World War II Thriller Collection (38 page)

“Work,” he whispered.

“Oh, no.” She turned over.

He took his pistol from the locked drawer in the desk and put it in his jacket pocket, then he kissed his wife and left the house quietly. He got into his car and started the engine. He sat thinking for a minute. He had to consult Sadat about this, but that would take time. In the meanwhile Vandam might grow impatient, waiting at the houseboat, and do something precipitate. Vandam would have to be dealt with first, quickly; then he could go to Sadat's house.

Kemel pulled away, heading for Zamalek. He wanted time to think, slowly and clearly, but time was what he lacked. Should he kill Vandam? He had never killed a man and did not know whether he would be capable of it. It was years since he had so much as hit anyone. And how would he cover up his involvement in all this? It might be days yet before the Germans reached Cairo—indeed it was possible, even at this stage, that they might be repulsed. Then there would be an investigation into what had happened on the towpath tonight, and sooner or later the blame would be laid at Kemel's door. He would probably be shot.

“Courage,” he said aloud, remembering the way Imam's stolen plane had burst into flames as it crash-landed in the desert.

He parked near the towpath. From the trunk of the car he took a length of rope. He stuffed the rope into the pocket of his jacket, and carried the gun in his right hand.

He held the gun reversed, for clubbing. How long since he had used it? Six years, he thought, not counting occasional target practice.

He reached the riverbank. He looked at the silver Nile, the black shapes of the houseboats, the dim line of the towpath and the darkness of the bushes. Vandam would be in the bushes somewhere. Kemel stepped forward, walking softly.

 

Vandam looked at his wristwatch in the glow of his cigarette. It was eleven-thirty. Clearly something had gone wrong. Either the Arab policeman had given the wrong message, or GHQ had been unable to locate Jakes, or Bogge had somehow fouled everything up. Vandam could not take the chance of letting Wolff get on the radio with the information he had now. There was nothing for it but to go aboard the houseboat himself, and risk everything.

He put out his cigarette, then he heard a footstep somewhere in the bushes. “Who is it?” he hissed. “Jakes?”

A dark figure emerged and whispered: “It's me.”

Vandam could not recognize the whispered voice, nor could he see the face. “Who?”

The figure stepped nearer and raised an arm. Vandam said: “Who—” then he realized that the arm was sweeping down in a blow. He jerked sideways, and something hit the side of his head and bounced on his shoulder. Vandam shouted with pain, and his right arm went numb. The arm was lifted again. Vandam stepped forward, reaching clumsily for his assailant with his left hand. The figure stepped back and struck again, and this time the blow landed squarely on top of Vandam's head. There was a moment of intense pain, then Vandam lost consciousness.

 

Kemel pocketed the gun and knelt beside Vandam's prone figure. First he touched Vandam's chest, and was relieved to feel a strong heartbeat. Working quickly, he took off Vandam's sandals, removed the socks, rolled them into a ball and stuffed them into the unconscious man's mouth. That should stop him from calling out. Next he rolled Vandam over, crossed his wrists behind his back, and tied them together with the rope. With the other end of the rope he bound Vandam's ankles. Finally he tied the rope to a tree.

Vandam would come round in a few minutes, but he would find it impossible to move. Nor could he cry out. He would remain there until somebody stumbled on him. How soon was that likely to happen? Normally there might have been people in these bushes, young men with their sweethearts and soldiers with their girls, but tonight there had surely been enough comings and goings here to frighten them away. There was a chance that a latecoming couple would see Vandam, or perhaps hear him groaning . . . Kemel would have to take that chance, there was no point standing around and worrying.

He decided to take a quick look at the houseboat. He walked light-footedly along the towpath to the
Jihan.
There were lights on inside, but little curtains were drawn across the portholes. He was tempted to go aboard, but he wanted to consult with Sadat first, for he was not sure what should be done.

He turned around and headed back toward his car.

 

Sonja said: “Alex has told me all about you, Elene.” She smiled.

