at all.
So he threw caution to the desert wind and followed; and still he lost them.
The Mercedes was a faster car, and better designed for the narrow, bumpy road, and within a few minutes it was out of sight. Towfik followed the road, hoping he might catch them when they stopped or at least come across something that might be their destination.
Sixty kilometers on, deep in the desert and beginning to worry about getting gasoline, he reached a tiny oasis village at a crossroads. A few scrawny animals grazed in sparse vegetation around a muddy pool. A jar of fava beans and three Fanta cans on a makeshift table outside a hut signified the local cafe. Towfik got out of the car and spoke to an old man watering a bony buffalo.
"Have you seen a gray Mercedes?"
The peasant stared at him blankly, as if he were speaking a foreign language.
"Have you seen a gray car?"
The old man brushed a large black fly off his forehead and nodded, once.
"When?"
"Today."
That was probably as precise an answer as he could hope for. "Which way did it go?"
The old man pointed west, into the desert.
Towfik said, "Where can I get petrol?"
The man pointed east, toward Cairo.
Towfik gave him a coin and returned to the car. He started the engine and looked again at the gasoline gauge. He had enough fuel to get back to Cairo, just; if he went farther west he would run out on the return journey.
He had done all he could, he decided. Wearily, he turned the Renault around and headed back toward the city.
Towfik did not like his work. When it was dull he was bored, and when it was exciting he was frightened. But they had told him that there was important, dangerous work to be done in Cairo, and that he had the qualities necessary to a good spy, and that there were not enough Egyptian Jews in Israel for them to be able just to go out and find another one with all the qualities if he said no; so, of course, he had agreed. It was not out of idealism that he risked his life for his country. It was more like self-interest: the destruction of Israel would mean his own destruction; in fighting for Israel he was fighting for himself; he risked his life to save his life. It was the logical thing to do. Still, he looked forward to the time--in five years? Ten? Twenty?--when he would be too old for field work, and they would bring him home and sit him behind a desk, and he could find a nice Jewish girl and marry her and settle down to enjoy the land he had fought for.
Meanwhile, having lost Professor Schulz, he was following the wife.
She continued to see the sights, escorted now by a young Arab who had presumably been laid on by the Egyptians to take care of her while her husband was away. In the evening the Arab took her to an Egyptian restaurant for dinner, brought her home, and kissed her cheek under the jacaranda tree in the garden.
The next morning Towfik went to the main post office and sent a coded cable to his uncle in Rome:
SCHULZ MET AT AIRPORT BY SUSPECTED LOCAL AGENT. SPENT TWO DAYS SIGHTSEEING. PICKED UP BY AFORESAID AGENT AND DRIVEN DIRECTION QATTARA. SURVEILLANCE ABORTED. NOW WATCHING WIFE.
He was back in Zamalek at nine A.M. At eleven-thirty he saw Frau Schulz on a balcony, drinking coffee, and was able to figure out which of the apartments was the Schulzes'.
By lunchtime the interior of the Renault had become very hot. Towfik ate an apple and drank tepid beer from a bottle.
Professor Schulz arrived late in the afternoon, in the same gray Mercedes. He looked tired and a little rumpled, like a middle-aged man who had traveled too far. He left the car and went into the building without looking back. After dropping him, the agent drove past the Renault and looked straight at Towfik for an instant. There was nothing Towfik could do about it.
Where had Schulz been? It had taken him most of a day to get there, Towfik speculated; he had spent a night, a full day and a second night there; and it had taken most of today to get back. Qattara was only one of several possibilities: the desert road went all the way to Matruh on the Mediterranean coast; there was a turnoff to Karkur Tohl in the far south; with a change of car and a desert guide they could even have gone to a rendezvous on the border with Libya.
At nine P.M. the Schulzes came out again. The professor looked refreshed. They were dressed for dinner. They walked a short distance and hailed a taxi.
Towfik made a decision. He did not follow them.
He got out of the car and entered the garden of the building. He stepped onto the dusty lawn and found a vantage point behind a bush from where he could see into the hall through the open front door. The Nubian caretaker was sitting on a low wooden bench, picking his nose.
Towfik waited.
Twenty minutes later the man left his bench and disappeared into the back of the building.
Towfik hurried through the hall and ran, soft-footed, up the staircase.
He had three Yale-type skeleton keys, but none of them fitted the lock of apartment three.
In the end he got the door open with a piece of bendy plastic broken off a college set-square.
