The Cairo Code (75 page)

“And what about Sanson, and Helen Kane?”

“Sanson had been right all along, of course. And I'd have to admit, a good soldier, despite our differences. The kind of Englishman you'd want on your side in a difficult battle—driven, relentless, determined not to give the enemy any quarter. He served out the rest of the war in Cairo, then returned to Britain. Surprisingly, he ran a successful public relations business for many years, until he eventually retired. He passed away ten years ago in London.” Weaver hesitated, and his eyes misted. “As for Helen Kane, she learned that her boyfriend was a prisoner in a German camp in Greece. They were reunited after Athens was liberated, married, and eventually settled in England. God knows if she's still alive. But I often think of her. She was a remarkable woman.”

“You know what amazes me? How such a story could have been kept hushed up for all this time. It seems incredible.”

“There's been a veiled hint or two in certain history books over the years, but I agree nothing substantial has ever come out, and certainly not the full truth. That it was kept secret shouldn't really surprise you, not when you think about it. At such a critical stage in the war, the American and British public would have been totally demoralized to learn that the Nazis had come dangerously close to killing their leaders, not to mention the effect it would have had on the troops. Washington and London put a security clamp on the whole thing, as tight as anything I've ever seen.

“Berlin wasn't too keen to admit failure, either. In late 1943, the Nazis were beginning to find their backs to the wall, and needed victories, not defeats. The humiliation wouldn't exactly have been a morale booster for their armed forces, so Hitler gave instructions that all the papers on Sphinx be destroyed, and any personnel who knew about it sworn to secrecy. Besides, there were so many stories flying around in those days—some true, others incredible. The Allies were planning to assassinate Hitler, or kidnap Rommel, and Hitler was going to get Roosevelt and Churchill, or some top Allied commander or other. It was hard to distinguish fact from fiction. After the war ended, I guess Sphinx got lost among the bunch of them.”

“What happened to you?”

A tiny, wry smile played across Weaver's lips. “I was never court-martialed, if that's what you'd like to know. And that was the odd thing. For some reason best known to himself, Sanson never brought charges against me. The question of Halder's disappearance came up, of course, but it wasn't pursued, or the matter discussed further. Maybe behind it all, Sanson really knew what I was going through—a conflict between duty and love and friendship. After that, I became an unwitting expert in presidential security. What could I say? That Roosevelt's life had been saved in part by a German agent, sent to help kill him, and I'd aided his escape? It would have caused unwelcome questions about what had really happened to Jack. So I guess I let sleeping dogs lie.”

“How did you learn all the facts about Rachel Stern's true identity?”

“Some of the SD's personnel files fell into Allied hands in '45. Hers was among them, and I managed to get a copy. I was also lucky enough to wangle an interview with Schellenberg while he was in prison. It was he who filled me in on the rest of the story.”

I looked at Weaver's face. “Do you reckon she really loved both of you?”

For a moment he said nothing, a wistful look in his eyes, a hint of infinite sadness. “You know, I guess I'll never truly know the answer to that question. I'll take it with me to my grave. And perhaps that's the way it should be. Some questions are best left unanswered. But if you want the
honest
truth, I always liked to think she really did.”

“What happened to her body?”

“She was buried in an unmarked grave, in the desert near Sakkara. No proper religious ceremony, just a military burial detail, and a sergeant read a brief passage from Revelations, which seemed oddly appropriate under the circumstances.” Weaver shook his head. “I didn't attend, I'm afraid. I guess I really didn't feel up to it. But afterwards I drove out to the spot and said a prayer, for whatever good it did.”

“And her family?”

“Himmler, of course, was never one to keep his promises. Despite Schellenberg's pleas for clemency, her father was executed with the other conspirators against Hitler, along with her two beloved younger brothers, innocents who had absolutely nothing to do with the plot. Only her mother was spared, but she passed away soon after, poor woman.”

