The Key to Rebecca

by Ken Follett

  3

  FULL OF ANGER AND DESPAIR WOLFF SAT OUTSIDE HIS HOME AND WATCHED THE British officer drive away.

  He remembered the house as it had been when he was a boy, loud with talk and laughter and life. There by the great carved gate there had always been a guard, a black-skinned giant from the south, sitting on the ground, impervious to the heat. Each morning a holy man, old and almost blind, would recite a chapter from the Koran in the courtyard. In the cool of the arcade on three sides the men of the family would sit on low divans and smoke their hubble-bubbles while servant boys brought coffee in long-necked jugs. Another black guard stood at the door to the harem, behind which the women grew bored and fat. The days were long and warm, the family was rich and the children were indulged.

  The British officer, with his shorts and his motorcycle, his arrogant face and his prying eyes hidden in the shadow of the peaked uniform cap, had broken in and violated Wolff's childhood. Wolff wished he could have seen the man's face, for he would like to kill him one day.

  He had thought of this place all through his journey. In Berlin and Tripoli and El Agela, in the pain and exhaustion of the desert crossing, in the fear and haste of his flight from Assyut, the villa had represented a safe haven, a place to rest and get clean and whole again at the end of the voyage. He had looked forward to lying in the bath and sipping coffee in the courtyard and bringing women home to the great bed.

  Now he would have to go away and stay away.

  He had remained outside all morning, alternately walking the street and sitting under the olive trees, just in case Captain Newman should have remembered the address and sent somebody to search the house; and he had bought a galabiya in the souk beforehand, knowing that if someone did come they would be looking for a European, not an Arab.

  It had been a mistake to show genuine papers. He could see that with hindsight. The trouble was, he mistrusted Abwehr forgeries. Meeting and working with other spies he had heard horror stories about crass and obvious errors in the documents made by German Intelligence: botched printing, inferior-quality paper, even misspellings of common English words. In the spy school where he had been sent for his wireless cipher course the current rumor had been that every policeman in England knew that a certain series of numbers on a ration card identified the holder as a German spy.

  Wolff had weighed the alternatives and picked what seemed the least risky. He had been wrong, and now he had no place to go.

  He stood, picked up his cases and began to walk.

  He thought of his family. His mother and his stepfather were dead, but he had three stepbrothers and a stepsister in Cairo. It would be hard for them to hide him. They would be questioned as soon as the British realized the identity of the owner of the villa, which might be today; and while they might tell lies for his sake, their servants would surely talk. Furthermore, he could not really trust them, for when his stepfather had died, Alex as the oldest son had got the house as well as a share of the inheritance, although he was European and an adopted, rather than natural, son. There had been some bitterness, and meetings with lawyers; Alex had stood firm and the others had never really forgiven him.

  He considered checking in to Shepheard's Hotel. Unfortunately the police were sure to think of that, too: Shepheard's would by now have the description of the Assyut murderer. The other major hotels would have it soon. That left the pensions. Whether they were warned depended on how thorough the police wanted to be. Since the British were involved, the police might feel obliged to be meticulous. Still, the managers of small guesthouses were often too busy to pay a lot of attention to nosy policemen.

  He left the Garden City and headed downtown: The streets were even more busy and noisy than when he had left Cairo. There were countless uniforms--not just British but Australian, New Zealand, Polish, Yugoslav, Palestinian, Indian and Greek. The slim, pert Egyptian girls in their cotton frocks and heavy jewelry competed successfully with their red-faced, dispirited European counterparts. Among the older women it seemed to Wolff that fewer wore the traditional black robe and veil. The men still greeted one another in the same exuberant fashion, swinging their right arms outward before bringing their hands together with a loud clap, shaking hands for at least a minute or two while grasping the shoulder of the other with the left hand and talking excitedly. The beggars and peddlers were out in force, taking advantage of the influx of naive Europeans. In his galabiya Wolff was immune, but the foreigners were besieged by cripples, women with fly-encrusted babies, shoeshine boys and men selling everything from secondhand razor blades to giant fountain pens guaranteed to hold six months' supply of ink.

