The Cairo Code (7 page)

“I guess not.” Weaver put down his glass and smiled. “But do you think we'd still be buddies if there's even a slim chance Rachel might choose one of us?”

“Always. No matter what the future brings.” Halder's eyes twinkled. “But I have to admit, she's such a desirable woman I'd be almost tempted to fight you for her if ever it came down to it.” He smiled good-humoredly, raised his glass. “A final toast, then. To friendship and a wonderful summer.”

Weaver lifted his glass. “To friendship. And I'll miss your company, Jack. I really will. So try and look after yourself. I just hope this war doesn't drag on too long.”

Halder winked. “Me, too. But if there really is a chance for one of us, may the best letter-writer win the fair lady's hand.”

•  •  •

Jack Halder returned home to Germany via Rome on a scheduled Italian passenger flight out of Cairo. Within a week he had been conscripted into the Wehrmacht and posted to Berlin for officer training. Although no admirer of the Nazis, he was to prove a highly capable, adventurous officer, and his sharp intellect and knowledge of languages soon came to the attention of the Abwehr, Germany's military intelligence.

He was personally recruited by Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, posted to the special operations section which dealt with the Balkans and the Mediterranean, and when the war in North Africa began in earnest, was eventually seconded to the Middle Eastern Division, working with Rommel's Afrika Corps.

When he didn't hear from Rachel Stern within six months of returning home, he met and fell in love with Helga Ritter, the daughter of a Hamburg doctor. It was something he had never expected or anticipated, because part of him still loved Rachel, and there were many times when he thought of her. But his new wife was to prove as interesting a young woman, vivacious and loving. Within ten months of marriage she gave birth to a son, Pauli.

Rachel Stern never wrote to either young man. Three days after the ambassador's party, she and her parents sailed from Port Said on the
Izmir,
the only paying passengers on board the ancient Turkish-owned cargo ship bound for Istanbul. On the second night out of port she was standing at the starboard rail, still thinking about the momentous summer, when the engine room erupted in fire. The explosion that sank the
Izmir
killed fourteen people. Her mother was one of them.

The surviving crew members had abandoned ship while flames raged on deck. Rachel and her father managed to scramble aboard one of the lifeboats with two badly wounded Turkish sailors, her father still clutching his briefcase containing his precious maps and notes from the Sakkara dig. They drifted away from the other lifeboats in the darkness, and a little before midnight a storm blew up. Their tiny vessel was pounded by ten-foot waves and lashed by savage winds. The weather improved by dawn, but by noon the sailors were dead and she and her father were exhausted, dehydrated, and burnt by a scorching Mediterranean sun.

Late in the afternoon, a gray shape loomed on the horizon and cruised towards them. At first, Rachel thought it was a British naval boat searching for survivors, but when it came closer she saw the red-and-black swastika of the German Kriegsmarine. She and her father were detained on board the naval vessel after it docked in Naples for refueling, and two weeks later they arrived in Hamburg, where they were promptly met by the Gestapo.

Harry Weaver stayed on in Egypt, and for much longer than he thought, working with an American desert exploration group searching for archeological ruins, until six months before Rommel landed in Tripoli in February 1941. Then he flew to Lisbon and on to London, returning to the United States via Southampton. He volunteered the day after the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor.

He had heard about the sinking of the
Izmir
while still at Sakkara. It was a little after midnight, and someone came to his tent with a newspaper and showed him the report, which claimed that the only survivors were four Turkish crewmen whose lifeboat had been picked up by a Maltese fishing trawler.

When he read the news in the lamplight, he cried. He had loved Rachel deeply, and that night on the ambassador's veranda he had so much wanted to tell her, but had never really got the chance, or had the courage. Then he did what any grief-stricken young man would have done in such circumstances. He put aside the newspaper, took a bottle of whisky from his bag, and got drunk.

But the very last thing he did before he finally fell asleep was to look at the photograph he treasured, of the three of them together. Rachel, Jack, and himself. Three young, smiling people, their arms around one another, standing in the desert sands at Sakkara. It was a happy time.

