World War II Thriller Collection (39 page)

Now neither of them was touching Elene. It was a great relief.

Slowly, she sat upright.

The shift of weight on the mattress disturbed both of the other two. Sonja grunted, lifted her head, turned it the other way, and fell to snoring again. Wolff rolled over on his back without opening his eyes.

Moving slowly, wincing with every movement of the mattress, Elene turned around so that she was on her hands and knees, facing the head of the bed. She began painfully to crawl backward: right knee, left hand, left knee, right hand. She watched the two sleeping faces. The foot of the bed seemed miles away. The silence rang in her ears like thunder. The houseboat itself rocked from side to side on the wash of a passing barge, and Elene backed off the bed quickly under cover of the disturbance. She stood there, rooted to the spot, watching the other two, until the boat stopped moving. They stayed asleep.

Where should the search start? Elene decided to be methodical, and begin at the front and work backward. In the prow of the boat was the bathroom. Suddenly she realized she had to go there anyway. She tiptoed across the bedroom and went into the tiny bathroom.

Sitting on the toilet, she looked around. Where might a radio be hidden? She did not really know how big it would be: the size of a suitcase? A briefcase? A handbag? Here there were a basin, a small tub and a cupboard on the wall. She stood up and opened the cupboard. It contained shaving gear, pills and a small roll of bandage.

The radio was not in the bathroom.

She did not have the courage to search the bedroom while they slept, not yet. She crossed it and passed through the curtains into the living room. She looked quickly all around. She felt the need to hurry, and forced herself to be calm and careful. She began on the starboard side. Here there was a divan couch. She tapped its base gently: it seemed hollow. The radio might be underneath. She tried to lift it, and could not. Looking around its edge, she saw that it was screwed to the floor. The screws were tight. The radio would not be there. Next there was a tall cupboard. She opened it gently. It squeaked a little, and she froze. She heard a grunt from the bedroom. She waited for Wolff to come bounding through the curtains and catch her red-handed. Nothing happened.

She looked in the cupboard. There was a broom, and some dusters, and cleaning materials, and a flashlight. No radio. She closed the door. It squeaked again.

She moved into the kitchen area. She had to open six smaller cupboards. They contained crockery, tinned food, saucepans, glasses, supplies of coffee and rice and tea, and towels. Under the sink there was a bucket for kitchen waste. Elene looked in the icebox. It contained one bottle of champagne. There were several drawers. Would the radio be small enough to fit in a drawer? She opened one. The rattle of cutlery shredded her nerves. No radio. Another: a massive selection of bottled spices and flavorings, from vanilla essence to curry powder—somebody liked to cook. Another drawer: kitchen knives.

Next to the kitchen was a small escritoire with a fold-down desk top. Beneath it was a small suitcase. Elene picked up the suitcase. It was heavy. She opened it. There was the radio.

Her heart skipped.

It was an ordinary, plain suitcase, with two catches, a leather handle and reinforced corners. The radio fitted inside exactly, as if it had been designed that way. The recessed lid left a little room on top of the radio, and here there was a book. Its board covers had been torn off to make it fit into the space in the lid. Elene picked up the book and looked inside. She read: “Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.” It was
Rebecca.

She flicked the pages of the book. In the middle there was something between the pages. She let the book fall open and a sheet of paper dropped to the floor. She bent down and picked it up. It was a list of numbers and dates, with some words in German. This was surely the key to the code.

She held in her hand what Vandam needed to turn the tide of the war.

Suddenly the responsibility weighed her down.

Without this, she thought, Wolff cannot send messages to Rommel—or if he sends messages in plain language the Germans will suspect their authenticity and also worry that the Allies have overheard them . . . Without this, Wolff is useless. With this, Vandam can win the war.

She had to run away, now, taking the key with her.

She remembered that she was stark naked.

She broke out of her trance. Her dress was on the couch, crumpled and wrinkled. She crossed the boat, put down the book and the key to the code, picked up her dress and slipped it over her head.

The bed creaked.