He entered the apartment and closed the door behind him.
It was now quite dark outside. A little light from a street-lamp came through the unshaded windows. Towfik drew a small flashlight from his trousers pocket, but he did not switch it on yet.
The apartment was large and airy, with white-painted walls and English-colonial furniture. It had the sparse, chilly look of a place where nobody actually lived. There was a big drawing room, a dining room, three bedrooms and a kitchen. After a quick general survey Towfik started snooping in earnest.
The two smaller bedrooms were bare. In the larger one, Towfik went rapidly through all the drawers and cupboards. A wardrobe held the rather gaudy dresses of a woman past her prime: bright prints, sequined gowns, turquoise and orange and pink. The labels were American. Schulz was an Austrian national, the cable had said, but perhaps he lived in the USA. Towfik had never heard him speak.
On the bedside table were a guide to Cairo in English, a copy of Vogue and a reprinted lecture on isotopes.
So Schulz was a scientist.
Towfik glanced through the lecture. Most of it was over his head. Schulz must be a top chemist or physicist, he thought. If he was here to work on weaponry, Tel Aviv would want to know.
There were no personal papers--Schulz evidently had his passport and wallet in his pocket. The airline labels had been removed from the matching set of tan suitcases.
On a low table in the drawing room, two empty glasses smelled of gin: they had had a cocktail before going out.
In the bathroom Towfik found the clothes Schulz had worn into the desert. There was a lot of sand in the shoes, and on the trouser cuffs he found small dusty gray smears which might have been cement. In the breast pocket of the rumpled jacket was a blue plastic container, about one-and-a-half inches square, very slender. It contained a light-tight envelope of the kind used to protect photographic film.
Towfik pocketed the plastic box.
The airline labels from the luggage were in a wastebasket in the little hall. The Schulzes' address was in Boston, Massachusetts, which probably meant that the professor taught at Harvard, MIT or one of the many lesser universities in the area. Towfik did some rapid arithmetic. Schulz would have been in his twenties during World War II: he could easily be one of the German rocketry experts who went to the USA after the war.
Or not. You did not have to be a Nazi to work for the Arabs.
Nazi or not, Schulz was a cheapskate: his soap, toothpaste and after-shave were all taken from airlines and hotels.
On the floor beside a rattan chair, near the table with the empty cocktail glasses, lay a lined foolscap notepad, its top sheet blank. There was a pencil lying on the pad. Perhaps Schulz had been making notes on his trip while he sipped his gin sling. Towfik searched the apartment for sheets torn from the pad.
He found them on the balcony, burned to cinders in a large glass ashtray.
The night was cool. Later in the year the air would be warm and fragrant with the blossom of the jacaranda tree in the garden below. The city traffic snored in the distance. It reminded Towfik of his father's apartment in Jerusalem. He wondered how long it would be before he saw Jerusalem again.
He had done all he could here. He would look again at that foolscap pad, to see whether Schulz's pencil had pressed hard enough to leave an impression on the next page. He turned away from the parapet and crossed the balcony to the French windows leading back into the drawing room.
He had his hand on the door when he heard the voices.
Towfik froze.
"I'm sorry, honey, I just couldn't face another overdone steak."
"We could have eaten something, for God's sake."
The Schulzes were back.
Towfik rapidly reviewed his progress through the rooms: bedrooms, bathroom, drawing room, kitchen . . . he had replaced everything he had touched, except the little plastic box. He had to keep that anyway. Schulz would have to assume he had lost it.
If Towfik could get away unseen now, they might never know he had been there.
He bellied over the parapet and hung at full length by his fingertips. It was too dark for him to see the ground. He dropped, landed lightly and strolled away.
It had been his first burglary, and he felt pleased. It had gone as smoothly as a training exercise, even to the early return of the occupant and sudden exit of spy by prearranged emergency route. He grinned in the dark. He might yet live to see that desk job.
He got into his car, started the engine and switched on the lights.
Two men emerged from the shadows and stood on either side of the Renault.
Who . . . ?
He did not pause to figure out what was going on. He rammed the gearshift into first and pulled away. The two men hastily stepped aside.
They had made no attempt to stop him. So why had they been there? To make sure he stayed in the car . . . ?
He jammed on the brakes and looked into the back seat, and then he knew, with unbearable sadness, that he would never see Jerusalem again.
A tall Arab in a dark suit was smiling at him over the snout of a small handgun.
