THE KEY TO REBECCA

BY

KEN FOLLETT


A SIGNET BOOK
NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY
PUBLISHED BY
THE NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY
OF CANADA LIMITED
Copyright,@ 1980 by Fineblend N.V.

      All rights reserved.

      For information address The New American Library, Inc, A
      hardcover edition was published by William Morrow and Company,
      Inc.

      First Signet Printing, September, 1981

      6 7 8 9

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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
  ostensible reasons--Charles's brother, Johnnie's proposal, Claud's
  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
  the order of the day. It was here that a lonely officer would come.
 Wolff sat at the bar. He was about to order champagne,
 82        Ken Follett

 then he remembered his disguise and asked for whiskey and water.
  He had given careful thought to his clothes. The brown shoes were officer
  pattern and highly polished; the khaki socks were turned down at exactly
  the right place, the baggy brown shorts had a sharp crease; the bush
  shirt with captain's pips was worn outside the shorts, not tucked in; the
  flat cap was just slightly raked.
  He was a little worried about his accent. He had his story ready to
  explain it-the line he bad given Captain Newman, in Assyut, about having
  been brought up in Dutch-speaking South Africa--but what if the officer
  he picked up was a South African? Wolff could not distinguish English
  accents well enough to recognize a South African.
  He was more worried about his knowledge of the Army. He was looking for
  an officer from GHQ, so he would say that he himself was with BTE-British
  Troops in Egyptwhich was a separate and independent outfit. Unfortunately
  he knew little else about it. He was uncertain what BTE did and how it
  was organized, and he could not quote the name of a single one of it-,
  officers. He imagined a conversation:
 "How's old Buffy Jenkins?"
 "Old Buffy? Don't see much of him in my department."
  "Don't see much of him? He runs the showl Are we talking about the same
  BTE?"
 Then again:
 "What about Simon Frobisher?"
 "Oh, Simon's the same, you know."
  "Wait a minute-someone said he'd gone back home. Yes, I'm sure he has-how
  come you didn't know?"
  Then the accusations, and the cafling of the military police, and the
  fight, and finally the jail.
  Jail was the only thing that really frightened Wolff. He pushed the
  thought out of his mind and ordered another whiskey.
  A perspiring colonel came in and stood at the bar next to Wolfrs stool.
  He called to the barman: "E7.ma!" It meant "Listen," but all the British
  thought it meant "Waiter." The colonel looked at Wolff.
 Wolff nodded politely and said: "Sir."
         THE KEY TO REBECCA      83

  "Cap off in the bar, Captain," said the colonel. "What are you thinking
  of?"
  Wolff took off his cap, cursing 'himself silently for the error. The
  colonel ordered beer. Wolff looked away.
  There were fifteen or twenty officers in the bar, but he recognized none of
  them. He was looking for any one of the eight aides who left GHQ each
  midday with their briefcases. He had memorized the face of each one, and
  would recognize them instantly. He bad already been to the Metropolitan
  Hotel and the Turf Club without success, and after half an hour in
  Shepheard's he would try the Officers' Club, the Gezira Sporting Club and
  even the Anglo-Egyptian Union. If he failed tonight he would try again
  tomorrow: sooner or later he was sure to bump into at least one of them.
 Then everything would depend on his skill.
  His scheme bad a lot going for it. The uniform made him one of them,
  trustworthy and a comrade. Like most soldiers they were probably lonely and
  sex-starved in a foreign country. Sonja was undeniably a very desirable
  woman-to look at, anyway-and the average Englisb officer was not well ar-
  mored against the wiles of an Oriental seductress.
  And anyway, if he was unlucky enough to pick an aide smart enough to resist
  temptation, he would have to drop the man and look for another.
 He hoped it would not take that long.
 In fact it took him five more minutes.
  The major who walked in was a small man, very thin, and about ten years
  older than Wolff. His cheeks had the broken veins of a bard drinker. He had
  bulbous blue eyes, and his thin sandy hair was plastered to his head.
  Every day be left GHQ at midday and walked to an unmarked building in the
  Shari Suleiman Pasha-carrying his briefcase.
 Wolff's heart missed a beat.
  The major came up to the bar, took off his cap, and said: "Ezma! Scotch. No
  ice. Make it snappy." He turned to Wolff. "Bloody weather," he said
  conversationally.
 "Isn't it always, sir?" Wolff said.
 "Bloody right. I'm Smith, GHQ."
  "How do you do, sir," Wolff said. He knew that, since Smith went from GHQ
  to another building every day, the
 84        Ken Follett

 major could not really be at GHQ; and he wondered briefly why the man
 should lie about it. He put the thought aside for the moment and said:
 "I'm Slavenburg, BTE."
 "Jolly good. Get you another?"
  It was proving even easier than he had expected to get into conversation
  with an officer. "Very kind of you, sir," Wolff said.
 "Ease up on the sirs. No bull in the bar, what?"
 "Of course." Another error.
 "Wliat'll it be?"
 "Whiskey and water, please."
  "Shouldn't take water with it if I were you. Comes straight out of the
  Nile, they say."
 Wolff smiled. "I must he used to it."
  "No gippy tummy? You must be the only white man in Egypt who hasn't got
  it."
  "Bom in Africa, been in Cairo ten years." Wolff was slip~-ping into
  Smith's abbreviated style of speech. I should have been an actor, he
  thought.
  Smith said: "Africa, eh? I thought you had a bit of an accent."
  "Dutch father, English mother. We've got a ranch in South Africa."
  Smith looked solicitous. "It's rough for your father, with Jerrv all over
  Holland."
  Wolff had not thought of that. "He died when I was a boy," he said.
 "Bad show." Smith emptied his glass.
 "Same again?" Wolff offered.
 "Thanks."
  Wolff ordered more drinks. Smith offered him a cigarette: Wolff refused.
  Smith complained about the poor food, the way bars kept running out of
  drinks, the rent of his flat and the rudeness of Arab waiters. Wolff
  itched to explain that the food was poor because Smith insisted on
  English rather than Egyptian dishes, that drinks were scarce because of
  the European war, that rents were sky-high because of the thousands of
  foreigners like Smith who had invaded the city, and that the waiters were
  rude to him because he was too lazy or arrogant to learn a few phrases
  of courtesy in their language. Instead
         THE KEY TO REBECCA      85

 of explaining he bit his tongue and nodded as if he sympathized.
  In the middle of this catalogue of discontent Wolff looked past Smith's
  shoulder and saw six military policemen enter the bar.
  Smith noticed his change of expression and said: "What's the matter-seen a
  ghost?"
  There was an army MP, a navy MP in white leggings, an Australian, a New
  Zealander, a South African and a turbaned Gurkha. Wolff had a crazy urge to
  run for it. What would they ask him? What would he say?
  Smith looked around, saw the MPs and said: "The usual nightly
  picket-looking for drunken officers and German spies. This is an officers'
  bar, they won't disturb us. What's the matter-you breaking bounds or
  something?"
  "No, no." Wolff improvised hastily: "The navy man looks just like a chap I
  knew who got killed at Halfaya." He continued to stare at the picket. They
  appeared very businesslike with their steel hats and holstered pistols.
  Would they ask to see papers?
  Smith had forgotten them. He was saying: "And as for the servants . . .
  Bloody people. I'm bloody sure my man's been watering the gin. I'll find
  him out though. I've filled an empty gin bottle with zibi-you know, that
  stuff that turns cloudy when you add water? Wait till he tries to dilute
  that. He'll have to buy a whole new bottle and pretend nothing happened.
  Haha! Serve him right."
  The officer in charge of the picket walked over to the colonel who had told
  Wolff to take off his hat. "Everything in order, sir?" the MP said.
 "Nothing untoward," the colonel replied.
  "What's the matter with you?" Smith said to Wolff. "I say, you are entitled
  to those pips, aren't you?"
  "Of course," Wolff said. A drop of perspiration ran into his eyes, and he
  wiped it away with a too-rapid gesture.
  "No offense intended," Smith said. "But, you know, Shepheard's being off
  limits to Other Ranks, it's not unknown for subalterns to sew a few pips on
  their shirts just to get in here."
  Wolff pulled himself together. "Look here, sir, if you'd care to check-"
 86         Ken Follett

 "No, no, no," Smith said hastily.
 "The resemblance was rather a shock."
 "Of course, I understand. Let's have another drink. Ezmal"
  The MP who had spoken to the colonel was taking a long look around the
  room, His armband identified him as the assistant provost marshal. He
  looked at Wolff. Wolff wondered whether the man remembered the description
  of the Assyut knife murderer. Surely not. Anyway, they would not be looking
  for a British officer answering the description. And Wolff had grown a
  mustache to confuse the issue. He forced himself to meet the MP's eyes,
  then let his gaze drift casually away. He picked up his drink, sure the man
  was still staring at him.
 Then there was a clatter of boots and the picket went out.
  By an effort Wolff prevented himself from shaking with relief. He raised
  his glass in a determinedly steady hand and said: "Cheers."
  They drank. Smith said: "You know this place. What's a chap to do in the
  evening, other than drink in Shepheard's bar?"
  Wolff pretended to consider the question. "Have you seen any belly
  dancing?"
  Smith gave a disgusted snort. "Once. Some fat wog wiggling her hips."
 "Ah. Then you ought to see the real thing."
 "Should IT'
  "Real belly dancing is the most erotic thing you've ever seen."
 There was an odd light in Smith's eyes. "Is that so?"
  Wolff thought: Major Smith, you are just what I need. He said: "Sonja is
  the best. You must try to see her act."
 Smith nodded. "Perhaps I shall."
  "Matter of fact, I was toying with the idea of going on to the Cha-Cha Club
  myself. Care to join me?"
 "Let's have another drink first," said Smith.
  Watching Smith put away the liquor Wolff reflected that the major was, at
  least on the surface, a highly corruptible man. He seemed bored,
  weak-willed and alcoholic. Provided he was normally heterosexual, Sonja
  would be able to seduce him easily. (Damn, he thought, she had better do
  her stuff.) Then they would have to find out whether he had in his
         THE KEY TO REBECCA      87

 briefcase anything more useful than menus. Finally they would have to find
 a way to get the secrets out of him. There were too many maybes and too
 little time.
  He could only go step by step, and the first step was to get Smith in his
  power.
  They finished their drinks and set out for the Cba-Cha. They could not find
  a taxi, so they took a gharry, a horsedrawn open carriage. The driver
  mercilessly whipped his elderly horse.
 Smith said: "Chap's a bit rough on the beast."
  "Isn't he," Wolff said, thinking: You should see what we do to camels.
  The club was crowded and hot, again. Wolff had to bribe a waiter to get a
  table.
  Sonja's act began moments after they sat down. Smith watched Sonja while
  Wolff watched Smith. In minutes the major was drooling.
 Wolff said: "Good, isn't she?"
 "Fantastic," Smith replied without looking around.
  "Matter of fact, I know her slightly," Wolff said. "Shall I ask her to join
  us afterwards?"
  This time Smith did look around. "Good Lord!" he said. "Would you?"

 The rhythm quickened. Sonja looked out across the crowded floor of the club.
 Hundreds of men feasted their eyes greedily on her magnificent body. She
 closed her eyes.
  The movements came automatically: the sensations took over. In her
  imagination she saw the sea of rapacious faces staring at her. She felt her
  breasts shake and her belly roll and her hips jerk, and it was as if
  someone else was doing it to her, as if all the hungry men in the audience
  were manipulating her body. She went faster and faster. There was no ar-
  tifice in her dancing, not any more; she was doing it for herself. She did
  not even follow the music-it followed her. Waves of excitement swept her.
  She rode the excitement, dancing, until she knew she was on the edge of
  ecstasy, knew she only bad to jump and she would be flying. She hesitated
  on the brink. She spread her arms. The music climaxed with a bang. She
  uttered a cry of frustration and fell backward,
 88        Ken Follett

 her legs folded beneath her, her thighs open to the audience, until her
 head hit the stage. Then the lights went out.
 It was always like that.
  In the storm of applause she got up and crossed the darkened stage to the
  wings. She walked quickly to her dressing room, head down, looking at no
  one. She did not want their words or their smiles. They did not
  understand. Nobody knew how it was for her, nobody knew what she went
  through every night when she danced.
  She took off her shoes, her filmy pantaloons and her sequined halter, and
  put on a silk robe. She sat in front of the mirror to remove her makeup.
  She always did this immediately, for the makeup was bad for the skin. She
  had to look after her body. Her face and throat were getting that fleshy
  look again, she observed. She would have to stop eating chocolates. She
  was already well past the age at which women began to get fat. Her age
  was another secret the audience must never discover. She was almost as
  old as her father had been when he died. Father ...
  He had been a big, arrogant man whose achievements never lived up to his
  hopes. Sonja and her parents bad slept together in a narrow bard bed in
  a Cairo tenement. She had never felt so safe and warm since those days.
  She would curl up against her father's broad back. She could remember the
  close familiar smell of him. Then, when she should have been asleep,
  there bad been another smell, something that excited her unaccountably.
  Mother and father would begin to move in the darkness, lying side by
  side; and Sonja would move with them. A few times her mother realized
  what was happening. Then her father would beat her. After the third time
  they made her sleep on the floor. Then she could hear them but could not
  share the pleasure: it seemed so cruel. She blamed her mother. Her father
  was willing to share, she was sure; he had known 0 along what she had
  been doing. Lying on the floor, cold, excluded, listening, she had tried
  to enjoy it at a distance, but it had not worked. Nothing had worked
  since then, until the arrival of Alex Wolff ...
  She had never spoken to Wolff about that narrow bed in the tenement, but
  somehow be understood. He had an instinct for the deep needs that people
  never acknowledged. He
         THE KEY TO REBECCA       89

 and the girl Fawzi had re-created the childhood scene for Sonia, and it had
 worked.
  He did not do it out of kindness, she knew. He did these things so that he
  could use people. Now he wanted to use her to spy on the British. She would
  do almost anything to spite the British-anything but go to bed with them
  ...
  There was a knock on the door of her dressing room. She called: "Come in."
  One of the waiters entered with a note. She nodded dismissal at the boy and
  unfolded the sheet of paper. The message said simply: "Table 41. Alex."
  She crumpled the paper and dropped it on the floor. So he had found one.
  That was quick. His instinct for weakness was working again.
  She understood him because she was like him. She, too, used people-,
  -although less cleverly than he did. She even used him. He had style,
  taste, high-class friends and money; and one day he would take her to
  Berlin. It was one thing to be a star in Egypt, and quite another in
  Europe. She wanted to dance for the aristocratic old generals and the
  handsome young Storm Troopers; she wanted to seduce powerful men and
  beautiful white girls; she wanted to be queen of the cabaret in the most
  decadent city in the world. Wolff would be her passport. Yes, she was using
  him.
  It must be imusual. she thought, for two people to be so close and yet to
  love each other so little.
 He would cut her lips off.
  She shuddered, stopped thinking about it and began to dress. She rut on a
  white gown with wide sleeves and a low neck. The neckline showed off her
  breasts while the skirt slimmed her hips. She stepped into white
  high-heeled sandals. She fastened a heavy gold bracelet around each wrist,
  and around her neck she hung a gold chain with a teardrop pendant which lay
  snugly in her cleavage. The Englishman would like that. They had the most
  coarse taste.
  She took a last look at herself in the mirror and went out into the club.
  A zone of silence went with her across the floor. People fell quiet as she
  approached and then began to talk about her when she had passed. She felt
  as if she were inviting mass rape. Onstage it was different: she was
  separated from them
 90        Ken Follett

 by an invisible wall. Down here they could touch her, and they all wanted
 to. They never did, but the danger thrilled her.
 She reached table 41 and both men stood up.
  Wolff said: "Sonja, my dear, you were magnificent, as always."
 She acknowledged the compliment with a nod.
 "Allow me to introduce Major Smith."
  Sonja shook his hand. He was a thin, chinless man with a fair mustache
  and ugly, bony hands. He looked at her as if she were an extravagant
  dessert which had just been placed before him.
 Smith said: "Enchanted, absolutely."
  They sat down. Wolff poured champagne. Smith said: "Your dancing was
  splendid, mademoiselle, just splendid. Very ... artistic."
 '-nank you."
  He reached across the table and patted her hand. "You're very lovely."
  And you're a fool, she thought. She caught a warning look from Wolff -
  he knew what was in her mind. "You're very kind, Major," she said.
  Wolff was nervous, she could tell. He was not sure whether she would do
  what he wanted. In truth she had not yet decided.
 Wolff said to Smith: "I knew Sonja's late father."
  It was a lie, and Sonja knew why he had said it. He wanted to remind her.
  Her father had been a part-time thief. When there was work he worked, and
  when there was none he stole. One day he had tried to snatch the handbag
  of a European woman in the Shari el-Koubri. The woman's escort bad made
  a grah for Sonja's father, and in the scuffle the woman had been knocked
  down, spraining her wrist. She was an important woman, and Sonja's father
  bad been flogged for the offense. He had died during the flogging.
  Of course, it was not supposed to kill him. He must have had a weak
  heart, or something. The British who adminis-tered the law did not care.
  The man had committed the crime, he had been given the due punishment and
  the punishment had killed him: one wog less. Sonja, twelve years old,
         THE KEY TO REBECCA      91

 had been heartbroken. Since then she had hated the British with all her
 being.
  Hitler had the right idea but the wrong target, she believed. It was not
  the Jews whose racial weakness infected the world-it was the British. The
  Jews in Egypt were more or less like everyone else: some rich, some poor,
  some good, some bad. But the British were uniformly arrogant, greedy and
  vicious. She laughed bitterly at the high-minded way in which the British
  tried to defend Poland from German oppression while they themselves
  continued to oppress Egypt.
  Still, for whatever reasons, the Germans were fighting the British, and
  that was enough to make Sonja pro-German.
 She wanted Hitler to defeat, humiliate and ruin Britain.
 She would do anything she could to help.
 She would even seduce an Englishman.
  She leaned forward. "Major Smith," she said, "you're a very attractive
  man."
 Wolff relaxed visibly.
  Smith was startled. His eyes seemed about to pop out of his head. "Good
  Lord!" he said. "Do you think so?"
 "Yes, I do, Major."
 "I say, I wish you'd call me Sandy."
  Wolff stood up. "I'm afraid I've got to leave you. Sonja, may I escort
  you homeT'
 Smith said: "I think you can leave that to me, Captain."
 "Yes, sir."
 "That is, if Sonja. .
 Sonja batted her eyelids. "Of course, Sandy."
  Wolff said: "I hate to break up the party, but I've got an early start."
 "Quite all right," Smith told him. "You just run along."
  As Wolff left a waiter brought dinner. It was a European meal-steak and
  potatoes-and Sonja picked at it while Smith talked to her. He told her
  about his successes in the school cricket team. He seemed to have done
  nothing spectacular since then. He was very boring.
 Sonja kept remembering the flogging.
  He drank steadily through dinner. When they left he was weaving slightly.
  She gave him her arm, more for his benefit than for hers. They walked to
  the houseboat in the cool night
 92        Ken Follett

 air. Smith looked up at the sky and said: "Those stars . . . beautiful."
 His speech was a little thick.
 They stopped at the houseboat. "Looks pretty," Smith said.
  "It's rather nice," Sonja said. "Would you like to see inside?"
 "Rather."
  She led him over the gangplank, across the deck, and down the stairs.
  He looked around, wide-eyed. "I must say, it's very luxurious.
 "Would you like a drinkr'
 "Very much."
  Sonja hated the way he said "very" all the time. He slurred the r and
  pronounced it "vey." She said: "Champagne, or something stronger?"
 "A drop of whiskey would be nice."
 "Do sit down."
  She gave him his drink and sat close to him. He touched her shoulder,
  kissed her cheek, and roughly grabbed her breast. She shuddered. He took
  that as a sign of passion, and squeezed harder.
  She pulled him down on top of her. He was very clumsy: his elbows and
  knees kept digging into her. He fumbled beneath the skirt of her dress. -
  
 She said: "Oh, Sandy, you're so strong."
  She looked over his shoulder and saw Wolff's face. He was on deck,
  kneeling down and watching through the hatch, laughing soundlessly.
                8

 William Vandam was beginning to despair of ever finding Alex Wolff. The
 Assyut murder was almost three weeks in the past, and Vandarn was no closer
 to his quarry. As time went bv the trail got colder. He almost wished there
 would be another briefcase snatch, so that at least he would know what Wolff
 was up to.
  He knew he was becoming a little obsessed with the man. He would wake up in
  the night, around 3 A.M. when the booze had worn off, and worry until
  daybreak. What bothered him was something to do with Wolff's style: the
  sideways manner in which he had slipped into Egypt, the suddenness of the
  murder of Corporal Cox, the ease with which Wolff had melted into the city.
  Vandam went over these things, again and again, all the time wondering why
  he found the case so fascinating.
  He had made no real progress, but he had gathered some information, and the
  information had fed his obsession-fed it not as food feeds a man, making
  him satisfied, but as fuel feeds a fire, making it burn hotter.
  The Villa les Oliviers was owned by someone called Achmed Rahmha. The
  Rahmhas were a wealthy Cairo family. Achmed had inherited the house from
  his father, Gamal Rahmha, a lawyer. One of Vandarn's lieutenants had dug up
  the record of a marriage between Gamal Rahrnha and one Eva Wolff, widow of
  Hans Wolff, both German nationals; and then adoption papers making Hans and
  Eva's son Alex the legal child of Gamal Rahmha ...
Which made Achmed Rahmha a German, and explained 93
 94        Ken Follett

 how he got legitimate Egyptian papers in the name of Alex Wolff.
  Also in the records was a will which gave Achmed, or Alex, a share of
  Gamal's fortune, plus the house.
  Interviews with all surviving Rahmhas had produced nothing. Acbmed had
  disappeared two years ago and had not been beard from since. The
  interviewer had come back with the impression that the adopted son of the
  family was not much missed.
  Vandam. was convinced that when Achmed disappeared he bad gone to Germany.
  There was another branch of the Rahmha family, but they were nomads, and no
  one knew where they could be found. No doubt, Vandam thought, they had
  helped Wolff somehow with his reentry into Egypt.
  Vandarn understood that now. Wolff could not have come into the country
  through Alexandria. Security was tight at the port: his entry would have
  been noted, he would have been investigated, and sooner or later the
  investigation would have revealed his German antecedents, whereupon he
  would have been interned. By coming from the south he had hoped to get in
  unobserved and resume his former status as a born-andbred Egyptian. It had
  been a piece of luck for the British that Wolff had run into trouble in
  Assyut.
  It seemed to Vandarn that that was the last piece of luck they had had.
  He sat in his office, smoking one cigarette after another, worrying about
  Wolff.
  The man was no low-grade collector of gossip and rumor. He was not content,
  as other agents were, to send in reports based on the number of soldiers he
  saw in the street and the shortage of motor spares. The briefcase theft
  proved he was after top-level stuff, and he was capable of devising
  ingenious ways of getting it. If he stayed at large long enough he would
  succeed sooner or later.
  Vandam paced the room-from the coat stand to the desk, around the desk for
  a look out of the window, around the other side of the desk, and back to
  the coat stand.
  The spy had his problems, too. He had to explain himself to inquisitive
  neighbors, conccal his radio somewhere, move about the city and find
  informants. He could run out of
         THE KEY TO REBECCA      95

 money, his radio could break down, his informants could betray him or
 someone could quite accidentally discover his secret. One way or another,
 traces of the spy had to appear.
 The cleverer he was, the longer it would take.
  Vandarr was convinced that Abdullah, the thief, was involved with Wolff.
  After Bogge refused to have Abdullah arrested, Vandarn bad offered a
  large sum of money for Wolff's whereabouts- Abdullah still claimed to
  know nothing of anyone called Wolff, but the light of greed had flickered
  in his eyes.
  Abdullah might not know where Wolff could be foundWolff was surely
  careful enough to take that precaution with a notoriously dishonest
  man-but perhaps Abdullah could find out. Vandam, had made it clear that
  the money was still on offer. Then again, once Abdullah bad the
  information he might simply go to Wolff, tell him of Vandani's offer and
  invite him to bid higher.
 Vandam. paced the room.
  Something to do with style. Sneakina in; murder with a knife; melting
  away; and . . . Something else went with all that. Something Vandam. knew
  about, something he had read in a report or been told in a briefing.
  Wolff might almost have been a man Vandam had known, long ago, but could
  no longer bring to mind. Style.
 The phone rang.
 He picked it up. "Major Vandarn."
 "Oh, hello, this is Major Calder in the paymasteesoffice."
 Vandam tensed. "Yes?"
  You sent us a note, a couple of weeks ago, to look out for forged
  sterling. Well, we've found some."
 That was it-that was the trace. "Good!" Vandam said.
 "Rather a lot, actually," the voice continued.
 Vandarn said: "I need to see it as soon as possible."
  "It's on its way. I'm sending a chap round-he should be there soon."
 "Do you know who paid it in?"
  "There's been more than one lot, actually, but we've got some names for
  you."
  "Marvelous. I'll ring you back when rve seen the notes. Did you say
  Calder?"
 96        Ken Follett

  "Yes." The man gave his phone number. "We'll speak later, then."
  Vandam hung up. Forged sterfing-it fitted: this could be the
  breakthrough. Sterling was no longer legal -ender in Egypt. Officially
  Egypt was supposed to be a sovercign country. However, sterling could
  always be exchanged for Egyptian money at the office of the British
  paymaster general. Consequently people who did a lot of business with
  foreigners usually accepted pound notes in payment.
  Vandam opened his door and shouted along the hall. "Jakes!"
 "Sir!" Jakes shouted back equally loudly.
 "Bring me the file on forged banknotes."
 "Yes, sir!"
  Vandam stepped to the next office and spoke to his secretary. "I'm
  expecting a package from the paymaster. Bring it in as soon as it comes,
  would you?"
 "Yes, sir."
  Vandam went back into his office. Jakes appeared a moment later with a
  file. The most senior of Vandam's team, Jakes was an eager, reliable
  young man who would follow orders to the letter, as far as they went,
  then use his initiative. He was even taller than Vandam, thin and
  black-haired, with a somewhat lugubrious look. He and Vandam vere on
  terms of easy formality: Jakes was very scrupulous about his salutes and
  sirs, yet they discussed their work as equals, and Jakes used bad
  language with great fluency. Jakes was very well connected, and would
  almost certainly go further in the Army than Vandam would.
  Vandam switched on his desk light and said: "Right, show me a picture of
  Nazi-style funny money."
  Jakes put down the file and flicked through it. He extracted a sheaf of
  glossy photographs and spread them on the desk. Each print showed the
  front and back of a banknote, somewhat larger than actual size.
  Jakes sorted them out. "Pound notes, fivers, tenners and twenties. "
  Black arrows on the photographs indicated the errors by which the
  forgeries might be identified.
  The source of the information was counterfeit money taken from German
  spies captured in England. Jakes said:
         THE KEY TO REBECCA      97

 "You'd think they'd know better than to give their spies funny money."
  Vandam. replied without looking up from the pictures. "Espionage is an
  expensive business, and most of the money is wasted. Why should they buy
  English currency in Switzerland when they can make it themselves? A spy has
  forged papers, he might as well have forged money. Also, it has a slightly
  damaging effect on the British economy if it gets into circulation. It's
  inflationary, like the government printing money to pay its debts."
  "Still, you'd think they would have cottoned on by now to the fact that
  we're catching the buggers."
  "Ah-but when we catch 'em, we make sure the Germans don't know we've caught
  'em."
  "All the same, I hope our spies aren't using counterfeit Reichmarks."
  "I shouldn't think so. We take Intelligence rather more seriously than they
  do, you know. I wish I could say the same about tank tactics."
  Vandam's secretary knocked and came in. He was a bespectacled
  twenty-year-old corporal. "Package from the paymaster, sir."
 "Good show!" Vandam said.
 "If you'd sign the slip, sir."
  Vandarn signed the receipt and tore open the envelope. It contained several
  hundred pound notes.
 Jakes said: "Bugger me!"
  "Tbey told me there were a lot," Vandam said. "Get a magnifying glass,
  Corporal, on the double."
 "Yes, sir."
  Vandam put a pound note from the envelope next to one of the photographs
  and looked for the identifying error.
 He did not need the magnifying glass.
 "Look, Jakes."
 Jakeslooked.
 The note bore the same error as the one in the photograph.
 "nat's it, sir," said Jakes.
  "Nazi money, made in Germany," said Vandam. "Now we're on his trail."

 Ileutenant Colonel Reggie Bogge knew that Major Vandam,
 98        Ken Follett

 was a smart lad, with the kind of low cunning one sometimes finds among
 the working class; but the major was no match for the likes of Bogge.
  That night Bogge played snooker with Brigadier Povey, the Director of
  Military Intelligence, at the Gezira Sporting Club. The brigadier was
  shrewd, and he did not like Bogge all that much, but Bogge thought he
  could handle him.
 They played for a shilling a point, and the brigadier broke.
  While they played, Bogge said: "Hope you don't mind talking shop in the
  club, sir."
 "Not at all," said the brigadier.
  "It's just that I don't seem to get a chance to leave m'desk in the day."
 "What's on your mind?" the brigadier chalked his cue.
  Bogge potted a red ball and lined up the pink. "I'm pretty sure there's
  a fairly serious spy at work in Cairo." He missed the pink.
 The brigadier bent over the table. "Go on."
  Bog.ge regarded the brigadier's broad back. A little delicacy was called
  for here. Of course the head of a department was responsible for that
  department's successes, for it was only well-run departments which had
  successes, as everyone knew; nevertheless it was necessary to be subtle
  about how one took the credit. He began: "You remember a corporal was
  stabbed in Assyut a few weeks ago?"
 "Vaguely."
  "I had a bunch about that, and I've been following it up ever since. Last
  week a General Staff aide had his briefcase pinched during a street
  brawl. Nothing very remarkable about that, of course, but I put two and
  two together."
  The brigadier potted the white. "Damn," he said. "Your shot."
  "I asked the paymaster general to look out for counterfeit English money.
  Lo and behold, he found some. I had my boys examine it. Turns out to have
  been made in Germany."
 "Aha!"
  Bogge potted a red, the blue and another red, then he missed the pink
  again.
  "I think you've left me rather well off," said the brigadier,
  scrutinizing the table through narrowed eyes. "Any chance of tracing the
  chap through the money?"
         THE KEY TO REBECCA      99

 "It's a possibility. We're working on that already."
 "Pass me that bridge, will you?"
 "Certainly."
  The brigadier laid the bridge on the baize and lined up his shot.
  Bogge said: "It's been suggested that we might instruct the paymaster to
  continue to accept the forgeries, in case he can bring in any new leads."
  The suggestion had been Vandam's, and Bogge had turned it down. Vandarn had
  argued-something that was becoming wearyingly familiar-and Bogge had had to
  slap him down. But it was an imponderable, and if things turned out badly
  Bogge wanted to be able to say he had consulted his superiors.
  The brigadier unbent from the table and considered. "Rather depends how
  much money is involved, doesn't it?"
 "Several hundred pounds so far."
 "It's a lot."
  "I feel it's not really necessary to continue to accept the counterfeits,
  sir."
  "Jotly good." The brigadier pocketed the last of the red balls and started
  on the colors.
  Bogge marked the score. The brigadier was ahead, but Bogge had got what he
  came for.
  "Who've you got working on this spy thing?" the brigadier asked.
 "WeU, I'm handling it myself basically--.-"
 "Yes, but which of your majors are you usingr'
 "Vandam, actually."
 "Ah, Vandam. Not a bad chap."
  Bogge did not like the turn the conversation was taking. ne brigadier did
  not really understand how careful you had to be with the likes of Vandam:
  give them an inch and they would take the Empire. The Army would promote
  these people above their station. Bogge's nightmare was to find himself
  taking orders from a postman's son with a Dorset accent. He said: "Vandam's
  got a bit of a soft spot for the wog, unfortunately; but as you say, he's
  good enough in a plodding sort of fashion."
  "Yes." The brigadier was enjoying a long break, potting the colors one
  after another. "He went to the same school as I. Twenty years later, of
  course."
 100       Ken Follett

  Bogge smiled. "He was a scholarship boy, though, wasn't he, sir?"
  "Yes," said the brigadier. "So was L" He pocketed the black.
 "You seem to have won, sir," said Bogge.

 The manager of the Cha-Cha Club said that more than half his customers
 settled their bills in sterling, he could not possibly identify who payed
 in which currency, and even if he could he did not know the names of more
 than a few regulars.
  The chief cashier of Shepheard's Hotel said something similar.
  So did two taxi drivers, the proprietor of a soldiers' bar and the
  brothel keeper Madame Fahmy.
  Vandam was expecting much the same story from the next location on his
  list, a shop owned by one Mikis Aristopoulos.
  Aristopoulos had changed a large amount of sterling, most of it forged,
  and Vandarn imagined his shop would be a business of considerable size,
  but it was not so. Aristopoulos had a small grocery store. It smelled of
  spices and coffee but there was not much on the shelves. Aristopoulos
  himself was a short Greek of about twenty-five years with a wide, white-
  toothed smile. He wore a striped apron over his cotton trousers and white
  shirt.
 He said: "Good morning, sir. How can I help youT'
 "You don't seem to have much to sell," Vandam. said.
  Aristopoulos smiled. "If you're looking for something particular, I may
  have it in the stock room. Have you shopped here before, sir?"
  So that was the system: scarce delicacies in the back room for regular
  customers only. It meant be might know his clientele. Also, the amount
  of counterfeit money he had exchanged probably represented a large order,
  which he would remember.
  Vandam said: "I'm not 'here to buy. Two days ago you took one hundred and
  forty-seven pounds in English money to the British paymaster general and
  exchanged it for Egyptian currency."
 Aristopoulos frowned and looked troubled. "Yes ...
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     101

  "One hundred and twenty-seven pounds of that was counterfeit-forged-no
  good."
  Aristopoulos smiled and spread his arms in a huge shrug. "I am sorry for
  the paymaster. I take the money from English, I give it back to English ...
  What can I do?"
 "You can go to jail for passing counterfeit notes."
  Aristopoulos stopped smiling. "Please. This is not justice. How could I
  knowT'
 "Was all that money paid to you by one person?"
 "I don't know-"
  "Think!" Vandam said sharply. "Did anyone pay you one hundred and
  twenty-seven pounds?"
  "Ah . . . yes! Yes!" Suddenly Aristopoulos looked hurt. "A very respectable
  customer. One hundred twenty-six pounds ten shillings."
 "His name?" Vandam held his breath.
 "Mr. Wolff----,,
 'Ahhh."
  "I am so shocked. Mr. Wolff has been a good customer for many years, and no
  trouble with paying, never."
 "Listen," Vandam. said, "did you deliver the groceries?"
 "No.
 "Damn."
 "We offered to deliver, as usual, but this time Mr. Wolff---~" "You usually
 deliver to Mr. Wolff's home?"
 "Yes, but this time-"
 "What's the address?"
 "Let me see. Villa les Oliviers, Garden City."
  Vandarn banged his fist on the counter in frustration. Aristopoulos looked
  a little frightened. Vandam said: "You haven't delivered there recently,
  though."
  "Not since Mr. Wolff came back. Sir, I am very sorry that this bad money
  has passed through my innocent hands. Perhaps something can be arranged ...
  ?"
 "Perhaps," Vandarn said thoughtfully.
 "Let us drink coffee together."
  Vandarn nodded. Aristopoulos led him into the back room. The shelves here
  were well laden with bottles and tins, most of them imported. Vandam
  noticed Russian caviar, American canned ham and English jam. Aristopoulos
  poured thick strong coffee into tiny cups. He was smiling again.
 102       Ken Follett

  Aristopoulos said: -These little problems can always be worked out
  between friends."
 They drank coffee.
  Aristopoulos said: "Perhaps, as a gesture of friendship, I could offer
  you something from my store. I have a little stock of French wine-"
 "No, no-"
  "I can usually find some Scotch wbiskey when everyone else in Cairo has
  run out-"
  "I'm not interested in that kind of arrangement," Vandam said
  impatiently.
  "Oh!" said Aristopoulos. He had become quite convinced that Vandam was
  seeking a bribe.
  "I want to find Wolff," Vandam continued. "I need to know where he is
  living now. You said he was a regular customer?"
 "What sort of stuff does he buyT'
  "Much champagne. Also some caviar. Coffee, quite a lot. Foreign liquor.
  Pickled walnuts, garlic sausage, brandied apricots . . ."
  "Hm." Vandarn drank in this incidental information greedily. What kind
  of a spy spent his funds on imported delicacies? Answer: one who was not
  very serious. But Wolff was serious. It was a question of style. Vandam
  said: "I was wondering how soon he is likely to come back."
 "As soon as he runs out of champagne."
 "All right. When he does, I must find out where he lives."
 "But, sir, if he again refuses to allow me to deliver ... ?"
  "That's what I've been thinking about. I'm going to give you an
  assistant."
  Aristopoulos did not like that idea. "I want to help you, sir, but my
  business is private-"
  "You've got no choice," Vandam said. "It's help me, or go to jail."
  "But to have an English officer working here in my shop- f,
  "Oh, it won't be an English officer." He would stick out like a sore
  thumb, Vandarn thought, and probably scare Wolff away as well. Vandarn
  smiled. "I think I know the ideal person for the job."
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     103

 That evening after dinner Vandam went to Elene's apartment, carrying a huge
 bunch of flowers, feeling foolish.
  She lived in a graceful, spacious old apartment house near the Place de
  l'Op6ra. A Nubian concierge directed Vandam to the third floor. He climbed
  the curving marble staircase which occupied the center of the building and
  knocked on the door of 3A.
  She was not expecting him, and it occurred to him suddenly that she might
  be entertaining a man friend.
  He waited impatiently in the corridor, wondering what she would be like in
  her own home. This was the first time he had been here. Perhaps she was
  out. Surely she had plenty to do in the evenings-
 The door opened.
  She was wearing a yellow cotton dress with a full skirt, rather simple but
  almost thin enough to see through. The color looked very pretty against her
  light-brown skin. She gazed at him blankly for a moment, then recognized
  him and gave her impish smile.
 She said: "Well, hello!"
 "Good evening."
 She stepped forward and kissed his cheek. "Come in."
 He went inside and she closed the door.
 "I wasn't expecting the kiss," he said.
 "All part of the act. Let me relieve you of your disguise."
  He gave her the flowers. He had the feeling he was being teased.
 "Go in there while I put these in water," she said.
 He followed her pointing finger into the living room and
               0
looked around. The room was comfortable to the point of
sensuality. It was decorated in pink and gold and furnished
with deep soft seats and a table of pale oak. It was a corner
room with windows on two sides, and now the evening sun
shone in and made everything glow slightly. There was a
thick rug of brown fur on the floor that looked like bearskin.
Vandam bent down and touched it: it was genuine. He had a
sudden, vivid picture of Elene lying on the rug, naked and
writhing. He blinked and looked elsewhere. On the seat
beside him was a book which she had, presumably, been
reading when he knocked. He picked up the book and sat o-n
the seat. It was warm from her body. The book was called
                                      104       Ken Follett

 Stamboul Train. It looked like cloak-and-dagger stuff. On the wall
 opposite him was a rather modern-looking painting of a society ball: all
 the ladies were in gorgeous formal gowns and all the men were naked.
 Vandam went and sat on the couch beneath the painting so that he would not
 have to look at it. He thought it peculiar.
  She came in with the flowers in a vase, and the smell of wistaria filled
  the room. "Would you like a drink?"
 "Can you make martinis?"
 "Yes. Smoke if you want to."
  "Thank you." She knew how to be hospitable, Vandam thought. He supposed
  she had to., given the way she earned her living. He took out his
  cigarettes. "I was afraid you'd be out."
  "Not this evening." There was an odd note in her voice when she said
  that, but Vandarn could not figure it out. He watched her with the
  cocktail shaker. He bad intended to conduct the meeting on a businesslike
  level, but he was not able to, for it was she who was conducting it. He
  felt like a clandestine lover.
 "Do you like this stuff?" He indicated the book.
 "I've been reading thrillers lately."
 .11%?AYT,
 "To find out bow a spy is supposed to behave."
  "I shouldn't think you-" He saw her smiling, and realized he was being
  teased again. "I never know whether you're serious.,
  "Very rarely." She handed him a drink and sat down at the opposite end
  of the couch. She looked at him over the rim of her glass. "To
  espionage."
  He sipped his martini. It was perfect. So was she. The mellow sunshine
  burnished her skin. Her arms and legs looked smooth and soft. He thought
  she would be the same in bed as she was out of it: relaxed, amusing and
  game for anything. Damn. She had had this effect on him last time, and
  be had gone on one of his rare binges and ended up in a wretched brothel.
 "What are you thinking about?" she said.
 "Espionage."
  She laughed: it seemed that somehow she knew he was lying. "You must love
  it," she said.
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     105

  Vandam thought: How does she do this to me? She kept him always off
  balance, with her teasing and her insight, her innocent face and her long
  brown limbs. He said: "Catching spies can be very satisfying work, but I
  don't love it."
 "What happens to them when you've caught them?"
 "Then hang, usually."
 "Oh."
  He had managed to throw her off balance for a change. She shivered. He
  said: "Losers generally die in wartime."
 "Is that why you don't love it-because they hang?"
 "No. I don't love it because I don't always catch them."
 "Are you proud of being so hardhearted?"
  "I don't think I'm hardhearted. We're trying to kill more of them than they
  can kill us." He thought: How did I come to be defending myself?
  She got up to pour him another drink. He watched her walk across the room.
  She moved gracefully-like a cat, he thought; no, like a kitten. He looked
  at her back as she stooped to pick up the cocktail shaker, and he wondered
  what she was wearing beneath the yellow dress. He noticed her hands as she
  poured the drink: they were slender and strong. She did not give herself
  another martini.
  He wondered what background she came from. He said: "Are your parents
  alive?"
 "No," she said abruptly.
 "I'm sorry," he said. He knew she was lying.
 "Why did you ask me that?"
 "Idle curiosity. Please forgive me."
  She leaned over and touched his arm lightly, brushing his skin with her
  fingertips, a caress as gentle as a breeze. "You apologize too -nuch." She
  looked away from him, as if hesitating; and then, seeming to yield to an
  impulse, she began to tell him of her background.
  She had been the eldest of five children in a desperately poor family. Her
  parents were cultured and loving people"My father taught me English and my
  mother taught me to wear clean clothes," she said-but the father, a tailor,
  was ultraorthodox and had estranged himself from the rest of the Jewish
  community in Alexandria after a doctrinal dispute with the ritual
  slaughterer. When Elene was fifteen years old her father began to go blind.
  He could no longer work as a
 106       Ken Follett

 tailor-but he would neither ask nor accept help from the "back-sliding"
 Alexandrian Jews. Elene went as a live-in maid to a British home and sent
 her wages to her family. From that point on, her story was one which had
 been repeated, Vandain knew, time and again over the last hundred years in
 the homes of the British ruling class: she fell in love with the son of the
 house, and he seduced her. She had been fortunate in that they had been
 found out before she became pregnant. The son was sent away to university
 and Elene was paid off. She was terrified to return home to tell her father
 she had been fired for fornication-and with a gentile. She lived on her
 payoff, continuing to send home the same amount of cash each week, until the
 money ran out. Then a lecherous businessman whom she had met at the house
 had set her up in a flat, and she was embarked upon her life's work. Soon
 afterward her father had been told how she was living, and he made the
 family sit shiva for her.
 "What is shivaT'Vandam asked.
 "Mourning."
  Since then she had not heard from them, except for a message from a friend
  to tell her that her mother had died.
 Vandam said: "Do you hate your father?"
  She shrugged. "I think it turned out rather well." She spread her arms to
  indicate the apartment.
 "But are you happy?"
  She looked at him. Twice she seemed about to speak and then said nothing.
  Finally she looked away. Vandam felt she was regretting the impulse that
  had made her tell him her life story. She changed the subject. "What brings
  you here tonight, Major?"
  Vandam collected his thoughts. He had been so interested in her-watching
  her hands and her eyes as she spoke of her past-that be had forgotten for
  a while his purpose. "I'm still looking for Alex Wolff," he began. "I
  haven't found him, but I've found his grocer."
 "How did you do that?"
  He decided not to tell her. Better that nobody outside Intelligence should
  know that German spies were betrayed by their forged money. "That's a long
  story," he said. "The important thing is, I want to put someone inside the
  shop in case he comes back."
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     107
 "Me."
 "That's what I had in mind."
  "Then, when he comes in, I hit him over the head with a bag of sugar and
  guard the unconscious body until you come along."
  Vandam laughed. "I believe you would," he said. "I can just see you leaping
  over the counter." He realized how much he was relaxing, and resolved to
  pull himself together before he made a fool of himself.
 "Seriously, what do I have to do?" she said.
 "Seriously, you have to discover where he lives."
 "How?"
  "I'm not sure." Vandam hesitated. "I thought perhaps you might befriend
  him. You're a very attractive woman-1 imagine it would he easy for you."
 "What do you mean by 'befriend'?"
 "That's up to you. Just as long as you get his address."
  "I see." Suddenly her mood had changed, and there was bitterness in her
  voice. The switch astonished Vandam: she was too quick for him to follow
  her. Surely a woman like Elene would not be offended by this suggestion?
  She said: "Why don't you just have one of your soldiers follow him home?"
  "I may have to do that, if you fail to win his confidence. The trouble is,
  he might realize he was being followed and shake off the tail- -then he
  would never go back to the grocer's, and we would have lost our advantage.
  But if you can persuade him, say, to invite you to his house for dinner,
  then we'll get the information we need without tipping mir hand. Of course,
  it might not work. Both alternatives are risky. But I prefer the subtle
  approach."
 "I understand that."
  Of course she understood, Vandam thought; the whole thing was as plain as
  day. What the devil was the matter with her? She was a strange woman: at
  one moment he was quite enchanted by her, and at the next he was
  infuriated. For the first time it crossed his mind that she might refuse to
  do what he was asking. Nervously he said: "Will you help me?"
  She got up and filled his glass again, and this time she took another drink
  herself. She was very tense, but it was clear she was not willing to tell
  him why. He always felt very annoyed
 108       Ken Follett

 with women in moods like this. It would be a damn nuisance if she
 refused to cooperate now.
  At last she said: "I suppose it's no worse than what I've been doing
  all my life."
 "That's what I thought," said Vandam with relief.
 She gave him a very black look.
  "You start tomorrow," he said. He gave her a piece of paper with the
  address of the shop written on it. She took it without looking at it.
  "The shop belongs to Mikis Aristopoulos," be added.
 "How long do you think this will take?" she said.
  "I don't know." He stood up. "I'll get in touch willh you every few
  days, to make sure everything's all rigbt-but you'll contact me as
  soon as he makes an appearance, won't you?"
    It
 "Yes.
  Vandam remembered something. "By the way, the shopkeeper thinks we're
  after Wolff for forgery. Don! t talk to him about espionage."
 "I won't.,,
  The change in her mood was permanent. They were no longer enjoying each
  other's company. Vandarn said: "I'll leave you to your thriller."
 She stood up. "I'll see you out."
  They went to the door. As Vandam stepped out, the tenant of the
  neighboring flat approached along the corridor. Vandam had been thinking
  of this moment, in the back of his mind, all evening, and now he did what
  he had been determined not to do. He took Elene's arm, bent his head and
  kissed her mouth.
  Her lips moved briefly in response. He pulled away. The neighbor passed
  by. Vandarn looked at Elene. The neighbor unlocked his door, entered bis
  flat and closed the door behind him. Vandam released Elene's arm.
 She said: "You're a good actor."
  "Yes," he said. "Good-bye." He turned away and strolled briskly down the
  corridor. He should have felt pleased with his evening's work, but
  instead he felt as if he had done something a little shameful. He beard
  the door of her apartment bang shut behind him.
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     109

 Elene leaned back against the closed door and cursed William Vandam.
  He had come into her life, full of English courtesy, asking her to do a
  new kind of work and help win the war; and then he had told her she must
  go whoring again.
  She had really believed he was going to change her life. No more rich
  businessmen, no more furtive affairs, no more dancing or waiting on
  tables. She had a worthwhile job, something she believed in, something
  that mattered. Now it turned out to be the same old game.
  For seven years she had been living off her face and her body, and now
  she wanted to stop.
  She went into the living room to get a drink. His glass was there on the
  table, half empty. She put it to her lips. The drink was warm and bitter.
  At first she had not liked Vandam: he had seemed a stiff, solemn, dull
  man. Then she had chang6d her mind about him. When had she first thought
  there might be another, different man beneath the rigid exterior? She
  remembered: it had been when he laughed. That laugh intrigued her. He had
  done it again tonight, when she said she would hit Wolff over the head
  with a bag of sugar. There was a rich vein of fun deep, deep inside him,
  and when it was tapped the laughter bubbled up and took over his whole
  personality for a momcnt. She suspected that he was a man with a big
  appetite for life-an appetite which he had firmly under control, too
  firmly. It made Elene want to get under his skin, to make him be himself.
  That was why she teased him, and tried to make him laugh again.
 That was why she had kissed him, too.
  She had been curiously happy to have him in her home, sitting on her
  couch, smoking and talking. She had even thought how nice it would be to
  take this strong, innocent man to bed and show him things he never
  dreamed of. Why did she like him? Perhaps it was that he treated her as
  a person, not as a girlie. She knew he would never pat her bottom and
  say: "Don't you worry your pretty little head . . ."
  And he had spoiled it all. Why was she so bothered by this thing with
  Wolff? One more insincere act of seduction would do her no harm. Vandam
  had more or less said that. And in saying so, he had revealed that he
  regarded her as a whore.
 110       Ken Follett

 That was what had made her so mad. She wanted his esteem, and when he asked
 her to "befriend" Wolff, she knew she was never going to get it, not really.
 Anyway the whole thing was foolish. the relationship between a woman such as
 she and an English officer was doomed to turn out like all Elene's
 relationships-manipulation on one side, dependence on the other and respect
 nowhere. Vandarn would always see her as a whore. For a while she had
 thought he might be different from all the rest, but she had been wrong.
 And she thought: But why do I mind so much?

