The Cairo Code (2 page)

“Who was he?”

Ismail scratched his head. “Harry Weaver, I think he said.”

I was intrigued, felt a strange tingling down my spine. “Harry Weaver? You're
sure
of the name?”

“I believe so.”

“Describe him to me.”

“Quite tall. Old, perhaps eighty, maybe even older, but he looked in excellent condition. A very capable-looking fellow.” Ismail looked surprised when he saw my startled reaction. “You know this Mr. Weaver?”

“Not personally, but I've heard of him.”

“He seemed like an important man. Used to giving orders. A military type.”

“He was certainly that,” I offered. “And you can thank Allah you didn't lose your life, never mind your hand. Harry Weaver is definitely
not
the kind of man to solicit for bribes. He's a model of authority. For almost forty years he was an adviser on American presidential security.”

Ismail spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “But baksheesh is the way of our world.”

“Don't I know it.” I pulled up the collar of my coat and made to go.

Ismail said, “Do you think the body belongs to the German you spoke of?”

I looked down at the corpse. “Who knows? The poor soul's in such a state it's hard to tell which end of him is up. Do you know where Mr. Weaver went?”

“To the house where the German lived. I heard him talk to the taxi driver who waited for him outside.”

“This gets more interesting by the minute. Do you know the address?”

“Of course. I went there yesterday to fetch some clothes for the burial, on the instructions of the police.” Ismail wrote the address on a slip of paper I handed him.

“The rooms are on the top floor.”

“Have the police sealed up the apartment?”

“No. It was hardly necessary, the old man hadn't got many belongings worth talking about. But if they bothered to lock his rooms, the landlord has the keys.”

As I tucked the paper into my pocket, Ismail said, “Will there be anything else?”

I took one last look at the old man's corpse before I turned to leave. “No, thanks, you've been more than helpful.”

•  •  •

Imbaba is a working-class district, parts of it a crumbling shantytown of wooden and concrete dwelling houses near the banks of the Nile. The streets are puddled with open sewers, and the homes are huddled closely together as if to protect themselves from the poverty and squalor all around. The taxi driver found the address without any problem.

The house was built in the Arab style, a big old dwelling, all ancient brown wood and very run-down, the windows covered in shabby, faded net curtains, and there was a rotting, carved wooden balcony jutting out from the second floor. There wasn't another taxi outside but the front door was open, banging in the wind, a dark hallway beyond.

“Wait here,” I told the driver, and stepped out of the cab.

•  •  •

The hallway stank of urine and stale food. As I went up the stairs, the wood creaked. I could hear a child crying and a couple arguing somewhere below in the darkness of the house. When I got to the landing I saw that one of the doors leading off was open and I stepped inside.

The room I found myself in was typically Egyptian, but it was shabby and in complete disarray. Drawers were open and their contents spilled out, as if someone had searched the place. Old papers and correspondence, clothes and personal belongings, and a pair of shattered spectacles lay crushed on the floor. A couple of doors led to other rooms, and there was a window that looked out onto the Nile, covered in darkness. I looked through the correspondence and papers, but there was really nothing of interest. As I closed one of the drawers, I knocked over a table lamp. It fell to the floor with a clatter, and then one of the other doors slammed open.

I turned and saw a tall, elderly man come into the room. The bedroom he'd stepped out of was in disarray behind him, papers scattered everywhere, and he held a pair of reading glasses in his hand. He wore a pale trench coat, his silver hair was flecked with sand, and he had a slightly haunted look on his tanned face. I knew he was at least in his eighties, but he was remarkably well preserved, a freshness about him that made him appear ten years younger. And he still looked every inch the military type—over six feet, his features finely chiseled, though his shoulders were slightly stooped and his piercing gray eyes looked watery with age.

They narrowed as he took me in. “Who the devil are you?” he demanded, his accent unmistakably American.

“I could ask you the same question, if I didn't already know the answer, Colonel Weaver.”

He seemed taken aback. “You know me?”

“Not personally, but what American hasn't heard of Harry Weaver? A legend in his own lifetime. Security adviser to American presidents for almost forty years.”

“And who are you?” Weaver snorted.

“The name's Frank Carney.”

He seemed unimpressed, but then something flickered in his eyes and he frowned. “Not Carney the
New York Times
reporter?”

“I'm afraid so.”

Weaver relaxed for a moment. “I used to read your columns. Not that I agreed with everything you wrote, mind.”

“You must have agreed with some of it, though,” I offered. “I was a cub reporter covering Dallas as a stand-in when Kennedy was killed. You were one of his security advisers. You told him not to go, remember?”

“Too many weak spots. Holes everywhere in the local security. And he was a sitting duck in that open-top car, despite the assurances of the Secret Service that they could protect him.”

“Had Jack Kennedy listened to you, he might still be alive today. I said as much when I wrote about it afterwards.”

Weaver shook his head wistfully. “Too late now. But come to think of it, I seem to remember your article. It was a fair and honest assessment of the facts.”

“That's because I did my homework. I read what I could about your background at the time. Trust no one and doubt every fact was your personal motto. With a career as long as yours, you seemed like a man worth taking advice from.”

“Put it down to experience. The years harden you.” Weaver seemed suspicious again. “None of which explains what you're doing here. This is private property.”

“Again, I could ask you the same. Did the landlord let you in?”

“What is it to you if he did? Just answer the goddarned question.”

“Oh, I think you can guess why. We were both at the morgue for the same reason. Johann Halder. Arguably one of the greatest enigmas of the Second World War.”

Weaver stiffened. “You were at the morgue?”

“Apparently I just missed you. And by the way, the attendant wasn't very pleased you didn't leave a tip.”

Weaver's eyes narrowed cautiously. “How do you know about Johann Halder?”

