The Cairo Code (3 page)

The hardness peeled from Weaver's face, all his aggression gone, and he studied me intently. “Well, I'll be . . . So you're Tom Carney's son.”

“My old man talked a lot about you over the years. The feeling I got, you were once good buddies.”

Weaver nodded, and his eyes watered, as if he were remembering. “He was a good man. Courageous. Honest. One of the best I served with. I was only sorry we didn't keep in touch. Though I heard he died, what, maybe ten years back?”

“Twelve. And still not a day goes by when I don't miss him.” I looked at Weaver steadily. “I like to believe that sometimes lives intersect, even briefly, for all sorts of reasons we mortals can't even begin to comprehend. Maybe it's written in our stars. Like you and my old man. You know, it's odd, but my father used to talk a lot about destiny. And maybe if he hadn't been with you the time you were wounded, things might have turned out very differently, for both of you. Fate's a funny thing, Colonel. And when I heard your name mentioned back at the morgue, I figured it might have been fate lending me a hand. Kismet helping us meet for a reason. This Halder business has been rattling around in my head for quite a few years, an enigma that won't go away, and I'd like to get to the bottom of it. So if there's any way you can help, I'd be grateful. I'm not trying to call in any family favors, Colonel, believe me. But I reckon my father was a man you could trust. I'm simply asking you to trust me.”

Weaver was silent.

“Maybe you think I'm asking too much? Two simple questions. Why you're here, and how you knew Halder.”

Weaver sighed—a long, hard sigh that sounded like he was trying to expel some kind of pain from deep inside him. “Yes, I knew Johann Halder,” he admitted finally. “A very long time ago.”

“Now you do surprise me. I know why
I'm
here. But what about you? What's your reason?”

Weaver sat forward in the chair, his hunched frame making him appear very old, as if my persistence had finally worn him down, and there was a sad look on his face. “Oh, there are lots of reasons, Carney. Lots of them, I assure you.” He was about to say something else just then, but appeared to change his mind. “So, you thought there might be a story in all this?”

“I was kind of hoping there might be. And even if not, I might at least be able to put my curiosity to rest.”

Weaver hesitated, as if trying to decide something, then he seemed to make up his mind. “I think you could certainly say there's a story, but I doubt it would help you discover what happened to Franz Halder's collection. There's a good chance it probably ended up in Russian hands after Berlin was stormed. Almost everything of value did.”

“I figured that was a distinct possibility. But what about Johann Halder? It seems to me he's the only link left in all of this mystery. What can you tell me about him?”

Weaver was uncomfortable, as if the pain he'd tried to expel had returned. He looked around the room. “Is there a drink in this place?”

“I guess not.”

“Damn.”
Weaver stood and moved to the window. The wind was lashing the tall palm trees along the Nile. He didn't look back as he spoke, almost absentmindedly. “Cairo used to be quite a place during the war, did you know that? You could even say the fate of the entire world was decided here.”

“Really? Care to tell me about it?”

He didn't answer for a moment, lost in thought as he looked out through the window. “I could give you a story, Carney. Maybe the strangest you've ever heard. The real question is, would you believe it?”

“Try me.”

He turned back, and his face was deathly serious. “On one condition. You don't publish anything I tell you until after I die.”

I was surprised. “You look like a man in remarkably good health, Colonel. That could be a long wait.”

“Maybe not so long. I'm an old man, Carney, I can't have much time left. And I kind of guess at that stage the truth of it wouldn't hurt anyone, not with so many years passed. But you know the oddest thing? I've never told my story to a soul. I could have done, wanted to, many times, because it haunted me, but I kept it to myself for all these decades. And maybe the time's come to unburden it to someone, before it's too late.” He stared at me. “You could be right about fate, Carney. Destiny playing its part. Besides, having read your work, and if you're anything like your father, I believe you might be an honest man, one who'll abide by my wishes.”

I met his stare, nodded. “You have my word.”

Weaver glanced around the filthy room, as if suddenly uneasy in his surroundings.

