The Cairo Code (39 page)

Kleist looked doubtful. “If we split up, the best bet for Doring and me is the desert route. The oil company I worked for operated south of here, so I'm reasonably familiar with the area. True, it's difficult terrain, but with luck and a decent vehicle, we might make it.”

Halder shook his head. “The desert's too open. You're liable to be spotted from the air.”

“Maybe, but there's something else to consider,” Kleist suggested. “Your English is better than ours. You'd stand some chance of bluffing your way past a checkpoint. Mine and Doring's would be considerably less. I'd sooner take my luck out in the desert.”

“You're certain you want to take the risk?”

“Be honest. You'd stand a better chance with just the girl. Two's a couple, four's a crowd.”

“I suppose you're right. Well, what do you say, Doring? Are you sure about this?”

“Either way, we could run into trouble. But with respect, I'd sooner go with Major Kleist.”

“Very well. The fräulein and I will try to make it to Alex by the coastal train, then on to Cairo.” Halder turned to Achmed. “It seems we're going to split into two groups. We'll have need of additional transport.”

Achmed despaired at the thought of losing his beloved Fiat, and he sighed. “I suppose you'd better take my truck. If anyone should ask, I can always claim it was stolen.”

“It's going to look suspicious if we drive it out of the village,” Kleist said. “Better if you take us out to this camel track and show us the way.”

“It's five miles away. How am I supposed to get back?”

“Walk,” Kleist said bluntly.

Achmed didn't like the suggestion one little bit, but at least after that the Germans would be out of his hair.

“Well?” said Halder.

Achmed nodded reluctantly. “If I must.”

Kleist gave Halder the keys to the Jeep. “We're not much use here, and the longer we delay, the more the cards are stacked against us. I suggest we leave straight away.”

Halder jerked a thumb at Doring. “Go with Achmed. Remove your things from our vehicle and get the truck ready—remember to take plenty of water for the journey.”

They left, and Halder and Kleist were alone. “If you make it to Cairo, you know how and where to meet our contact. If any of us are apprehended, we say nothing that might jeopardize our mission. You heard what Schellenberg said—everything depends on us. We carry on, until we're dead or captured. And for what it's worth, good luck.”

“The same to you. And I never thought I'd hear myself saying that, Halder. But it seems we're all going to need more than luck.”

Halder was unmoved. “You're still a callous thug, Kleist.”

Kleist grinned. “The next time we meet could well be in hell. I'll make sure to keep the fires stoked and ready.”

Achmed came back. “My son's helping your friend put your things in the truck,” he said to Kleist. “If you come with me I'll give you a couple of cans of water and some food.”

“Did you radio Berlin when we didn't make the rendezvous?” Halder asked.

Achmed nodded. “When I returned from the airfield. I told them you didn't show up.”

“Send off another signal before you leave. Explain what happened, just the barest details, and that we're doing our best to carry on.” Halder slipped the guidebook into his pocket. “I'll keep the Baedeker, if you don't mind.”

“As you wish.”

At that moment the kitchen door was flung open and Rachel stood there, grim faced. “I think you'd better come upstairs.”

When he saw the two bodies, Weaver wanted to throw up. Sanson came into the cabin behind him.
“My God.”

When Weaver had recovered, he knelt and examined the corpses. “They're both still warm.”

The cabin was in disarray, the floor scattered with debris. He moved up to the cockpit with Sanson. The copilot was still strapped into his seat, dressed in a jump suit. His face was grotesque in death, and flies buzzed around a gaping wound in his side. Sanson searched through the dead man's clothes and found a set of dog tags around his neck and identity papers in one of his pockets. “According to these, he's an American flight lieutenant.”

Weaver examined the papers. They looked legitimate. He noticed that a trail of blood led from the pilot's seat out to the cabin. “It looks like someone was badly injured.”

They both stepped out into the sun again. The lieutenant and the driver dismounted and came over. “Is there something wrong, sir?”

Sanson was grave as he jerked a thumb. “Take a look inside.”