 Vandam was sitting in darkness at his bedroom window in the middle of the
 night, smoking cigarettes and looking out at the moonlit Nile, vhen a memory
 from his childhood sprang, fully formed, into his mind.
  He is eleven years old, sexually innocent, physically still a child. He is
  in the terraced gray brick house where he has always lived. The house has
  a bathroom, with water heated by the coal fire in the kitchen below: he has
  been told that this makes his family very fortunate, and he must not boast
  about it; indeed, when he goes to the new school, the posh school in
  Bournemouth, he must pretend that he thinks it is perfectly normal to have
  a bathroom and hot water coming out of the taps. The bath-room has a water
  closet too. He is going there now to pee. His mother is in there, bathing
  his sister, who is seven years old, but they won't mind him going in to
  pee, he has done it before, and the other toilet is a long cold walk down
  the garden. What he has forgotten is that his cousin is also being bathed.
  She is eight years old. He walks into the bathroom. His sister is sitting
  in the bath. His cousin is standing, about to come out. His mother holds
  a-towel. He looks at his cousin.
  She is naked, of course. It is the first time he has seen any girl other
  than his sister naked. His cousin's body is slightly plump, and her skin is
  flushed with the heat of the water. She is quite the loveliest sight he has
  ever seen. He stands inside the bathroom doorway looking at her with
  undisguised interest and admiration.
  He does not see the slap coming. His mother's large hand seems to come from
  nowhere. It hits his cheek with a loud clap. She is a good hitter, his
  mother, and this is one of her
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     111

 best efforts. It hurts like hell, but the shock is even worse than the
 pain. Worst of all is that the warm sentiment which had engulfed him has
 been shattered like a glass window.
  "Get outl" his mother screams, and he leaves, hurt and humiliated.
  Vandam remembered this as he sat alone watching the Egyptian night, and
  he thought, as he had thought at the time it happened: Now why did she
  do that?
          9

      In the early morning the tiled floor of the mosque was cold to
      Alex Wolff's bare feet. The handful of dawn worshipers was lost in
      the vastness of the pillared hall. There was a silence, a sense of
      peace, and a bleak gray light. A shaft of sunlight pierced one of
      the high narrow slits in the wall, and at that moment the muezzin
      began to cry:
       "Allahu akbarl Allahu akbarl Allahu akbarl Allahu akbar!"
      Wolff turned to face Mecca.
       He was wearing a long robe and a turban, and the shoes in his
       hand were simple Arab sandals. He was never quite sure why he did
       this. He was a True Believer only in theory. He had been
       circumcised according to Islamic doctrine, and he had completed
       the pilgrimage to Mecca; but he drank alcohol and ate pork, he
       never paid the zakat tax, he never observed the fast of Ramadan
       and he did not pray every day, let alone five times a day. But
       every so often he felt the need to immerse himself, just for a
       few minutes, in the familiar, mechanical ritual of his
       stepfather's religion. Then, as he had done today, he would get
       up while it was still dark, and dress in traditional clothes, and
       walk through the cold quiet streets of the city to the mosque his
       father had attended, and perform the ceremonial ablutions in the
       forecourt, and enter in time for the first prayers of the new
       day.
       He touched his ears with his hands, then clasped his hands in
       front of him, the left within the right. He bowed, then knelt
       down. Touching his forehead to the floor at appropriate moments,
       he recited the el-fatha:
"In the name of God the merciful and compassionate. ill
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     113

 Praise be to God, the lord of the worlds, the merciful and compassionate,
 the Prince of the day of judgment; Thee we serve, and to Thee we pray for
 help; lead us in the right way, the way of those to whom Thou hast shown
 mercy, upon whom no wrath resteth, and who go not astray."
  He looked over his right shoulder, then his left, to greet the two
  recording angels who wrote down his good and bad acts.
 When he looked over his left shoulder, he saw Abdullah.
  Without interrupting his prayer the thief smiled broadly, showing his
  steel tooth.
  Wolff got up and went out. He stopped outside to put on his sandals, and
  Abdullah came waddling after him. They shook hands.
  "You are a devout man, like myself," Abdullah said. "I knew you would
  come, sooner or later, to your father's mosque."
 "You've been looking for me?"
 "Many people are looking for you."
  Together they walked away from the mosque. Abdullah said: "Knowing you
  to be a True Believer, I could not betray you to the British, even for
  so large a sum of money; so I told Major Vandam that I knew nobody by the
  name of Alex Wolff, or Achmed Rahmha."
  Wolff stopped abruptly. So they were still hunting him. He had started
  to feel safe-too soon. He took Abdullah by the arm and steered him into
  an Arab caf6. They sat down.
 Wolff said: "He knows my Arab name."
 "He knows all about you xcept where to find you."
  Wolff felt worried, and at the same time intensely curious. "What is this
  major like?" he asked.
  Abdullah shrugged. "An Englishman. No subtlety. No manners. Khaki shorts
  and a face the color of a tomato."
 "You can do better than that."
  Abdullah nodded. "This man is patient and determined. If I were you, I
  should be afraid of him."
 Suddenly Wolff was afraid.
 He said: "What has he been doing?"
  "He has found out all about your family. He has talked to all your
  brothers. They said they knew nothing of you."
  The caf6 proprietor brought each of them a dish of mashed fava beans and
  a flat loaf of coarse bread. Wolff
 114       Ken Follett

 broke his bread and dipped it into the beans. Flies began to gather around
 the bowls. Both men ignored them.
  Abdullah spoke through a mouthful of food. "Vandam is offering one
  hundred pounds for your address. Hal As if we would betray one of our own
  for money."
 Wolff swallowed. "Even if you knew my address."
 Abdullah shrugged. "It would be a small thing to find out."
  "I know," Wolff said. "So I am going to tell you, as a sign of my faith
  in your friendship. I am living at Shepheard's Hotel."
  Abdullah looked hurt. "My friend, I know this is not true. It is the
  first place the British would look----~'
  "You misunderstand me." Wolff smiled. "I am not a guest there. I work in
  the kitchens, cleaning pots, and at the end of the day I lie down on the
  floor with a dozen or so others and sleep there."
  "So cunning!" Abdullah grinned: he was pleased with the idea and
  delighted to have the information. "You hide under their very nosesl"
  "I know you will keep this secret," Wolff said. "And, as a sign of my
  gratitude for your friendship, I hope you will accept from me a gift of
  one hundred pounds."
 "But this is not necessary~"
 "I insist."
 Abdullah sighed and gave in reluctantly. "Very well."
 "I will have the money sent to your house."
  Abdullah wiped his empty bowl with the last of his bread. "I must leave
  you now," he said. "Allow me to pay for your breakfast."
 "Thank you."
  "Ahl But I have come with no money. A thousand pardons-"
 "It's nothing," WoIff said. "Alallah-in God's care."
  Abdullah replied conventionally: "Allah yisallimak-may God protect thee."
  He went out.
  Wolff called for coffee and thought about Abdullah. The thief would
  betray Wolff for a lot less than a hundred pounds, of course. What had
  stopped him so far was that he did not know Woffs address. He was
  actively trying to discover it-that was why he come to the mosque. Now
  he would attempt to check on the story about living in the
         TIRE KEY TO REBECCA    115

 kitchens of Shepheard's. This might not be easy, for of course no one would
 admit that staff slept on the kitchen floorindeed Wolff was not at all sure
 it was true-but he had to reckon on Abdullah discovering the lie sooner or
 later. The story was no more than a delaying tactic; so was the bribe.
 However, when at last Abdullah found out that Wolff was living on Sonja's
 houseboat, he would probably come to Wolff for more money instead of going
 to Vandam.
 The situation was under control-for the moment.
 Webb left a few milli6mes on the table and went out.
  The city had come to life. The streets were already jammed with traffic,
  the pavements crowded with vendors and beggars, the air full of good and
  bad smells. Wolff made his way to the central post office to use a
  telephone. He called GHQ and asked for Major Smith.
  "We have seventeen of them," the operator told him. "Have you got a first
  name?"
 "Sandy.,,
  "That will be Major Alexander Smith. He's not here at the moment. May I
  take a messageT'
  Wolff had known the major would not be at GHQ-it was too early. "The
  message is: Twelve noon today at Zamalek. Would you sign it: S. Have you
  got that?"
 "Yes, but if I may have your full-"
  Wolff hung up. He left the post office and headed for Zamalck.
  Since Sonja had seduced Smith, the major had sent her a dozen roses, a box
  of chocolates, a love letter and two handdelivered messages asking for
  another date. Wolff had forbidden her to reply. By now Smith was wondering
  whether he would ever see her again. Wolff was quite sure that Sonja was
  the first beautiful woman Smith had ever slept with. After a couple of days
  of suspense Smith would be desperate to see her again, and would jump at
  any chance.
  On the way home Wolff bought a newspaper, but it was full of the usual
  rubbish. When he got to the houseboat Sonja was still asleep. He threw the
  rolled-up newspaper at her to wake her. She groaned and turned over.
  Wolff left her and went through the curtains back into the living room. At
  the far end, in the prow of the boat, was a tiny open kitchen. It had one
  quite large cupboard for
 116       Ken Follett

 brooms and cleaning materials. Wolff opened the cupboard door. He could
 just about get inside if he bent his knees and ducked his head. The catch
 of the door could be worked only from the outside. He searched through the
 kitchen drawers and found a knife with a pliable blade. He thought he
 could probably work the catch from inside the cupboard by sticking the
 knife through the crack of the door and --asing it against the
 spring-loaded bolt. He got into the cupboard, closed the door and tried
 it. it worked.
 However, he could not see through the doorjamb.
  He took a nail and a flatiron and banged the nail through the thin wood
  of the door at eye level. He used a kitchen fork to enlarge the hole. He
  got inside the cupboard again and closed the door. He put his eye to the
  bole.
  He saw the curtains part, and Sonja came into the living room. She looked
  around, surprised that he was not there. She shrugged, then lifted her
  nightdress and scratched her belly. Wolff suppressed a laugh. She came
  across to the kitchen, picked up the kettle and turned on the tap.
  Wolff slipped the knife into the crack of the door and worked the catch.
  He opened the door, stepped out and said: "Good morning."
 Sonja screamed.
 Wolff laughed.
  She threw the kettle at him, and he dodged. He said: "It's a good hiding
  place, isn't it?"
 "You terrified me, you bastard," she said.
  He picked up the kettle and handed it to her. "Make the coffee," he told
  her. He put the knife in the cupboard, closed the door and went to sit
  down.
 Sonja said: "What do you need a hiding place for?"
  "To watch you and Major Smith. It's very funny-he looks like a passionate
  turtle."
 "When is he coming?"
 "Twelve noon today."
 "Oh, no. Why so early in the morning?"
  "Listen. If he's got anything worthwhile in that briefcase, then he
  certainly isn't allowed to go wandering around the city with it in his
  hand. He should take it straight to his office and lock it in the safe.
  We mustn't give him time to do that-the whole thing is useless unless he
  brings his case here.
         TBE KEY TO REBECCA     117

 What we want is for him to come rushing here straight from GHQ. In fact, if
 he gets here late and without his briefcase, we're going to lock up and
 pretend you're out-then next time he'll know he has to get here fast."
 "You've got it all worked out, haven't you?"
  Wolff laughed. "You'd better start getting ready. I want you to look
  irresistible."
 "I'm always irresistible." She went through to the bedroom.
 He called after her: "Wash your hair." There was no re-
 ply.
  He looked at his watch. Time was running out. He went around the houseboat
  hiding traces of his own occupation, putting away his shoes, his razor, his
  toothbrush and his fez. Sonja went up on deck in a robe to dry her hair in
  the sun. Wolff made the coffee and took her a cup. He drank his own, then
  washed his cup and put it away. He took out a bottle of champagne, put it
  in a bucket of ice and placed it beside the bed with two glasses. He
  thought of changing the sheets, then decided to do it after Smith's visit,
  not before. Sonja came down from the deck. She dabbed perfume on her thighs
  and between her breasts. Wolff took a last look around. All was ready. He
  sat on a divan by a porthole to watch the towpath.
  It was a few minutes after noon when Major Smith appeared. He was hurrying,
  as if afraid to be late. He wore his uniform shirt, khaki shorts, socks and
  sandals, but be had taken off his officer's cap. He was sweating in the
  midday sun.
 He was carrying his briefcase.
 Wolff grinned with satisfaction.
 "Here he comes," Wolff called. "Are you read0"
 "No.,,
  She was trying to rattle him. She would be ready. He got Into the cupboard,
  closed the door, and put his eye to the peephole.
  He heard Smith's footsteps on the gangplank and then on the deck. The major
  called: "Hello?"
 Sonja did not reply.
  Looking through the peephole, Wolff saw Smith come down the stairs into the
  interior of the boat.
 "Is anybody there?"
 Smith looked at the curtains which divided off the bed- 118       Ken Follett

 room. His voice was full of the expectation of disappointment. "Sonja?"
  The curtains parted. Sonja stood there, her arms lifted to hold the
  curtains apart. She had put her hair up in a complex pyramid as she did
  for her act. She wore the baggy trousers of filmy gauze, but at this
  distance her body was visible through the material. From the waist up she
  was naked except for a jeweled collar around her neck. Her brown breasts
  were full and round. She had put lipstick on her nipples.
 Wolff thought: Good girl!
  Major Smith stared at her. He was quite bowled over. He said: "Oh, dear.
  Oh, good Lord. Oh, my soul."
 Wolff tried not to laugh.
  Smith dropped his briefcase and went to her. As he embraced her, she
  stepped back and closed the curtains behind his back.
 Wolff opened the cupboard door and stepped out.
  The briefcase lay on the floor just this side of the curtains. Wolff
  knelt down, hitching up his galabiya, and turned the case over. He tried
  the catches. The case was locked.
 Wolff whispered: "Lieber Gott."
  He looked around. He needed a pin, a paper clip, a sewing needle,
  something with which to pick the locks. Moving quietly, he went to the
  kitchen area and carefully pulled open a drawer. Meat skewer, too thick;
  bristle from a wire brush, too thin; vegetable knife, too broad . . . In
  a little dish beside the sink he found one of Sonja's hair clips.
  He went back to the case and poked the end of the clip into the keyhole
  of one of the locks. He twisted and turned it experimentally, encountered
  a kind of springy resistance, and pressed harder.
 The clip broke.
 Again Wolff cursed under his breath.
  He glanced reflexively at his wristwatch. Last time Smith had screwed
  Sonja in about five minutes. I should have told her to make it last,
  Wolff thought.
  He picked up the flexible knife he had been using to open the cupboard
  door from the inside. Gently, he slid it into one of the catches on the
  briefcase. When he pressed, the knife bent.
 He could have broken the locks in a few seconds, but he
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     119

 did not want to, for then Smith would know that his case had been opened.
 Wolff was not afraid of Smith, but he wanted the major to remain oblivious
 to the real reason for the seduction: if there was valuable material in the
 case, Wolff wanted to open it regularly.
  But if he could not open the case, Smith would always be useless.
  What would happen if he broke the locks? Smith would finish with Sonja, put
  on his pants, pick up his case and realize it had been opened. He would
  accuse Sonja. The houseboat would be blown unless Wolff killed Smith. What
  would be the consequences of killing Smith? Another British soldier
  murdered, this time in Cairo. There would be a terrific manhunt. Would they
  be able to connect the killing with Wolff? Had Smith told anyone about
  Sonja? Who had seen them together in the Cha-Cha Club? Would inquiries lead
  the British to the houseboat?
  It would be risky-but the worst of it would be that Wolff would be without
  a source of information, back at square one.
  Meanwhile his people were fighting a war out there in the desert, and they
  needed information.
  Wolff stood silent in the middle of the living room, racking his brains. He
  had thought of something, back there, which gave him his answer, and now it
  had slipped his mind. On the other side of the curtain, Smith was muttering
  and gro
 Wolff wondered if he had his pants off yet-
 His pants off, that was it.
 He would have the key to his briefcase in his pocket.
  Wolff peeped between the curtains. Smith and Sonja lay on the bed. She was
  on her back, eyes closed. He lay beside her, propped up on one elbow,
  touching her. She was arching her back as if she were enjoying it. As Wolff
  watched, Smith rolled over, half lying on her, and put his face to her
  breasts.
 Smith still had his shorts on.
  Wolff put his head through the curtains and waved an arm. trying to attract
  Sonja's attention. He thought: Look at me, woman! Smith moved his head from
  one breast to the other. Sonja opened her eyes, glanced at the top of
  Smitlfs head, stroked his brifflantined hair, and caught Wolff's eye.
 He mouthed: Take off his pants.
 120       Ken Follett

 She frowned, not understanding.
  Wolff stepped through the curtains and mimed removing pants.
 Sonja's face cleared as enlightenment dawned.
  Wolff stepped back through the curtains and closed them silently, leaving
  only a tiny gap to look through.
  He saw Sonja's hands go to Smith's shorts and begin to struggle with the
  buttons of the fly. Smith groaned. Sonja rolled her eyes upward,
  contemptuous of his credulous passion. Wolff thought: I hope she has the
  sense to throw the shorts this way.
  After a minute Smith grew impatient with her fumbling, rolled over, sat up
  and took them off himself. He dropped them over the end of the bed and
  turned back to Sonja.
  The end of the bed was about five feet away from the curtai.n.
  Wolff got down on the floor and lay flat on his belly. He parted the
  curtains with his hands and inched his way through, Indian fashion.
 He heard Smith say: "Oh, God, you're so beautiful."
  Wolff reached the shorts. With one hand he carefully turned the material
  over until he saw a pocket. He put his hand in the pocket and felt for a
  key.
 The pocket was empty.
  There was the sound of movement from the bed. Smith grunted. Sonja said:
  "No, lie still."
 Wolff thought: Good girl.
  He turned the shorts over until he found the other pocket. He felt in it.
  That, too, was empty.
  There might be more pockets. Wolff grew reckless. He felt the garment,
  searching for hard lumps that might be metal. There were none. He picked up
  the shorts-
 A bunch of keys lay beneath them.
 Wolff breathed a silent sigh of relief.
  The keys must have slipped out of the pocket when Smith dropped the shorts
  on the floor.
  Wolff picked up the keys and the shorts and began to inch backward through
  the curtains.
 Then he heard footsteps on deck.
  Smith said: "Good God, whars that!" in a highpitched voice.
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     121

  "Hush!" Sonja said. "Only the postman. Tell me if you like this. .."
 "Oh, yes."
  Wolff made it through the curtains and looked up. The postman was placing
  a letter on the top step of the stairs, by the hatch. To Wolff's horror the
  postman saw him and called out: "Sabah el-kheir-good morningl"
  Wolff put a finger to his lips for silence, then lay his cheek against his
  hand to mime sleep, then pointed to the bedroom.
 "Your pardon!" the postman whispered.
 Wolff waved him away.
 There was no sound from the bedroom.
  Had the postman's greeting made Smith suspicious? Probably not, Wolff
  decided: a postman might well call good morning even if he could see no
  one, for the fact that the hatch was open indicated that someone was at
  home.
  The lovemaking noises in the next room resumed, and Wolff breathed more
  easily.
  He sorted through the keys, found the smallest, and tried it in the locks
  of the case.
 It worked.
  He opened the other catch and lifted the lid. Inside was a sheaf of papers
  in a stiff cardboard folder. Wolff thought: No more menus, please. He
  opened the folder and looked at the top sheet.
 He read:

             OPERATION ABERDEEN

    1. Allied forces Will mount a major counterattack at dawn on 5 June.

    2. The attack will be two-pronged ...

  Wolff looked up from the papers. "My God," he whispered. "This is itl"
  He listened. The noises from the bedroom were louder now. He could hear the
  springs of the bed, and he thought the boat itself was beginning to rock
  slightly. There was not much time.
 The report in Smith's possession was detailed. Wolff was
 122       Ken Follett

 not sure exactly how the British chain of command worked, but presumably
 the battles were planned in detail by General Ritchie at desert
 headquarters then sent to GHQ in Cairo for approval by Auchinleck. Plans
 for more important battles would be discussed at the morning conferences,
 which Smith obviously attended in some capacity. Wolff wondered again
 which department it was that was housed in the unmarked building in the
 Shari Suleiman Pasha to which Smith returned each afternoon; then he
 pushed the thought aside. He needed to make notes.
  He hunted around for pencil and paper, thinking: I should have done this
  beforehand. He found a writing pad and a red pencil in a drawer. He sat
  down by the briefcase and read on.
  The main Allied forces were besieged in an area they called the Cauldron.
  The June 5 counterattack was intended to be a breakout. It would begin
  at 0250 with the bombardment, by four regiments of artillery, of the
  Aslagh Ridge, on Rommel's eastern flank. The artillery was to soften up
  the opposition in readiness for the spearhead attack by the infantry of
  the 10th Indian Brigade. When the Indians had breached the line at Aslagh
  Ridge, the tanks of the 22nd Armored Brigade would rush through the gap
  and capture Sidi Muftah while the 9th Indian Brigade followed through and
  consolidated.
  Meanwhile the 32nd Army Tank Brigade, with infantry support, would attack
  Rommel's northern flank at Sidra Ridge.
  When he came to the end of the report Wolff realized he had been so
  absorbed that he had heard, but had not taken notice of, the sound of
  Major Smith reaching his climax. Now the bed creaked and a pair of feet
  hit the floor.
 Wolff tensed.
 Sonja said: "Darling, pour some champagne."
 "Just a minute-"
 "I want it now."
 "I feel a bit silly with me pants off, m'dear."
 Wolff thought: Christ, he wants his pants.
  Sonja said: "I like you undressed. Drink a glass with me before you put
  your clothes on."
 "Your wish is my command."
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     123

  Wolff relaxed. She may bitch about it, he thought, but she does what I
  wantl
  He looked quickly through the rest of the papers, determined that he would
  not be caught now: Smith was a wonderful find, and it would be a tragedy to
  kill the goose the first time it laid a golden egg. He noted that the
  attack would employ four hundred tanks, three hundred and thirty of them
  with the eastern prong and only seventy with the northern; that Generals
  Messervy and Briggs were to establish a combined headquarters; and that
  Auchinleck was demanding-a little peevishly, it seemed-thorough
  reconnaissance and close cooperation between infantry and tanks.
  A cork popped loudly as he was writing. He licked his lips, thinking: I
  could use some of that. He wondered how quickly Smith could drink a glass
  of champagne. He decided to take no chances.
  He put the papers back in the folder and the folder back in the case. He
  closed the lid and keyed the locks. He put the bunch of keys in a pocket of
  the shorts. He stood up and peeped through the curtain.
  Smith was sitting up in bed in his army-issue underwear with a glass in one
  hand and a cigarette in the other, looking pleased with himself. The
  cigarettes must have been in his shirt pocket: it would have been awkward
  if they had been in his shorts.
  At the moment Wolff was within Smith's field of view. He took his face away
  from the tiny gap between the curtains, and waited. He heard Sonia say:
  "Pour me some more, please." He looked through again. Smith took her glass
  and turned away to the bottle. His back was now to Wolff. Wolff pushed the
  shorts through the curtains and put them on the floor. Sonja saw him and
  raised her eyebrows in alarm. Wolff withdrew his arm. Smith handed Sonja
  the glass.
  Wolff got into the cupboard, closed the door and eased himself to the
  floor. He wondered how long he would have to wait before Smith left. He did
  not care: he was jubilant. He had struck gold.
  It was half an hour before he saw, through the peephole, Smith come into
  the living room, wearing his clothes again. By this time Wolff was feeling
  very cramped. Sonja foHowed Smith, saying: "Must you go so soon?"
 124        Ken Fonett

  -rm afraid so," he said."It's a very awkward time for me, you see." He
  hesitated. "To be perfectly frank, I'm not actually supposed to carry
  this briefcase around with me. I had the very devil of a job to come here
  at noon.You see, I have to go from GHQ straight to my office. Well, I
  didn't do that today-I was desperately afraid I might miss you if I came
  late. I told my office I was lunching at GHQ, and told the chaps at GHQ
  I was lunching at my office. However, next time I'll go to my office,
  dump the briefcase, and come on here-if that's all right with you, my
  little poppet."
 Wolff thought: For God's sake, Sonja, say somethingl
  She said: "Oh, but, Sandy, my housekeeper comes every afternoon to
  clean-we wouldn't be alone."
  Smith frowned. "Damn. Well, we'll just have to meet in the evenings."
  "But I have to work-and after my act, I have to stay in the club and talk
  to the customers. And I couldn't sit at your table every night: people
  would gossip."
  The cupboard was very hot and stuffy. Wolff was perspiring heavily.
 Smith said: "Can1 you tell your cleaner not to come?"
  "But darling, I couldn't clean the place myself-I wouldn't know how."
  Wolff saw her smile, then she took Smith's hand and placed it between her
  legs. "Oh, Sandy, say you'll come at noon."
  It was much more than Smith could withstand. "Of course I will, my
  darling," he said.
  They kissed, and at last Smith left. Wolff listened to the footsteps
  crossing the deck and descending the gangplank, then he got out of the
  cupboard.
  Sonja watched with malicious glee as he stretched his aching limbs.
  "Sore?" she said with mock sympathy.
 "It was worth it," Wolff said. "You were wonderful."
 "Did you get what you wanted?"
 "Better than I could have dreamed."
  Wolff cut up bread and sausage for lunch while Sonja took a bath. After
  lunch he found the English novel and the key to the code, and drafted his
  signal to Rommel. Sonja went to the racetrack with a crowd of Egyptian
  friends: Wolff gave her fifty pounds to bet with.
         TFIE KEY TO REBECCA     125

  In the evening she went to the Cha-Cha Club and Wolff sat at home
  drinking whiskey and reading Arab poetry. As midnight approached, he set
  up the radio.
  At exactly 2400 hours, he tapped out his call sign, Sphim A few seconds
  later Rommel's desert listening post, or Horch Company, answered. Wolff
  sent a series of V's to enable them to tune in exactly, then asked them
  what his signal strength was. In the middle of the sentence be made a
  mistake, and sent a series of E's-for Error-before beginning again. They
  told him his signal was maximum strength and made GA for Go Ahead. He
  made a KA to indicate the beginning of his message; then, in code, he
  began: "Operation Aberdeen. . . ."
  At the end be added AR for Message Finished and K for Over. They replied
  with a series of R's, which meant: "Your message has been received and
  understood."
  Wolff packed away the radio, the core book and the key, then be poured
  himself another drink.
 All in all, he thought he had done incredibly well.
               10

 The signal from the spy was only one of twenty or thirty reports on the desk
 of von Mellenthin, Rommel's le-intelligence officer-at seven o'clock on the
 morning of June 4. There were several other reports from listening units:
 infantry had been heard talking to tanks au clair; field headquarters had
 issued instructions in low-grade codes which had been deciphered overnight;
 and there was other enemy radio traffic which, although indecipherable,
 nevertheless yielded hints about enemy intentions simply because of its
 location and frequency. As well as radio reconnaissance there were the
 reports from the Ics in the field, who got information from captured
 weapons, the uniforms of enemy dead, interrogation of prisoners and simply
 looking across the desert and seeing the people they were fighting. Then
 there was aerial reconnaissance, a situation report from an order-of-battle
 expert and a summary-just about useless--of Berlin's current assessment of
 Allied intentions and strength.
  Like all field intelligence officers, von Mellenthin despised spy reports.
  Based on diplomatic gossip, newspaper stories and sheer guesswork, they
  were wrong at least as often as they were right, which made them
  effectively useless.
 He had to admit that this one looked different.
  The run-of-the-mill secret agent might report: "9th Indian Brigade have
  been told they will be involved in a major battle in the near future," or:
  "Allies planning a breakout from the Cauldron in early June," or: "Rumors
  that Auchinleck will be replaced as commander in chief." But there was
  nothing indefinite about this report.
 The spy, whose caU sip was Sphinx, began his message:
               126
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     127

 "Operation Aberdeen." He gave the date of the attack, the brigades involved
 and their specific roles, the places they would pounce, and the tactical
 thinking of the planners.
 Von Mellenthin was not convinced, but he was interested.
  As the thermometer in his tent passed the 100-degree mark he began his
  routine round of morning discussions. In person, by field telephone
  and-rarely-by radio, he talked to the divisional Ics, the Luftwaffe liaison
  officer for aerial reconnaissance, the Horch Company liaison man and a few
  of the better brigade Ics. To all of these men he mentioned the 9th and
  10th Indian Brigades, the 22nd Armored Brigade, and the 32nd Army Tank
  Brigade. He told them to look out for these brigades. He also told them to
  watch for battle preparations in the areas from which, according to the
  spy, the counterthrust would come. They would also observe the enemy's
  observers: if the spy were right, there would be increased aerial
  reconnaissance by the Allies of the positions they planned to attack,
  namely Aslagh Ridge, Sidra Ridge and Sidi Muftah. There might be increased
  bombing of those positions, for the purpose of softening up, although this
  was such a giveaway that most commanders would resist the temptation. There
  might be decreased bombing, as a bluff, and this too could be a sign.
  These conversations also enabled the field Ics to update their overnight
  reports. When they were finished von Mellenthin wrote his report for
  Rommel, and took it to the command vehicle. He discussed it with the chief
  of staff, who then presented it to Rommel.
  The morning discussion was brief, for Rommel bad made his major decisions
  and given his orders for the day during the previous evening. Besides,
  Rommel was not in a reflective mood in the mornings: he wanted action. He
  tore around the desert, going from one front-line position to another in
  his staff car or his Storch aircraft, giving new orders, joking with the
  men and taking charge of skirmishes-and yet, although he constantly exposed
  himself to enemy fire, he had not been wounded since 1914. Von Mellenthin
  went with him today, taking the opportunity to get his own picture of the
  front-line situation, and making his personal assessment of the Ics who
  were sending in his raw material: some were overcautious,
 128       Ken Follett -
 omitting all unconfirmed data, and others exaggerated in order to get extra
 supplies and reinforcements for their units.
  In the early evening, when at last the thermometer showed a fall, there
  were more reports and conversations. Von Metlenthin sifted the mass of
  detail for information relating to the counterattack predicted by Sphinx.
  The Ariete Armored-the Italian division occupying the Aslagh Ridge-reported
  increased enemy air activity. Von Mellenthin asked them whether this was
  bombing or reconnaissance, and they said reconnaissance: bombing had actu-
  ally ceased.
  The Luftwaffe reported activity in no-man's-land which might, or might not,
  have been an advance party marking out an assembly point.
  There was a garbled radio intercept in a low-grade cipher in which the
  something Indian Brigade requested urgent clarification of the morning's
  something (orders?) with particular reference to the timing of something
  artillery bombardment. In British tactics, von Mellenthin knew, artillery
  bombardment generally preceded an attack.
 The evidence was building.
  Von Mellenthin checked his card index for the 32nd Army Tank Brigade and
  discovered that they had recently been sighted at Rigel Ridge-a logical
  position from which to attack Sidra Ridge.
  The task of an Ic was an impossible one: to forecast the enemy's moves on
  the basis of inadequate information. He looked at the signs, he used his
  intuition and he gambled.
 Von Mellenthin decided to gamble on Sphinx.
  At 1830 hours he took his report to the command vehicle. Rommel was there
  with his chief of staff Colonel Bayerlein and Kesselring. They stood around
  a large camp table looking at the operations map. A lieutenant sat to one
  side ready to take notes.
  Rommel had taken his cap off, and his large, balding head appeared too big
  for his small body. He looked tired and thin. He suffered recurring stomach
  trouble, von Mellenthin knew, and was often unable to eat for days. His
  normally pudgy face had lost flesh, and his ears seemed to stick out more
  than usual. But his slitted dark eyes were bright with enthusiasm and the
  hope of victory.
         THE KEY TO REBECCA      129

  Von Mellenthin clicked his heels and formally handed over the report,
  then he explained his conclusions on the map. When he had done Kesselring
  said: "And all this is based on the report of a spy, you say?"
  "No, Field Marshal," von Mellenthin said firmly. "There are confirming
  indications."
  "You can find confirming indications for anything," Kesselring said.
  Out of the comer of his eye von Mellenthin could see that Rommel was
  getting cross.
  Kesselring said: "We really can't plan battles on the basis of
  information, from some grubby little secret agent in Cairo."
 Rommel said: "I am inclined to believe this report."
  Von Mellenthin watched the two men. They were curiously balanced in terms
  of power-curiously, that was, for the Army, where hierarchies were
  normally so well defined. Kesselring was C in C South, and outranked
  Rommel, but Rommel did not take orders from him, by some whim of Hit-
  ler's. Both men had patrons in Berlin-Kessehing, the Luftwaffe man, was
  Goering's favorite, and Rommel produced such good publicity that Goebbels
  could be relied upon to support him. Kesselring was popular with the
  Italians, whereas Rommel always insulted them. Ultimately Kesselring was
  more powerful, for as a field marshal he had direct access to Hitler,
  while Rommel had to go through Jodl; but this was a card Kessehing could
  not afford to play too often. So the two men quarreled; and although
  Rommel had the last word here in the desert, back in Europe--von
  Mellenthin knew-Kesselring was maneuvering to get rid of him.
  Rommel turned to the map. "Let us be ready, then, for a two-pronged
  attack. Consider first the weaker, northern prong. Sidra Ridge is held
  by the Twenty-first Panzer Division with antitank guns. Here, in the path
  of the British advance, is a minefield. The panzers will lure the British
  into the minefield and destroy them with antitank fire. If the spy is
  right, and the British throw only seventy tanks into this assault, the
  Twenty-first Panzers should deal with them quickly and be free for other
  action later in the day."
  He drew a thick forefinger down across the map. "Now consider the second
  prong, the main assault, on our eastern
 130       Ken Follett

 flank. This is held by the Italian Army. The attack is to be led by an
 Indian brigade. Knowing those Indians, and knowing our Italians, I assume
 the attack will succeed. I therefore order a vigorous riposte.
  "One: The Italians will counterattack from the west. Two: The Panzers,
  having repelled the other prong of the attack at Sidra Ridge, will turn
  about and attack the Indians from the north. Three: Tonight our engineers
  will clear a gap in the minefield at Bir el-Harmat, so that the Fifteenth
  Panzers can make a swing to the south, emerge through the gap, and attack
  the British forces from the rear."
  Von Mellenthin, listening and watching, nodded appreciation. It was a
  typical Rommel plan, involving rapid switching of forces to maximize
  their effect, an encircling movement, and the surprise appearance of a
  powerful division where it was least expected, in the enemy's rear. If
  it all worked, the attacking Allied brigades would be surrounded, cut off
  and wiped out.
 If it all worked.
 If the spy was right.
  Kesselring iaid to Rommel: "I think you could be making a big mistake."
 "That's your privilege," Rommel said calmly.
  Von Mellenthin did not feel calm. If it worked out badly, Berlin would
  soon hear about Rommel's unjustified faith in poor intelligence; and von
  Mellenthin would be blamed for supplying that intelligence. Rommel's
  attitude to subordinates who let him down was savage.
  Rommel looked at the note-taking lieutenant. "Those, then, are my orders
  for tomorrow." He glared defiantly at Kesselring.
  Von Mellenthin put his hands in his pockets and crossed his fingers.

 Von Mellenthin remembered that moment when, sixteen days later, he and
 Rommel watched the sun rise over Tobruk.
  They stood together on the escarpment northeast of El Adem, waiting for
  the start of the battle. Rommel was wearing the goggles he had taken from
  the captured General O'Connor, the goggles which had become a kind of
  trademark of his. He was in top form: bright-eyed, lively and con-
           THE KEY TO REBECCA      131

 fident. You could almost bear his brain tick as he scanned the landscape and
 computed how the battle might go.
 Von Mellenthin said: "The spy was right."
 Rommel smiled. "That's exactly what I was thinking."
  The Allied counterattack of June 5 had come precisely as forecast, and
  Rommel's defense had worked so well that it had turned into a
  counter-counterattack. Three of the four Allied brigades involved had been
  wiped out, and four regiments of artillery had been captured. Rommel had
  pressed his advantage remorselessly. On June 14 the Gazala Line had been
  broken ind today, June 20, they were to besiege the vital coastal garrison
  of Tobruk.
  Von Mellenthin shivered. It was astonishing how cold the desert could be at
  five o'clock in the morning.
 He watched the sky.
 At twenty minutes past five the attack began.
  A sound like distant thunder swelled to a deafening roar as the Stukas
  approached. The first formation flew over, dived toward the British
  positions, and dropped their bombs. A great cloud of dust and smoke arose,
  and with that Rommel's entire artillery forces opened fire with a
  simultaneous earsplitting crash. Another wave of Stukas came over, then an-
  other: there were hundreds of bombers.
 Von Mellenthin said: "Fantastic. Kesselring really did it-"
  It was the wrong thing to say. Rommel snapped: "No credit to Kesselring:
  today we are directing the planes ourselves."
  The Luftwaffe was putting on a good show, even so, von Mellenthin thought;
  but he did not say it.
  Tobruk was a concentric fortress. The garrison itself was within a town,
  and the town was at the heart of a larger British-held area surrounded by
  a thirty-five-mile perimeter wire dotted with strongpoints. The Germans had
  to cross the wire, then penetrate the town, then take the garrison.
  A cloud of orange smoke arose in the middle of the battlefield. Von
  Mellenthin said: "That's a signal from the assault engineers, telling the
  artillery to lengthen their range."
 Rommel nodded. "Good. We're making progress."
  Suddenly von Mellenthin was seized by optimism. There was booty in Tobruk:
  petrol, and dynamite, and tents, and trucks--already more than half
  Rommel's motorized trans-
   132       Ken Follett

 port consisted of captured British vehicles-and food. Von Mellenthin
 smiled and said: "Fresh fish for dinner?"
  Rommel understood his train of thought. "Liver," he said. "Fried
  potatoes. Fresh bread."
 "A real bed, with a feather pillow."
  "In a house with stone walls to keep out the heat and the bugs."
  A runner arrived with a signal. Von Mellenthin took it and read it. He
  tried to keep the excitement out of his voice as he said: "They've cut
  the wire at Strongpoint Sixty-nine. Group Menny is attacking with the
  infantry of the Afrika Korps."
 "That's it," said Rommel. "We!ve opened a breach. Let's
 It
 90.

 It was ten-thirty in the morning when Lieutenant Colonel Reggie Bogge
 poked his head around the door of Vandam's office and said: "Tobruk is
 under siege."
  It seemed pointless to work then. Vandam went on mechanically, reading
  reports from informants, considering the case of a lazy lieutenant who
  was due for promotion but did not deserve it, trying to think of a fresh
  approach to the Alex Wolff case; but everything seemed hopelessly
  trivial. The news became more depressing as the day wore on. The Germans
  breached the perimeter wire; they bridged the antitank ditch; they
  crossed the inner minefield; they reached the strategic road junction
  known as King's Cross.
  Vandam went home at seven to have supper with Billy. He could not tell
  the boy about Tobruk: the news was not to be released at present As they
  ate their lamb chops, Billy said that his English teacher, a young man
  with a lung condition who could not get into the Army, never stopped
  talking about how he would love to get out into the desert and have a
  bash at the Hun. "I don't believe him, though," Billy said. "Do you?$$
  "I expect he means it," Vandam said. "He just feels guilty."
  Billy was at an argumentative age. "Guilty? He can't feel guilty-it's not
  his fault."
 "Unconsciously he can."
 "What's the difference?"
 I walked into that one, Vandam thought. He considered
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     133

 for a moment, then said: "When you've done something wrong, and you know
 it's wrong, and you feel bad about it, and you know why you feel bad,
 that's conscious guilt. Mr. Simkisson has done nothing wrong, but he still
 feels bad about it, and he doesn't know why he feels bad. That's
 unconscious guilt. It makes him feel better to talk about how much he
 wants to fight."
 "Oh," said Billy.
  Vandarn did not know whether the boy had understood or not.
  Billy went to bed with a new book. He said it was a "tec," by which he
  meant a detective story. It was called Death on the Nile.
  Vandam went back to GHQ. The news was still bad. The 21st Panzers had
  entered the town of Tobruk and fired from the quay on to several British
  ships which were trying, belatedly, to escape to the open sea. A number
  of vessels had been sunk. Vandarn thought of the men who made a ship, and
  the tons of precious steel that went into it, and the training of the
  sailors, and the welding of the crew into a team; and now the men were
  dead, the ship sunk, the effort wasted.
  He spent the night in the officers' mess, waiting for news. He drank
  steadily and smoked so much that he gave himself a headache. Bulletins
  came down periodically from the Operations Room. During the night
  Ritchie, as commander of the Eighth Army, decided to abandon the frontier
  and retreat to Mersa Matruh. It was said that when Auchinleck, the com-
  mander in chief, heard this news he stalked out of the room with a face
  as black as thunder.
  Toward dawn Vandam found himself thinking about his parents. Some of the
  ports on the south coast of England had suffered as much as London from
  the bombing, but his parents were a little way inland, in a village in
  the Dorset countryside. His father was postmaster at a small sorting of-
  fice. Vandam looked at his watch: it would be four in the morning in
  England now, the old man would be putting on his cycle clips, climbing
  on his bike and riding to work in the dark. At sixty years of age he had
  the constitution of a teenage farmboy. Vandam's chapelgoing mother
  forbade smoking, drinking and all kinds of dissolute behavior, a term she
  used to encompass everything from darts matches to listening
 134       Ken Follett

 to the wireless. Ibe regime seemed to suit her husband, but she herself
 was always ailing.
  Eventually booze, fatigue and tedium sent Vandam into a doze. He dreamed
  he was in the garrison at Tobruk with Billy and Elene and his mother. He
  was running around closing all the windows. Outside, the Germans-who had
  turned into firemen-were leaning ladders against the wall and climbing
  up. Suddenly Vandam's mother stopped counting her forged banknotes and
  opened a window, pointing at Elene and screaming: "The Scarlet Womanl"
  Rommel came through the window in a &eman's helmet and turned a hose on
  Billy. The force of the jet pushed the boy over a parapet and he fell
  into the sea. Vandam knew he was to blame, but he could not figure out
  what he had done wrong. He began to weep bitterly. He woke up.
  He was relieved to discover that he had not really been crying. The dream
  left him with an overwhelming sense of despair. He lit a cigarette. it
  tasted foul.
  The sun rose. Vandam went around the mess turning out the lights, just
  for something to do. A breakfast cook came in with a pot of coffee. As
  Vandam was drinking his, a captain came down with another bulletin. He
  stood in the middle of the mess, waiting for silence.
  He said: "General Klopper surrendered the garrison of Tobruk to Rommel
  at dawn today."
  Vandam left the mess and walked through the streets of the city toward
  his house by the Nile. He felt impotent and useless, sitting in Cairo
  catching spies while out there in the desert his country was losing the
  war. It crossed his mind that Alex Wolff might have had something to do
  with Rommel's latest series of victories; but he dismissed the thought
  as somewhat farfetched. He felt so depressed that he wondered whether
  things could possibly get any worse, and he realized that, of course,
  they could.
 When he got home he went to bed.
       PART TWO

 MERSA MATRUH

            11
 "The Greek was a feeler.
  Elene did not like feelers. She did not mind straightforward lust; in
  fact, she was rather partial to it. What she objected to was furtive,
  guilty, unsolicited groping.
  After two hours in the shop she had disliked Mikis Aristopoulos. After
  two weeks she was ready to strangle him.
  'nie shop itself was fine. She liked the spicy smells and the rows of
  gaily colored boxes and cans on the shelves in the back room. The work
  was easy and repetitive, but the time passed quickly enough. She amazed
  the customers by adding up their bills in her head very rapidly. From
  time to time she would buy some strange imported delicacy and take it
  home to try: a jar of liver paste, a Hershey bar, a bottle of Bovril, ,a
  can of baked beans. And for her it was novel to do an ordinary, dull,
  eight-hours-a-day job.
  But the boss was a pain. Every chance he got he would touch her arm, her
  shoulder or her hip; each time he passed her, behind the counter or in
  the back room, he would brush against her breasts or her bottom. At first
  she had thought it was accidental, because he did not look the type: he
  was in his twenties, quite good-looking, with a big smile that showed his
  white teeth. He must have taken her silence for acquiescence. She would
  have to tread on him a little,
  She did not need this. Her emotions were too confused already. She both
  liked and loathed William Vandam, who talked to her as an equal, then
  treated her like a whore; she was supposed to seduce Alex Wolff, whom she
  bad never met; and she was being groped by Mikis Axistopoulos, for whom
  she felt nothing but scorn.
                137
 138        Ken Follett

 They all use me, she thought; it's the story of my life.
  She wondered what Wolff would be like. It was easy for Vandarn to tell her
  to befriend him, as if there were a button she could press which made her
  instantly irresistible. In reality a lot depended on the man. Some men
  liked her immediately. With others it was hard work. Sometimes it was
  impossible. Half of her hoped it would be impossible with Wolff. The other
  half remembered that he was a spy for the Germans, and Rommel was coming
  closer every day, and if the Nazis ever got to Cairo ...
  Aristopoulos brought a box of pasta out from the back room. Elene looked at
  her watch: it was almost time to go home. Aristopoulos dropped the box and
  opened it. On his way back, as he squeezed past her, he put his hands under
  her arms and touched her breasts. She moved away. She heard someone come
  into the shop. She thought: I'll teach the Greek a lesson. As he went into
  the back room, she called after him loudly, in Arabic: "If you touch me
  again rn cut your cock off!"
  There was a burst of laughter from the customer. She turned and looked at
  him. He was a European, but he must understand Arabic, she thought. She
  said: "Good afternoon."
  He looked toward the back room and called out: "What have you been doing,
  Axistopoulos, you young goat?"
  Aristopoulos poked his head around the door. "Good day, sir. This is my
  niece, Elene." His face showed embarrassment and something else which Elene
  could not read. He ducked back into the storeroom.
  "Niecel" said the customer, looking at Elene. "A likely tale.tg
  He was a big man in his thirties with dark hair, dark skin and dark eyes.
  He had a large hooked nose which might have been typically Arab or
  typically European-aristocratic. His mouth was thin-lipped, and when he
  smiled he showed small even teeth-like a cat's, Elene thought. She knew the
  signs of wealth and she saw them here: a silk shirt, a gold wristwatch,
  tailored cotton trousers with a crocodile belt, handmade shoes and a faint
  masculine cologne.
 Elene said: "How can I help you?"
 He looked at her as if he were contemplating several pos-         THE KEY TO REBECCA     139

 aible answers, then he said: "Lefs start with some English marmalade."
  "Yes." The marmalade was in the back room. She went there to get a jar.
 "It's him!" Aristopoulos hissed.
  "What are you talking about?" she asked in a normal voice. She was still
  mad at him.
 "The bad-money man-Mr. Wolff-that's him!"
  "Oh, Godl" For a moment she had forgotten why she was here. Aristopouloe
  panic infected her, and her mind went blank. "What shall I say to him? What
  should I do?"
 "I don't know give him the marmalade-I don't know--"
  "Yes, the marmalade, right . . ." She took a jar of Cooper's Oxford from a
  shelf and returned to the shop. She forced herself to smile brightly at
  Wolff as she put the jar down on the counter. "What else?"
 "Two pounds of the dark coffee, ground line."
  He was watching her while she weighed the coffee and put it through the
  grinder. Suddenly she was afraid of him. He was not like Charles, Johnnie
  and Claud, the men who had kept her. They had been soft, easygoing, guilty
  and pliable. Wolff seemed poised and confident: it would be hard to deceive
  him and impossible to thwart him she guessed.
 "Something else?"
 "A tin of ham."
  She moved around the shop, finding what he wanted and putting the goods on
  the counter. His eyes followed her everywhere. She thought: I must talk to
  him, I can't keep saying "Something else?" I'm supposed to befriend him.
  "Something else?" she said.
 "A half case of champagne."
  The cardboard box containing six full bottles was heavy. She dragged it out
  of the back room. "I expect you'd like us to deliver this order," she said.
  She tried to make it sound casual. She was slightly breathless with the
  effort of bending to drag the case, and she hoped this would cover her
  nervousness.
  He seemed to look through her with his dark eyes. "Deliver?" he said. "No,
  thank you."
 She looked at the heavy box. "I hope you live nearby."
 "Close enougIL"
 140       Ken Follett

 "You must be very strong."
 "Strong enough."
 "We have a thoroughly reliable delivery man---"
 "No delivery," he said firmly.
  She nodded. "As you wish." She had not really expected it to work, but
  she was disappointed all the same. "Something else?"
 "I think that's all."
  She began to add up the bill. Wolff said: "Aristopoulos must be doing
  well, to employ an assistant."
  Elene said: "Five pounds twelve and six, you wouldn't say that if you
  knew what he pays me, five pounds thirteen and six, six pounds-2'
 "Don't you like the job?"
  She gave him a direct look. "I'd do anything to get out of here."
 "What did you have in mindT'He was very quick.
  She shrugged, and went back to her addition. Eventually she said:
  "Thirteen pounds ten shillings and fourpence."
 "How did you know I'd pay in sterling?"
  He was quick. She was afraid she had given herself away. She felt herself
  begin to blush. She had an inspiration, and said: "You're a British
  officer, aren't you?"
  He laughed loudly at that. He took out a roll of pound notes and gave her
  four-teen. She gave him his change in Egyptian coins. She was thinking:
  What else can I do? What else can I say? She began to pack his purchases
  into a brown-paper shopping bag.
 She said: "Are you having a party? I love parties."
 "What makes you askT'
 'The champagne."
 "Ah. Well, life is one long party."
  She thought: I've failed. He will go away now, and perhaps he won't come
  back for weeks, perhaps never; I've had him in my sights, I've talked to
  him, and now I have to let him walk away and disappear into the city.
  She should have felt relieved, but instead she felt a sense of abject
  failure.
  He lifted the case of champagne on to his left shoulder, and picked up
  the shopping bag with his right hand. "Goodbye," he said.
         THE KEY TO REBECCA      141

 "Good-bye."
  He turned around at the door. "Meet me at the Oasis Restaurant on Wednesday
  night at seven-thirty."
 "All rightl" she said jubilantly. But he was gone.