“You mind if we get out of here?”

“I've a taxi waiting outside. I can give you a lift.”

“On an evening like this, I won't say no. By the way, I'm staying at the new Shepheard's. It's nothing quite like the old hotel it replaced, but at least it serves pretty decent American Scotch.”

“Now you're talking.”

Weaver pulled up the collar of his trench coat, stepped out on to the landing, and went down the stairs. I took one last look around the shabby apartment, closed the door, and followed him.

•  •  •

The drive to Shepheard's was something of a trial. For some reason, Weaver hardly spoke, just stared out of the cab window, lost in a world of his own. I had a terrible feeling he might have been reconsidering his offer to tell me his story, but when we reached the hotel, he shook sand from his trench coat and said as we entered the lobby, “I'll meet you in the bar in ten minutes. Mine's a very large Dewar's. Straight.”

He stepped into the elevator and I went into the restaurant bar. The old Shepheard's Hotel had what the guidebooks like to call atmosphere. It had a certain faded glory that suggested
belle époque,
all dark wood and soaring marble columns, rich carpets and antique furniture. It used to be one of the old grand hotels, built to accommodate wealthy Europeans. The modern Shepheard's is a pale imitation by comparison, though it still attracts the tourists. But there were none in the bar that night, just a couple of foreign businessmen chatting over drinks. I took a seat near a window and ordered two large Dewar's, then changed my mind and told the waiter to bring the bottle.

Weaver came down ten minutes later. He had changed into a sweater and cotton pants and he seemed more at ease as he looked around the bar. “Damn it, but this looks nothing like the old place.”

“Does Shepheard's bring back memories, Colonel?”

“Far too many, I'm afraid,” Weaver replied almost wistfully. “And enough of this Colonel business. I've been retired for well over twenty years.” He studied the room. “Did you know that Greta Garbo used to stay at the original hotel? Not to mention Lawrence of Arabia, Winston Churchill, and half the Gestapo spies in wartime Cairo.”

I refilled our glasses and set the bottle between us. “I read somewhere once that Rommel telephoned the front desk to make a reservation after the fall of Tobruk, believing he'd be in Cairo within a week. If memory serves me, the old Shepheard's was burned down during the riots for independence in '52. Apparently, most Egyptians saw it as an irritating symbol of British imperialism.”

“It seems you know your history, Carney.”

“Which is why something bothers me. If everything I've learned about Johann Halder is true, and if he was still alive after all that time, why would he choose to disappear into hiding and remain such a mystery?”

“I believe there could have been several reasons. One of them being the fact that the United States had good enough evidence to condemn him as a traitor. Probably could even have hanged him.”

I frowned. “Whatever for? Halder was a German citizen, surely. How could he have been a traitor?”

“He was certainly a German citizen, but he was American-born. His real name was Johann, though he was better known as Jack. And his disappearance had to do with the mission you spoke about, the one he was supposed to have died on. Probably the most daring the Nazis ever came up with. And it happened right here in Egypt.”

“I don't understand.”

“Halder led a covert team to assassinate President Roosevelt and Prime Minister Winston Churchill in Cairo, on Adolf Hitler's direct orders.”

I was stunned. “Now you really do surprise me. An American-born assassin sent by Hitler to kill the U.S. president? It beggars belief.”

Weaver put down his Scotch. “And probably the best American president that ever lived, come to that. Halder's mission was meant to change the tide of the war for the Nazis. And there was much more at stake than when Kennedy was targeted in Dallas. The future of the entire free world, no less. And it happened while Roosevelt and Churchill were attending the Cairo Conference in November 1943, one of the most vital Allied conferences of the war.

“Among other things, the president and prime minister were in Cairo to agree on top-secret plans for Operation Overlord, the invasion of Europe. Had Hitler got his way, and had them assassinated, the Allies would have been thrown into chaos, the invasion would never have gone ahead, and Germany would have won the war.” Weaver put up his thumb and forefinger, held them the barest fraction apart. “Believe me, Carney, it came
this
close to succeeding. It still frightens me to think about it.”