"Drive on," the man said in Arabic, "but not quite so fast, please."
Q: What is your name?
A: Towfik el-Masiri.
Q: Describe yourself.
A: Age twenty-six, five-foot-nine, one hundred and eighty pounds, brown eyes, black hair, Semitic features, light brown skin.
Q: Who do you work for?
A: I am a student.
Q: What day is today?
A: Saturday.
Q: What is your nationality?
A: Egyptian.
Q: What is twenty minus seven?
A: Thirteen.
The above questions are designed to facilitate fine calibration of the lie detector.
Q: You work for the CIA.
A: No. (TRUE)
Q: The Germans?
A: No. (TRUE)
Q: Israel, then.
A: No. (FALSE)
Q: You really are a student?
A: Yes. (FALSE)
Q: Tell me about your studies.
A: I'm doing chemistry at Cairo University. (TRUE) I'm interested in polymers. (TRUE) I want to be a petrochemical engineer. (FALSE) Q: What are polymers?
A: Complex organic compounds with long-chain molecules--the commonest is polythene. (TRUE) Q: What is your name?
A: I told you, Towfik el-Masiri. (FALSE)
Q: The pads attached to your head and chest measure your pulse, heartbeat, breathing and perspiration. When you tell untruths, your metabolism betrays you--you breathe faster, sweat more, and so on. This machine, which was given to us by our Russian friends, tells me when you are lying. Besides, I happen to know that Towfik el-Masiri is dead. Who are you?
A: (no reply)
Q: The wire taped to the tip of your penis is part of a different machine. It is connected to this button here. When I press the button--
A: (scream)
Q: --an electric current passes through the wire and gives you a shock. We have put your feet in a bucket of water to improve the efficiency of the apparatus. What is your name?
A: Avram Ambache.
The electrical apparatus interferes with the functioning of the lie detector.
Q: Have a cigarette.
A: Thank you.
Q: Believe it or not, I hate this work. The trouble is, people who like it are never any good at it--you need sensitivity, you know. I'm a sensitive person . . . I hate to see people suffer. Don't you?
A: (no reply)
Q: You're now trying to think of ways to resist me. Please don't bother. There is no defense against modern techniques of . . . interviewing. What is your name?
A: Avram Ambache. (TRUE)
A: Who is your control?
A: I don't know what you mean. (FALSE)
Q: Is it Bosch?
A: No, Frie
dman. (READING INDETERMINATE)
Q: It is Bosch.
A: Yes. (FALSE)
Q: No, it's not Bosch. It's Krantz.
A: Okay, it's Krantz--whatever you say. (TRUE)
Q: How do you make contact?
A: I have a radio. (FALSE)
Q: You're not telling me the truth.
A: (scream)
Q: How do you make contact?
A: A dead-letter box in the faubourg.
Q: You are thinking that when you are in pain, the lie detector will not function properly, and that there is therefore safety in torture. You are only partly right. This is a very sophisticated machine, and I spent many months learning to use it properly. After I have given you a shock, it takes only a few moments to readjust the machine to your faster metabolism; and then I can once more tell when you are lying. How do you make contact?
A: A dead-letter--(scream)
Q: Ali! He's kicked his feet free--these convulsions are very strong. Tie him again, before he comes round. Pick up that bucket and put more water in it.
(pause)
Right, he's waking, get out. Can you hear me, Towfik?
A: (indistinct)
Q: What is your name?
A: (no reply)
Q: A little jab to help you--
A: (scream)
Q: --to think.
A: Avram Ambache.
Q: What day is today?
A: Saturday.
Q: What did we give you for breakfast?
A: Fava beans.
Q: What is twenty minus seven?
A: Thirteen.
Q: What is your profession?
A: I'm a student. No don't please and a spy yes I'm a spy don't touch the button please oh god oh god--
Q: How do you make contact?
A: Coded cables.
Q: Have a cigarette. Here . . . oh, you don't seem to be able to hold it between your lips--let me help . . . there.
A: Thank you.
Q: Just try to be calm. Remember, as long as you're telling the truth, there will be no pain.
(pause)
Are you feeling better?
A: Yes.
Q: So am I. Now, then, tell me about Professor Schulz. Why were you following him?
A: I was ordered to. (TRUE)
Q: By Tel Aviv?
A: Yes. (TRUE)
Q: Who in Tel Aviv?
A: I don't know. (READING INDETERMINATE)