  The traffic was worse. The slow, verminous trams were more crowded than ever, with passengers clinging precariously to the outside from a perch on the running board, crammed into the cab with the driver and sitting cross-legged on the roof. The buses and taxis were no better: there seemed to be a shortage of vehicle parts, for so many of the cars had broken windows, flat tires and ailing engines, and were lacking headlights or windshield wipers. Wolff saw two taxis--an elderly Morris and an even older Packard--which had finally stopped running and were now being drawn by donkeys. The only decent cars were the monstrous American limousines of the wealthy pashas and the occasional prewar English Austin. Mixing with the motor vehicles in deadly competition were the horse-drawn gharries, the mule carts of the peasants, and the livestock--camels, sheep and goats--which were banned from the city center by the most unenforceable law on the Egyptian statute book.

  And the noise--Wolff had forgotten the noise.

  The trams rang their bells continuously. In traffic jams all the cars hooted all the time, and when there was nothing to hoot at they hooted on general principles. Not to be outdone, the drivers of carts and camels yelled at the tops of their voices. Many shops and all cafes blared Arab music from cheap radios turned to full volume. Street vendors called continually and pedestrians told them to go away. Dogs barked and circling kites screamed overhead. From time to time it would all be swamped by the roar of an airplane.

  This is my town, Wolff thought; they can't catch me here.

  There were a dozen or so well-known pensions catering for tourists of different nationalities: Swiss, Austrian, German, Danish and French. He thought of them and rejected them as too obvious. Finally he remembered a cheap lodging house run by nuns at Bulaq, the port district. It catered mainly for the sailors who came down the Nile in steam tugs and feluccas laden with cotton, coal, paper and stone. Wolff could be sure he would not get robbed, infected or murdered, and nobody would think to look for him there.

  As he headed out of the hotel district the streets became a little less crowded, but not much. He could not see the river itself, but occasionally he glimpsed, through the huddled buildings, the high triangular sail of a felucca.

  The hostel was a large, decaying building which had once been the villa of some pasha. There was now a bronze crucifix over the arch of the entrance. A black-robed nun was watering a tiny bed of flowers in front of the building. Through the arch Wolff saw a cool quiet hall. He had walked several miles today, with his heavy cases: he looked forward to a rest.

  Two Egyptian policemen came out of the hostel.

  Wolff took in the wide leather belts, the inevitable sunglasses and the military haircuts in a swift glance, and his heart sank. He turned his back on the men and spoke in French to the nun in the garden. "Good day, Sister."

  She unbent from her watering and smiled at him. "Good day." She was shockingly young. "Do you want lodgings?"

  "No lodgings. Just your blessing."

  The two policemen approached, and Wolff tensed, preparing his answers in case they should question him, considering which direction he should take if he had to run away; then they went past, arguing about a horse race.

  "God bless you," said the nun.

  Wolff thanked her and walked on. It was worse than he had imagined. The police must be checking everywhere. Wolff's feet were sore now, and his arm
s ached from carrying the luggage. He was disappointed, and also a little indignant, for everything in this town was notoriously haphazard, yet it seemed they were mounting an efficient operation just for him. He doubled back, heading for the city center again. He was beginning to feel as he had in the desert, as if he had been walking forever without getting anywhere.

  In the distance he saw a familiar tall figure: Hussein Fahmy, an old school friend. Wolff was momentarily paralyzed. Hussein would surely take him in, and perhaps he could be trusted; but he had a wife, and three children, and how would one explain to them that Uncle Achmed was coming to stay, but it was a secret, they must not mention his name to their friends ... How, indeed, would Wolff explain it all to Hussein himself? Hussein looked in Wolff's direction, and Wolff turned quickly and crossed the road, darting behind a tram. Once on the opposite pavement he went quickly down an alley without looking back. No, he could not seek shelter with old school friends.