When they reappeared moments later, the lieutenant said solemnly, “The two men in the cabin look like they might be ours, sir. They're wearing British army underwear.”

“I'm well aware of that,” Sanson replied bitterly. “Take a walk around outside, see what you can find.”

“Yes, sir.”

While the lieutenant searched around the wreckage, Sanson lit a cigarette. “They must be a cold-blooded lot, whoever shot those lads.” His voice was thick with rage. “There's no question we're dealing with German infiltrators. The copilot's papers might look in order, but you can bet they're excellent forgeries. Well, don't just stand there, Weaver. Have a look around. See if you can find anything.”

Sanson kicked among the debris, and Weaver went to look at the tracks in the sand he'd noticed earlier. They led towards the aircraft and appeared to have been made by a single vehicle, but the sand was too dry and powdery for any footprints to have been left behind. Sanson came over and Weaver pointed to the tracks.

“I'll take a guess at what happened. The two men inside spotted the wreckage and came to investigate. They were shot for their trouble and their uniforms and vehicle stolen.”

Sanson nodded. “Which means we're dealing with at least two men, probably more. And one's wounded—the pilot by the looks of it.”

He called the lieutenant over and they consulted the map. “There aren't that many villages within a twenty-mile radius,” the lieutenant explained. “Maybe half a dozen at most.”

“Have any of them got a doctor or a hospital?”

“The nearest hospital is in Alex. But there's the army base at Amiriya, which has a doctor, I believe. And there's probably another somewhere in the area who looks after the local villages.”

“How far's Amiriya?”

“About twenty miles, perhaps less.”

“Get them on the radio and explain the situation. Find out if anyone sought medical treatment there in the last few hours, civilian or military. And tell them we need as many men as they have available to check the villages in the area. I want to know if any local doctor or anyone with medical knowledge was asked to treat a wounded patient this morning, especially someone in uniform. Then call up HQ. I want checkpoints on all roads leading into Alex. We're looking for a stolen vehicle, most likely a military staff car or Jeep, with a wounded passenger on board. Number of occupants unknown, but at least two, and they're probably wearing stolen military uniforms. They're suspected enemy infiltrators, armed and highly dangerous.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And find out if any patrols or military personnel have gone missing in the area.”

The lieutenant ran back to the Jeep.

“We'll make a start on the nearest villages ourselves,” Sanson told Weaver. “In this kind of terrain, they haven't got many places in which to hide. We should find them quickly enough. Unless they've already made it to Alex, in which case we'll have our work cut out. What was the name of the lieutenant's CO back at Alex HQ?”

“Captain Myers.”

“One of us had better go back and oversee the search from that end, in case we've no luck here.” He nodded to the wrecked fuselage. “Let's take another look inside, in case we missed anything.”

They moved into the cabin again. This time, Weaver noticed that the aircraft's first-aid kit was missing from its recess, there was more blood on the floor in front of the pilot's seat, and one of the rudder pedals was mangled. As he came back into the cabin, he caught sight of a crumpled white scarf discarded on the floor. He picked it up and saw that the cotton was stained dark with patches of blood.

Sanson came over. “Find anything, Weaver?”

He held up the scarf.

When they reached the bedroom, Halder saw that the sheets were drenched crimson and the old woman was standing over Falconi, desperately trying to stem a faucet of blood from his injured leg, but without success. The woman looked totally flustered.

“What the hell's going on?” Halder demanded.

“She doesn't know what she's doing,” Rachel said. “She's only made the bleeding worse, and now it won't stop.”

“Get away from him,” Halder ordered the woman in Arabic.

“It wasn't my fault,” she protested, pointing an accusing finger at Rachel. “She didn't do as I told her.
She's
to blame if he dies.”

“Don't say I didn't warn you,” Achmed said. “The old crone's a fool. You can be sure it was her fault.” He jerked a thumb at his wife. “Take the stupid old witch downstairs.”

