World War II Thriller Collection (33 page)

“No, no, no. Now, then, I've got a little snippet for, you. We all know Rommel's got a spy in Cairo.”

“How did you know?” Vandam said.

“Stuff comes through from London, old boy. Anyhow, the chap has been identified as, and I quote, ‘the hero of the Rashid Ali affair.' Mean anything to you?”

Vandam was thunderstruck. “It does!” he said.

“Well, that's it.” Brown got off the table.

“Just a minute,” Vandam said. “Is that
all
?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“What is this, a decrypt or an agent report?”

“Suffice it to say that the source is reliable.”

“You always say that.”

“Yes. Well, I may not see you for a while. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Vandam muttered distractedly.

“Toodle-oo!”Brown went out, puffing smoke.

The hero of the Rashid Ali affair
. It was incredible that Wolff should have been the man who outwitted Vandam in Istanbul. Yet it made sense: Vandam recalled the odd feeling he had had about Wolff's
style
, as if it were familiar. The girl whom Vandam had sent to pick up the mystery man had had her throat cut.

And now Vandam was sending Elene in against the same man.

A corporal came in with an order. Vandam read it with mounting disbelief. All departments were to extract from their files those papers which might be dangerous in enemy hands, and burn them. Just about anything in the files of an intelligence section might be dangerous in enemy hands. We might as well burn the whole damn lot, Vandam thought. And how would departments operate afterward? Clearly the brass thought the departments would not be operating at all for very much longer. Of course it was a precaution, but it was a very drastic one: they would not destroy the accumulated results of years of work unless they thought there was a very strong chance indeed of the Germans taking Egypt.

It's going to pieces, he thought; it's falling apart.

It was unthinkable. Vandam had given three years of his life to the defense of Egypt. Thousands of men had died in the desert. After all that, was it possible that we could lose? Actually give up, and turn and run away? It did not bear contemplating.

He called Jakes in and watched him read the order. Jakes just nodded, as if he had been expecting it. Vandam said: “Bit drastic, isn't it?”

“It's rather like what's been happening in the desert, sir,” Jakes replied. “We establish huge supply dumps at enormous cost, then as we retreat we blow them up to keep them out of enemy hands.”

Vandam nodded. “All right, you'd better get on with it. Try and play it down a bit, for the sake of morale—you know, brass getting the wind up unnecessarily, that sort of thing.”

“Yes, sir. We'll have the bonfire in the yard at the back, shall we?”

“Yes. Find an old dustbin and poke holes in its bottom. Make sure the stuff burns up properly.”

“What about your own files?”

“I'll go through them now.”

“Very good, sir.” Jakes went out.

Vandam opened his file drawer and began to sort through his papers. Countless times over the last three years he had thought: I don't need to remember that, I can always look it up. There were names and addresses, security reports on individuals, details of codes, systems of communication of orders, case notes and a little file of jottings about Alex Wolff. Jakes brought in a big cardboard box with “Lipton's Tea” printed on its side, and Vandam began to dump papers into it, thinking: This is what it is like to be the losers.

The box was half full when Vandam's corporal opened the door and said: “Major Smith to see you, sir.”

“Send him in.” Vandam did not know a Major Smith.

The major was a small, thin man in his forties with bulbous blue eyes and an air of being rather pleased with himself. He shook hands and said: “Sandy Smith, S.I.S.”

Vandam said: “What can I do for the Secret Intelligence Service?”

“I'm sort of the liaison man between S.LS. and the General Staff,” Smith explained. “You made an inquiry about a book called
Rebecca
. . .”

“Yes.”

“The answer got routed through us.” Smith produced a piece of paper with a flourish.

Vandam read the message. The S.I.S. Head of Station in Portugal had followed up the query about
Rebecca
by sending one of his men to visit all the English-language bookshops in the country. In the holiday area of Estoril he had found a bookseller who recalled selling his entire stock—six copies—of
Rebecca
to one woman. On further investigation the woman had turned out to be the wife of the German military attaché in Lisbon.