From behind the curtains came the unmistakable sound of someone getting up, someone heavy, it had to be him. Elene stood still, paralyzed. She heard Wolff walk toward the curtains, then away again. She heard the bathroom door.

There was no time to put her panties on. She picked up her bag, her shoes, and the book with the key inside. She heard Wolff come out of the bathroom. She went to the ladder and ran up it, wincing as her bare feet cut into the edges of the narrow wooden steps. Glancing down, she saw Wolff appear between the curtains and glance up at her in astonishment. His eyes went to the suitcase opened on the floor. Elene looked away from him to the hatch. It was secured on the inside with two bolts. She slid them both back. From the corner of her eye she saw Wolff dash to the ladder. She pushed up the hatch and scrambled out. As she stood upright on the deck she saw Wolff scrambling up the ladder. She bent swiftly and lifted the heavy wooden hatch. As Wolff's right hand grasped the rim of the opening, Elene slammed the hatch down on his fingers with all her might. There was a roar of pain. Elene ran across the deck and down the gangplank.

It was just that: a plank, leading from the deck to the riverbank. She stooped, picked up the end of the plank, and threw it into the river.

Wolff came up through the hatch, his face a mask of pain and fury.

Elene panicked as she saw him come across the deck at a run. She thought: he's naked, he can't chase me! He took a flying jump over the rail of the boat.

He can't make it.

He landed on the very edge of the riverbank, his arms windmilling for balance. With a sudden access of courage Elene ran at him and, while he was still off balance, pushed him backward into the water.

She turned and ran along the towpath.

When she reached the lower end of the pathway that led to the street, she stopped and looked back. Already her heart was pounding and she was breathing in long, shuddering gasps. She felt elated when she saw Wolff, dripping wet and naked, climbing out of the water up the muddy riverbank. It was getting light: he could not chase her far in that state. She spun around toward the street, broke into a run and crashed into someone.

Strong arms caught her in a tight grip. She struggled desperately, got free and was seized again. She slumped in defeat: after all that, she thought; after all that.

She was turned around, grasped by the arms and marched toward the houseboat. She saw Wolff walking toward her. She struggled again, and the man holding her got an arm around her throat. She opened her mouth to scream for help, but before she could make a sound the man had thrust his fingers down her throat, making her retch.

Wolff came up and said: “Who are you?”

“I'm Kernel. You must be Wolff.”

“Thank God you were there.”

“You're in trouble, Wolff,” said the man called Kernel.

“You'd better come aboard—oh, shit, she threw away the fucking plank.” Wolff looked down at the river and saw the plank floating beside the houseboat. “I can't get any wetter,” he said. He slid down the bank and into the water, grabbed the plank, shoved it up onto the bank and climbed up after it. He picked it up again and laid it across the gap between the houseboat and the bank.

“This way,” he said.

Kemel marched Elene across the plank, over the deck and down the ladder.

“Put her over there,” Wolff said, pointing to the couch.

Kernel pushed Elene over to the couch, not ungently, and made her sit down.

Wolff went through the curtains and came back a moment later with a big towel. He proceeded to rub himself dry with it. He seemed quite unembarrassed by his nakedness.

Elene was surprised to see that Kernel was quite a small man. From the way he had grabbed her, she had imagined he was Wolff's build. He was a handsome, dark-skinned Arab. He was looking away from Wolff uneasily.

Wolff wrapped the towel around his waist and sat down. He examined his hand: “She nearly broke my fingers,” he said. He looked at Elene with a mixture of anger and amusement.

Kemel said: “Where's Sonja?”

“In bed,” Wolff said, jerking his head toward the curtains. “She sleeps through earthquakes, especially after a night of lust.”

Kemel was uncomfortable with such talk, Elene observed, and perhaps also impatient with Wolff's levity. “You're in trouble,” he said again.

“I know,” Wolff said. “I suppose she's working for Vandam.”

“I don't know about that. I got a call in the middle of the night from my man on the towpath. Vandam had come along and sent my man to fetch help.”

