The Cairo Code (48 page)

“I'm visiting my father. He's very ill.” If he'd been wearing a djellaba instead of a suit, and driving a donkey cart instead of the Packard, Hassan knew the sergeant wouldn't have shown him such courtesy. “The car's clean, Sarge, but I found this.” A corporal handed over the knife. “A pretty dangerous weapon,” the sergeant remarked, and raised his eyes, waiting for an explanation.

Hassan shrugged, confident he was safe. “I'm a businessman. I'm sure you know how it is, Sergeant. In Egypt, a man like myself must protect himself from hoodlums and thieves.”

The sergeant didn't seem to doubt it for a minute. He handed Hassan back his knife.

“May I inquire why all this searching?”

“No, sir, you may not. Move on, please.” Hassan got back into the car and started the engine. On the long stretch of desert road up ahead, he saw the taillights of Weaver's Jeep, and the second one behind it, racing towards the city. Deacon had told him to find the policeman. But a thought sparked in Hassan's head.

He had a better idea.

Halder was woken by the sound of traffic. It was dark outside, a wash of moonlight filtering into the room through the open shutters. When he put out his hand for Rachel, she wasn't there. He reached for the revolver under the pillow, climbed out of bed, and was about to flick on the light when he saw her sitting in a cane chair near the window. “You gave me a fright—for a moment there, I thought you'd gone.” He relaxed, saw the Baedeker lying open on her knees. “What are you doing?”

“Thinking.”

He kissed her forehead. “I thought you wanted to sleep.”

“I decided to have a look at the guidebook. There are a couple of routes we hadn't considered.”

“Such as?”

“The harbor, for one. From there, we could make it to Rashid and on to Cairo.” She handed him the book. “See for yourself.”

Halder slipped the revolver into his trouser belt and turned on the light. He glanced at the book before putting it aside, shaking his head. “You can bet Harry and his friends will have the harbor covered. Besides, it's too slow a route, and there's nowhere to run to once you're out on the open sea.”

“The book says there's an airfield.”

“Two, actually. But how do we get past the guards?”

“You've got a military ID. You bluff your way in, and we hitch a ride.”

“It's not that easy, Rachel. Even if we manage to get anywhere near an aircraft, there are all sorts of complications. They'd probably want to verify my military ID before they let us board, or they could already have been alerted in case we tried something like that.”

“But we can't just sit here and wait to be caught. We have to do
something.
” A note of desperation crept into her voice.

“The desert is still our best bet. Probably our only one.”

“And how do we steal transport?”

“Leave that to me.” He took her hand and pulled her up beside him, cupped her face in one of his palms. “Do you have any regrets about what happened between us?”

She shook her head, and then he saw tears at the edges of her eyes. “Do you want to know the truth?”

“Tell me.”

“I could never make up my mind between you and Harry. You see, I loved you both.”

“And now?”

She bit her lip and seemed distracted, on the verge of tears again, and then her arms went around his neck and she pulled him close. When they kissed, she put her head against his chest, clutching him tightly. He held her for a long time, until she said, “It's so quiet up here.”

“Maybe they've forgotten about us.”

“A while ago I thought I heard someone out on the landing. Maybe we should look?”

“Let's hope our friend Safa kept her end of the bargain. I'd hate to think what might happen if she didn't.”

As Halder went towards the door, they heard a screech of tires. He flicked off the bedroom light and crossed to the window. Half a dozen army trucks had drawn up in the street below, dozens of soldiers climbing down, unslinging their rifles. He came away from the window, his face taut.

“It looks like we've got company.” He took out his pistol. “Get dressed, quickly.”

They heard banging on the door, and a voice roared, “Open up! Military police.”

Halder froze. A split second later there was more pounding, and another voice shouted, “Come out with your hands up—you're surrounded!”