 It took them most of the morning to get to the HUI of Jesus. Jakes sat in
 the front next to the driver; Vandam and Bogge sat in the back. Vandam. was
 exultant. An Australian company had taken the bill in the night, and they
 had captured-almost intact-a German wireless listening post. It was the
 first good news Vandam. had heard for months.
  Jakes turned around and shouted over the noise of the engine. "Apparently
  the Aussies charged in their socks, to surprise 'em," be said. "Most of the
  Italians were taken prisoner in their pajamas."
  Vandam. had heard the same story. "The Germans weren't sleeping, though,"
  he said. "It was quite a rough show."
  They took the main road to Alexandria, then the coast road to El Alamein,
  where they turned on to a barrel track-a route through the desert marked
  with barrels. Nearly all the traffic was going in the opposite direction,
  retreating. Nobody knew what was happening. They stopped at a supply dump
  to fill up with petrol, and Bogge had to pun rank on the officer in charge
  to get a chitty.
  Their driver asked for directions to the hill. "Bottle track," the officer
  said brusquely. The tracks, created by and for the Army, were named Bottle,
  Boot, Moon and Star, the symbols for which were cut into the empty barrels
  and petrol cans along the routes. At night little lights were placed in the
  barrels to illuminate the symbols.
  Bogge asked the officer: "What's happening out here? Everything seems to be
  heading back east."
 "Nobody tells me anything," said the officer.
  They got a cup of tea and a bully-beef sandwich from the NAAFI truck. When
  they moved on they went through a recent battlefield, littered with wrecked
  and burned-out tanks, where a graveyard detail was desultorily collecting
  corpses. The barrels disappeared, but the driver picked them up again on
  the far side of the gravel plain.
  They found the hill at midday. There was a battle going on not far away:
  they could hear the guns and see clouds of
 142       Ken Follett

 dust rising to the west. Vandam realized he had not been this near the
 fighting before. The overall impression was one of dirt, panic and
 confusion. They reported to the command vehicle and were directed to the
 captured German radio trucks.
  Field intelligence men were already at work. Prisoners were being
  interrogated in a small tent, one at a time, while the others waited in the
  blazing sun. Enemy ordnance experts were examining weapons and vehicles,
  noting manufacturers! serial numbers. The Y Service was there looking for
  wavelengths and codes. It was the task of Bogge's little squad to
  investigate how much the Germans had been learning in advance about Allied
  movements.
  They took a truck each. Like most people in Intelligence, Vandam had a
  smattering of German. He knew a couple of hundred words, most of them
  military terms, so that while he could not have told the difference between
  a love letter and a laundry list, he could read army orders and reports.
  There was a lot of material to be examined: the captured post was a great
  prize for Intelligence. Most of the stuff would have to be boxed,
  transported to Cairo and perused at length by a large team. Today's job was
  a preliminary overview.
  Vandam's truck was a mess. The Germans had begun to destroy their papers
  when they realized the battle was lost. Boxes had been emptied and a small
  fire started, but the damage had been arrested quickly. There was blood on
  a cardboard folder: someone had died defending his secrets.
  Vandam went to work. They would have tried to destroy the important papers
  first, so he began with the half-burned pile. There were many Allied radio
  signals, intercepted and in some cases decoded. Most of it was routine-most
  of everything was routine-but as he worked Vandam began to realize that
  German Intelligence's wireless interception was picking up an awful lot of
  useful information. They were better than Vandam had imagined-and Allied
  wireless security was very bad.
  At the bottom of the half-burned pile was a book, a novel in English.
  Vandam frowned. He opened the book and read the first line: "Last night I
  dreamt I went to Manderley again." The book was called Rebecca, and it was
  by Daphne du Maurier. The title was vaguely familiar. Vandam thought
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     143

 his wife might have read it. It seemed to be about a young woman living
 in an English country house.
  Vandarn scratched his head. it was, to say the least, pecu~ Iiar
  readingfor the Afrika Korps.
 And why was it in English?
  It might have been taken from a captured English soldier, but Vandam
  thought that unlikely: in his experience soldiers read pornography,
  hard-boiled private eye stories and the Bible. Somehow he could not
  imagine the Desert Rats getting interested in the problems of the
  mistress of Manderley.
  No, the book was here for a purpose, What purpose? Vandam could think of
  only one possibility: it was the basis of a code.
  A book code was a variation on the one-time pad. A onetime pad had
  letters and numbers randomly printed in fivecharacter groups. Only two
  copies of each pad were made: one for the sender and one for the
  recipient of the signals. Each sheet of the pad was used for one message,
  then torn off and destroyed. Because each sheet was used only once the
  code could not be broken. A book code used the pages of a printed book
  in the same way, except that the sheets were not necessarily destroyed
  after use.
  There was one big advantage which a book had over a pad. A pad was
  unmistakably for the purpose of encipherment, but a book looked quite
  innocent. In the battlefield this did not matter; but it did matter to
  an agent behind enemy lines.
  This might also explain why the book was in English. German soldiers
  signaling to one another would use a book in German, if they used a book
  at all, but a spy in British territory would need to carry a book in
  English.
  Vandam examined the book more closely. The price had been written in
  pencil on the endpaper, then rubbed out with an eraser. That might mean
  the book had been bought second-hand. Vandarn held it up to the light,
  trying to read the impression the pencil had made in the paper. He made
  out the number 50, followed by some letters. Was it eic? It might be erc,
  or esc. It was esc, he realized-fifty escudos. The book had been bought
  in Portugal. Portugal was neutral territory, with both German and British
  embassies, and it was a hive of low-level espionage.
 144       Ken Follett

  As soon as he got back to Cairo he would send a message to the Secret
  Intelligence Service station in Lisbon. They could check the
  English-language bookshops in Portugalthere could not be very many-and try
  to find out where the book had been bought, and if possible by whom.
  At least two copies would have been bought, and a bookseller might remember
  such a sale. The interesting question was, where was the other copy? Vandam
  was pretty sure it was in Cairo, and he thought he knew who was using it.
  He decided he had better show his find to Lieutenant Colonel Bogge. He
  picked up the book and stepped out of the truclL
 Bogge was coming to find him.
  Vandam stared at him. He was white-faced, and angry to the point of
  hysteria. He came stomping across the dusty sand, a sheet of paper in his
  hand.
 Vandam. thought: What the devil has got into him?
 Bogge shouted: "What do you do all day, anyway?"
  Vandam said nothing. Bogge handed him the sheet of paper. Vandam. looked at
  it.
  It was a coded radio signal, with the decrypt written between the lines of
  code. It was timed at midnight on June 3. The sender used the call sign
  Sphinx. The message, after the usual preliminaries about signal strength,
  bore the heading OPERATION ABERDEEN.
  Vandam was thunderstruck. Operation Aberdeen had taken place on June 5, and
  the Germans had received a signal about it on June 3.
 Vandam said: "Jesus Christ Almighty, this is a disaster."
  "Of course it's a bloody disaster!" Bogge yelled. "It means Rommel is
  getting full details of our attacks before they bloody beginl"
  Vandam read the rest of the signal. "Full details" was right. The message
  named the brigades involved, the timing Of various stages of the attack,
  and the overall strategy.
 "No wonder Rommel's winning," Vandam. muttered.
 "Don't make bloody jokes I" Bogge screamed.
  Jakes appeared at Vandam's side, accompanied by a full colonel from the
  Australian brigade that had taken the hill, and said to Vandam: "Excuse me,
  sir--2'
 Vandam said abruptly: "Not now, Jakes."
         ThE KEY TO REBECCA     145

  "Stay here, Jakes," Bogge countermanded. "nis concerns you, too."
  Vandam handed the sheet of paper to Jakes. Vandam felt as if someone had
  struck him a physical blow. The information was so good that it bad to
  have originated in GHQ.
 Jakes said softly: "Bloody hell."
  Bogge said: "They must be getting this stuff from an English officer, you
  realize that, do you?"
 "Yes," Vandam said.
  "What do you mean, yes? Your job is personnel securitythis is your bloody
  responsibilityl"
 "I realize that, sir."
  "Do you also realize that a leak of this magnitude will have to be
  reported to the commander in chief?"
  The Australian colonel, who did not appreciate the scale of the
  catastrophe, was embarrassed to see an officer getting a public dressing
  down. He said: "Let's save the recriminations for later, Bogge. I doubt
  the thing is the fault of any one individual. Your first job is to
  discover the extent of the damage and make a preliminary report to your
  superiors."
  It was clear that Bogge was not through ranting yet; but he was
  outranked. He suppressed his wratb with a visible effort, and said:
  "Right, get on with it, Vandam." He stumped off, and the colonel went
  away in the other direction.
  Vandam sat -down on the step of the truck. He lit a cigarette with a
  shaking hand. The news seemed worse as it sunk in. Not only had Alex
  Wolff penetrated Cairo and evaded Vandam's net, he had gained access to
  high-level secrets.
 Vandam thought: Who is this man?
  In just a few days he had selected his target, laid his groundwork, and
  then bribed, blackmailed or corrupted the target into treachery.
  Who was the target; who was giving Wolff the information? literally
  hundreds of people had the information: the generals, their aides, the
  secretaries who typed written messages, the men who encoded radio
  messages, the officers who carried verbal messages, all Intelligence
  staff, all interservice liaison people ...
  Somehow, Vandam assumed, Wolff had found one among those hundreds of
  people who was prepared to betray his country for money, or out of
  political conviction, or under
 146        Ken FoHett

 pressure of blackmail. Of course it was possible that Wolff had nothing
 to do with it-but Vandarn thought that unlikely, for a traitor needed a
 channel of communication with the enemy, and Wolff had such a channel, and
 it was hard to believe there might be two like Wolff in Cairo.
  Jakes was standing beside Vandam, looking dazed. Vandam said: "Not only
  is this information getting through, but Rommel is using it. If you
  recall the fighting on five June-2'
 "Yes, I do," Jakes said. "It was a massacre."
  And it was my fault, Vandarn thought. Bogge had been right about that:
  Vandam's job was to stop secrets getting out, and when secrets got out
  it was Vandam's responsibility.
  One man could not win the war, but one man could lose it. Vandarn did not
  want to be that man.
  He stood up. "All right, Jakes, you heard what Bogge said. Let's get on
  with it."
  Jakes snapped his fingers. "I forgot what I came to tell you: you're
  wanted on the field telephone. Ifs GHQ. Apparently there's an Egyptian
  woman in your office, asking for you, refusing to leave. She says she has
  an urgent message and she won't take no for an answer."
 Vandam thought: Elenel
  Maybe she made contact with Wolff. She must have-why else would she be
  desperate to speak to Vandam? Vandarn ran to the command vehicle, with
  Jakes hard on his heels.
  The major in charge of communications handed him the phone. "Make it
  snappy, Vandam, we're using that thing."
  Vandarn had swallowed enough abuse for one day. He snatched the phone,
  thrust his face into the major's face, and said loudly: "IT use it as
  long as I need it." He turned his back on the major and spoke into the
  phone. "Yes?"
 "William?"
  "Elenel" He wanted to tell her how good it was to hear her voice, but
  instead he said: "What happened?"
 "He came into the shop."
 "You saw him I Did you get his address?"
 "No-but I've got a date with him."
  "Well donel" Vandam was full of savage delight-he would catch the bastard
  now. "Where and when?"
 "Tomorrow night, seven-thirty, at the Oasis Restaurant."
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     147

  Vandam picked up a pencil and a scrap of paper. "Oasis Restaurant,
  seven-thirty," he repeated. 'TH be there."
 "Good."
 "Elene. .
 "Yes?"
 "I can't tell you how grateful I am. Thank you."
 "Until tomorrow."
 "Good-bye." Vandam put down the phone.
  Bogge was standing behind him, with the major in charge of
  communications. Bogge said: "What the devil do you mean by using the
  field telephone to make dates with your bloody girl friends?"
  Vandam gave him a sunny smile. "That wasn't a girl friend, it was an
  informant," he said. "She's made contact with the spy. I expect to arrest
  him tomorrow night."
               12

 Wolff watched Sonia eat. Tle liver was underdone, pink and soft, just as she
 liked it. She ate with relish, as usual. He thought how alike the two of
 them were. In their work they were competent, professional and highly
 successful. They both lived in the shadows of childhood shocks: her father's
 death, his mother's remarriage into an Arab family. Neither of them bad ever
 come close to marrying, for they were too fond of themselves to love another
 person. What brought them together was not love, not even affection, but
 shared lusts. The most important thing in life, for both of them, was the
 indulgence of their appetites. They both knew that Wolff was taking a small
 but unnecessary risk by eating in a restaurant, and they both felt the risk
 was worth it, for life would hardly be worth living without good food.
  She finished her liver and the waiter brought an ice-cream dessert. She was
  always very hungry after performing at the Cha-Cha Club. It was not
  surprising: she used a great deal of energy in her act. But when, finally,
  she quit dancing, she would grow fat. Wolff imagined her in tweinty years'
  time: she would have three chins and a vast bosom, her hair would be
  brittle and graying, she would walk flat-footed and be breathless after
  climbing the stairs.
 "What are you smiling at?" Sonja said.
  "I was picturing you as an old woman, wearing a shapeless black dress and
  a veil."
  "I won't be like that. I shall be very rich, and live in a palace
  surrounded by naked young men and women eager to gratify my slightest whim.
  What about you?"
                148
         TIRE KEY TO REBECCA    149

  Wolff smiled. "I think I shall be Hitlees, ambassador to Egypt, and wear an
  SS uniform to the mosque."
 :'You'd have to take off your jackboots."
 'Shall I visit you in your palace?"
  Yes, please-wearing your uniform."
  Would I have to take off my jackboots in your presence?"
 "No. Everything else, but not the boots."
  Wolff laughed. Sonja was in a rare gay mood. He called the waiter and asked
  for coffee, brandy and the bill. He said to Sonja: "There's some good news.
  I've been saving it. I think I've found another Fawzi."
  She was suddenly very still, looking at him intently. "Who is she?" she
  said quietly.
  "I went to the grocees yesterday. Aristopoulos has his niece working with
  him."
 "A shopgirl!"
  "She's a real beauty. She has a lovely, innocent face and a slightly wicked
  smile."
 "How old?"
  "Hard to say. Around twenty, I think. She has such a girlish body."
 Sonja licked her lips. "And you think she will ...
  "I think so. She's dying to get away from Aristopoulos, and she practically
  threw herself at me."
 "When?"
 "I'm taking her to dinner tomorrow night."
 "Will you bring her home?"
  "Maybe. I have to feel her out. She's so perfect, I don't want to spoil
  everything by rushing her."
 "You mean you want to have her first."
 "If necessary."
 "Do you think she's a virginT'
 "It's possible."
 "If she is. . ."
  'Then I'll save her for you. You were so good with Major Smith, you deserve
  a treat." Wolff sat back, studying Sonja. Her face was a mask of sexual
  greed as she anticipated the corruption of someone beautiful and innocent.
  Wolff sipped his brandy. A warm glow spread in his stomach. He felt good:
  full of food and wine, his mission going remarkably well and a new sexual
  adventure in view.
 150         Ken FoUett

 The bill came, and he paid it with English pound notes.

 It was a small restaurant, but a successful one. Ibrahim managed it and his
 brother did the cooking. They had learned the trade in a French hotel in
 Tunisia, their home; and when their father died they had sold the sheep and
 come to Cairo to seek their foTtune. Ibrahim's philosophy was simple: they
 knew only French-Arab cuisine, so that was all they offered. They might,
 perhaps, have attracted more customers if the menu in the window had offered
 spaghetti bolognaise or roast beef and Yorkshire pudding; but those
 customers would not have returned, and anyhow Ibrahim had his pride.
  The formula worked. They were making a good living, more money than their
  father had ever seen. The war had brought even more business. But wealth
  had not made Ibrahim careless.
  Two days earlier he had taken coffee with a friend who was a cashier at the
  Metropolitan Hotel. The friend had told him how the British paymaster
  general had refused to exchange four of the English pound notes which had
  been passed in the hotel bar. The notes were counterfeit, according to the
  British. VVhat was so unfair was that they had confliscated the money.
 This was not going to happen to Ibrahim.
  About half his customers were British, and many of them paid in sterling.
  Since he heard the news he had been checking carefully every pound note
  before putting it into the till. His friend from the Metropolitan had told
  him how to spot the forgeries.
  It was typical of the British. They did not make a public announcement to
  help the businessmen of Cairo to avoid being cheated. They simply sat back
  and confiscated the dud notes. Ile businessmen of Cairo were used to this
  kind of treatment, and they stuck together. The grapevine worked well.
  When Ibrahim received the counterfeit notes from the tall European who was
  dining with the famous belly dancer, he was not sure what to do next. The
  notes were all crisp and new, and bore the identical fault. Ibrahim
  double-checked them against one of the good notes in his till: there was no
  doubt. Should he, perhaps, explain the matter quietly to the
         TIRE KEY TO REBECCA     151

 customer? The man might take offense, or at least pretend to; and he would
 probably leave without paying. His bill was a heavy one-he had taken the
 most expensive dishes, plus imported wine-and Ibrahim did not want to risk
 such a loss.
  He would call the police, he decided. They would prevent the customer
  running off, and might help persuade him to pay by check, or at least
  leave an IOU.
  But which police? The Egyptian police would probably argue that it was
  not their responsibility, take an hour to get here, and then require a
  bribe. The customer was presumably an Englishman-why else would he have
  sterling?-and was probably an officer, and it was British money that had
  been counterfeited. Ibrahim decided he would call the military.
  He went over to their table, carrying the brandy bottle. He gave them a
  smile. "Monsieur, madame, I hope you have enjoyed your meal."
  "It was excellent," said the man. He talked like a British officer.
  Ibrahim turned to the woman. "It is an honor to serve the greatest dancer
  in the world."
 She gave a regal nod.
  Ibrahim said: "I hope you will accept a glass of brandy, with the
  compliments of the house."
 "Very kind," said the man.
  Ibrahim poured them more brandy and bowed away. That should keep them
  sitting still for a while longer, he thought. He left by the back door
  and went to the house of a neighbor who had a telephone.

 If I had a restaurant, Wolff thought, I would do things like that. The two
 glasses of brandy cost the proprietor very little, in relation to Wolff's
 total bill, but the gesture was very effective in making the customer feel
 wanted. Wolff had often toyed with the idea of opening a restaurant, but
 it was a pipe dream: he knew there was too much hard work involved.
  Sonja also enjoyed the special attention. She was positively glowing
  under the combined influences of flattery and liquor. Tonight in bed she
  would snore like a pig.
  The proprietor had disappeared for a few minutes, then returned. Out of
  the corner of his eye, Wolff saw the man whispering to a waiter. He
  guessed they were talking about Sonja.
 152       Ken Follett

 Wolff felt a pang of jealousy. There were places in Cairo where, because
 of his good custom and lavish tips, he was known by name and welcomed like
 royalty; but he had thought it wise not to go to places where he would be
 recognized, not while the British were hunting him. Now he wondered
 whether he could afford to relax his vigilance a little more.
  Sonja yawned. It was time to put her to bed. Wolff waved to a waiter and
  said: "Please fetch Madame's wrap." The man went off, paused to mutter
  something to the proprietor, then continued on toward the cloakroom.
  An alarm bell sounded, faint and distant, somewhere in the back of
  Wolff's mind.
  He toyed with a spoon as he waited for Sonja's wrap. Sonja ate another
  petit four. The proprietor walked the length of the restaurant, went out
  of the front door, and came back in again. He approached their table and
  said: "May I get you a taxi?"
 Wolff looked at Sonja. She said: "I don't mind."
  Wolff said: "I'd like a breath of air. Let's walk a little way, then hail
  one."
 "Okay."
 Wolff looked at the proprietor. "No taxi."
 "Very good, sir."
  The waiter brought Sonja's wrap. The proprietor kept looking at the door.
  Wolff heard another alarm bell, this one louder. He said to the
  proprietor: "Is something the matter?"
  The man looked very worried. "I must mention an extremely delicate
  problem, sir."
  Wolff began to get irritated. "Well, what is it, man? We want to go
  home."
  There was the sound of a vehicle noisily drawing up out. side the
  restaurant.
  Wolff took hold of the proprietor's lapels. "What is going on here?"
  "The money with which you paid your bill, sir, is not good."
 "You don't accept sterling? Then why didn't-"
 "It's not that, sir. The money is counterfeit."
  The restaurant door burst open and three military policemen marched in.
         THE KEY TO REBECCA      153

  Wolff stared at them openmouthed. It was all happening so quickly, he
  couldn't catch his breath . . . Military police. Counterfeit money. He
  was suddenly afraid. He might go to jail. Those imbeciles in Berlin had
  given him forged notes, it was so stupid, he wanted to take Canaris by
  the throat and squeeze-
  He shook his head. There was no time to be angry now. He had to keep calm
  and try to slide out of this mess-
  The MPs marched up to the table. Two were British and the third was
  Australian. They wore heavy boots and steel helmets, and each of them had
  a small gun in a belt holster. One of the British said: "Is this the
  man?"
  "Just a moment," Wolff said, and was astonished at how cool and suave his
  voice sounded. "The proprietor has, this very minute, told me that my
  money is no good. I don't believe this, but I'm prepared to humor him,
  and I'm sure we can make some arrangement which will satisfy him." He
  gave the proprietor a reproachful look. "It really wasn't necessary to
  call the police."
  The senior MP said: "Ifs an offense to pass forged money.,%
  "Knowingly," Wolff said. "It is an offense knowingly to pass forged
  money." As he listened to his own voice, quiet and persuasive, his
  confidence grew. "Now, then, what I propose is this. I have here my
  checkbook and some Egyptian money. I will write a check to cover my bill,
  and use the Egyptian money for the tip. Tomorrow I will take the al-
  legedly counterfeit notes to the British paymaster general for
  examination, and if they really are forgeries I will surrender them." He
  sn-dled at the group surrounding him. "I imagine that should satisfy
  everyone."
  The proprietor said: "I would prefer if you could pay entirely in cash,
  sir."
 Wolff wanted to hit him in the face.
 Sonja said: "I may have enough Egyptian money."
 Wolff thought: Thank God.
 Sonja opened her bag.
  The senior MP said: "All the same, sir, I'm going to ask you to come with
  me."
 Walff's heart sank again. "Why?"
 "Well need to ask you some questions."
 154       Ken Follett

  "Fine. Why don't you call on me tomorrow morning. I live---P
 "You'll have to come with me. Those are my orders."
 "From whom?"
 "The assistant provost marshal."
  "Very well, then," said Wolff. He stood up. He could feel the fear
  pumping desperate strength into his arms. "But either you or the provost
  will be in very deep trouble in the morning." Then he picked up the table
  and threw it at the MP.
  He had planned and calculated the move in a couple of seconds. It was a
  small circular table of solid wood. Its edge struck the MP on the bridge
  of the nose, and as he fell back the table landed on top of him.
  Table and MP were on Wolff's left. On his right was the proprietor. Sonja
  was opposite him, still sitting, and the other two MPs were on either
  side of her and slightly behind her.
  Wolff grabbed the proprietor and pushed him at one of the MPs. Then he
  jumped at the other MP, the Australian, and punched his face. He hoped
  to get past the two of them and run away. It did not work. The MPs were
  chosen for their size, belligerence and brutality, and they were used to
  dealing with soldiers desert-hardencd and fighting drunk. The Australian
  took the punch and staggered back a pace, but he did not fall over. Wolff
  kicked him in the knee and punched his face again; then the other MP, the
  second Englishman, pushed the proprietor out of the way and kicked Wolfrs
  feet from under him.
  Wolff landed heavily. His chest and his cheek hit the tiled floor. His
  face stung, he was momentarily winded and be saw stars. He was kicked
  again, in the side; the pain made him jerk convulsively and roll away
  from the blow. ne MP jumped on him, beating him about the head. He
  struggled to push the man off. Someone else sat on Wolff's feet. Then
  Wolff saw, above him and behind the English MP on his chest, Sonja's
  face, twisted with rage. The thought flashed through his mind that she
  was remembering another beating that had been administered by British
  soldiers. Then he saw that she was raising high in the air the chair she
  had been sitting on. The MP on Wolffs chest glimpsed her, turned around,
  looked up, and raised his arms to ward off the blow. She brought the
  heavy chair down with all her might. A cor-
           THE KEY TO REBECCA     155

 ner of the seat struck the MP's mouth, and he gave a shout of pain and
 anger as blood spurted from his lip.
  The Australian got off Wolff's feet and grabbed Sonja from behind,
  pinning her arms. Wolff flexed his body and threw off the wounded
  Englishman, then scrambled to his feet.
 He reached inside his shirt and whipped out his knife.
  The Australian threw Sonja aside, took a pace forward, saw the knife and
  stopped. He and Wolff stared into each other's eyes for an instant. Wolff
  saw the other man's eyes flicker to one side, then the other, seeing his
  two partners lying on the floor. The Australian's hand went to his
  holster.
  Wolff turned and dashed for the door. One of his eyes was closing: he
  could not see well. The door was closed. He grabbed for the handle and
  missed. He felt like screaming. He found the handle and flung the door
  open wide. It hit the wall with a crash. A shot rang out.

 Vandam. drove the motorcycle through the streets at a dangerous speed. He
 had ripped the blackout mask off the headlight-nobody in Cairo took the
 blackout seriously anyway-and he drove with his thumb on the horn. The
 streets were still busy, with taxis, gharries, army trucks, donkeys and
 camels. The pavements were crowded and the shops were bright with electric
 lights, oil lamps and candles. Vandarn weaved recklessly through the
 traffic, ignoring the outraged hooting of the cars, the raised fists of
 the gharry drivers, and the blown whistle of an Egyptian policeman.
  The assistant provost marshal had called him at home. "Ah, Vandam, wasn't
  it you who sent up the bal-loon about this funny money? Because we've
  just had a call from a restaurant where a European is trying to pass-"
 "Where?"
  The APM gave him the address, and Vandam ran out of the house.
  He skidded around a corner, dragging a heel in the dusty road for
  traction. It had occurred to him that, with so much counterfeit money in
  circulation, some of it must have got into the hands of other Europeans,
  and the man in the restaurant might well be an innocent victim. He hoped
  not. He wanted desperately to get his hands on Alex Wolff. Wolff had
  outwitted and hurnfliated him and now, with his access to
 156        Ken Follett

 secrets and his direct line to Rommel, he threatened to bring about the
 fall of Egypt; but it was not just that. Vandam was consumed with
 curiosity about Wolff. He wanted to see the man and touch him, to find out
 how he would move and speak. Was he clever, or just lucky? Courageous, or
 foolhardy? Determined, or stubborn? Did he have a handsome face and a warm
 smile, or beady eyes and an oily grin? Would he fight or come quietly?
 Vandam wanted to know. And, most of all, Vandam wanted to take him by the
 throat and drag him off to jail, chain him to the wall and lock the door
 and throw away the key.
  He swerved to avoid a pothole, then opened the throttle and roared down
  a quiet street. The address was a little out of the city center, toward
  the Old Town: Vandam was acquainted with the street but not with the
  restaurant. He turned two more corners, and almost hit an old man riding
  an ass with his wife walking along behind. He found the stxeet he was
  looking for.
  It was narrow and dark, with high buildings on either side. At ground
  level there were some shop fronts and some house entrances. Vandam pulled
  up beside two small boys playing in the gutter and said the name of the
  restaurant. T'lley pointed vaguely along the street.
  Vandam cruised along, pausing to look wherever he noticed a lit window.
  He was half way down the street when he heard the crackI of a small
  firearm, slightly muffled, and the sound of glass shattering. His head
  jerked around toward the source of the noise. Light from a broken window
  glinted off shards of falling glass, and as he looked a tall man ran out
  of a door into the street.
 It had to be Wolff.
 He ran in the opposite direction.
  Vandam felt a surge of savagery. He twisted the throttle of the
  motorcycle and roared after the running man. As be passed the restaurant
  an MP ran out and fired three shots. The fugitive's pace did not falter.
  Vandarn caught him in the beam of the headlight. He was running strongly,
  steadily, his arms and legs pumping rhythmically. When the light hit him
  he glanced back over his shoulder without breaking his stride, and
  Vandam. glimpsed a
         TfIE KEY TO REBECCA     1"

 hawk nose and a strong chin, and a mustache above a moutl open and
 panting.
  Vandarn could have shot him, but officers at GHQ did not carry guns.
  The motorcycle gained fast. When they were almost level Wolff suddenly
  turned a comer. Vandarn braked and went into a back-wheel skid, leaning
  the bike against the direction of the skid to keep his balance. He came
  to a stop, jerked upright and shot forward again.
  He saw the back of Wolff disappear into a narrow alleyway. Without
  slowing down, Vandam turned the comer and drove into the alley. The bike
  shot out into empty space. Vandam's stomach turned over. The white cone
  of his headlight illuminated nothing. He thought he was falling into a
  pit. He gave an involuntary shout of fear. The back wheel hit something.
  The front wheel went down, down, then bit. The headEght showed a flight
  of steps. The bike bounced, and landed again. Vandam fought desperately
  to keep the front wheel straight. The bike descended the steps in a
  series of spine-jarring bumps, and with each bump Vandam was sure he
  would lose control and crash. He saw Wolff at the bottom of the stairs,
  still running.
  Vandarn reached the foot of the staircase and felt incredibly lucky. He
  saw Wolff turn another corner, and followed. They were in a maze of
  alleys. Wolff ran up a short flight of steps~.
 Vandarn thought: Jesus, no.
  He had no choice. He accelerated and headed squarely for the steps. A
  moment before hitting the bottom step he jerked the handlebars with all
  his might. The front wheel lifted. The bike hit the steps, bucked like
  a wild thing and tried to throw him. He hung on grimly. The bike bumped
  crazily up. Vandam fought it. He reached the top.
  He found himself in a long passage with high, blank walls on either side.
  Wolff was still in front of him, still running. Vandam thought he could
  catch him before Wolff reached the end of the passage. He shot forward.
  Wolff looked back over his shoulder, ran on, and looked again. His pace
  was flagging, Vandam. could see. His stride was no longer steady and
  rhythmic: his arms flew out to ei-
   158       Ken Follett

 ther side and he ran raggedly. Glimpsing Wolff's face, Vandam saw that it
 was taut with strain.
  Wolff put on a burst of speed, but it was not enough. Vandam drew level,
  eased ahead, then braked sharply and twisted the handlebars. The back
  wheel skidded and the front wheel bit the wall. Vandam leaped off as the
  bike fell to the ground. Vandarn landed on his feet, facing Wolff. The
  smashed headlight threw a shaft of light into the darkness of the
  passage. There was no point in Wolff's turning and running the other way,
  for Vandam. was fresh and could easily catch him. Without pausing in his
  stride Wolff jumped over the bike, his body passing through the pillar
  of light from the headlight like a knife slicing a flame, and crashed
  into Vandam. Vandam, still unsteady, stumbled backward and fell. Wolff
  staggered and took another step forward. Vandam. reached out blindly in
  the dark, found Wolff's ankle, gripped and yanked. Wolff crashed to the
  ground.
  The broken headlight gave a little light to the rest of the alley. The
  engine of the bike had cut out, and in the silence Vandam could bear
  Wolff's breathing, ragged and hoarse. He could smell him, too: a smell
  of booze and perspiration and fear. But he could not see his face.
  There wa3 a split second when the two of them lay on the ground, one
  exhausted and the other momentarily stunned. Then they both scrambled to
  their feet. Vandam jumped at Wolff, and they grappled.
  Wolff was strong. Vandam. tried to pin his arms, but he could not hold
  on to him. Suddenly he let go and threw a punch. It landed somewhere
  soft, and Wolf said: "Ooff." Vandam punched again, this time aiming for
  the face; but Wolff dodged, and the fist hit empty space. Suddenly some-
  thing in Wolffs hand glinted in the dim light.
 Vandam. thought: A knifel
  The blade flashed toward his throat. He jerked back reflexIvely. There
  was a searing pain all across his cheek. His hand flew to his face. He
  felt a gush of hot blood. Suddenly the pain Was unbearable. He pressed
  on the wound and his fingers touched something hard. He realized he was
  feeling his own teeth, and that the knife had sliced right through the
  flesh of bis cheek; and then he felt himself falling, and he heard Wolff
  running away, and everything turned black.
               13

 Wolff took a handkerchief from his trousers pocket and wiped the blood from
 the blade of the knife. He examined the blade in the dim light, then wiped
 it again. He walked along, polishing the thin steel vigorously. He stopped,
 and thought: What am I doing? It's clean already. He threw away the
 handkerchief and replaced the knife in the sheath under his arm. He emerged
 from the alley into the street, got his bearings, and headed for the Old
 City.
  He imagined a prison cell. It was six feet long by four feet wide, and half
  of it was taken up by a bed. Beneath the bed was a chamber pot. The walls
  were of smooth gray stone. A small light bulb hung from the ceiling by a
  cord. In one end of the cell was a door. In the other end was a small
  square window, set just above eye level: through it he could see the bright
  blue sky. He imagined that he woke up in the morning and saw all this, and
  remembered that he had been here for a year, and he would be here for
  another nine years. He used the chamberpot, then washed his hands in the
  tin bowl in the corner. There was no soap. A dish of cold porridge was
  pushed through the hatch in the door. He picked up the spoon and took a
  mouthful, but he was unable to swallow, for he was weeping.
  He shook his head to clear it of nightmare visions. He thought: I got away,
  didn't I? I got away. He realized that some of the people on the street
  were staring at him as they passed. He saw a mirror in a shop window, and
  examined himself in it. His hair was awry, one side of his face was bruised
  and swollen, his sleeve was ripped and there was blood on his collar. He
  was still panting from the exertion of
               159
 160        Ken Follett

 running and fighting. He thought: I took dangerous. He walked on, and turned
 at the next comer to take an indirect route which would avoid the main
 streets.
  Those imbeciles in Berlin had given him counterfeit moneyl No wonder they
  were so generous with it-they were printing it themselves. It was so
  foolish that Wolff wondered if it might he more than foolishness. The
  Abwehr was run by the military, not by the Nazi Party; its chief, Canaria,
  was not the staunchest of Hitler's supporters.
 When I get back to Berlin there will be such a purge ...
  How had it caught up with him, here in Cairo? He had been spending money
  fast. The forgeries had got into circulation. The banks had spotted the dud
  notes-no, not the banks, the paymaster general. Anyway, someone had begun
  to refuse the money, and word had got around Cairo. The proprietor of the
  restaurant had noticed that Wolff's money was fake and had called the
  military. Wolff grinned ruefully to himself when he recalled how flattered
  he had been by the proprietor's complimentary brandy-it had been no more
  than a ruse to keep him there until the MPs arrived.
  He thought about the man on the motorcycle. He must be a determined
  bastard, to ride the bike around those alleys and up and down the steps. He
  bad no gun, Wolff guessed: if he had, he would surely have used it. Nor had
  he a tin hat, so presumably he was not an MP. Someone from Intelligence,
  perhaps? Major Vandam, even?
 Wolff hoped so.
  I cut the man, he thought. Quite badly, probably. I wonder where? The face?
 I hope it was Vandam.
  He turned his mind to his immediate problem. They had Sonja. She would tell
  them she hardly knew Wolff-she would make up some story about a quick
  pickup in the ChaCha Club. They would not be able to hold her for long, be-
  cause she was famous, a star, a kind of hero among the Egyptians, and to
  imprison her would cause a great deal of trouble. So they would let her go
  quite soon. However, she would have to give them her address; which meant
  that Wolff could not go back to the houseboat, not yet. But he was ex-
  hausted, bruised and disheveled: he had to clean himself up and get a few
  hours' rest, somewhere.
         THE KEY TO REBECCA      161

  He thought: I've been here before-wandering the city, tired and hunted,
  with nowhere to go.
 This time he would have to fall back on Abdullah.
  He had been heading for the Old City, knowing all along, In the back of
  his mind, that Abdullah was all he had left; and now he found himself a
  few steps from the old thief's house. He ducked under an arch, went along
  a short dark passage and climbed a stone spiral staircase to Abdullah's
  home.
  Abdullah was sitting on the floor with another man. A nargileb stood
  between them, and the air was full of the berbal smell of hashish.
  Abdullah looked up at Wolff and gave a slow, sleepy smile. He spoke in
  Arabic. "Here is my friend Achmed, also called Alex. Welcome,
  Achmed-Alex."
  Wolff sat on the floor with them and greeted them in Arabic.
  Abdullah said: "My brother Yasef here would like to ask you a riddle,
  something that has been puzzling him and me for some hours now, ever
  since we started the hubble-bubble, speaking of which He passed the pipe
  across, and Wolff took a lungful *
  Yasef said: "Achmed-Alex, friend of my brother, welcome. Tell me this:
  Why do the British call us wogs?"
  Yasef and Abdullah collapsed into giggles. Wolff realized they were
  heavily under the influence of hashish: they must have been smoking all
  evening. He drew on the pipe again, and pushed it over to Yasef. It was
  strong stuff. Abdullah always had the best. Wolff said: "As it happens,
  I know the answer. Egyptian men working on the Suez Canal were issued
  with special shirts, to show that they had the right to be on British
  property. They were Working On Government Service, so on the backs of
  their shirts were printed the letters W.O.G.S."
  Yasef and Abdullah giggled all over again. Abdullah said: "My friend
  Achmed-Alex. is clever. He is as clever as an Arab, almost, because he
  is almost an Arab. He is the only European who has ever got the better
  of me, Abdullah."
  "I believe this to be untrue," Wolff said slipping into their stoned
  style of speech. "I would never try to outwit my friend Abdullah, for who
  can cheat the devilT'
 Yasef smiled and nodded his appreciation of this witticism.
 162        Ken Follett

  Abdullah safd.- "Listen, my brother, and I will tell you." He frowned,
  collecting his doped thoughts. "Achmed-Alex asked me to steal something for
  him. That way I would take the risk and he would get the reward. Of course,
  he did not outwit me so simply. I stole the thing-it was a case-and of
  course my intention was to take its contents for myself, since the thief is
  entitled to the proceeds of his crime, according to the laws of God.
  Therefore I should have outwitted him, should I notT'
  "Indeed," said Yasef, "although I do not recall the passage of Holy
  Scripture which says that a thief is entitled to the proceeds of his crime.
  However.. ."
 "Perhaps not," said Abdullah. "Of what was I speakingT'
  Wolff, who was still more or less compos mentis, told him: "You should have
  outwitted me, because you opened the case yourself."
  "Indeed! But wait. There was nothing of value in the case, so Achmed-Alex
  bad outwitted me. But wait! I made him pay me for rendering this service;
  therefore I got one hundred pounds and he got nothing."
 Yasef frowned. "You, then, got the better of him."
  "No." Abdullah shook his head sadly. "He paid me In forged banknotes."
  Yasef stared at Abdullah. Abdullah stared back. They both burst out
  laughing. They slapped each other's shoulders, stamped their feet on the
  floor and rolled around on the cushions, laughing until the tears came to
  their eyes.
  Wolff forced a smile. it was just the kind of funny story that appealed to
  Arab businessmen, with its chain of double crosses. Abdullah would be
  telling it for years. But it sent a chill through Wolff. So AbduIlah, too,
  knew about the counterfeit notes. How many others did? Wolff felt as if the
  hunting pack had formed a circle around him, so that every way he ran he
  came up against one of them, and the circle drew tighter every day.
  Abdullah seemed to notice Wolff's appearance for the first time. He
  immediately became very concerned. "What has happened to you? Have you been
  robbed?" He picked up a tiny silver bell and rang it. Almost immediately,
  a sleepy woman came in from the next room. "Get some hot water,"
 r-                             TIRE KEY TO REBECCA 163

 Abdullah told her. "Bathe my friend's wounds. G7him my European shirt.
 Bring a comb. Bring coffee. QuickI
  In a European house Wolff would have protested at the women being roused,
  after midnight, to attend to him; but here such a protest would have been
  very discourteous. The women existed to serve the men, and they would be
  neither surprised nor annoyed by Abdullah's peremptory demands.
  Wolff explained: 'The British tried to arrest me, and I was obliged to
  fight with them -before I could get away. Sadly, I think they may now
  know where I have been living, and this is a problem."
  "Ah." Abdullah drew on the nargileh, and passed it around again. Wolff
  began to feel the effects of the hashish: he was relaxed, slow-thinking,
  a little sleepy. Time slowed down. Two of Abdullah's wives fussed over
  him, bathing his face and combing his hair. He found their ministrations
  very pleasant indeed.
  Abdullah seemed to doze for a while, then he opened his eyes and said -
  "You must stay here. My house is yours. I win hide you from the British."
  "You are a true friend," Wolff said. It was odd, he thought. He had
  planned to offer Abdullah money to hide him. Then Abdullah bad revealed
  that he knew the money was no good, and Wolff had been wondering what
  else he could do. Now Abdullah was going to hide him for nothing. A true
  friend. What was odd was that Abdullah was not a true friend. There were
  no friends in Abdullah's world: there was the family, for whom he would
  do anything, and the rest, for whom he would do nothing. How have I
  earned this special treatment? Wolff thought sleepily.
  His alarm bell was sounding again. He forced himself to think: it was not
  easy after the hashish. Take it one step at a time, he told himself.
  Abdullah asks me to stay here. Why? Because I am in trouble. Because I
  am his friend. Because I have outwitted him.
  Because I have outwitted him. That story was not finished. Abdullah would
  want to add another double cross to the chain. How? By betraying Wolff
  to the British. That was it. As soon as Wolff fell asleep, Abdullab would
  send a message to Major Vandam. Wolff would be picked up. The British
 164       Ken Follett

 would pay Abdullah for the information, and the story coui, be told to
 Abdullah's credit at last.
 Damn.
  A wife brought a white European shirt. Wolff stood up and took off his torn
  and bloody shirt. The wife averted her eyes from his bare chest.
  Abdullah said: "He doesn't need it yet. Give it to him in the morning."
 Wolff took the shirt from the woman and put it on.
  Abdullah said: "Perhaps it would be undignified for you to sleep in the
  house of an Arab, my friend Achmed?"
  Wolff said: "Tbe British have a proverb: He who sups with the devil must
  use a long spoon."
  Abdullah grinned, showing his steel tooth. He knew that Wolff had guessed
  his plan. "Almost an Arab," he said.
 "Good-bye, my friends," said Wolff.
 "Until the next time," Abdullah replied.
  Wolff went out into the cold night, wondering where he could go now.

 In the hospital a nurse froze half of Vandams face with a local anesthetic,
 then Dr. Abuthnot stitched up his cheek with her long, sensitive, clinical
 hands. She put on a protective dressing and secured it by a long strip of
 bandage tied around his head.
 "I must look like a toothache cartoon," he said.
  She looked grave. She did not have a big sense of humor. She said: "You
  won't be so chirpy when the anesthetic wears off. Your face is going to
  hurt badly. I'm going to give you a painkiller."
 "No, thanks," said Vandam.
 "Don't be a tough guy, Major," she said. "You'll regret it."
  He looked at her, in her white hospital coat and her sensible flat-heeled
  shoes, and wondered how he had ever found her even faintly desirable. She
  was pleasant enough, even Pretty, but she was also cold, superior and
  antiseptic. Not like-
 Not Me Elene.
 "A pain-killer will send me to sleep," he told her.
  "And a jolly good thing, too," she said. "If you sleep we can be sure the
  stitches will be undisturbed for a few hours."
          THE KEY TO REBECCA     165

  "I'd love to, but I have some important work that won7t wait."
  "You cant work. You shouldn!t really walk around. You should talk as
  little as possible. Youre weak from loss of blood, and a wound like this
  is mentally as well as physically traumatic-in a few hours you7H feel the
  backl&sh, and you'll be dizzy, nauseous, exhausted and confused."
  ,,rU be worse if the Germans take Cairo," he said. He stood up.
  Dr. Abuthnot looked cross. Vandam thought how well it suited her to be
  in a position to tell people what to do. She was not sure how to handle
  outright disobedience. "You're a silly boy," she said.
 "No doubt. Can I eat?"
 "No. Take glucose dissolved in warm water."
  I might try it in warm gin, he thought. He shook her hand. It was cold
  and dry.
  Jakes was waiting outside the hospital with a car. "I knew they wouldift
  be able to keep you long, sir," he said. "Shall I drive you home?'
 "No." Vandam's watch had stopped. "Wbat's the time?"
 "Five past two."
 "I presume Wolff wasn't dining alone."
 "No, sir. His companion is under arrest at GHQ."
 "Drive me there."
 "If you're sure..
    to
 "Yes.
  The car pulled away. Vandam said- "Have you notified the hierarchy?"
 "About this evening's events? No, sir.-
  "Good. Tomorrow will be soon enough." Vandam did not say what they both
  knew: that the department, already under a cloud for letting Wolff gather
  intelligence, would be in utter disgrace for letting him slip through
  their fingers.
  Vandam, said: "I presume Wolffs dinner date was a woman."
  "Very much so, if I may say so, sir. A real dish. Name of Sonja."
 "The dancerr
 "No less."
 They drove on in silence. Wolff was a cool customer, Van- 166        Ken Follett

 dam thought, to go out with the most famous belly dancer fn Egypt in
 between stealing British military secrets. Well, he would not be so cool
 now. That was unfortunate in a way: having been warned by this incident
 that the British were on to him, he would be more careful from now on.
 Never scare them, just catch them.
  They arrived at GHQ and got out of the car. Vandam said: "What's been
  done with her since she arrived?"
  "The no-treatment treatment," Jakes said. "A bare cell, no food, no
  drink, no questions."
  "Good." It was a pity, all the same, that she had been given time to
  collect her thoughts. Vandam knew from prisoner-of-war interrogations
  that the best results were achieved immediately after the capture, when
  the prisoner was still frightened of being killed. Later on, when he had
  been herded here and there and given food and drink, he began to think
  of himself as a prisoner rather than as a soldier, and remembered that
  he had new rights and duties; and then he was better able to keep his
  mouth shut. Vandam should have interviewed Sonja immediately after the
  fight in the restaurant. As that was not possible, the next best thing
  was for her to be kept in isolation and given no information until he
  arrived.
  Jakes led the way along a corridor to the interview room. Vandam looked
  in through the judas. It was a square room, without windows but bright
  with electric light. There were a table, two upright chairs and an
  ashtray. To one side was a doorless cubicle with a toilet.
  Sonja sat on one of the chairs facing the door. Jakes was right, Vandam
  thought; she's a dish. However she was by no means pretty. She was
  something of an Amazon, with her ripe, voluptuous body and strong,
  well-proportioned features. The young women in Egypt generally had a
  slender, leggy grace, like downy young deer: Sonja was more like ... Van-
  dam frowned, then thought: a tigress. She wore a long gown of bright
  yellow which was garish to Vandam but would be quite d [a mode in the
  Cha-Cha Club. He watched her for a Minute or two. She was sitting quite
  still, not fidgeting, not darting nervous glances around the bare cell,
  not smoking or biting her nails. He thought: She will be a tough nut to
  crack. Then the expression on her handsome face changed,
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     167

 and she stood up and began pacing up and down, and Vandam thought: Not so
 tough.
 He opened the door and went in.
  He sat down at the table without speaking, "Mis left her standing, which
  was a psychological disadvantage for a woman: Score the first point to
  me, he thought. He heard Jakes come in behind him and close the door. He
  looked up at Sonja. "Sit down."
  She stood gazing at him, and a slow smile spread across her face. She
  pointed at his bandages. "Did he do that to you?" she said.
 Score the second point to her.
 "Sit down."
 "nank you." She sat.
 "Who is 'he'?"
 "Alex Wolff, the man you tried to beat up tonight."
 "And who is Alex Wolff?"
 "A wealthy patron of the Cha-Cha Club."
 "How long have you known him?"
 She looked at her watch. "Five hours."
 "What is your relationship with him?"
 She shrugged. "He was a date."
 "How did you meetT'
  'The usual way. After my act, a waiter brought a message inviting me to
  sit at Mr. Wolff's table."
 "Which one?"
 "Which table?"
 "Which waiter."
 "I don't remember."
 "Go on."
  "Mr. Wolff gave me a glass of champagne and asked me to have dinner with
  him. I accepted, we went to the restaurant, and you know the rest."
  "Do you usuafly sit with members of the audience after your act?"
 "Yes, it's a custom."
 "Do you usually go to dinner with them?"
 "Occasionally."
 "Why did you accept this time?"
 "Mr. Wolff seemed like an unusual sort of man." She
 168        Ken Follett

 looked at Vandam's bandage again, and grinned. "He was an unusual sort of
 man."
 "What is your full name?"
 "Sonia el-Aram."
 "Address?"
 "Rhan, Zamalek. It's a houseboaV'
 "Age?"
 "How discourteous."
 "Age?"
 "I refuse to answer."
 "You're on dangerous ground---w"
  "No, you are on dangerous ground." Suddenly she startled Vandam. by
  letting her feelings show, and he realized that all this time she had
  been suppressing a fury. She wagged a fmger in his face. "At least ten
  people saw your uniformed bullies arrest me in the restaurant. By midday
  tomorrow half of Cairo will know that the British have put Sonja in jail.
  If I don't appear at the Cha-Cha tomorrow night there will be a riot. My
  people will burn the city. You'll have to bring troops back from the
  desert to deal with it. And if I leave here with a single bruise or
  scratch, IT show it to the world onstage tomorrow night, and the result
  will be the same. No, mister, it Isn't me Who?s on dangerous ground."
  Vandam looked at her blankly throughout the tirade, then spoke as if she
  had said nothing extraordinary. He had to ignore what she said, because
  she was right, and he could not deny it. "Let's go over this again," he
  said niudly. "You say you met Wolff at the Cha-Cha-"
  "No," she interrupted. "I won't go over it again. IT cooperate with you,
  and I'll answer questions, but I will not be interrogated." She stood up,
  turned her chair around, and sat down with her back to Vandam.
  Vandam. stared at the back of her head for a moment. She had well and
  truly outmaneuvered him. He was angry with himself for letting it happen,
  but his anger was mixed with a sneaking admiration for her for the way
  she had done it. Abruptly, he got up and left the room. Jakes followed.
 Out in the corridor Jakes said: "What do you thinkT'
 "Well have to let her go."
  Jakes went to give instructions. While he waited, Vandam thought about
  Sonja. He wondered from what source she had
         TIRE KEY TO REBECCA    169

 been drawing the strength to defy him. Whether her story was true or false,
 she should have been frightened, confused, intimidated and ultimately
 compliant. It was true that her fame gave her some protection; but, in
 threatening him with her fame, she ought to have been blustering, unsure and
 a little desperate, for an isolation cell normally frightened any~
 one-especially celebrities, because the sudden excommunication from the
 familiar glittering world made them wonder even more than usually whether
 that familiar glittering world could possibly be real.
  What gave her strength? He ran over the conversation in his mind. The
  question she had balked at had been the one about her age. Clearly her
  talent had enabled her to keep going past the age at which run-of-the-mill
  dancers retired, so perhaps she was living in fear of the passing years. No
  clues there. Otherwise she had been calm, expressionless and blank, except
  when she had smiled at his wound. Then, at the end. she had allowed herself
  to explode, but even then she had used her fury, she had not been
  controlled by it. He called to mind her face as she had raged at him. What
  had he seen there? Not just anger. Not fear.
 Then he had it. It had been hatred.
  She hated him. But he was nothing to her, nothing but a British officer.
  Therefore she hated the British. And her hatred had given her strength.
  Suddenly Vandam. was tired. He sat down heavily on a bench in the corridor.
  From where was he to draw strength? It was easy to be strong if you were
  insane, and in Sonja's hatred there had been a hint of something a little
  crazy. He had no such refuge. Calmly, rationally, he considered what was at
  stake. He imagined the Nazis marching into Cairo; the Gestapo in the
  streets; the Egyptian Jews herded into concentration camps; the Fascist
  propaganda on the wireless ...
  People like Sonja looked at Egypt under British rule and felt that the
  Nazis had already arrived. It was not true, but if one tried for a moment
  to see the British through Sonja's eyes it had a certain plausibility: the
  Nazis said that Jews were sub-human, and the British said that blacks were
  like children; there was no freedom of the press in Germany, but there was
  none in Egypt either; and the British, like the Germans, had their
  political police. Before the war Vandam had
 170       Ken Follett

 sometimes heard Hitler's politics warmly endorsed in the officers' mess:
 they disliked him, not because he was a Fascist, but because he had been a
 corporal in the Army and a house painter in civilian life. There were brutes
 everywhere, and sometimes they got into power, and then you had to fight
 them.
  It was a more rational philosophy than Sonja's, but it just was not
  inspirational.
  The anesthetic in his face was wearing off. He could feel a sharp, clear
  line of pain across his cheek, like a new burn. He realized he also had a
  headache. He hoped Jakes would be a long time arranging Sonja's release, so
  that he could sit on the bench a little while longer.
  He thought of Billy. He did not want the boy to miss him at breakfast.
  Perhaps I'll stay awake until morning, then take him to school, then go
  home and sleep, he thought. What would Billy's life be like under the
  Nazis? They would teach him to despise the Arabs. His present teachers were
  no great admirers of African culture, but at least Vandam could do a little
  to make his son realize that people who were different were not necessarily
  stupid. What would happen in the Nazi classroom when he put up his hand and
  said: "Please, sir, my dad says a dumb Englishman is no smarter than a dumb
  Arab"?
  He thought of Elene. Now she was a kept woman, but at least she could
  choose her lovers, and if she didn't like what they wanted to do in bed she
  could kick them out. In the brothel of a concentration camp she would have
  no such choice ... He shuddered.
  Yes. We're not very admirable, especially in our colonies, but the Nazis
  are worse, whether the Egyptians know it or not. It is worth fighting. In
  England decency is making slow progress; in Germany it's taking a big step
  backward. Think about the people you love, and the issues become clearer.
  Draw strength from that. Stay awake a little longer. Stand UP.
 He stood up.
 Jakes came back.
 Vandarn said: "She's an Anglophobe."
 "I beg your pardon, sir?"
          THE KEY TO REBECCA     171

