SIGNET. SIGNET CLASSICS, MENTOR, PLUMP, MERIDIAN and NAL BOOKS
are publbbed In Canada by The Now American Library of Canada,
Limited, Scarborough,’Ontario PRINTED IN CANADA COVER PRINTED IN
U.S.A. PUBLISHERS NOTE
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents
are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental. To RoBiN MCGIBBON “Our spy in Cairo is the greatest hero of them all.”
-ERWIN ROMMEL, September 1942
(Quoted by Anthony Cave Brown in Bodyguard of Lim) PART ONE
TOBRUK 1
The last camel collapsed at noon.
It was the five-year-old white bull he had bought in Gialo, the youngest
and strongest of the three beasts, and the least ill-tempered: he liked
the animal as much as a man could like a camel, which is to say that he
hated it only a little.
They climbed the leeward side of a small hill, man and camel planting big
clumsy feet in the inconstant sand, and at the top they stopped. They
looked ahead, seeing nothing but another hillock to climb, and after that
a thousand more, and it was as if the camel despaired at the thought. Its
forelegs folded, then its rear went down, and it couched on top of the
bill like a monument, staring across the empty desert with the
indifference of the dying.
The man hauled on its nose rope. Its head came forward and its neck
stretched out, but it would not get up. The man went behind and kicked
its hindquarters as hard as he could, three or four times. Finally he
took out a razor-sharp curved Bedouin knife with a narrow point and
stabbed the camel’s rump. Blood flowed from the wound but the camel did
not even look around.
The man understood what was happening. The very tissues of the animal’s
body, starved of nourishment, had simply stopped working.. like a machine
that has run out of fuel. He had seen camels collapse like this on the
outskirLs of an oasis, surrounded by life-giving foliage which they
ignored, lacking the energy to, eat.
There were two more tricks he migbt have tried. One was to pour water
into its nostrils until it began to drown; the other to light a fire
under its hindquarters. He could not
3 4 Ken Follett
spare the water for one nor the firewood for the other, and besides neither method had a great chance of success.
It was time to stop, anyway. The sun was high and fierce. The long
Saharan summer was beginning, and the midday temperature would reach 110
degrees in the shade.
Without unloading the camel, the man opened one of his bags and took out
his tent. He looked around again, automatically: there was no shade or
shelter in sight—one place was as bad as another. He pitched his tent
beside the dying camel, there on top of the hillock.
He sat cross-legged in the open end of the tent to make his tea. He
scraped level a small square of sand, arranged a few precious dry twigs
in a pyramid and lit the fire. When the kettle boiled he made tea in the
nomad fashion, pouring it from the pot into the cup, adding sugar, then
returning it to the pot to infuse again, several times over. The
resulting brew, very strong and rather treacly, was the most revivifying
drink in the world.
He gnawed at some dates and watched the camel die while he waited for the
sun to pass overhead. His tranquillity was practiced. He had come a long
way in this desert, more than a thousand miles. Two months earlier he had
left El Agela, on the Mediterranean coast of Libya, and traveled due
south for five hundred miles, via Gialo and Kufra, into the empty heart
of the Sahara. There he had turned cast and crossed the border into Egypt
unobserved by man or beast. He had traversed the rocky wasteland of the
Western Desert and turned north near Kharga; and now he was not far from
his destination. He knew the desert, but he was afraid of it-all intelli-
gent men were, even the nomads who lived all their lives here. But he
never allowed that fear to take hold of him, to panic him, to use up his
liervous energy. There were always catastrophes: mistakes in navigation
that made you miss a well by a couple of miles; water bottles that leaked
or burst; apparently healthy camels that got sick a couple of days out.
The only response was to say Inshallah: It is the will of God.
Eventually the sun began to dip toward the west. He looked at the camel’s
load, wondering how much of it he could carry. There were three small
European suitcases, two heavy and one light, all important. There was a
little bag of clothes, a sextant, the maps, the food and the water
bottle. It THE KEY TO REBECCA 5
was already too much: he would have to abandon the tent, the tea set, the cooking pot, the almanac and the saddle.
He made the three cases into a bundle and tied the clothes, the food and
the sextant on top, strapping the lot together with a length of cloth.
He could put his arms through the cloth straps and carry the load like
a rucksack on his back. He slung the goatskin water bag around his neck
and let it dangle in front. It was a heavy load.
Three months earlier he would have been able to carry it all day then
play tennis in the evening, for he was a strong man; but the desert had
weakened him. His bowels were water, his skin was a mass of sores, and
he had lost twenty or thirty pounds. Without the camel he could not go
far. Holding his compan in his hand, he started walking.
He followed the compass wherever it led, resisting the temptation to
divert around the hills, for he was navigating by dead reckoning over the
final miles, and a fractional error could take him a fatal few hundred
yards astray. He settled into a slow, long-strided waUL His mind emptied
of hopes and fears and he concentrated on the compass and the sand. He
managed to forget the pain of his ravaged body and put one foot in front
of the other automatically, without thought and therefore without effort.
The day cooled into everung. The water bottle became lighter around his
neck as he consumed its contents. He refused to think about how much
water was left: he was drinking six pints a day, he had calculated, and
he knew there was not enough for another day. A flock of birds flew over
his head, whistling noisily. He looked up, shading his eyes with his
hand, and recognized them as 11chtenstein7s sandgrouse, desert birds,
like brown pigeons that flocked to water every morning and evening. They
were heading the same way as he was, which meant he was on the right
track, but he knew they could fly fifty miles to water, so he could take
little encouragement from them.
Clouds gathered on the horizon as the desert cooled. Be. hind him, the
San Bank lower and turned into a big yellow balloon. A little later a
white moon appeared in a purple sky.
He thought about stopping. Nobody could walk all night. But he had no
tent, no blanket, no rice and no tea. And he 6 Ken Follett
was sure he was close to the well: by his reckoning he should have been there.
He walked on. His calm was deserting him now. He had set his strength and
his expertise against the ruthless desert, and it began to look as if the
desert would win. He thought again of the camel he had left behind, and
how it had sat on the hillock, with the tranquillity of exhaustion,
waiting for death. He avould not wait for death, he thought: when it be-
came inevitable he ~would rush to meet it. Not for him the hours of agony
and cncroaching madness-that would be undignified. He had his knife.
The thought made him feel desperate, and now he could no longer repress
the fear. The moon went down, but the landscape was bright with
starlight. He saw his mother in the distance, and she said: “Don’t say
I never warned you!” He heard a railway train that chugged along with his
heartbeat, slowly. Small rocks moved in his path like scampering rats.
He smelled roast lamb. He breasted a rise and saw, close by, a red glow
of the fire over which the meat had been roasted, and a small boy beside
it gnawing the bones. Ilicre were the tents around the fire, the bobbled
camels grazing the scattered thorns, and the wellhead beyond. He walked
into the hallucination. The people in the dream looked up at him,
startled. A tall man stood up and spoke. The traveler pulled at his
howli, partially unwinding the cloth to reveal his face.
The tall man stepped forward, shocked, and said, “My cousinf”
The traveler understood that this was not, after all, an illusion; and
he smiled faintly and collapsed.
When he awoke he thought for a moment that he was a boy again, and that his adult life had been a dream.
Someone was touching his shoulder and saying “Wake up, Achmed,” in the
tongue of the desert. Nobody had called him Achmed for years. He realized
he was wrapped in a coarse blanket and lying on the cold sand, his head
swathed in a howli. He opened his eyes to see the gorgeous sunrise like
a straight rainbow against the flat black horizon. The icy morning ‘wind
blew into his face. In that instant he experienced again all the
confusion and anxiety of his fifteenth year. THE KEY TO REBECCA 7
He had felt utterly lost, that first time he woke up in the desert. He
had thought My father is dead, and then I have a new father. Snatches
from the Surahs of the Koran had run through his head, mixed with bits
of the Creed which his mother still taught him secretly, in German. He
remembered the recent sharp pain of his adolescent circumcision, followed
by the cheers and rifle shots of the men as they congratulated him on at
last becoming one of them, a true man. Then there had been the long train
journey, wondering what his desert cousins would be like, and whether
they would despise his pale body and his city ways. He had walked briskly
out of the railway station and seen the two Arabs, sitting beside their
camels in the dust of the station yard, wrapped in traditional robes
which covered them from head to foot except for the slit in the howli
which revealed only their dark, unreadable eyes. They had taken him to
the well. It had been terrifying: nobody had spoken to him, except in
gestures. In the evening he had realized that these people had no
toilets, and he became desperately embarrassed. In the end he had been
forced to ask. There was a moment of silence, then they all burst out
laughing. It transpired that they had thought he could not speak their
language, which was why everyone had tried to communicate with him in
signs; and that he had used a baby word in asking about toilet
arrangements, which made it funnier. Someone had explained to him about
walking a little way beyond the circle of tents. and squatting in the
sand, and after that he had not been so frightened, for although these
were hard men they were not i-inkind.
All these thoughts had run through his mind as he looked at his first
desert sunrise, and they came back again twenty years later, as fresh and
as painful as yesterday’s bad memories, with the words “Wake up, Achmed.”
He sat up abruptly, the old thoughts clearing rapidly like the morning
clouds. He had crossed the desert on a vitally important mission. He had
found the well, and it had not been a hallucination: his cousins were
here, as they always were at this time of the year. He had collapsed with
exhaustion, and they had wrapped him in blankets and let him sleep by the
fire. He suffered a sudden sharp panic as he thought of his precious
baggage-had he still been carrying it when he arrived?-then he saw it,
piled neatly at his feet. 8 Ken Follett
Ishmael was squatting beside him. It had always been like this:
throughout the year the two boys had spent together in the desert,
Ishmael had never failed to wake first in the morning. Now he said:
“Heavy worries, cousin.” Achmed nodded. “There is a war.”
Ishmael proffered a tiny jeweled bowl containing water. Achmed dipped his
fingers in the water and washed his eyes. Ishmael went away. Achmed stood
up.
One of the women, silent and subservient, gave him tea. He took it
without thanking her and drank it quickly. He ate some cold boiled rice
while the unhurried work of the encampment went on around him. It seemed
that this branch of the family was still wealthy: there were several
servants, many children and more than twenty camels. The sheep nearby
were only a part of the flock-the rest would be grazing a few miles away.
There would be more camels, too. They wandered at night in search of
foliage to eat, and although they were hobbled they sometimes went out
of sight. The young boys would be rounding them up now, as he and Ishmael
had done. The beasts had no names, but Ishmael knew each one
individually, and its history. He would say: “This is the bull my father
gave to his brother Abdel in the year many women died, and the bull
became lame so my father gave Abdel another and took this one back, and
it still limps, seeT’ Achmed had come to know camels well, but he had
never quite adopted the nomad attitude to them: he had not, he
remembered, lit a fire underneath his dying white yesterday. Ishmael
would have.
Achmed finished his breakfast and went back to his baggage. Ile cases
were not locked. He opened the top one, a small leather suitcase; and
when he looked at the switches and dials of the compact radio neatly
fitted into the rectangular case he had a sudden vivid memory like a
movie: the bustling frantic city of Berlin; a tree-lined street called
the Tirpitzufer; a four-story sandstone building; a maze of hallways and
staircases; an outer office with two secretaries; an inner office,
sparsely furnished with desk, sofa, filing cabinet, small bed and on the
wall a Japanese painting of a grinning demon and a signed photograph of
Franco; and beyond the office, on a balcony overlooking the Landwehr
Canal, a pair TIN KEY TO REBECCA 9
of dachshunds and a prematurely white-haired admiral who said: “Rommel wants me to put an agent into Cairo.”
The case also contained a book, a novel in English. Idly, Achmed read the
first line: “Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.” A folded
sheet of paper fell out from between the leaves of the book. Carefully,
Achmed picked it up and put it back. He closed the book, replaced it in
the case, and closed the case.
Ishmael was standing at his shoulder. He said: “Was it a long journey?”
Achmed nodded. “I came from El Agela, in Libya.” The names meant nothing
to his cousin. “I came from the sea.” “From the seal” “Yes.,$ “Alone?” “I had some camels when I started.”
Ishmael was awestruck: even the nomads did not make such long journeys,
and he had never seen the sea. He said: “But why?” “It is to do with this war.”
“One gang of Europeans fighting with another over who shall sit in
Cairo-what does this matter to the sons of the desertT’ “My mother’s people are in the war,” Achmed said. “A man should follow his father.” “And if he has two fathersT’ Ishmael shrugged. He understood dilemmas.
Achmed lifted the closed suitcase. “Will you keep this for me?” “Yes.” Ishmael took it. “Who is winning the war?”
“My mother’s people. They are like the nomads-they are proud, and cruel,
and strong. They are going to rule the world.”
Ishmael smiled. “Achmed, you always did believe in the desert lion.”
Achmed remembered: he had learned, in school, that there had once been
lions in the desert, and that it was possible a few of them remained,
hiding in the mountains, living off deer and fennec fox and wild sheep.
Ishmael had refused to believe him. The argument had seemed terribly
important 10 Ken Follett
then, and they had almost quarreled over it. Achmed grinned. “I still believe in the desert lion,” be said.
The two cousins looked at one another. It was five years since the last
time they had met. The world had changed. Achmed thought of the things he
could tell: the crucial meeting in Beirut in 1938, his trip to Berlin, his
great coup in Istanbul . . . None of it would mean anything to his
cousin-and Ishmael was probably thinking the same about the events of his
last five years. Since they had gone together as boys on the pilgrimage to
Mecca they had loved each other fiercely, but they never had anything to
talk about.
After a moment Ishmael turned away, and took the case to his tent. Achmed
fetched a little water in a bowl. He opened another bag, and took out a
small piece of soap, a brush, a mirror and a razor. He stuck the mirror in
the sand, adjusted it, and began to unwind the howli from around his head. The sight of his own face in the mirror shocked him.
His strong, normally clear forehead was covered with sores. His eyes were
hooded with pain and lined in the corners. The dark beard grew matted and
unkempt on his fineboned cheeks, and the skin of his large booked nose was
red and split. He parted his blistered lips and saw that his fine, even
teeth were filthy and stained. He brushed the soap on and began to shave.
Gradually his old face emerged. It was strong rather than handsome, and
normally wore a look which he recognized, in his more detached moments, to
be faintly dissolute; but now it was simply ravaged. He bad brought a small
phial of scented lotion across hundreds of miles of desert for this moment,
but now he did not put it on because he knew it would sting unbearably. He
gave it to a girl-child who had been watching him, and she ran away,
delighted with her prize.
He carried his bag into Ishmael’s tent and shooed out the women. He took
off his desert robes and donned a white English shirt, a striped tie, gray
socks and a brown checked suit. When he tried to put on the shoes he
discovered that his feet had swollen: it was agonizing to attempt to force
them into the hard new leather. However, he could not wear his European
suit with the improvised rubber-tire sandals of the desert. In the end he
slit the shoes with his curved knife and wore them loose. THE KEY TO REBECCA 11
He wanted more: a hot bath, a haircut, cool soothing cream for his sores,
a silk shirt, a gold bracelet, a cold bottle of champagne and a warm soft
woman. For those he would have to wait.
When he emerged from the tent the nomads looked at him as if he were a
stranger. He picked up his hat and hefted the two remaining cases-one
heavy, one light. Ishmael ~aame to him carrying a goatskin water bottle.
The two cousins embraced.
Achmed took a wallet from the pocket of his jacket to check his papers.
Looking at the identity card, he realized that once again he was
Alexander Wolff, age thirty-four, of Villa les Oliviers, Garden City,
Cairo, a businessman, raceEuropean.
He put on his hat, picked up his cases and set off in the cool of the
dawn to walk across the last few miles of desert to the town.