Elene smiled back. Was this the friend of Wolff's who owned the houseboat? Was Wolff living with her? Had he not expected her back so early? Why was neither of them angry, or puzzled, or embarrassed? Just for something to say, Elene asked her: “Have you just come from the Cha-Cha Club?”

“Yes.”

“How was it?”

“As always—exhausting, thrilling, successful.”

Sonja was not a humble woman, clearly.

Wolff handed Sonja a glass of champagne. She took it without looking at him, and said to Elene: “So you work in Mikis' shop?”

“No, I-don't,” Elene said, thinking: Are you really interested in this? “I helped him for a few days, that's all. We're related.”

“So you're Greek?”

“That's right.” The small talk was giving Elene confidence. Her fear receded. Whatever happened, Wolff was not likely to rape her at knifepoint in front of one of the most famous women in Egypt. Sonja gave her a breathing space, at least. William was determined to capture Wolff before midnight—

Midnight!

She had almost forgotten. At midnight Wolff was to contact the enemy by wireless, and hand over the details of the defense line. But where was the radio? Was it here, on the boat? If it was somewhere else, Wolff would have to leave soon. If it was here, would he send his message in front of Elene and Sonja? What was in his mind?

He sat down beside Elene. She felt vaguely threatened, with the two of them on either side of her. Wolff said: “What a lucky man I am, to be sitting here with the two most beautiful women in Cairo.”

Elene looked straight ahead, not knowing what to say.

Wolff said: “Isn't she beautiful, Sonja?”

“Oh, yes.” Sonja touched Elene's face, then took her chin and turned her head. “Do you think I'm beautiful, Elene?”

“Of course.” Elene frowned. This was getting weird. It was almost as if—

“I'm so glad,” Sonja said, and she put her hand on Elene's knee.

And then Elene understood.

Everything fell into place: Wolff's patience, his phony courtliness, the houseboat, the unexpected appearance of Sonja . . . Elene realized she was not safe at all. Her fear of Wolff came back, stronger than before. The pair of them wanted to use her, and she would have no choice, she would have to lie there, mute and unresisting, while they did whatever they wanted, Wolff with the knife in one hand—

Stop it.

I won't be afraid. I can stand being mauled about by a pair of depraved old fools. There's more at stake here. Forget about your precious little body, think about the radio, and how to stop Wolff using it.

This threesome might be turned to advantage.

She looked furtively at her wristwatch. It was a quarter to midnight. Too late, now, to rely on William. She, Elene, was the only one who could stop Wolff.

And she thought she knew how.

A look passed between Sonja and Wolff like a signal. Each with a hand on one of Elene's thighs, they leaned across her and kissed each other in front of her eyes.

She looked at them. It was a long, lascivious kiss. She thought: What do they expect me to do?

They drew apart.

Wolff kissed Elene the same way. Elene was unresistant. Then she felt Sonja's hand on her chin. Sonja turned Elene's face toward her and kissed her lips.

Elene closed her eyes, thinking: It won't hurt me, it won't hurt.

It did not hurt, but it was
strange
, to be kissed so tenderly by a woman's mouth.

Elene thought: Somehow I have to get control of this scene.

Sonja pulled open her own blouse. She had big brown breasts. Wolff bent his head and took a nipple into his mouth. Elene felt Sonja pushing her head down. She realized she was supposed to follow Wolff's example. She did so. Sonja moaned.

All this was for Sonja's benefit: it was clearly her fantasy, her kink; she was the one who was panting and groaning now, not Wolff. Elene was afraid that any minute now Wolff might break away and go to his radio. As she went mechanically through the motions of making love to Sonja, she cast about in her mind for ways to drive Wolff out of his mind with lust.

But the whole scene was so silly, so farcical, that everything she thought of doing seemed merely comical.

I've got to keep Wolff from that radio.

What's the
key
to all this? What do they
really
want?

She moved her face away from Sonja and kissed Wolff. He turned his mouth to hers. She found his hand, and pressed it between her thighs. He breathed deeply, and Elene thought: At least he's interested.