  "Sonia. She hates the British. I don't believe Wolff was a casual pickup.
  Let's go."
  They walked out of the building together. Outside it was still dark. Jakes
  said: "Sir, you're very tired-"
  "Yes. I'm very tired. But I'm still thinking straight, Jakes. Take me to
  the main police station."
 .,Sir."
  They pulled away. Vandam handed his cigarette case and lighter to Jakes,
  who drove one-handed while he ]it Vandam's cigarette. Vandam had trouble
  sucking: he could hold the cigarette between his lips and breathe the
  smoke, but he could not draw on it hard enough to light it. Jakes handed
  him the lit cigarette. Vandam. thought: I'd Ue a martini to go with it.
  Jakes stopped the car outside police headquarters. Vandam said: "We want
  the chief of detectives, whatever they call him."
 "I shouldn't think he'll be there at this hour---~*
 "No. Get his address. Well wake him up."
  Jakes went into the building. Vandam stared ahead through the windshield.
  Dawn was on its way. The stars had winked out, and now the sky was gray
  rather than black. There were a few people about. He saw a man leading two
  donkeys loaded with vegetables, presumably going to market. The muezzins
  had not yet called the first prayer of the day.
  Jakes came back. "Gezira," he said as he put the car in gear and let in the
  clutch.
  Vandam thought about Jakes. Someone had told Vandam that Jakes had a
  terrific sense of humor. Vandam had always found him pleasant and cheerful,
  but he had never seen any evidence of actual humor. Am I such a tyrant,
  Vandam thought, that my staff are terrified of cracking a joke in my
  presence? Nobody makes me laugh, he thought.
 Except Elene.
 "You never tell me jokes, Jakes."
 "Sir?"
  "They say you have a terrific sense of humor, but you never tell me
  jokes.11
 "No, sir."
  "Would you care to be candid for a moment and tell me why?"
 172       Ken Follett

  There was a pause, then Jakes said: "You don't invite familiarity, sir."
  Vandam nodded. How would they know how much he liked to throw back his head
  and roar with laughter? He said: "Very tactfully put, Jakes. The subject is
  closed."
  The Wolff business is getting to me, he thought. I wonder whether perhaps
  I've never really been any good at my job, and then I wonder if I'm any
  good for anything at all. And my face hurts.
  They crossed the bridge to the island. The sky turned from slate-gray to
  pearl. Jakes said: "I'd like to say, sir, that, if you'll pardon me, you're
  far and away the best superior officer I've ever had."
  "Oh." Vandam was quite taken aback. "Good Lord. Well, thank you, Jakes.
  Thank you."
 "Not at all, sir. We're there."
  He stopped the car outside a small, pretty single-story house with a
  well-watered garden. Vandam. guessed that the chief of detectives was doing
  well enough out of his bribes, but not too well. A cautious man, perhaps:
  it was a good sign.
  They walked up the path and hammered on the door. After a couple of minutes
  a head looked out of a window and spoke in Arabic.
  Jakes put on his sergeant majoes voice. "Military Intelligence--open up the
  bloody door!"
  A minute later a small, handsome Arab opened up, still belting his
  trousers. He said in English: "What's going on?"
 Vandarn took charge. "An emergency. Let us in, will you?"
  "Of course." The detective stood aside and they entered. He led them into
  a small living room. "What has happened?" He seemed frightened, and Vandam.
  thought: Who wouldn't be? The knock on the door in the middle of the night
  ...
  Vandam. said: "There's nothing to panic about, but we want you to set up a
  surveillance, and we need it right away.,,
  "Of course. Please sit down." The detective found a notebook and pencil.
  "Who is the subject?"
 "Sonja el-Ararn."
 "The dancer?"
         THE KEY TO REBECCA      173

  "Yes. I want you to put a twenty-four-hour watch on her home, which is a
  houseboat called Jihan in Zamalek."
  As the detective wrote down the details, Vandarn wished he did not have to
  use the Egyptian police for this work. However, he had no choice: it was
  impossible, in an African Country, to use conspicuous, white-skinned,
  English-speaking people for surveillance.
 The detective said: "And what is the nature of the crime?"
  I'm not telling you, Vandarn thought. He said: "We think she may be an
  associate of whoever is passing counterfeit sterling in Cairo."
  "So you want to know who comes and goes, whether they carry anything,
  whether meetings are held aboard the boat. . ."
  "Yes. And there is a particular man that we're interested in. He is Alex
  Wolff, the man suspected of the Assyut knife murder; you should have his
  description already."
 "Of course. Daily reports?"
  "Yes, except that if Wolff is seen I want to know Immediately. You can
  reach Captain Jakes or me at GHQ during the day. Give him our home phone
  numbers, Jakes."
  "I know these houseboats," the detective said. "rhe towpath is a popular
  evening walk, I think, especially for sweethearts."
 Jakes said: "Thafs right."
 Vandarn raised an eyebrow at Jakes.
  The detective went on: "A good place, perhaps, for a beggar to sit. Nobody
  ever sees a beggar. At night welt, there are bushes. Also popular with
  sweethearts."
 Vandam said: "Is that right, Jakes?"
  "I wouldn't know, sir." He realized he was being ribbed, and he smiled. He
  gave the detective a piece of paper with the phone numbers written on it.
  A little boy in pajamas walked into the room, rubbing his eyes. He was
  about five or six years old. He looked around the room sleepily, then went
  to the detective.
 "My son," the detective said proudly.
  "I think we can leave you now," Vandarn said. "Unless you want us to drop
  you in the city?"
  "No, thank you, I have a car, and I should like to put on my jacket and tie
  and comb my hair."
 174       Ken Follett

  "Very well, but make it fast." Vandarn stood up. Suddenly he could not
  see straight. it was as if his eyelids were closing involuntarily, yet
  he knew he had his eyes wide open. He felt himself losing his balance.
  Then Jakes was beside him, holding his ann.
 "All right, sir?"
 His vision returned slowly. "All right now," he said.
  "You've had a nasty injury," the detective said sympathetically.
  They went to the door. The detective said: "Gentlemen, be assured that
  I will handle this surveillance personally. They won't get a mouse aboard
  that houseboat without your knowing it." He was still holding the little
  boy, and now he shifted him on to his left hip and held out his right
  hand.
  "Good-bye," Vandam said. He shook hands. "By the way, rm Major Vandam."
  The detective gave a little bow. "Superintendent Kemel, at your service,
  sir."
               14

 Sonja brooded. She had half expected Wolff to be at the houseboat when she
 returned toward dawn, but she had found the place cold and empty. She was
 not sure how she felt about that. At first, when they had arrested her,
 she had felt nothing but rage toward Wolff for running away and leaving
 her at the mercy of the British thugs. Being alone, being a woman and
 being an accomplice of sorts in Wolfrs spying, she was terrified of what
 they might do to her. She thought Wolff should have stayed to look after
 her. Then she had realized that that would not have been smart. By
 abandoning her he had diverted suspicion away from her. It was hard to
 take, but it was for the best. Sitting alone in the bare little room at
 GHQ she had turned her anger away from Wolff and toward the British.
 She had defied them, and they had backed down.
  At the time she had not been sure that the man who interrogated her had
  been Major Vandam, but later, when she was being released, the clerk had
  let the name slip. The confirmation had delighted her. She smiled again
  when she thought of the grotesque bandage on Vandam's face. Wolff must
  have cut him with the knife. He should have killed him. But all the same,
  what a night, what a glorious night!
  She wondered where Wolff was now. He would have gone to ground somewhere
  in the city. He would emerge when he thought the coast was clear. There
  was nothing she could do. She would have liked him here, though, to share
  the triumph.
  She put on her nightdress. She knew she ought to go to bed, but she did
  not feet sleepy. Perhaps a drink would help. 175
 176       Ken Follett

 She found a bottle of scotch whiskey, poured some into a glass, and added
 water. As she was tasting it she heard footsteps on the gangplank. Without
 thinking she called: "Achmed . . . T' Then she realized the step was not
 his, it was too light and quick. She stood at the foot of the ladder in
 her nightdress, with the drink in her hand. The hatch was lifted and an
 Arab face looked in.
 4.Sonia?"

  "You were expecting someone else, I think." The man climbed down the
  ladder. Sonja watched him, thinking: What now? He stepped off the ladder
  and stood in front of her. He was a small man with a handsome face and
  quick, neat movements. He wore European clothes: dark trousers, polished
  black shoes and a short-sleeved white shirt. "I am Detective
  Superintendent Kernel, and I am honored to meet you." He held out his
  hand.
  Sonja turned away, walked across to the divan and sat down. She thought
  she had dealt with the police. Now the Egyptians wanted to get in on the
  act. It would probably come down to a bribe in the end, she reassured
  herself. She sipped her drink, staring at Kernel. Finally she said: "What
  do you want?"
  Kernel sat down uninvited. "I am interested in your friend, Alex Wolff."
 "He's not my friend."
  Kernel ignored that. "ne British have told me two things about Mr. Wolff:
  one, that he knifed a soldier in Assyut; two, that he tried to pass
  counterfeit English banknotes in a restaurant in Cairo. Already the story
  is a little curious. Why was he in Assyut? Why did he kill the soldier?
  And where did he get the forged money?"
  "I don't know anything about the man," said Sonja, hoping he would not
  come home right now.
  "I do, though," said Kernel. "I have other information that the British
  may or may not possess. I know who Alex Wolff is. His stepfather was a
  lawyer, here in Cairo. His mother was German. I know, too, that Wolff is
  a nationalist. I know that he used to be your lover. And I know that you
  are a nationalist."
 Sonja had gone cold. She sat stffl, her drink untouched,
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     177

 watching the sly detective unreel the evidence against her. She said
 nothing.
  Kemel went on: "Where did he get the forged money? Not in Egypt. I don't
  think there is a printer in Egypt capable of doing the work; and if there
  were, I think he would make Egyptian currency. Therefore the money came
  from Europe. Now Wolff, also known as Achmed Rahniha, quietly disap. peared
  a couple of years ago. Where did he go? Europe? He came back-via Assyut.
  Why? Did he want to sneak into the country unnoticed? Perhaps he teamed up
  with an English counterfeiting gang, and has now returned with his share of
  the profits; but I don't think so, for he is not a poor man, nor is he a
  criminal. So, there is a mystery."
 He knows, Sonja thought. Dear God, he knows.
  "Now the British have asked me to put a watch on this houseboat, and tell
  them of everyone who comes and goes here. Wolff will come here, they hope;
  and then they will arrest him; and then they will have the answers. Unless
  I solve the puzzle first."
  A watch on the boat! He could never come back. But-but why, she thought, is
  Kernel telling me?
  "The key, I think, lies in Wolffs nature: he is both a Ger. man and an
  Egyptian." Kemel stood up, and crossed the floor to sit beside Sonja and
  look into her face. "I think he is fighting in this war. I think he is
  fighting for Germany and for Egypt. I think the forged money comes from the
  Germans. I think Wolff is a spy."
  Sonja thought: But you don't know where to find him. That's why you're
  here. Kemel was staring at her. She looked away, afraid that he might read
  her thoughts in her face.
  Kernel said: "If he is a spy, I can catch him. Or I can save him."
  Sonja jerked her head around to look at him. "What does that meanT'
 "I want to meet him. Secretly."
 "But why?"
  Kemel smiled his sly, knowing smile. "Sonja, you are not the only one who
  wants Egypt to be free. There are many of us. We want to see the British
  defeated, and we are not fastidious about who does the defeating. We want
  to work with
 178       Ken Follett

 the Germans. We want to contact them. We want to talk to Rommel."
 "And you think Achmed can help you?"
  "If he is a spy, he must have a way of getting messages to the Germans."
  Sonja's mind was -in a turmoil. From being her accuser, Kernel had turned
  into a co-conspirator-unless this was a trap. She did not know whether to
  trust him or not. She did not have enough time to think about it. She did
  not know what to say, so she said nothing.
 Kemel persisted gently. "Can you arrange a meeting?"
  She could not possibly make such a decision on the spur of the moment.
  "No," she said.
  "Remember the watch on the houseboat," he said. "Me surveillance reports
  will come to me before being passed on to Major Vandam. If there is a
  chance, just a chance, that you might be able to arrange a meeting, I in
  turn can make sure that the reports which go to Vandam are carefully edited
  so as to contain nothing . . . embarrassing."
  Sonja had forgotten the surveillance. When Wolff came back-and he would,
  sooner or later-the watchers would report it, and Vandam would know, unless
  Kemel fixed it. This changed everything. She had no choice. "I'll arrange
  a meeting," she said.
  "Good." He stood up. "Call the main police station and leave a message
  saying that Sirhan wants to see me. When I get that message I'll contact
  you to arrange date and time."
 "Very well."
  He went to the ladder, then came back. "By the way." He took a wallet from
  his trousers pocket and extracted a small photograph. He handed it to
  Sonja. It was a picture of her. "Would you sign this for my wife? She's a
  great fan of yours." He handed her a pen. "Her name is Hesther."
  Sonja wrote: "To Hesther, with all good wishes, Sonja." She gave him the
  photograph, thinking: This is incredible.
 "Thank you so much. She will be overjoyed."
 Incredible.
 Sonja said: "I'll get in touch just as soon as I can."
  "Thank you." He held out his hand. This time she shook it. He went up the
  ladder and out, closing the hatch behind him.
 Sonja relaxed. Somehow she had handled it right. She was
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     179

 still not completely convinced of Kernel's sincerity; but if there was a
 trap she could not see it.
  She felt tired. She finished the whiskey in the glass, then went through
  the curtains into the bedroom. She still had her nightdress on, and she
  was quite cold. She went to the bed and pulled back the covers. She heard
  a tapping sound. Her heart missed a beat. She whirled around to look at
  the porthole on the far side of the boat, the side that faced across the
  river. There was a head behind the glass.
 She screamed.
 The face disappeared.
 She realized it had been Wolff.
  She ran up the ladder and out on to the deck. Looking over the side, she
  saw him in the water. He appeared to be naked. He clambered up the side
  of the little boat, using the portholes for handholds. She reached for
  his arm and pulled him on to the deck. He knelt there on all fours for
  a moment, glancing up and down the river bank like an alert water rat;
  then he scampered down the hatch. She followed him.
  He stood on the carpet, dripping and shivering. He was naked. She said:
  "What happened?"
 "Run me a bath," he said.
  She went through the bedroom into the bathroom. There was a small tub
  with an electric water heater. She turned the taps on, and threw a
  handful of scented crystals into the water. Wolff got in and let the
  water rise around him.
 "What happened?" Sonja repeated.
  He controlled his shivering. "I didn't want to risk coming down the
  towpath, so I took off my clothes on the opposite bank and swam across.
  I looked in, and saw that man with you-I suppose he was another
  policeman."
 "Yes.,'
 "So I had to wait in the water until he went away."
 She laughed. "You poor thing."
  "It's not funny. My God, I'm cold. The fucking Abwehr gave me dud money.
  Somebody will be strangled for that, next time I'm in Germany."
 "Why did they do it?"
  "I don't know whether it's incompetence or disloyalty. Canaris has always
  been lukewarm on Hitler. Turn off the
 180       Ken Follett

 water, will you?" He began to wash the river mud off his legs.
 "You'll have to use your own money," she said.
  "I can't get at it. You can be sure the bank has instructions to call the
  police the moment I show my face. I could pay the occasional bill by
  check, but even that might help them get a line on me. I could sell some
  of my stocks and shares, or even the villa, but there again the money has
  to come through a bank.. ."
  So you will have to use my money, Sonja thought. You won't ask, though:
  you'll just take it. She filed the thought for further consideration.
  "That detective is putting a watch on the boat-on Vandam's instructions."
 WoIff grinned. "So it was Vandam."
 "Did you cut him?"
 "Yes, but I wasn't sure where. It was dark."
 "The face. He had a huge bandage."
  Wolff laughed aloud. "I wish I could see him." He became sober, and
  asked: "Did he question you?"
 "Yes."
 "What did you tell him?"
 "nat I hardly knew you."
  "Good girl." He looked at her appraisingly, and she knew that he was
  pleased, and a little surprised, that she had kept her head. He said:
  "Did he believe you?"
 "Presumably not, since he ordered this surveillance."
  Wolff frowned. "nat's going to be awkward. I can't swirn the river every
  time I want to come home . .
 "Don't worry," Sonja said. "I've fixed it."
 "You fixed it?"
  It was not quite so, Sonja knew, but it sounded good. 'The detective is
  one of us," she explained.
 "A nationalist?"
 "Yes. He wants to use your radio."
  "How does he know I've got one?" IMere was a threaten. ing note in
  Wolff's voice.
  "He doesn't," Sonja said calmly. "From what the British have told him he
  deduces that you're a spy; and he presumes a spy has a means of
  communicating with the Germans. The nationalists want to send a message
  to Rommel."
 Wolff shook his head. "I'd rather not get involved."
         TIM KEY TO REBECCA     181

  She would not have him go back on a bargain she had made. "You've got to
  get involved," she said sharply.
 "I suppose I do," he said wearily.
  She felt an odd sense of power. It was as if she were taking control. She
  found it exhilarating.
  Wolff said: 'They're closing in. I don't want any more surprises like
  last night. I'd like to leave this boat, but I don't know where to go.
  Abdullah knows my money's no goodhe'd like to turn me over to the
  British. Damn."
 "You'll be safe here, while you string the detective along."
 "I haven't any choice."
  She sat on the edge of the bathtub, looking at his naked body. He seemed
  ... not defeated, but at least cornered. His face was lined with tension,
  and there was in his voice a faint note of panic. She guessed that for
  the first time he was wondering whether he could bold out until Rommel
  arrived. And, also for the first time, he was dependent on her. He needed
  her money, he needed her home. Last night he had depended on her silence
  under interrogation, and-he now believedhe had been saved by her deal
  with the nationalist detective. He was slipping into her power. The
  thought intrigued her. She felt a little horny.
  Wolff said: "I wonder if I should keep my date with that girl, Elene,
  tonight."
  "Why not? Shes nothing to do with the British. You picked her up in a
  shop!"
  "Maybe. I just feel it might be safer to lie low. I don't know.$,
 "No," said Sonia firmly. "I want her."
  He looked up at her through narrowed eyes. She wondered whether be was
  considering the issue or thinking about her newfound strength of will.
  "All right," he said finally. "I'll just have to take precautions."
  He had given in. She had tested her strength against his, and she had
  won. It gave her a kind of thrill. She shivered.
 "I'm still cold," Wolf said. "Put some more hot water in."
  "No." Without removing her nightdress, Sonja got into the bath. She knelt
  astride him, facing him, her knees jammed against the sides of the narrow
  tub. She lifted the wet hem of the nightdress to the level of her waist.
  She said: "Eat me."
 He did.
 182       Ken Follett

 Vandam was in high spirits as he sat in the Oasis Restaurant, sipping a cold
 martini, with Jakes beside him. He had slept all day and had woken up
 feeling battered but ready to fight back. He had gone to the hospital, where
 Dr. Abuthnot had told him he was a fool to be up and about, but a lucky
 fool, for his wound was mending. She had changed his dressing for a smaller,
 neater one that did not have to be secured by a yard of bandage around his
 head. Now it was a quarter past seven, and in a few minutes he would catch
 Alex Wolff.
  Vandam and Jakes were at the back of the restaurant, in a position from
  which they could see the whole place. The table nearest to the entrance was
  occupied by two hefty sergeants eating fried chicken paid for by
  Intelligence. Outside, in an unmarked car parked across the road, were two
  MPs in civilian clothes with their handguns in their jacket pockets. The
  trap was set: all that was missing was the bait. Elena would arrive at any
  minute.
  BiRy had been shocked by the bandage at breakfast that morning. Vandam. had
  sworn the boy to secrecy, then told him the truth. "I had a fight with a
  German spy. He had a knife. He got away, but I think I may catch him
  tonight." It was a breach of security, but what the hell, the boy needed
  to, know why his father was wounded. After hearing the story Billy had not
  been worried anymore, but thrilled. Gaafar had been awestruck, and inclined
  to move around softly and talk in whispers, as if there had been a death in
  the family.
  With Jakes, he found that last night's impulsive intimacy had left no overt
  trace. Their formal relationship had returned: Jakes took orders, called
  him sir, and did not offer opinions without being asked. It was just as
  weU, Vandam thought: they were a good team as things were, so why make
  changes?
  He looked at his wristwatch. It was seven-thirty. He lit another cigarette.
  At any moment now Alex Wolff would walk through the door. Vandam felt sure
  he would recognize Wolff-a tall, hawk-nosed European with brown hair and
  brown eyes, a strong, fit man-but he would make no move until Elene came in
  and sat by Wolff. Then Vandam and Jakes would move in. If Wolff fled the
  two sergeants would
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     183

 block the door, and in the unlikely event that he got past them, the MPs
 outside would shoot at him.
  Seven thirty-five. Vandam was looking forward to interrogating Wolff. What
  a battle of wills that would be. But Vandam would win it, for he would have
  all the advantages. He would feel Wolff out, find the weak points, and then
  apply pressure until the prisoner cracked.
  Seven thirty-nine. Wolff was late. Of course it was possible that he would
  not come at all. God forbid. Vandam shuddered when he recalled how
  superciliously he had said to Bogge: "I expect to arrest him tomorrow
  night." Vandam's section was in very bad odor at the moment, and only the
  prompt arrest of Wolff would enable them to come up smelling of roses. But
  suppose that, after last night's scare, Wolff had decided to lie low for a
  while, wherever it was that he was lying? Somehow Vandam felt that lying
  low was not Wolff's style. He hoped not.
  At seven-forty the restaurant door opened and Elene walked in. Vpndam heard
  Jakes whistle under his breath. She looked stunning. She wore a silk dress
  the color of clotted cream. Its simple lines drew attention to her slender
  figure, and its color and texture flattered her smooth tan skin: Vandam
  felt a sudden urge to stroke her.
  She looked around the restaurant, obviously searching for Wolff and not
  finding him. Her eyes met Vandam's and moved on without hesitating. The
  headwaiteT approached, and she spoke to him. He seated her at a table for
  two close to the door.
  Vandam caught the eye of one of the sergeants and inclined his head in
  Elene's direction. The sergeant gave a little nod of acknowledgment and
  checked his watch.
 Where was Wolff?
  Vandam lit a cigarette and began to worry. He bad assumed that Wolff, being
  a gentleman, would arrive a little early; and Elene would arrive a little
  late. According to that scenario the arrest would have taken place the
  moment she sat down. Ifs going wrong, he thought, it's going bloody wrong.
  A waiter brought Elene a drink. It was seven forty-five. She looked in
  Vandam's direction and gave a small, dainty shrug of her slight shoulders.
 184       Ken Follett

  The door of the restaurant opened. Vandam froze with a cigarette half way
  to his lips, then relaxed again, disappointed: it was only a small boy.
  The boy handed a piece of paper to a waiter then went out again.
 Vandam decided to order another drink.
  He saw the waiter go to Elene's table and hand her the piece of paper.
  Vandam frowned. What was this? An apology from Wolff, saying he could not
  keep the date? Elene's face took on an expression of faint puzzlement.
  She looked at Vandarn and gave that little shrug again.
  Vandarn considered whether to go over and ask her what was going on-but
  that would have spoiled the ambush, for what if Wolff should walk in
  while Elene was talking to Vandam? Wolff could turn around at the door
  and run, and he would have only the MPs to get past, two people instead
  of six.
 Vandam. murmured to Jakes: "Wait."
  Elene picked up her clutch bag from the chair beside her and stood up.
  She looked at Vandarn again, then turned around. Vandam. thought she was
  going to the ladies' roonL Instead she went to the door and opened ft.
  Vandarn and Jakes got to their feet together. One of the sergeants half
  rose, looking at Vandam, and Vandam waved him down: no point in arresting
  Elene. Vandarn and Jakes hurried across the restaurant to the door.
 As they passed the sergeants Vandarn said: "Follow me."
  They went through the door into the street. Vandam. looked around. There
  was a blind beggar sitting against the wall, holding out a cracked dish
  with a few piasters in it. Three soldiers in uniform staggered along the
  pavement, already drunk, arms around each other's shoulders, singing a
  vulgar song. A group of Egyptians had met just outside the restaurant and
  were vigorously shaking hands. A street vendor offered Vandarn cheap
  razor blades. A few yards away Elene was getting into a taxi.
 Vandam broke into a run.
 The door of the taxi slammed and it pulled away.
  Across the street, the MPs' car roared, shot forward and collided with
  a bus.
 Vandam caught up with the taxi and leaped on to the run-         THE KEY TO REBECCA     185

 Ding board. The car swerved suddenly. Vandam lost his grip, hit the road
 running and fell down.
  He got to his feet. His face blazed with pain: his wound was bleeding
  again, and be could feel the sticky warmth uiider the dressing. Jakes and
  the two sergeants gathered around him. Across the road the MPs were arguing
  with the bus driver.
 The taxi bad disappeared.
               15

 Flene was terrified. It had all gone wrong. Wolff was supposed to have
 been arrested in the restaurant, and now he was here, in a taxi with her,
 smiling a feral smile. She sat still, her mind a blank.
 "Who was he?" Wolff said, still smiling.
  Elene could not think. She looked at Wolff, looked away again, and said:
  "What?"
  "rhat man who ran after us. He jumped on the running board. I couldn't
  see him properly, but I thought he was a European. Who was he?"
  Elene fought down her fear. He's William Vandam, and he was supposed to
  arrest you. She had to make up a story. Why would someone follow her out
  of a restaurant and try to get into her taxi? "He . . . I don't know him.
  He was in the restaurant." Suddenly she was inspired. "He was bothering
  me. I was alone. It's your fault, you were late."
 "I'm so sorry," he said quickly.
  Elene had an access of confidence after he swallowed her story so
  readily. "And why are we in a taxi?" she demanded, "What's it all about?
  Why aren't we having dinner?" She heard a whining note in her voice, and
  hated it.
  "I had a wonderful idea." He smiled again, and Elene suppressed a
  shudder. "We're going to have a picnic. There's a basket in the trunk."
  She did not know whether to believe him. Why had be pulled that stunt at
  the restaurant, sending a boy in with the message "Come outside.-A.W."
  unless he suspected a trap? What would he do now, take her into the
  desert and knife her? She bad a sudden urge to leap out of the speeding
  car. She closed her eyes and forced herself to think calmly. If he
               186
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     187

 suspected a trap, why did he come at all? No, it had to be more complex
 than that. He seemed to have believed her about the man on the running
 board-but she could not be sure what was going on behind his smile.
 She said: "Where are we going?"
  "A few miles out of town, to a little spot on the riverbank where we can
  watch the sun go down. It's going to be a lovely evening."
 "I don't want to go."
 'T,Fhat's the matter?"
 "I hardly know you."
  "Don't be silly. The driver will be with us all the timeand I'm a
  gentleman."
 "I should get out of the car."
  "Please don't." He touched her arm lightly. "I have some smoked salmon,
  and a cold chicken, and a bottle of champagne. I get so bored with
  restaurants."
  Elene considered. She could leave him now, and she would be safe-she
  would never see him again. That was what she wanted, to get away from the
  man forever. She thought: But I'm Vandam's only hope. What do I care for
  Vandam? I'd be happy never to see him again, and go back to the old
  peaceful life-
 The old life.
  She did care for Vandam, she realized; at least enough for her to hate
  the thought of letting him down. She had to stay with Wolff, cultivate
  him, angle for another date, try to find out where he lived.
 Impulsively she said: "Let's go to your place."
 He raised his eyebrows. "nat's a sudden change of heart."
  She realized she had made a mistake. "I'm confused," she said. "You
  sprung a surprise on me. Why didn't you ask me first?"
  "I only thought of the idea an hour ago. It didn~t occur to me that it
  might scare you."
  Elene realized that she was, unintentionally, fulfilling her role as a
  dizzy girl. She decided not to overplay her hand. "All right," she said.
  She tried to relax.
  Wolff was studying her. He said: "Yoxfre not quite as vulnerable as you
  seem, are you?"
 "I don't know."
 188       Ken Follett

  "I remember what you said to Aristopoulos, that first day I saw you in the
  shop."
  Elene remembered: she had threatened to cut off Mikis' cock if he touched
  her again. She should have blushed, but she could not do so voluntarily. "I
  was so angry," she said.
  Wolff chuckled. "You sounded it," he said. "Try to bear in mind that I am
  not Aristopoulos."
 She gave him a weak smile. "Okay."
  He turned his attention to the driver. They were out of the city, and Wolff
  began to give directions. Elene wondered where he bad found this taxi: by
  Egyptian standards it was luxurious. It was some kind of American car, with
  big soft seats and lots of room, and it seemed only a few years old.
  They passed through a series of villages, then turned on to an unmade road.
  The car followed the winding track up a small hill and emerged on a little
  plateau atop a bluff. The river was immediately below them, and on its far
  side Elene could see the neat patchwork of cultivated fields stretching
  into the distance until they met the sharp tan-colored line of the edge of
  the desert.
 Wolff said: "Isn't this a lovely spotT'
  Elene had to agree. A flight of swifts rising from the far bank of the
  river drew her eye upward, and she saw that the evening clouds were already
  edged in pink. A young girl was walking away from the river with a huge
  water jug on her head. A lone felucca sailed upstream, propelled by a light
  breeze.
  The driver got out of the car and walked fifty yards away. He sat down,
  pointedly turning his back on them, lit a cigarette and unfolded a
  newspaper.
  Wolff got a picnic hamper out of the trunk and set it on the floor of the
  car between them. As he began to unpack the food, Elene asked him: "How did
  you discover this place?"
  "My mother brought me here when I was a boy." He handed her a glass of
  wine. "After my father died, my mother married an Egyptian. From time to
  time she would find the Muslim household oppressive, so she would bring me
  here in a gharry and tell me about ... Europe, and so on."
 "Did you enjoy it?"
  He hesitated. "My mother had a way of spoiling things like that. She was
  always interrupting the fun. She used to say:
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     189

 'You're so selfish, just like your father.' At that age I preferred my Arab
 family. My stepbrothers were wicked, and nobody tried to control them. We
 used to steal oranges from other people's gardens, throw stones at horses to
 make them bolt, puncture bicycle tires ... Only my mother minded, and all
 she could do was warn us that we'd get punished eventually. She was always
 saying that----~Theyll catch you one day, Alex!"'
  The mother was right, Elene thought: they would catch Alex one day.
  She was relaxing. She wondered whether Wolff was carryIng the knife he had
  used in Assyut, and that made her tense again. The situation was so
  normal-a charming man taking a girl on a picnic beside the river-that for
  a moment she had forgotten she wanted something from him.
 She said: "Where do you live nowT'
  "My house has been . . . commandeered by the British. 1, m living with
  friends." He handed her a slice of smoked salmon on a china plate, then
  sliced a lemon in half with a kitchen knife. Elene watched his deft hands.
  She wondered what he wanted from her, that he should work so hard to please
  her.

 Vandam felt very low. His face hurt, and so did his pride. The great arrest
 had been a fiasco. He had failed professionally, he had been outwitted by
 Alex Wolff and he had sent Elene into danger.
  He sat at home, his cheek newly bandaged, drinking gin to ease the pain.
  Wolff had evaded him so damn eas-ily. Vandam. was sure the spy had not
  really known about the ambushotherwise he would not have turned up at aU.
  No, he had just been taking precautions; and the precautions had worked
  beautifuRy.
  They had a good description of the taxi. It had been a distinctive car,
  quite new, and Jakes had read the number plate. Every policeman and MP in
  the city was looking out for it, and had orders to stop it on sight and
  arrest all. the occupant& They would find it, sooner or later, and Vandam.
  felt sure it would be too late. Nevertheless he was sitting by the phone.
  What was Elene doing now? Perhaps she was in a candlelit restaurant,
  drinking wine and laughing at Wolff's jokes. Van-
   190         Ken FoUen

 dam pictured her, In the cream-colored dress. holding a glass, smiling her
 special, impish smile. the one that promised you anything you wanted.
 Vandam checked his watch. Perhaps they had finished dinner by now. What
 would they do then? It was traditional to go and look at the pyramids by
 moonlight: the black sky, the stars, the endless flat desert and the clean
 triangular planes of the pharaohs' tombs. The area would be deserted,
 except perhaps for another pair of lovers. They might climb a few levels,
 he springing up ahead and then reaching down to lift her; but soon she
 would be exhausted, her hair and her dress a little awry, and she would
 say that these shoes were not designed for mountaineering; so they would
 sit on the great stones, still warm from the sun, and breathe the mild
 night air while they watched the stars. Walking back to the taxi, she
 would shiver in her sleeveless evening gown, and he might put an arm
 around her shoulders to keep her warm. Would he kiss her in the taxi? No,
 he was too old for that. When he made his pass, it would be in some
 sophisticated manner. Would he suggest going back to his place, or hers?
 Vandam did not know which to hope for. If they went to his place, Elene
 would report in the morning, and Vandam would be able to arrest Wolff at
 home, with his radio, his code book and perhaps even his back traffic.
 Professionally, that would be better--but it would also mean that Elene
 would spend a night with Wolff, and that thought made Vandarn more angry
 than it should have done. Alternatively, if they went to her place, where
 Jakes was waiting with ten men and three cars, Wolff would be grabbed
 before be got a chance to-
  Vandam got up and paced the room. ldly, he picked up the book Rebecca,
  the one he thought Wolff was using as the basis of his code. He read the
  first line: "Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again." He put the
  book down, then opened it again and read on. The story of the vulnerable,
  bullied girl was a welcome distraction from his own worries. When he
  realized that the girl would marry the glamorous, older widower, and that
  the marriage would be blighted by the ghostly presence of the man's first
  wife, he closed the book and put it down again. What was the age
  difference between himself and Elene? How long would he be haunted by
  Angela? She, too, had been coldly perfect; Elene, too, was
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     191

 young, Impulsive and in need of rescue from the life she was living. These
 thoughts irritated him, for he was not going to marry Elene. He ht a
 cigarette. Why did the time pass so slowly? Why did the phone not ring? How
 could he have let Wolff slip through his fingers twice in two days? Where
 was Elene?
 Where was Elene?
  He had sent a woman into danger once before. It had bappened after his
  other great fiasco, when Rashid Ali had slipped out of Turkey under
  Vandam's nose. Vandam had sent a woman agent to pick up the German agent,
  the man who had changed clothes with Ali and enabled him to escape. He had
  hoped to salvage something from the shambles by finding out all about the
  man. But next day the woman had been found dead in a hotel bed. It was a
  chilling parallel.
  There was no point in staying in the house. He could not possibly sleep.
  and there was nothing else he could do there. He would go and join Jakes
  and the others, despite Dr. Abuthnot's orders. He put on a coat and his
  uniform cap, went outside, and wheeled his motorcycle out of the garage.

 Elene and Wolff stood together, close to the edge of the bluff, looking at
 the distant lights of Cairo and the nearer, flickering glimmers of peasant
 fires in dark villages. Elene was thinking of an imaginary
 peasant-hardworking, povertystricken, superstitious-laying a straw mattress
 on the earth floor, pulling a rough blanket around him, and finding conso-
 lation in the arms of his wife. Eene had left poverty behind, she hoped
 forever, but sometimes it seemed to her that she had left something else
 behind with it, something she could not do without. In Alexandria when she
 was a child people would put blue palm prints on the red mud walls, hand
 shapes to ward off evil. Elene did not believe in the efficacy of the palm
 prints; but despite the rats, despite the nightly screams as the moneylender
 beat both of his wives, despite the ticks that infested everyone, despite
 the early death of many babies, she believed there had been something there
 that warded off evil. She had been looking for that something when she took
 men home, took them into her bed, accepted their gifts and their caresses
 and their money; but she had never found it.
 192        Ken Follett

  She did not want to do that anymore. She had spent too much of her life
  looking for love in the wrong places. In particular, she did not want to do
  it with Alex Wolff. Several times she had said to herself: "Why not do it
  just once more?" That was Vandam's coldly reasonable point of view. But,
  each time she contemplated making love with Wolff, she saw again the
  daydream that had plagued her for the last few weeks, the daydream of
  seducing William Vandam. She knew Just how Vandain would be: he would look
  at her with innocent wonder, and touch her with wide-eyed delight; thinking
  of it, she felt momentarily helpless with desire. She knew how Wolff would
  be, too. He would be knowing, selfish, skillful and unshockable.
  Without speaking she turned from the view and walked back toward the car.
  It was time for him to make his pass. They had finished the meal, emptied
  the champagne bottle and the flask of coffee, picked clean the chicken and
  the bunch of grapes. Now he would expect his just reward. From the back
  seat of the car she watched him. He stayed a moment longer on the edge of
  the bluff, then walked toward her, calling to the driver. He had the
  confident grace that height often seemed to give to men. He was an
  attractive man, much more glamorous than any of Elene's lovers had been,
  but she was afraid of him, and her fear came not just from what she knew
  about him, his history and his secrets and his knife, but from an intuitive
  understanding of his nature: somehow she knew that his charm was not
  spontaneous but manipulative, and that if he was kind it was because he
  wanted to use her.
 She had been used enough.
 Wolff got in beside her. "Did you enjoy the picnic?"
  She made an effort to be bright. "Yes, it was lovely. Thank You!,
  The car pulled away. Either he would invite her to his place or he would
  take her to her flat and ask for a nightcap. She would have to find an
  encouraging way to refuse hinL This struck her as ridiculous: she was
  behaving like a frightened virgin. She thought: What am I doing-saving my-
  self for Mr. Right?
         THE KEY TO REBECCA      193

  She had been silent for too long. She was supposed to be witty and
  engaging. She should talk to him. "Have you heard the war news?" she asked,
  and realized at once it was not the most lighthearted of topics.
 "ne Germans are still winning," he said. "Of course."
 "Why'of course'?"
  He smiled condescendingly at her. "T'he world is divided into masters and
  slaves, Elene." He spoke as if he were explaining simple facts to a
  schoolboy. "The British have been masters too long. They've gone soft, and
  now it will be someone else's turn."
  "And the Egyptians-are they masters, or slaves?" She knew she should shut
  up, she was walking on thin ice, but his complacen6y infuriated her.
  "The Bedouin are masters," he said. "But the average Egyptian is a born
  slave."
 She thought: He means every word of it. She shuddered.
  They reached the outskirts of the city. Tt was after midnight, and the
  suburbs were quiet, although downtown would gMI be buzzing. Wolff said:
  "Where do you liveT'
 She told him. So it was to be her place.
 Wolff said: "We must do this again."
 "I'd like that."
  They reached the Sharia Abbas, and he told the driver to stop. Elene
  wondered what was going to happen now. Wolff turned to her and said: "Thank
  you for a lovely evening. I'll see you soon." He got out of the car.
  She stared in astonishment. He bent down by the driver's window, gave the
  man some money and told him Elene's address. The driver nodded. Wolff
  banged on the roof of the car, and the driver pulled away. Elene looked
  back and saw Wolff waving. As the car began to turn a comer, Wolff started
  walking toward the river.
 She thought: What do you make of that?
  No pass, no invitation to his place, no nightcap, not even a good-night
  kiss-what game was he playing, hard-to-get?
  She puzzled over the whole thing as the taxi took her home. Perhaps it was
  Wolff's technique to try to intrigue a woman. Perhaps he was just
  eccentric. Whatever the reason, she was very grateful. She sat back and
  relaxed. She was not obliged to choose between fighting him off and going
  to bed with him. Thank God.
 194        Ken Follett

  The taxi drew up outside her building. Suddenly, from nowhere, three cars
  roared up. One stopped right in front of the taxi, one close behind, and
  one alongside. Men materialized out of the shadows. All four doors of the
  taxi were flung open, and four guns pointed in. Elene screamed.
  Then a head was poked into the car, and Elene recognized Vandam.
 "Gone?" Vandarn said.
  Elene realized what was happening. "I thought you were going to shoot me,"
  she said.
 "Where did you leave him?"
 "Sharia Abbas."
 "How long ago?"
 "Five or ten minutes. May I get out of the car?"
  He gave her a hand, and she stepped on to the pavement. He said: "I'm sorry
  we scared you."
  "This is called slamming the stable door after the horse has bolted."
 "Quite." He looked utterly defeated.
  She felt a surge of affection for him. She touched his arm. "You've no idea
  how happy I am to see your face," she said.
  He gave her an odd look, as if he was not sure whether to believe her.
  She said: "Why don't you send your men home and come and talk inside?"
  He hesitated. "All right." He turned to one of his men, a captain. "Jakes,
  I want you to interrogate the taxi driver, see what you can get out of him.
  Let the men go. I'll see you at GHQ in an hour or so."
 "Very good, sir."
  Elene led the way inside. It was so good to enter her own apartment, slump
  on the sofa, and kick off her shoes. The trial was over, Wolff had gone,
  and Vandam was here. She said: "Help yourself to a drink."
 "No, thanks."
 "What went wrong, anyway?"
  Vandam. sat down opposite her and took out his cigarettes. "We expected him
  to walk into the trap all unawares-but he was suspicious, or at least
  cautious, and we missed him. What happened then?"
         TIRE KEY TO REBECCA    195

  She rested her head against the back of the sofa, closed her eyes, and told
  him in a few words about the picnic. She left out her thoughts about going
  to bed with Wolff, and she did not tell Vandam that Wolff had hardly
  touched her all evening. She spoke abruptly: she wanted to forget, not
  remember. When she had told him the story she said: "Make me a drink, even
  if you won't have one."
  He went to the cupboard. Elene could see that he was angry. She looked at
  the bandage on his face. She had seen it in the restaurant, and again a few
  minutes ago when she arrived, but now she had time to wonder what it was.
  She said: "What happened to your face?"
 "We almost caught Wolff last night."
  "Oh, no." So he had failed twice in twenty-four hours: no wonder he looked
  defeated. She wanted to console him, to put her arms around him, to lay his
  head in her lap and stroke his hair; the longing was like an ache. She
  decidedimpulsively, the way she always decided things--that she would take
  him to her bed tonight.
  He gave her a drink. He had made one for himself after all. As he stooped
  to hand her the glass she reached up, touched his chin with her fingertips
  and turned his head so that she could look at his cheek. He let her look,
  just for a second, then moved his head away.
  She had not seen him as tense as this before. He crossed the room and sat
  opposite her, holding himself upright on the edge of the chair. He was full
  of a suppressed emotion, something like rage, but when she looked into his
  eyes she saw not anger but pain.
 He said: "How did Wolff strike you?"
  She was not sure what he was getting at. "Charming. Intelligent.
  Dangerous."
 "His appearance?"
  "Clean hands, a silk shirt, a mustache that doesn't suit him. What are you
  fishing for?"
  He shook his head irritably. "Nothing. Everything." He lit another
  cigarette.
  She could not reach him in this mood. She wanted him to come and sit beside
  her, and tell her she was beautiful and brave and she had done well; but
  she knew it was no use asking. All the same she said: "How did I do?"
 196        Ken Foflett

 "I don't know," he said. "What did you do?"
 "You know what I did."
 "Yes. I'm most grateful."
  He smiled, and she knew the smile was insincere. What was the matter with
  him? There was something familiar in his anger, something she would
  understand as soon as she put her. finger on it. It was not just that he
  felt he had failed. It was his attitude to her, the way he spoke to her,
  the way he &at across from her and especially the way he looked at her.
  His expression was one of ... it was almost one of disgust.
 "He said he would see you again?" Vandam asked.
 "Yes."
  "I hope he does." He put his chin in his hands. His face was strained
  with tension. Wisps of smoke rose from his cigarette. "Christ, I hope he
  does."
  "He also said: 'We must do this again,' or something like that," Elene
  told him.
 "I see. 'We must do this again,' eh?"
 "Something like that."
 "What do you think he had in mind, exactlyr'
  She shrugged. "Another picnic, another date-damn it William, what has got
  into you?"
  "I'm just curious," he said. His face wore a twisted grin, one she had
  never seen on him before. "Id like to know what the two of you did, other
  than eat and drink, in the back of that big taxi, and on the riverbank;
  you know, all that time together, in the dark, a man and a woman-"
  "Shut up." She closed her eyes. Now she understood; now she knew. Without
  opening her eyes she said: "I'm going to bed. You can see yourself out."
 A few seconds later the front door slammed.
  She went to the window and looked down to the street. She saw him leave
  the building, and get on his motorcycle. He kicked the engine into life
  and roared off down the road at a breakneck speed and took the corner at
  the end as if he were in a race. Elene was very tired, and a little sad
  that she would be spending the night alone after 0, but she was not
  unhappy, for she had understood his anger, she knew the cause of it, and
  that gave her hope. As he disappeared from sight she smiled faintly and
  said softly: "William Vandam, I do believe you're jealous."
               16

 By the time Major Smith made his third lunchtime visit to the houseboat,
 Wolff and Sonja had gotten into a slick routine. Wolff hid in the cupboard
 when the major approached. Sonja met him in the living room with a drink
 in her hand ready for him. She made him sit down there, ensuring that his
 briefcase was put down before they went into the bedroom. After a minute
 or two she began kissing him. By this time she could do what she liked
 with him, for he was paralyzed by lust. She contrived to get his, shorts
 off, then soon afterward took him into the bedroom.
  It was clear to Wolff that nothing like this had ever happened to the
  major before: he was Sonja's slave as long as she allowed him to make
  love to her. Wolff was grateful: things would not have been quite so easy
  with a more strong-minded man.
  As soon as Wolff heard the bed creak he came out of the cupboard. He took
  the key out of the shorts pocket and opened the case. His notebook and
  pencil were beside him, ready.
  Smith's second visit had been disappointing, leading Wolff to wonder
  whether perhaps it was only occasionally that Smith saw battle plans.
  However, this time he struck gold again.
  General Sir Claude Auchinleck, the C in C Middle East, had taken over
  direct oontrol of the Eighth Army from General Neil Ritchie. As a sign
  of Allied panic, that alone would be welcome news to Rommel. It might
  also help Wolff, for it meant that battles were now being planned in
  Cairo rather than in the desert, in which case Smith was more likely to
  get copies.
                197
 198       Ken Follett

  The Allies bad retreated to a new defense line at Mersa Matruh, and the
  most important paper in Smith's briefcase was a summary of the new
  dispositions.
  The new line began at the coastal village of Matruh and stretched south
  into the desert as far as an escarpment called Sidi Hamza. Tenth Corps was
  at Matruh; then there was a heavy minefield fifteen miles long; then a
  lighter minefield for ten miles; then the escarpment; then, south of the
  escarpment, the 13th Corps.
  With half an ear on the noises from the bedroom, Wolff considered the
  position. The picture was fairly clear: the Allied line was strong at
  either end and weak in the middle.
  Rommel's likeliest move, according to Allied thinking, was a dash around
  the southern end of the line, a classic Rommel outflanking maneuver, made
  more feasible by his capture of an estimated 500 tons of fuel at Tobruk.
  Such an advance would be repelled by the 13th Corps, which consisted of the
  strong Ist Armored Division and the 2nd New Zealand Division, the
  latter-the summary noted helpfully~freshly arrived from Syria.
  However, armed with Wolff's information, Rommel could instead hit the soft
  center of the line and pour his forces through the gap like a stream
  bursting a dam at its weakest point.
  Wolff smiled to himself. He felt he was playing a major role in the
  struggle for German domination of North Africa: he found it enormously
  satisfying.
 In the bedroom, a cork popped.
  Smith always surprised Wolff by the rapidity of his lovemaking. The cork
  popping was the sign that it was all over, and Wolff had a few minutes in
  which to tidy up before Smith came in search of his shorts.
  He put the papers back in the case, locked it and put the key back in the
  shorts pocket. He no longer got back into the cupboard afterward--once had
  been enough. He put his shoes in his trousers pockets and tiptoed,
  soundlessly in his socks, up the ladder, across the deck, and down the
  gangplank to the towpath. Then he put his shoes on and went to lunch.
         TIRE KEY TO REBECCA    199

 Kemel shook hands politely and said: "I hope your injury is healing rapidly,
 Major."
  "Sit down," Vandam said. "The bandage is more damn nuisance than the wound.
  What have you gotT'
  Kemel sat down and crossed his legs, adjusting the crease of his black
  cotton trousers. "I thought I would bring the surveillance report myself,
  although I'm afraid there?s nothing of interest in it."
  Vandam took the proffered envelope and opened it. It contained a single
  typewritten sheet. He began to read.
  Sonja had come home-presumably from the Cha-Cha Club-at eleven o'clock the
  previous night. She had been alone. She had surfaced at around ten the
  foRowing morning, and had been seen on deck in a robe. The postman had come
  at one. Sonja had gone out at four and returned at six carrying a bag
  bearing the name of one of the more expensive dress shops in Cairo. At that
  hour the watcher had been relieved by the night man.
  Yesterday Vandam had received by messenger a similar report from Kemel
  covering the first twelve hours of the surveillance. For two days,
  therefore, Sonja's behavior had been routine and wholly innocent, and
  neither Wolff nor anyone else had visited her on the houseboat.
 Vandam was bitterly disappointed.
  Kemel said: "The men I am using are completely reliable, and they are
  reporting directly to me."
  Vandam grunted, then roused himself to be courteous. "Yes, I'm sure," he
  said. "Thank you for coming in."
  Kemel stood up. "No trouble," he said. "Good-bye." He went out.
  Vandam sat brooding. He read Kemel's report again, as if there might have
  been clues between the lines. If Sonja was Connected with Wolff-and Vandam
  still believed she was, somehow--clearly the association was not a close
  one. If she was meeting anyone, the meetings must be taking place away from
  the houseboat.
 Vandam. went to the door and called: "Jakesf"
 "Sir!"
  Vandam sat down again and Jakes came in. Vandam said: 'Trom now on I want
  you to spend your evenings at the Cha-Cha Club. Watch Sonja, and observe
  whom she sits with
 200       Ken Follett

 after the show. Also, bribe a waiter to tell you whether anyone goes to
 her dressing room."
 "Very good, sir."
  Vandam nodded dismissal, and added with a smile: "Permission to enjoy
  yourself is granted."
  Ile smile was a mistake: it hurt. At least he was no longer trying to
  live on glucose dissolved in warm water: Gaafar was giving him mashed
  potatoes and gravy, which he could eat from a spoon and swallow without
  chewing. He was existing on that and gin. Dr. Abuthnot had also told him
  he drank too much and smoked too much, and he had promised to cut
  down-after the war. Privately he thought: After I've caught Wolff.
  If Sonja was not going to lead him to Wolff, only Elene could. Vandam was
  ashamed of his outburst at Elene's apartment. He had been angry at his
  own failure, and the thought of her with Wolff had maddened him. His
  behavior could be described only as a fit of bad temper. Elene was a
  lovely girl who was risking her neck to help him, and courtesy was the
  least he owed her.
  Wolff had said he would see Elene again. Vandam hoped he would contact
  her soon. He still felt irrationally angry at the thought of the two of
  them together; but now that the houseboat angle had turned out to be a
  dead end, Elene was his only hope. He sat at his desk, waiting for the
  phone to ring, dreading the very thing he wanted most.