The great and ancient caravan route, which Wolff had followed from oasis to oasis across the vast empty desert, led through a pass in the mountain range and at last rnerged with an ordinary modem road. The road was like a line drawn on the map by God, for on one side were the yellow, dustv, barren hills, and on the other were lush fields of cotton 2quared off with irrigation ditches. The peasants, bent over their crops, wore galabiyas, simple shifts of striped cotton, instead of the cumbersome protective robes of the nomads. Walking north on the road, smelling the cool damp breeze off the nearby Nile, observing the increasing signs of urban civilization, Wolff began to feel human again. The peasants dotted about the fields came to seem less like a crowd. Finally he heard the engine of a car, and he knew he was safe.
The vehicle was approaching him from the direction of Assyut, the town.
It came around a bend and into sight, and he recognized it as a military
jeep. As it came closer he saw the British Army uniforms of the men in
it, and he realized he had left behind one danger only to face another.
Deliberately he made himself calm. I have every right to be here, he
thought. I was born in Alexandria. I am Egyptian by nationality. I own
a house in Cairo. My papers are all 12 Ken Follett
genuine. I am a wealthy man, a European and a German spy behind enemy lines-
The jeep screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust. One of the men jumped
out. He had three cloth pips on each shoulder of his uniform shirt: a
captain. He looked terribly young, and walked with a fimp. The captain said: “Where the devil have you come from?”
Wolff put down his cases and jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “My
car broke down on the desert road.”
The captain nodded, accepting the explanation instantly: it would never
have occurred to him, or to anyone else, that a European might have
walked here from Libya. He said: “I’d better see your papers, please.”
Wolff handed them over. The captain examined them, then looked up. Wolff
thought: There has been a leak from Berlin, and every officer in Egypt
is looking for me; or they have changed the papers since last time I was
here, and mine are out of date; or-
“You look about all in, Mr. Wolff,” the captain said. “How long have you
been walking?”
Wolff realized that his ravaged appearance might get some useful sympathy
from another European. “Since yesterday afternoon,” he said with a
weariness that was not entirely faked. “I got a bit lost.”
‘.You’ve been out here all night?” The captain looked more closely at
Wolffs, face. “Good Lord, I believe you have. You’d better have a lift
with us.” He turned to the jeep. “Corporal, take the gentleman’s cases.”
Wolff opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again abruptly. A man who
had been walking all night would be only too glad to have someone take
his luggage. To object would not only discredit his story, it would draw
attention to the bags. As the corporal hefted them into the back of the
jeep, Wolff realized with a sinking feeling that he bad not even bothered
to lock them. How could I be so stupid? he thought. He knew the answer.
He was still in tune with the desert, where you were lucky to see other
people once a week, and the last thing they wanted to steal was a radio
transmitter that had to be plugged in to a power outlet. His senses were
alert to all the wrong things: he was watching the movement of the sun,
smelling the air for water, measuring THE KEY TO REBECCA 13
the distances he was traveling, and scanning the horizon as if searching for a lone tree in whose shade he could rest during the beat of the day. He had to forget R11 that now, and think instead of policemen and papers and locks and lies. He resolved to take more care, and climbed into the jeep.
The captain got in beside him and said to the driver: “Back into town.”
Wolff decided to bolster his story. As the jeep turned in the dusty road
he said: “Have you got any water?”
“Of course.” The captain reached beneath his seat and pulled up a tin
bottle covered in felt, like a large whiskey flask. He unscrewed the cap
ind handed it to Wolff.
Wolff drank deeply, swallowing at least a pint. “Thanks,” he said, and
handed it back.
“Quite a thirst you had. Not surprising. Oh, by the wayI’m Captain
Newman.” He stuck out his hand.
Wolff shook it and looked more closely at the man. He was young-early
twenties, at a guess-and fresh-faced, with a boyish forelock and a ready
smile; but there was in his demeanor that weary maturity that comes early
to fighting men. Wolff asked him: “Seen any action?”
“Some.” Captain Newman touched his own knee. “Did the leg at Cyrenaica,
that’s why they sent me to this one-horse town.” He grinned. “I can’t
honestly say I’m panting to get back into the desert, but I’d like to be
doing something a bit more positive than this, minding the shop hundreds
of miles from the war. The only fighting we ever see is between the
Christians and the Moslems in the town. Where does your accent come
from?”
The sudden question, unconnected with what had gone before, took Wolff
by surprise. It had surely been intended to, he thought: Captain Newman
was a sharp-witted young man. Fortunately Wolff had a prevared answer.
“My ?.arents were Boers who came from South Africa to Egypt. I grew up
speaking Afrikaans and Arabic.” He hesitated, nervous of overplaying his
hand by seeming too eager to explain. “The name Wolff is Dutch,
originally; and I was christened Alex after the town where I was born.”
Newman seemed politely interested. “What brings you here?” Wolff had prepared for that one, too. “I have business in- 14 Ken Follett
terests irk several towns in Upper Egypt.” He smiled. “I like to pay them surprise visits.”
They were entering Assyut. By Egyptian standards it was a large town,
with factories, hospitals, a Muslim university, a famous convent and some
sixty thousand inhabitants. Wolff was about to ask to be dropped at the
railway station when Newman saved him from that error. “You need a
garage,” the captain said. “We’ll take you to Nasif’s: he has a tow
truck.”
Wolff forced himself to say: “Ibank you.” He swallowed drily. He was
still not thinking hard enough or fast enough. I wish I could pull myself
together, he thought; it’s the damn desert, it’s slowed me down. He
looked at his watch. He had time to go through a charade at the garage
and still catch the daily train to Cairo. He considered what he would do.
He would have to go into the place, for Newman would watch. 1hen the
soldiers would drive away. Wolff would have to make some inquiries about
car parts or something, then take his leave and walk to the station.
With luck, Nasif and Newman might never compare notes on the subject of
Alex Wolff.
The jeep drove through the busy, narrow streets. The familiar sights of
an Egyptian town pleased Wolff: the gay cotton clothes, the women
carrying bundles on their heads, the officious policemen, the sharp
characters in sunglasses, the tiny shops spilling out into the rutted
streets, the stalls, the battered cars and the overloaded asses. They
stopped in front of a row of low mud-brick buildings. The road was half
blocked by an ancient truck and the remains of a cannibalIzed Fiat. A
small boy was working on a cylinder block with a wrench, sitting on the
ground outside the entrance.
Newman said: “I’ll have to leave you here, rm. afraid; duty calls.” Wolff shook his hand. “Youve been very kind.”
“I don’t like to dump you this way,” Newman continued. ‘You’ve had a bad
time.” He frowned, then his face clearedL ‘vrell you what-I’ll leave
Corporal Cox to look after you.” Wolff said: “It’s kind, but reafly–2′
Newman was not listening. “Get the man’s bags, Cox, and look sharp. I
want you to take care of him-and don’t you leave anything to the wogs,
understand?” THE KEY TO REBECCA is
“Yes, sirl” said Cox.
Wolff groaned inwardly. Now there would be more delay while he got rid of
the corporal. Captain Newman’s kindness was becoming a nuisance-could that
possibly be intentional?
Wolff and Cox got out, and the jeep pulled away. Wolff walked into Nasif’s
workshop, and Cox followed, carrying the cases.
Nasif was a smiling young man in a Mthy galabiya, working on a car battery
by the light of an oil lamp. He spoke to them in English. “You want to rent
a beautiful automobile? My brother have Bentley-“
Wolff interrupted him in rapid Egyptian Arabic. “My car has broken down.
They say you have a tow truck.” “Yes. We can leave right away. Where is the car?”
“On the desert road, forty or fifty miles out. Ifs a Ford. But we’re not
coming with you.” He took out his wallet and gave Nasif an IRngliab pound
note. “You’ll find me at the Grand Hotel by the railway station when you
return.”
Nasif took the money with alacrity. “Very goodl I leave immediatelyl”
Wolff nodded curtly and turned aroand. Walking out of the workshop with Cox
in tow, he considered the implications of his short conversation with
Nasif. The mechanic would go out into the desert with his tow truck and
search the road for the car. Eventually he would return to the Grand Hotel
to confess failure. He would learn that Wolff had left. He would consider
he had been reasonably paid for his wasted day, but that would not stop him
telling all and sundry the story of the disappearing Ford and its
disappearing driver. The likelihood was that all this would get back to
Captain Newman sooner or later. Newman might not know quite what to make of
it all, but he would certainly feel that here was a mystery to be
investigated.
WoIW& mood darkened as he realized thathis plan of dipping unobserved into
Egypt might have failed.
He would just have to make the best of it. He looked at his watch. He still
had time to catch the train. He would be able to get rid of Cox in the
lobby of the hotel, then get something to eat and drink while he was
waiting, if he was quick.
Cox was a short, dark man with some kind of British regional accent which
Wolff could not identify. He looked 16 Ken Follett
about Wolff’s age, and as he was still a corporal he was probably not too bright. Following Wolff across the Midan el-Mahatta, he said: “You know this town, sir?” “I’ve been here before,” Wolff r-plied.
They entered the Grand. With twenty-six rooms it was the larger of the
town’s two hotels. Wolff turned to Cox. “Thank you, Corporal. I think you
could get back to work now.”
“No hurry, sir,” Cox said cheerfully. “I’ll carry your bags upstairs.” “I’m sure they have porters here-~’ “Wouldn’t trust ’em, sir, if I were you.”
The situation was becoming more and more like a nightmare or a farce, in
which vell-intentioned people pushed him into increasingly senseless
behavior in consequence of one small lie. He wondered ..,gain whether
this was entirely accidental, and it crossed his -nind with terrifying
absurdity that perhaps they knew everything and were simply toying with
him.
He pushed the thought aside and spoke to Cox with as much grace as he
could muster. “Well, thank you.”
He turned to the desk ind asked for a room. He looked at his watch: he
had fifteen minutes left. He filled in the form quickly, giving an
invented address in Cairo-there was a chance Captain Newman would forget
the true address on the identity papers, and Wolff did not want to leave
a reminder.
A Nubian porter led them upstairs to the room. Wolff tipped him off at
the door. Cox put the cases down on the bed.
Wolff took out his wallet: perhaps Cox expected a tip too. “Well,
Corporal,” he began, “you’ve been very helpful–2′
“Let me unpack for you, sir,” Cox said. “Captain said not to leave
anything to the wogs.”
“No, thank you,” Wolff said firmly. “I want to lie down right now.”
“You go ahead and lie down,” Cox persisted generously. “It won’t take
me-” “Don’t open thatl”
Cox was lifting the lid of the case. Wolff reached inside his jacket,
thinking Damn the man and Now I’m blown and I should have locked it and
Can I do this quietly? The little THE KEY TO REBECCA 17
corporal stared at the neat stacks of new English pound notes which filled the small case. He said: “Jesus Christ, you’re loadedl” It crossed Wolff’s mind, even as he stepped forward, that Cox had never seen so much money in his life. Cox began to turn, saying: “What do you want with all tbat–2′ Wolff pulled the wicked curved Bedouin knife, and it glinted in his hand as his eyes met Cox’s, and Cox flinched and opened his mouth to shout; and then the razor-sbarp blade sliced deep into the soft flesh of his throat, and his shout of fear came as a bloody gurgle and he died; and Wolff felt nothing, only disappointment. 2
It was May, and the khamsin was blowing, a hot dusty wind from the south. Standing Inder the ihower, William Vandarn had the depressing thought that this would be the only time he would feel cool all day. He tumed off the water and dried himself rapidly. His body was full of small aches. He had played cricket the day before, for the first time in years. General Staff Intelligence bad got up a team to play the doctors from the field hospital- – spies versus quacks, they had called it-and Vandam, fielding on the boundary, had been run ragged as the medics hit the Intelligence Department’s bowling all over the park. Now he had to admit he was not in good condition. Gin had sapped his strength and cigarettes had shortened his wind, and he had too many worries to give the game the fierce concentration it merited.
He lit a cigarette, cotighed -.tnd started to shave. He always smoked
while he was shaving- -it was the only way he knew to relieve the boredom
of the inevitable daily task. Fifteen years ago he had sworn he would
grow a beard as soon as he got out of the Army, but he was still in the
Army.
He dressed in the everyday -iniform: heavy sandals, socks, bush shirt and
the khaki ~horts with the flaps that could be let down and buttoned below
the knee for protection against mosquitoes. Nobody ever osed the flaps,
and the younger officers usually cut them off, they looked so ridiculous.
There was an emptv gin bottle on the floor beside the bed. Vandam looked
at it, feeling -lisgusted with himself: it was the first time he had
taken the damn bottle to bed with him. He picked it up, replaced the cap
and threw the bottle into the wastebasket. Then he went downstairs.
18 THE KEY TO REBECCA 19
Gaafar was in the kitchen, making tea. Vandam’s servant was an elderly Copt
with a bald head and a shuffling walk, and pretensions to be an English
butler. That he would never be, but he had a little dignity and be was
honest, and Vandam had not found those qualities to be common among
Egyptian house servants. Vandam said: “Is Billy up?” “Yes, sir, he’s coming down directly.”
Vandarn nodded. A small pan of water was bubbling on the stove. Vandarn put
an egg in to boil and set the timer. He cut two slices from an English-type
loaf and made toast. He buttered the toast and cut it into fingers, then he
took the egg out of the water and decapitated it.
Billy came into the kitchen and said: “Good morning, Dad.”
Vandarn smiled at his ten-year-old son. “Morning. Breakfast is ready.”
The boy began to eat. Vandam sat opposite him with a cup of tea, watching.
Billy often looked tired in the mornings recently. Once upon a time he had
been infallibly daisy-fresh at breakfast. Was he sleeping badly? Or was his
metabolism simply becoming more like an adult’s? Perhaps it was just that
be was staying awake late, reading detective stories under the sheet by the
light of a flashlight.
People said Billy was like his father, but Vandam could not see the
resemblance. However, he could see traces of Billy’s mother: the gray eyes,
the delicate skin and the faintly supercilious expression which came over
his face when someone crossed him.
Vandam always prepared his son’s breakfast. The servant was perfectly
capable of looking after the boy, of course, and most of the time he did;
but Vandam liked to keep this little ritual for himself. Often it was the
only time he was with Billy all day. They did not talk much-Billy ate and
Vandam smoked-but that did not matter: the important thing was that they
were together for a while at the start of each day.
After breakfast Billy brushed his teeth while Gaafar got out Vandam’s
motorcycle. Billy came back wearing his school cap, and Vandam put on his
uniform cap. As they did every day, they saluted each other. Billy said:
“Right, sir-let’s go and win the war.” 20 Ken Follett
Then they went out.
Major Vandam’s office was at Gray Pillars, one of a group of buildings surrounded by barbed-wire fencing which made up GHQ Middle East. There was an incident report on his desk when he arrived. He sat down, lit a cigarette and began to read.
The report came from Assyut, three hundred miles south, and at first
Vandam could not see why it had been marked for Intelligence. A patrol
had picked up a hitchhiking European who had subsequently murdered a
corporal with a knife. The body had been discovered last night, almost
as soon as the corporal’ti absence was noted, but several hours after the
death. A man answering the hitchhiker’s description had bought a ticket
to Cairo at the railway station, but by the time the body was found the
train had arrived in Cairo and the killer had melted into the city. There was no indication of motive.
The Egyptian police force and the British Military Police would be
investigating already in Assyut, and their collekgues in Cairo would,
like Vandam, be learning the details this morning. What reason was there
for Intelligence to get involved?
Vandam frowned and thought again. A Europe-an is picked up in the desert.
He says his car has broken down. He checks into a hotel. He leaves a few
minutes later and catches a train. His car is not found. The body of a
soldier is discovered that night in the hotel room. Why?
Vandam. got on the phone and called Assyut. It took the army camp
switchboard a while to locate Captain Newman, but eventually they found
him in the arsenal and got him to a phone.
Vandam said: “This knife murder almost looks like a blown cover.”
“That occurred to me, sir,” said Newman. He sounded a young man. “That’s
why I marked the report for Intelligence.”