In their panic, it took them a moment to realize that the noise hadn't come from
outside
their door, but through the open window, from one of the landings in the buildings directly opposite. Halder looked out and Rachel joined him. Soldiers and police were coming from all directions. A Jeep had pulled up and Harry Weaver was in the back. He climbed down, accompanied by the British intelligence officer, Sanson, whom Halder had shot at the station. The man's right hand was heavily bandaged. Both men raced up the steps of the building across the street.

“What's going on?” Rachel asked.

“Either they've gone to the wrong address, or it's not us they're after.”

They waited anxiously, then came the crash of splintering wood from one of the landings opposite, like the sound of a door being kicked in. Five minutes later they saw Weaver and Sanson come out of the building. There was a buzz of activity as half a dozen military policemen followed them out, escorting a tall, blond young man and an Arab woman. They had their hands on their heads, and were bundled into one of the trucks and driven off.

Weaver and Sanson stayed outside on the steps, talking earnestly for several minutes, until Sanson strode over to his Jeep, climbed in, and it drove away. They saw Harry Weaver remain behind, looking totally frustrated. He glanced up and down the street, towards the busy café, studying the scene. Then his eyes moved up to the windows of the buildings around him, as if he were considering something, before he strode over to a uniformed British captain sitting in another Jeep. He seemed to be arguing with the officer.

Halder stepped back into the shadows and pulled Rachel after him. “I'm afraid Harry looks like he's under stress. And I didn't like the look on his face—he's up to something.”

“What was all that business about across the street?”

Halder heard an engine start up and looked out of the window again. Weaver had climbed back into the Jeep, and it moved off, its red taillights disappearing up the street.

“By the looks of it, they've arrested the wrong couple. Harry's gone for now, but if he decides to search the area, it won't be long before someone knocks on our door.” He turned back to Rachel. “As they say in American movies—it's time to get out of Dodge City.”

•  •  •

“Why weren't all the brothels checked?” Weaver demanded angrily.

He was in Myers's Jeep, speeding towards the city center. The captain blushed. “Well, sir, some of them are popular with our senior brass. It wouldn't do to go barging in and—”

Weaver cut him off, furious. “How many?”

“I—I couldn't rightly say, sir—probably no more than half a dozen. Besides, a bordello didn't seem a likely refuge for a couple.”

Weaver gritted his teeth in frustration. Sanson had gone to oversee the checkpoints. The couple they'd arrested had turned out to be a German deserter who'd escaped from a POW camp and a prostitute he'd befriended. Weaver had stood in the street afterwards, looking up at the shabby buildings. The red-light district was an ideal hiding place, a maze of back alleyways seething with European refugees lodging in its run-down hotels and flophouses. Which was why, when he strode back to Myers, he'd asked if every hotel and brothel in the area had been checked, just to be certain.

“No, sir,” Myers had reluctantly admitted.

Now that Weaver had heard the explanation, he exploded. “Stop the lousy car,” he ordered the driver. The man pulled into the curb and Weaver rounded angrily on the captain. “Find out exactly how many were ignored, and fast. Get on the radio. And I don't give a fig how many generals are caught with their pants down.”

“Yes—yes, sir.” Myers switched on the radio, picked up the hand mike, put the receiver to his ear, and spoke for several minutes on the crackling set. “There are only five we didn't search, sir.”

“Where the heck are they?” Weaver demanded.

“One's near the docks area, another's back at the Corniche. The other three are in the suburbs of San Stefano and Sidi Bishr. Most of them are high-class establishments with European girls.” Myers blushed again. “I'd still suggest we don't go kicking in any doors, sir. It could upset any brass who might be visiting, and there'll be hell to pay.”

“That's my worry, not yours. We'll take the docks and Corniche first, they're the nearest.” Weaver tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Get moving.”

Hassan sweated as he drove the Packard through the narrow streets. He'd lost Weaver twice as the army vehicles sped towards the city, then found him again in the suburbs. Five minutes later he saw Weaver's driver enter the red-light area and turn down a back street lined with military trucks, troops everywhere. Hassan pulled a sharp left into the curb and hit the brakes.