 Elene went shopping in the late afternoon. Her apartment had come to seem
 claustrophobic after she had spent most of the day pacing around, unable
 to concentrate on anything, alternately miserable and happy; so she put
 on a cheerful striped dress and went out into the sunshine.
  She liked the fruit-and-vegetable market. It was a lively place,
  especially at this end of the day when the tradesmen were trying to get
  rid of the last of their produce. She stopped to buy tomatoes. The man
  who served her picked up one with a slight bruise, and threw it away
  dramatically before filling a paper bag with undamaged specimens. Elene
  laughed, for she knew that the bruised tomato would be retrieved, as soon
  as she was out of sight, and put back on the display so that the whole
  pantomime could be performed
         THE KEY TO REBECCA      201

 again for the next customer. She haggled briefly over the price, but the
 vendor could tell that her heart was not in it, and she ended up paying
 almost what he had asked originally.
  She bought eggs, too, having decided to make an omelet for supper. It was
  good, to be carrying a basket of food, more food than she could eat at one
  meal: it made her feel safe. She could remember days when there had been no
  supper.
  She left the market and went window shopping for dresses. She bought most
  of her clothes on impulse: she had firm ideas about what she liked, and if
  she planned a trip to buy something special, she could never find it. She
  wanted one day to have her own dressmaker.
  She thought: I wonder if William Vandam could afford that for his wife?
  When she thought of Vandam she was happy, until she thought of Wolff.
  She knew she could escape, if she wished, simply by refusing to see Wolff,
  refusing to make a date with him, refusing to answer his message. She was
  under no obligation to act as the bait in a trap for a knife murderer. She
  kept returning to this idea, worrying at it like a loose tooth: I don't
  have to.
  She suddenly lost interest in dresses, and headed for home. She wished she
  could make omelet for two, but omelet for one was something to be thankful
  for. There was a certain unforgettable pain in the stomach which came when,
  having gone to bed with no supper, you woke up in the morning to no
  breakfast. The ten-year-old Elene had wondered, secretly, how long people
  took to starve to death. She was sure Vandam's childhood had not suffered
  such worries.
  When she turned into the entrance to her apartment block, a voice said:
  "Abigail."
  She froze with shock. It was the voice of a ghost. She did not dare to
  look. The voice came again.
 "Abigail."
  She made herself turn around. A figure came out of the shadows: an old Jew,
  shabbily dressed, with a matted beard, veined feet in rubber-tire sandals
  .
 Elene said: "Father."
 202        Ken Follett

  He stood in front of her, as if afraid to touch her, just looking. He
  said: "So beautiful still, and not poor . . ."
  Impulsively, she stepped forward, kissed his cheek, then stepped back
  again. She did not know what to say.
 He said: "Your grandfather, my father, has died."
  She took his arm and led him up the stairs. It was all unreal,
  irrational, like a dream.
  Inside the apartment she said: "You should eat," and took him into the
  kitchen. She put a pan on to heat and began to beat the eggs. With her
  back to her father she said: "How did you find me?"
  "I've always known where you were," he said. "Your friend Esme writes to
  her father, who sometimes I see."
  Esme was an acquaintance, rather than a friend, but Elene ran into her
  every two or three months. She had never let on that she was writing
  home. Elene said: "I didn't want you to ask me to come back."
  "And what would I have said to you? 'Come home, it is your duty to starve
  with your family.' No. But I knew where you were."
  She sliced tomatoes into the omelet. "You would have said it was better
  to starve than to live immorally."
  "Yes, I would have said that. And would I have been Wrongr,
  She turned to took at him. The glaucoma which had taken the sight of his
  left eye years ago was now spreading to the right. He was fifty-five, she
  calculated: he looked seventy. "Yes, you would have been wrong," she
  said. "It is always better to live."
 "Perhaps it is."
  Her surprise must have shown on her face, for he explained: "I'm not as
  certain of these things as I used to be. I'm getting old."
  Elene halved the omelet and slid it on to two plates. She put bread on
  the table. Her father washed his hands, then blessed the bread. "Blessed
  art thou 0 Lord our God, King of the Universe . . ." Elene was surprised
  that the prayer did not drive her into a fury. In the blackest moments
  of her lonely life she had cursed and raged at her father and his re-
  ligion for what it had driven her to. She had tried to cultivate an
  attitude of indifference, perhaps mild contempt; but she
          THE KEY TO REBECCA     203

 had not quite succeeded. Now, watching him pray, she thought: And what do
 I do, when this man whom I bate turns up on the doorstep? I kiss his
 cheek, and I bring him inside, and I give him supper.
  They began to eat. Her father had been very hungry, and wolfed his food.
  Elene wondered why be had come. Was it just to tell her of the death of
  her grandfather? No. That was part of it, perhaps. but there would be
  more.
  She asked about her sisters. After the death of their mother all four of
  them, in their different ways, had broken with their father. Two had gone
  to America, one had married the son of her father's greatest enemy, and
  the youngest, Naomi, had chosen the surest escape, and died. It dawned
  on Elene that her father was destroyed.
  He asked her what she was doing. She decided to tell him the truth. 'The
  British are trying to catch a man, a German, they think is a spy. It's
  my job to befriend him ... I'm the bait in a snare. But . . . I think I
  may not help them anymore."
 He had stopped eating. "Are you afraid?"
  She nodded. "He's very dangerous. He killed a soldier with a knife. Last
  night ... I was to meet him in a restaurant and the British were to
  arrest him there, but something went wrong and I spent the whole evening
  with him, I was so frightened, and when it was over, the Englishman . .
  ." She stopped, and took a deep breath. "Anyway, I may not help them
  anymore."
 Her father went on eating. "Do you love this Englishman?"
 "He isn't Jewish," she said defiantly.
 "I've given up judging everyone," he said.
  Elene could not take it all in. Was there nothing of the old man left?
  'Mey finished their meal, and Elene got up to make him a glass of tea.
  He said: "The Germans are coming. It will be very bad for Jews. I'm
  getting out."
 She frowned. "Where will you go?"
 "Jerusalem."
  "How will you gf* there? The trains are full, there's a quota for Jews-"
 "I am going to walk."
 204        Ken Follett

  She stared at him., not believing he could be serious, not believing he
  would joke about such a thing. "Walk?"
 He smiled. "It's been done before."
  She saw that he meant it, and she was angry with him. "As I recall, Moses
  never made it.,'
 "Perhaps I will be able to hitch a ride."
 "It's crazy!"
 "Haven't I always been a little crazyrt
  "Yes!" she shouted. Suddenly her anger collapsed. "Yes, you've always been
  a little crazy, and I should know better than to try to change your mind."
  "I will pray to God to preserve you. You will have a chance here-you're
  young and beautiful, and maybe they won't know you're Jewish. But me, a
  useless old man muttering Hebrew prayers . . . me they would send to a camp
  where I would surely die. It is always better to live. You said that."
  She tried to persuade him to stay with her, for one night at least, but he
  would not. She gave him a sweater, and a scarf, and all the cash she had in
  the house, and told him that if he waited a day she could get more money
  from the bank, and buy him a good coat; but he was in a hurry. She cried,
  and dried her eyes, and cried again. When he left she looked out of her
  window and saw him walking along the street, an old man going up out of
  Egypt and into the wilderness, foHowing in the footsteps of the Children of
  Israel. There was something of the old man left: his orthodoxy had
  mellowed, but he still had a will of iron. He disappeared into the crowd,
  and she left the window. When she thought of his courage, she knew she
  could not run out on VandanL

 "She's an intriguing girl," Wolff said. "I can't quite figure her out." He
 was sitting on the bed, watching Sonja get dressed. "She's a little jumpy.
 When I told her we were going on a picnic she acted quite scared, said she
 hardly knew me, as if she needed a chaperone."
 "With you, she did," Sonja said.
 "And yet she can be very earthy and direct."
 "Just bring her home to me. I'll figure her out."
  "It bothers me." Wolff frowned. He was thinking aloud. "Somebody tried to
  jump into the taxi with us."
         THE KEY TO REBECCA      205

 "A beggar."
 "No, be was a European."
  "A European beggar." Sonja stopped brushing her hair to look at Wolff in
  the mirror. "This town is full of crazy people, you know that. Listen,
  if you have second thoughts, just picture her writhing on that bed with
  you and me on eitheT side of her."
  Wolff grinned. It was an appealing picture, but not an irreaistible one:
  it was Sonja's fantasy, not his. His instinct told him to lay low now,
  and not to make dates with anyone. But Sonja was going to insist-and he
  still needed her.
  Sonja said: "And when am I going to contact Kemel? He must know by now
  that you're living here."
  Wolff sighed. Another date; another claim on him; another danger; also,
  another person whose protection he needed. "Call him tonight from the
  club. I'm not in a rush for this meeting, but we've got to keep him
  sweet."
  "Okay." She was ready, and her taxi was waiting. "Make a date with
  Elene." She went out.
  She was not in his power the way she had once been, Wolff realized. The
  walls you build to protect you also close you in. Could he afford to defy
  her? If there had been a clear and immediate danger, yes. But all he had
  was a vague nervousness, an intuitive inclination to keep his head down.
  And Sonja might be crazy enough to betray him if she really got angry.
  He was obliged to choose the lesser danger.
  He got up from the bed, found a paper and a pen and sat down to write a
  note to Elene.
                17

 The message came the day after Elene's father left for Jerusalem. A small
 boy came to the door with an envelope. Elene tipped him and read the
 letter. It was short. "My dear Elene, let us meet at the Oasis Restaurant
 at eight o'clock next Thursday. I eagerly look forward to it. Fondly, Alex
 Wolff." Unlike his speech, his writing had a stiffness which seemed
 German-but perhaps it was her imagination. Thursday~that was the day after
 tomorrow. She did not know whether to be elated or scared. Her first
 thought was to telephone Vandam; then she hesitated.
  She had become intensely curious about Vandam. She knew so little about
  him. What did he do when he was not catching spies? Did he listen to
  music, collect stamps, shoot duck? Was he interested in poetry or
  architecture or antique rugs? What was his home like? With whom did he
  live? What color were his pajamas?
  She wanted to patch up their quarrel, and she wanted to a" where he
  lived. She had an excuse to contact him now, but instead of telephoning
  she would go to his home.
  She decided to change her dress, then she decided to take a bath first
  then she decided to wash her hair as well. Sitting in the bath she
  thought about which dress to wear. She recalled the occasions she had
  seen Vandam, and tried to remember which clothes she had worn. He had
  never seen the pale pink one with puffed shoulders and buttons all down
  the front: that was very pretty.
  She put on a little perfume, then the silk underwear Johnnie had given
  her, which always made her feel so feminine. Her short hair was dry
  already, and she sat in front of
                206
         THE KEY TO REBECCA      207

 the mirror to comb it. The dark, fine locks gleamed after washing. I look
 ravishing, she thought, and she smiled at her. self seductively.
  She left the apartment, taking Wolff's note with her. Vandam would be
  interested to see his handwriting. He was interested in every little detail
  where Wolff was concerned, perhaps because they had never met face to face,
  except in the dark or at a distance. The handwriting was very neat, easily
  legible, almost like an artist's lettering: Vandam would draw some
  conclusion from that.
  She headed for Garden City. It was seven o'clock, and Vandam worked until
  late, so she had time to spare. The sun was still strong, and she enjoyed
  the heat on her arms and legs as she walked. A bunch of soldiers whistled
  at her, and in her sunny mood she smiled at them, so they followed her for
  a few blocks before they got diverted into a bar.
  She felt gay and reckless. What a good idea it was to go to his house-so
  much better than sitting alone at home. She had been alone too much. For
  her men, she had existed only when they had time to visit her; and she had
  made their attitudes her own, so that when they were not there she felt she
  had nothing to do, no role to play, no one to be. Now she had broken with
  all that. By doing this, by going to see him uninvited, she felt she was
  being herself instead of a person in someone else's dream. It made her
  almost giddy.
  She found the house easily. It was a small French-colonial villa, all
  pillars and high windows, its white stone reflecting the evening sun with
  painful brilliance. She walked up the short drive, rang the bell and waited
  in the shadow of the portico.
  An elderly, bald Egyptian came to the door. "Good evening, Madam," he said,
  speaking like an English butler.
  Elene said: "I'd like to see Major Vandarn. My name is Elene Fontana."
  -The major has not yet returned home, Madam." The servant hesitated.
 :'Perhaps I could wait," Elene said.
 'Of course, Madam." He stepped aside to admit her.
  She crossed the threshold. She looked around with nervous eagerness. She
  was in a cool tiled hall with a high ceiling. Before she could take it all
  in the servant said: "This way,
 208       Ken Follett

 Madam." He led her into a drawing room. "My name is Gaafar. Please call me
 if there is anything you require."
 "Thank you, Gaafar."
  The servant went out. Elene was thrilled to be in Vandam's house and left
  alone to look around. The drawing room had a large marble fireplace and a
  lot of very English furniture: somehow she thought he had not furnished it
  himself. Every~ thing was clean and tidy and not very lived-in. What did
  this say about his character? Perhaps nothing.
  The door opened and a young boy walked in. He was very good-looking, with
  curly brown hair and smooth, preadolescent skin. He seemed about ten years
  old. He looked vaguely familiar.
 He said: "Hello, I'm Billy Vandam."
  Elene stared at him in horror. A son-Vandam had a sonl She knew now why he
  seemed familiar: he resembled his father. Why had it fiever occurred to her
  that Vandam might be married? A man like that--charming, kind, handsome,
  clever-was unlikely to have reached his late thirties without getting
  hooked. What a fool she had been to think that she might have been the
  first to desire him! She felt so stupid that she blushed.
  She shook Billy's hand. "How do you do," she said. "I'm Elene Fontana."
  "We never know what time Dad's coming home," Billy said. "I hope you won't
  have to wait too long."
  She had not yet recovered her composure. "Don't worry, I don't mind, it
  doesn't matter a bit ... 19
 "Would you like a drink, or anything?"
  He was very polite, like his father, with a formality that was somehow
  disarming. Elene said: "No, thank you."
  "Well, Fve got to have my supper. Sorry to leave you alone."
 "No, no ... to
 "If you need anything, just call Gaafar."
 "Thank you."
  The boy went out, and Elene sat down heavily. She was disoriented, as if in
  her own home she had found a door to a room she had not known was there.
  She noticed a photograph on the marble mantelpiece, and got up to took at
  it. It was a picture of a beautiful woman in her early twenties, a cool,
         THE KEY TO REBECCA      209

 ari,,vtocratic4ooking woman with a faintly supercilious smile. Elene
 admired the dress she was wearing, something silky and flowing, hanging
 in elegant folds from her slender figure. The woman's hair and makeup were
 perfect. The eyes were startlingly familiar, clear and perceptive and
 light in color: Elene realized that Billy had eyes like that. This, then,
 was Billy's mother-Vandam's wife. She was, of course, exactly the kind of
 woman who would be his wife, a classic English beauty with a superior air.
  Elene felt she had been a fool. Women like that were queuing up to marry
  men like Vandarn. As if he would have bypassed all of them only to fall
  for an Egyptian courtesanl She rehearsed the things that divided her from
  him: he was respectable and she was disreputable; he was British and she
  was Egyptian; he was Christian-presumably-and she was Jewish; he was well
  bred and she came out of the slums of Alexandria; he was almost forty and
  she was twenty-three
 . The list was long.
  Tucked into the back of the photograph frame was a page torn from a
  magazine. The paper was old and yellowing. The page bore the same
  photograph. Elene saw that it had come from a magazine called The Tatler.
  She had heard of it: it was much read by the wives of colonels in Cairo,
  for it reported all the trivial events of London society-parties, balls,
  charity lunches, gallery openings and the activities of English royalty.
  The picture of Mrs. Vandam took up most of this page, and a paragraph of
  type beneath the picture reported that Angela, daughter of Sir Peter and
  Lady Beresford, was engaged to be married to Lieutenant William Vandam,
  son of Mr. and Mrs. John Vandarn of Gately, Dorset. Elene refolded the
  cutting and put it back.
  The family picture was complete. Attractive British officer, cool,
  self-assured English wife, intelligent charming son, beautiful home,
  money, class and happiness. Everything else was a dream.
  She wandered around the room, wondering if it held any more shocks in
  store. The room had been furnished by Mrs. Vandam, of course, in perfect,
  bloodless taste. The decorous print of the curtains toned with the
  restrained hue of the upholstery and the elegant striped wallpaper. Elene
  wondered what their bedroom would be like. It too would be coolly
 210       Ken Follett

 tasteful, she guessed. Perhaps the main color would be bluegreen, the shade
 they called eau de NO although it was not a bit like the muddy water of the
 Nile. Would they have twin beds? She hoped so. She would never know.
  Against one wall was a small upright piano. She wondered who played.
  Perhaps Mrs. Vandam sat here sometimes, in the evenings, filling the air
  with Chopin while Vandam sat in the armchair, over there, watching her
  fondly. Perhaps Vandam accompanied himself as he sang romantic ballads to
  her in a strong tenor. Perhaps Billy had a tutor, and fingered hesitant
  scales every afternoon when he came home from school. She looked through
  the pile of sheet music in the seat of the piano stool. She had been right
  about the Chopin: they had all the waltzes here in a book.
  She picked up a novel from the top of the piano and opened it. She read the
  first line: "Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again." The opening
  sentences intrigued her, and she wondered whether Vandam was reading the
  book. Perhaps she could borrow it: it would be good to have something of
  his. On the other hand, she had the feeling he was not a great reader of
  fiction. She did not want to borrow it from his wife.
  Billy came in. Elene put the book down suddenly, feeling irrationally
  guilty, as if she had been prying. Billy saw the gesture. "That one's no
  good," he said. "It's about some silly girl who's afraid of her husband's
  housekeeper. There's no action."
  Elene sat down, and Billy sat opposite her. Obviously he was going to
  entertain her. He was a miniature of his father, except for those clear
  gray eyes. She said: "You've read it, then?"
  "Rebecca? Yes. But I didn't like it much. I always finish them, though."
 "What do you like to read?"
 "I like tecs best."
 "Tees?"
  "Detectives. rve read all of Agatha Christie's and Dorothy Sayers'. But I
  like the American ones most of all-S.S. Van Dine and Raymond Chandler."
  "Really?" Elene smiled. "I like detective stories too-I read them all the
  time."
         THE VEY TO REBECCA      211

 "Oh! Who's your favorite tec?"
 Elene considered. "Maigret."
 "I've never heard of him. What's the author's name?"
  "Georges Simenon. He writes in French, but now some of the books have
  been translated into English. They're set in Paris, mostly. They're
  very.. . complex."
  "Would you lend me one? It's so hard to get new books, I've read all the
  ones in this house, and in the school library. And I swap with my friends
  but they like, you know, stories about children having adventures in the
  school holidays."
  "All right," Elene said. "Let's swap. What have you got to lend me? I
  don't think I've read any American ones."
  "I'll lend you a Chandler. The American ones are much more true to life,
  you know. I've gone off those stories about English country houses and
  people who probably couldn't murder a fly."
  It was odd, Elene thought, that a boy for whom the English country house
  might be part of everyday life should flnd stories about American private
  eyes more "true to life." She hesitated, then asked: "Does your mother
  read detective stories?"
 Billy said briskly: "My mother died last year in Crete."
  "Oh!" Elene put her band to her mouth; she felt the blood drain from her
  face. So Vandarn was not married!
  A moment later she felt ashamed that that had been her first thought, and
  sympathy for the child her second. She said: "Billy, how awful for you.
  I'm so sorry." Real death had suddenly intruded into their lighthearted
  talk of murder stories, and she felt embarrassed.
 "It's all right," Billy said. "It's the war, you see."
  And now he was like his father again. For a while, talking about books,
  he had been full of boyish enthusiasm, but now the mask was on, and it
  was a smaller version of the mask used by his father: courtesy,
  formality, the attitude of the considerate bost. It's the war, you see:
  he had heard someone else say that, and had adopted it as his own
  defense. She wondered whether his preference for "true-to-life" murders,
  as opposed to implausible country-house killings, dated from the death
  of his mother. Now he was looking around him, searching for something,
  inspiration perhaps. In a moment be would offer her cigarettes, whiskey,
  tea. It was hard enough
 212        Ken Follett

 to know what to say to a bereaved adult: with Billy she felt helpless. She
 decided to talk of something else.
  She said awkwardly: "I suppose, with your father working at GHQ, you get
  more news of the war than the rest of us."
  "I suppose I do, but usually I don't really understand it. When he comes
  home in a bad mood I know we've lost another battle." He started to bite
  a fingernail. then stuffed his hands into his shorts pockets. "I wish I
  was older."
 "You want to fight?"
  He looked at her fiercely, as if he thought she was mocking him. "I'm not
  one of those kids who thinks it's all jolly good fun, like the cowboy
  films."
 She murmured: "I'm sure you're not."
 $,Ws just that I'm afraid the Germans will win."
  Elene thought: Oh, Billy, if you were ten years older I'd fall in love
  with you, too. "It might not be so bad," she said. "They're not
  monsters."
  He gave her a skeptical look: she should have known better than to
  soft-soap him. He said: "They'd only do to us what we've been doing to
  the Egyptians for fifty years."
 It was another of his father's lines, she was sure.
  Billy said: "But then it would all have been for nothing." He bit his
  nail again, and this time he did not stop himself. Elene wondered what
  would have been for nothing: the death of his mother? His own personal
  struggle to be brave? The two-year seesaw of the desert war? European
  civilization?
 "Well, it hasn't happened yet," she said feebly.
  Billy looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. "I'm supposed to go to bed
  at nine." Suddenly he was a child again.
 "I suppose you'd better go, then."
 "Yes." He stood up.
  "May I come and say good night to you, in a few minutes?"
 "If you like." He went out.
  What kind of life did they lead in this house? Elene wondered. The man,
  the boy and the old servant lived here together, each with his own
  concerns. Was there laughter, and kindness, and affection? Did they have
  time to play games and sing songs and go on picnics? By comparison with
  her own childhood Billy's was enormously privileged; nevertheless she
  feared this might be a terribly adult household for a boy
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     213

 to grow up in. His young-old wisdom was charming, but he seemed like a child
 who did not have much fun. She experienced a rush of compassion for him, a
 motherless child in an alien country besieged by foreign armies.
  She left the drawing room and went upstairs. There seemed to be three or
  four bedrooms on the second floor, with a narrow staircase leading up to a
  third floor where, presumably Gaafar slept. One of the bedroom doors was
  open, and she went in.
  It did not look much like a small boy's bedroom. Elene did not know a lot
  about small boys-she had had four sistersbut she was expecting to see model
  airplanes, jigsaw puzzles, a train set, sports gear and perhaps an old,
  neglected teddy bear. She would not have been surprised to see clothes on
  the floor, a construction set on the bed and a pair of dirty football boots
  on the polished surface of a desk. But the place might almost have been the
  bedroom of an adult. The clothes were folded neatly on a chair, the top of
  the chest of drawers was clear, schoolbooks were stacked tidily on the desk
  and the only toy in evidence was a cardboard model of a tank. Billy was in
  bed, his striped pajama top buttoned to the neck, a book on the blanket
  beside him.
 "I like your room," Elene said deceitfully.
 Billy said: "It's fine."
 "What are you reading?"
 "The Greek Coffin Mystery."
  She sat on the edge of the bed. "Well, don't stay awake too late."
 "I've to put out the light at nine-thirty."
 She leaned forward suddenly and kissed his cheek.
 At that moment the door opened and Vandam walked in.

 It was the familiarity of the scene that was so shocking: the boy in bed
 with his book, the light from the bedside lamp falling just so, the woman
 leaning forward to kiss the boy good night. Vandam stood and stared, feeling
 like one who knows he is in a dream but still cannot wake up.
 Elene stood up and said: "Hello, William."
 "Hello, Elene."
 "Good night, Billy."
 "Good night, Miss Fontana."
 214       Ken Follett

  She went past Vandam and left the room. Vandam sat on the edge of the bed,
  in the dip in the covers which she had vacated. He said: "Been entertaining
  our guest?"
 "Yes.,,
 "Good man."
  "I like her-she reads detective stories. We're going to gwap books."
 "That's grand. Have you done your prep?"
 "Yes-French vocab."
 "Want me to test you?"
  "It's all right, Gaafar tested me. I say, shes ever so pretty, Isn't she."
  "Yes. She's working on something for me-it's a bit hushhush, so. . ."
 "My lips are sealed."
 Vandam. smiled. "That's the stuff."
 Billy lowered his voice. "Is she, you know, a secret agent?"
 Vandam put a finger to his lips. "Walls have ears."
 The boy looked suspicious. "You're having me on."
 Vandam shook his head silently.
 Billy said: "Gosh!"
 Vandarn stood up. "Lights out at nine-thirty.*
 "Right-ho. Good night."
  "Good night, Billy." Vandam went out. As he closed the door it occurred to
  him that Elene's good-night kiss had probably done Billy a lot more good
  than his father's man-to-man chat.
  He found Elene in the drawing room, shaking martinis. He felt he should
  have resented more than he did the way she had made herself at home in his
  house, but he was too tired to strike attitudes. He sank gratefully into a
  chair and accepted a drink.
 Elene said: "Busy day?"
  Vandam's whole section had been working on the new wireless security
  procedures that were being introduced following the capture of the German
  listening unit at the Hill of Jesus, but Vandarn was not going to tell
  Elene that. Also, he felt she was playacting the role of housewife, and she
  had no right to do that. He said: "What made you come here?"
 "I've got a date with Wolff."
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     21z

  "Wonderful!" Vandam immediately forgot all lesser concerns. "WheDT'
 "Thursday." She handed him a sheet of paper.
  He studie(l. the message. It was a peremptory summons written in a clear,
  stylisb script. "How did this come?"
 "A boy brought it to my door."
  "Did you questior the boy? Where he was given the message and by whom, and
  so on?"
 Shc wa:., crestfallen. "I never thought to do that."
  "Never mind." Wolff would have taken precautions, anyway; the boy would
  have known nothing of value.
 "What will we do?" Elene asked.
  "The same as last time, only better." Vandam tried to sound more confident
  than he felt. It should have been simpic The man makes a date with a girl,
  so you go to the meetin~-: plac.: and arrest the man when be turns up. But
  Wolff was unpredictable. He would not get away with the taxi trick again:
  Vandarn would have the restaurant surrounded, twenty or thirty men and
  several cars, roadblocks in readiness and so on. But be might try a
  different trick. Vandam could not imagine what-and that was the problem.
  As if she were reading his mind Elene said: "I don't want to spend another
  evening with him."
 
 "He frightens me."
  Vandam felt guilty-remember Istanbul-and suppressed his sympatfiy "But last
  time he did you no h~irm."
  "He didn't try to seduce me, so I didn't have to say no. But he will. and
  I'm afraid he won't take no for an answer."
  "We've learned our lesson," Vandam said with false assurance. "There'll be
  no mistakes this time." Secretly he was surprised by her simple
  determination not to go to bed with Wolff. He had assumed that such things
  did not matter much, one way or the other, to her. He had misjudged her,
  then. Seeing her in this new light somehow made him very cheerful. Hc
  decided he must be honest with her. "I should rephrase that," he said.
  "I'll do everything in my power to make sure that there are no mistakes
  this time."
  Gaafar came in and said: "Dinner is served, sir." Vandam smiled: Gaafar was
  doing his English-butler act in honor of the feminine company.
 216       Ken Follett

 Vandarn said to Elene: "Have you eaten?"
 "NO."
 "What have we got, Gaafar?"
  "For you, sir, clear soup, scrambled eggs and yoghurt. But I took the
  liberty of grilling a chop for Miss Fontana."
 Elene said to Vandam: "Do you always eat like that?"
 "No, it's because of my cheek, I can't chew." He stood up.
  As they went into the dining room Elene said: "Does it still hurt?"
  "Only when I laugh. It's true-I can't stretch the muscles on that side.
  I've got into the habit of smiling with one side of my face."
 They sat down, and Gaafar served the soup.
 Elene said: "I like your son very much."
 .,so do L" Vandarn said.
 "He's old beyond his years."
 "Do you think that's a bad thing?"
 She shrugged. "Who knows?"
  "He's been through a couple of things that ought to be reserved for
  adults."
 "Yes." Elene hesitated. "When did your wife die?"
  "May the twenty-eighth, nineteen-forty-one, in the evening."
 "Billy told me it happened in Crete."
  "Yes. She worked on cryptanalysis for the Air Force. She Was on a
  temporary posting to Crete at the time the Germans invaded the island.
  May twenty-eighth was the day the British realized they had lost the
  battle and decided to get out. Apparently she was hit by a stray shell
  and killed instantly. Of course, we were trying to get live people away
  then, not bodies, so . . . There's no grave, you see. No memorial.
  Nothing left."
 Elene said quietly: "Do you still love her?"
  "I think I'll always be in love with her. I believe it's like that with
  people you really love. If they go away, or die, it makes no difference.
  If ever I were to marry again, I would still love Angela."
 "Were you very happy?"
  "We . . ." He hesitated, unwilling to answer, then he realized that the
  hesitation was an answer in itself. "Ours wasn't
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     217

 an idyllic marriage. It was I who was devoted ... Angela was fond of me."
 "Do you think you will marry again?"
  "Well. The English in Cairo keep thrusting replicas of Angela at me." He
  shrugged. He did not know the answer to the question. Elene seemed to
  understand, for she fell silent and began to cat her dessert.
  Afterward Gaafar brought them coffee in the drawing room. It was at this
  time of day that Vandam usually began to hit the bottle seriously, but
  tonight he did not want to drink. He sent Gaafar to bed, and they drank
  their coffee. Vandam. smoked a cigarette.
  He felt the desire for music. He had loved music, at one time, altbougl;
  lately it bad gone out of his life. Now, with the mild night air coming in
  through the open windows and the smoke curling up from his cigarette, he
  wanted to hear clear, delightful notes, and sweet harmonies, and subtle
  rhythms. He went to the piano and looked at the music. Elene watched him in
  silence. He began to play "Fiir Elise." The first few notes sounded, with
  Beethoven's characteristic, devastating simplicity; then the hesitation;
  then the rolling tune. The ability to play came back to him instantly,
  almost as if he had never stopped. His hands knew what to do in a way he
  always felt was miraculous.
  When the song was over he went back to Elene, sat next to her, and kissed
  her cheek. Her face was wet with tears. She said: "William, I love you with
  all my heart."

 They whisper.
 She says, "I like your ears."
 He says, "Nobody has ever licked them before."
 She giggles. "Do you like it?"
 "Yes, yes." He sighs. "Can 1. . . ?"
 "Undo the buttons-here-that's right-aah."
 "I'll put out the light."
 "No, I want to see you-"
  "There's a moon." Click. "There, see? The moonlight is enough."
 "Come back here quickly-"
 "I'm here."
 "Kiss me again, William."
 218       Ken Follett

 They do not speak for a while. Then: "Can I take this thing off?" he says.
 "Let me help . . . there." "Oh I Oh, they're so pretty." "I'm so glad you
 like them. . . would you do that harder . suck a little ... aah, God-" And
 a little later she says: "Let me feel your chest. Damn buttons-rve ripped
 your shirt-" "The hell with that." "Ah, I knew it would be like this ...
 Look." 41"at?" "Our skins in the moonlight-you're so pale and I'm nearly
 black, look-" "Yes.,, "Touch me. Stroke me. Squeeze, and pinch, and
 explore, I want to feel your hands all over me-" "Yes--" ,,-everywhere,
 your hands, there, yes, especially there, oh, you know, you know exactly
 where, oh!" "You're so soft inside." "This is a dream." "No, it's real."
 "I never want to wake up." "So soft. . ." "And you're so hard . . . Can I
 kiss it?" "Yes, please ... Ah ... Jesus it feels good-Jesus'~' "William?"
 "Yes?" "Now, William?" "Oh, yes.,, ". . - Take them off." Silk." "Yes. Be
 quick." "Yes.,' "I've wanted this for so long-" She gasps, and he makes a
 sound like a sob, and then there is only their breathing for many minutes,
 until finally he begins to shout aloud, and she smothers his cries with
 her kisses and then she, too, feels it, and she turns her face into the
 cushion and opens her mouth and screams into the cushion,
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     219

 and he not being used to this thinks something is wrong and says:
 "It's all right, it's all right, it's all right-"
  -and finally she goes limp, and lies with her eyes closed for a while,
  perspiring, until her breathing returns to normal, then she looks up
  at him and says:
 "So thaes how it's supposed to be!"
  And he laughs, and she looks quizzically at him, so he explains:
 "That's exactly what I was thinking."
 Then they both laugh, and he says:
 "I've done a lot of things after . . . you know, afterwards
 . but I don't think I've ever laughed."
 "I'm so glad," she says. "Oh, William, I'm so glad."
               18

 Rommel could smell the sea. At Tobruk the heat and the dust and the flies
 were as bad as they had been in the desert, but it was all made bearable
 by that occasional whiff of salty dampness in the faint breeze.
  Von Mellenthin came into the command vehicle with his intelligence
  report. "Good evening, Field Marshal."
  Rommel smiled. He had been promoted after the victory at Tobruk, and he
  had not yet gotten used to the new title. "Anything new?"
  "A signal from the spy in Cairo. He says the Mersa Matruh Line is weak
  in the middle."
  Rommel took the report and began to glance over it. He smiled when he
  read that the Allies anticipated he would try a dash around the southern
  end of the line: it seemed they were beginning to understand his
  thinking. He said: "So the minefield gets thinner at this point . . . but
  there the line is defended by two columns. What is a column?"
  "It's a new term they're using. According to one of our prisoners of war,
  a column is a brigade group that has been twice overrun by Panzers."
 "A weak force, then."
 ..Yes."
  Rommel tapped the report with his forefinger. "If this is correct, we can
  burst through the Mersa Matruh Line as soon as we get there."
  "I'll be doing my best to check the spy's report over the next day or
  two, of course," said von Mellenthin. "But he was right last time."
 The door to the vehicle flew open and Kesselring came in.
                220
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     221

  Rommel was startled. "Field Marshal!" he said. "I thought you were in
  Sicily."
  "I was," Kesselring said. He stamped the dust off his handmade boots. "I've
  just flown here to see you. Damn it, Rommel, this has got to stop. Your
  orders are quite clear: you were to advance to Tobruk and no farther."
  Rommel sat back in his canvas chair. He had hoped to keep Kesselring out of
  this argument. "The circumstances have changed," he said.
  "But your original orders have been confirmed by the ItaIian Supreme
  Command," said Kesselring. "And what was your reaction? You declined the
  'advice' and invited Bastico to lunch with you in Cairo!"
  Nothing infuriated Rommel more than orders from Italians. "The Italians
  have done nothing in this war," he said angrily.
  "That is irrelevant. Your air and sea support is now needed for the attack
  on Malta. After we have taken Malta your communications will be secure for
  the advance to Egypt."
  "You people have learned nothing!" Rommel said. He made an effort to lower
  his voice. "While we are digging in the enemy, too, will be digging in. I
  did not get this far by playing the old game of advance, consolidate, then
  advance again. When they attack, I dodge; when they defend a position I go
  around that position; and when they retreat I chase them. They are running
  now, and now is the time to take Egypt."
  Kesselring remained calm. "I have a copy of your cable to Mussolini." He
  took a piece of paper from his pocket and read: "The state and moral of the
  troops, the present supply position owing to captured dumps and the present
  weakness of the enemy permit our pursuing him into the depths of the
  Egyptian area." He folded the sheet of paper and turned to von Mellenthin.
  "How many German tanks and men do we have?"
  Rommel suppressed the urge to tell von Mellenthin not to answer: he knew
  this was a weak point.
  "Sixty tanks, Field Marshal, and two thousand five hundrea men."
 "And the Italians?"
 "Six thousand men and fourteen tanks."
 222       Ken Follett

  Kesselring turned back to Rommel. "And you're going to take Egypt with a
  total of seventy-four tanks? Von Mellenthin, what is our estimate of the
  enemy's strength?"
  "The Allied forces are approximately three times as numerous as ours, but-"
 "There you are."
  Von Mellenthin went on: "-but we are very well supplied with food,
  clothing, trucks and armored cars, and fuel; and the men are in tremendous
  spirits."
  Rommel said: "Von Mellenthin, go to the communications truck and see what
  has arrived."
  Von Mellenthin frowned, but Rommel did not explain, so he went out.
  Rommel said: "The Allies are regrouping at Mersa Matruh. They expect us to
  move around the southern end of their line. Instead we will hit the middle'
  where they are weakest-"
 "How do you know all this?" Kesselring interrupted.
 "Our intelligence assessment-"
 "On what is the assessment based?"
 "Primarily on a spy report-"
  "My God!" For the first time Kesselring raised his voice. "You've no tanks,
  but you have your spyl"
 "He was right last time."
 Von Mellenthin came back in.
  Kesselring said: "All this makes no difference. I am here to confirm the
  Fuehrer's orders: you are to advance no farther."
  Rommel smiled. "I have sent a personal envoy to the Fuehrer."
 "You. . . T,
  "I am a Field Marshall now, I have direct access to Hitler.,,
 "Of course."
 "I think von Mellenthin may have the Fuehrer's reply."
  "Yes," said von Mellenthin. He read from a sheet of paper. "It is only once
  in a lifetime that the Goddess of Victory smiles. Onward to Cairo. Adolf
  Hitler."
 There was a silence.
 Kessetring walked out.
               19

 When Vandam got to his office he learned that, the previous evening, Rommel
 had advanced to within sixty miles of Alexandria.
  Rommel seemed unstoppable. The Mersa Matruh line had broken in half like a
  matchstick. In the south, the 13th Corps had retreated in a panic, and in
  the north the fortress of Mersa Matruh had capitulated. The Allies had
  fallen back once again-but this would be the last time. The new line of
  defense stretched across a thirty-mile gap between the sea and the
  impassable Qattara Depression, and if that line fell there would be no more
  defenses, Egypt would be Rommel's.
  The news was not enough to dampen Vandam's elation. R was more than
  twenty-four hours since he had awakened at dawn, on the sofa in his drawing
  room, with Elene in his arms. Since then he had been suffused with a kind
  of adoIescent glee. He kept remembering little details: how small and brown
  her nipples were, the taste of her skin, her sharp fingernails digging into
  his thighs. In the office he had been behaving a little out of character,
  he knew. He had given back a letter to his typist, saying: "There are seven
  errors in this, you'd better do it again," and smiled at her sunnily. She
  had nearly fallen off her chair. He thought of Elene, and he thought: "Why
  not? Why the hell not?" and there was no re-
  
  
 ply.
  He was visited early by an officer from the Special Liaison Unit. Anybody
  with his ear to the ground in GHQ now knew that the SLUs had a very
  special, ultra-secret source of intelligence. Opinions differed as to how
  good the intelligence was, and evaluation was always difficult because they
  would 223
 224       Ken Follett

 never tell you the source. Brown, who held the rank of captain but was
 quite plainly not a military man, leaned on the edge of the table and
 spoke around the stem of his pipe. "Are you being evacuated, Vandam?"
  These chaps lived in a world of their own, and there was no point in
  telling them that a captain had to call a major '.sir." Vandam said.
  "What? Evacuated? Why?"
  "Our lot's off to Jerusalem. So's everyone who knows too much. Keep
  people out of enemy hands, you know."
  "The brass is getting nervous, then." It was logical, really: RommeJ
  could cover sixty miles in a day.
  "There'll be riots at the station, you'll see-half Cairo's trying to get
  out and the other half is preening itself ready for the liberation. Hal"
 "You won't tell too many people that you're going.
  "No, no, no. Now, then, I've got a little snippet for you. We all know
  Rommel's got a spy in Cairo."
 "How did you know?" Vandam said.
  "StUff comes through from London, old boy. Anyhow, the chap has beer,
  identified as, and I quote, 'the hero of the Rashid Ali affair.'Mean
  anything to youT'
 Vandam was thunderstruck. "It does!" he said.
 "Well, that's it." Brown got off the table.
 "Justa minute," Vandam said. "Is that all?"
 "I'm afraid so."
 "What is this, a decrypt or an agent report?"
 "Sufficc it to say that the source is reliable."
 "You always say that."
 "Yes Well, I may not see you for a while. Good luck."
 "Thanks," Vandarn muttered distractedly.
 "Toodle-oo!" Brown went out, puffing smoke.
  The hero of the Rashid Ali aflair. It was incredible that Wolff should
  have been the man who outwitted Vandam in Istanbul. Yet it made sense:
  Vandam recalled the odd feeling he had had about Wolff's style, as if it
  were familiar. The girl whom Vandam. had sent to pick up the mystery man
  had had her throat cut.
  And now Vandarn was sending EIene in against the same man.
  A corporal came in with an order. Vandam read it with mounting disbelief.
  All departments were to extract from
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     225

 their files those papers which might be dangerous in enemy hands, and burn
 them. Just about anything in the files of an intelligence section might be
 dangerous in enemy hands. We might as well bum the whole damn lot, Vandam
 thought. And how would departments operate afterward? Clearly the brass
 thought the departments would not be operating at an for very much longer.
 Of course it was a precaution, but it was a very drastic one: they would not
 destroy the accumulated results of years of work unless they thought there
 was a very strong chance indeed of the Germans taking Egypt.
 It's going to pieces, he thought; it's falling apart.
  It was unthinkable. Vandam had given three years of his life to the defense
  of Egypt. Thousands of men had died in the desert. After all that, was it
  possible that we could lose? Actually give up, and turn and run away? It
  did not bear contemplating.
  He called Jakes in and watched him read the order. Jake& just nodded, as if
  he had been expecting it. Vandam said: "Bit drastic, isn't it?"
  "It's rather like what's been happening in the desert, sir," Jakes replied.
  "We establish huge supply dumps at enormous cost, then as we retreat we
  blow them up to keep them out of enemy hands."
  Vandam nodded. "All right, you'd better get on with it. Try and play it
  down a bit, for the sake of morale-you know, brass getting the wind up
  unnecessarily, that sort of thing.,'
  "Yes, sir. WeM have the bonfire in the yard at the back, shall we?"
  "Yes. Find an old dustbin and poke holes in its bottom. Make sure the stuff
  burns up properly."
 "What about your own files?"
 "I'll go through them now."
 "Very good, sir." Jakes went out.
  Vandam opened his file drawer and began to sort through his papers.
  Countless times over the last three years he had thought: I don't need to
  remember that, I can always look it up. There were names and addresses,
  security reports on individuals, details of codes, systems of communication
  of orders, case notes and a little file of jottings about Alex Wolff. Jakes
  brought in a big cardboard box with "Lipton's Tea" printed
 226       Ken Follett

 on its side, and Vandam began to dump papers into it, thinking: This is
 what it is like to be the losers.
  The box was half full when Vandam's corporal opened the door and said:
  "Major Smith to see you, sir."
 "Send him in." Vandam did not know a Major Smith.
  ne major was a small, thin man in his forties with bulbous blue eyes and
  an air of being rather pleased with himself. He shook hands and said:
  "Sandy Smith, S.I.S."
 . ,Vandam said: "What can I do for the Secret Intelligence Service?"
  "I'm sort of the liaison man between S.I.S. and the General Staff," Smith
  explained. "You made an inquiry about a book called Rebecca .
 "Yes.,'
  "The answer got routed through us." Smith produced a piece of paper with
  a flourish.
  Vandarn read the message. The S.I.S. Head of Station in Portugal bad
  followed up the query about Rebecca by sending one of his men to visit
  all the English -language bookshops in the country. In the holiday area
  of Estoril he had found a bookseller who recalled selling his entire
  stock--six copiesof Rebecca to one woman. On further investigation the
  woman had turned out to be the wife of the German military attach6 in
  Lisbon.
  Vandarn said: "nis confirms something I suspected. Thank you for taking
  the trouble to bring it over."
  "No trouble," Smith said. "I'm over here every morning anyway Glad to be
  able to help." He went out.
  Vandam reflected on the news while he went on with his work. There was
  only one plausible explonation of the fact that the book had found its
  way from Estoril to the Sahara. Undoubtedly it was the basis of a code
  and, unless there were two successful German spies in Cairo, it was Alex
  Wolff who was using that code.
  ne information would be useful, sooner or later. It was a pity the key
  to the code had not been captured along with the book and the decrypt.
  That thought reminded him of the importance of burning his secret papers,
  and he determined to be more ruthless about what he destroyed.
  At the end he considered his files on pay and promotion of subordinates,
  and decided to burn those too since they
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     227

 might help enemy interrogation teams fix their priorities. The cardboard box
 was full. He hefted it on to his shoulder and went outside.
  Jakes had the fire going in a rusty steel water tank propped up on bricks.
  A corporal was feeding papers to the flames. Vandam dumped his box and
  watched the blaze for a while. It reminded him of Guy Fawkes Night in
  England, fireworks and baked potatoes and the burning effigy of a
  seventeenthcentury traitor. Charred scraps of paper floated up on a pillar
  of hot air. Vandam turned away.
  He wanted to think, so be decided to walk. He left GHQ and headed downtown.
  His cheek was hurting. He thought he should welcome the pain, for it was
  supposed to be a sign of healing. He was growing a beard to cover the wound
  so that be would look a little less unsightly when the dressing came off -
  Every day he enjoyed not having to shave in the morning.
  He thought of Elene, and remembered her with her back arched and
  perspiration glistening on her naked breasts. He had been shocked by what
  had happened after he bad kissed her-shocked, but thrilled. It had been a
  night of firsts for him: first time he had made love anywhere other than on
  a bed, first time he had seen a woman have a climax like a man's, first
  time sex had been a mutual indulgence rather than the imposition of his
  will on a more or less reluctant woman. It was, of course, a disaster that
  he and Elene had fallen so joyfully in love. His parents, his friends and
  the Army would be aghast at the idea of his marrying a wog. His mother
  would also feel bound to explain why the Jews were wrong to reject Jesus.
  Vandam decided not to worry over all that. He and Elene might be dead
  within a few days. We'll bask in the sunshine while it lasts, he thought,
  and to bell with the future.
  His thoughts kept returning to the girl whose throat had been cut,
  apparently by Wolff, in Istanbul. He was terrified that something might go
  wrong on Thursday and Elene might find herself alone with Wolff again.
  Looking around him, he realized that there was a festive feeling in the
  air. He passed a hairdresser's salon and noticed that it was packed out,
  with women standing waiting. The dress shops seemed to be doing good
  business. A woman
 228       Ken Follett

 came out of a grocer's with a basket full of canned food, and Vandam saw
 that there was a queue stretching out of the shop and along the pavement.
 A sign in the window of the next shop said, in hasty scribble: "Sorry, no
 makeup." Vandam realized that the Egyptians were preparing to be liber-
 ated, and looking forward to it.
  He could not escape a sense of impending doom. Even the sky seemed dark.
  He looked up: the sky was dark. There seemed to be a gray swirling mist,
  dotted with particles, over the city. He realized that it was smoke mixed
  with charred paper. All across Cairo the British were burning their
  files, and the sooty smoke had blotted out the sun.
  Vandarn was suddenly furious with himself and the rest of the Allied
  armies for preparing so equably for defeat. Where was the sp irit of the
  Battle of Britain? What had happened to that famous mixture of obstinacy,
  ingenuity and coura,ge which was supposed to characterize the nation?
  What, Vandam asked himself, are you planning to do about it?
  He turned around and walked back toward Garden City, where GHQ was
  billeted in commandeered villas. He visualized the map of the El Alamein
  Line, where the Allies would make their last stand, This was one line
  Rommel could not circumvent, for at its southern end was the vast
  impassable Qattara Depression. So Rommel would have to break the line.
  Where would he try to break through? If he came through the northern end,
  he would then have to choose between dashing straight for Alexandria and
  wheeling around and attacking the Allied forces from behind. If he came
  through the southern end he must either dash for Cairo or, again, wheel
  around and destroy the remains of the Allied forces.
  Immediately behind the line was the Alam Haifa ridge, which Vandam knew
  was heavily fortified. Clearly it would be better for the Allies if
  Rommel wheeled around after breaking through the line, for then he might
  well spend his strength attacking Alam Haifa.
  There was one more factor. The southern approach to Alarn Haifa was
  through treacherous soft sand. It was unlikely that Rommel knew about the
  quicksand, for he bad never penetrated this far east before, and only the
  Allies had good maps of the desert.
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     229