“Good thinking. Tell me, what was your impression of the man?” “He was a big chap–2′ THE KEY TO REBECCA 21
“I’ve got your description here-six foot, twelve stone, dark hair and
eyes-but that doesn’t tell me what he was like.”
“I understand,” Newman said. “Well, to be candid, at first I wasn’t in the
least suspicious of him. He looked all in, which fitted with his story of
having broken down on the desert road, but apart from that he seemed an
upright citizcn: a white man, decently dressed, quite well spoken with an
accent he said was Dutch, or rather Afrikaans. His papers were perfect-I’m
still quite sure they were genuine.” “But … ?11
“He told me he was checking on his business interests in Upper Egypt.” “Plausible enough.”
“Yes, but he didn’t strike me as the kind of man to spend his life
investing in a few shops and small factories and cotton farms. He was much
more the assured cosmopolitan type: if he had money to invest it would
probably be with a London stockbroker or a Swiss bank. He just wasn’t a
small-timer . It9s very vague, sir, but do you see what I mean?”
“Indeed.” Newman sounded a bright chap, Vandarn thought. What was he doing
stuck out in Assyut?
Newman went on: “And then it occurred to me that he had, as it were, just
appeared in the desert, and I didn’t really know where he might have come
from … so I told poor old Cox to stay with him, on the pretense of
helping him, to make sure he didn’t do a bunk before we had a chance to
check his story. I should have arrested the man, of course, but quite
honestly, sir, at the time I had only the most slender suspicion—~’
“I don’t think anyone’s blaming you, Captain,” said Vandam. “You did well
to remember the name and address from the papers. Alex Wolff, Villa les
Oliviers, Garden City, right?” “Yes, sir.”
“All right, keep me in. touch with any developments at your end, will youT’ “Yes, sir.”
Vandam hung up. Newman’s suspicions chimed with his own instincts about the
killing. He decided to speak to his 22 Ken Follett
immediate superior. He left his office, carrying the incident report.
General Staff Intelligence was ran by a brigadier with the title of
Director of Military Intelligence. The DMI had two deputies: DDMI(O)-for
Operational-and DDMI(I)-for Intelligence. The deputies were colonels.
Vandam’s boss, Lieutenant Colonel Bogge, came under the DDMI(l). Bogge
was responsible for personnel security, and most of his time was spent
administering the censorship apparatus. Vandam’s concern was security
leaks by means other than letters. He and his men had several hundred
agents in Cairo and Alexandria; in most clubs and bars there was a waiter
who was on his payroll, he had an informant among the domestic staffs of
the more important Arab politicians, King Farouk’s valet worked for
Vandam, and so did Cairo’s wealthiest thief. He was interested in who was
talking too much, and who was listening; and among the listeners, Arab
nationalists were his main target. However, it seemed possible that the
mystery man from Assyut might be a different kind of threat.
Vandam’s wartime career had so far been distinguished by one spectacular
success and one great failure. The failure took place in Turkey. Rashid
Ali had escaped there from Iraq. The Germans wanted to get him out and
use him for propaganda; the British wanted him kept out of the limelight;
and the Turks, jealous of their neutrality, wanted to offend nobody.
Vandam’s job had been to make sure Ali stayed in Istanbul, but Ali had
switched clothes with a German agent and slipped out of the country under
Vandam’s nose. A few days later he was making propaganda speeches to the
Middle East on Nazi radio. Vandam had somewhat redeemed himself in Cairo.
London had told him they had reason to believe there was a major security
leak there, and after three months of painstaking investigation Vandam
had discovered that a senior American diplomat was reporting to
Washington in an insecure code. The code had been changed, the leak had
been stopped up and Vandam had been promoted to major.
Had he been a civilian, or even a peacetime soldier, he would have been
proud of his triumph and reconciled to his defeat, and he would have
said: “You win some, you lose some.” But in war an officer’s mistakes
killed people. In the aftermath of the Rashid Ali affair an agent had
been mur-
THE KEY TO REBECCA 23
dered, a woman, and Vandam was not able to forgive himself for that.
He knocked on Lieutenant Colonel Bogge’s door and walked in. Reggie Rogge
was a ihort, square man in his fifties, with an immaculate iniform. and
brilliantined black hair. He had a nervous, throat-clearing cough which
he used when he did not know quite -vhat to say, which was aften. He sat
behind a huge curved desk -bigger than the DMIS–going through his in
tray. Always #illing to talk rather than work, he motioned Vandam to a
chair. He picked up a bright-red cricket ball and began to toss it from
hand to hand. “You played.% good game yesterday,” he said.
“You didn’t do badly yourself,” Vandam said. It was true: Bogge had been
the only 4ecent bowler on the Intelligence team, and his slow googli,%
had -aken four wickets for fortytwo runs. “But are -we -nnning the war?”
“More bloody had news, T’m -fraid.” The morning briefing had not yet
taken place, but Rogge always heard the news by word of mouth beiorehand.
“We. expected Rommel to attack the Gazala Line head on. Should have known
better –fellow never ‘Ights fair and square. He went around our southern
flank, took the Seventh Armored’s headquarters, and captured General
Messervy.”
It was a depressingly familiar story, and Vandam suddenly felt weary.
“What a shambles,” he said.
“Fortunately he failed to get through to the coast, so the divisions on
the Gazala Line didn’t get isolated. Still…” “Still, when are we going to stop him?”
“He won’t get much farther.” It was an idiotic remark: Bogge ifinply did
not want to get involved in criticism of generals. “What have you got
there?”
Vandam gave him the incident report. “I propose to follow this one
through myself.”
Rogge read the paper and looked up, his face blank. “I don’t see the
point.” “It looks like a blown cover.” .4TATI
“T’here’s no motive for the murder, so we have to speculate,” Vandam
explained. “Here’s one possibility: the hitchhiker was not what he said
he was, and the corporal 24 Ken Follett
discovered that fact, and so the hitchhiker killed the corporal.”
“Not what he said he was–you mean he was a spy?” Bogge laughed. “How
d’you suppose he got to Assyut-by parachute? Or did he walk?”
That was the trouble with explaining things to Bogge, thought Vandarn: he
had to ridicule the idea, as an excuse for not thinking of it himself.
“It’s not impossible for a small plane to aneak through. It’s not
impossible to cross the desert,
It either.
Bogge sailed the report through the air across the vast expanse of his
desk. “Not very likely, in my view,” he said. “Don’t waste any time on that
one.”
“Very good, sir.” Vandam. picked up the report from the floor, suppressing
the familiar frustrated anger. Conversations with Bogge always turned into
points-scoring contests, and the smart thing to do was not to play. “I’ll
ask the police to keep us informed of their progress-copies of memos, and
so on, just for the ffic.”
“Yes.” Bogge never objected to making people send him copies for the file:
it enabled him to poke his linger into things without taking any
responsibility. “Listen, how about arranging some cricket practice? I
noticed they had nets and a catching boat there yesterday. I’d like to lick
our team into shape and get some more matches going.” “Good idea.” “See if you can organize something, win you?” “Yes, 3ir.” Vandarn went out.
On the way back to his own office, he wondered what was so wrong with the
administration of the British Army that it could promote to lieutenant
colonel a man as empty-headed as Reggie Bogge. Vandams father, who had been
a corporal in the first war, had been fond of saying that British soldiers
were “lions led by donkeys.” Sometimes Vandam thought it Was still true.
But Bogge was not merely dull. Sometimes he made bad decisions because he
was not clever enough to make good decisions; but mostly, it seemed to
Vandarn, Bogge made bad decisions because he was playing some other game,
making himself look good or trying to be superior or something, Vandarn did
not know what. A woman in a white hospital coat saluted him and he re- THE KEY TO REBECCA 25
turned the salute absent-mindedly. The woman said: “Major Vandam, isn’t it?”
He stopped and looked at her. She had been a spectator at the cricket
match, and now he remembered her name. “Dr. Abuthnot,” he said. “Good
morning.” She was a tall, cool woman of about his age. He recalled that
she was a surgeon–highly unusual for a woman, even in wartime-and that
she held the rank of captain. She said: “You workedhard yesterday.”
Vandam smiled. “And I’m suffering for it today. I enjoyed myself,
though.”
“So did L” She had a low, precise voice and a great deal of confidence.
“Shall we see you on Fridayr, “Where?” “The reception at the Union.”
“Ah.” The Anglo-Egyptian Union, a club for bored Europeans, made
occasional attempts to justify its riame by holding a reception -for
Egyptian guests. “I’d like that. What time?” “Five o’clock, for tea.” Vandam was professionally interested: it was an occasion at which Egyptia ns -night ‘pick up service gossip, and service gossip sometimes included information useful to the enemy. “I’ll come,” he said. “Splendid. I’ll see you there.” She turned away.
“I look forward to it,” Vandam said to her back. He watched her walk
away, wondering what she wore under the hospital coat. She was trim,
elegant and self-possessed: she reminded him of his wife.
He entered his office. He had no intention of organizing a cricket
practice, and he had no intention of forgetting about the Assyut murder.
Bogge could go to hell. Vandam. would go to work.
First he spoke again to Captain Newman, and told him to make sure the
description of Alex Wolff got the widest possible circulation.
He called the Egyptian police and confirmed that they would be checking
the hotels and flophouses of Cairo today.
He contacted Field Security, a unit of the prewar Canal Defense Force,
and asked them to step up their spot checks on identity papers for a few
days. 26 Ken Follett
He told the British paymaster general to keep a special watch for forged
currency.
He advised the wireless listening service to be alert for a new, local
transmitter; and thought briefly how useful it would be if the boffins
ever cracked the problem of locating a radio by monitoring its
broadcasts.
Finally he detailed a sergeant on his staff to visit every radio shop in
Lower Egypt–there were not many-and ask them to report any sales of
parts and equipment which might be used to make or repair a transmitter. Then be went to the Villa lea Oliviers.
The house got its name from a small public garden across the street where a grove of olive trees was now in bloom, shedding white. petals like dust ou to the dry, brown grass.
The house had a high wall broken by a heavy, carved wooden gate. Using
the ornamentation for footholds, Vandam climbed over the gate and dropped
on the other aide to find himself in a large courtyard. Around him the
whitewashed walls were smeared and grubby, their windows blinded by
closed, peeling shutters. He walked to the center of the courtyard and
looked at the stone fountain. A brightgreen lizard darted across the dry
bowl. The place. had not been lived in for at least a year.
Vandam opened a shutter, broke a pane of glass, reached through to
unfasten the window, and climbed over the sill into the house.
It did not look like the home of a European, he thought as he walked
through the dark cool rooms. There were no hunting prints on the walls,
no neat rows of bright-jacketed novels by Agatha Christie and Dennis
Wheatley, no three-piece suite imported from Maples or Harrods. Instead
the place was furnished with large cushions and low tables, handwoven
rugs and hanging tapestries.
Upstairs he found a locked door. It took him three or four minutes to
kick it open. Behind it there was a study.
The room was clean and tidy, with a few pieces of rather luxurious
furniture: a wide. low divar- covered in velvet, a hand-carved coffee
table, three matching antique lamps, a bear-skin rug, a beautifully
inlaid desk and a leather chair. On the desk were a telephone, a clean white blotter, an THE KEY TO REBECCA 27
ivory-handled pen and a dry inkwell. In the desk drawer Vandam, found company reports from Switzerland, Germany and the United States. A delicate beaten-copper coffee service gathered dust on the little table. On a shelf behind the desk were books in several languages: nineteenth-century French novels, the Shorter Oxford Dictionary, a volume of what appeared to Vandarn to be Arabic poetry, with erotic illustra- tions, and the Bible in German. There were no personal dpcuments. There were no letters. There was not a single photograph in the house.
Vandam sat in the soft leather chair behind the desk and looked around
the room. It was a masculine room, the home of a cosmopolitan
intellectual, a man who was on the one hand careful, precise and tidy and
on the other hand sensitive and sensual. Vandam was intrigued.
A European name, a totally Arabic house. A pamphlet about investing in
business machines, a book of Arab verse. An antique coffee jug and a
modern telephone. A wealth of information about a character, but not a
single clue which might help find the man. The room had been carefully cleaned out
There should have been bank statements, bills from tradesmen, a birth
certificate and a will, letters from a lover and photographs of parents
or children. The man had collected all those things and taken them away,
leaving no trace of his identity, as if he knew that one day someone
would come looking for him. Vandam said aloud: “Alex Wolff, who are you?”
He got up from the chair and left the study. He walked through the house
and across the hot, dusty courtyard. He climbed back over the gate and
dropped into the street. Across the road an Arab in a green-striped
galabiya sat cross-legged on the ground in the shade of the olive trees,
watching Vandarn incuriously. Vandarn felt no impulse to explain that he
had broken into the house on official business: the uniform of a British
officer was authority enough for just about anything in this town. He
thought of the other sources from which he could seek information about
the owner of this house: municipal records, such as they were; local
trades-
28 Ken Follett
men who might have delivered there when the place was occupied; even the neighbors. He would put two of his men on to it, and tell Bogge some story to cover up. He climbed onto his motorcycle and kicked it into life. The engine roared enthusiastically, and Vandam drove away. 3
Full of anger and despair Wolff sat outside his home and watched the British officer drive away.
He remembered the house as it had been when he was a boy, loud with talk
and laughter and life. “ere by the great carved gate there had always been
a guard, a black-skinned giant from the south, -sitting on the ground,
;mipervious to the heat. Each morning a holy man, old and almost blind,
would recite a chapter from the Koran in the courtyard. In the cool of the
arcade on three sides the men of the family would sit on low divans and
smoke their hubble-bubbles while servant boys brought coffee in long-necked
jugs. Another black guard stood at the door to the harem, behind which the
women grew bored and fat. The days were long and warm, the family was rich
and the children were ;ndulged.
The British officer, with his shorts and his motorcycle, his arrogant face
and his prying eyes hidden in the shadow of the peaked uniform cap, had
broken in and violated Wolfrs childhood. Wolff wished he could have seen
the man’s face, for he would like to kill him one day.
He had thought of this place all through his journey. In Berlin and Tripoli
and El Agela, in the pain and exhaustion of the desert crossing, in the
fear and haste of his flight from Assyut, the villa had represented a safe
haven, a place to rest and get clean and whole again at the end of the
voyage. He had looked forward to lying in the bath and sipping coffee in
the courtyard and bringing women home to the great bed. Now he would have to go away and stay away.
He had remained outside all morning, alternately walking the street and
sitting under the olive trees, just in case Captain Newman should have
remembered the address and sent
29 30 Ken Follett
!omebody to search the house; and he had bought a galabiya in the souk beforehand, knowing that if someone did come they would be looking for a European, not an Arab.
It had been a mistake to show genuine papers. He could see that with
hindsight. The trouble was, he mistrusted Abwehr forgeries. Meeting and
working with other spies he had heard horror stories about crass and
obvious errors in the documents made by German Intelligence: botched
printing, inferior-quality paper, even misspellings of common English
words. In the spy school where he had been sent for his wireless cipher
course the current rumor had been that every policeman in England knew
that a certain series of numbers on a ration card identified the holder
as a German spy.
Wolff had weighed the alternatives and picked what seemed the least
risky. He bad been wrong, and now he had no place to go. He stood, picked up his cases and began to walk.
He thought of his family. His mother and his stepfather were dead, but
he had three stepbrothers and a stepsister in Cairo. It would be hard for
them to bide him. They would be questioned as soon as the British
realized the identity of the owner of the villa, which might be today;
and while they might tell lies for his sake, their servants would surely
talk. Furthermore, he could not really trust them, for when his
stepfather had died, Alex as the oldest son had got the house as well as
a share of the inheritance, although he was European and an adopted,
rather than natural, son. There had been some bitterness, and meetings
with lawyers; Alex had stood firm and the others had never really
forgiven him.