Falconi seemed to become conscious just then, his eyes opening wide, sweat glistening on his forehead, and he gave a low moan. Halder saw to his horror that an artery had opened in Falconi's leg and he was rapidly bleeding to death.

“Give me a towel. Quick!”

Rachel handed one over and felt for Falconi's pulse, while Halder applied a tourniquet again, tight above the knee. The bleeding diminished. “You'd better fetch that doctor,” he told Achmed. “We'll just have to worry about the consequences later.”

“But your friends need me to—”

“Get going, now!”

“Jack—”

Halder turned, saw Rachel let go of Falconi's hand as his head rolled to one side. “I'm afraid it's too late. He's dead.”

They were alone downstairs in the kitchen. Halder lit a cigarette, his hands trembling slightly. “He was a good man, Vito. One of the best I knew.”

“Are you all right?” Rachel asked.

He nodded, an edge of bitterness in his voice. “It just seems such a bloody waste, this whole lousy war. One death after another, and for what?”

“I—I'm sorry. I only did as the old woman told me. She seemed completely lost.”

“I'm not blaming you. I'm sure you did your best.” He explained their change of plan. “We're going to try to make it to Alex alone, just the two of us. Pray we have enough of a head start and they're not searching for us already.”

Achmed came into the room, followed by Kleist and Doring. “The old crone's gone, blaming everyone but herself. And the mood she's in, you can bet she'll blather everything to the village.”

“It's probably for the best the Italian's dead,” Kleist remarked. “It makes things less complicated.”

Halder gave him a bitter look, but ignored the comment and said to Achmed, “Did you send off the signal?”

“Just now. But in daytime, the signal strength is never reliable. Let's hope Berlin gets the message.”

“Repeat the transmission after you return, and again tonight, to be absolutely certain. What about my comrade's body?”

“We can bury him in the desert on our way.”

Halder said to Kleist, “Make it reasonably decent. Don't leave him for the vultures, you hear me?” He crushed out his cigarette. “We'd better get going.”

They went upstairs to remove Falconi's body, wrapping him in a couple of filthy gray blankets, then Achmed led them out to the backyard. When they put the body into the back of the truck, Achmed's son appeared and opened the yard gates, and Halder and Rachel climbed into the Jeep.

Achmed got behind the wheel of the Fiat, beside Kleist and Doring, then leaned out of the driver's window and gave a wave to Halder. “Allah go with you, my friends.”

Halder waved back, started the Jeep, and he and Rachel drove out through the gates.

Achmed watched them disappear in a flurry of dust and spat out of the window.
You poor fools,
he thought,
None of you has a hope.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Kleist jerked his elbow into the Arab's ribs. “Move!”

Achmed started the Fiat and pulled out into the street.

Two thousand miles away that afternoon, in the forested splendor of the Austrian Alps, a heated meeting was under way in Hitler's mountain retreat, the Eagle's Lair, attended by a half-dozen Wehrmacht field marshals, two Kriegsmarine admirals, and Hermann Goering, the chief of the Luftwaffe. All had arrived specially from Berlin and had the unpleasant task of reporting bad news.

They were in the large, wood-paneled room used for such meetings. The scene out over the Tyrol was beautiful, clear skies and a crisp autumn day, but everyone's mind was on anything but the splendid view. Field Marshal Gerd von Rundstedt, commander-in-chief of the German Army in the West, was the last to speak, and as he summarized the Wehrmacht reports he deliberately avoided looking at Hitler.

“To outline the main points—our armies are fighting a vigorous delaying action on the Eastern Front, west of the River Dnieper, and also south of Rome.” He gestured with a pointer to the maps, laid out on the large baize table. “I can also report that partisan activity in France, Norway, Holland, and the Balkans is posing ever-increasing problems.” He looked across the table at Hitler, whose face was a mask of displeasure. “We can overcome all these difficulties, of course,
mein Führer
,” von Rundstedt added. “But it's really a question of manpower and supplies. The Allies are destroying our supply lines with increasing regularity, by air and sea. Our resources are stretched to the limit.”