  So, Vandam thought, my duty is to prevent Alex Wolff telling Rommel that
  Alam Halfa is well defended and cannot be attacked from the south.
 It was a depressingly negative plan.
  Vandam had come, without consciously intending it, to the Villa les
  Oliviers, Wolff's house. He sat in the little park opposite it, under the
  olive trees, and stared at the building as if it might tell him where Wolff
  was. He thought idly: If only Wolff would make a mistake, and encourage
  Rommel to attack Alam. Halfa from the south.
 Then it bit him.
  Suppose I do capture Wolff. Suppose I also get his radio. Suppose I even
  find the key to his code.
  Then I could impersonate Wolff, get on the radio to Rommel, and tell him to
  attack Alam Halfa from the south.
  The idea blossomed rapidly in his mind, and he began to feel elated. By now
  Rommel was convinced, quite rightly, that Wolff's information was good.
  Suppose he got a message from Wolff saying the El Alamein Line was weak at
  the southern end, that the southern approach to Alarn Halfa was hard going,
  and that Alam Halfa itself was weakly defended.
 The temptation would be too much for Rommel to resist.
  He would break through the line at the southern end and then swing
  northward, expecting to take Alam Halfa without much trouble. Then he would
  hit the quicksand. While he was struggling through it, our artillery would
  decimate his forces. When he reached Alam Halfa he would find it heavily
  defended. At that point we would bring in more forces from the front line
  and squeeze the enemy like a nutcracker.
  If the ambush worked well, it might not only save Egypt but annihilate the
  Afrika Korps.
 He thought: Ive got to put this idea up to the brass.
  It would not be easy. His standing was not very high just now-in fact his
  professional reputation was in ruins on account of Alex Wolff. But surely
  they would see the merit of the idea.
  He got up from the bench and headed for his office. Suddenly the future
  looked different. Perhaps the jackboot would not ring out on the tiled
  floors of the mosques. Perhaps the treasures of the Egyptian Museum would
  not be shipped to
 230       Ken Follett

 Berlin. Perhaps Billy would not have to join the Hitler Youth. Perhaps
 Elene would not be sent to Dachau. We could all be saved, he thought.
 If I catch Wolff.
  PART THREE

 ALAM HALFA
               20

 One of these days, Vandam thought, I'm going to punch Bogge on the nose.
  Today Lieutenant Colonel Bogge was at his worst: indecisive, sarcastic and
  touchy. He had a nervous cough which he used when he was afraid to speak,
  and he was coughing a lot now. He was also fidgeting: tidying piles of
  papers on his desk, crossing and uncrossing his legs and polishing his
  wretched cricket baU.
  Vandam sat still and quiet, waiting for him to tie himself up in knots.
  "Now look here, Vandam, strategy is for Auchinleck. Your job is personnel
  security-and you're not doing very well."
 "Nor is Auchinleck," Vandam said.
  Bogge pretended not to hear. He picked up Vandam's memo. Vandam had written
  out his deception plan and formally submitted it to Bogge, with a copy to
  the brigadier. "For one thing, this is full of holes," Bogge said.
 Vandam said nothing.
  "Full of holes." Bogge coughed. "For one thing, it involves letting old
  Rommel through the line, doesn't it?"
  Vandam said: "Perhaps the plan could be made contingent on his getting
  through."
  "Yes. Now, you see? This is the kind of thing I mean. If you put up a plan
  that's full of holes like that, given that your reputation is at a pretty
  damn low point around here at the moment, well, you'll be laughed out of
  Cairo. Now." He coughed. "You want to encourage Rommel to attack the line
  at its weakest point-giving him a better chance of getting through! You
  see?"
               233
 234        Ken Follett

  "Yes. Some parts of the line are weaker than others, and since Rommel has
  air reconnaissance there's a chance he'll know which parts."
 "And you want to turn a chance into a certainty.,$
 "For the sake of the subsequent ambush, yes."
  "Now, it seems to me that we want old Rommel to attack the strongest part
  of the line, so that he won't get through at all."
  "But if we repel him, he'll just regroup and hit us again. Whereas if we
  trap him we could finish him off finally."
  "No, no, no. Risky. Risky. This is our last line of defense, laddic."
  Bogge laughed. "After his, there's nothing but one little canal between
  him and Cairo. You don't seem to realize-"
  "I realize very well, sir. Let me put it this way. One: if Rommel gets
  through the line he must be diverted to Alam. Halfa by the false prospect
  of an easy victory. Two: it is preferable that he attack Alam Halfa from
  the south, because of the quicksand. Three: either we must wait and see
  which end of the line he attacks, and take the risk that he will go
  north; or we must encourage him to go south, and take the risk that we
  will thereby increase his chances of breaking through the line in the
  first place."
  "Well," said Bogge, "now that we've rephrased it, the plan is beginning
  to make a bit more sense. Now look here: you're going to have to leave
  it with me for a while. When I've got a moment I'll go through the thing
  with a fine-toothed comb, and see if I can knock it into shape. Then
  perhaps we'll put it up to the brass."
  I see, Vandam thought: the object of the exercise is to make it Bogge's
  plan. Well, what the hell? If Bogge can be bothered to play politics at
  this stage, good luck to him. Its winning that matters, not getting the
  credit.
  Vandam. said: "Very good, sir. If I might just emphasize the time factor
  . . . If the plan is to be put into operation, it must be done quickly."
  "I think I'm the best judge of its urgency, Major, don't you?"
 "Yes, sir."
 "And, after all, everything depends on catching the damn
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     235

 spy, something at which you have not so far been entirely successful, am
 I right?"
 ."Yes, sir."
  "I'll be taking charge of tonight's operation myself, to ensure that
  there are no further foul-ups. Let me have your proposals this afternoon,
  and we'll go over them together-"
  There was a, knock at the door and the brigadier walked in. Van&m and
  Bogge stood up.
 Bogge said: "Good morning, sir."
  "At ease, gentlemen," the brigadier said. "I've been looking for you,
  Vandam."
  Bogge said: "We were just working on an idea we had for a deception
  plan--P
 "Yes, I saw the memo."
  "Ah, Vandam sent you a copy," Bogge said. Vandam did not look at Bogge,
  but he knew the lieutenant colonel was furious wi* him.
  "Yes. indeed," said the brigadier. He turned to Vandam. "You're supposed
  to be catching spies, Major, not advising generals on strategy, Perhaps
  if you spent less time telling us how to win the war you might be a
  better security officer."
 Vandam's heart sank.
 Bogge said: "I was just saying--~'
  The brigadier interrupted him. "However, since you have done this, and
  since it's such a splendid plan, I want you to come with me and sell it
  to Auchinleck. You can spare him, Bogge, can't you?"
 "Of course, sir," Bogge said through clenched teeth.
  "All right, Vandam. The conference will be starting any minute, Let's
  go."
  Vandam followed the brigadier out and shut the door very softly on Bogge.

 On the day that Wolff was to see Elene again, Major Smith came to the
 houseboat at lunchtime.
  The information he brought with him was the most valuable yet.
  Wolff and Sonja went through their now-familiar routine. Wolff felt like
  an actor in a French farce, who has to hide in the same stage wardrobe
  night after night. Sonja and Smith, following the script, began on the
  couch and moved into the
 236       Ken Follett

 bedroom. When Wolff emerged from the cupboard the curtains were closed, and
 there on the floor were Smith's briefcase, his shoes and his shorts with the
 key ring poking out of the pocket.
 Wolff opened the briefcase and began to read.
  Once again Smith had come to the houseboat straight from the morning
  conference at GHQ at which Auchinleck and his staff discussed Allied
  strategy and decided what to do.
  After a few minutes' reading Wolff realized that what he held in his hand
  was a complete rundown of the Allies' lastditch defense on the El Alamein
  Line.
  The line consisted of artillery on the ridges, tanks on the level ground
  and minefields all along. The Alam Halfa ridge, five miles behind the
  center of the line, was also heavily fortified. Wolff noted that the
  southern end of the line was weaker, both in troops and mines.
  Smith's briefcase also contained an enemy-position paper. Allied
  Intelligence thought Rommel would probably try to break through the line at
  the southern end, but noted that the northern end was possible.
  Beneath this, written in pencil in what was presumably Smith's handwriting,
  was a note which Wolff found more exciting than all the rest of the stuff
  put together. It read: "Major Vandarn proposes deception plan. Encourage
  Rommel to break through at southern end, lure him toward Alam Halfa, catch
  him in quicksand, then nutcracker. Plan accepted by Auk."
  "Auk" was Auchinleck, no doubt. What a discovery this was! Not only did
  Wolff hold in his hand the details of the Allied defense line-he also knew
  what they expected Rommel to do, and he knew their deception plan.
 And the deception plan was Vandam's!
  This would be remembered as the greatest espionage coup of the century.
  Wolff himself would be responsible for assuring Rommel's victory in North
  Africa.
  They should make me King of Egypt for this, he thought, and he smiled.
  He looked up and saw Smith standing between the curtains, staring down at
  him.
 Smith roared: "Who the devil are you?"
 Wolff realized angrily that he had not been paying atten-         THE KEY TO REBECCA     237

 tion to the noises from the bedroom. Something had gone wrong, the script
 had not been followed, there had been no champagne-cork warning. He had
 been totally absorbed in the strategic appreciation. The endless names of
 divisions and brigades, the numbers of men and tanks, the quantities of
 fuel and supplies, the ridges and depressions and quicksands had
 monopolized his attention to the exclusion of local sounds. He was
 suddenly terribly afraid that he might be thwarted in his moment of
 triumph.
 Smitl, said: "That's my bloody briefcase!"
 He took a step forward.
  Wolff reached out, caught Smith's foot, and heaved sideways. The major
  toppled over and hit the floor with a heavy thud.
 Sonja screamed.
 Wolff and Smith both scrambled to their feet.
  Smith was a small, thin man, ten years older than Wolff and in poor
  shape. He stepped backward, fear showing in his face. He bumped into a
  shelf, glanced sideways, saw a cutglass fruit bowl on the shelf, picked
  it up and hurled it at Wolff.
 It missed, fell into the kitchen sink, and shattered loudly.
  The noise, Wolff thought: if he makes any more noise people will come to
  investigate. He moved toward Smith.
 Smith, with his back to the wall, yelled: "Help!"
  Wolff hit him once, on the point of the jaw, and he coIlapsed, sliding
  down the wall to sit, unconscious, on the floor.
 Sonja came out and stared at him.
  Wolff rubbed his knuckles. "It's the first time I've ever done that," he
  said.
 'IA(bat?"
  "Hit somebody on the chin and knocked him out. I thought only boxers
  could do that."
 "Never mind that, what are we going to do about bim?"
  "I don't know." Wolff considered the possibilities. To kill Smith would
  be dangerous, for the death of an officer-and the disappearance of his
  briefcase-would now cause a terrific rumpus throughout the city. There
  would be the problem of what to do with the body. And Smith would bring
  home no more secrets.
 Smith groaned and stirred.
 238       Ken Follett

  Wolff wondered whether it might be possible to let him go. After all, if
  Smith were to reveal what had been going on in the houseboat he would
  implicate himself. Not only would it ruin his career, be would probably be
  thrown in jail. He did not look like the kind of man to sacrifice himself
  for a higher cause.
  Let him go free? No, the chance was too much to take. To know that there
  was a British officer in the city who possessed all of Wolff's secrets . .
  . Impossible.
  Smith had his eyes open. "You . . ." he said. "You're Slavenburg . . ." He
  looked at Sonja, then back at Wolff. "It was you who introduced ... in the
  Cha-Cha . . . this was all planned.. ."
  "Shut up," Wolf said mildly. Kill him or let him go: what other options
  were there? Only one: to keep him here, bound and gagged, until Rommel
  reached Cairo.
 "You're damned spies," Smith said. His face was white.
  Sonja said nastily: "And you thought I was crazy for your miserable body."
  "Yes." Smith was recovering. "I should have known better than to trust a
  wog bitch."
  Sonja stepped forward and kicked his face with her bare foot.
  "Stop itl" Wolff said. "We've got to think what to do with him. Have we got
  any rope to tie him with?"
  Sonja thought for a moment. "Up on deck, in that locker at the forward
  end."
  Wolff took from the kitchen drawer the heavy steel he used for sharpening
  the carving knife. He gave the steel to Sonja. "If he moves, hit him with
  that," he said. He did not think Smith would move.
  He was about to go up the ladder to the deck when he heard footsteps on the
  gangplank.
 Sonja said: "Postman!"
  Wolff knelt in front of Smith and drew his knife. "Open your mouth."
  Smith began to say something, and Wolff slid the knife between Smith's
  teeth.
  Wolff said: "Now, if you move or speak, IT cut out your tongue."
 Smith sat dead still, staring at Wolff with a horrified look.
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     239

  Wolff realized that Sonja was stark naked. "Put something on,
  quicklyl"
  She pulled a sheet off the bed and wrapped it around her as she went to
  the foot of the ladder. The hatch was opening. Wolff knew that he and
  Smith could be seen from the hatch. Sonja let the sheet slide down a
  little as she reached up to take the letter from the postman's
  outstretched hand.
  "Good morning!" the postman said. His eyes were riveted on Sonja's
  half-exposed breasts.
  She went farther up the ladder toward him, so that he had to back away,
  and lot the sheet slip even more. "Thank you," she simpered. She reached
  for the hatch and pulled it shut.
 Wolff breathed again.
  The postman's footsteps crossed the deck and descended the gangplank.
 Wolff said to Sonja: "Give me that sheet."
 She unwrapped herself and stood naked again.
  Wolff withdrew the knife from Smith's mouth and used it to cut off a foot
  or two of the sheet. He crumpled the cotton into a ball and stuffed it
  into Smith's mouth. Smith did not resist. Wolff slid the knife into its
  underarm sheath. He stood up. Smith closed his eyes. He seemed limp,
  defeated.
  Sonja picked up the sharpening steel and stood ready to hit Smith while
  Wolff went up the ladder and on to the deck. The locker Sonja had
  mentioned was in the riser of a step in the prow. Wolff opened it. Inside
  was a coil of slender rope. tt had perhaps been used to tie up the vessel
  in the days before she became a houseboat. Wolff took the rope out. It
  was strong, but not too thick: ideal for tying someone's hands and feet.
  He heard Sonja's voice, from below, raised in a shout. There was a
  clatter of feet on the ladder.
 Wolff dropped the rope and whirled around.
  Smith, wearing only his underpants, came up through the hatch at a run.
  He had not been as defeated as he looked-and Sonja must have missed him
  with the steel.
  Wolff dashed across the deck to the gangplank to head him off.
  Smith turned, ran to the other side of the boat, and jumped into the
  water.
 240       Ken Follett

 Wolff said: "Shit!"
  He looked all around quickly. There was no one on the decks of the other
  bouseboats-it was the hour of the siesta. The towpath was deserted except
  for the "beggar"-Kemel would have to deal with him-and one man in the
  distance walking away. on the river there were a couple of feluccas, at
  least P quarter of a mile away, and a slow-moving steam barge beyond
  them.
  Wolff ran to the edge. Smith surfaced, gasping for air. He wiped his eyes
  and looked around to get his bearings. He was clumsv in the water,
  splashing a lot. He began to swim, inexpertly. away from the houseboat.
  Wolff stepped back several paces and took a running jump into the river.
 He landed, feet first, on Smith's bead.
  For several seconds all was confusion. Wolff went underwater in a tangle
  of arms and legs-his and Smith's-and struggled to reach the surface and
  push Smith down at the same time. When he could hold his breath no longer
  he wriggled away from Smith and came up.
  He sucked air and wiped his eyes. Smith's head bobbed up in front of him,
  coughing and spluttering. Wolff reached forward with both hands, grabbed
  Smith's bead, and pulled it toward himself and down. Smith wriggled like
  a fish. Wolff got him around the neck and pushed down. Wolff himself Went
  under the water, then came up again a moment later. Smith was still
  under, still struggling.
 Wolff thought: How long does it take a man to drown?
  Smith gave a convulsive jerk and freed himself. His bead came up and he
  heaved a great lungful of air. Wolff tried to punch him. The blow landed,
  but it had no force. Smith was coughing and retching between shuddering
  gasps. Wolff himself had taken in water. Wolff reached for Smith again.
  This time he got behind the major and crooked one arm around the man's
  throat while he used the other to push down on the top of his head.
 He thought: Christ, I hope no one is watching.
  Smith went under. He was facedown in the water now, with Wolff's knees
  in his back, and his head held in a firm grip. He continued to thrash
  around under water, turning,
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     241

 jerking, flailing his arms, kicking his legs and trying to twist his body.
 Wolff tightened his grip and held him under.
 Drown, you bastard, drownI
  He felt Smith's jaws open and knew the man was at last breathing water.
  The convulsions grew more frantic. Wolff felt he was going to have to let
  go. Smith's struggle pulled Wolff under. Wolff squeezed his eyes shut and
  held his breath. It seemed Smith was weakening. By now his lungs must be
  half full of water, Wolff thought. After a few seconds Wolff himself
  began to need air.
  Smith's movements became feeble. Holding the major less tightly, Wolff
  kicked himself upward and found air. For a minute he just breathed. Smith
  became a dead weight. Wolff used his legs to swim toward the houseboat,
  pulling Smith with him. Smith's head came up out of the water, but there
  was no sign of life.
  Wolff reached the side of the boat Sonja was up on deck, wearing a robe,
  staring over the side.
 Wolff said: "Did anybody see?"
 "I don't think so. Is he dead?"
 .,Yes."
 Wolff thought: What the bell do I do now?
  He held Smith against the side of the boat. If I let him go, he'll just
  float, he thought. The body will be found near here and there will be a
  house-to-house search. But I can't carry a body half across Cairo to get
  rid of it.
 Suddenly Smith jerked and spewed water.
 "Jesus Christ, he's alive!" Wolff said.
  He pushed Smith under again. This was no good, it took too long. He let
  Smith go, pulled out his knife, and lunged. Smith was underwater, moving
  feebly. Wolff could not direct the knife. He slashed wildly. The water
  hampered him. Smith thrashed about. The foaming water turned pink. At
  last Wolff was able to grab Smith by the hair and hold his head still
  while he cut his throat.
 Now he was dead.
  Wolff let Smith go while he sheathed the knife again. The river water
  turned muddy red all around him. I'm swimming in blood, he thought, and
  he was suddenly filled with disgust.
  The body was drifting away. Wolff pulled it back. He realized, too late,
  that a drowned major might simply have fallen
 242        Ken Follett

 in the river, but a major with his throat cut had unquestionably been
 murdered. Now he had to hide the body.
 He looked up. "Sonja!"
 "I feel ill."
  "Never mind that. We have to make the body sink to the bottom."
 "Oh, God, the water's all bloody."
  "Listen to me!" He wanted to yell at her, to make her snap out of it, but
  he had to keep his voice low. "Get ... get that rope. Go on!"
  She disappeared from view for a moment, and returned with the rope. She
  was helpless, Wolff decided: he would have to tell her exactly what to
  do.
 "Now-get Smith's briefcase and put something heavy in
 i[VI
 "Something heavy ... but what?"
  "Jesus Christ ... What have we got that's heavy? What's heavy? Urn ...
  books, books are heavy, no, that might not be enough . . . I know,
  bottles. Full bottles--champagne bottles. Fill his briefcase with full
  bottles of champagne."
 .,Why?"
 "My God, stop dithering, do what I tell you!"
  She went away again. Through the porthole he could see her coming down
  the ladder and into the living room. She was moving very slowly, like a
  sleepwalker.
 Hurry, you fat bitch, hurry!
  She looked around her dazedly. Still moving in slow motion, she picked
  up the briefcase from the floor. She took it to the kitchen area and
  opened the icebox. She looked in, as if she were deciding what to have
  for dinner.
 Come on.
  She took out a champagne bottle. She stood with the bottle in one hand
  and the briefcase in the other, and she frowned, as if she could not
  remember what she was supposed to be doing with them. At last her
  expression cleared and she put the bottle in the case, laying it flat.
  She took another bottle out.
  Wolff thought: Lay them head to toe, idiot, so you get more in.
  She put the second bottle in, looked at it, then took it out and turned
  it the other way.
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     243

 Brilliant, Wolff thought.
  She managed to get four bottles in. She closed the icebox and looked
  around for something else to add to the weight. She picked up the
  sharpening steel and a glass paperweight. She put those into the
  briefcase and fastened it. Then she came up on deck.
 "What now?" she said.
  "Tie the end of the rope around the handle of the briefcase. "
  She was coming out of her daze. Her fingers moved more quickly.
 "Tie it very tight," Wolff said.
 61 Okay."
 "Is there anyone around?"
 She glanced to left and right. "No."
 "Hurry. 
 She finished the knot.
 "Throw me the rope," Wolff said.
  She threw down the other end of the rope and he caught it. He was tiring
  with the effort of keeping himself afloat and holding on to the corpse
  at the same time. He had to let Smith go for a moment because he needed
  both hands for the rope, which meant he had to tread water furiously to
  stay up. He threaded the rope under the dead man's armpits and pulled it
  through. He wound it around the torso twice, then tied a knot. Several
  times during the operation he found himself sinking, and once he took a
  revolting mouthful of bloody Water.
 At last the job was done.
 "Test your knot," he told Sonja.
 "It's tight."
  "Throw the briefcase into the water-throw it as far out as you can."
  She heaved the briefcase over the side. It splashed a couple of yards
  away from the houseboat-it bad been too heavy for her to throw far-and
  went down. Slowly the rope followed the case. The length of rope between
  Smith and the case became taut, then the body went under. Wolff watched
  the surface. The knots were holding. He kicked his legs, underwater where
  the body had gone down: they did not contact anything. The body had sunk
  deep.
 244       Ken Follett

 Wolff muttered: "Liebe Gott, what a shambles."
  He climbed on deck. Looking back down, he saw that the pink tinge was
  rapidly disappearing from the water.
 A voice said: "Good morning!"
 Wolff and Sonja whirled around to face the towpath.
  "Good morningl" Sonja replied. She muttered to Wolff in an undertone: "A
  neighbor."
  The neighbor was a half-caste woman of middle age, carrying a shopping
  basket. She said: "I heard a lot of splashing-is there anything wrong?"
  "Urn ... no," Sonja said. "My little dog fell in the water, and Mr.
  Robinson here had to rescue him."
  "How gallant!" the woman said. "I didn't know you had a dog.,,
 "He's a puppy, a gift"
 "What kind?"
 Wolff wanted to scream: Go away, you stupid old wornanl
 "A poodle," Sonja replied.
 "I'd love to see him."
  "Tomorrow, perhaps-he's been locked up as a punishment now."
 "Poor thing."
 Wolff said: "I'd better change my wet clothes."
 Sonja said to the neighbor: "Until tomorrow."
 "Lovely to meet you, Mr. Robinson," the neighbor said.
 Wolff and Sonja went below.
  Sonja slumped on the couch and closed her eyes. Wolff stripped off his
  wet clothes.
  Sonja said: "It's the worst thing that's ever happened to me.
 "You'll survive," Wolff said.
 "At least it was an Englishman."
 "Yes. You should be jumping. for joy."
 "I will when my stomach settles."
  Wolff went into the bathroom and turned on the taps of the tub. When he
  came back Sonja said: "Was it worth it?"
  "Yes." Wolff pointed to the military papers which were still on the
  floor, where he had dropped them when Smith surprised him. "That stuff
  is red-hot-the best he's ever brought us. With that, Rommel can win the
  war."
 "When will you send it?"
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     245

 "Tonight, at midnight."
 "Tonight you're going to bring Elene here."
  He stared at her. "How can you think of that when we've just killed a man
  and sunk his body?"
  She stared at him defiantly. "I don't know, I just know it makes me feel
  very sexy."
 "My God."
 "You will bring her home tonight. You owe it to me."
  Wolff hesitated. "I'd have to make the broadcast while she's here."
 "I'll keep her busy while you're on the radio."
 "I don't know-"
 "Damn it, Alex, you owe mel"
 "All right."
 "Thank you."
  Wolff went into the bathroom. Sonja was unbelievable, he thought. She
  took depravity to new heights of sophistication. He got into the hot
  water.
  She called from the bedroom: "But now Smith won't be bringing you any
  more secrets."
  "I don't think we'll need them, after the next battle," Wolff replied.
  "He's served his purpose."
 He picked up the soap and began to wash off the blood.
               21

 Vandam knocked at the door of Elene's flat an hour before she was due to
 meet Alex Wolff.
  She came to the door wearing a black cocktail dress and high-heeled black
  shoes with silk stockings. Around her neck was a slendex gold chain. Her
  face was made up, and her hair gleamed. She had been expecting Vandam.
  He smiled at her, seeing someone familiar yet at the same time
  astonishingly beautiful. "Hello."
 "Come in." She led him into the living room. "Sit down."
  He had wanted to kiss her, but she had not given him the chance. He sat on
  the couch. "I wanted to tell you the details for tonight."
  "Okay." She sat on a chair opposite him. "Do you want a drink?"
 "Sure."
 "Help yourself."
 He stared at her. "Is something wrong?"
 "Nothinp. Give yourself a drink, then brief me."
 Vandam frowned. "What is this?"
 "Nothing. We've got work to do, so let's do it."
  He stood up, went across to her, and knelt in front of her chair. "Elene.
  What are you doing?"
  She glared at him. She seemed close to tears. She said loudly: "Where have
  you been for the last two days?"
 He looked away from her, thinking. "I've been at work."
 "And where do you think I've been?"
 "Here, I suppose."
 "Exactly!"
He did not understand what that meant. It crossed his 246
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     247

 mind that he had fallen in love with a woman he hardly knew. He said:
 "I've been working, and you've been here, and so you're mad at me?"
 She shouted: "Yes!"
  Vandam said: "Calm down. I don't understand why you're so cross, and I
  want you to explain it to me."
 "NO!"
  "Then I don't know what to say." Vandarn sat on the floor with his back
  to her and lit a cigarette. He truly did not know what had upset her, but
  there was an element of willfulness in his attitude: he was ready to be
  humble. to apologize for whatever he had done, and to make amends-but he
  was not willing to play guessing games.
  They sat in silence for a minute, not looking at one another.
  Elene sniffed. Vandam could not see her, but he knew the kind of sniff
  that came from weeping. She said: "You could have sent me a note, or even
  a bunch of bloody flowers!"
 "A note? What for? You knew we were to meet tonight."
 "Oh, my God."
  "Flowers? What do you want with flowers? We don't need to play that game
  anymore."
 "Oh, really?"
 "What do you want me to say?"
  "Listen. We made love the night before last, in case you've forgotten-"
 "Don't be silly-"
  "You brought me home and kissed me good-bye. Tbennothing."
  He drew on his cigarette. "In case you have forgotten, a certain Erwin
  Rommel is knocking at the gates with a bunch of Nazis in tow, and I'm one
  of the people who's trying to keep him out."
  "Five minutes, that's all it would have taken to send me a note."
 "'ftat for?"
  "Well, exactly, what for? I'm a loose woman, am T not? I give myself to
  a man the way I take a drink of water. An hour later I've forgotten-is
  that what you think? Because that's how it seems to mel Damn you, William
  Vandam, you make me feel cheapl"
 248        Ken Follett

  It made no more sense than it had at the start, but now he could hear the
  pain in her voice. He turned to face her. "You're the most wonderful thing
  that's happened to me for a long time, perhaps ever. Please forgive me for
  being a fool." He took her hand in his own.
  She looked toward the window, biting her lip, fighting back tears. "Yes,
  you are," she said. She looked down at him and touched his hair. "You
  bloody, bloody fool," she whispered, stroking his head. Her eyes spilled
  tears.
 "I've such a lot to learn about you," he said.
 "And I about you."
  He looked away, thinking aloud. "People resent my equanimity-always have.
  Those who work for me don't, they like it. They know that when they feel Re
  panicking, when they feel they can't cope, they can come to me and tell me
  about the dilemma; and if I can't see a way through it, I'll tell them what
  is the best thing to do, the lesser evil; and because I say it in a calm
  voice, because I see that it's a dilemma and I don't panic, they go away
  reassured and do what they have to do. All I do is clarify the problem and
  refuse to be frightened by it; but that's just what they need. However ...
  exactly the same attitude often infuriates other people-my superiors, my
  friends, Angela, you ... I've never understood why.,,
  "Because sometimes vou should panic, fool," she said softly. "Sometimes you
  should show that you are frightened, or obsessed, or crazy for something.
  It's human, and it's a sign that you care. When you're so calm all the time
  we think it's because you don't give a damn."
  Vandam said: "Well, people should know better. Lovers should know better,
  and so should friends, and bosses if they're any good." He said this
  honestly, but in the back of his mind he realized that there was indeed an
  element of ruthlessness, of cold-heartedness, in his famous equanimity.
  "And if they don't know better  T' She had stopped
 crying now.
  "I should be different? No." He wanted to be honest with her now. He could
  have told her a lie to make her happy: Yes, you're right, I'll try to be
  different. But what was the point? If he could not be himself with her, it
  was all worthless, he would be manipulating her the way all men had
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     249

 manipulated her, the way he manipulated people he did not love. So he told
 her the truth. "You see, this is the way I win. I mean, win everything ...
 the game of life-so to speak." He gave a wry grin. "I am detached. I look
 at everything from a distance. I do care, but I refuse to do pointless
 things, symbolic gestures, empty fits of rage. Either we love each other
 or we don't, and all the flowers in the world won't make any difference.
 But the work I did today could affect whether we live or die. I did think
 of you, all day; but each time I thought of you, I turned my mind to more
 urgent things. I work efficiently, I set priorities and I don't worry
 about you when I know you're okay. Can you imagine yourself getting used
 to that?"
 She gave him a watery smile. "I'll try."
  And all the time, in the back of his mind, he was thinking: For how long?
  Do I want this woman forever? What if I don't?
  He pushed the thought down. Right now it was low priority. "What I want
  to say, after all that, is: Forget about tonight, don't go, we'll manage
  without you. But I can't. We need vou, and it's terribly important."
 "That's okay, I understand."
 "But first of all, may I kiss you hello?"
 "Yes, please."
  Kneeling beside the arm of her chair, he took her face in his big hand,
  and kissed her lips. Her mouth was soft and yielding, and slightly moist.
  He savored the feel and the taste of her. Never bad he felt like this,
  as though he could go on kissing, just so, all night and never get tired.
  Eventually she drew back, took a deep breath, and said: "My, my, I do
  believe you mean it."
 "You may be sure of that."
  She laughed. "When you said that, you were the old Major Vandarn for a
  moment-the one I used to know before I knew you."
  "And your'My, my,' in that provocative voice was the old Elene."
 "Brief me, Major.,,
 "I'll have to get out of kissing distance."
  "Sit over there and cross your legs. Anyway, what were you doing today?"
 250       Ken Follett

  Vandarn crossed the room to the drinks cupboard and found the gin. "A
  major in Intelligence has disappearedalong with a briefcase f ull of
  secrets."
 "Wolff?"
  "Could be. It turns out that this major has been disappearing at
  lunchtime, a couple of times a week, and nobody knows where he's been
  going. I've a hunch that he might have been meeting Wolff."
 "So why would he disappear?"
 Vandam shrugged. "Something went wrong."
 "What was in his briefcase today?"
  Vandant wondered how much to tell her. "A rundown of our defenses which
  was so complete that we think it could alter the result of the next
  battle." Smith had also been in possession of Vandam's proposed deception
  plan, but Vandam did not tell Elene this: he trusted her all the way, but
  he also had security instincts. He finished: "So, we'd better catch Wolff
  tonight."
 "But it might be too late already!"
  "No. We found the decrypt of one of Wolfrs signals, a while back. It was
  timed at midnight. Spies have a set time for reporting, generally the
  same time every day. At other times their masters won't be listening-at
  least, not on the right wavelength--so even if they do signal nobody
  picks it up. Tberefore, I think Wolff will send this information tonight
  at midnight-unless I catch him first." He hesitated, then changed his
  mind about security and decided she ought to know the full importance of
  what she was doing. "T'here's something else. He's using a code based on
  a novel called Rebecca. I've got a copy of the novel. If I can get the
  key to the code-"
 "What's that?"
  "Just a piece of paper telling him how to use the book to encode
  signals."
 "Go on."
  "If I can get the key to the Rebecca code, I can impersonate Wolff over
  the radio and send false information to Rommel. It could turn the tables
  completely-it could save Egypt. But I must have the key."
 "All right. What's tonight's plan?"
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     251

  "It's the same as before, only more so. I'll be in the restaurant with
  Jakes, and we'll both have pistols."
 Her eyes, widened. "You've got a gun?"
  "I haven't got it now. Jakes is bringing it to the restaurant. Anyway,
  there will be two other men in the restaurant, and six more outside on
  the pavement, trying to look inconspicuous. There will also be civilian
  cars ready to block all exits from the street at the sound of a whistle.
  No matter what Wolff does tonight, if he wants to see you he's going to
  be caught."
 There was a knock at the apartment door.
 Vandam said: "What's that?"
 "The door-"
 "Yes, I know, are you expecting someone? Or something?"
 "No, of course not, it's almost time for me to leave."
  Vandaw. frowned. Alarm bells were sounding. "I don't like this. Don't
  answer."
  "All right," Elene said. Then she changed her mind. "I have to answer.
  It might be my father. Or news of him."
 "Okay, answer it."
  Elene went out of the living room. Vandarn sat listening. The knock came
  again, then she opened the door.
 Vandarn heard her say: "Alex!"
 Vandam whispered: "Christ!"
  He heard Wolff's voice. "You're all ready. How delightful." It was a
  deep, confident voice, the drawled English spoken with only the faintest
  trace of an unidentifiable accent.
 Elene said: "Of course.. ."
 "I know. May I come in?"
  Vandary; leaped over the back of the sofa and lay on the floor behind it.
 "Elene said: "Of course
  Wolff's voice came closer. "My dear, you look exquisite tonight."
 Vandarn thought: Smooth bastard.
 The front door slammed shut.
 Wolff said: "This way?"
 "Urn ... Yes . . ."
  Vandarn heard the two of them enter the room. Wolff said: "What a lovely
  apartment. Mikis Aristopoulos, must pay you well."
 252       Ken Follett

  "Oh, I don't work there regularly. He's a distant relation, it's family,
  I help out."
 "Uncle. He must be your uncle."
  "Oh . . . great-uncle, second cousin, something. He calls me his niece
  for simplicity."
 "Well. These are for you."
 "Oh, flowers. Thank you."
 Vandam. thought: Fuck that.
 Wolff said: "May I sit down?"
 "Of course."
  Vandam felt the sofa shift as Wolff lowered his weight onto it. Wolff was
  a big man. Vandarn remembered grappling with him in the alley. He also
  remembered the knife, and his hand went to the wound on his cheek. He
  thought: What can I do?
  He could jump Wolff now. The spy was here, practically in his hands! They
  were about the same weight, and evenly matched-except for the knife.
  Wolff had had the knife that night when he had been dining with Sonja,
  so presumably he took it everywhere with him, and had it now.
  If they fought, and Wolff had the advantage of the knife, Wolff would
  win. It had happened before, in the alley. Vandam touched his cheek
  again.
 He thought: Why didn't I bring the gun here?
  If they fought, and Wolff won, what would happen then? Seeing Vandarn in
  Elene's apartment, Wolff would know she had been trying to trap him. What
  would he do to her? In Istanbul, in a similar situation, he had slit the
  girl's throat.
 Vandam blinked to shut out the awful image.
  Wolff said: "I see you were having a drink before I arrived. May I join
  you?"
 "Of course," Elene said again. "What would you like?"
  "What's that?" Wolff sniffed. "Oh, a little gin would be very nice."
  Vandam. thought: That was my drink. Thank God Elene didn't have a drink
  as well-two glasses would have given the game away. He heard ice clink.
 "Cheers!" Wolff said.
 "Cheers."
 "You don't seem to like it"
 "The ice has melted."
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     253

  Vandarn knew why she had made a face when she sipped his drink: it had been
  straight gin. She was coping so well with the situation, he thought. What
  did she think he, Vandam, was planning to do? She must have guessed by now
  where he was hiding. She would be trying desperately not to look in this
  direction. Poor Elenel Once again she had got more than she bargained for.
  Vandam hoped she would be passive, take the line of least resistance and
  trust him.
  Did Wolff still plan to go to the Oasis Restaurant? Perhaps he did. If only
  I could be sure of that, Vandarn thought, I could leave it all to Jakes.
  Wolff said: "You seem nervous, Elene. Did I confuse your plans by coming
  here? If you want to go and finish getting ready, or something-not that you
  look a whit less than perfect right now-just leave me here with the gin
  bottle."
 "No, no ... Well, we did say we'd meet at the restaurant..
  "And here I am, altering everything at the last minute again. To be
  truthful, I'm bored with restaurants, and yet they are, so to speak, the
  conventional meeting place; so I arrange to have dinner with people, then
  when the time comes I can't face it, and I think of something else to do."
 So they're not going to the Oasis, Vandam. thought. Damn.
 Elene said: "What do you want to do?"
 "May I surprise you again?"
 Vandam thought: Make him tell youl
 Elene said: "All right."
  Vandam. groaned inwardly. If Wolff would reveal where they were going,
  Vandarn could contact Jakes and have the whole ambush moved to the new
  venue. Elene was not thinking the right way. It was understandable: she
  sounded terrified.
 Wolff said: "Shall we go?"
 'All right."
  The sofa creaked as Wolff got up. Vandarn thought: I could go for him nowl
 Too risky.
  He heard them leave the room. He stayed where he was for a moment. He heard
  Wolff, in the hallway, say: "After you." Then the front door was slammed
  shut.
 Vandarn stood up. He would have to follow them, and
 254       Ken Follett

 take the first available opportunity of calling GHQ and contacting Jakes.
 Elene did not have a telephone, not many people did in Cairo. Even if she
 had there was no time now. lie went to the front door and listened. He
 heard nothing. He opened it a fraction: they had gone. He went out, closed
 the door and hurried along the corridor and down the stairs.
  As be stepped out of the building he saw them on the other side of the
  road, Wolff was holding open a car door for Elene to get in. It was not
  a taxi: Wolff must have rented, borrowed or stolen a car for the evening.
  Wolff closed the door on Elene and walked around to the driver's side.
  Elene looked out of the window and caught Vandam's eye. She stared at
  him. He looked away from her, afraid to make any kind of gesture in case
  Wolff should see it.
  Vandarn walked to his motorcycle, climbed on and started the engine.
 Wolff's car pulled away, and Vandam followed.
  The city traffic was still heavy. Vandam. was able to keep five or six
  cars between himself and Wolff without risking losing Wolff. It was dusk,
  but few cars had their lights on.
  Vandam wondered where Wolff was going. They were sure to stop somewhere,
  unless the man intended to drive around all night. If only they would
  stop someplace where there was a telephone ...
  They headed out of the city, toward Giza. Darkness fell and Wolff
  illuminated the lights of the car. Vandam left his motorcycle lights off,
  so that Wolff would not be able to see that he was being followed.
  It was a nightmare ride. Even in daylight, in the city, riding a
  motorcycle was a little hair-raising: the roads were strewn with bumps,
  potholes and treacherous patches of oil, and Vandarn found he had to
  watch the surface as much as the traffic. The desert road was worse, and
  yet he now had to drive without lights and keep an eye on the car ahead.
  Three or four times he almost came off the bike.
  He was cold. Not anticipating this ride, he had worn only a short-sleeved
  uniform shirt, and at speed the wind cut through it. How far was Wolff
  planning to go?
 The pyramids loomed ahead.
 Vandarn thought: No phone there.
 WolTs car slowed down. They were going to picnic by the
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     255

 pyramids. Vandam cut the motorcycle engine and coasted to a halt. Before
 Wolff had a chance to get out of the car, Vandam wheeled his bike off the
 road on to the sand. The desert was not level, except when seen from a
 distance, and he found a rocky hump behind which to lay down the motorcy-
 cle. He lay in the sand beside the hump and watched the car.
 Nothing happened.
  The car stayed still, its engine off, its interior dark. What where they
  doing in there? Vandain was seized by jealousy. He told himself not to
  be stupid-they were eating, that was all. Elene had told him about the
  last picnic: the smoked salmon, the cold chicken, the champagne. You
  could not kiss a girl with a mouthful of fish. Still, their fingers would
  touch as he handed her the wine . .
 Shut up.
  He decided to risk a cigarette. He moved behind the hump to light it,
  then cupped it in his hand, army fashion, to hide the glow as he returned
  to his vantage point.
 Five cigarettes later the car doors opened.
  The cloud had cleared and the moon was out. ne whole landscape was dark
  blue and silver, the complex shadow work of the pyramids rising out of
  shining sand. Two dark figures got out of the car and walked toward the
  nearest of the ancient tombs. Vandam, could see that Elene walked with
  her arms folded across her chest, as if she were cold, or perhaps because
  she did not want to hold Wolff's hand. Wolff put an arm lightly across
  her shoulders, and she made no move to resist him.
  They stopped at the base of the monument and talked. Wolff pointed
  upward, and Elene seemed to shake her head: Vandam. guessed she did not
  want to climb. They walked around the base and disappeared behind the
  pyramid.
  Vandain waited for them to emerge on the other side. They seemed to take
  a very long time. What were they doing behind there? The urge to go and
  see was almost irresistible.
  He could get to the car now. He toyed with the idea of sabotaging it,
  rushing back to the city, and returning with his team. But Wolff would
  not be here when Vandain got back; it would be impossible to search the
  desert at night; by the morning Wolff might be miles away.
 256       Ken Follett

  It was almost unbearable to watch and wait and do nothing, but Vandarn
  knew it was the best course.
  At last Wolff and Elene came back into view. He still bad his arm around
  her. They returned to the car, and stood beside the door. Wolff put his
  hands on Elene's shoulders, said something, and leaned forward to kiss
  her.
 Van&.m stood up.
  Elene gave Wolff her cheek, then turned away, slipping out of his grasp,
  and got into the car.
 Vandarn lay down on the sand again.
  The desert silence was broken by the roar of Wolff's car. Vandam watched
  it turn in a wide circle and take the road. The headlights came on, and
  Vandam ducked his head involuntarily, although he was well concealed. The
  car passed him, heading toward Cairo.
  Vandam jumped up, wheeled his cycle on to the road and kicked the
  starter. The engine would not turn over. Vandam Cursed: he was terrified
  he might have gotten sand in the carburetor. He tried again, and this
  time it fired. He got on and followed the car.
  The moonJigbt made it easier for him to spot the holes and bumps in the
  road surface, but it also made him more visible. He stayed well behind
  Wolffs car, knowing there was nowhere to go but Cairo. He wondered what
  Wolff planned next. Would he take Elene home? If so, where would he go
  afterward? He might lead Vandam to his base.
 Vandam thought: I wish I had that gun.
  Would Wolf take Elene to his home? The man had to be staying somewhere,
  had to have a bed in a room in a building in the city. Vandam was sure
  Wolff was planning to seduce Elene. Wolff had been rather patient and
  gentlemanly with her, but Vandam knew that. in reality he was a man who
  liked to get his way quickly. Seduction might be the least of the dangers
  Elene faced. Vandam. thought: What wouldn't I give for a phonel
  They reached the outskirts of the city, and Vandam was obliged to pull
  up closer to the car, but fortunately there was plenty of traffic about.
  He contemplated stopping and giving a message to a policeman, or an
  officer, but Wolff was driving fast, and anyway, what would the message
  say? Vandam still did not know where Wolff was going.
         THE ]KEY TO REBECCA    257

  He began to suspect the answer when they crossed the bridge to Zamalek.
  This was where the dancer, Sonia, had her houseboat. It was surely not
  possible that Wolff was living there, Vandarn thought, for the place had
  been under surveillance for days. But perhaps he was reluctant to take
  Elene to his real home, and so was borrowing the houseboat.
  Wolff parked in a street and got out. Vandam stood his motorcycle against
  a wall and hurriedly chained the wheel to prevent theft-he might need the
  bike again tonight.
  He followed Wolff and Elene from the street to the towpath. From behind a
  bush he watched as they walked a short distance along the path. He wondered
  what Elene was thinking. Had she expected to be rescued before this? Would
  she trust that Vandam was still watching her? Would she now lose hope?
  They stopped beside one of the boats-Vandam noted carefully which one-and
  Wolff helped Elene on to the gangplank. Vandam thought: Has it not occurred
  to Wolff that the houseboat might be under surveillance? Obviously not.
  Wolff followed Elene on to the deck, then opened a hatch. The two of them
  disappeared below.
  Vandam thought: What now? This was surely his best chance to fetch help.
  Wolff must be intending to spend some time on the boat. But supposing that
  did not happen? Suppose, while Vandam was dashing to a phone, something
  went wrong-Elene insisted on being taken home, Wolff changed his plans, or
  they decided to go to a nightclub?
 I could still lose the bastard, Vandam thought.
 There must be a policeman around here somewhere.
  "Hey!" he said in a stage whisper. "Is anybody there? Police? This is Major
  Vandam. Hey, where are--2'
  A dark figure materialized from behind a tree. An Arab voice said: "Yes?"
  "Hello. I'm Major Vandam. Are you the police officer watching the
  houseboat?"
 "Yes, sir."
  "Okay, listen. The man we're chasing is on the boat now. Do you have a
  gun?"
 "No, sir."
  "Damn." Vandarn considered whether he and the Arab could raid the boat on
  their own, and decided they could not:
 258       Ken Follett

 the Arab could not be trusted to fight enthusiastically, and in that
 confined space Wolff's knife could wreak havoc. "Right, I want you to go
 to the nearest telephone, ring GHQ, and get a message through to Captain
 Jakes or Colonel Bogge, absolutely top priority: they are to come here in
 force and raid the houseboat immediately. Is that clear?"
  "Captain Jakes or Colonel Bogge, GHQ, they are to raid the houseboat
  immediately. Yes, sir."
 "All right. Be quick!"
 The Arab left at a trot.
  Vandam found a position in which he was concealed from view but could
  still watch the houseboat and the towpath. A few minutes later the figure
  of a woman came along the path. Vandam thought she looked familiar. She
  boarded the houseboat, and Vandam realized she was Sonja.
  He was relieved: at least Wolff could not molest Elene while there was
  another woman on the boat.
 He settled down to wait.
               22

 The Arab was worried. "Go to the nearest telephone," the Englishman had
 said. Well, there were telephones in some of the nearby houses. But houses
 with phones were occupied by, Europeans, who would not take kindly to an
 Egyptian-even a police officer-banging on their doors at eleven o'clock at
 night and demanding to use the phone. They would almost certainly refuse,
 with oaths and curses: it would be a humiliating experience. He was not in
 uniform, not even wearing his usual plainclothes outfit of white shirt and
 black trousers, but was dressed like a fellah. They would not even believe
 he was a policeman.
  There were no public phones on Zamalek that he knew of. That left him only
  one option: to phone from the station house. He headed that way, still
  trotting.
  He was also worried about calling GHQ. It was an unwritten rule for
  Egyptain officials in Cairo that no one ever voluntarily contacted the
  British. It always meant trouble. The switchboard at GHQ would refuse to
  put through the call, or they would leave the message until morning-then
  deny they had ever received it--or they would tell him to call back later.
  And if anything went wrong there would be hell to pay. How, anyway, did he
  know that the man on the towpath had been genuine? He did not know Major
  Vandam from Adam, and anyone could put on the uniform shirt of a major.
  Suppose it was a hoax? There was a certain type of young English officer
  who just loved to play practical jokes on well-meaning Egyptians.
  He had a standard response to situations like this: pass the buck. Anyway,
  he had been instructed to report to his su-
               259
 260       Ken Follett

 perior officer and no one else on this case. He would go to the station
 house and from there, he decided, he would call Superintendent Kernel at
 home.
 Kemel would know what to do.

