World War II Thriller Collection (8 page)

I'm not Egyptian, I'm Jewish.

My name is not Elene Fontana. It's Abigail Asnani.

And I want to go home.

 

The young man behind the desk at the Jewish Agency in Cairo wore a yarmulke. Apart from a wisp of beard, his cheeks were smooth. He asked for her name and address. Forgetting her resolution, she called herself Elene Fontana.

The young man seemed confused. She was used to this: most men got a little flustered when she smiled at them. He said: “Would you—I mean, do you mind if I ask you why you want to go to Palestine?”

“I'm Jewish,” she said abruptly. She could not explain her life to this boy. “All my family are dead. I'm wasting my life.” The first part was not true, but the second part was.

“What work would you do in Palestine?”

She had not thought of that. “Anything.”

“It's mostly agricultural labor.”

“That's fine.”

He smiled gently. He was recovering his composure. “I mean no offense, but you don't look like a farmhand.”

“If I didn't want to change my life, I wouldn't want to go to Palestine.”

“Yes.” He fiddled with his pen. “What work do you do now?”

“I sing, and when I can't get singing I dance, and when I can't get dancing I wait on tables.” It was more or less true. She had done all three at one time or another, although dancing was the only one she did successfully, and she was not brilliant at that. “I told you, I'm wasting my life. Why all the questions? Is Palestine accepting only college graduates now?”

“Nothing like that,” he said. “But it's very tough to get in. The British have imposed a quota, and all the places are taken by refugees from the Nazis.”

“Why didn't you tell me that before?” she said angrily.

“Two reasons. One is that we can get people in illegally. The other . . . the other takes a little longer to explain. Would you wait a minute? I must telephone someone.”

She was still angry with him for questioning her before he told her there were no places. “I'm not sure there's any point in my waiting.”

“There is, I promise you. It's quite important. Just a minute or two.”

“Very well.”

He went into a back room to phone. Elene waited impatiently. The day was warming up, and the room was poorly ventilated. She felt a little foolish. She had come here impulsively, without thinking through the idea of emigration. Too many of her decisions were made like that. She might have guessed they would ask her questions; she could have prepared her answers. She could have come dressed in something a little less glamorous.

The young man came back. “It's so warm,” he said. “Shall we go across the street for a cold drink?”

So that was the game, she thought. She decided to put him down. She gave him an appraising look, then said: “No. You're much too young for me.”

He was terribly embarrassed. “Oh, please don't misunderstand me. There's someone I want you to meet, that's all.”

She wondered whether to believe him. She had nothing to lose, and she was thirsty. “All right.”

He held the door for her. They crossed the street, dodging the rickety carts and broken-down taxis, feeling the sudden blazing heat of the sun. They ducked under a striped awning and stepped into the cool of a café. The young man ordered lemon juice; Elene had gin and tonic.

She said: “You can get people in illegally.”

“Sometimes.” He took half his drink in one gulp. “One reason we do it is if the person is being persecuted. That's why I asked you some questions.”

“I'm not being persecuted.”

“The other reason is if people have done a lot for the cause, some way.”

“You mean I have to earn the right to go to Palestine?”

“Look, maybe one day all Jews will have the right to go there to live. But while there are quotas there have to be criteria.”

She was tempted to ask: Who do I have to sleep with? But she had misjudged him that way once already. All the same, she thought he wanted to use her somehow. She said: “What do I have to do?”

He shook his head. “I can't make a bargain with you. Egyptian Jews can't get into Palestine, except for special cases, and you're not a special case. That's all there is to it.”

“What are you trying to tell me, then?”

“You can't go to Palestine, but you can still fight for the cause.”

“What, exactly, did you have in mind?”

“The first thing we have to do is defeat the Nazis.”

She laughed. “Well, I'll do my best!”

He ignored that. “We don't like the British much, but any enemy of Germany's is a friend of ours, so at the moment—strictly on a temporary basis—we're working with British Intelligence. I think you could help them.”

“For God's sake! How?”

A shadow fell across the table, and the young man looked up. “Ah!” he said. He looked back at Elene. “I want you to meet my friend Major William Vandam.”

 

He was a tall man, and broad: with those wide shoulders and mighty legs he might once have been an athlete, although now, Elene guessed, he was close to forty and just beginning to go a little soft. He had a round, open face topped by wiry brown hair which looked as if it might curl if it were allowed to grow a little beyond the regulation length. He shook her hand, sat down, crossed his legs, lit a cigarette and ordered gin. He wore a stem expression, as if he thought life was a very serious business and he did not want anybody to start fooling around.

Elene thought he was a typical frigid Englishman.

The young man from the Jewish Agency asked him: “What's the news?”

“The Gazala Line is holding, but it's getting very fierce out there.”

Vandam's voice was a surprise. English officers usually spoke with the upper-class drawl which had come to symbolize arrogance for ordinary Egyptians. Vandam spoke precisely but softly, with rounded vowels and a slight burr on the r: Elene had a feeling this was the trace of a country accent, although she could not remember how she knew.

She decided to ask him. “Where do you come from, Major?”

“Dorset. Why do you ask?”

“I was wondering about your accent.”

“Southwest of England. You're observant. I thought I had no accent.”

“Just a trace.”

He lit another cigarette. She watched his hands. They were long and slender, rather at odds with the rest of his body; the nails where well manicured and the skin was white except for the deep amber stains where he held his cigarette.

The young man took his leave. “I'll let Major Vandam explain everything to you. I hope you will work with him; I believe it's very important.”

Vandam shook his hand and thanked him, and the young man went out.

Vandam said to Elene: “Tell me about yourself.”

“No,” she said. “You tell me about
your
self.”