He considered checking in to Shepheard’s Hotel. Unfortunately the police
were sure to think of that, too: Shepheard’s would by now have the
description of the Assyut murderer. Ile other major hotels would have it
soon. That left the pensions. Whether they were warned depended on how
thorough the police wanted to be. Since the British were involved, the
police might feel obliged to be meticulous. Still, the managers of small
guest houses were often too busy to pay a lot of attention to nosy
policemen.
He left the Garden City and headed downtown. The streets were even more
busy and noisy than when he had left Cairo. There were countless
uniforms–not just British but Austral-
THE KEY TO REBECCA 31
fan, New Zealand, Polish, Yugoslav, Palestinian, Indian and Greek. The slim, pert Egyptian girls in their cotton frocks and heavy jewelry competed successfully with their red-faced, dispirited European counterparts. Among the older women it seemed to Wolff that fewer wore the traditional black robe and veil. “I’lie men still greeted one another in the same exuberant fashion, swinging their right arms outward before bringing their hands together with a loud clap, shaking hands for at least a minute or two while grasping the shoulder of the other with the left hand and talking excitedly. The beggars and peddlers were out in force, taking advantage of the influx of na7ive Europeans. In his galabiya Wolff was immune, but the foreigners were besieged by cripples, women with fly-encrusted babies, shoeghine boys and men selling everything from secondhand razor blades to giant fountain pens guaranteed to hold six monthe supply of ink.
The traffic was worse. The slow, verminous trams were more crowded than
ever, with passengers clinging precariously to the outside from a perch
on the running board, crammed into thecab with the driver and sitting
cross-legged on the roof. The bases and taxis were no better: there
seemed to be a shortage of vehicle parts, for so many of the cars had
broken windows, flat tires and ailing engines, and were lacking
headlights or windshield wipers. Wolff saw two taxis-an elderly Morris
and an even older Packard-which had finally stopped running and were now
being drawn by donkeys. The only decent cars were the monstrous American
limousines of the wealthy pashas and the occasional prewar English
Austin. Mixing with the motor vehicles in deadly competition were the
horse-drawn gharries, the mule carts of the peasants, and the
livestock-camels, sheep and goatswhich were banned from the city center
by the most unenforceable law on the Egyptian statute book. And the noise–Wolff had forgotten the noise.
Ile trams rang their bells continuously In traffic jams all the cars
hooted all the time, and when there was nothing to hoot at they hooted
on general principles. Not to be outdone, the drivers of carts and camels
yelled at the tops of their voices. Many shops and all caf6s blared Arab
music from cheap radios turned to full volume. Street vendors called con-
tinually and pedestrians told them to go away. Dogs barked 32 Ken Follett
and circling kites screamed overhead. From time to time it would all be swamped by the roar of an airplane. This is my town, Wolff thought; they can’t catch me here.
There were a dozen or so well-known pensions catering for tourists of
different nationalities: Swiss, Austrian, German, Danish and French. He
thought of them and rejected them as too obvious. Finally he remembered
a cheap lodging house run by nuns at Bulaq, the port district. It catered
mainly for the sailors who came down the Nile in steam tugs -tnd feluccas
laden with cotton, coal, paper and stone. Wolff could be sure he would
not get robbed, infected or murdered, and nobody would think to look for
him there.
As he headed out of the hotel district the streets became a little less
crowded, but not much. He could not see the river itself, but
occasionally he glimpsed, through the huddled buildings, the high
triangular sail of a felucca.
The hostel was a large, decaying building which had once been the villa
of some pasha. There was now a bronze crucifix over the arch of the
entrance. A black-robed nun was watering a tiny bed of flowers in front
of the building. Through the arch Wolff saw a cool quiet hall. He had
walked several miles today, with his heavy cases: he looked forward to
a rest. Two Egyptian policemen came out of the hostel.
Wolff took in the wide leather belts, the inevitable sunglasses and the
military haircuts in a swift glance, and his heart sank. He turned his
back on the men and spoke in French to the nun in the garden. “Good day,
Sister.”
She unbent from her watering and smiled at him. “Good day.” She was
shockingly young. “Do you want lodgings?” “No lodgings. Just your blessing.”
The two policemen approached, and Wolff tensed, preparing his answers in
case they should question him, considering which direction he should take
if he had to run away; then they went past, arguing about a horse race. “God bless you,” said the nun.
Wolff thanked her and walked on. It was worse than he had imagined. The
police must be checking everywhere. Woffs feet were sore now, and his
arms ached from carrying the luggage. He was disappointed, and also a
little indignant, for everything in this town was notoriously haphazard,
yet it THE KEY TO REBECCA 33
seemed they were mounting an efficient operation just for him. He doubled back, heading for the city center again. He was beginning to feel as he bad in the desert, as if he had been walking forever without getting anywhere.
In the distance he saw a familiar tall figure: Hussein Fahmy, an old
school friend. Wolff was momentarily paralyzed. Hussein would surely take
him in, and perhaps he could be trusted; but he had a wife, and three
children, and how would one explain to them that Uncle Achmed was coming
to stay, but it was a secret, they must not mention his name to their
friends … How, indeed, would Wolff explain it all to Hussein himself?
Hussein looked in Wolff’s direction, and Wolff turned quickly and crossed
the road, darting behind a tram. Once on the opposite pavement he went
quickly down an alley without looking back. No, be could not seek shelter
with old school fTiends.
He emerged from the alley into another street, and realized he was close
to the German School. He wondered if it were still open: a lot of German
nationals in Cairo had been interned. He walked toward it, then saw,
outside the building, a Field Security patrol checking papers. He turned
about quickly and headed back the way he had come. He had to get off the streets.
He felt like a rat in a maze–every way he turned he was blocked. He saw
a taxi, a big old Ford with steam hissing out from under its hood. He
hailed it and jumped in. He gave the driver an address and the car jerked
away in third gear, apparently the only gear that worked. On the way they
stopped twice to top up the boiling radiator, and Wolff skulked in the
back seat, trying to hide his face.
The taxi took him to Coptic Cairo, the ancient Christian ghetto.
He paid the driver and went down the steps to the entrance. He gave a few
piasters to the old woman who held the great wooden key, and she let him
in.
It was an island of darkness and quiet in the stormy sea of Cairo. Wolff
walked its narrow passages, hearing faintly the low chanting from the
ancient churches. He passed the school and the synagogue and the cellar
where Mary was supposed to have brought the baby Jesus. Finally he went
into the smallest of the five churches. 34 Ken Follett
The service was about to begin. Wolff put down his precious cases beside
a pew. He bowed to the pictures of saints on the wall, then approached
the altar, knelt and kissed the hand of the priest. He returned to the
pew and sat down.
The choir began to chant a passage of scripture in Arabic. Wolff settled
into his seat, He would be safe here until darkness fell. Then he would
try his last shot.
The Cha-Cha was a large open-air nightclub in a garden beside the river. It was packed, as usual. Wolff waited in the queue of British officers and their girls while the safragis set up extra tables on trestles in every spare inch of space. On the stage a comic was saying: “Wait till Rommel gets to Shepheard’s-that will hold him up.”
Wolff finally got a table and a bottle of champagne. The evening was warm
and the stage lights made it worse. The audience was rowdy-they were
thirsty, and only champagne was served, so they quickly got drunk. They
began to shout for the star of the show, Sonja el-Aram.
First they had to listen to an overweight Greek woman sing “I’ll See You
in Mv Dreams” and “I Ain’t Got Nobody” (which made them laugh). Then
Sonja was announced. However, she did not appear for a while. The
audience became noisier and more impatient as the minutes ticked by. At
last, when they seemed to be on the verge of rioting, there was a roll
of dr”ms, the stage lights went off and silence descended.
When the spotlight came on Sonja stood still in the center of the stage
with her arms stretched skyward. She wore diapbanous trousers and a
sequined halter, and her body was powdered white. The music began-drums
and a pipe-and she started to move.
Wolff sipped champagne and watched, smiling. She was still the best.
She jerked her hips slowly, stamping one foot and then the other. Her
arms began to tremble, then her shoulders moved and her breasts shook;
and then her famous belly rolled hypnotically. The rhythm quickened. She
closed her eyes. Each part of her body seemed to move independently of
the rest. Wolff felt, as he always did, as every man in the audience did,
that he was alone with her, that her display was just for him, and that
this was not an act, not a piece of show-
THE KEY TO REBECCA ‘ 35
business wizardry, but that her sensual writhings were compulsive, she did it because she had to, she was driven to a sexual frenzy by her own voluptuous body. The audience was tense, silent, perspiring, mesmerized. She went faster and faster, seeming to be transported. The music climaxed with a bang. In the instant of silence that followed Sonja uttered a short, sharp cry; then she fell backward, her legs folded beneath her, her knees apart, until her head touched the boards of the stage. She held the position for a moment, then the lighti went out. The audience rose to their feet with a roar of applause. The lights came up, and she was gone. Sonja never took encores.
Wolff got out of his seat. He gave a waiter a pound-three months’ wages for
most Egyptians-to lead him backstage. The waiter showed him the door to
Sonja’s dressing room, then went away. Wolff knocked on the door. “Who is it?” Wolff walked in.
She was sitting on a stool, wearing a silk robe, taking off her makeup. She
saw him in the mirror and spun around to face him. Wolff said: “Hello, Sonja.”
She stared at him. After a long moment she said: “You bastard.”
She bad not changed.
She was a handsome woman. She had glossy black bair, long and thick; large,
slightly protruding brown eyes with lush eyelashes; high cheekbones which
saved her face from roundness and gave it shape; an arched nose, gracefully
arrogant; and a full mouth with even white teeth. Her body was all smooth
curves, but because she was a couple of inches taller than average she did
not look plump.
Her eyes flashed with anger. “What are you doing here? Where did you go?
What happened to your face?”
Wolff put down his cases and sat on the divan. He looked up at her. She
stood with her hands on her bips, her chin thrust forward, her breasts
outlined in green silk. “You’re beautiful,” he said. 36 Ken Follett
“Get out of here.”
He studied her carefully. He knew her too well to like or dislike her:
she was part of his past, like an old friend who remains a friend,
despite his faults, just because he has always been there. Wolff wondered
what had happened to Sonja in the years since he had left Cairo. Had she
got married, bought a house, fallen in love, changed her manager, had a
baby? He had given a lot of thought, that afternoon in the cool, dim
church, to how he should approach her; but he had reached no conclusions,
for he was not sure how she would be with him. He was still not sure. She
appeared angry and scornful, but did she mean it? Should he be charming
and full of fun, or aggressive and bullying, or helpless and pleading? “I need help,” he said levelly. Her face did not change.
“The British are after me,” he went on. “They’re watching my house, and
all the hotels have my description. I’ve nowhere to sleep. I want to move
in with you.” “Go to hell,” she said. “Let me tell you why I walked out on you.” “After two years no excuse is good enough.”
“Give me a minute to explain. For the sake of . . . all that.”
“I owe you nothing.” She glared at him a moment longer, then she opened
the door. He thought she was going to throw him out. He watched her face
as she looked back at him, holding the door. Then she put her head
outside and yelled: “Somebody get me a drinkl” Wolff relaxed a little.
Sonja came back inside and closed the door. “A minute,” she said to him.
“Are you going to stand over me like a prison guard? I’m not dangerous.”
He smiled.
“Oh yes you are,” she said, but she went back to her stool and resumed
working on her face.
He hesitated. The other problem he had mulled over during the long
afternoon in the Coptic church had been how to explain why he had left
her without saying good-bye and never contacted her since. Nothing less
than the truth sound-
THE KEY TO REBECCA 37
ed convincing. Reluctant as he was to share his secret, be had to tell her, for he was desperate and she was his only hope.
He said: “Do you remember I went to Beirut in nineteen thirty-eight?”
Is ‘No. “I brought back a jade bracelet for you.” Her eyes met his in the mirror. “I don’t have it anymore.”
He knew she was lying. He went on: “I went there to see a German army
officer called Heinz. He asked me to work for Germany in the coming war. I
agreed.”
She turned from her mirror and faced him, and now he saw in her eyes
something like hope.
“They told me to come back to Cairo and wait until I heard from them. Two
years ago I heard. They wanted me to go to Berlin. I went. I did a training
course, then I worked in the Balkans and the Levant. I went back to Berlin
in February for briefing on a new assignment. They sent me here–2′
“What are you telling me?” she said incredulously. “You’re a spy?” “Yes. “I don’t believe you.”
“Look.” He picked up a suitcase and opened it. “This is a mdio, for sending
messages to Rommel.” He closed it again and opened the other. “This is my
financing.”
She stared at the neat stacks of notes. “My God!” she said. “It’s a
fortune.”
There was a knock at the door. Wolff closed the case. A waiter came in with
a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice. Seeing Wolff, be said: “Shall I
bring another glass?” “No,” Sonja said impatiently. “Go away.”
The waiter left. Wolff opened the wine, filled the glass, gave it to Sonja,
then took a long drink from the bottle.
“listen,” he said. “Our army is winning in the desert. We can help them.
They need to know about the British strength-numbers of men, which
divisions, names of commanders, quality of weapons and equipment and-if
possible-battle plans. We’re here, in Cairo; we can find these things out.
Then, when the Germans take over, we will be heroes.” ‘We?,* ‘You can help me. And the first thing you can do is give 38 Ken Follett
me a place to live. You hate the British, don’t you? You want to see them thrown out?”
“I would do it for anyone but you,” She finished her champagne and
refilled her glass.
Wolff took the glass from her hand and drank. “Sonja. If I had sent you
a postcard from Berlin the British would have thrown you in jail. You
must not be angry, now that you know the reasons why.” He lowered his
voice. “We c4n bring those old times back. Well have good food and the
best champagne, new clothes and beautiful parties and an American car.
We’ll go to Berlin, you’ve always wanted to dance in Berlin, you’ll be
a star there. Germany is a new kind of nation-we’re going to rule the
world, and you can be a princess. We-” He paused. None of this was
getting through to her. It was time to play.his last card. “How is
Fawzi?” Sonja lowered her eyes. “She left, the bitch.”
Wolff set down the glass, then he put both hands to Sonja’s neck. She
looked up at him, unmoving. With his thumbs under her chin he forced her
to stand. “I’ll find another Fawzi for us,” he said softly. He saw that
her eyes were suddenly moist. His hands moved over the silk robe,
descending her body, stroking her Banks. “I’m the only one who
understands what you need.” He lowered his mouth to hers, took her lip
between his teeth, and bit until he tasted blood. Sonja closed her eyes. “I hate you,” she moaned.
In the cool of the evening Wolff walked along the towpath beside the Nile toward the houseboat. The sores had gone from his face and his bowels were back to normal. He wore a new white suit, and he carried two bags full of his favorite groceries.
The island suburb of Zamalek was quiet and peaceful. T’he raucous noise
of central Cairo could be heard only faintly across a wide stretch of
water. “Ibe calm, muddy river lapped gently against the houseboats lined
along the bank. The boats, all shapes and sizes, gaily painted and
luxuriously fitted out, looked pretty in the late sunshine.
Sonja’s was smaller and more richly famished than most. A plank led from
the path to the top deck, which was open to the breeze but shaded from
the sun by a green-and-white striped canopy. Wolff boarded the boat and
went down the THE KEY TO REBECCA 39
ladder to the interior. It was crowded with furniture: chairs and divans and tables and cabinets full of knickknacks. There was a tiny kitchen in the prow. Floor-to-ceiling curtains of maroon velvet divided the space in two, closing off the bedroom. Beyond the bedroom, in the stern, was a bathroom.
Sonja was sitting on a cushion painting her toenails. It was
extraordinary how slovenly she could look, Wolff thought. She wore a
grubby cotton dress, her face looked drawn and her hair was uncombed. In
half in hour, when she left for the Cha-Cha Club, she would look like a
dream.