 Elene stepped off the ladder and looked nervously around the interior of
 the houseboat. She had expected the decor to be sparse and nautical. In
 fact it was luxurious, if a little overripe. 77here were thick rugs, low
 divans, a couple of elegant occasional tables, and rich velvet
 floor-to-ceiling curtains which divided this area from the other half of
 the boat, which was presumably the bedroom. Opposite the curtains, where
 the boat narrowed to what had been its stern, was a tiny kitchen with
 small but modern fittings.
 "Is this yours?" she asked Wolff.
 "It belongs to a friend," he said. "Do sit down."
  Elene felt trapped. Where the hell was William Vandam? Several times
  during the evening she had thought there was a motorcycle behind the car,
  but she had been unable to look carefully for fear of alerting Wolff.
  Every second, she had been expecting soldiers to surround the car, arrest
  Wolff and set her free; and as the seconds turned into hours she had be-
  gun to wonder if it was all a dream, if William Vandam existed at all.
  Now Wolff was going to the icebox, taking out a bottle of champagne,
  finding two glasses, unwrapping the silver foil from the top of the
  bottle, unwinding the wire fastening, pulling the cork with a loud pop
  and pouring the champagne into the glasses and where the hell was
  William?
  She was terrified of Wotff. She had had many liaisons with men, some of
  them casual, but she had always trusted the man, always known he would
  be kind, or if not kind, at least considerate. It was her body she was
  frightened for: if she let Wolff play with her body, what kind of games
  would be invent? Her skin was sensitive, she was soft inside, so easy to
  hurt, so vulnerable lying on her back with her legs apart . . . To be
  like that with someone who loved her, someone who would be as gentle with
  her body as she herself, would be a joy-but with Wolff, who wanted only
  to use her body . . . she shuddered.
 "Are you cold?" Wolff said as he handed her a glass.
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     261

 "No, I wasn't shivering..."
 He raised his glass. "Your health."
  Her mouth was dry. She sipped the cold wine, then took a gulp. It made her
  feel a little better.
  He sat beside her on the couch and twisted around to look at her. "What a
  super evening," he said. "I enjoy your company so much. You're an
  enchantress."
 Here it comes, she thought.
 He put his hand on her knee.
 She froze.
  "You're enigmatic," he said. "Desirable, rather aloof, very beautiful,
  sometimes naive and sometimes so knowing
 will you tell me something?"
 "I expect so." She did not look at him.
  With his finger-tip he traced the silhouette of her face: forehead, nose,
  lips, chin. He said: "Why do you go out with me?"
  What did he mean? Was is possible he suspected what she was really doing?
  Or was this just the next move in the game?
  She looked at him and said: "You're a very attractive man."
  "I'm glad you think so." He put his hand on her knee, again, and leaned
  forward to kiss her. She offered him her cheek, as she had done once before
  this evening. His lips brushed her skin, then he whispered: "Why are you
  frightened of me?"
  There was a noise up on deck-quick, light footsteps-and then the hatch
  opened.
 EIene thought: Williaml
  A high-heeled shoe and a woman's foot appeared. The woman came down,
  closing the hatch above her, and stepped off the ladder. Elene saw her face
  and recognized her as Sonja, the belly dancer.
 She thought: What on earth is going on?

 "All right, Sergeant," Kernel said into the telephone. "You did exactly the
 right thing in contacting me. I'll deal with everything myself. In fact, you
 may go off duty now."
 "Thank you, sir," said the sergeant. "Good night."
  "Good night." Kernel hung up. This was a catastrophe. The British had
  followed Alex Wolff to the houseboat, and
 262       Ken Follett

 Vandam was trying to organize a raid. The consequence4 would be two-fold.
 First, the prospect of the Free Officers using the German's radio would
 vanish, and then there would be no possibility of negotiations with the
 Reich before Rommel conquered Egypt. Second, once the British discovered
 that the houseboat was a nest of spies, they would quickly figure out that
 Kernel had been concealing the facts and protecting the agents. Kernel
 regretted that he had not pushed Sonja harder, forced her to arrange a
 meeting within hours instead of days; but it was too late for regrets.
 What was he going to do now?
  He went back into the bedroom and dressed quickly. From the bed his wife
  said softly: "What is it?"
 "Work," he whispered.
 "Oh, no." She turned over.
  He took his pistol from the locked drawer in the desk and put it in his
  jacket pocket, then he kissed his wife and left the house quietly. He got
  into his car and started the engine. He sat thinking. for a minute. He
  had to consult Sada! abou! this, but that would take time. In the
  meanwhile Vandam might grow impatieDi, waiting at the houseboat, and do
  sornk,titing precipitate. Vandam would have to be dealt with first,
  quickly; then he could go to Sadat's house.
  Kernel pulled away, heading for Zamalek. He wanted time to think, slowly
  and clearly, but time was what he lacked. Should he kill Vandam? He had
  never killed a man and did not know whether be would be capable of it.
  It was years since he had so much as hit anyone. And how would he cover
  up his involvement in all this? It might be days yet before the Germans
  reached Cairo-indeed it was possible, even at this stage, that they might
  be repulsed. Then there would be an investigation into what had happened
  on the towpath tonight, and sooner or later the blame would be laid at
  Kernel's door. He would probably be shot.
  "Courage," he said aloud, remembering the way Imam's stolen plane had
  burst into flames as it crash-landed in the desert.
  He parked near the towpath. From the trunk of the car he took a length
  of rope. He stuffed the rope into the pocket of his jacket, and carried
  the gun in his right hand.
 He held the gun reversed, for clubbing. How long since he
         TIRE KEY TO REBECCA    263

 had used it? Six years, he thought, not counting occasional target
 practice.
  He reached the riverbank. He looked at the silver Nile, the black shape,
  of the houseboats, the dim line of the towpath and the darkness of the
  bushes. Vandam would be in the bushes somewhere. Kemel stepped forward,
  walking softly.

 Vandam looked at his wristwatch in the glow of his cigarette. It was
 eleven-thirty. Clearly something had gone wrong. Either the A-rat-,
 policeman had given the wi,ong messa.ge. or GHQ had been unable to locate
 Jakes, or Bogge had somehow fouled evLrything up. Vandam could not take
 the chance of letting Wolff get on the radio with the information he had
 now. There was nothing for it but to go aboard the houseboat himself, and
 risk everything.
  He put out his cigarette, then he heard a footstep somewhere in the
  bushes. "Who is it?" he hissed. "Jakes?"
 A dark figure emerged and whispered: "It's me."
  Vandam could not recognize the whispered voice, nor could he see the
  face. "Who?"
  The figure stepped nearer and raised an arm. Vandam said: "Who-" then he
  realized that the arm was sweeping down in a blow. He jerked sideways,
  and something hit the side of his head and bounced on his shoulder.
  Vandarn shouted with pain, and his right arm went numb. The arm was
  lifted again. Vandam stepped forward, reaching clumsily for his assailant
  with his left hand. The figure stepped back and struck again, and this
  time the blow landed squarely on top of Vandam's head. There was a moment
  of intense pa" then Vandam lost consciousness.

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

 would find it impossible to move. Nor could he cry out. He would remain
 there until somebody stumbled on him. How soon was that likely to happen?
 Normally there might have been people in these bushes, young men with
 their sweethearts and soldiers with their girls, but tonight there had
 surely been enough comings and goings here to frighten them away. There
 was a chance that a latecoming couple would see Vandam, or perhaps bear
 him groaning ... Kernel would have to take that chance, there was no point
 standing around and worrying.
  He decided to take a quick look at the houseboat. He walked
  light-footedly along the towpath to the Rhan. There were lights on
  inside, but little curtains were drawn across the portholes. He was
  tempted to go aboard, but he wanted to consult with Sadat first, for he
  was not sure what should be done.
 He turned around and headed back toward his car.

 Sonja said: "Alex has told me all about you, Elene." She smiled.
  Elene smiled back. Was this the friend of Wolff's who owned the
  houseboat? Was Wolff living with her? Had he not expected her back so
  early? Why was neither of them angry, or puzzled, or embarrassed? Just
  for something to say, Elene asked her: "Have you just come from the
  Cha-Cha Club?"
 "Yes.,,
 "How was it?"
 "As always-exhausting, thrilling, successful."
 Sonja was not a humble woman, clearly.
  Wolff handed Sonja a glass of champagne. She took it without looking at
  him, and said to Elene: "So you work in Mikis'shop?"
  "No, I don't," Elene said, thinking: Are you really interested in this?
  "I helped him for a few days, that's all. We're related."
 "So you're Greek?"
  "That's right." The small talk was giving Elene confidence. Her fear
  receded. Whatever happened, Wolff was not likely to rape her at
  knifepoint in front of one of the most famous women in Egypt. Sonja gave
  her a breathing space, at least
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     265

 William was determined to capture Wolff before midnight-
 Midnightl
  She had almost forgotten. At midnight Wolff was to contact the enemy by
  wireless, and hand over the details of the defense line. But where was
  the radio? Was it here, on the boat? If it was somewhere else, Wolff
  would have to leave soon. If it was here, would he send his message in
  front of Elene and Sonja? What was in his mind?
  He sat down beside Elene. She felt vaguely threatened, with the two of
  them on either side of her. Wolff said: "What a lucky man I am, to be
  sitting here with the two most beautiful women in Cairo,"
 Elene looked straight ahead, not knowing what to say.
 WolfF said: "Isn't she beautiful, Sonja?"
  "Oh, yes." Sonja touched Elene's face, then took her chin and turned her
  head. "Do you think I'm beautiful. Elene?"
  "Of course." Elene frowned. This was getting weird. It was almost as
  if-
  "I'm so glad," Sonja said, and she put her hand on Elene's knee.
 And then Elene understood.
  Everything fell into place: Wolfrs patience, his phony courtliness, the
  houseboat, the unexpected appearance of Sonja . . . Elene realized she
  was not safe at all. Her fear of Wolff came back, stronger than before.
  The pair of them wanted to use her, and she would have no choice, she
  would have to lie there, mute and unresisting, while they did whatever
  they wanted, Wolff with the knife in one hand-
 Stop it.
  I won't be afraid. I can stand being mauled about by a pair of depraved
  old fools. There's more at stake here. Forget about your precious little
  body, think about the radio, and how to stop Wolff using it.
 This threesome might be turned to advantage.
  She looked furtively at her wristwatch. It was a quarter to midnight. Too
  late, now, to rely on William. She, Elene, was the only one who could
  stop Wolff.
 And she thought she knew how.
  A look passed between Sonja and Wolff like a signal. Each with a hand on
  one of Elene's thighs, they leaned across her and kissed each other in
  front of her eyes.
 266       Ken Follett

  She looked at them. It was a long, lascivious kiss. She thought: What do
  they expect me to do?
 They drew apart.
  Wolff kissed Elene the same way. Elene was unresistant. Then she felt
  Sonja's hand on her chin. Sonja turned Elene's face toward her and kissed
  her lips.
  Elene closed her eyes, thinking: It won't hurt me, it woWt hurt.
  It did not hurt, but it was strange, to be kissed so tenderly by a
  woman's mouth.
  Elene thought: Somehow I have to get control of this scene.
  Sonja pulled open her own blouse. She had big brown breasts. Wolff bent
  his head and took a nipple into his mouth. Elene felt Sonja pushing her
  head down. She realized she was supposed to follow Wolfrs example. She
  did so. Sonja moaned.
  All this was for Sonja's benefit: it was clearly her fantasy, her kink;
  she was the one who was panting and groaning now, not Wolff. Elene was
  afraid that any minute now Wolff' might break away and go to his radio.
  As she went mechanically through the motions of making love to Sonja, she
  cast about in her mind for ways to drive Wolff out of his mind with lust.
  But the whole scene was so silly, so farcical, that everything she
  thought of doing seemed merely comical.
 I've got to keep Wolff from that radio.
 What's the key to all this? What do they really want?
  She moved her face away from Sonja and kissed Wolff. He turned his mouth
  to hers. She found his hand, and pressed it between her thighs. He
  breathed deeply, and Elene thought: At least he's interested.
 Sonja tried to push them apart.
 Wolff looked at Sonja, then slapped her face, hard.
  Elene gasped with surprise. Was this the key? It must be a game they
  play, it must be.
  Wolff turned his attention back to Elene. Sonja tried to get between them
  again.
 This time Elene slapped her.
 Sonja moaned deep in her throat.
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     267

  El6ne thought: I've done it, I've guessed the game, I'm in control.
 She saw Wolff look at his wristwatch.
  Suddenly she stood up. They both stared at her. She lifted her arms then,
  slowly, she pulled her dress up over her head, threw it to one side, and
  stood there in her black underwear and stockings. She touched herself,
  lightly, running her hands between her thighs and across her breasts. She
  saw Wolff's face change: his look of composure vanished, and he gazed at
  her, wide-eyed with desire. He was tense, mesmerized. He licked his lips.
  Elene raised her left foot, planted a highheeled shoe between Sonja's
  breasts and pushed Sonja backward. Then she grasped Wolff's bead and drew
  it to her belly.
 Sonja started kissing Elene's foot.
  Wolff made a sound between a groan and a sigh, and buried his face
  between Elene's thighs.
 Elenc looked at her watch.
 It was midnight.
               23

 Elene lay on her back in the bed, naked. She was quite still, rigid, her
 muscles tense, staring straight up at the blank ceiling. On her right was
 Sonja, facedown, arms and legs spread all ways over the sheets, fast asleep,
 snoring. Sonja's right hand rested limply on Elene's hip. Wolff was on
 Elene's left. He lay on his side, facing her, sleepily stroking her body.
 Elene was thinking: Well, it didn't kill me.
  The game had been all about rejecting and accepting Sonja. The more Elene
  and Wolff rejected her and abused her, the more passionate she became,
  until in the d6nouement Wolff rejected Elene and made love to Sonja. It was
  a script that Wolff and Sonja obviously knew well: they had played it
  before.
  It had given Elene very little pleasure, but she was not sickened or
  humiliated or disgusted. What she felt was that she had been betrayed, and
  betrayed by herself. It was like pawning a jewel given by a lover, or
  having your long hair cut off to sell for money, or sending a small child
  to work in a mill. She had abused herself. Worst of all, what she had done
  was the logical culmination of the life she had been living: in the eight
  years since she had left home she had been on the slippery slope that ended
  in prostitution, and now she felt she had arrived there.
  The stroking stopped, and she glanced sideways at Wolff's face. His eyes
  were closed. He was falling asleep.
 She wondered what had happened to Vandam.
  Something had gone wrong. Perhaps Vandarn had lost sight of Wolff's car in
  Cairo. Maybe he had had an accident 268
         TIM KEY TO REBECCA     269

 in the traffic. Whatever the reason, Vandam was no longer watching over
 her. She was on her own.
  She had succeeded in making Wolff forget his midnight transmission to
  Rommel-but what now was to stop him sending the message another night?
  Elene would have to get to GHQ and tell Jakes where Wolff was to be
  found. She would have to slip away, right now, find Jakes, get him to
  pull his team out of bed . . .
  It would take too long. Wolff might wake, find she was gone, and vanish
  again.
  Was his radio here, on the houseboat, or somewhere else? 'nat might make
  all the difference.
  She remembered something Vandam had said last evening-was it really only
  a few hours ago? "If I can get the key to the Rebecca code, I can
  impcrsonate him over the radio ... it could turn the tables completely.
  . ."
 Elene thought: Perhaps I can find the key.
  He had said it was a sheet of paper explaining how to use the book to
  encode messages.
  Elene realized that she now had a chance to locate the radio and the key
  to the code.
 She had to search the houseboat.
  She did not move. She was frightened again. If Wolff should discover her
  searching . . . She remembered his theory of human nature: the world is
  divided into masters and slaves. A slave's life was worth nothing.
  No, she thought; I'll leave here in the morning, quite normally, and then
  I'll tell the British where Wolff is to be found, and they'll raid the
  houseboat, and-
  And what if Wolff had gone by then? What if the radio was not here?
 'nen it would all have been for nothing.
  Wolff's breathing was now slow and even: he was fast asleep. Elene
  reached down, gently picked up Sonja's limp hand, and moved it from her
  thigh on to the sheet. Sonja did not stir.
  Now neither of them was touching Elene. It was a great relief.
 Slowly, she sat upright.
  The shift of weight on the mattress disturbed both of the other two.
  Sonja grunted, lifted her head, turned it the other
 270       Ken Follett

 way, and fell to snoring again. WoIff rolled over on his back without
 opening his eyes.
  Moving slowly, wincing with every movement of the mattress, Elene turned
  around so that she was'on her hands and knees, facing the head of the
  bed. She began painfully to crawl backward: right knee, left hand, left
  knee, right hand. She watched the two sleeping faces. The foot of the bed
  seemed miles away. The silence rang in her ears like thunder. The
  houseboat itself rocked from side to side on the wash of a passing barge,
  and Elene backed off the bed quickly under cover of the disturbance. She
  stood there, rooted to the spot, watching the other two, until the boat
  stopped moving. They stayed asleep.
  Where should the search start? Elene decided to be methodical, and begin
  at the front and work backward. In the prow of the boat was the bathroom.
  Suddenly she realized she had to go there anyway. She tiptoed across the
  bedroom and went into the tiny bathroom.
  Sitting on the toilet, she looked around. Where might a radio be hidden?
  She did not really know how big it would be: the size of a suitcase? A
  briefcase? A handbag? Here there were a basin, a small tub and a cupboard
  on the wall. She stood up and opened the cupboard. It contained shaving
  gear, pills and a small roll of bandage.
 The radio was not in the bathroom.
  She did not have the courage to search the bedroom while they slept, not
  yet. She crossed it and passed through the curtains into the living room.
  She looked quickly all around. She felt the need to hurry, and forced
  herself to be calm and careful. She began on the starboard side. Here
  there was a divan couch. She tapped its base gently: it seemed hollow.
  The radio might be underneath. She tried to lift it, and could not
  Looking around its edge, she saw that it was screwed to the floor. The
  screws were tight. The radio would not be there. Next there was a tall
  cupboard. She opened it gently. It squeaked a little, and she froze. She
  heard a grunt from the bedroom. She waited for Wolff to come bounding
  through the curtains and catch her red-handed. Nothing happened.
  She looked in the cupboard. There was a broom, and some dusters, and
  cleaning materials, and a flashlight. No radio. She closed the door. It
  squeaked again.
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     271

  She moved into the kitchen area. She had to open six smaller cupboards.
  They contained crockery, tinned food, saucepans, glasses, supplies of
  coffee and rice and tea, and towels. Under the sink there was a bucket
  for kitchen waste. Elene looked in the icebox. It contained one bottle
  of champagne. There were several drawers. Would the radio be small enough
  to fit in a drawer? She opened one. The rattle of cutlery shredded her
  nerves. No radio. Another: a massive selection of bottled spices and
  flavorings, from vanilla essence to curry powder-somebody liked to cook.
  Another drawer: kitchen knives.
  Next to the kitchen was a small escritoire with a fold-down desk top.
  Beneath it was a small suitcase. Elene picked up the suitcase. It was
  heavy. She opened it. There was the radio.
 Her heart skipped.
  It was an ordinary, plain suitcase, with two catches, a leather handle
  and reinforced comers. The radio fitted inside exactly, as if it bad been
  designed that way. The recessed lid left a little room on top of the
  radio, and here there was a book. Its board covers had been torn off to
  make it fit into the space in the lid. Elene picked up the book and
  looked inside. She read: "Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again."
  It was Rebecca.
  She flicked the pages of the book. In the middle there was something
  between the pages. She let the book fall open and a sheet of paper
  dropped to the floor. She bent down and picked it up. It was a list of
  numbers and dates, with some words in German. This was surely the key to
  the code.
  She held in her hand what Vandarn needed to turn the tide of the war.
 Suddenly the responsibility weighed her down.
  Without this, she thought, Wolff cannot send messages to Rommel-or if he
  sends messages in plain language the Germans will suspect their
  authenticity and also worry that the Allies have overheard them . . .
  Without this, Wolff is useless. With this, Vandarn can win the war.
 She had to run away, now, taking the key with her.
 She remembered that she was stark naked.
  She broke out of her trance. Her dress was on the couch, crumpled and
  wrinkled. She crossed the boat, put down the
 272       Ken Follett

 book and the key to the code, picked up her dress and slipped it over her
 head.
 The bed creaked.
  From behind the curtains came the unmistakable sound of someone getting
  up, someone heavy, it had to be him. Elene stood still, paralyzed. She
  heard Wolff walk toward the curtains, then away again. She heard the
  bathroom door.
  There was no time to put her panties on. She picked up her bag, her
  shoes, and the book with the key inside. She heard Wolff come out of the
  bathroom. She went to the ladder and ran up it, wincing as her bare feet
  cut into the edges of the narrow wooden steps. Glancing down, she saw
  Wolff appear between the curtains and glance up at her in astonishment.
  His eyes went to the suitcase opened on the floor. Elene looked away from
  him to the hatch. It was secured on the inside with two bolts. She slid
  them both back. From the corner of her eye she saw Wolff dash to the
  ladder. She pushed up the hatch and scrambled out. As she stood upright
  on the deck she saw Wolff scrambling up the ladder. She bent swiftly and
  lifted the heavy wooden hatch. As Wolff's right hand grasped the rim of
  the opening, Elene slammed the batch down on his fingers with all her
  might. There was a roar of pain. Elene ran across the deck and down the
  gangplank.
  It was just that: a plank, leading from the deck to the riverbank. She
  stooped, picked up the end of the plank, and threw it into the river.
  Wolff came up through the hatch, his face a mask of pain and fury.
  Elene panicked as she saw him come across the deck at a run. She thought:
  be's naked, he can't chase me! He took a flying jump over the rail of the
  boat.
 He can't make it.
  He landed on the very edge of the riverbank, his arms windmilling for
  balance. With a sudden access of courage Elene ran at him and, while be
  was still off balance, pushed him backward into the water.
 She turned and ran along the towpath.
  When she reached the lower end of the pathway that led to the street, she
  stopped and looked back. Already her heart was pounding and she was
  breathing in long, shuddering
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     273

 gasps. She felt elated when she saw Wolff, dripping wet and naked,
 climbing out of the water up the muddy riverbank. It was getting light:
 he could not chase her far in that state. She spun around toward the
 street, broke into a run and crashed into someone.
  Strong arms caught her in a tight grip. She struggled desperately, got
  free and was seized again. She stumped in defeat: after all that, she
  thought; after all that.
  She was turned around, grasped by the arms and marched toward the
  houseboat. She saw Wolff walking toward her. She struggled again, and the
  man holding her got an arm around her throat. She opened her mouth to
  scream for help, but before she could make a sound the man had thrust his
  fingers down her throat, making her retch.
 Wolff came up and said: "Who are you?"
 "I'm Kemel. You must be Wolff."
 'Thank God you were there."
 "You're in trouble, Wolff," said the man called Kemel.
  "You'd better come aboard-oh, shit, she threw away the fucking plank."
  Wolff looked down at the river and saw the plank floating beside the
  houseboat. "I can't get any wetter," he said. He slid down the bank and
  into the water, grabbed the plank, shoved it up on to the bank and
  climbed up after it. He picked it up again and laid it across the gap
  between the houseboat and the bank.
 "This way," he said.
  Kemel marched Elene across the plank, over the deck and down the ladder.
 "Put her over there," Wolff said, pointing to the couch.
  Kemel pushed Elene over to the couch, not ungently, and made her sit
  down.
  Wolff went through the curtains and came back a moment later with a big
  towel. He proceeded to rub himself dry with it. He seemed quite
  unembarrassed by his nakedness.
  Elene was surprised to see that Kemel was quite a small man. From the way
  he had grabbed her, she had imagined he was Wolfrs build. He was a
  handsome, dark-skinned Arab. He was looking away from Wolff uneasily.
  Wolff wrapped the towel around his waist and sat down. He examined his
  hand. "She nearly broke my fingers," he
 274       Ken Follett

 said. He looked at Elene with a mixture of anger and amusement.
 Kemel said: "Where's Sonja?"
  "In bed," Wolff said, jerking his head toward the curtains. "She sleeps
  through earthquakes, especially after a night of lust."
  Kernel was uncomfortable with such talk, Elene observed, and perhaps also
  impatient with Wolff's levity. "You're in trouble," he said again.
  "I know," Wolff said. "I suppose she's working for Vandam."
  "I don't know about that. I got a call in the middle of the night from my
  man on the towpath. Vandam had come along and sent my man to fetch help."
  Wolff was shocked. "We came closel" he said. He looked worried. "Where's
  Vandam now?"
  "Out there still. I knocked him on the head and tied him up.,,
  Elene's heart sank. Vandam was out there in the bushes, hurt and
  incapacitated-and nobody else knew where she was. It bad all been for
  nothing, after all.
  Wolff nodded. "Vandarn followed her here. That's two people whc know about
  this place. If I stay here I'll have to kill them both."
  Elene shuddered: he talked of killing people so lightly. Masters and
  slaves, she remembered.
  "Not good enough," Kernel said. "If you kill Vandam the murder will
  eventually be blamed on me. You can go away, but I have to live in this
  town." He paused, watching Wolff with narrowed eyes. "And if you were to
  kill me, that would still leave the man who called me last night."
  "So . . ." Wolff frowned and made an angry noise. 'Ibere's no choice. I
  have to go. Damn."
  Kernel nodded. "If you disappear, I think I can cover up. But I want
  something from you. Remember the reason we've been helping you."
 "You want to talk to Rommel."
 "Yes."
  "I'll be sending a message tomorrow night-tonight, I mean, damn, I've
  hardly slept. Tell me what you want to say, and I'll-"
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     275

  "Not good enough," Kemel interrupted. "We want to do it ourselves. We
  want your radio."
  Wolff frowned. Elene realized that Kemel was a nationalist rebel,
  cooperating or trying to cooperate with the Germans.
 Kernel added: "We could send your message for you. . ."
  "Not necessary," Wolff said. He seemed to have reached a decision. "I
  have another radio."
 "It's agreed, then."
  "There's the radio." Wolff pointed to the open case, still on the floor
  where Elene had left it. "It's already tuned to the correct wavelength.
  All you have to do is broadcast at midnight, any night."
  Kemel went over to the radio and examined it. Elene wondered why Wolff
  had said nothing about the Rebecca code. Wolff did not care whether
  Kernel got through to Rommel or not, shp decided; and to give him the
  code would be to risk that he might give it to someone else. Wolff was
  playing safe again.
 Wolff said: "Where does Vandain liver,
 Kernel told him the address.
 Elene thought: Now what is he after?
 Wolff said: "He's married, I suppose."
 "No.
 "A bachelor. Damn."
  "Not a bachelor," Kemel said, still looking at the wireless transmitter.
  "A widower. I-Es wife was killed in Crete last year.,,
 "Any children?"
  "Yes," Kemel said. "A small boy called Billy, so I'm told. Why?"
  Wolff shrugged. "I'm interested, a little obsessed, with the man who~s
  come so close to catching me."
 Elene was sure he was lying.
  Kernel closed the suitcase, apparently satisfied. Wolff said to him:
  "Keep an eye on her for a minute, would you?"
 "Of course."
  Wolff turned away, then turned back. He had noticed that Elene still had
  Rebecca in her hand. He reached down and took it from her. He disappeared
  through the curtains.
 Elene thought: If I tell Kemel about the code, then maybe
 276       Ken Follett

 Kernel will make Wolff give it to him, and maybe then Vandam will get it
 from Wolff-but what will happen to me?
  Kernel said to her: 'Tlbat-" He stopped abruptly as Wolff came back,
  carrying his clothes, and began to dress.
 Kernel said to him: "Do you have a call sign?"
 "Sphinx," Wolff said shortly.
 "A code?"
 "No code."
 "What was in that book?"
  Wolff looked angry. "A code," he said. "But you can't have it."
 "We need it."
  "I can't give it to you," Wolff said. "You'll have to take your chance,
  and broadcast in clear."
 Kernel nodded.
  Suddenly Wolff's knife was in his hand. "Don't argue," he said. "I know
  you've got a gun in your pocket. Remember, if you shoot, you'll have to
  explain the bullet to the British. You'd better go now."
  Kemel turned, without speaking, and went up the ladder and through the
  hatch. Elene heard his footsteps above. Wolff went to the porthole and
  watched him walk away along the towpath.
  Wolff put his knife away and buttoned his shirt over the sheath. He put
  on his shoes and laced them tightly. He got the book from the next room,
  extracted from it the sheet of paper bearing the key to the code,
  crumpled the paper, dropped it into a large glass ashtray, took a box of
  matches from a kitchen drawer and set fire to the paper.
  He must have another key with the other radio, Elene thought.
  Wolff watched the flames to make sure the paper was entirely burned, He
  looked at the book, as if contemplating burning that too, then he opened
  a porthole and dropped it into the river.
  He took a small suitcase~ from a cupboard and began to pack a few things
  into it.
 "Where are you going?" Elene said.
 "You'll find out-you're coming."
  "Oh, no." What would he do with her? He had caught her deceiving him-had
  be dreamed up some appropriate punish-
           TBE KEY TO REBECCA     277

 ment? She felt very weary and afraid. Nothing she had done had turned out
 well. At one time she had been afraid merely that she would have to have sex
 with him. How much more there was to fear now. She thought of trying again
 to run away-she had almost made it last time-but she no longer had the
 spirit.
  Wolff continued packing his case. Elene saw some of her own clothes on the
  floor, and remembered that she had not dressed properly. There were her
  panties, her stockings and her brassiere. She decided to put them on. She
  stood up and pulled her dress over her head. She bent down to pick up her
  underwear. As she stood up Wolff embraced her. He pressed a rough kiss
  against her lips, not seeming to care that she was completely unresponsive.
  He reached between her legs and thrust a finger inside her. He withdrew his
  finger from her vagina and shoved it into her anus. She tensed. He pushed
  his finger in farther, and she gasped with pain.
  He looked into her eyes. "Do you know, I think I'd take you with me even if
  I didn't have a use for you."
  She closed her eyes, humiliated. He turned from her abruptly and returned
  to his packing.
 She put on her clothes.
  When he was ready, he took a last look around and said: "Let's go."
  Elene followed him up on to the deck, wondering what he planned to do about
  Sonja.
  As if he knew what she was thinking, he said: "I hate to disturb Sonja's
  beauty sleep." He grinned. "Get moving."
  They walked along the towpath. Why was he leaving Sonja behind? Elene
  wondered. She could not figure it out, but she knew it was callous. Wolff
  was a completely unscrupulous man, she decided; and the thought made her
  shudder, for she was in his power,
 She wondered whether she could kill him.
  He carried his case in his left hand and gripped her arm with his right.
  They turned on to the footpath, walked to the street, and went to his car.
  He unlocked the door on the driver's side and made her climb in over the
  gear stick to the passenger side. He got in beside her and started the car.
  It was a miracle the car was still in one piece after being left on the
  road all night: normally anything detachable
 278       Ken Follett

 would have been stolen, including wheels. He gets all the luck there is,
 Elene thought.
  They drove away. Elene wondered where they were going. Wherever it was,
  Wolff's second radio was there, along with another copy of Rebecca and
  another key to the code. When we get there, I'll have to try again, she
  thought wearily. It was all up to her now. Wolff had left the houseboat, so
  there was nothing Vandam could do even after somebody untied him. Elene, on
  her own, had to try to stop Wolff from contacting Rommel, and if possible
  steal the key to the code. The idea was ridiculous, shooting for the moon.
  All she really wanted was to get away from this evil, dangerous man, to go
  home, to forget about spies and codes and war, -to feel safe again.
  She thought of her father, walking to Jerusalem, and she knew she bad to
  try.
  Wolff stopped the car. Elene realized where they were. She said: "'This is
  Vandam's house!"
 "Yes.
  She gazed at Wolff, trying to read the expression on his face. She said:
  "But Vandam isn't there."
 "No." Wolff smiled bleakly. "But Billy is."
               24

 Anwar el-Sadat was delighted with the radio.
  "It's a Hallicrafter/ Skyh all ~ nger ~" he told Kernel. "American." He
  plugged it in to test it, and pronounced it very powerful.
  Kernel explained that he had to broadcast at midnight on the prese
  wavelength, and that the call sign was Sphinx. He said that Wolff had
  refusee to give him the code, and that they woulicl bavc to take the risk
  of broadcasting in clear.
  They hid the radio in the oven in the kitchen of the little house.
  Kernel left Sadat's home and drove from Kubri al-Qubbah back to Zarnalek On
  the way he considered how he was to cover up his role in the events of the
  night.
  His story would have to tally with that of the sergeant whorr. Vandam. had
  sent for help, so he would have to admit that fic had received thv. phont.
  call Perhaps he would say that, before alerting the British he ha(,. gone
  to the houseboat himself to investigate, in case "Majoi Vandam" was an im-
  postor. What thein? He had searched the towpath and the bushep for Vandam.,
  and then be, too, had been knocked on the head. The snag was that he would
  not have stayed unconscious all thesr hours. So he would have to say that
  he bad been tied up. Yes, he would sty he had been tied up and had just
  managed to free himself Then he and Vandarn would board the houseboat-and
  find it empty.
 It would serve.
  He parked his car and went cautiously down to the towpath. Looking into the
  shrubbery, he figured out roughly where he had left Vandam. He went into
  the bushes thirty or
               279
 280       Ken Follett

 forty yards away from that spot. He lay down on the ground and rolled
 over. to make his clothes dirty, ~hen he -abbed some of the sandy soil on
 his face and ran his fingers through his hair. lben, rubbing his wrists
 to make them look sore, he went,n search of Vandam.
  He found 4im exactly where he had left him. T'he bonds were still tight
  and the gag still in place. Vandam looked at Kernel with wide, staring
  eyes.
 Kernel said: "My GrA they got you, tool"
  He Sent down, removed the gag, and began to untie Vandam. "The ~.crgeant
  contacted me," he explained. "I came down here looking for you. 1~md the
  next thing I knew, I woke ap bound &nd gagged with a headache. That was
  hours ago. I just got free."
 Vandam said nothing.
  Kernel threw the rope aside. Vandam stood up stiffly. Kemel said: "How
  do you feel?"
 "I'm all right."
  "Let'-3 board the houseboat and see what we can find," Kemel said. He
  turned around.

 As soon as Kernel tamed his back, Vandam stepped forward and bit him as
 bard as he possibly --ould with an -Ig-of-thehand blow to the hack of the
 neck. It might have killed KeMel, but Vandam did not care. Vandam had been
 bound and gagged, uid he had been unable to see the towpath. but he had
 1-nen able to hear: "I'm Kemel. You must be Wolff." That was how he knew
 that Kernel had betrayed him. Kemel had not thought of that pomsibility,
 obviously. Since overhearing those words, Vandam Itad been seething, and
 all his pent-up anger had gone into the Slow.
  Kernel lay on the ground, stunned. Vandam rolled him over, nearched him
  and found the gun. He used the rope that had hound his own hands to tie
  KemePs hands behind his back. Then he slapped Kemel's face until he came
  aroand.
 "Get up," Vandam said.
  Kemel looked blank, then fear came into his eyes. "What are you doing?"
                               ft
 Vandam kicked him. "Kicking you," be said. "Get UP. Kernel struggled to
 his feet. "Turn around."
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     281

  Kernel turned around. Vandam took hold of Kernel's collar with his left
  hand, keeping the gun in his right.
 "Move."
  They walked to the houseboat. Vandam pushed Kernel ahead, ur. the
  gangplank and across the deck.
 "Oper the hatch."
  Keme-, put the toe of his shoe into the handle of the hatch and liftec;.
  it open.
 "Go down."
  Awkwardly, with his bands tied, Kernel descended the ladder. Vandam bent
  down to look inside. There was nobody there. He went quickly dowD the
  ladder. Pushing Kernel to one side, he pulled back the curtain, covering
  the space bebind with the gun.
 He sav,,, Sonja in bed, sleeping.
 "Get in there," he told Kemel.
 Kernel went through and stood beside the head of the bed.
 "Wakt% her."
  Kernel touched Sonja with his foot. She turned over, rolling away from
  him, without opening her eyes. Vandam realized vaguely that she was
  naked. He reached over and tweaked her nose. She opened her eyes and sat
  up immediately, looking, cross. She recognized Kernel, then she saw
  Vandarr with the gun.
 She said: "What's going on?"
  Then she and Vandam said simultaneously: "Wheres WolffT'
  VandaM was quite sure she was not dissembling. It was clear now that
  Kemel had warned. Wolff, and Wolff had fled without wakinc Sonj,~
  Presumably he had taken Elene with him-although Vandarn could not
  imagint; why.
  Vandaw put the gun to Sonja's chest, just below her left breast. He spoke
  to Kernel. "I'm going to ask you a question. If you give the wrong
  answer, she dies. Understand?"
 Kemel nodded tensely.
  Vandam said: "Did Wolff send a radio message at midnight last night?"
 "Nol" Sonja screamed. "No, he didn't, he didn't!"
  "What did happen here?" Vandam asked, dreading the answer.
 "We went to bed."
 282       Ken Follett

 "Who did?"
 "Wolff, Elene and me."
 "Together?"
 "Yes.
  So that was it. And Vandam had thought she was safe, because there was
  another -woman aroundl That cxplained WolJrs continuing interest in Elene:
  they had wanted her for their threesome. Vandam was sick with disgust, not
  N~cause of what they had done, but because he had caused Elene to be forced
  to be part of it.
  He put the thought out of his mind. Was Sonja telling the truth-had Wolff
  failed to radio Rommel last night? Vandam could not think of a way to
  check. He could only hope it was true.
 "Get dressed," he told Sonja.
  She got off the bed and hurriedly put on a dress. Keeping both of them
  covered with the gun, Vandarn went to the prow of the boat and looked
  through the little doorway. He saw a tiny bathroom with two small
  portholes.
 "Get in there, both of you."
  Kemel and Sonja went into the bathroom. Vandam closed the door on them and
  began to search the houseboat. He opened all the cupboards and drawers,
  throwing their contents on the floor. He stripped the bed. With a sharp
  knife from the kitchen he slashed the mattress and the apholstery of the
  couch. He went through all the papers in the --~scritoire. He found a large
  glass ashtray full of charred paper and poked through it, but all of the
  paper was completely hurned up. He emptied the icebox. He went up on deck
  and cleaned out the lockers. He checked all arGund the outside of the bull,
  looking for a ropedangling into the water.
  After half an hour he was sure that the houseboat contained no radio, no
  copy of Rebecca and no code key.
  He got the two prisoners out of the bathroom. in one of the deck lockers he
  had found a length of rope. He tied Sonja's hands, then roped Sonja and
  Kernel together.
  He marched them off the boat, along the towpath and up to the street. They
  walked to the bridge, where he hailed a taxi. He put Sonja and Kernel in
  the back then, keeping the gun pointed at them, he got in the front beside
  the wide-eyed, frightened Arab driver.
         THE KEY TO REBECCA      283

 "GHQ," be told the driver.
  The two prisoners would have to be interrogated, but really there were
  only two questions to be asked:
 Where was Wolff?
 And where was Elene?

 Sitting in the car, Wolff took hold of Elene's wrist. She tried to pull
 away but his grip was too strong. He drew out his knife and ran its blade
 lightly across the back of her hand. The knife was very sharp. Elene
 stared at her hand in horror. At first there was just a line like a pencil
 mark. Then blood welled up in the cut, and there was a sharp pain. She
 gasped.
  Wolff said: "You're to stay very close to me and say nothing.,.
  Suddenly Elene hated him. She looked into his eyes. "Otherwise you'll cut
  me?" she said with all the scorn she could muster.
 "No," he said. "Otherwise I'll cut Billy."
  He released her wTist and got out of the car. Elene sat still, feeling
  helpless. What could she do against this strong, ruthles., man? She took
  a little handkerchief from her bag and wrapped it around her bleeding
  hand.
  Impatiently, Wolff came around to her side of the car and pulled open
  the. door. He took hold of her upper arm and made her get out of the car.
  Then, still holding her, he crossed the road to Vandam's house.
  They walked up the short drive and rang the bell. Elene remembered the
  last time she had stood in this portico waiting for the door to open. It
  seemed years ago, but it was only days. Since then she had learned that
  Vandam had been married, and that his wife had died; and she had made
  love to Vandam; and he had failed to send her flowers-how could she have
  made such a fuss about that?-and they had found Wolff; and-
  The door opened. Elene recognized Gaafar. The servant remembered her,
  too, and said: "Good morning, Miss Fontana."
 "Hello, Gaafar."
  Wolff said: "Good morning, Gaafar. I'm Captain Alexander. The major asked
  me to come round. Let us in, would Your'
 284       Ken Follett

  "Of course, sir." Gaafar stood aside. Wolff, still gripping Elene's arm,
  stepped into the house. Gaafar closed the door. Elene remembered this tiled
  hall. Gaafar said: "I hope the major is all right . . ."
  "Yes, he's fine," Wolff said. "But he can't get home this morning, so he
  asked me to come round, tell you that he's well, and drive Billy to
  school."
  Elene was aghast. It was awful-Wolff was going to kidnap Billy. She should
  have guessed that as soon as Wolff mentioned the boy's name-but it was
  unthinkable, she must not let it happen! What could she do? She wanted to
  shout No, Gaafar, he's lying, take Billy and get away, run, run! But Wolff
  had the knife, and Gaafar was old, and Wolff would get Billy anyway.
  Gaafar seemed to hesitate. Wolff said: "All right, Gaafar, snap it up. We
  haven't got all day."
  "Yes, sir," Gaafar said, reacting with the reflex of an Egyptian servant
  addressed in an authoritative manner by a European. "Billy is just
  finishing his breakfast. Would you wait in here for a moment?" He opened
  the drawing-room door.
  Wolff propelled Elene into the room and at last let go of her arm. Elene
  looked at the upholstery, the wallpaper, the marble fireplace and the
  Tatler photographs of Angela Vandam: these things had the eerie look of
  familiar objects seen in a nightmare. Angela would have known what to do,
  EIene thought miserably. "Don't be ridiculousl" she would have said; then,
  raising an imperious arm, she would have told Wolff to get out of her
  house. Elene shook her head to dispel the fantasy: Angela would have been
  as helpless as she.
  Wolff sat down at the desk. He opened a drawer, took out a pad and a
  pencil, and began to write.
  Elene wondered what Gaafar might do. Was it possible he might call GHQ to
  check with Billy's father? Egyptians were very reluctant to make phone
  calls to GHQ, Elene knew: Gaafar would have trouble getting past the
  switchboard operators and secretaries. She looked around, and saw that any-
  way the phone was here in this room, so that if Gaafar tried, Wolff would
  know and stop him.
  "Why did you bring me here?" she cried. Frustration and fear made her voice
  shrill.
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     28S

  Wolff looked up from his writing. "To keep the boy quiet. We've got a
  long way to go."
 'Leave Billv here," she pleaded. "He's a child."
 Tandam's child," Wolff said with a smile.
 :,You don't need him."
  Tandam. may be able to guess where I'm going," Wolff said. "I want to
  make sure he doesn't come after me."
  "Do you really think he'll sit at. home while you have his son?"
  Wolff appeared to consider the point. "I hope so," he said finally.
  "Anyway, what have I got to lose? If I don't take the boy he'll
  definitely come after me."
 Elene fought back tears. "Haven't you got any pity?"
  "Pity is a decadent emotion," Wolff said with a gleam in his eye.
  "Scepticism regarding morality is what is decisive. The end of the moral
  interpretation of the world, which no longer has any sanction . . ." He
  seemed to be quoting.
  Elene said: "I don't think you're doing this to make Vandam stay home.
  I think you're doing it out of spite, You're thinking about the ang
            ,uish you'll cause him, and you love it. You're a crude,
            twisted. loathsome man."
 "Perhaps you're right."
 "You're. sick."
  "T'hat's enough!" Wolff reddened slightly. He appeared to calm him-elf
  with an effort, "Shut up while I'm writing."
  Elene forced herself to concentrate. They were going on a long journey.
  He was afraid Vandam would follow them. He had told Kemel he had another
  wireless set. Vandarn might be able to guess where they were going. At
  the end of the journey, surely, there was the spare radio, with a copy
  of Rebecca and a copy of the key to the code. Somehow she had to help
  Vandam follow them, so that he could rescue them and capture the key. If
  Vandam could guess the destination, Elene thought, then so could 1. Where
  would Wolff have kept a spare radio? It was a long journey away. He might
  have hidden one somewhere before he reached Cairo. It might be somewhere
  in the desert, or somewhere between here and Assyut. Maybe-
  Billy came in. "Hello," he said to Elene. "Did you bring me that book?"
 She did not know what he was talking about. "Book?" She
 286        Ken Follett

 stared at him, thinking that he was still very much a child, despite his
 grown-up ways. He wore gray flannel shorts and a white shirt, and there
 was no hair on the smooth skin of his bare forearm. He was carrying a
 school satchel and wearing a school tie.
  "You forgot," he said, and looked betrayed. "You were going to lend me
  a detective story by Simenon."
 "I did forget. I'm sorry."
 "Will you bring it next time you come?"
 "Of course."
  Wolff had been staring at Billy all this time, like a miser looking into
  his treasure chest. Now he stood up. "Hello, Billy," he said with a
  smile. "I'm Captain Alexander."
 Billy shook hands and said: "How do you do, sir."
  "Your father asked me to tell you that he's very busy indeed."
 "He always comes home for breakfast," Billy said.
  "Not today. He's pretty busy coping with old Rommel, you know."
 "Has he been in another fight?"
  Wolff hesitated. "Matter of fact he has, but he's okay. He got a bump on
  the head."
 Billy seemed more proud than worried, Elene observed.
  Gaafar came in and spoke to Wolff. "You are sure, sir, that the major
  said you were to take the boy to school?"
 He is suspicious, Elene thought.
 "Of course," Wolff said. "Is something wrong?"
 "No, but I am responsible for Billy, and we don't actually
       Is
 know you ...
  "But you know Miss Fontana," Wolff said. "She was with me when Major
  Vandam spoke to me, weren't you, Elene?" Wolff stared at her and touched
  himself under the left arm, where the knife was sheathed.
 "Yes," Elene said miserably.
  WoIff said: "However, you're quite right to be cautious, Gaafar. Perhaps
  you should call GHQ and speak to the major yourself," He indicated the
  phone.
  Elene thought: No, don't Gaafar, he'll kill you before you finish
  dialing.
  Gaafar hesitated, then said: "I'm sure that won't be necessary, sir. As
  you say, we know Miss Fontana."
         TBE KEY TO REBECCA     287

 Elene thought: It's all my fault.
 Gaafar went out.
  Wolff spoke to Elene in rapid Arabic. "Keep the boy quiet for a minute." Be
  continued writing.
  EIene looked at Billy's satchel, and had the glimmer of an idea. "Show me
  your schoolbooks," she said.
 Billy looked at her as if she were crazy.
  "Come on," she said. The satchel was open, and an atlas stuck out. She
  reached for it. "What are you doing in geograpby?"
 "The Norwegian fjords."
  Elene saw Wolff finish writing and put the sheet of paper in an envelope.
  He licked the flap, sealed the envelope, and put it in his pocket.
  "Let's find Norway," Elene said. She Ripped the pages of the atlas.
  Wolff picked up the telephone and dialed. He looked at Elene, then looked
  away, out of the window.
 Elene found the map of Egypt.
 Billy said: "But that's--2'
  Quickly, Elene touched his lips with her finger. He stopped speaking and
  frowned at her.
  She thought: Please, little boy, be quiet and leave this to Me.
  She said: "Scandinavia, yes, but Norway is in Scandinavia, look." She
  unwrapped the handkerchief from around her hand. Billy stared at the cut.
  With her fingernail Elene opened the cut and made it bleed again. Billy
  turned white. He seemed about to speak, so Elene touched his lips and shook
  her head with a pleading look.
  Elene was sure Wolff was going to Assyut. It was a likely guess, and Wolff
  had said he was afraid Vandam would correctly guess their destination. As
  she thought this, she heard Wolff say into the phone: "Hello? Give me the
  time of the train to Assyut."
  I was rightl she thought. She dipped her finger in the blood from her hand.
  With three strokes, she drew an arrow in blood on the map of Egypt, with
  the point of the arrow on the town of Assyut, three hundred miles south of
  Cairo. She closed the atlas. She used her handkerchief to smear blood on
  the cover of the book, then pushed the book behind her.
 288       Ken Follett

 Wolff said: "Yes-and what time does it arriveT'
  Elene said: "But why are there fjords in Norway and not in Egypt?"
  Billy seemed dumbstruck. He was staring at her band. She bad to make him
  snap out of it before he gave her away. She said: "Listen, did you ever
  read an Agatha Christie story called The Clue of the Bloodstained A tlasT'
 'No, there's no such-"
  'It's very clever, the way the detective is able to figure everything out
  on the basis of that one clue."
  He frowned at her, but instead of the frown of the utterly amazed, it was
  the frown of one who is working something out.
  Wolff put down the phone and stood up. "Let's go," he said. "You don't want
  to be late for school, Billy." He went to the door and opened it.
  Billy picked up his satchel and went out. Elene stood up, dreading that
  Wolff would spot the atlas.
 "Come on," he said impatiently.
  She went through the door and be followed her. Billy was on the porch
  already. There was a little pile of letters on a kidney-shaped table in the
  hall. Elene saw Wolff drop his envelope on top of the pile.
 They went out through the front door.
 Wolff asked Elene: "Can you drive?"
  "Yes," she answered, then cursed herself for thinking slowly-she should
  have said no.
  "You two get in the front," Wolff instructed. He got in the back.
  As she pulled away, Elene saw Wolff lean forward. He said: "See this?"
 She looked down. He was showing the knife to Billy.
 "Yes," Billy said in an unsteady voice.
 Wolff said: "If you make trouble, I'll cut your head off."
 Billy began to cry.
               25