I was overwhelmed. “You're serious, aren't you? It really happened.”

Weaver said firmly, “Oh, it happened all right, don't you doubt it. And it was my job to stop Halder and kill him. But it wasn't something that ever got a mention in the history books; it was far too sensitive a matter for that.”

I looked at him eagerly. “But I don't understand. Even assuming Halder survived, why would you still want to find him after all these years? So he could be branded a traitor? It's pretty late for that, surely?”

There was a rather sad look in his eyes. He glanced out towards the Nile, before looking back. “No, the reasons are far more private,” he said quietly.

And then I was aware of a sudden powerful emotion in his voice. “But make no mistake about one thing, Carney. Halder really did help to change the course of world history.”

“You mind telling me how?”

Weaver must have noticed the confusion on my face, but he didn't reply. Instead, he looked out beyond the window and his eyes glazed over, as if he were trying to see into the past. The howling sandstorm had almost died away, lifting the veil off the ancient city, and all of a sudden you could see the majestic Nile, the houseboats out on the river, the pungent dark alleyways and soaring minarets, the ghostly outline of the Giza pyramids in the far distance. I could easily imagine how it must have been during wartime, decades ago, a city full of mystery and intrigue.

When Weaver turned back there was a look on his face that was hard to fathom. Grief perhaps, or pain—I couldn't tell which.

“Maybe I had better start at the beginning. You see, I knew Jack Halder long before the war. We were childhood friends. You might even say we were like brothers.”

Once, they had all been together.

They were young and the place was called Sakkara. An archeological team had discovered the entrance to a secret funeral chamber close to the Step pyramid of Pharaoh Zoser, near the site of the ancient city of Memphis, almost thirty kilometers south of Cairo. The international group that arrived in early spring to help with the dig was composed mostly of young people in their twenties, from France, Germany, Britain, and America. There were almost a hundred. Some were archeologists and Egyptologists, others were engineers or eager adventurers, and they all worked hard together under a boiling desert sun, intent and happy in their work and determined to enjoy themselves, despite the gathering winds of war.

For two of the young men, Harry Weaver and Jack Halder, the Sakkara dig was an arranged reunion. The son of a beautiful New York socialite mother and a wealthy Prussian father with a renowned passion for ancient Egypt, Jack Halder was an adventurer by nature.

At twenty-four, he was a year older than Weaver, who had jumped at his first opportunity to travel abroad. His father had worked as a caretaker on the estate owned by the family of Jack Halder's mother, and despite their different social backgrounds, the two boys had formed an immediate friendship that had begun in early childhood and lasted ever since. Even after Halder's mother had died, they had spent their summers together, when Franz Halder came to stay in New York each year. But at Sakkara, there was a problem. Both of them had fallen in love with the same woman.

Rachel Stern was a young archeologist of twenty-three, just out of university, the daughter of a German-Catholic father and a Jewish mother. Blond-haired and blue-eyed, she seemed to have inherited her parents' intelligence and good looks. They were both noted archeologists, and her father, a professor, was director of the dig. Rachel Stern liked both young men very much, but she couldn't seem to decide which she loved, so she was content for the three of them to keep company together.

That summer they organized trips to Cairo and Luxor, exploring the bazaars and markets, the Valleys of the Kings and Queens and the ruined Temple of Karnak. They made a habit at weekends of dancing at Shepheard's, or attending parties at the Mena House Hotel, built in the shadows of the Giza pyramids, and dining in the small, intimate restaurants and the houseboat nightclubs that flourished along the Nile.

Once, Harry Weaver had a photograph taken of the three of them together, standing among the tombs in the scorching desert at Sakkara, the Step pyramid as a backdrop, all of them tanned and smiling for the camera, Rachel between the men, her arms around their waists. And though no one ever said it, they each knew it was a happy time, perhaps the happiest in their young lives.