“Egyptology happens to be an abiding interest of mine, which is why I've spent the last five years in Cairo as a correspondent. Quite a few years back I was researching an article on one Franz Halder, a wealthy German collector of Egyptian artifacts. I had it in mind to write a book about some of the priceless Egyptian treasures that went missing from private collections and museums all over Europe during the last war, many of which have still never been found.”

Weaver registered interest. “So?”

“Before the war, Halder owned one of the finest private collections in Germany, most of it irreplaceable, and he was a benefactor of the Egyptian Museum. He died when the Allies destroyed Hamburg during a massive fire-bombing raid in 1943. Some time after that, his entire collection went missing. I tried to dig a little deeper, to find out if he had any living relatives, anyone who might have known what became of the collection. So I had a journalist friend in Berlin do some checking for me. There were no relatives still alive, at least none that could tell me anything worthwhile, but it turned out Halder had a son, Johann, who served during the war. The German military records stated that he died in action in 1943, on some kind of mission, but made no mention of how or where. Though my friend did discover that Halder had been recruited by the Abwehr in 1940. That's the wartime German intelligence agency to you and me.”

“I know what the Abwehr was, Carney. But go on.”

“As a boy, Johann Halder was educated in America, until his mother died tragically giving birth to her second child. After that, his father brought him back to Berlin, though apparently for many years afterwards they returned to upstate New York each summer. I visited there some years back, but the place had changed hands many years ago, the house had been demolished, and no one in the area remembered the Halders.”

“I'm hardly surprised. You're talking about a long time ago.”

“Johann Halder also spoke several languages fluently, including Arabic, and attained the rank of major during the war, though he never joined the Nazi Party. The rest of his military background is pretty much a mystery, apart from a stint spent in North Africa, and there were no details of the mission he's supposed to have died on.”

“And what else did you learn?” Weaver said quietly.

“This is where it starts to get really interesting. I thought no more about it until recently, when I interviewed one of the former heads of the Egyptian Museum, Kemal Assan, shortly before he died. I mentioned Franz Halder in passing and Assan said he met his son, Johann, in 1939, when he took part in an archeological dig at Sakkara. In fact, he said he'd also seen him in Cairo
after
the war. Considering Halder was supposed to be dead, that fact seemed pretty incredible.”

Weaver was suddenly very interested. “And what exactly did this Assan tell you?”

“Ten years ago, he was sitting in a Cairo coffee house minding his own business, when he noticed a man seated at the next table. Assan thought his face seemed oddly familiar. When he asked if he knew him, the man simply smiled and said in German, ‘We met long ago in another life.' Then he got up and left. Assan spoke some German, and he was adamant the man was Johann Halder.”

Weaver's eyes sparked. “Didn't he try to follow him?”

“He tried to, but he lost him in the bazaar.”

Weaver looked deflated. “I see. So you believed Halder might be still alive?”

“It's a mystery that's bothered me ever since. I really didn't know what to think—the whole thing was such a puzzle. But certainly I thought there might have been a story in it. If Halder was still alive, there was a chance he might know what had become of his father's collection. Then I came across a mention in yesterday's
Egyptian Gazette,
about the body of an elderly German recovered from the Nile. Apparently, his identity papers named him as Johann Halder, and the police were asking for anyone with information to come forward. When I heard the name I put two and two together, and hoped it might make four.”

I looked across at Weaver, who stood there, taking it all in, but he didn't say another word.

“The question is, what are
you
doing here, Colonel? The last I heard you were living in Washington. But come to think of it, if I remember correctly, you've had a lifelong interest in Egypt. You have several archeological digs to your credit, and served here with military intelligence during the war. But I can only presume the real reason you're here is that you obviously knew about Halder.”

Weaver seemed at a loss for words, caught in a trap of his own making. He sighed, flopped into one of the chairs, but didn't utter a word.

“Was it Johann Halder back there in the morgue?”

Weaver didn't reply.

“Then at least tell me why you're here. And how you knew Halder. After all, it's not every day I come across a story about a man who's been reported dead, and yet might still be alive over fifty years later.”

Still Weaver didn't answer.

I stared at him. “I get the feeling I'm talking to a brick wall, Colonel.”

He remained sitting there, motionless.

“At least tell me
why
you're here. One simple question. Is that too much to ask?”

Weaver seemed to lose his patience.
“
Carney, you're like a dog after a bone. I've had enough of your accursed questions.” He stood up, as if to leave, and said firmly, “You're a stranger to me. And I don't discuss my personal business with strangers.”

“OK, Colonel, if that's what you wish. But I'd like to tell you something. Maybe come at this from another angle.”

Weaver looked exasperated. “Shut it, Carney. I'm not in the mood.”

“I think maybe you'll want to hear what I have to say.”

“I doubt it.”

“Just hear me out for one minute. The moment I heard your name back in the morgue, I felt a shiver down my spine. I kind of like to think it might be kismet playing its part—fate to you and me, the kind of thing the Egyptians are so fond of believing in.”

Weaver's eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

“The article I wrote about you after Dallas. You never asked how come I knew so much about your personal background, when there really wasn't that much information on public record.”

Weaver frowned, nodded. “I seem to vaguely recall all the facts were there, all right. But what of it?”

“Does the name Tom Carney mean anything to you?”

Weaver looked totally astonished, as if I'd dealt him a blow.
“Captain
Tom Carney?”

“The same. He was my old man. You served in military intelligence together, and landed in North Africa during Operation Torch, 1943. You were wounded by shrapnel after a mortar hit your reconnaissance unit outside Algiers. He carried you back to American lines, under heavy enemy fire. He got a medal for that one, on your recommendation. He was also wounded twice for his trouble, and got shipped home.”