I looked at Weaver steadily. “Why do you think Halder never tried to see you again? And why would he stay in hiding all these years? You said the United States could have hanged him as a traitor. But that was an outside chance, surely? He was a soldier, not a war criminal. And why the secrecy?”

He took a deep breath, sighed. “You're probably right. God knows I've thought about it often enough, but there are only a couple of reasons I can think of as to why he hid himself away and never got in touch with me again, both of them connected. One, he was quite a proud man. I think in some way he felt he had let his mother's country down by going along with the Nazis in the first place. But he had no choice, really. Like so many good Germans, he'd been swept along by the current. And he only agreed to play his part in Schellenberg's plan because of his son. But you also have to remember he came from a strong Prussian background. Honor matters. The German word—
pflicht
—that Jack was driven by. It translates as ‘duty,' but I've learned it means much, much more than that. It means you don't dishonor those closest to you. I think he felt he had somehow dishonored our friendship, and believed he could never face me again. But who knows?

“As far as the second reason, it seems the most plausible. After all the pain Jack had been through—the loss of his wife and child, and his father's death, not to mention what happened in Egypt on the mission—perhaps he simply wanted to put everything behind him, to start a new life and try to erase the torment of the past. I believe it happens, you know. It's not been unknown for people who have been through unbearable trauma to cut themselves off totally from their old lives and try to start afresh. Give themselves a clean break—new identities, new families, new careers—and obliterate anything associated with their past. A kind of cleansing of the soul, I suppose. I'm sure the psychologists could explain it in better detail, but it seems to me to make some kind of sense. And I have a feeling it might be what Jack tried to do. You might say he never forgot his wife and son, and didn't cut himself off completely by having flowers regularly delivered to their graves, but then I guess if you'd lost a family you'd dearly loved, you wouldn't forget their memory entirely.”

There was a sound behind us. A couple of hotel cleaning staff on the night shift came in. They looked surprised to see anyone still in the bar, but they promptly ignored us and got down to work, clearing away tables and chairs. Weaver glanced at his watch.

“It looks like we're overstaying our welcome. Well, I must get some sleep, Carney.” He stood. “I've got a flight to arrange tomorrow, back to the States.”

He offered a firm handshake, and I walked with him to the elevator. “I've one more question.”

“Oh? And what's that?”

“You're certain the body in the morgue wasn't Halder's?”

“Jack had a noticeable scar on his left leg, an old injury from childhood when we used to play together in the grounds of his mother's estate. The poor soul in the morgue had none. As to who he really was, we'll probably never know.”

“But it seems an odd coincidence. He was about the same age and had the same name as Halder.”

“He also had papers in the name of Hans Meyer, I believe.”

I nodded. “A contact I know in the Cairo police told me they found old identity documents in that name hidden at the apartment.”

“I suppose you heard that many Germans came to Egypt after the war? Some were wanted Nazis, others were young scientists, hired to work on Nasser's secret rocket program at Helwan, out in the desert. There are still a few of them alive, I believe, living out their last days anonymously, in squalid apartments in places like Imbaba. In some cases, when they first arrived in Egypt, they gave themselves new identities or aliases, to try and cover their tracks. I think when the facts are finally known you'll find the old man at the morgue was one of them, and that the name Johann Halder was an alias. There's nothing remarkable about the name—it's common enough in Germany. So is Hans Meyer. I'd place a bet that both identities were probably covers the dead man had used over the years.” Weaver paused.

“You still look doubtful, Carney.”

I shrugged. “I guess it's because I'm a journalist, but I don't like unfinished stories. I would have liked to have known once and for all if Halder was still alive.”

“You mean you'd like to find out what happened to his father's collection?”

“Oddly enough, if I'm to be honest, I think it's Jack Halder himself who intrigues me more.”