Sonja tried to push them apart.

Wolff looked at Sonja, then slapped her face, hard.

Elene gasped with surprise. Was this the key? It must be a game they play, it must be.

Wolff turned his attention back to Elene. Sonja tried to get between them again.

This time Elene slapped her.

Sonja moaned deep in her throat.

Elene thought: I've done it, I've guessed the game, I'm in
control.

She saw Wolff look at his wristwatch.

Suddenly she stood up. They both stared at her. She lifted her arms then, slowly, she pulled her dress up over her head, threw it to one side, and stood there in her black underwear and stockings. She touched herself, lightly, running her hands between her thighs and across her breasts. She saw Wolff's face change: his look of composure vanished, and he gazed at her, wide-eyed with desire. He was tense, mesmerized. He licked his lips. Elene raised her left foot, planted a high-heeled shoe between Sonja's breasts and pushed Sonja backward. Then she grasped Wolff's head and drew it to her belly.

Sonja started kissing Elene's foot.

Wolff made a sound between a groan and a sigh, and buried his face between Elene's thighs.

Elene looked at her watch.

It was midnight.

ELENE LAY ON HER BACK IN THE BED, NAKED. SHE WAS QUITE STILL, RIGID, HER muscles tense, staring straight up at the blank ceiling. On her right was Sonja, facedown, arms and legs spread all ways over the sheets, fast asleep, snoring. Sonja's right hand rested limply on Elene's hip. Wolff was on Elene's left. He lay on his side, facing her, sleepily stroking her body.

Elene was thinking: Well, it didn't kill me.

The game had been all about rejecting and accepting Sonja. The more Elene and Wolff rejected her and abused her, the more passionate she became, until in the dénouement Wolff rejected Elene and made love to Sonja. It was a script that Wolff and Sonja obviously knew well: they had played it before.

It had given Elene very little pleasure, but she was not sickened or humiliated or disgusted. What she felt was that she had been betrayed, and betrayed by herself. It was like pawning a jewel given by a lover, or having your long hair cut off to sell for money, or sending a small child to work in a mill. She had abused herself. Worst of all, what she had done was the logical culmination of the life she had been living: in the eight years since she had left home she had been on the slippery slope that ended in prostitution, and now she felt she had arrived there.

The stroking stopped, and she glanced sideways at Wolff's face. His eyes were closed. He was falling asleep.

She wondered what had happened to Vandam.

Something had gone wrong. Perhaps Vandam had lost sight of Wolff's car in Cairo. Maybe he had had an accident in the traffic. Whatever the reason, Vandam was no longer watching over her. She was on her own.

She had succeeded in making Wolff forget his midnight transmission to Rommel—but what now was to stop him sending the message another night? Elene would have to get to GHQ and tell Jakes where Wolff was to be found. She would have to slip away, right now, find Jakes, get him to pull his team out of bed . . .

It would take too long. Wolff might wake, find she was gone, and vanish again.

Was his radio here, on the houseboat, or somewhere else? That might make all the difference.

She remembered something Vandam had said last evening—was it really only a few hours ago? “If I can get the key to the
Rebecca
code, I can impersonate him over the radio . . . it could turn the tables completely . . .”

Elene thought: Perhaps I can find the key.

He had said it was a sheet of paper explaining how to use the book to encode messages.

Elene realized that she now had a chance to locate the radio and the key to the code.

She had to search the houseboat.

She did not move. She was frightened again. If Wolff should discover her searching . . . She remembered his theory of human nature: the world is divided into masters and slaves. A slave's life was worth nothing.

No, she thought; I'll leave here in the morning, quite normally, and then I'll tell the British where Wolff is to be found, and they'll raid the houseboat, and—

And what if Wolff had gone by then? What if the radio was not here?

Then it would all have been for nothing.

Wolff's breathing was now slow and even: he was fast asleep. Elene reached down, gently picked up Sonja's limp hand, and moved it from her thigh onto the sheet. Sonja did not stir.