  He emerged from the alley into another street, and realized he was close to the German School. He wondered if it were still open: a lot of German nationals in Cairo had been interned. He walked toward it, then saw, outside the building, a Field Security patrol checking papers. He turned about quickly and headed back the way he had come.

  He had to get off the streets.

  He felt like a rat in a maze--every way he turned he was blocked. He saw a taxi, a big old Ford with steam hissing out from under its hood. He hailed it and jumped in. He gave the driver an address and the car jerked away in third gear, apparently the only gear that worked. On the way they stopped twice to top up the boiling radiator, and Wolff skulked in the backseat, trying to hide his face.

  The taxi took him to Coptic Cairo, the ancient Christian ghetto.

  He paid the driver and went down the steps to the entrance. He gave a few piasters to the old woman who held the great wooden key, and she let him in.

  It was an island of darkness and quiet in the stormy sea of Cairo. Wolff walked its narrow passages, hearing faintly the low chanting from the ancient churches. He passed the school and the synagogue and the cellar where Mary was supposed to have brought the baby Jesus. Finally he went into the smallest of the five churches.

  The service was about to begin. Wolff put down his precious cases beside a pew. He bowed to the pictures of saints on the wall, then approached the altar, knelt and kissed the hand of the priest. He returned to the pew and sat down.

  The choir began to chant a passage of scripture in Arabic. Wolff settled into his seat. He would be safe here until darkness fell. Then he would try his last shot.

  The Cha-Cha was a large open-air nightclub in a garden beside the river. It was packed, as usual. Wolff waited in the queue of British officers and their girls while the safragis set up extra tables on trestles in every spare inch of space. On the stage a comic was saying: "Wait till Rommel gets to Shepheard's--that will hold him up."

  Wolff finally got a table and a bottle of champagne. The evening was warm and the stage lights made it worse. The audience was rowdy--they were thirsty, and only champagne was served, so they quickly got drunk. They began to shout for the star of the show, Sonja el-Aram.

  First they had to listen to an overweight Greek woman sing "I'll See You in My Dreams" and "I Ain't Got Nobody" (which made them laugh). Then Sonja was announced. However, she did not appear for a while. The audience became noisier and more impatient as the minutes ticked by. At last, when they seemed to be on the verge of rioting, there was a roll of drums, the stage lights went off and silence descended.

  When the spotlight came on Sonja stood still in the center of the stage with her arms stretched skyward. She wore diaphanous trousers and a sequined halter, and her body was powdered white. The music began--drums and a pipe--and she started to move.

  Wolff sipped champagne and watched, smiling. She was still the best.

  She jerked her hips slowly, stamping one foot and then the other. Her arms began to tremble, then her shoulders moved and her breasts shook; and then her famous belly rolled hypnotically. The rhythm quickened. She closed her eyes. Each part of her body seemed to move independently of the rest. Wolff felt, as he always did, as every man in the audience did, that he was alone with her, that her display was just for him, and that this was not an act, not a piece of show-business wizardry, but that her sensual writhings were compulsive, she did it because she had to, she was driven to a sexual frenzy by her own voluptuous body. The audience was tense, silent, perspiring, mesmerized. She went faster and faster, seeming to be transported. The music climaxed with a bang. In the instant of silence that followed Sonja uttered a short, sharp cry; then she fell backward, her legs folded beneath her, her knees apart, until her head touched the boards of the stage. She held the position for a moment, then the lights went out. The audience rose to their feet with a roar of applause.

  The lights came up, and she was gone.

  Sonja never took encores.

  Wolff got out of his seat. He gave a waiter a pound--three months' wages for most Egyptians--to lead him backstage. The waiter showed him the door to Sonja's dressing room, then went away.

  Wolff knocked on the door.

  "Who is it?"

  Wolff walked in.

  She was sitting on a stool, wearing a silk robe, taking off her makeup. She saw him in the mirror and spun around to face him.

  Wolff said: "Hello, Sonja."

  She stared at him. After a long moment she said: "You bastard."

  She had not changed.