Wolff was shocked. “We came close!” he said. He looked worried. “Where's Vandam now?”

“Out there still. I knocked him on the head and tied him up.”

Elene's heart sank. Vandam was out there in the bushes, hurt and incapacitated—and nobody else knew where she was. It had all been for nothing, after all.

Wolff nodded. “Vandam followed her here. That's two people who know about this place. If I stay here I'll have to kill them both.”

Elene shuddered: he talked of killing people so lightly. Masters and slaves, she remembered.

“Not good enough,” Kemel said. “If you kill Vandam the murder will eventually be blamed on me. You can go away, but I have to live in this town.” He paused, watching Wolff with narrowed eyes. “And if you were to kill me, that would still leave the man who called me last night.”

“So . . .” Wolff frowned and made an angry noise. “There's no choice. I have to go. Damn.”

Kemel nodded. “If you disappear, I think I can cover up. But I want something from you. Remember the reason we've been helping you.”

“You want to talk to Rommel.”

“Yes.”

“I'll be sending a message tomorrow night—tonight, I mean, damn, I've hardly slept. Tell me what you want to say, and I'll—”

“Not good enough,” Kernel interrupted. “We want to do it ourselves. We want your radio.”

Wolff frowned. Elene realized that Kemel was a nationalist rebel, cooperating or trying to cooperate with the Germans.

Kernel added: “We could send your message for you . . .”

“Not necessary,” Wolff said. He seemed to have reached a decision. “I have another radio.”

“It's agreed, then.”

“There's the radio.” Wolff pointed to the open case, still on the floor where Elene had left it. “It's already tuned to the correct wavelength. All you have to do is broadcast at midnight, any night.”

Kernel went over to the radio and examined it. Elene wondered why Wolff had said nothing about the
Rebecca
code. Wolff did not care whether Kernel got through to Rommel or not, she decided; and to give him the code would be to risk that he might give it to someone else. Wolff was playing safe again.

Wolff said: “Where does Vandam live?”

Kemel told him the address.

Elene thought:
Now
what is he after?

Wolff said: “He's married, I suppose.”

“No.”

“A bachelor. Damn.”

“Not a bachelor,” Kernel said, still looking at the wireless transmitter. “A widower. His wife was killed in Crete last year.”

“Any children?”

“Yes,” Kemel said. “A small boy called Billy, so I'm told. Why?”

Wolff shrugged. “I'm interested, a little obsessed, with the man who's come so close to catching me.”

Elene was sure he was lying.

Kernel closed the suitcase, apparently satisfied. Wolff said to him: “Keep an eye on her for a minute, would you?”

“Of course.”

Wolff turned away, then turned back. He had noticed that. Elene still had
Rebecca
in her hand. He reached down and took it from her. He disappeared through the curtains.

Elene thought: If I tell Kernel about the code, then maybe Kemel will make Wolff give it to him, and maybe then Vandam will get it from Wolff—but what will happen to me?

Kernel said to her: “What—” He stopped abruptly as Wolff came back, carrying his clothes, and began to dress.

Kemel said to him: “Do you have a call sign?”

“Sphinx,” Wolff said shortly.

“A code?”

“No code.”

“What was in that book?”

Wolff looked angry. “A code,” he said. “But you can't have it.”

“We need it.”

“I can't give it to you,” Wolff said. “You'll have to take your chance, and broadcast in clear.”

Kemel nodded.

Suddenly Wolff's knife was in his hand. “Don't argue,” he said. “I know you've got a gun in your pocket. Remember, if you shoot, you'll have to explain the bullet to the British. You'd better go now.”

Kernel turned, without speaking, and went up the ladder and through the hatch. Elene heard his footsteps above. Wolf went to the porthole and watched him walk away along the towpath.

Wolff put his knife away and buttoned his shirt over the sheath. He put on his shoes and laced them tightly. He got the book from the next room, extracted from it the sheet of paper bearing the key to the code, crumpled the paper, dropped it into a large glass ashtray, took a box of matches from a kitchen drawer and set fire to the paper.