The Cairo Code (47 page)

Halder took in her figure, her long legs and delicate neck, the gentle rise of her curves beneath the towel.

“What's the matter?” Rachel asked.

He looked at her face. “Nothing.”

He tossed aside the guidebook, got off the bed, crushed his cigarette, and went past her into the bathroom. He ran the bath while he shaved, then soaked in the hot tub and came out ten minutes later wearing a towel. He took another cigarette from the pack, tapped it moodily, and leaned against the bathroom door. Rachel was sitting on the bed, still drying her hair, and she noticed him staring at her. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He lit his cigarette and inhaled slowly. “There's something different about you. Something I sensed the first time we met after four years. I've been trying to figure out what it is. Now I know.”

She stopped toweling her hair, her face taut. “What?”

“There's a hardness about you I don't remember. You're like a different woman.”

She turned away, unable to meet his stare, finished drying her hair and put down the wet towel.

Halder said, “But then again, I suppose four years in a camp can either break you or strengthen you—” He let the words trail away. “I saw the look on your face when you saw Harry again. Of the two of us, it was him you really loved, wasn't it?”

This time Rachel stared back. “You saw shock. Nothing more. And how I felt about Harry is immaterial.”

Halder sighed, came away from the door, and peered through the curtain. All the windows across the street were closed and shuttered, but below in the alleyway the café was still busy. He let the curtain fall. “I suppose in some ways you're right. Human life is the raw material of war. And whether the two of us live or die really doesn't matter. But it does to me.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm still in love with you. I always have been.”

Rachel didn't answer. She wrapped her arms around herself, as if to ward off a chill, and went to sit on the bed.

Halder looked over. “Can I tell you something? When my wife died, the only thing that kept me alive in this insane world was my son. But there were often times when I thought of you. Wondered what had become of you—were you alive or dead? Maybe the truth of it was I hoped that someday we'd meet again, and I'd have the courage to tell you how I felt.” He crushed out his cigarette, and looked grim. “As for my son, I doubt I'll ever see Pauli again. For all I know he might already be dead.”

There was grief in his voice, and all the bravado was gone, and he turned away, looking totally broken. Rachel stood, came over, put a hand on his shoulder. “You can't give up now, Jack. You simply can't.”

“You don't understand. There's no way out of this. And there's no sense in pretending otherwise.”

“No. Together we'll find a way.”

“I wouldn't rate our chances, not after what's happened.”

She put both her hands on his shoulders. “Look at me, Jack. We'll make it. You have to believe that.”

He took a deep breath and composed himself. “You're right. I'm sorry.”

“You still care about Harry, don't you? Despite the fact that you're on opposing sides. When you pointed your gun at him outside the station, did it cross your mind for a moment that you might have to shoot him?”

“Of course. Except I knew I couldn't have done it.” Halder shivered. “But it worries me, the thought that it might come to us both having to face each other with fingers on the trigger. Do any of us know how we'll react if the situation's desperate enough? But there's one thing I do know. If it came to having to kill Harry to survive, I'd have to think twice. Killing your best friend, a man who's been like a brother, that's not the kind of thing you want to face, ever.”

Rachel hesitated, looked into his face. “What you said, about our first meeting. A thunderclap. Did you really mean it?”

“Every word. But I told you, Harry loved you, too. And I cared about him too much to upset our friendship by being the first to make a pass and tell you how I felt. It's why we both spoke to you on the veranda that night, and asked you if you loved either of us. It was almost a matter of us both wanting to be fair to each other, by letting you make the decision. But then you left and it was over. Except nothing's changed for me—I still feel the same. You know what they say. You can smash the vase, but the scent of the flowers never quite goes away.” He looked into her eyes. “And what about you? Did you love either of us back then? Tell me the truth.”

Rachel hesitated, didn't reply. She was on the verge of tears, her face a mask of confusion, and then she brushed a finger against his lips. “Even just for a little while I want to be happy in a world that's gone crazy. Kiss me, Jack.”

He looked at her. A single tear rolled down her cheek. His eyes blazed, full of raw, intense passion, and he kissed her fiercely on the mouth. She responded, and then he could bear it no longer. He picked her up and carried her over to the bed.

“So far, we've caught a couple of deserters, a wanted Arab criminal, and two Germans.”

The main road from Alex to Cairo was a riot of angry drivers, honking their horns. Cars and trucks had backed up in both directions, and Weaver stood watching as the troops halted all traffic. Nothing could be discounted. Even incoming vehicles were being checked, just in case Halder and Rachel had had accomplices who had managed to evade the desert searches and therefore might still be trying to reach Alex.

Weaver had arrived at the old checkpost site five minutes ago. It had been used to control all traffic into the city when the Afrika Corps had been on the offensive. Drivers were being told to step out of their vehicles, which were being searched thoroughly and their occupants' papers scrutinized. An arc light blazed behind the barriers, illuminating the scene. Weaver frowned at Myers, standing beside him.

“What Germans?”

The captain half smiled. “Before the surrender, some of Rommel's chaps ditched their uniforms and made it through our lines. There are still a few of them around, sir. They either had Arab girlfriends they didn't want to leave behind, or else didn't like the thought of risking their lives by staying in uniform. We're pretty certain there's still a few skulking about whom we haven't rounded up yet.”

“Who are the two you caught?”

“One's barely out of his teens. Been hiding out in a Coptic church since he deserted eight months ago. The second chap was an army cook, a Wehrmacht sergeant.” Myers gave another smile. “Turns out he was working in an Arab restaurant, a favorite haunt of our senior staff. The sod could have poisoned the lot of them if he cared to. There'll be murder to pay over that one.”

“You're absolutely sure they're deserters, not enemy agents?”

“Certain. I questioned them myself, sir. Their stories checked out.”