Weaver shook his head. “For all I know he could be long dead. There aren't too many of us old survivors still around these days. The flowers on the graves of his wife and son once a month could easily have been arranged to continue after his death. It's just the kind of touch I would have expected of Jack. A pity if he's dead, though. I would have liked to have seen him again, at least one more time.” There was genuine regret in Weaver's voice, an almost tangible sadness. “But everything that happened was all such a long time ago. What was it some writer once said? ‘The older I get, the more it seems that little by little I drift away from the shores of my past, until they become just a far-off, distant memory.' It certainly seems that way.”

“But you recall it very well.”

Weaver hesitated, then slowly reached into his pocket, took out his wallet, and handed something to me. “That's because I have this to remind me.”

It was a very old, faded black-and-white photograph, kept preciously in a protective plastic cover, the paper wrinkled and cracked. Three young people stood among the tombs near the Step pyramid, their faces healthy and tanned, their arms around one another's waists as they smiled out at the camera. I recognized Harry Weaver at once, as a young man. Beside him stood a striking woman. She was very beautiful, her features finely chiseled, her blond hair bleached from the sun. Next to her was a handsome man, a smile etched on his face. Jack Halder and Rachel Stern.

I stared down at the photograph for a long time, the images suddenly real, faces to go with the story, then silently handed it back, stuck for something to say. There was really nothing I could think of.

Weaver returned the photograph to his wallet. “I'm glad we talked, Carney. If ever you're back Stateside, I'm always happy to see visitors, so look me up some. There are so few old friends still around these days—they seem to pass away with monotonous regularity.”

“I'll do that.”

“Well, goodnight, or should I say good morning.”

“Good morning, sir.”

He entered the elevator, the doors closed, and he was gone.

•  •  •

I walked back to my apartment but couldn't sleep. For some reason, I kept going over Weaver's story in my mind. I sat there restlessly, drinking coffee, watching the sun come up, thinking about everything Weaver had told me, until a little later I got dressed and went down to the street and walked towards the deserted Kasr-el-Nil bridge. When a solitary taxi drove past, I hailed it. The driver looked surprised to see a customer at such an early hour.

“Where to, sir?”

“Sakkara.”

He didn't register astonishment that someone would want to visit the famous site at dawn but simply shrugged as I climbed in. We drove out along the Pyramids Road before turning south, out into the green Nile countryside and along the canal, the shabby villages along the way deserted, hardly a sinner in sight, and then we came to the ruins of the fabled city of Memphis, and at last Sakkara, that awesome monument to a long-dead king, loomed ahead.

It looked a very beautiful place just after dawn, truly glorious, sky and earth the color of fiery sandstone, a tangerine sunrise washing over the oldest pyramid in Egypt, where the most fertile land on earth, the lush Nile delta, ended abruptly with a thick forest of palms and the barren desert began. There was a hut where the tourist police checked the incoming traffic, but there was no one about so early in the morning, and I told the driver to carry on, up the steep winding road to the site. When we reached the gravel parking lot below the entrance, I got out.

“Wait here, please.”

I walked up the hill. It was still cool in the desert after the freezing cold of night, the place desolate—no hordes of tourists, or annoying camel drivers and guides offering their services. I walked among the ruins and stood in the pale shadows of the splendor of Zoser's pyramid. A sign nearby said that an international archeological team was at work, another dig in progress, but I saw no one, so I went to sit on one of the stone blocks at the base.

There were faded initials carved into the stepped layers of ancient brown rock, hundreds and hundreds of them, scratched and chiseled by visitors and victors over countless centuries. Primitive marks left by Roman legionnaires, ciphers scraped into the weathered stone by Napoleon's conquering armies, and endless forgotten memorials to lovers, long dead. I searched for a long time, brushing away sand, moving from stone to stone, the rock so badly eroded in places that it was impossible to read some of the inscriptions, until finally a chill went through me as I found what I was looking for, the letters so badly worn I had to trace their faded outline with the tip of my finger.

But there they were.
RS, HW, JH. 1939.