  She was a handsome woman. She had glossy black hair, long and thick; large, slightly protruding brown eyes with lush eyelashes; high cheekbones which saved her face from roundness and gave it shape; an arched nose, gracefully arrogant; and a full mouth with even white teeth. Her body was all smooth curves, but because she was a couple of inches taller than average she did not look plump.

  Her eyes flashed with anger. "What are you doing here? Where did you go? What happened to your face?"

  Wolff put down his cases and sat on the divan. He looked up at her. She stood with her hands on her hips, her chin thrust forward, her breasts outlined in green silk. "You're beautiful," he said.

  "Get out of here."

  He studied her carefully. He knew her too well to like or dislike her: she was part of his past, like an old friend who remains a friend, despite his faults, just because he has always been there. Wolff wondered what had happened to Sonja in the years since he had left Cairo. Had she got married, bought a house, fallen in love, changed her manager, had a baby? He had given a lot of thought, that afternoon in the cool, dim church, to how he should approach her; but he had reached no conclusions, for he was not sure how she would be with him. He was still not sure. She appeared angry and scornful, but did she mean it? Should he be charming and full of fun, or aggressive and bullying, or helpless and pleading?

  "I need help," he said levelly.

  Her face did not change.

  "The British are after me," he went on. "They're watching my house, and all the hotels have my description. I've nowhere to sleep. I want to move in with you."

  "Go to hell," she said.

  "Let me tell you why I walked out on you."

  "After two years no excuse is good enough."

  "Give me a minute to explain. For the sake of ... all that."

  "I owe you nothing." She glared at him a moment longer, then she opened the door. He thought she was going to throw him out. He watched her face as she looked back at him, holding the door. Then she put her head outside and yelled: "Somebody get me a drink!"

  Wolff relaxed a little.

  Sonja came back inside and closed the door. "A minute," she said to him.

  "Are you going to stand over me like a prison guard? I'm not dangerous." He smiled.

  "Oh yes, you are," she said, but she went back to her stool and resumed working on her face.

  He hesitated. The other problem he had mulled over during the long afternoon in the Coptic church had been how
to explain why he had left her without saying good-bye and never contacted her since. Nothing less than the truth sounded convincing. Reluctant as he was to share his secret, he had to tell her, for he was desperate and she was his only hope.

  He said: "Do you remember I went to Beirut in nineteen thirty-eight?"

  "No."

  "I brought back a jade bracelet for you."

  Her eyes met his in the mirror. "I don't have it anymore."

  He knew she was lying. He went on: "I went there to see a German army officer called Heinz. He asked me to work for Germany in the coming war. I agreed."

  She turned from her mirror and faced him, and now he saw in her eyes something like hope.

  "They told me to come back to Cairo and wait until I heard from them. Two years ago I heard. They wanted me to go to Berlin. I went. I did a training course, then I worked in the Balkans and the Levant. I went back to Berlin in February for briefing on a new assignment. They sent me here--"

  "What are you telling me?" she said incredulously. "You're a spy?"

  "Yes."

  "I don't believe you."

  "Look." He picked up a suitcase and opened it. "This is a radio, for sending messages to Rommel." He closed it again and opened the other. "This is my financing."

  She stared at the neat stacks of notes. "My God!" she said. "It's a fortune."

  There was a knock at the door. Wolff closed the case. A waiter came in with a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice. Seeing Wolff, he said: "Shall I bring another glass?"

  "No," Sonja said impatiently. "Go away."

  The waiter left. Wolff opened the wine, filled the glass, gave it to Sonja, then took a long drink from the bottle.

  "Listen," he said. "Our army is winning in the desert. We can help them. They need to know about the British strength--numbers of men, which divisions, names of commanders, quality of weapons and equipment and--if possible--battle plans. We're here, in Cairo; we can find these things out. Then, when the Germans take over, we will be heroes."

  "We?"

  "You can help me. And the first thing you can do is give me a place to live. You hate the British, don't you? You want to see them thrown out?"