Wolff put his bags on a table and began to take things out “French
champagne . . . English marmalade . . . German sausage … quail’s eggs
… Scotch salmon…”
Sonja looked up, astonished. “Nobody can find things like that-there’s
a war on.”
Wolff smiled. “There’s a little Greek grocer in Qulali who remembers a
good customer.” “Is he safe?”
“He doesn’t know where I’m living-and besides, his shop is the only place
in North Africa where you can get caviar.”
She came across and dipped into a bag. “Caviarl” She took the lid off the
jar and began to eat with her fingers. “I haven’t had caviar since-“
“Since I went away,” Wolff finished. He put a bottle of champagne in the
icebox. “If you wait a few minutes you can have cold champagne with it.” “I can’t wait.”
“You never can.” He took an English-language newspaper out of one of the
bags and began to look through it. It was a rotten paper, full of press
releases, its war news censored more heavily than the BBC broadcasts
which everyone listened to, its local reporting even worse-At was Ulegal
to print speeches by the official Egyptian 3pposition politicians. “Still
nothing about me in here,” Wolff said. He had told Sonja of the events
in Assyut.
“ney’re always late with the news,” she said through a mouthful of
caviar.
“It’s not that. If they report the murder they need to say what the
motive was–or, if they don’t, people will guess. The British don’t want
people to suspect that the Germans have spies in Egypt. It looks bad.” 40 Ken Follett
She went into the bedroom to change. She called through the curtain: “Does
that mean they’ve stopped looking for you?”
“No. I saw Abdullah in the souk. He says the Egyptian police aren’t really
interested, but there’s a Major Vandarn who’s keeping the pressure on.”
Wolff put down the news,paper, frowning. He would have liked to know
whether Vandam was the officer who had broken into the Villa les Oliviers.
He wished he had been able to look more closely at that man, but from
across the street the officer’s face, shaded by the peaked cap, had been a
dark blank. Sonja said: “How does Abdullah know?”
“I don’t know.” Wolff shrugged. “He’s a thief, he hears things.” He went to
the icebox and took out the bottle. It was not really cold enough, but he
was thirsty. He poured two glasses. Sonja came out, dressed: as he had
anticipated, she was transformed, her hair perfect, her face lightly but
cleverly made up, wearing a sheer cherry-red dress and matching shoes.
A couple of minutes later there were footsteps on the ganl-, plank and a
knock at the hatch. Sonja’s taxi had arrived. She drained her glass and
left. They did not say hello and goodbye to one another.
Wolff went to the cupboard where he kept the radio. He took out the English
novel and the sheet of paper bearing the key to the code. He studied the
key. Today was May 28. He had to add 42-the year-to 28 to arrive at the
page number in the novel which he must use to encode his message. May was
the fifth month, so every fifth letter on the page would be discounted.
He decided to send HAVE ARRIVED. CHECKING IN. ACKNOWLEDGE. Beginning at the
top of page 70 of the book, he looked along the line of print for the
letter H. It was the tenth character, discounting every fifth letter. In
his code it would therefore be represented by the tenth letter of the
alphabet, J. Next he needed an A. In the book, the third letter after the
H was an A. The A of HAVE would therefore be represented by the third
letter of the alphabet, C. There were special ways of dealing with rare
letters, like X.
This type of code was a variation on the one-time pad, the only kind of
code which was unbreakable in theory and in THE KEY TO REBECCA 41
practice. To decode the message a listener had to have both the book and the key.
When he had encoded his message he looked at his watch. He was to
transmit at midnight. He had a couple of hours before he needed to warm
up the radio. He poured another glass of champagne and decided to finish
the caviar. He found a spoon and picked up the pot. It was empty. Sonja
had eaten it all.
The runway was a strip of desert hastily cleared of camel thorn and large rocks. Rommel looked down as the ground came up to meet him. The Storch, a light aircraft used by German commanders for short trips around the battlefield, came down like a fly, its wheels on the ends of long, spindly front legs. The plane stopped and Rommel jumped out.
The heat hit -him first, then the dust. It had been relatively cool, up
in the sky; now he felt as if he had stepped into a furnace. He began to
perspire immediately. As soon as he breathed in, a thin layer of sand
coated his lips and the end of his tongue. A fly settled on his big nose,
and he brushed it away.
Von Mellenthin, Rommel’s Ic-intelligence officer-ran toward him across
the sand, his high boots kicking up dusty clouds. He looked agitated.
“Kesselring’s here,” iie said. “Auch, das noch,” said Rommel. “Thafs all I need.”
Kesselring, the smiling field marshal, represented everything Rommel
disliked in the German armed forces. He was a General Staff officer, and
Rommel hated the General Staff; he was a founder of the Luftwaffe, which
had let Rommel down so often in the desert war; and he was-worst of all-a
snob. One of his acid comments had gotten back to Rommel. Complaining
that Rommel was rude to his -tubordinate officers, Kesselring had said:
“It might be worth speaking to him about it, were it not that he’s a
Wuerttemberger.” Wuerttemberg was the provincial state where Rommel was
born, and the remark epitomized the prejudice Rommel had been fighting
all his career.
He stumned across the sand toward the command vehicle, with von
Niellenthin in tow. “General Cruewell has been captured,” von Mellenthin
said. “I had to ask Kesselring to take over. He’s spent the afternoon
trying to find out where you were.” 42 Ken Follett
“Worse and worse,” Rommel said sourly.
They entered the back of the command vehicle, a huge truck. The shade was
welcome. Kesselring was bent over a map, brushing away flies with his
left hand while tracing a line with his right. He looked up and smiled.
“My dear Rommel, thank heaven you’re back,” he said silkily.
Rommel took off his cap. “I’ve been fighting a battle,” he grunted. “So I gather. What happenedT’
Rommel pointed to the map. ‘Mis is the Gazala Line.” It was a string of
fortified “boxes” linked by minefields which ran from the coast at Gazala
due south into the desert for fifty miles. “We made a dogleg around the
southern end of the line and hit them from behind.” “Good idea. What went wrong?”
“We ran out of gasoline and ammunition.” Rommel sat down heavily,
suddenly feeling very tired. “Again,” he added. Kesselring, as commander
in chief (South), was responsible for Rommel’s supplies, but the field
marshal seemed not to notice the implied criticism.
An orderly came in with mugs of tea on a tray. Rommel sipped his. There
was sand in it.
Kesselring spoke in a conversational tone. “I’ve had the unusual
experience, this afternoon, of taking the role of one of your subordinate
commanders.”
Rommel grunted. There was some piece of sarcasm coming, he could tell.
He did not want to fence with Kesselring now, he wanted to think about
the battle.
Kesselring went on: “I found it enormously difficult, with my hands tied
by subordination to a headquarters that issued no orders and could not
be reached.”
“I was at the heart of the battle, giving my orders on the spot.” “Still, you might have stayed in touch.”
“That’s the way the British fight,” Rommel snapped. “The generals are
miles behind the lines, staying in touch. But I’m winning. if rd had my
supplies, I’d be in Cairo now.”
“You’re not going to Cairo,” Kesselring said sharply. “You’re going to
Tobruk. There you’ll stay until rve taken Malta. Such are the Fuehrees
orders.” THE KEY TO REBECCA 43
“Of course.” Rommel was not going to reopen that argument; not yet.
Tobruk was the immediate objective. Once that fortified port was taken,
the convoys from Europeinadequate though they were-could come directly
to the front line, cutting out the long journey across the desert which
used so much gasoline. “And to reach Tobruk we have to break the Oazala
Line.” “What’s your next step?”
“I’m going to fall back and regroup.” Rommel saw Kesselring raise his
eyebrows: the field marshal knew how Rommel hated to retreat
“And what will the enemy do?” Kesselring directed the question to von
Mellenthin, who as Ic was responsible for detailed assessment of the
enemy position.
“They will chase us, but not immediately.” said von Mellenthin. “They are
always slow to press an advantage, fortunately. But sooner or later they
will try a breakout.” Rommel said: “The question is, when and where?”
“Indeed,” von Mellenthin agreed. He seemed to hesitate, then said, “nere
is a little -tem in today’s summaries which will interest you. The spy
checked in.”
“The spy?” Rommel frowned. “Oh, him!” Now he remembered. He had flown to
the Oasis of Gialo, deep in the Libyan desert, to brief the man finally
before the spy began a long marathon walk. Wolff, that was his name.
Rommel had been impressed by his courage, but pessimistic about his
chances. “Where was he calling from?” “Cairo.”
“So he got there. If he’s capable of that, he’s capable of anything.
Perhaps he can foretell the breakout.”
Kesselring broke in: “My God, you’re not relying on spies now, are you?”
“I’m not relying on anyonel” Rommel said. “I’m the one upon whom
everything else relies.”
“Good.” Kesselring was unruffled, as always. “Intelligence is never much
use, as you know; and intelligence from spies is the worst kind.”
“I agree,” Rommel said more calmly. “But I have a feeling this one could
be different.” “I doubt it,” said Kesselring. 4
Elene Fontana looked at her face in the mirror and thought: I’m twenty-three, I must be losing my looks.
She leaned closer to the glass and examined herself carefully, searching
for signs of deterioration. Her complexion was perfect. Her round brown
eyes were as clear as a mountain pool. There were no wrinkles, It was a
childish face, delicately modeled, with a look of waiflike innocence. She
was like an art collector checking on his finest piece: she thought of the
face as hers, not as her. She smiled, and the face in the mirror smiled
back at her. It was a small, intimate smile, with a hint of mischief about
it: she knew it could make a man break out into a cold sweat. She picked up the note and read it again.
Thursday
My dear Elene,
I’m afraid it is all over. My wife has found out. We have patched things
up, but I’ve had to promise never to see you again. Of course you can stay
in the flat, but I can’t pay the rent anymore. I’m so sorry it happened
this way-but I suppose we both knew it could not last forever. Good luck.
Your,
Claud.
Just Me that, she thought. She tore up the note and its cheap sentiments. Claud was a 44 THE KEY TO REBECCA 45
fat, half-French and half-Greek businessman who owned three restaurants in Cairo and one in Alexandria. He was cultured and jolly and kind, but when it came to the crunch he carednothing for Elene. He was the third in six years.
It had started with Charles, the stockbroker. She had been seventeen
years old, penniless, unemployed and frightened to go home. Charles had
set her up in the flat and visited her every Tuesday night. She had
thrown him out after he offered her to his brother as if she were a dish
of sweetmeats. Then there had been Johnnie, the nicest of the three, who
wanted to divorce his wife and marry Elene: she had refused. Now Claud,
too, had gone. She had known from the start there was no future in it.
It was her fault as much as theirs that the affairs broke up. The
wife-were just excuses, or maybe catalysts. The real cause was always the
same: Elene was unhappy.
She contemplated the prospect of another affair. She knew how it would
be. For a while she would live on the little nest egg she had in Barclays
Bank in the Shari Kasr-el-Nil-she always managed to save, when she had
a man. Then she would see the balance slowly going down, and she would
take a job in a dance troupe, kicking up her legs and wiggling her bottom
in some club for a few days. Then . . . She looked into the mirror and
through it, her eyes unfocusing as she visualized her fourth lover.
Perhaps he would be an Italian, with flashing eyes and glossy hair and
perfectly manicured hands. She might meet him in the bar of the
Metropolitan Hotel, where the reporters drank. He would speak to her,
then offer her a drink. She would smile at him, and he would be lost.
They would make a date for dinner the next day. She would look stunning
as she walked into the restaurant on his arm. All heads would turn, and
he would feel proud. They would have more dates. He would give her
presents. He would make a pass at her, then another: his third would be
successful. She would enjoy making love with him-the intimacy, the
touching, the endearments-and she would make him feel like a king. He
would leave her at dawn, but he would be back that evening. They would
stop going to restaurants tqgether__~I’too risky,” he would saY-but he
would 46 Ken Follett
spend more and more time at the flat, and he would begin to pay the rent and the bills. Elene would then have everything she wanted: a home, money and affection. She would begin to wonder why she was so miserable. She would throw a tantrum if he arrived half an hour late. She would go into a black sulk if he so much as mentioned his wife. She would complain that he no longer gave her presents, but accept them nonchalantly when he did. The man would be irritated but he would be unable to leave her, for by this time he would be eager for her grudging kisses, greedy for her perfect body; and she would still make him feel like a king in bed. She would find his conversation boring; she would demand from him more passion than he was able to give; there would be rows. Finally the crisis would come. His wife would get suspicious, or a child would fall ill,,or he would have to take a six-month business trip, or he would run short of money. And Elene would be back where she was now: drifting, alone, dis- reputable–and a year older.
Her eyes focused, and she saw again her face In the Mirror. Her face was
the cause of all this. It was because of her face that she led this
pointless life. Had she been ugly, she would always have yearned to live
like this, and never discovered its hollowness. You led me astray, she
thought; you deceived me, you pretended I was somebody else. You’re not
my face, you’re a mask. You should stop trying to run my life.
I’m not a beautiful Cairo socialite, rm a slum. girl from Alexandria.
I’m not a woman of independent means, Im the next thing to a whore. 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 M a little
flustered when she smiled at them. He THE KEY TO REBECCA 47
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. rm wasting my life.” The first part was not
true, but the second part was. ‘Tv%at 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 nOwT,
661 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 theres any point in my waiting.”
“There is, I promise you. it’s quite important. Just a minute or two.” “Very well.’s
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 48 Ken Follett
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 beat of the sun.
They ducked under a striped awning and stepped into the cool of a caf6.
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. Tbat’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 THE KEY TO REBECCA 49
enemy of Germany’s is a friend of ours, so at the momentstrictly 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. “Ahl” he said.
He looked back at Elene. “I want you to meet my friend Major William
Vandarn.”
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 bow she knew.
She decided to ask him. “Where do you come from, Major?” 4’Dorset. Why do you ask?” was wondering about your accent.”
“Southwest of England. You’re observant. I thought I bad no accent.” “Just a trace.”
He lit another cigarette. She watched his bands. They were long and
slender, rather at odds with the rest of his body; the nails were 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 Vandarn ex- so Ken Follett
plain 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 meabout yourself.”
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. “Im 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 be 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 biflsr’ “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 THE KEY TO REBECCA 51
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.” “Wbat 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 rm 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 be prob-ably has a lot of money. He is certainly making in-
quiriex about Britisb, forces.”
Elene shrugged. “After all that buildup I was expecting to be aske4 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 Iiie you, Miss Fontana.” Her name
soundee silly wher he said it so politely. “You’re observant, you have
– perfect cover and you’re obviously intelligent; please excuse me for
being so direct-” “Don’t apologize, I love it,” she said “Keer talking.”
“Most of my people are not very reliable. They do it for the money,
whereas you have P. better motiv&–2′
“Wait a minute,” she interrupted. “I want money, too. What does the job
pay?” “That depends on the information you bring in.” “What’! the minimum?” “Nothing.,’ “That’s a little less than what I was hoping for.” “How much do you want?”
“You migh! be a gentleman and pay the rent of my flat.” She bit her lip:
it sounded so tarty, put like that. “How muchT’ 52 Ken Follett
“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.”
“Touch&” 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. -rii 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. “Verv 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?’9
He looked at her unblinkingly. She noticed that be had gray eyes. “I don’t
know,” he said levelly. “19ve 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 drinkT’
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.” THE KEY TO REBECCA 53
She shook his hand and walked away. Somehow she had the feeling that he was
not watching her go.
Vandain 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 county sno ‘ b. She said she was a county 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.
None of it mattered much to Vandam; nor did the fact that his wife had a
short temper, an imperious manner and an ungenerous heart. Angela was
graceful, dignified and beautiful. For him she was the epitome of
womanhood, and he thought himself a lucky man.
The contrast with Elene Fontana could not have been more striking.