Weaver looked out at the darkened road. The traffic was backed up for almost a quarter of a mile, headlights on as darkness settled in, horns blaring irritably as the traffic inched forward at a snail's pace towards the barriers. Army motorcycle riders drove up and down the two lanes, making sure no one tried to make a run for it. Ahead, fires flickered in the hillside villages around the city, while behind him the desert road to Cairo grew darker by the minute. More horns blared and angry shouts filled the dusk.

“They're getting bloody impatient,” Myers commented.

“Tough.” Weaver strode towards the barriers. “Let's see how the men are doing.”

The road was in chaos as Hassan sat in the Packard. It had taken him over two hours to reach the outskirts of Alex, driving as fast as he dared. Now the traffic ahead was bumper to bumper, and he'd joined the queue a hundred yards back. The army was searching every vehicle. He knew it meant they hadn't found the Germans yet, or at least not all of them. The truck ahead of him, laden with a cargo of melons, inched forward. He slipped into gear and moved up in the line. There was an arc light blazing at the checkpoint barrier, and he jolted with shock.

He noticed two officers, one British, one American, striding towards the barrier. The American who led the way was the intelligence officer he had encountered at the apartment.

Weaver.

Hassan swore and slammed his fist on the steering wheel. The American was unlikely to forget the face of someone who had tried to kill him—they had seen each other close up. He rubbed his jaw. The bruising hadn't completely gone away, more proof if Weaver needed it, so there was a chance he might be recognized, despite his disguise. Hassan thought frantically. He knew the risk was too great, and he made the decision instantly. He had to get away. He started to swing the Packard out of the line, ready to turn round and head back towards Cairo. An armed military policeman on a motorcycle roared past, and screeched to a halt.

“Oi! You! Where do you think you're going, mate?”

Hassan shrugged. “The road's too slow and I have an important business appointment. I must go another route.”

“Not bloody likely. There's a search in progress. You stay in line, understand?”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

The military policeman glared back, then roared off. Hassan sat there, trying not to panic, but his heart was racing. If he tried to flee, he risked being shot before he had moved a hundred yards. He had no option but to stay in the queue. But if Weaver recognized him, he was finished.

He sweated in the clammy heat of the car, and five endless minutes later he was only one vehicle away from the head of the queue. The truck in front moved forward to be searched, then one of the soldiers beckoned Hassan to take its place.

He was next.

He saw Weaver still at the barrier, his hands on his hips as he watched the soldiers swarm over the truck. But just as Hassan was about to move ahead, the American looked up, past the truck, and stared at the Packard.

Hassan shifted back into the shadows and swore to himself, unsure if he had been recognized. There was no way out. He reached into the glove compartment and removed the ivory-handled knife. Tarik was dead and the American had a debt to pay. He felt the anger well inside him. He made up his mind to kill Weaver and take his chances trying to escape, if it came to it. If he could smash through the barrier and flee towards the outskirts of Alex he stood a chance—the Packard was faster and more powerful than any army vehicle that would pursue him.

The soldier beckoned him again. “Come on, mate. Move it, move it!”

Hassan shifted into gear and inched the car forward.

Weaver was growing tired and impatient. He watched as a corporal examined the identity papers of an Egyptian truck driver, while one of his men climbed in to inspect the cabin. Another looked under the chassis with a flashlight, and two more climbed on the back to search through the cargo of melons.

Halder and Rachel had to be
somewhere
in the city, but more than likely they were trying to get out. With so many checkpoints and searches, Weaver reasoned, they couldn't have escaped. His gut instinct told him they had to be out there, somewhere in the long queue of traffic, trying to flee, and probably in disguise with false papers, which was why he wanted to be present to identify them.

And then what?
Weaver didn't want to think about that.

But at least he might have a chance of convincing Halder to surrender peacefully, before anyone else got hurt. He sighed with frustration and looked back at the traffic waiting to enter the city.

A big, dark American Packard was next in the queue. A private beckoned for the driver to move up in line and take the truck's place, but he hesitated. Weaver strained to see the driver, but he moved back into the shadows.

The private waved again. “Come on, mate. Move it, move it!”

The Packard finally crept forward, the driver's face still hidden.

Weaver approached the car, faintly suspicious.

An engine roared.

Weaver spun round and saw a Jeep speeding towards the barrier, from the direction of the city. It drove on the rim of the road, tilted at an angle, the outside wheels running on sand. Someone was trying to make a break for it.

He wrenched out his pistol, was about to aim when he recognized Sanson in the passenger seat. The Jeep screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust.

“I almost shot you.”

“Get in,” Sanson said urgently. He called Myers over. “Follow us, and bring a radio operator.”

“What's up?” Weaver demanded.

“We've hit pay dirt, that's what. The police got an anonymous tip-off. There's a suspicious couple in a brothel near the seafront. I've got two squads on their way to surround the place—there's no way they can escape. If we put our skates on, we can be there in ten minutes.”

Weaver jumped into the back of the Jeep. It swung round and roared away.

•  •  •

Hassan let out a sigh of relief as Weaver sped off. He was certain the American had spotted him, but he'd been saved by the arrival of the British officer. He looked familiar, and Hassan remembered where he'd seen him. One of the men who had burst into the apartment to rescue Weaver.

If both of them were involved in the hunt, how much did they know? That worried Hassan even more. Something else struck him: the way they had driven off in such a terrible hurry. Perhaps they had found the Germans? Hassan licked the hollows in his gums, remembered Tarik, and a powerful desire for revenge for what the American had done raged inside him.

“Out of the car, sir, and let's be having your papers,” a sergeant ordered.

Hassan climbed out. The sergeant examined his papers carefully, as a couple of soldiers checked inside the car and opened the trunk.

“Your business in Alex, sir?”