Vandam said: “This confirms something I suspected. Thank you for taking the trouble to bring it over.”

“No trouble,” Smith said. “I'm over here every morning anyway. Glad to be able to help.” He went out.

Vandam reflected on the news while he went on with his work. There was only one plausible explanation of the fact that the book had found its way from Estoril to the Sahara. Undoubtedly it was the basis of a code—and, unless there were two successful German spies in Cairo, it was Alex Wolff who was using that code.

The information would be useful, sooner or later. It was a pity the key to the code had not been captured along with the book and the decrypt. That thought reminded him of the importance of burning his secret papers, and he determined to be more ruthless about what he destroyed.

At the end he considered his files on pay and promotion of subordinates, and decided to burn those too since they might help enemy interrogation teams fix their priorities. The cardboard box was full. He hefted it onto his shoulder and went outside.

Jakes had the fire going in a rusty steel water tank propped up on bricks. A corporal was feeding papers to the flames. Vandam dumped his box and watched the blaze for a while. It reminded him of Guy Fawkes Night in England, fireworks and baked potatoes and the burning effigy of a seventeenth-century traitor. Charred scraps of paper floated up on a pillar of hot air. Vandam turned away.

He wanted to think, so he decided to walk. He left GHQ and headed downtown. His cheek was hurting. He thought he should welcome the pain, for it was supposed to be a sign of healing. He was growing a beard to cover the wound so that he would look a little less unsightly when the dressing came off. Every day he enjoyed not having to shave in the morning.

He thought of Elene, and remembered her with her back arched and perspiration glistening on her naked breasts. He had been shocked by what had happened after he had kissed her—shocked, but thrilled. It had been a night of firsts for him: first time he had made love anywhere other than on a bed, first time he had seen a woman have a climax like a man's, first time sex had been a mutual indulgence rather than the imposition of his will on a more or less reluctant woman. It was, of course, a disaster that he and Elene had fallen so joyfully in love. His parents, his friends and the Army would be aghast at the idea of his marrying a wog. His mother would also feel bound to explain why the Jews were wrong to reject Jesus. Vandam decided not to worry over all that. He and Elene might be dead within a few days. We'll bask in the sunshine while it lasts, he thought, and to hell with the future.

His thoughts kept returning to the girl whose throat had been cut, apparently by Wolff, in Istanbul. He was terrified that something might go wrong on Thursday and Elene might find herself alone with Wolff again.

Looking around him, he realized that there was a festive feeling in the air. He passed a hairdresser's salon and noticed that it was packed out, with women standing, waiting. The dress shops seemed to be doing good business. A woman came out of a grocer's with a basket full of canned food, and Vandam saw that there was a queue stretching out of the shop and along the pavement. A sign in the window of the next shop said, in hasty scribble: “Sorry, no makeup.” Vandam realized that the Egyptians were preparing to be liberated, and looking forward to it.

He could not escape a sense of impending doom. Even the sky seemed dark. He looked up: the sky
was
dark. There seemed to be a gray swirling mist, dotted with particles, over the city. He realized that it was smoke mixed with charred paper. All across Cairo the British were burning their files, and the sooty smoke had blotted out the sun.

Vandam was suddenly furious with himself and the rest of the Allied armies for preparing so equably for defeat. Where was the spirit of the Battle of Britain? What had happened to that famous mixture of obstinacy, ingenuity and courage which was supposed to characterize the nation? What, Vandam asked himself, are you planning to do about it?

He turned around and walked back toward Garden City, where GHQ was billeted in commandeered villas. He visualized the map of the El Alamein Line, where the Allies would make their last stand. This was one line Rommel could not circumvent, for at its southern end was the vast impassable Qattara Depression. So Rommel would have to break the line.

Where would he try to break through? If he came through the northern end, he would then have to choose between dashing straight for Alexandria and wheeling around, and attacking the Allied forces from behind. If he came through the southern end he must either dash for Cairo or, again, wheel around and destroy the remains of the Allied forces.