He drove to the Union on his motorcycle. The bike, a BSA 350, was very
practical in Cairo. He could use it all the year round, for the weather was
almost always good enough; and he could snake through the trafRc jam that
kept cars and taxis waiting. But it was a rather quick machine, and it gave
him a secret Will, a throwback to his adolescence, when he had coveted such
bikes but had not been able to buy one. Angela had loathed it-like the
Union, it was plebby-but for once Vandam had resolutely defied her.
The day was cooling when he parked at the Union. Passing the clubhouse, he
looked through a window and saw a 54 Ken Follett
snooker game in full swing. He resisted the temptation and walked on to the lawn.
He accepted a glass of Cyprus sherry and moved into the crowd, nodding
and smiling, exchanging pleasantries with people he knew. There was tea
for the teetotal Muslim guests, but not many had turned up. Vandam.
tasted the sherry and wondered whether the barman could be taught to make
a martini.
He looked across the grass to the neighboring Egyptian Officers’ Club,
and wished he could eavesdrop on conversations there. Someone spoke his
name, and he turned to see the woman doctor. Once again he had to think
before he could remember her name. “Dr. Abuthnot.”
“We might be informal here,” she said. “My name is Joan.” “William. Is your husband here?” “I’m not married.”
“Pardon me.” Now he saw her in a new light. She was single and he was a
widower, and they had been seen talking together in public three times
in a week: by now the English colony in Cairo would have them practically
engaged. “You’re a surgeon?” he said.
She smiled. “All I do these days is sew people up and patch them-but yes,
before the war I was a surgeon.” “How did you manage that? It’s not easy for a woman.”
“I fought tooth and nail.” She was still smiling, but Vandam detected an
undertone of remembered resentment “You’re a little unconventional
yourself, rm told.”
Vandam. thought himself to be utterly conventional. “How so?” he said
with surprise. “Bringing up your child yourself.”
“No choice. If I had wanted to send him back to England, I wouldn’t have
been able to: you can’t get a passage unless you’re disabled or a
general.” “But you didn’t want to.” “No.” “That’s what I mean.”
“He’s my son,” Vandarn said. “I don’t want anyone else to bring him
up-nor does he.” “I understand. It’s just that some fathers would think it .. unmanly.” THE KEY TO REBECCA 55
He raised his eyebrows at her, and to his surprise she blushed. He said:
“You’re right, I suppose. I’d never thought of it that way.”
“I’m ashamed of myself, I’ve been prying. Would you like another drink?”
Vandam looked into his glass. “I think I shall have to go inside in search
of a real drink.” “I wish you luck.” She smiled and turned away.
Vandam walked across the lawn to the clubhouse. She was an attractive
woman, courageous and intelligent, and she had made it clear she wanted to
know him better. He thought: Why the devil do I feel so indifferent to her?
All these people are thinking how well matched we are-and they’re right.
He went inside and spoke to the bartender. “Gin. Ice. One olive. And a few
drops of very dry vermouth.”
The martini when it came was quite good, and he had two more. He thought
again of the woman Elene. There were a thousand like her in Cairo-Greek,
Jewish, Syrian and Palestinian as well as Egyptian. They were dancers for
just as long as it took to catch the eye of some wealthy rou6. Most of them
probably entertained fantasies of getting married and beine taken back to
a large house in Alexandria or Paris or Surrey, and they would be
disappointed.
They all had delicate brown faces and feline bodies with slender fees and
pert breasts, but Vandarn was tempted to think that F-lene stood out from
the crowd. Her smile was devastating. The idea of her going to Palestine to
work on a farm was, at first sight, ridiculous; but she had tried, and when
that failed she had agreed to work for Vandam. On the other band, retailing
street gossip was easy money, like being a kept woman. She was probably the
same as all the other dancers: Vandam was not interested in that kind of
woman, either.
The martinis were beginning to take effect, and he was afraid he might not
be as polite as he should to the ladies when they came in, so he paid his
bill and went out.
He drove to GHQ to get the latest news. It seemed the day had ended in a
standoff after heavy casualties on both sides-rather more on the British
side. It was just bloody demoralizing, Vandam thought: we had a secure
base, good supplies, superior weapons and greater numbers; we planned 56 Ken Follett
thoughtfully and we fought carefully, and we never damn well won anything. He went home.
Gaafar had prepared lamb and rice. Vandam had another drink with his
dinner. Billy talked to him while he ate. Today’s geography lesson had been
about wheat farming in Canada. Vandam would have liked the school to teach
the boy something about the country in which he lived.
After Billy went to bed Vandarn sat alone in the drawing room, smoking,
thinking about Joan Abuthnot and Alex Wolff and Erwin Rommel. In their
different ways they all threatened him. As night fell outside, the room
came to seem claustrophobic. Vandarn filled his cigarette case and went
out.
The city was as much alive now as ;)t any time during the day. There were
a lot of soldiers on the streets, some of them very drunk. These were hard
men who had seen action in the desert, had suffered the sand and the beat
and the bombing and the shelling, and they often found the wogs less
grateful than they should be. When a shopkeeper gave short change or a
restaurant owner overcharged or a barman refused to serve drunks, the
soldiers would remember seeing their friends blown up in the defense of
Egypt, and they would start fighting and break windows and smash the place
up. Vandam. understood why the Egyptians were ungratefulthey did not much
care whether it was the British or the Germans who oppressed them-but still
he had little sympathy for the Cairo shopkeepers, who were making a fortune
out of the war.
He walked slowly, cigarette in band, enjoying the cool -ei*4.46ir, looking
into the tiny open-fronted shops, refusing to buy a cotton shirt
made-to-measure-while-you-wait, a leather handbag for the lady or a
secondhand copy of a magazine called Saucy Snips. He was amused by a street
vendor who had filthy pictures in the left-hand side of his jacket and cru-
cifixes in the right. He saw a bunch of soldiers collapse with laughter at
the sight of two Egyptian policemen patrolling the street hand in hand.
He went into a bar. Outside of the British clubs it was wise to avoid the
gin, so he ordered zibib, the aniseed drink which turned cloudy with water.
At ten o’clock the bar closed, by mutual consent of the Muslim Wafd
government and the THE KEY TO REBECCA 57
kill-joy provost marshal. Vandam’s vision was a little blurred when he left.
He headed for the Old City. Passing a sign saying ouT OF BOUNDS TO TROOPS
he entered the Birka. In the narrow streets and alleys the women sat on
steps and leaned from windows, smoking and waiting for customers, chatting
to the military police. Some of them spoke to Vandam, offering their bodies
in English, French and Italian. He turned into a little lane, crossed a
deserted courtyard and entered an unmarked open doorway.
He climbed the staircase and knocked at a door on the first floor. A
middle-aged Egyptian woman opened it. He paid her five pounds :;nd went in.
In a large, dimly lit inner room furnished with faded luxury, he sat on a
cushion and unbuttoned his sbirt collar. A young woman in baggy trousers
passed him the nargileh. He took several deep lungfuls of hashish smoke.
Soon a pleasant feeling of lethargy came over him. He leaned back on his
elbows and looked around. In the shadows of the room there were four other
men. Two were pashas-wealthy Arab landowners-sitt~ng together on a divan
and talking in low, desultory tones. A third, who seemed almost to have
been sent to sleep by the hashish, looked English and was probably an
officer like Vandam. ne fourth sat in the comer talking to one of the
girls. Vandam heard snatches of conversation and gathered that the man
wanted to take the girl home, and they were discussing a price. The man was
vaguely familiar, but Vandam, drunk and now doped too, could not get his
memory in gear to recall who he was.
One of the girls came over and took Vandam’s hand. She led him into an
alcove and drew the curtain. She took off her halter. She had small brown
breasts. Vandam stroked her cheek. In the candlelight her face changed
constantly, seeming old, then very young, then predatory, then loving. At
one point she looked like Joan Abuthnot. But finally, as he entered her,
she looked Ue Elene.
4 5
Alex Wolff wore a galabiya and a fez and stood thirty yards from the gate of GHQ-British headquarters-selling paper fans which broke after two minutes of use.
The hue and cry had died down. He had not seen the British conducting a
spot check on identity papers for a week. This Vandarn character could
not keep up the pressure indefinitely.
Wolff had gone to GHQ as soon as he felt reasonably safe. Getting into
Cairo had been a triumph; but it was useless unless he could exploit the
position to get the information Rommel wanted-and quickly. He recalled
his brief interview with Rommel in Gialo. The Desert Fox did not look
foxy at all. He was a small, tireless man with the face of an aggressive
peasant: a big nose, a downturned mouth, a cleft chin, a jagged scar on
his left cheek, his hair cut so short that none showed beneath the rim
of his cap. He bad said: “Numbers of troops, names of divisions, in the
field and in reserve, state of training. Numbers of tanks, in the field
and in reserve, state of repair. Supplies of ammunition, food and
gasoline. Personalities and attitudes of commanding officers. Strategic
and tactical intentions. They say you’re good, Wolff. They had better be
right.” It was easier said than done.
There was a certain amount of information Wolff could get just by walking
around the city. He could observe the uniforms of the soldiers on leave
and listen to their talk, and that told him which troops had been where
and when they were going back. Sometimes a sergeant would mention statis-
tics of dead and wounded, or the devastating effect of the 58 THE KEY TO REBECCA 59
88-millimeter guns—designed as antiaircraft weapons-which the Germans liad fitted to their tanks. He had heard an army mechanic complain that thirty-nine of the fifty new tanks which arrived yesterday needed major repairs before going into service. All this was useful information which could be sent to Berlin, where Intelligence analysts would put it together with other snippets in order to form a big picture. But it was not what Rommel wanted.
Somewhere inside GHQ there were pieces of paper which said things like:
“After resting and refitting, Division A, with 100 tanks and full
supplies, will leave Cairo tomorrow and join force-, witli Division B at
the C Oasis in preparation for the counterattack west of D next Saturday
at dawn.” It was those pieces of paper Wolff wanted. That was why he was selling fans outside GHQ.
For their headquarters the British had taken over a number of the large houses-most of them owned by pashas-in the Garden City suburb. (Wolff was grateful that the Villa les Oliviers had escaped the net.) The commandeered homes were surrounded by a barbed-wire fence. People in uniform were passed quickly throu ‘ gh the gate, but civilians were stopped and questioned at length while the sentries made phone calls to verify credentials.
There were other headquarters in other buildings around the city-tbe
Semiramis Hotel housed something called British Troops in Egypt, for
example-but this was GHQ Middle East, the powerhouse. Wolff had spent a
lot of time, back in the Abwehr spy school, learning to recognize uni-
forms, regimental identification marks and the faces of literally
hundreds of senior British officers. Here, several mornings running, he
had observed the large staff cars arriving and had peeked through the
windows to see colonels, generals, admirals, squadron leaders and the
commander in chief, Sir Claude Auchinleck, himself. They all looked a
little odd, and he was puzzled until he realized that the pictures of
them which he had burned into his brain were in black and white, and now
he was seeing them for the first time in color.
The General Staff traveled by car, but their aides walked. Each morning
the captains and majors arrived on foot, carrying their little
briefcases. Toward noon-after the regular 60 Ken Follett
morning conference, Wolff presumed-some of them left, still carrying their briefcases. Each day Wolff followed one of the aides.
Most of the aides worked at GHQ, and their secret papers would be locked
up in the office at the end of the day. But these few were men who had
to be at GHQ for the morning conference, but had their own offices in
other parts of the city; and they had to carry their briefing papers with
them in between one office and another. One of them went to the Se-
miramis. Two went to the barracks in the Nasr-el-Nil. A fourth went to
an unmarked building in the Shari Suleiman Pasha. Wolff wanted to get into those briefcases. Today be would do a dry run.
Waiting under the blazing sun for the aides to come out, he thought about
the night before, and a smile curled the corners of his mouth below the
newly-grown mustache. He had promised Sonja that he would find her
another Fawzi. Last night he had gone to the Birka and picked out a girl
at Madame Fahmy’s ‘establishment. She was not a Fawzi-that girl had been
a real enthusiast-but she was a good temporary substitute. They had
enjoyed her in turn, then together; then they had played Sonja’s weird,
exciting games . It had been a long night.
When the aides came out, Wolff followed the pair that went to the
barracks.
A minute later Abdullah emerged from a caf6 and fell into step beside
him. “nose two?” Abdullah said. “Those two.”
Abdullab was a fat man with a steel tooth. He was one of the richest men
in Cairo, but unlike most rich Arabs he did not ape the Europeans. He
wore sandals, a dirty robe and a fez. His greasy hair curled around his
ears and his fingernails were black. His wealth came not from land, like
the pashas, nor from trade, like the Greeke. It came from crime. Abdullab was a thief.
Wolff liked him. He was sly, deceitful, cruel, generous, and always
laughing: for Wolff he embodied the age-old vices and virtues of the
Middle East. His anny of children, grandchildren, nephews, nieces and
second cousins had been burgling THE KEY TO REBECCA 61
houses and picking pockets in Cairo for thirty years. He had tentacles eVCTywhere: he was a hashish wholesaler, he had influence with politicians, and he owned half the houses in the Birka, including Madame Fahmy’s. He lived in a large crumbling house in the Old City with his four wives.
They followed the two officers into the modem city center. Abdullah said:
“Do you want one briefcase, or both?”
Wolff considered. One was a casual theft; two looked organized. “One,” he
said. “Which?” “It doesn’t matter.”
Wolff had considered eoing to Abdullah for help after the discovery that
the Villa les Oliviers was no longer 3afe. He had decided not to. Abdullah
could certainly have hidden Wolff away somewhere-probably in a brothel-
-more or less indefinitely. But s soon as he had Wolff conrealed, he would
have opened negotiations to sell him to the British. Abdullab divi&d the
world in two: his family and the rest. He was utterly loyal to his family
and trusted them completely; he would cheat everyone else and expected them
to try to cheat him. All business was done on the basis of mutual
suspicion. Wolff found this worked qurprisingly well.
They came to a busy corner. The two officers crossed the road, dodging the
traffic. Wolff was about to follow when Abdullah put a hand on his arm to
stop him. .,We’ll do it here,” Abdullah said.
Wolff looked around, observing the buildings, the pavement, the road
junction and the street vendors. He smiled slowly, and nodded. “It’s
perfect,” he said.
They did it the next day.
AbdLdlah had indeed chosen the perfect spot for the snatch. It was where a
busy side street joined a main road. On the corner was a caf6 with tables
outside, reducing the pavement to half its width. Outside the caM, on the
side of the main road, was a bus stop. The idea of queueing for the bus had
never really caught on in Cairo despite sixtv years of British domination,
so those waiting simply milled about on the already crowded pavement. On
the side street it was a little clearer, for although the caf6 had tables
out here too, there was no bus stop. Abdullah had observed this little
short-
62 Ken Follett
comIng, and had put it right by detailing two acrobats to perform on the street there.
Wolff sat at the corner table, from where he could see along both the main
road and the side street, and worried about the thingr. that might go
wrong. The officers might not go back to the barracks today. They might go a different way. They might not be carrying their briefcases.
The police might arrive too early and arrest everyone on the scene. The boy might be grabbed by the officers and questioned. Wolff might be grabbed by the officers and questioned.
Abdullah might decide he could earn his money with less trouble simply by
contacting Major Vandam. and tefling him be could arrest Alex Wolff at the
Caf6 Nasif at twelve noon to-day.
Wolff was afraid of going to prison. He was more than afraid, he was
terrified. T’he thought of it brought him out in a cold sweat under the
noonday sun.. He could live without good food and wine and girls, if he had
the vast wild emptiness of the desert to console him; and he could forego
the freedom of the desert to live in a crowded city if he had the urban
luxuries to console him; but he could not lose both. He had never told
anyone of this: it was his secret nightmare. The idea of living in a tiny,
colorless cell, among the scum of the earth (and aU of them men), eating
bad food, never seeing the blue sky or the endless Nile or the open plains
. . . panic touched him glancingly even while he contemplated ft. He pushed
it out of his mind. It was not going to happen.