It appeared that some sort of raid was in progress. Dozens of soldiers and police had cordoned off the street. Weaver and the officer with the eye patch disappeared into a building, and came out a short time later, followed by a group of MPs guarding a man and a woman with their hands on their heads. The couple were bundled into the back of a truck and driven off.

Hassan swore. They had obviously found two of the Germans.

He saw Weaver walk back towards the Jeep and argue with a captain. Hassan was trying to figure out what was going on when an Egyptian policeman came over.

“You'll have to move on, sir.”

“What's happening here, officer?”

The policeman took in Hassan's suit, the American car, and seemed to consider that he was someone of importance. He saluted. “We caught a German deserter,” he said proudly.

Hassan frowned. “It seems a lot of fuss for a deserter.”

The policeman simply shrugged. “I'm afraid you'll have to move on, sir.”

Hassan saw Weaver climb into his Jeep again and drive off in a different direction to the truck. He couldn't understand what was going on. If they had found two of the Germans, why hadn't Weaver followed the prisoners? He started the car and tried one last time with the policeman. “Who was the woman you arrested?”

“The deserter's girlfriend. A local
sharmoota.
Move on now, sir.”

A
prostitute.
Hassan grinned and understood. No wonder Weaver looked angry. The army had obviously got the wrong couple. He reversed out of the alley, shifted into forward gear, and drove after Weaver's Jeep.

Gabrielle Pirou wrung her hands in despair, feeling more perplexed by the minute.

She glanced anxiously at the telephone on her desk. The man and woman upstairs had to be the couple the army was looking for, she had convinced herself of that. She had hoped they would simply leave quietly, and save her the trouble of calling the military police, but so far that hadn't happened. When she'd crept upstairs to check, the door was locked from the inside. A raid would have been embarrassing for her clients, and disastrous for business. But the last customer had departed out of the back door more than an hour ago, and she'd given the girls the rest of the evening off.

She couldn't wait any longer for the pair to leave, and the last thing she wanted was to risk a confrontation. Trembling, she reached for the receiver and dialed the number of Military Police HQ.

A man's voice answered. “Provost's office. Sergeant Major Squires speaking.”

“I—I have some information that might interest you,” Gabrielle offered.

“Who's speaking?”

Gabrielle gave her name and address, told the sergeant major about the couple, and gave their descriptions. There was a long silence, and then she heard the excitement in the man's voice. “Your address again?”

Gabrielle told him, and said anxiously, “How long before your men arrive?”

“They'll be there within ten minutes, lady. But don't do anything foolish. If it's the pair we're looking for, they're armed and highly dangerous. Just stay on the line,” the sergeant major said reassuringly. “I'll be right here until they arrive.”

The poodle yapped at her feet and Gabrielle's heart skipped with fright. “Donny—please.”

“Is everything all right, miss?” the voice asked.

“Yes—fine.”

Ten minutes.
It would be an eternity. And she certainly didn't like the armed and highly dangerous bit. The best thing she could do would be to exit quietly through the back door and leave everything to the proper authorities. She was about to speak into the receiver, to tell the sergeant major her plans, when she heard a soft click and looked round as the parlor door opened.

The couple stood there. The man had a gun in his hand. “You've been a naughty girl, madame. Now, please put down the telephone and do exactly as I say.”

As Weaver sped towards the seafront, the radio crackled on the backseat. He swung round and saw the radio operator slip on his earphones and speak into the mike. A moment later the man looked up. “Message for you, sir. There's been a phone call to the provost's office. Some lady claims the couple we're looking for are on her premises.”

Weaver's heart skipped as he told the driver to pull in. “What's the address?”

The operator told him, glanced at Myers, and tried to suppress a smile. “It's a high-class knocking shop on the Corniche, sir, popular with some of the senior brass. The provost's dispatched two dozen men. They should be there within minutes. But it's only a couple of streets away—we might get there sooner.”