Immediately behind the line was the Alam Halfa Ridge, which Vandam knew was heavily fortified. Clearly it would be better for the Allies if Rommel wheeled around after breaking through the line, for then he might well spend his strength attacking Alam Halfa.

There was one more factor. The southern approach to Alam Halfa was through treacherous soft sand. It was unlikely that Rommel knew about the quicksand, for he had never penetrated this far east before, and only the Allies had good maps of the desert.

So, Vandam thought, my duty is to prevent Alex Wolff telling Rommel that Alam Halfa is well defended and cannot be attacked from the south.

It was a depressingly negative plan.

Vandam had come, without consciously intending it, to the Villa les Oliviers, Wolff's house. He sat in the little park opposite it, under the olive trees, and stared at the building as if it might tell him where Wolff was. He thought idly: If only Wolff would make a mistake, and encourage Rommel to attack Alam Halfa from the south.

Then it hit him.

Suppose I do capture Wolff. Suppose I also get his radio. Suppose I even find the key to his code.

Then I could impersonate Wolff, get on the radio to Rommel, and tell him to attack Alam Halfa from the south.

The idea blossomed rapidly in his mind, and he began to feel elated. By now Rommel was convinced, quite rightly, that Wolff's information was good. Suppose he got a message from Wolff saying the El Alamein Line was weak at the southern end, that the southern approach to Alam Halfa was hard going, and that Alam Halfa itself was weakly defended.

The temptation would be too much for Rommel to resist.

He would break through the line at the southern end and then swing northward, expecting to take Alam Halfa without much trouble. Then he would hit the quicksand. While he was straggling through it, our artillery would decimate his forces. When he reached Alam Halfa he would find it heavily defended. At that point we would bring in more forces from the front line and squeeze the enemy like a nutcracker.

If the ambush worked well, it might not only save Egypt but annihilate the Afrika Korps.

He thought: I've got to put this idea up to the brass.

It would not be easy. His standing was not very high just now—in fact his professional reputation was in ruins on account of Alex Wolff. But surely they would see the merit of the idea.

He got up from the bench and headed for his office. Suddenly the future looked different. Perhaps the jackboot would not ring out on the tiled floors of the mosques. Perhaps the treasures of the Egyptian Museum would not be shipped to Berlin. Perhaps Billy would not have to join the Hitler Youth. Perhaps Elene would not be sent to Dachau.

We could all be saved, he thought.

If I catch Wolff.

ONE OF THESE DAYS, VANDAM THOUGHT, hM GOING TO PUNCH BOGGE ON THE nose.

Today Lieutenant Colonel Bogge was at his worst: indecisive, sarcastic and touchy. He had a nervous cough which he used when he was afraid to speak, and he was coughing a lot now. He was also fidgeting: tidying piles of papers on his desk, crossing and uncrossing his legs and polishing his wretched cricket ball.

Vandam sat still and quiet, waiting for him to tie himself up in knots.

“Now look here, Vandam, strategy is for Auchinleck. Your job is personnel security—and you're not doing very well.”

“Nor is Auchinleck,” Vandam said.

Bogge pretended not to hear. He picked up Vandam's memo. Vandam had written out his deception plan and formally submitted it to Bogge, with a copy to the brigadier. “For one thing, this is full of holes,” Bogge said.

Vandam said nothing.

“Full of holes.” Bogge coughed. “For one thing, it involves letting old Rommel through the line, doesn't it?”

Vandam said: “Perhaps the plan could be made contingent on his getting through.”

“Yes. Now, you see? This is the kind of thing I mean. If you put up a plan that's full of holes like that, given that your reputation is at a pretty damn low point around here at the moment, well, you'll be laughed out of Cairo. Now.” He coughed. “You want to encourage Rommel to attack the line at its weakest point—giving him a better chance of getting through! You see?”