At eleven forty-five the large, grubby form of Abdullah waddled past the
caf6. His expression was vacant but his small black eyes looked around
sharply, checking his arrangements. He crossed the road and disappeared
from view.
At five past twelve Wolff spotted two military caps among the massed heads
in the distance. He sat on the edge of his chair.
The officers came nearer. T’hey were carrying their briefcases. Across the street a parked car revved its idling engine. A bus drew up to the stop, and Wolff thought: Abdullah THE KEY TO REBECCA 63
can’t possibly have arranged that: ifs a piece of luck, a bonus. The officers were five yards from Wolff.
The car across the street pullee out suddenly. It was a big black Packard
with a powerful engine and soft American springing. It came across the
roae like a charging elephant, motor screaming in low gear, regardless
of the main road traffic, headiny for the side street its hom blowing
continuously, On the comer, a few feet from where Wolff sat, it plowee,
into the front of an old Fiat taxi.
The two officers stood beside Wolff’s table and stared at the crash.
The taid driver, a young Arab in a Western shirt and a fez, leaped out
of his car.
A young Greek in a mohair suit jumped out of the Packard. The Arab said the Greek was the son of a pig.
The Greek said the Arab was the back end of a diseased camel.
The Arab slapped the Greek’s face and the Greek punched the Arab on the
nose.
Ile people getting off the bus, and those who had been intending to get-
on it, came closer.
Around the comer, the acrobat who was standing on his colleague’s head
turned to look at the Rot, seemed to lose his balance, and fell into his
audience.
A small boy darted past Wolfrs table. Wolff stood up, pointed at the boy
and shouted at the top of his voice: “Stop, thief I”
The boy dashed off. Wolff went after him, and four people sitting near
Wolff jumped up and tried to grab the boy. The child ran between the two
officers, who were staring at the f3ght in the road. Wolff and the people
who had jumped up to help him cannoned into the officers, knocking both
of them to the ground. Several people began to sbout “Stop, thief!” al-
though most of them bad no idea who the alleged thief was. Some of the
newcomen thought it must be one of the fighting drivers. Thecrowd from
the bus stop, the acrobats! audience, and most of the people in the caf46
surged forward and began to attack one or other of the drivers–Arabs
assuming the Greek was the culprit and everyone else assuming it was 64 Ken Follett
the Arab. Several men with sticks-most people carried sticks-began to push into the crowd, beating on heads at random in an attempt to break up the fighting which was entirely counterproductive. Someone picked up a chair from the caf6 and hurled it into the crowd. Fortunately it overshot and went through the windshield of the Packard. However the waiters, the kitchen staff and the proprietor of the caf6 now rushed out and began to attack everyone who swayed, stumbled or sat on their furniture. Everyone veiled at everyone else in five languages. Passing cars halted to watch the melee. the traffic backed up in three directions. and every stopped car sounded its horn. A dog struggled free of its leash and started biting people’s legs in a frenzy of excitement. Everyone got off the bus. The brawling crowd became bigger by the second. Drivers who had ;;topped to watch the fun regretted it. for when the fight engulfed their cars they were unable to move away (because everyone else had stopped too) and they had to lock their doors and roll up their windows while men, women and children, Arabs and Greeks and Syrians and Jews and Australians and Scotsmen, jumped on their roofs and fought on their hoods and fell on their running boards and bled all over their paintwork. Somebody fell through the window of the tailor’s shor) next to the cafe, and a frightened goat ran into the souvenir shop which flanked the caf6 on the other side and began to knock down all the tables laden with china and pottery and glass. A baboon came from somewhere-it had probably been riding the goat, in a common form of street entertainment- -and ran across the heads in the crowd, nimble-footed, to disappear in the direction of Alexandria. A horse broke free of its harness and bolted ,ilong the street between the lines of cars. From a window above the caf6 a woman emptied a bucket of dirty water into the melee. Nobody noticed. At last the police arrived.
When people heard the whistles, suddenly the shoves and pushes and insults
which had started their own individual fights seemed a lot less important.
There was a scramble to get away before the arrests began. The crowd
diminished rapidly. Wolff, who bad fallen over early in the proceedings,
picked himself up and strolled across the road to watch the d6nouement. By
the time six people had been handcuffed it THE KEY TO REBECCA 65
was all over, and there was no one left fighting except for an old wornan in black and a one-legged beggar feebly shoving each other in the gutter. The caf6 proprietor, the tailor and the owner of the souvenir shop were wringing their hands and berating the police for not coming sooner while they mentally doubled and trebled the damage for insurance purposes.
The bus driver had broken his arm, but all the other injuries were cuts
and bruises.
There was only one death; the goat had been bitten by the dog and
consequently had to be destroyed.
When the police tried to move the two crashed cars, they discovered that
during the fight the street urchins had jacked up the rear ends of both
vehicles and stolen the tires. Every single light bulb in the bus had also disappeared. And so had one British Army briefcase.
Alex Wolff was feeling pleased with himself as he walked briskly through the alleys of Old Cairo. A week ago the task of prizing secrets out of GHQ had seemed close to impossible. Now it looked as if he bad pulled it off. The idea of getting Abdullah to orchestrate a street fight had been bril- liant. He wondered what would be in the briefcase.
Abdullah’s house looked like all the other huddled slums. Its cracked and
peeling facade was irregularly dotted with small misshapen windows. The
entrance was a low doorless arch with a dark passage beyond. Wolff ducked
under the arch, went along the passage and climbed a stone spiral stair-
case. At the top he pushed through a curtain and entered Abdullab’s
living room.
The room was like its owner-dirty, comfortable and rich. Three small
children and a puppy chased each other around the expensive sofas and
inlaid tables. In an alcove by a window an old woman worked on a
tapestry. Another woman was drifting out of the room as Wolff walked in:
there was no strict Muslim separation of the sexes here, as there had
been in Wolff’s boyhood home. In the middle of the floor Abdullab sat
cross-legged on an embroidered cushion with a baby in his lap. He looked
up at Wolff and smiled broadly. “My friend, what a success we have hadl” 66 Ken Follett
Wolff sat on the floor opposite him. “It was wonderful,” he said. “You’re
a magician.”
“Such a riot! And the bus arriving at just the right moment-and the
baboon running away. . .”
Wolff looked more closely at what Abdullah was doing. On the floor beside
him was a pile of wallets, handbags, purses and watches. As he spoke he
picked up a handsome tooled leather wallet. He took from it a wad of
Egyptian banknotes, some postage stamps and a tiny gold pencil, and put
them somewhere under his robe. Then he put down the wallet, picked tip
a handbag and began to rifle through that.
Wolff realized where they had come from. “You old rogue,” he said. “You
had your boys in the crowd picking pockets.”
Abdullah grinned, showing his steel tooth. “To go to all that trouble and
then steal only one briefcase . . “But you have got the briefcase.” “Of course.”
Wolff relaxed. Abdullah made no move to produce the case. Wolff said:
“Why don’t you give it to me?”
“Immediately,” Abdullah said. Still he did nothing. After a moment he
said: “You were to pay me another fifty pounds on delivery.”
Wolff counted out the notes and they disappeared beneath the grubby robe.
Abdullah leaned forward, holding the baby to his chest with one arm, and
with the other reached under the cushion he was sitting on and pulled out
the briefcase.
Wolff took it from him and examined it. The lock was broken. He felt
cross: surely there should be a limit to duplicity. He made himself speak
calmly. “You’ve opened it already.”
Abdullah shrugged. He said: “Maaleesh.” It was a conveniently ambiguous
word which meant both “Sorry” and “So what?”
Wolff sighed. He had been in Europe too long; he had forgotten how things
were done at home.
He lifted the lid of the case. Inside was a sheaf of ten or twelve sheets
of paper closely typewritten in English. As he began to read someone put
a tiny coffee cup beside him. He glanced up to see a beautiful young
girl. He said to Abdullah “Your daughter?” Abdullah laughed. “My wife.” THE KEY TO REBECCA 67
Wolff took another look at the girl. She seemed about fourteen years old.
He turned his attention back to the papers.
He read the first, then with growing incredulity leafed through the rest.
He put thein, down. “Dear God,” he said softly. He started to laugh.
He had stolen a complete set of barracks canteen menus for the month of
June.
Vandam said to Colonel Bogge: “I’ve issued a notice reminding officers that General Staff papers are not to be carried about the town other than in exceptional circumstances.”
Bogge was sitting behind his big curved desk, polishing the red cricket
ball with his handkerchief. “Good idea,” he said. “Keep chaps on their
toes.”
Vandam went on. “One of my informants, the new girl I told you about–” 4″ne tart.”
“Yes.”. Vandam resisted the impulse to tell Bogge that “tart” was not the
right word for Elene. “She heard a rumor that the riot had been organized
by Abduflah-” “Who’s he?”
“He’s a kind of Egyptian Fagin, and he also happens to be an informant,
although selling me information is the least of his many enterprises.”
“For what purpose was the riot organized, according to this rumor?” “Theft.,’ “I see.” Bogge looked dubious.
“A lot of stuff was stolen, but we have to consider the possibility that
the main object of the exercise was the briefcase.”
“A conspiracyl” Bogge said with a look of amused skepticism. “But what
would this Abdullah want with our canteen menus, eh?” He laughed.
“He wasn’t to know what the briefcase contained. He may simply have assumed
that they were secret papers.”
“I repeat the question,” Bogge said with the air of a father patiently
coaching a child. “What would he want with secret papers?” “He may have been put up to it.” 68 Ken Follett
“By whom?” “Alex Wolff.” 1.11′”o?”
“The Assyut knife man.”
“Oh, now really, Major, I thought we had finished with all that.”
Bogge’s phone rang, and he picked it up. Vandam took the opportunity to
cool off a little. The truth about Bogge. Vandam reflected, was probably
that he had no faith in himself, no trust in his own judgment; and,
lacking the confidence to make re;il decisions, he plaved one-upmanship,
icoring points off people in a smart-alee fashion to give himself the
illusion that he was clever after all. Of course Rogge had no idea
whether the briefcase theft was significant or not. He might have
listened to what Van&m had to say and then made up his own mind: but he
was frightened of that. He could not engage in a fruitful discussion with
a subordinate, because he spent all his intellectual energy looking for
ways to trap you in a contradiction or catch you in an error or pour
~:corn on your ideas: and hv the time he had finished making himself feel
iuperior that way the decision had been laken, for better or worse and
more or less by accident, in the beat of the exchange.
Rogge was saying: “Of course, sir, I’ll get on it right away.” Vandam
wondered how he coped with superiors. The colonel hung up. Ue said: “Now.
then, where were we?”
“The Assyut murderer is still at large,” Vandam said. “It may he
ignificant that soon after his arrival in Cairo a General Staff officer
is robbed of his briefcase.” “Containing canteen menus.”
Here we go again, Vandam thought. With as much grace as he could muster
he said: “In Intelligence, we don’t believe in coincidence, do we?”
“Don’t lecture me, laddie. Even if you were right-and rm sure you’re
not-what could we do about it, other than issue the notice you’ve sent
out?”
“Well. I’ve talked to Abdullah. He denies all knowledge of Alex Wolff .
and I think he’s lying.”
“If he’s a thief, why don’t you tip off the Egyptian police about him?” And what would be the point of that? thought Vandam. THE KEY TO REBECCA 69
He said: “They know all about him. They can’t arrest him because too many senior officers are making too much money from his bribes. But we could pull him in and interrogate him, sweat him a little. He’s a man without loyalty, he’ll change sides at the drop of a hat-“
“General Staff Intelligence does not pull people in and sweat them,
Major—-” “Field Security can, or even the military police.”
Bogge smiled. “If I went to Field Security with this story of an Arab Fagin
stealing canteen menus I’d be laughed out of the office.” “But–21
“We’ve discussed this long enough, Major-too long, in fact.” “For Christ’s sake–2′
Dogge raised his voice. “I don’t believe the riot was organized, I don’t
believe Abdullah intended to steal the briefcase, and I don’t believe Wolff
is a Nazi spy. Is that clear?” “Look, all I want–2′ “Is that clear?” “Yes, sir.” “Good. Dismissed.” Vandarn went out. 6
1 am a small boy. My father told me how old T am, but I forgot. I will ask him again next time he comes home. My father is a soldier. The place he goes to is called a Sudan. A Sudan is a long way away.
I go to school. I learn the Koran. The Koran is a holy book. I also learn
to read and write. Reading is easy, but it is difficult to write without
making a mess. Sometimes I pick cotton or take the beasts to drink.
My mother and my grandmother look after me. My grandmother is a famous
person. Practically everyone in the whole world comes to see her when they
are sick. She gives them medicines made of herbs.
She gives me treacle. I like it mixed with curdled milk. I fie on top of
the oven in my kitchen and she tells me stories. My favorite story is the
ballad of Zahran, the bero of Denshway. When she tells it, she always says
that Denshway is nearby. She must be getting old and forgetful, because
Denshway is a long way away. I walked there once with Abdel and it took us
all morning.
Denshway is where the British were shooting pigeons when one of their
bullets set fire to a barn. All the men of the villa,-e come running to
find out who had started the fire. One of the soldiers was frightened by
the sight of all the strong men of the village running toward him, so he
fired at them. There was a fight between the soldiers and the villaeers.
Nobody won the fight. but the soldier who had fired on the ham was killed.
Soon more soldiers came and arrested all the men in the village. The soldiers made a thing out of wood called a scaffold. 1
70 THE KEY TO REBECCA 71
don’t know what a scaffold is but it is used to hang people. I don’t know what happens to people when they are hanged. Some of the villagers were hanged and the others were flogged. I know about flogging. It is the worst thing in the world, even worse than hanging, I should think.
Zahran was the first to be hanged, for he had fought the hardest against
the soldiers. He walked to the scaffold with his head high, proud that
he had killed the man who set fire to the barn. I wish I were Zahran.
I have never seen a British soldier, but I know that I hate them. My name is Anwar el-Sadat, and I am going to be a hero.
Sadat fingered his mustache. He was rather pleased with it. He was only twenty-two years old, and in his captain’s uniform he looked a bit like a boy soldier: the mustache made him seem older. He needed all the authority he could get, for what he was about to aropose was-as usual—faintly ludicrous. At these little meetings he was at pains to talk and act as if the 1,andful of hoth,-ads in the room really were going to throw be British out of Egypt any day now.
He deliberately made his voice a little deeper as he began to speak. “We
have all been hoping that Rommel would defeat the British in the desert
and so liberate our country.” He looked around the room: a good trick,
that, in large or small meetings, for it made each one think Sadat was
talking to him personally. “Now we have some very bad news. Hitler has
agreed to give Egvpt to the Italians.”
Sadat was exaggerating: this was not news, it was a rumor. Furthermore
most of the audience knew it to be a rumor. However, melodrama was the
order of the day, and they responded with angry murmurs.
Sadat continued: “I propose that the Free Officers Movement cholild
negotiate R treaty with Germany, under which we would organize an
uprising against the British in Cairo, and they would guarantee the
independence and sovereignty of Egypt after the defeat of the British.”
As he spoke the risibility of the situation struck him afresh: here he
was, a peasant boy just off the farm, talking to half a dozen discon-
tented subalterns about negotiations with the German Reich. 72 Ken Follett
And yet, who else would represent the Egyptian people? The British were conquerors, the Parliament was a puppet and the King was a foreigner.
There was another reason for the proposal, one which would not be
discussed here, one which Sadat would not admit to himself except in the
middle of the night: Abdel Nasser had been posted to the Sudan with his
unit, and his absence gave Sadat a chance to win for himself the position
of leader of the rebel movement.
He pushed the thought out of his mind, for it was ignoble. He had to get
the others to agree to the proposal, then to agree to the means of
carrying it out.