It was the hottest summer in thirty-six years. The ancient city built in the shadow of the Giza pyramids had always stunk, but now it smelled like a fetid sewer. All over North Africa and Europe, clear skies and an oppressive heat wave had added an unpleasant discomfort to the rigors of war. And yet, despite the climate, it had been a momentous year for the Allies. The once mighty Rommel had been defeated, the German Fifth Army of Field Marshal von Paulus had surrendered at Stalingrad, General Patton's troops had landed in Sicily, and the Reich's second city, the sprawling port of Hamburg, had been reduced to smoldering rubble.

And then came autumn. The weather cooled, the Germans started to regroup, and the war stagnated. In the cauldron that was Cairo, such news mattered far less than the chilling winds and the welcome rainclouds that finally blew in from the Mediterranean in early November.

To Mustapha Evir, crouching in the shadows of the pine trees, it seemed that the oppressive heat of summer had never gone away. It was a mild night, yet sweat ran down his shirt and back, trickled down his face and chin, and his body felt on fire. It was fear, of course. To try to lessen his anxiety, he toyed with a cheap set of Arab worry beads in his right hand. Considering the danger of what he was about to do, Evir knew that one slip could cost him his life.

He was a small man, lean and thin, and wore a shabby black suit, tatty leather sandals, and a grimy, collarless shirt. His unshaven face had the tired look of a weary old fox constantly beset by hounds. He was in the grounds of a walled villa in the wealthy district of Garden City, an area that quartered some of the grand city homes of foreign ambassadors and their families. He had waited with the patience of a hunter for over an hour, and now it was almost time to move. Sixty paces across the lawns stood the handsome villa that housed the American ambassador. Two armed sentries paced outside the double oak doors, and there were another two at the entrance by the gate lodge.

Evir glanced behind him, down the sloping gardens, past the ornate pavilion and the sentries at the lodge, checking that the guards were still there. Beyond the wrought-iron gates, in the far darkness, he could make out the Kasr-el-Nil bridge and the broad, majestic Nile, the ghostly white sails of feluccas gliding over the shimmering, moonlit water. He noticed the tall minaret of a mosque on the far side of the river and said a silent prayer—not that prayer had ever changed anything in his miserable life, but right now he needed to calm himself. The last thing he wanted was to go back to the stinking, crowded cell he had shared with twelve other prisoners, and he begged Allah to protect him.

As he turned back, a chandelier blazed into life in the villa's hallway, and Evir tensed. Moments later he heard a car's engine start up, then an imposing black Ford appeared from behind the servants' quarters and drew up in front of the entrance. The sentries snapped to attention as the oak doors opened and a man dressed in evening wear came out and stepped into the chauffeured car.

The American ambassador had a well-fed look, and Evir spat in the darkness and despised him. What did he know of having seven hungry mouths to feed? Of living in a stinking hovel? Of how a man had to break his back every day to earn a crust in a harsh city like Cairo?

Evir saw the Ford drive away, and seconds later the chandelier lights went off. As soon as the car moved out through the main gates, the sentries seemed to relax, and the two outside the villa entrance sat on the granite steps and lit cigarettes. Evir crouched in the shadows of the trees for five more minutes, then wiped the sweat from his face, slipped the set of worry beads into his pocket and stood, massaging his aching knees. It was time to go to work.

•  •  •

The American ambassador's residence had a reputation for tight security, but Mustapha Evir also had a reputation. To those who availed themselves of his services he was known as The Fox. There wasn't a house built that he couldn't break into, or a safe made that he couldn't crack. But three stiff sentences in the hell of Cairo's Torah prison, in over thirty years of crime, had cooled his love of the work. After his release three months previously he had formed the intention of leading an honest life, but the only work he could find was back-breaking drudgery, carrying bales of cotton through the steep, cobbled market streets, for a fat cloth merchant who treated him like a dog and paid him barely enough to feed his family. But tonight, this one job could earn him a fortune.