He raised an eyebrow at her, faintly startled, a little amused and suddenly not at all frigid. “All right,” he said after a moment. “Cairo is full of officers and men who know secrets. They know our strengths, our weaknesses and our plans. The enemy wants to know those secrets. We can be sure that at any time the Germans have people in Cairo trying to get information. It's my job to stop them.”

“That simple.”

He considered. “It's simple, but it's not easy.”

He took everything she said seriously, she noticed. She thought it was because he was humorless, but all the same she rather liked it: men generally treated her conversation like background music in a cocktail bar, a pleasant enough but largely meaningless noise.

He was waiting. “It's your turn,” he said.

Suddenly she wanted to tell him the truth. “I'm a lousy singer and a mediocre dancer, but sometimes I find a rich man to pay my bills.”

He said nothing, but he looked taken aback.

Elene said: “Shocked?”

“Shouldn't I be?”

She looked away. She knew what he,was thinking. Until now he had treated her politely, as if she were a respectable woman, one of his own class. Now he realized he had been mistaken. His reaction was completely predictable, but all the same she felt bitter. She said: “Isn't that what most women do, when they get married—find a man to pay the bills?”

“Yes,” he said gravely.

She looked at him. The imp of mischief seized her. “I just turn them around a little faster than the average housewife.”

Vandam burst out laughing. Suddenly he looked a different man. He threw back his head, his arms and legs spread sideways, and all the tension went out of his body. When the laugh subsided he was relaxed, just briefly. They grinned at one another. The moment passed, and he crossed his legs again. There was a silence. Elene felt like a schoolgirl who has been giggling in class.

Vandam was serious again. “My problem is information,” he said. “Nobody tells an Englishman anything. That's where you come in. Because you're Egyptian, you hear the kind of gossip and street talk that never comes my way. And because you're Jewish, you'll pass it to me. I hope.”

“What kind of gossip?”

“I'm interested in anyone who's curious about the British Army.” He paused. He seemed to be wondering how much to tell her. “In particular . . . At the moment I'm looking for a man called Alex Wolff. He used to live in Cairo and he has recently returned. He may be hunting for a place to live, and he probably has a lot of money. He is certainly making inquiries about British forces.”

Elene shrugged. “After all that buildup I was expecting to be asked to do something much more dramatic.”

“Such as?”

“I don't know. Waltz with Rommel and pick his pockets.”

Vandam laughed again. Elene thought: I could get fond of that laugh.

He said: “Well, mundane though it is, will you do it?”

“I don't know.” But I do know, she thought. I'm just trying to prolong the interview, because I'm enjoying myself.

Vandam leaned forward. “I need people like you, Miss Fontana.” Her name sounded silly when he said it so politely. “You're observant, you have a perfect cover and you're obviously intelligent; please excuse me for being so direct—”

“Don't apologize, I love it,” she said. “Keep talking.”

“Most of my people are not very reliable. They do it for the money, whereas you have a better motive—”

“Wait a minute,” she interrupted. “I want money, too. What does the job pay?”

“That depends on the information you bring in.”

“What's the minimum?”

“Nothing.”

“That's a little less than what I was hoping for.”

“How much do you want?”

“You might be a gentleman and pay the rent of my flat.” She bit her lip: it sounded so tarty, put like that.

“How much?”

“Seventy-five a month.”

Vandam's eyebrows rose. “What have you got, a palace?”

“Prices have gone up. Haven't you heard? It's all these English officers desperate for accommodation.”

“Touché” He frowned. “You'd have to be awfully useful to justify seventy-five a month.”

Elene shrugged. “Why don't we give it a try?”

“You're a good negotiator.” He smiled. “All right, a month's trial.”

Elene tried not to look triumphant. “How do I contact you?”

“Send me a message.” He took a pencil and a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket and began to write. “I'll give you my address and phone number, at GHQ and at home. As soon as I hear from you I'll come to your place.”

“All right.” She wrote down her address, wondering what the major would think of her flat. “What if you're seen?”

“Will it matter?”

“I might be asked who you are.”

“Well, you'd better not tell the truth.”

She grinned. “I'll say you're my lover.”

He looked away. “Very well.”

“But you'd better act the part.” She kept a straight face. “You must bring armfuls of flowers and boxes of chocolates.”

“I don't know—”

“Don't Englishmen give their mistresses flowers and chocolates?”

He looked at her unblinkingly. She noticed that he had gray eyes. “I don't know,” he said levelly. “I've never had a mistress.”

Elene thought: I stand corrected. She said: “Then you've got a lot to learn.”

“I'm sure. Would you like another drink?”

And now I'm dismissed, she thought. You're a little too much, Major Vandam: there's a certain self-righteousness about you, and you rather like to be in charge of things; you're so masterful. I may take you in hand, puncture your vanity, do you a little damage.

“No, thanks,” she said. “I must go.”

He stood up. “I'll look forward to hearing from you.”

She shook his hand and walked away. Somehow she had the feeling that he was not watching her go.

 

Vandam changed into a civilian suit for the reception at the Anglo-Egyptian Union. He would never have gone to the Union while his wife was alive: she said it was “plebby.” He told her to say “plebeian” so that she would not sound like a country snob. She said she was a country snob, and would he kindly stop showing off his classical education.

Vandam had loved her then and he did now.

Her father was a fairly wealthy man who became a diplomat because he had nothing better to do. He had not been pleased at the prospect of his daughter marrying a postman's son. He was not much mollified when he was told that Vandam had gone to a minor public school (on a scholarship) and London University, and was considered one of the most promising of his generation of junior army officers. But the daughter was adamant in this as in all things, and in the end the father had accepted the match with good grace. Oddly enough, on the one occasion when the fathers met they got on rather well. Sadly, the mothers hated each other and there were no more family gatherings.