It was Kemel who spoke first. “But will the Germans take us seriously?”
he asked. Sadat nodded, as if he too thought that was an important
consideration. In fact he and Ketnel had agreed beforehand that Kemel
should ask this question, for it was a red herring. The real question was
whether the Germans could be trusted to keep to any agreement they made
with a group of unofficial rebels: Sadat did not want the meeting to
discuss that. It was unlikely that the Germans would stick to their part
of the bargain; but if the Egyptians did rise up against the British, and
if they were then betrayed by the Germans, they would see that nothing
but independence was good enough-and perhaps, too, they would turn for
leadership to the man who had organized the uprising. Such hard political
realities were not for meetings such as this: they were too
sophisticated, too calculating. Kemel was the only person with whom Sadat
could discuss tactics. Kemel was a policeman, a detective with the Cairo
force, a shrewd, careful man: perhaps police work had made him cynical.
The others began to talk about whether it would work. Sadat made no
contribution to the discussion. Let them talk, he thought; it’s what they
really like to do. When it came to action they usually let him down.
As they argued, Sadat recalled the failed revolution of the previous
summer. It had started with the sheik of a]-Azhar, who had preached: “We
have nothing to do with the war.” Then the Egyptian Parliament, in a rare
display of independence, had adopted the policy: “Save Egypt from the
scourge of war.” Until then the Egyptian Army had been fighting side THE KEY TO REBECCA 73
by side with the British Army in the desert, but now the British ordered the Egyptians to lay down their arms and withdraw. The Egyptians were happy to witbdraw but did not want to be disarmed. Sadat saw a heaven-sent opportunity to foment strife. He and many other young officers refiised to hand in their guns and planned to march on Cairo. To Sadat’s great disappointment, the British immediately yielded and let them keep their weapons. Sadat continued to try to fan the spark of rebellion into the flame of revohition, but the British had outmaneuvered him by giving way. The march on Cairo was a fiasco: Sadat’s unit arrived at the assembly point but nobody else came. They washed their vehicles, sat down, waited awhile, then wcnt on to their camp.
Six months later Sadat had suffered another failure. This time it centered
on Egypt’s fat, licentious, Turkis1h King. The British gave an ultimatum to
King Farouk: either he was to instruct his Premier to form a new,
pro-British government, or he rwas to abdi-ate. Under pressure the King
summoned Mustafa el-Nahas Pasha and ordered him to form a new government.
Sadat was no royalist, but he was an opportunist: he announced that this
was a violation of Egyptian sovereignty, and the young officers marched to
the palace to salute the Kin ‘ g in protest. Once again Sadat tried to nush
the rebellion further. His plan was to surround the palace in token defense
of the King. Once again, he was the only one who turned up.
He bad been bitterly disappointed on both occasions. He had felt like
abandoning, the whole rebel cause: let the Egvptians go to bell their own
way, he had thought in the moments of blackest despair. Yet those moments
passed, for he knew the cause was right and he knew he was smart enough to
serve it well.
“But we haven’t any means of contacting the Germans.” It was Tmam speaking,
one of the pilots. Sadat was pleased that they were already discussing how
to do it rather than whether to.
Kemel had the answer to the question. “We might send the message by plane.” “Yes!” Imam was young and fiery. “One of us could i
go up on a routine patrol and then divert
from the course and land behind German
lines.” 74 Ken Follett
One of the older pilots said: “On his return he would have to account for
his diversion-“
“He could not come back at all,” Imam said, his expression turning
forlorn as swiftly as it had become animated. Sadat said quietly: “He could come back with Rommel.”
Imam’s eyes lit up again, and Sadat knew that the young pilot was seeing
himself and Rommel marching into Cairo at the head of an army of
liberation. Sadat decided that Imam should be the one to take the
message.
“Let us agree on the text of the message,” Sadat said democratically.
Nobody noticed that such a clear decision had not been required on the
question of whether a message should be sent at all. “I think we should
make four points. One: We are honest Egyptians who have an organization
within the Army. Two: Like you, we are fighting the British. Three: We
are able to recruit a rebel army to fight on your side. Four: We will
organize an uprising against the British in Cairo, if you will in return
guarantee the independence and sovereignty of Egypt after the defeat of
the British.” He paused. With a frown, he added: “I think perhaps we
should offer them some token of our good faith.”
There was a silence. Kernel had the answer to this question, too, but it
would look better coming from one of the oth ers.
Imam rose to the occasion. “We could send some useful military
information along with the message.”
Kernel now pretended to oppose the idea. “What sort of information could
we get? I can’t imapne-” “Aerial photographs of British positions.” “How is that possible?”
“We can do it on a routine patrol, with an ordinary camera.” Kemel looked dubious. “What about developing the film?”
“Not necessary,” Imam said excitedly. “We can just send the film.” “Just one film?” “As many as we like.”
Sadat said: “I think Imam is right.” Once again they were discussing the
practicalities of an idea instead of its risks. There was only one more
hurdle to jump. Sadat knew from THE KEY TO REBECCA 75
bitter experience that these rebels were terribly brave until the moment came when they really had to stick their necks out. He said: “That leaves only the question of which of us will fly the plane.” As he spoke he looked around the room, letting his eyes rest finally on Imam. After a moment’s hesitation, Imam stood up. Sadat’s eyes blazed with triumph.
Two days later Kernel walked the three miles from central Cairo to the suburb where Sadat lived. As a detective inspector, Kernel had the use of an official car whenever he wanted it, but he rarely used one to go to rebel meetings, for security reasons. In all probabilitv his police colleagues would be sympathetic to the Free Officers Movement; stifl, he was not in a burry to put them to the test.
Kernel was fifteen years older than Sadat, yet his attitude to the younger
man was one almost of bero worship. Kernel shared Sadat’s cynicism, his
realistic understanding of the levers of political power; but Sadat had
something more, and that was a burning idealism which gave him unlimited
energy and boundless hope. Kernel wondered how to tell him the news.
The message to Rommel had been typed out. signed by Sadat and all the
leading Free Officers except the absent Nasser and scaled in a big brown
envelope. The aerial Photographs of British Positions had been taken. Imam
bad taken off in his Gladiator, with Baghdadi following in a second plane.
Thev had touched down in the desert to pick up Kernel, who had given the
brown envelope to Imam and climbed into Baghdadi’s plane. Imam’s face had
been shining with youthful idealism. Kernel thought: How will I break it to Sadat?
It was the first time Kernel had flown. The desert, so featureless from
ground level, had been an endless mosaic of shapes and patterns: the
p2tches of gravel, the dots of vegetation and the carved volcanic hills.
Baghdadi said: “You’re going to be cold,” and Kernel thought he was
joking-the desert was like a furnace but as the little plane climbed the
temperature dropped steadily, and soon he was shivering in his thin cotton
shirt. After a while both planes had turned due east, and Bagh- 76 Ken Follett
dadi spoke into his radio, telling base that Imam had veered off course and was not replying to radio calls. As ex~,ected, base told Baghdadi to follow Imam. This little pantomime was necessary so that Baghdadi, who was to return, should not fall under suspicion.
They flew over an army encampment. Kernel saw tanks, trucks. field guns
and jeeps. A bunch of soldiers waved: they must be British, Kernel
thought. Both planes climbed. Directly ahead they saw signs of battle:
great clouds of dust, explosions and gunfire. They turned to pass to the
south of the battlefield.
Kernel had thought: We flew over a British base, then a battlefield–next
we should come to a German base.
Ahead, Imam’s plane lost height. Instead of following, Baghdadi climbed
a little more-KemeI had the feeling that the Gladiator was near its
ceiling-and peeled off to the south. Looking out of the plane to the
right, Kernel saw what the pilots had seen: a small camp with a cleared
strip marked as a runway.
Approaching Sadat’s house, Kernel recalled how elated he had felt, up
there in the sky above the desert, when he realized they were behind
German lines, and the treaty was almost in Rommel’s hands.
He knocked on the door. He still did not know what to teU Sadat.
It was an ordinary family house, rather poorer than Kemel’s home. In a
moment Sadat came to the door, wearing a galabiya and smoking a pipe. He
looked at Kernel’s face, and said immedi,,)tely: “It went wrong.”
“Yes.” Kernel stepped inside. They went into the little room Sadat used
as a study. There were a desk, a shelf of books and some cushions on the
bare floor. On the desk an army pistol hay on top of a pile of papers.
They sat down. Kernel said: “We found a German camp with a runway. Imam
descended. Then the Germans started to fire on his plane. It was an
English plane, you see-we never considered that.”
Sadat said: “But surely, they could see he was not hostile-he did not
fire, did not drop bornbs-“
“He just kept on going down,” Kernel went on. “He waggled his wings, and
I suppose he tried to raise them on THE KEY TO REBECCA 77
the radio; anyway they kept firing. The tail of the plane took a hit.” “Oh, God.”
“He ~eemed to be going down very fast. The Germans stopped firing. Somehow he managed to land on his wheels. The plane seemed to bounce. I don’t think Imam could con trol it any longer. Certainly he could not slow down. He went off the hard surface and into a patch of sand: the ‘ port wing hit the ground and snapped: the nose dipped and plowed into the sand: then the fuselage fell on the broken wing.”
Sadat was staring it Kemel, blank-faced and quite still. his pipe going
cold in his hand. In his mind Kernel saw the plane lying broken in the
sand, with a German fire truck and ambulance speeding along the runway
toward it, followed by ten or fifteen soldiers. He would never forget how,
like a blossom opening its petals, the belly of the plane had burst skyward
in a riot of red and yellow flame. “It blew up,” he told Sadat. “And Imam?” “He could not possibly live through such a fire.”
“We must try -igain,” Sadat said. “We must find another Way to get a
message through.”
Kernel stared at him, and realized that his brisk tone of voice was phony.
Sadat tried to light his pipe, but the hand holding the match was shaking
too much. Kemel looked closely, and saw that Sadat had tears in his eyes. “The poor boy,” Sadat whispered. 7
Wolff was back at square one: he knew where the secrets were, but he could not get at them.
He might have stolen another briefcase the way he bad taken the first, but
that would begin to look, to the British, like a conspiracy. He might have
thought of another way to steal a briefcase, but even that might lead to a
security clampdown. Besides, one briefcase on one day was not enough for
his needs: he had to have regular, unimpeded access to secret papers. That was why he was shaving Sonja’s pubic hair.
Her hair was black and coarse, and it grew very quickly. Because she shaved
it regularly she was able to wear her translucent trousers without the
usual heavy, sequined GString on top. The extra measure of physical
freedom-and the persistent and accurate rumor that she had nothing on under
the trousers-had helped to make her the leading belly dancer of the day.
Wolff dipped the brush into the bowl and began to lather her.
She lay on the bed, her back propped up by a pile of pillows, watching him
suspiciously. She was not keen on this, his latest perversion. She thought
she was not going to like it. Wolff knew better.
He knew how her mind worked, and he knew her body better than she did, and
he wanted something from her.
He stroked her with the soft shaving brush and said: “I’ve thought of
another way to get into those briefcases.” “What?” He did not answer herimmediately. He put down the 78 THE KEY TO REBECCA 79
brush and picked up the razor. He tested its sharp edge with his thumb. then looked at her. She was watching him with horrid fascination. He leaned closer, spread her legs a little more, put the razor to her skin, and drew it upward with a light, careful stroke. He said: “I’m going to befriend a British officer.”
She did not answer: she was only half listening to him. He wiped the
razor on a towel, With one finger of his left hand he touched the shaved
patch. pulling down to stretch the skin, then he brought the razor close. “Then I’ll bring the officer here,” he said. Sonja said – “Oh, no.”
He touched her with the edge of the razor and gently scraped upward. She began to breathe harder.
He wiped the razor and stroked again once, twice, three times. “Somehow III get the officer to bring his briefcase.”
He put his finger on her most sensitive spot and shaved around it. She
closed her eyes.
He poured hot water from a kettle into a bowl on the floor beside him.
He dipped a flannel into the water and wrung it out.
“Then I’ll go through the briefcase while the officer is in bed with
you.” He pressed the hot flannel against her shaved skin. She gave a sharp cry like a cornered animal: “Abb, God!”
Wolff slipped out of his bathrobe and stood naked. He picked up a bottle
of soothing skin oil, poured some into the palm of his right hand, and
knelt on the bed beside Sonja; then he anointed her pubis. “I won’t,” she said as she began to writhe.
He added more oil, massaging it into all the folds and crevices. With his
left hand he held her by the throat, pinning her down. “You will.”
His knowing fingers delved and squeezed, becoming less gentle. She said: “No.” He said: “Yes.”
She shook her head from side to side. Her body wriggled, helpless in the
grip of intense pleasure. She began to shudder, 80 Ken Follett
and finally she said: “Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh!” Then she relaxed.
Wolff would not let her stop. He continued to stroke her smooth, hairless
skin while with his left hand he pinched her brown nipples. Unable to
resist him, she began to move again.
She opened her eyes and saw that he, too, was aroused. She said: “You
bastard, stick it in me.”
He grinned. The sense of power was like a drug. He lay over her and
hesitated, poised. She said: “Quickly!” “Will you do it?” “Quickly!”
He let his body touch hers, then paused again. “Will you do it?” “Yes! Please!” “Aaah,” Wolff breathed, and lowered himself to her.
She tried to go back on it afterward, of course. “That kind of promise doesn’t count,” she said.
Wolff came out of the bathroom wrapped in a big towel. He looked at her.
She was Iving on the bed, still naked, eating chocolates from a box.
There were moments when he was almost fond of her. He said: “A promise is a promise.”
“You promised to find us another Fawzi.” She was sulking. She always did
after sex. “I brought that girl from Madame Fahmy’s,” Wolff said.
“She wasn’t another Fawzi. Fawzi didn’t ask for ten pounds every time,
and she didn’t go home in the morning.” “All right. I’m still looking.” “You didn’t promise to look, you promised to find.,’
Wolff went into the other room and got a bottle of champagne out of the
icebox. He picked up two glasses and took them back into the bedroom. “Do
you want some?” “No,” she said. “Yes.”
He poured and handed her a glass. She drank some and took another
chocolate. Wolff said: “To the unknown British officer who is about to
get the nicest surprise of his life.”
“I won’t go to bed with an En.-lishman,” Sonja said. “They smell bad and
they have skins like slugs and I hate them.” THE KEY TO REBECCA 81
“nat’s why you’ll do it-because you hate them. Just imagine it: while be’s
screwing you and thinking how lucky be is, I’ll be reading his secret
papers.”
Wolff began to dress. He put on a shirt which had been made for him in one
of the tiny tailor shops in the Old City-a British uniform shirt with
captain’s pips on the shoulders. Sonja said: “What are you wearing?”
“British officer’s uniform. They don’t talk to foreigners, you know.” “You’re going to pretend to be BritishT’ “South African, I think.” “But what if you slip up?” He looked at her. “I’ll probably be shot as a spy.” She looked away.
Wolff said: “If I find a likely one, IT take him to the Cha-Cha.” He
reached into his shirt and drew his knife from its underarm sheath. He went
close to her and touched her naked shoulder with its point. “If you let me
down, I’ll cut your lips off.”
She looked into his face. She did not speak, but there was fear in her
eyes. Wolff went out.
Shepheard’s was crowded. It always was.
Wolff paid off his taxi, pushed through the pack of hawkers and dragomans
outside, mounted the steps and went into the foyer. It was packed with
people: Levantine merchants holding noisy business meetings, Europeans
using the post office and the banks, Egyptian girls in their cheap gowns
and British officers-the hotel was out of bounds to Other Ranks. Wolff
passed between two larger-than-life bronze ladies holding lamps and entered
the lounge. A small band played nondescript music while more crowds, mostly
European now, called constantly for waiters. Negotiating the divans and
marbIe-topped tables Wolff made his way through to the long bar at the far
end.
Here it was a little quieter. Women were banned, and serious drinking was