Evir was unimpressed by the security and the sentries. He had watched the villa for over a week, observing the guards, sketching the layout of the grounds, trying to judge distances and anticipate obstacles. So much was at risk, and he couldn't afford mistakes. But it had been simple enough to climb over the residence wall, and the sentries didn't appear to notice as he crawled on his belly across the lawn towards the patio on the far side of the building. He guessed that now the Germans had been defeated in North Africa, the guards were more at ease. He reached the French windows and stood, perspiration dripping from his face. He took a long, slim knife from under his coat, slipped the blade between the window frames, sprung the catch effortlessly, and stepped between some curtains into a darkened, oak-paneled study.

•  •  •

The Khan-el-Khalili bazaar was crowded as usual that evening, the noise and the smell of spices and sweaty bodies overpowering, but as Evir made his way through the throng two hours later, he felt happy with himself. He had done a good night's work. The narrow maze of alleys rang with the cries of street vendors, and cripples begging for alms. Evir kept his hands on the valuable object in his pocket. Even a criminal wasn't safe in the bazaar. There were thieves here who'd steal the coins from a blind man's bowl.

A couple of scruffy beggar children came up to him. “Baksheesh?”

“Away with you, sons of camels.”

The boys spat at him, laughed, and ran away, Evir didn't even bother to run after them and clip their ears. He had more important things on his mind. Halfway through the bazaar he came to a busy crossroads, with bustling shops and restaurants. The streets and pavements were alive, cafés and shops blaring music, people crowding the trams and buses, passengers clinging dangerously to the rails and running boards.

Despite the war, the blackout restrictions were halfhearted in Cairo; some car headlamps and streetlights were dimmed with a thin coat of regulation blue paint, others not at all. Ancient, dented taxis trundled past. A shortage of parts meant that most of them drove with broken headlamps, damaged fenders, and cracked windshields. The motorized traffic was chaotic, and drivers had to compete with horse-drawn carts and livestock being herded through the streets: goats, sheep, cattle, and camels.

To make matters worse, drunken off-duty troops filled the pavements: British, American, Australian, piling in and out of bars and restaurants with names like Home Sweet Home and Café-Bar Old England.

Remembering his instructions, Evir waited at the crossroads. Clusters of jabbering Arab men sat outside tea rooms, puffing on hookah pipes and playing backgammon as they sipped from glasses. Traffic roared past in all directions. Minutes later Evir saw a muddied green BSA motorcycle come down the street on his left and slow to a halt.

An Arab sat on the machine. He wore a djellaba and had a beard. The man gestured for Evir to join him. Evir climbed on board the pillion seat, and the BSA roared away from the curb.

•  •  •

The man kept glancing over his shoulder while he drove, as if to be certain they hadn't been followed. He headed towards the El Hakim mosque, weaving through the tight back streets, until ten minutes later they came out onto a cobbled square, ringed with tall brick-and-wood tenement houses. They climbed off the BSA. The man locked it with a padlock and chain, and beckoned for Evir to follow. He stepped into the open hallway of one of the houses and climbed a flight of bare wooden stairs to the second floor. There was a door with three heavy locks, and the man unlocked them in turn with a bunch of keys, led Evir inside, and closed the door.

“Well?” the bearded man asked.

“I did as you asked.”

The man looked pleased. “You're certain no one saw you at the residency?”

Evir laughed. “If they did, do you think I'd be here?”

He had been in the apartment twice before, when the man needed to show him how to use the equipment. It was neat but functional, with a coffee table and some cushions scattered on the floor, a metal stove by the wall, but it smelled musty, and Evir had the feeling the place wasn't often lived in. The man held out his hand. “Give me the camera.”

“My money first,” Evir demanded.

“You'll get your money afterwards.”

Evir shook his head. “I want it now.”

“Later,” the man answered firmly. “When I'm finished examining your work. If the photographs don't turn out, I want you to go back again.”

“Again?”

“Again. Now, give me the camera.”

Evir heard the hard edge in the man's voice, saw the threatening look on his face. There was a dangerous air about him that made Evir feel uncomfortable. He took the tiny Leica camera from his pocket and handed it over.