 "Stand to attention!" Jakes barked in his sergeant major's voice.
 Kemel stood to attention.
  The interrogation room was bare but for a table. Vandam. followed Jakes.
  in, carrying a chair in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. He sat
  down.
 Vandam. said: "Where is Alex Wolff?"
 "I don't know," said Kemel, relaxing slightly.
 "Attention!" Jakes yelled. "Stand straight, boyl"
 Kemcl came to attention again.
  Vandam sipped his tea. It was part of the act, a way of saying that he had
  all the time in the world and was not very concerned about anything,
  whereas the prisoner was in real trouble. It was the reverse of the truth.
  He said: "Last night you received a call from the officer on surveiflance
  at houseboat Jihan."
 Jakes shouted: "Answer the majorl"
 "Yes," Kemel said.
 "What did he say to you?"
  "He said that Major Vandam had come to the towpath and sent him to summon
  assistance."
 "Sir!" said Jakes. "To summon assistance, sirl"
 "To summon assistance, sir."
 Vandam said: "And what did you do?"
 "I went personally to the towpath to investigate, sir."
 "And then?"
  "I was struck on the head and knocked unconscious. When I recovered I was
  bound hand and foot. It took me several 289
 290       Ken Follett

 hours to free myself. Then I freed Major Vandam, whereupon he attacked me."
  Jakes went close to Kemel. "You're a bloody lying little bloody wog!" Kemel
  took a pace back. "Stand forwardl" Jakes shouted. "You're a lying little
  wog, what are you?" Kemel said nothing.
  Vandam said: "Listen, Kemel. As things stand you're going to be shot for
  spying. If you tell us all you know, you could get off with a prison
  sentence. Be sensible. Now, you came to the towpath and knocked me out,
  didn't you?"
 "No, sir."
  Vandam sighed. Kemel had his story and he was sticking to it. Even if he
  knew, or could guess, where Wolff had gone, he would not reveal it while he
  was pretending innocence.
  Vandam. said: "What is your wife's involvement in all this?"
 Kemel said nothing, but be looked scared.
  Vandam said: "If you won't answer my questions, I'll have to ask her."
 Kemel's lips were pressed together in a hard line.
  Vandam stood up. "All right, Jakes," he said. "Bring in the wife on
  suspicion of spying."
 Kemel said: "Typical British justice."
 Vandam looked at him. "Where is Wolff?"
 "I don't know."
  Vandam went out. He waited outside the door for Jakes. When the captain
  came out, Vandam said: "He's a policeman, he knows the techniques. He'll
  break, but not today." And Vandarn had to find Wolff today.
 Jakes asked: "Do you want me to arrest the wife?"
 "Not yet. Maybe later." And where was Elene?
  They walked a few yards to another cell. Vandam said: "is everything ready
  here?"
 "Yes."
  "Okay." He opened the door and went in. This room was not so bare. Sonia
  sat on a hard chair, wearing a coarse gray prison dress. Beside her stood
  a woman army officer who would have scared Vandam, had he been her
  prisoner. She was short and stout, with a hard masculine face and short
  gray hair. There was a cot'in one corner of the cell and a cold-water basin
  in the other.
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     291

 As Vandam walked in the woman officer said: "Stand up!"
  Vandarn and Jakes sat down. Vandam said: "Sit down, Sonja."
 The woman officer pushed Sonja into the chair.
  Vandarn studied Sonja for a minute. He had interrogated her once before,
  and she had been stronger than he. It would be different this time:
  Elene's safety was in the balance, and Vandam had few scruples left.
 He said: "Where is Alex Wolff?"
 "I don't know."
 "Where is Elene Fontana?"
 "I don't know."
 "Wolff is a German spy, and you have been helping him."
 "Ridiculous."
 "You're in trouble."
  She said nothing. Vandarn. watched her face. She was proud, confident,
  unafraid. Vandam. wondered what, exactly, had happened on the houseboat
  this morning. Surely, Wolff had gone off without warning Sonja. Did she
  not feel betrayed?
  "Wolff betrayed you," Vandarn said. "Kernel, the policeman, warned Wolff
  of the danger; but Wolff left you sleeping and went off with another
  woman. Are you going to protect him after that?"
 She said nothing.
  "Wolff kept his radio on your boat. He sent messages to Rommel at
  midnight. You knew this, so you were an accessory to espionage. You're
  going to be shot for spying."
 "All Cairo will riotl You wouldn't darel"
  "You think so? What do we care if Cairo riots now? The Germans are at the
  gates-let them put down the rebellion."
 "You dare not touch me."
 "Where has Wolff gone?"
 "I don't know."
 "Can you guess?"
 &'No."
  "You're not being helpful, Sonja. It will make things worse for you."
  "You can't touch me."
  "I think I'd better prove to you that I can." Vandam nodded to the
  woman officer.
 292       Ken Follett

  The woman held Sonja still while Jakes tied her to the chair. She struggled
  for a moment, but it was hopeless. She looked at Vandam, and for the first
  time there was a hint of fear in her eyes. She said: "What are you doing,
  you bastards?"
  'ne woman officer took a large pair of scissors from her bag. She lifted a
  hank of Sonja's long, thick hair and cut it off.
 "You can't do this!" Sonja shrieked.
  Swiftly, the woman cut Sonja's hair. As the heavy locks fell away the woman
  droppee them in Sonja's lap. Sonja screamed, cursing Vandarr and Jakes and
  the British in language which Vandarn had never heard from a woman.
  The woman officer took a smaller pair of scissors and cropped Sonja's hair
  close to the scalp.
  Sonja's screams subsided into tears. When he could be heard Vandam said-
  "You see, we don't care much about legality and justice anymore, nor do we
  care about Egyptian public opinion. We've got our backs to the wall. We may
  all be killed soon. We're desperate."
  The woman took soap and a shaving brush and lathered Sonja's head, then
  began to shave her scalp.
  Vandam. said: "Wolff was getting information from someone at GHQ. Who?"
 "You're evil," said Sonja.
  Finally the woman officer took a mirror from her bag and held it in front
  of Sonja's face, At first Sonja would not look in the glass, but after a
  moment she gave in. She gasped when she saw the reflection of her totally
  bald head. "No," she said. "It's not me." She burst into tears.
  All the hatred was gone. now: she was completely demoralized. Vandam said
  softly: "Where was Wolff getting his information?"
 "From Major Smith," Sonja replied.
  Vandam heaved a sigh of relief. She bad broken: thank God.
 "First name?" he asked.
 "Sandy Smith."
  Vandarn glanced at Jakes. That was the name of the major from M16 who had
  disappeared-it was as they had feared.
 "How did he get the information?"
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     293

  "Sandy came to the houseboat in his lunch break to visit me. While we were
  in bed Alex went through his briefcase."
  As simple as that, Vandam. thought. Jesus, I feel tired. Smith was liaison
  man between the Secret Intelligence Service-also known as M16--and GHQ, and
  in that role be had been privy to all strategic planning, for M16 needed to
  know what the Army was doing so that it could tell its spies what
  information to look for. Smith had been going straight from the morning
  conferences at GHQ to the houseboat, with a briefcase full of secrets.
  Vandam had already learned that Smith had been telling people at GHQ he was
  lunching at the M16 office, and telling his superiors at M16 he was
  lunching at GHQ, so that nobody would know he was screwing a dancer. Vandam
  had previously assumed Wolff was bribing or blackmailing someone: it had
  never occurred to him that Wolff might be getting information from someone
  without that someone's knowledge.
 Vandam said: "Where is Smith now?"
  "He caught Alex going through his briefcase. Alex killed him."
 "Where's the body?"
 "In the river by the houseboat."
 Vandam nodded to Jakes, and Jakes went out.
 Vandarn said to Sonja: "Tell me about Kernel."
  She was in full flood now, eager to tell all she knew, her resistance quite
  crushed; she would do anything to make people be nice to her. "He came and
  told me you had asked him to have the houseboat watched. He said he would
  censor his surveillance reports if I would arrange a meeting between Alex
  and Sadat."
 "Alex and whom?"
 "Anwar el-Sadat. He's a captain in the Army."
 "Why did he want to meet Wolff?"
 "So the Free Officers could send a message to Rommel."
  Vandam thought: there are elements to this that I never thought of. He
  said: "Where does Sadat live?"
 "Kubri a]-Qubbah."
 "The address?"
 "I don't know."
  Vandarn said to the woman officer: "Go and find out the exact address of
  Captain Anwar el-Sadat."
 294       Ken Follett

  "Yes, sir." The woman's face broke into a smile that was astonishingly
  pretty. She went out.
 Vandarr, said: "Wolff kept his radio on your houseboat"
 "Yes."
 "Pe used a code for his messages."
  .,Yes. he had ar English novel which he used to use to make up the code
  words."
 :'Rebecca."
 'Yes.,,
 "And he had a key to the code."
 :'A key?"
  'A piece of paper telling him which pages of the book to use.
 She nodded slowly. "Yes, I think he did."
  "The radio, the book and the key have gone. Do you know where?"
  "No," she said. She got scared. "Honestly, no, I don't ,know, I'm telling
  the truth-"
  "It's all right, I believe you. Do you know where Wolff might have gone?"
 "He ba.,: a house. . . Villa les Oliviers."
 "Good idea. Any other suggestions?"
 "Abdullah. He might have gone to Abdullah."
 :'Yes. Any more?"
  'His cousins, in the desert."
 :'And where would they be found?"
 'No one knows. They're nomads."
 :'Might WolfF know their movements?"
  'I suppose he might."
  Vandam sat looking at her for a little while longer. She was no actress:
  she could not have faked this. She was totally broken down, not only
  willing but eager to betray her friends and tell 0 her secrets. She was
  telling the truth.
 "I'll see you again," Vandarn said, and went out.
  The woman officer handed him a slip of paper with Sadaes address on it,
  then went into the cell. Vandarn hurried to the muster room. Jakes was
  waiting. "The Navy is lending us a couple of divers," Jakes said.
  "They'll be here in a few minutes."
  "Good." Vandarn lit a cigarette. "I want you to raid Abdullah's place.
  I'm going to arrest this Sadat fellow. Send a
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     295

 small team to the Villa les Oliviers, just in case-I don't suppose tbeyT
 find anythinp Has everyone been briefed?"
  Jakes nodded, "They know we're looking for a wireless transmitter, a copy
  of Rebecca, and a set of coding instructions."
  Vandarr, looked around, and noticed for the first time that there were
  Egyptiar policerner in the room. "VAy have we got bloody Arabs on the
  team?" he said angrily.
  "Proto~ol, sir," Jakes replied formally. "Colonel Bogge's idea."
  Vandarr. bit back a retort. "After you've done Abdullah, meet me at the
  houseboat."
 "Yes. sin"
 Vandam stubbed his cigarette. "Let's go."
  They went out into the morning sunshine. A dozen or more ieeps were lined
  up, their engine- idling Jakes gave instructiom to the sergeant7: in the
  raidinr~ parties, then nodded to Vandam. The men boarded the jeeps, and
  the teams pulled out.
  Sadat lived in a suburb three miles out of Cairo in the direction of
  Helionolis. His home was an ordinsrv family house ir, 9. small garder
  Four jeeps roared up outside, and the soldier~ immediately surrounded the
  house and began to search the garden Vandam rapped on the front door. A
  dog began to bark loudly. Vandarn knocked again. The door was opened.
 "Captain Anwar el-Sadatr'
    to
 "Yes.
  Sadat was a thin, serious young man of medium height. His curly brown
  hair was alreadv receding. He wore his captain's uniform and fez, as if
  he was about to go out.
  "You're under arrest," Vandam said, and pushed past him into the house
  Another young man appeared in a doorway. "Who is he?" Vandam demanded.
 "My brother, Tal'at," said Sadat.
  Vandam looked at Sadat. The Arab was calm and dignified, but he was
  biding some tension. He's afraid, Vandarn thought; but he's not afraid
  of me, and he's not afraid of going to prison; he's afraid of something
  else.
 What kind of deal had Kernel done with Wolff this morn- 296        Ken Follett

 ing? The rebels needed Wolff to help them get in touch with Rommel. Were
 they hiding Wolff somewhere?
 Vandam said: "Which is your room, Captain?"
  Sadat pointed. Vandam went into the room. It was a simple bedroom, with a
  mattress on the floor and a galabiya hanging from a book. Vandam pointed to
  two British soldiers and an Egyptian policeman, and said: "All right, go
  ahead." They began to search the room.
 "What is the meaning of this?" Sadat said quietly.
 "You know Alex Wolff," Vandam said.
    19
  'No.
  "He also calls himself Achmed Rahmha, but be's a European."
 "I've never beard of him."
  Clearly Sadat was a fairly tough personality, not the kind to break down
  and confess everything just because a few burly soldiers started messing up
  his house. Vandam pointed across the hall. "What's that room?"
 "My study-"
 Vandam went to the door.
  Sadat said: "But the women of the family are in there, you must let me warn
  them-"
 "They know we're here. Open the door."
  Vandam let Sadat enter the room first. There were no women inside, but a
  back door was open as if someone had just stepped out. That was okay: the
  garden was full of soldiers, no one would escape. Vandam saw an army pistol
  on the desk holding down some sheets of paper covered with Arabic script.
  He went to the bookshelf and examined the books: Rebecca was not there.
  A shout came from another part of the house: "Major Vandaml"
  Vandam followed the sound into the kitchen. A sergeant MP was standing
  beside the oven, with the house dog yapping at his booted feet. The oven
  door stood open, and the sergeant lifted out a suitcase-radio.
  Vandam looked at Sadat, who had followed him into the kitchen. The Arab's
  face was twisted with bitterness and disappointment. So this was the deal
  they had done: they warned Wolff, and in exchange they got his radio. Did
  that
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     297

 mean he had another? Or had Wolff arranged to come here, to Sadat's house,
 to broadcast?
  Vandam spoke to his sergeant. "Well done. Take Captain Sadat to GHQ."
  "I protest," Sadat said. "The law states that officers in the Egyptiar.
  Army may be detained only in the officers' mess and must be guarded by
  a fellow officer."
  The senior Egyptian policeman was standing nearby. "This is correct," he
  said.
  Once again Vandam cursed Bogge for bringing the Egyptians into this. "The
  law also states that spies are to be shot," he told Sadat. He turned to
  the sergeant. "Send out my driver. Finish searching the house. Then have
  Sadat charged with espionage."
  He looked again at Sadat. The bitterness and disappointment had gone from
  his face, to be replaced by a calculating look. He's figuring out bow to
  make the most of all this, Vandam thought: he's preparing to play martyr.
  He's very adaptable--he should be a politician.
  Vandam left the house and went out to the jeep. A few moments later his
  driver came running out and jumped into the seat beside him. Vandam said:
  "To Zamalck."
 "Yes, sir." The driver started the jeep and pulled away.
  When Vandam reached the houseboat the divers had done their work and were
  standing on the towpath getting out of their gear. Two soldiers were
  hauling something extremely grisly out of the Nile. The divers had
  attached ropes to the body they had found on the bottom and then washed
  their hands of the affair.
  Jakes came over to Vandam. "Look at this, sir." He handed him a
  waterlogged book. The board covers had been torn off. Vandam examined the
  book: it was Rebecca.
  The radio went to Sadat; the code book went into the river. Vandarn
  remembered the ashtray full of charred paper in the houseboat: had Wolff
  burned the key to the code?
  Why had he gotten rid of the radio, the book and the key, when he had a
  vital message to send to Rommel? The conclusion was inescapable: he had
  another radio, book and key hidden away somewhere.
  The soldiers got the body on to the bank and then stepped back as if they
  wanted nothing more to do with it. Vandam
 298       Ken Follett

 stood over it. The throat had been cut and the head was almost severed from
 the body. A briefcase was roped to the waist. Vandarn bent down and gingerly
 opened the case. It was full of bottles of champagne.
 Jakes said: "My God."
  "Ugly, isn't it," Vandarn said. "Throat cut, then dumped in the river with
  a case of champagne to weigh him down."
 "Cool bastard."
  "And damn quick with that knife." Vandarn touched his cheek: the dressing
  had been taken off, now, and several days' growth of beard hid the wound.
  But not Elene, not with the knife, please. "I gather you haven't found
  him."
  "I haven't found anything. I've had Abdullah brought in, just on general
  principles, but there was nothing at his house. And I called in at the
  Villa les Oliviers on the way backsame story."
  "And at Captain Sadat's house." Suddenly Vandam felt utterly drained. It
  seemed that Wolff outwitted him at every turn. It occurred to him that he
  might simply not be smart enough to catch this sly, evasive spy. "Perhaps
  we've lost," he said. He rubbed his face. He had not slept in the last
  twentyfour hours. He wondered what he was doing here, standing over the
  hideous corpse of Major Sandy Smith. There was no more to be learned from
  it. "I think III go home and sleep for an hour," he said. Jakes looked
  surprised. Vandam added: "It might help me think more clearly. This
  afternoon we'll interrogate all the prisoners again."
 "Very good, sir."
  Vandarn walked back to his vehicle. Driving across the bridge from Zamalek
  to the mainland, he recalled that Sonja had mentioned one other
  possibility: Wolff's nomad cousins. He looked at the boats on the wide,
  slow river. The current took them downstream and the wind blew them
  upstream-a coincidence of enormous importance to Egypt. The boatmen were
  still using the single triangular sail, a design which had been perfected
  . . . How long ago? Thousands of years, perhaps. So many things in this
  country were done the way they had been done for thousands of years.
  Vandarn closed his eyes and saw Wolff, in a felucca, sailing upriver,
  manipulating the triangular sail with one hand while with the other he
  tapped out messages to Rommel on the transmitter. The car
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     299

 stopped suddenly and Vandam opened his eyes, realizing he bad been
 daydreaming, or dozing. Why would Wolff go upriver? To find his nomad
 cousins. But who could tell where they would be? Wolff might be able to
 find them, if they followed some annual pattern in their wanderings.
  The jeep had stopped outside Vandam's house. He got out. "I want you to
  wait for me," be told the driver. "You'd better come in." He led the way
  into the house, then directed the driver to the kitchen. "My servant,
  Gaafar, will give you something to eat, so long as you don't treat him
  like a wog."
 "Thank you very much, sir," said the driver.
  There was a small stack of mail on the hall table. The top envelope had
  no stamp, and was addressed to Vandam in a vaguely familiar hand. It had
  "Urgent" scribbled in the top left-hand corner. Vandarn picked it up.
  There was more he should do, be realized. Wolff could well he heading
  south now. Roadblocks should be set up at all major towns on the route.
  There should be someone at every stop on the railway line, looking for
  Wolff. And the river itself ... There had to be some way of checking the
  river, in case Wolff really had gone by boat, as in the daydream. Vandam
  was finding it hard to concentrate. We could set up riverblocks on the
  same principle as roadblocks, he thought; why not? None of it would be
  any good if Wolff had simply gone to ground in Cairo. Suppose he were
  hiding in the cemeteries? Many Muslims buried their dead in tiny houses,
  and there were acres of such empty buildings in the city: Vandam would
  have needed a thousand men to search them all. Perhaps I should do it
  anyway, he thought. But Wolff might have gone north, toward Alexandria;
  or east or west into the desert . . .
  He went into the drawing room, looking for a letter opener. Somehow the
  search bad to be narrowed down. Vandam did not have thousands of men at
  his disposal-they were all in the desert, fighting. He had to decide what
  was the best bet. He remembered where all this had started: Assyut.
  Perhaps he should contact Captain Newman in Assyut. That seemed to be
  where Wolff had come in from the desert, so maybe he would go out that
  way. Maybe his cousins were in that vicinity. Vandam. looked indecisively
  at the telephone.
 300       Ken Follett

 Where was that damned letter opener? He went to the door and called:
 "Gaafar!" He came back into the room, and saw Billy's school atlas on a
 chair. It looked mucky. The boy had dropped it in a puddle, or something.
 He picked it up. It was sticky. Vandam realized there was blood on it. He
 felt as if he were in a nightmare. What was going on? No letter opener,
 blood on the atlas, nomads at Assyut ...
 Gaafar came in. Vandam said: "What's this mess?"
  Gaafar looked. "I'm sorry, sir, I don't know. They were looking at it
  while Captain Alexander was here--2'
 "Who's they? Who's Captain Alexander?"
  "The officer you sent to take Billy to school, sir. His name was-"
  "Stop." A terrible fear cleared Vandam's brain in an instant. "A British
  Army captain came here this morning and took Billy away?"
 "Yes, sir, be took him to school. He said you sent him-"
 "Gaafar, I sent nobody."
 The servant's brown face turned gray.
 Vandam said: "Didn't you check that he was genuine?"'
  "But, sir, Miss Fontana was with him, so it seemed all right."
  "Oh, my God." Vandam looked at the envelope in his hand. Now he knew why
  the handwriting was familiar: it was the same as that on the note that
  Wolff had sent to Elene. He ripped open the envelope. Inside was a
  message in the same hand:

   Dear Major Vandmn,

    Billy is with me. Elene is taking care of him. He will be quite all
    right as long as I am safe. I advise you to stay where you are and do
    nothing. We do not make war on children, and I have no wish to harm
    the boy. All the same, the life of one child is as nothing beside the
    future of my two nations, Egypt and Germany; so be assured that if it
    suits my purpose I will kill Billy.

                      Yours truly, Alex Wolff.
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     301

  It was a letter from a madman: the polite salutations, the correct English,
  the semicolon, the attempt to justify the kidnapping of an innocent child
  ... Now Vandam knew that, somewhere deep down inside, Wolff was insane.
 And he had Billy.
  Vandam handed the note to Gaafar, who put on his spectacles with a shaky
  hand. Wolff had taken Elene with him when he left the houseboat. It would
  not have been difficult to coerce her into helping him: all he had to do
  was threaten Billy, and she would have been helpless. But what was the
  point of the kidnap, really? And where had they gone? And why the blood?
  Gaafar was weeping openly. Vandam said: "Who was hurt? Who was bleeding?"
  "There was no violence," Gaafar said. "I think Miss Fontana had cut her
  hand."
  And she had smeared blood on Billy's atlas and left it on the chair. It was
  a sign, a message of some kind. Vandam held the book in his hands and let
  it fall open. Immediately he saw the map of Egypt with a blotted red arrow
  roughly drawn. It pointed to Assyut.
  Vandam picked up the phone and dialed GHQ. When the switchboard answered be
  hung up. He thought: If I report this, what will happen? Bogge will order
  a squad of light infantry to arrest Wolff at Assyut. There will be a fight.
  Wolff Will know he has lost, know be is to be shot for spying, not to
  mention kidnapping and murder-and what will he do then?
 He is insane, Vandam thought-, he will kill my son.
  He felt paralyzed by fear. Of course that was what Wolff wanted, that was
  his aim in taking Billy, to paralyze Vandam. That was how kidnapping
  worked.
  If Vandam brought the Army in, there would be a shootout. Wolff might kill
  Billy out of mad spite. So there was only one option.
 Vandam had to go after them alone.
  .,Get me two bottles of water," he told Gaafar. The servant went off.
  Vandam went into the hall and put on his motorcycle goggles, then found a
  scarf and wound it around his mouth and neck. Gaafar came from the kitchen
  with the bottles of water. Vandam left the house and went to his mo-
  torcycle. He put the bottles in the pannier and climbed on the
 302       Ken Follett

 bike. He kicked it into life and revved the engine. The fuel tank was
 full. Gaafar stood beside him, still weeping. Vandam touched the old man's
 shoulder. "I'll bring them back," he said. He rocked the bike off its
 stand, drove into the street and turned south.
               26

 My God, the station was           a shambles. I suppose everyone
 wants to get out of Cairo         in case it gets bombed. No first
 class seats on the trains         to Palestine-not even standing
 room. The wives and children of the British are running like
 rats. Fortunately southbound trains are less in demand. The
 booking office still claimed      there were no seats, but they al
 ways say that; a few piasters here and a few more there al
 ways gets a seat, or three. I     was afraid I might lose Elene and
 the boy on the platform, among all the hundre* of peasants,
 barefoot in their dirty galabiyas, carrying boxes tied with
 string, chickens in crates, sitting on the platform eating their
 breakfast, a fat mother in black handing out boiled eggs and
 pita bread and caked rice to her husband and sons, cousins
 and daughters and in-laws;        smart idea of mine, to hold the
 boy's hand-if I keep him          close by, Elene will follow; smart
 idea, I have smart ideas, Christ I'm smart, smarter than Van
 dam, eat your heart out, Major Vandam, I've got your son.
 Somebody had a goat on a lead. Fancy taking a goat on a
 train ride. I never had to travel economy with the peasants
 and their goats. What a job, to clean the economy coach at
 the end of the journey, I wonder who does it, some poor fel
 lah, a different breed, a different race, born slaves, thank God
 we got first-class seats, I travel first class through life, I bate
 dirt, God that station was        dirty. Vendors on the platform:
 cigarettes, newspapers, a man with a huge basket of bread on
 his head. I like the women        when they carry baskets on their
 heads, looking so graceful and proud, makes you want to do
 it to them there and then,        standing up, I like women when
 they like to do it, when they lose their minds with pleasure,
                303
 304        Ken Follett

 when they scream, Gesundheit! Look at Elene, sitting there beside the boy,
 so frightened, so beautiful, I want to do it with her again soon, forget
 Sonja, I'd like to do it with Elene right now, here on the train, in front
 of all these people, humiliate her, with Vandam's son watching, terrified,
 hal Look at the mud-brick suburbs, houses leaning against one another for
 support, cows and sheep in the narrow dusty streets, I always wondered
 what they ate, those city sheep with their fat tails, where do they graze?
 No plumbing in those dark little houses beside the railway line. Women in
 the doorways peeling vegetables, sitting cross-legged on the dusty ground.
 Cats. So graceful, the cats. European cats are different, slower and much
 fatter; no wonder cats are sacred here, they are so beautiful, a kitten
 brings luck. The English like dogs. Disgilsting animals, dogs: unclean,
 undignified, slobbering, fawning, sniffing. A cat is superior, and knows
 it. It is so importaDt to be superior. One is a master or a slave. I hold
 my head up, like a cat; I walk about, ignoring the hoi polloi, intent on
 my own mysterious tasks, using people the way a cat uses its owner, giving
 no thanks and accepting no affection, taking what they offer as a right,
 not a gift. I'm a master, a German Na7i, an Egyptian Bedouin, a born
 ruler, How many hours to Assyut, eight, ten? Must move fast. Find Ishmael.
 He should be at the well, or not far away. Pick up the radio. Broadcast
 at midnight tonight. Complete British defense, what a coup, they'll give
 me medals. Germans in charge in Cairo. Oh, boy, we'll get the place into
 shape. What a combination, Germans and Egyptians, efficiency by day and
 sensuality by night, Teutonic technology and Bedouin savagery, Beethoven
 and hashish. If I can survive, make it to Assyut, contact Rommel; then
 Rommel can cross the last bridge, destroy the last line of defense, dash
 to Cairo, annihilate the British, what a victory that will be. If I can
 make it. What a triumph I What a triumph I What a triumphl

 I will not be sick, I will not be sick, I will not be sick. Ile train says
 it for me, rattling on the tracks. I'm too old to throw up on trains now,
 I used to do that when I was eight. Dad took me to Alexandria, bought me
 candy and oranges and lemonade, I ate too much, don't think about it, it
 makes me ill to think about it, Dad said it wasn't my fault it was
         THE VEY TO REBECCA     305

 his, but I always used to feel sick even if I didn't eat, today Elene
 bought chocolate but I said no, thanks, I'm pretty grown-up to say no to
 chocolate, kids never say no to chocolate, look, I can see the pyramids,
 one, two, and the little one makes three, this must be Giza. Where are we
 going? He was supposed to take me to school. Then he got out the knife.
 Its curved. He'll cut off my head, where's Dad? I should be in school, we
 have geography in the first period today, a test on the Norwegian fjords,
 I learned it all last night, I needn't have bothered, I've missed the
 test. Tbey've already finished it by now, Mr. Johnstone collecting up the
 papers, You call that a map, Higgins? Looks more like a drawing of your
 ear, boy! Everybody laughs. Smythe can~t spell Moskenstraumen. Write it
 fifty times, lad. Everyone is glad he isn't Smythe. Old Johnstone opens
 the textbook. Next, the Arctic tundra. I wish I was in school. I wish
 Elene would put her arm round me. I wish the man would stop looking at me,
 staring at me like that, so pleased with himself, I think he's crazy,
 where's Dad? If I don't think about the knife, it will be just as if it
 wasn't there. I mustn't think about the knife. If I concentrate on not
 thinking about the knife, that's the same as thinking about the knife.
 It's impossible to deliberately not think about something. How does anyone
 stop thinking of something? Accidentally. Accidental thoughts. All
 thoughts are accidental. There, I stopped thinking about the knife for a
 second. If I see a policeman, I'll rush up to him and yell Save me, save
 me! I'll be so quick that he won't be able to stop me. I can run like the
 wind, I'm quick. I might see an officer. I might see a general. I'll
 shout, Good morning, General! He'll look at me, surprised, and say Well,
 young fellow-me-lad, you're a fine boyl Pardon me, sir, I'll say, I'm
 Major Vandam's son, and this man is taking me away, and my father doesn't
 know, I'm sorry to trouble you, but I need help. What? says the general.
 Look here, sir, you can't do this to the son of a British officer! Not
 cricket, you knowl Just clear off, d'you hear? Who the devil d'you think
 you are? And you needn't flash that little penknife at me, I've got a
 pistoll You're a brave lad, Billy. I'm a brave lad. All day men get killed
 in the desert. Bombs fall, Back Home. Ships in the Atlantic get sunk by
 U-boats, men fall into the icy water and drown. RAF chaps shot down over
 France. Everybody is brave. Chin
 306       Ken Follett

 upl Damn this war. That's what they say: Damn this war. Then they climb
 into the cockpit, hurry down the air-raid shelter, attack the next dune,
 fire torpedoes at the U-boats, write letters home. I used to think it was
 exciting. Now I know better. It isn't exciting at all. It makes you feel
 sick.

 Billy is so pale. He looks it. He's trying to be brave. He shouldn't, he
 should act like a child, he should scream and cry and throw a tantrum,
 Wolff couldn't cope with that; but he won't, of course, for he has been
 taught to be tough, to bite back the cry, to suppress the tears, to have
 self-control. He knows how his father would be, what else does a boy do
 but copy- his father? Look at Egypt. A canal alongside the railway line.
 A grove of date palms. A man crouching in a field, his galabiya hitched
 up above his long white undershorts, doing something to the crops; an ass
 grazing, so much healthier than the miserable specimens you see pulling
 carts in the city; three women sitting beside the canal, washing clothes,
 pounding them on stones to get them clean; a man on horseback, galloping,
 must be the local effendi, only the richest peasants have horses; in the
 distance, the lush green countryside ends abruptly in a range of dusty tan
 bills. Egypt is only thirty miles wide, really: the rest is desert. What
 am I going to do? That chill, deep in my chest, every time I look at Wolff
 - The way he stares at Billy. The gleam in his eye. His restlessness: the
 way he looks out of the window, then around the carriage, then at Billy,
 then at me, then at Billy again, always with that gleam in his eye, the
 look of triumph. I should comfort Billy. I wish I knew more about boys,
 I had four sisters. What a poor stepmother I should be for Billy. I'd like
 to touch him, put my arm around him, give him a quick squeeze, or even a
 cuddle, but I'm not sure that's what be wants, it might make him feel
 worse. Perhaps I could take his mind off things by playing a game. What
 a ridiculous idea. Perhaps not so ridiculous. Here is his school satchel.
 Here is an exercise book. He looks at me curiously. What game? Noughts and
 crosses. Four lines for the grid; my cross in the center. The way he looks
 at me as he takes the pencil, I do believe he's going along with this
 crazy idea in order to comfort met His nought in the corner. Wolff
 snatches the book, looks at it, shrugs, and gives it back. My cross,
 Billy's nought;
         THE KEY TO REBECCA      307

 it will be a drawn game. I should let him win next time. I can play this
 game without thinking, more's the pity. Wolff has a spare radio at Assyut.
 Perhaps I should stay with him, and try to prevent him using the radio. Some
 hopel I have to get Billy away, then contact Vandam and tell him where I am.
 I hope Vandarn mw the atlas. Perhaps the servant saw it, and called GHQ.
 Perhaps it will lie on the chair all day, unnoticed. Perhaps Vandam will not
 go home today. I have to get Billy away from Wolff, away from that knife.
 Billy makes a cross in the center of a new grid. I make a nought, then
 scribble hastily: We must escape-be ready. Billy makes another cross, and:
 OK. My nought. Billy's cross and When? My nought and Next,itation. Billy's
 third cross makes a line. He scores through the line of crosses, then smiles
 up at me jubilantly. He has won. The train slows down.

 Vandam knew the train was still ahead of him. He had stopped at the station
 at 'Giza, close to the pyramids, to ask how long ago the train had passed
 through; then he had stopped and asked the same question at three Babsequent
 stations. Now, after traveling for Rn hour, he had no need to stop and ask,
 for the road and the railway line ran parallel, on either side of a canal,
 and he would see the train when he caught up with it
  Each time he stopped he had taken a drink of water. With his uniform cap,
  his goggles and the scarf around his mouth and neck, he was protected from
  the worst of the dust; but the sun was terribly hot and he was continually
  thirsty. Eventually he realized he was running a slight fever. He thought
  he must have caught cold, last night, lying on the ground beside the river
  for hours. Ifis breath was hot in his throat, and the muscles of his back
  ached.
  He had to concentrate on the road. It was the only road which ran the
  length of Egypt, from Cairo to Aswan, and consequently much of it was
  paved; and in recent months the Army had done some repair work: but he
  still had to watch for bumps and potholes. Fortunately the road ran
  straight as an arrow, so he could see, far ahead, the hazards of cattle,
  wagons, camel trains and flocks of sheep. He drove very fast, except
  through the villages and towns, where at any moment
 308       Ken Follett

 people might wandeT Out into the Toad: he would not kill a child to save
 a child, not even to save his own child.
  So far he had passed only two cars-a ponderous RollsRoyce and a battered
  Ford. Tbe Rolls had been driven by a uniformed chauffeur, with an elderly
  English couple in the back seat; and the old Ford had contained at least
  a dozen Arabs. By now Vandam. was fairly sure Wolff was traveling by
  train.
  Suddenly he heard a distant hoot. Looking ahead and to his left he saw,
  at least a mile away, a rising plume of white smoke which waq,
  unmistakabli that of a steam engine. Billyl he thougbt. Elenel He went
  faster.
  Paradoidcally, the engine smoke made him think of England, of gentle
  slopes, endless greer fields, a square church tower peeping over the tops
  of a cluster of oak trees, and a railway line through the valley with a
  puffing engine disappearing into the distance. For a moment be was in
  that English valley, tasting the damp air of morning; then the vision
  passed, and he saw again the steel-blue African sky, the paddy fields,
  the palrr. trees and the far brown cliffs.
  The train was coming into a town. Vandam. did not know the names of the
  place-, anymore.- his geography was not that good, and he had rather lost
  track of the distance he had traveled. It was a small town. It would have
  three or four brick buildings and a market.
  The train was going to get there before him. He had made his plans, he
  knew what he was going to do: but he needed time, it was impossible for
  him to rush into the station and jump on the train without making
  preparations. He reached the town and slowed right down The street was
  blocked by a small Bock of sheep. From a doorway an old man smoking a
  hookah watched Vandam: a European on a motorcycle would be a rare, but
  not unknown sight. An ass tied to a tree snarled at the bike. A water
  buffalo drinking from a bucket did not even look up. Two filthy children
  in rags ran alongside, holding imaginary handlebars and saying "Brrrm,
  bilit " in imitation. Vandam. saw the station. From the square be could
  not see the platform, for that was obscured by a long, low station
  building; but he could observe the exit and see anyone who came out. He
  would wait outside until the train left, just in case Wolff got off; then
  he would go
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     309

 ahead, and reach the next stop in plenty of time. He brought the
 motorcycle to a halt and killed the engine.

 ne train roiled slowly over a level crossing. Elene saw the patient faces
 of the people behind the gate, waiting for the train to pass ao that +hey
 could croms the line: a fat man on a donkey, a very small !~oy 1-Niding
 a camel, a horse-drawn cab, a group of iflent old women. The camel
 couched, the boy began to beat it about the face with a stick and then the
 scene slid sideways out of view. In a moment the train would he in the
 station. Elene's courage deserted her. Not this dme, she thought. I
 haven't had time to think of a plan. The next station, let me leave it
 antil the next Aation. But she had told Billy they would try to get away
 at this station. If she did nothing he would not trust her any longer. It
 had to be this time.
  She tried to devise a plan. What was her priority? To get Billyaway from
  Wolff. That was the only tljng ~hatzounted. Give Hilly a chance to ran.
  then try to prevent Wolff from giving chase. She had a sudden, vivid
  memory of a childhood fight in a filthy Mum street in Alexandria: a big
  boy, a bully, hitting her, and another boy intervening and struggling
  with the bully, the smaller boy shouting to her "Run, run!" while she
  stood watching the fight, horrified but fascinated. She could not
  remember how it had ended.
  She looked around. Think quicklyl They were in an open carriage, with
  fifteen or twenty rows of seats. She and Billy sat side by side, !acing
  forward.'Wolff was opposite them. Beside him was an empty seat. Behind
  him was the exit door to the platform. 'Me other passengers were a
  mixture of Europeans and wealthy Egyptians, all of them in 'Western
  clothing. Everyone was hot, weary and enervated. Several people were
  Asleep. The train-master was serving tea in glasses to a group of
  Egyptian Army officers at the far end of the carriage.
  Through the window she saw a small mosqne, then a French courthouse, then
  the station. A few trees grew in the dusty soil beside the concrete
  platform. An old man sat cross-legged beneath a tree, smoking a
  cigarette. Six boyishlooking Arab soldiers were crowded on to one small
  bench. A
 310        Ken Follett

 pregnant woman carried a baby in her arms. The train stopped.
  Not yet, Elene thought; not yet. The time to move would be when the train
  was about to pull out again---that would give WoIff less time to catct them
  She sat feverishly still. There was a clock or, the phtti'ortrr witl-
  romar: numerals. It had stoppeti at five tc five A rn~,r came to the window
  offering fruit drink-t, and Wolff w.)ved bir away.
  A priest in Coptic robes boarded the train and took the seat next to Wolff,
  saying politely: "Vous permettez, rn'sieur?"
 Wolff smiled charmingly and replied: 'Ve vous en prie."
  Elene murmured tr Billy: "Wber the whistle blows, run for the door and get
  off the train." Her heart beat faster: now she was committed.
  Billy said notbing. Wolff said: "What was that?" Elene looked away The
  whistle blew.
 Billy looked at Elene, hesitating.
 Wolff frowned.
  Elene threw herself at Wolff. reaching for his face with her hands. She was
  suddenly possesseO by rage and hatred toward him for the humiliation,
  anxietv and pain he had inflicted on her. He put up his arms protectively,
  but they did not stop her rusb - Her strength astonished her. She raked his
  fare with her fingernails, and saw blood spurt.
 The priest gave a shout of surprise.
  Over the back of Wolffs seat she saw Billy run to the door and struggle to
  open it.
  She collapsed on Wolff, banging her face against his forehead. She lifted
  herself again and tried to scratch his eyes.
  At last he found his voice, and roared with anger. He pushed himself out of
  his seat, driving Elene backward. She grabbed at him and caught hold of his
  shirt front with both hands. Then he hit her. His hand came up from below
  his waist, bunched into a fist, then struck the side of her jaw. She had
  not known a punch could hurt so much. For an instant she could not see. She
  lost her grip on Wolff's shirt, and fell back into her seat. Her vision
  returned and she saw him heading for the door. She stood up.
 Billy had got the door open. She saw him Ring it wide and
         THE KEY TO REBECCA      311

 jump on to the platform. Wolff leaped after him. Elene ran to the door.
  Billy was racing along the platform, running like the wind. Wolff was
  charging after him. The few Egyptians standing ~round were looking on,
  mildly astonished, and doing nothmg. Elene stopped down from the train and
  ran after Wolff. The train shuddered, about to move. Wolff put on a burst
  of speed. Elene yelle& "Run Billy, runl" Billy looked over his shoulder. He
  was almost at the exit now. A ticket collector in a raincoat stood there,
  looking on openmouthed. Elene thought: They won't let him out, he has no
  ticket. It did not matter, she realized, for the train was now inching
  forward, and Wolff had to get back on it. Wolff looked at the train, but
  did not slow his pace, Elene saw that Wolff was not going to catch Billy,
  and she thought: We did itt Then Billy fell.
  He had -slipped on something, a patch, of sand or a leaf. He lost his
  balance completely, and went flying through the air, carried by the
  momentum of his running, to hit the ground hard. Wolff was on him in a
  flash, bending to lift him. Elene caught up with them and jumped on Wolffs
  back. Wolff stumbled, losing his grip on Billy. Elene clung to Wolff. The
  train was moving slowly but steadily. Wolff grabbed Mene's arms, broke her
  grip, and shook his wide shoulders, throwing her to the ground.
  For a moment she lay stunned. Looking up, she saw that Wolff had thrown
  Billy across his shoulder. The boy was yelling and hammering on Wolff's
  back, without effect. Wolff ran alongside the moving train for a few paces,
  then jumped in through an open door. Elene wanted to stay where she was,
  never to see Wolff again; but she could not leave Billy. She struggled to
  her feet.
  She ran, stumbling, alongside the train. Someone reached out a hand to her.
  She took it, and jumped. She was aboard.
  She had failed miserably. She was back where she started. She felt crushed.
  She followed Wolff through the carriages back to their seats. She did not
  look at the faces of the people she passed. She saw Wolff give Billy one
  sharp smack on the bottom and dump him into his seat. The boy was crying
  silently.
  Wolff turned to Elene. "You're a silly, crazy girl," he said loudly, for
  the benefit of the other passengers. He grabbed
 312       Ken Follett

 her arm and pulled her closer to him. He slapped her face with the palm of
 his hand, then with the back, then with the palm, again and again. It hurt,
 but Elene had no energy to resist. At last the priest stood up, touched
 Wolff's shoulder, and said something.
  Wolff let her go and sat down. She looked around. They were all staring at
  her. None of them would help her, for she was not just an Egyptian, she was
  an Egyptian woman, and women, like camels, had to be beaten from time to
  time. As she met the eyes of the other passengers they looked away,
  embarrassed, and turned to their newspapers, their books and the view from
  the windows. No one spoke to her.
  She fell into her seat. Useless, impotent rage boiled within her. Almost,
  they had almost escaped.
  She put her arm around the child and pulled him close. She began to stroke
  his hair. After a while he fell asleep.
               27

 Vandam heard the train puff, pull and puff again. It gathered speed and
 moved out of the station. Vandam took another drink of water. The bottle
 was empty. He put it back in his pannier. He drew on his cigarette and
 threw away the butt. No one but a few peasants had gotten off the train.
 Vandam kicked his motorcycle into life and drove away.
  In a few moments he was out of the little town and back on the straight,
  narrow road beside the canal. Soon he had left the train behind. It was
  noon: the sunshine was so hot it seemed tangible. Vandam imagined that
  if he stuck out his arm the beat would drag on it like a viscous liquid.
  The road ahead stretched into a shimmering infinity. Vandam thought: If
  I were to drive straight into the canal, how cool and refreshing it would
  bel
  Somewhere along the road he bad made a decision. He had set out from
  Cairo with no thought in his mind but to rescue Billy; but at some point
  he had realized that that was not his only duty. There was still the war.
  Vandam. was almost certain that Wolff had been too busy at midnight last
  night to use his radio. This morning be had given away the radio, thrown
  the book in the river and burned the key to the code. It was likely that
  be had another radio, another copy of Rebecca and another key to the
  code; and that the place they were all hidden was Assyut. If Vandam's
  deception plan were to be implemented, he had to have the radio and the
  key-and that meant he had to let Wolff get to Assyut and retrieve his
  spare set.
  It ought to have been an agonizing decision, but somehow Vandam had taken
  it with equanimity. He had to rescue Billy 313
 314       Ken Follett

 and Elene, yes; but after Wolff had picked up his spare radio. It would be
 tough on the boy, savagely tough, but the worst of it-the kidnapping-was
 already in the past and irreversible, and living under Nazi rule, with his
 father in a concentration camp, would also be savagely tough.
  Having made the decision, and hardened his heart, Vandam needed to be
  certain that Wolff really was on that train. And in figuring out how to
  check, he had thought of a way to make things a little easier for Billy and
  Elene at the same time.
  When he reached the next town he reckoned he was at least fifteen minutes
  ahead of the train. It was the same kind of place as the last town: same
  animal , same dusty streets, same slow-moving people, same handful of brick
  buildings. The police station was in a central square, opposite the railway
  station, flanked by a large mosque and a small church. Vandarn pulled up
  outside and gave a series of peremptory blasts on the horn of his bike.
  Two Arab policemen came out of the building: a grayhaired man in a white
  uniform with a pistol at his belt, and a boy of eighteen or twenty years
  who was unarmed. The older man was buttoning his shirt. Vandam. got off the
  bike and bawled: "Attention!" Both men stood straight and saluted. Vandam
  returned the salute, then shook the older man's hand. "I'm chasing a
  dangerous criminal, and I need your help," he said dramatically. The man's
  eyes glittered. "Let's go inside."
  Vandam led the way. He felt he needed to keep the initiative firmly in his
  own hands. He was by no means sure of his own status here, and if the
  policemen were to choose to be uncooperative there would be little he could
  do about it. He entered the building. Through a doorway he saw a table with
  a telephone. He went into that room, and the policemen followed him.
  Vandam said to the older man: "Call British headquarters in Cairo." He gave
  him the number, and the man picked up the phone. Vandarn turned to the
  younger policeman. "Did you see the motorcycle?"
 "Yes, yes." He nodded violently.
 "Could you ride itT'
 The boy was thrilled by the idea. "I ride it very well."
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     315

 "Go out and try it."
  Ile boy looked doubtfully at his superior, who was shouting into the
  telephone.
 "Go on," Vandam said.
 Ile boy went out.
  The older man held the phone out to Vandam. "This is GHQ."
  Vandam spoke into the phone. "Connect me with Captain Jakes, fast." He
  waited.
  Jakes' voice came on the line after a minute or two. "Hello, yes?"
 'This is Vandam. I'm in the south, following a bunch."
  "nere's a rigbt panic on here since the brass heard what happened last
  night--the brigadier's having kittens and Bogge is running around like
  a fart in a colander-where in buggeration are you. sirT'
  "Never mind where exactly, I won't be here much longer and I have to work
  alone at the moment. In order to assure the maximal support of the
  indigenous constabulary-" He spoke like this so that the policeman would
  not be able to understand-"I want you to do your Dutch un6le act. ReadyT'
 "Yes, sir."
  Vandam gave the phone to the gray-haired policeman and stood back He
  could guess what Jakes was saying. The policeman unconsciously stood
  straighter and squared his shoulders as Jakes instructed him, in no
  uncertain terms, to do everything Vandam wanted and do it fast. "Yes,
  sir!" the policeman said, several times, Finally he said: "Please be as-
  sured, sir and gentleman, that we will do all in our power--~' He stopped
  abruptly. Vandam guessed that Jakes had hung up. The policeman glanced
  at Vandam. then said "Good-bye" to the empty wire.
  Vandam went to the window and looked out. The young policeman was driving
  around and around the square on the motorcycle. booting the horn and
  overrevving the engine. A small crowd had gathered to watch him, and a
  bunch of children were running behind the bike. The boy was grinning from
  ear to ear. He'll do, Vandam thought.
  "Listen," be said. "I'm going to get on the Assyut train when it stops
  here in a few minutes. I'll get off at the next
 316       Ken Follett

 station. I want your boy to drive my bike to the next station and meet me
 there. Do you understand?"
 "Yes, sir," said the man. "The train will stop here, thenr'
 "Doesn't it usually?"
 "The Assyut train does not stop here usually."
 "Then go to the station and tell them to stop itl"
 "Yes, sirl" He went out at a run.
  Vandam watched him cross the square. He could not bear the train yet. He
  had time for one more phone call. He picked up the receiver, waited for the
  operator, then asked for the army base in Assyut. It would be a miracle if
  the phone system worked properly twice in a row. It did. Assynt answered,
  and Vandam asked for Captain Newman. There was a long wait while they found
  him. At last he came on the line.
  "T'his is Vandam. I think rm on the trail of your knife man."
  "Jolly good show, sirl" said Newman. "Anything I can do?"
  "Well, now, listen. We have to go very softly. For all sorts of reasons
  which I'll explain to you later, I'm working entirely on my own, and to go
  after Wolff with a big squad of armed men would be worse than useless."
 "Understood. What do you need from me?"
  "I'll be arriving in Assyut in a couple of houm I need a taxi, a large
  galabiya and a small boy. Will you meet me?"
 "Of course, no problem. Are you cDming by road?"
 "I'll meet you at the city limits, how's thatT'
  "Fine." Vandam heard a distant chaff-chuff-chuff. "I have to go.
 "I'll be waiting for you."
  Vandam. hung up. He put a five-pound note on the table beside the
  telephone: a little baksheesh never hurt. He went out into the square. Away
  to the north he could see the approaching smoke of the train. The younger
  policeman drove up to him on the bike. Vandam said: "I'm getting on the
  train. You drive the motorcycle to the next station and meet me there.
  Okayr'
 "Okay, okayl" He was delighted.
 Vandam took out a pound note and tore it in half. The
         TIRE KEY TO REBECCA    317

 young policeman's eyes widened. Vandam gave him half the, note. "You get
 the other half when you meet me."
  Okayl.,
  The train was almost in the station. Vandam ran across the square. The
  older policeman met him. "The stationmaster is stopping the train."
 Vandam shook his hand. "nank you. What's your namer,
 "Sergeant Nesbah."
  "I'll tell them about you in Cairo. Goodbye." Vandam hurried into the
  station. He ran south along the7 platform, away from the train, so that
  he could board it at the front end without any of the passengers seeing
  him through the windows.
  The train came in, billowing smoke. The stationmaster came along the
  platform to where Vandam was standing. When the train stopped the
  stationmaster spoke to the engine driver and the footplateman. Vandarn
  gave all three of them baksheesh and boarded the train.
  He found himself in an economy carriage. Wolff would surely travel first
  class. He began to walk along the train, picking his way over the people
  sitting on the floor with their boxes and crates and animals He noticed
  that it was mainly women and children on the floor: the slatted wooden
  seats were occupied by the men with their' bottles of beer and their
  cigarettes. The carriages were unbearably hot and smelly. Some of the
  women were cooking on makeshift stoves: surely that was dangerous! Vandam
  almost trod on a tiny baby crawling on the filthy floor. He had a feeling
  that if he had not avoided the child in the nick of time they would have
  lynched him.
  He passed through three economy carriages, then he was at the door to a
  first-class coach He found a guard just outside, sitting on a little
  wooden stool drinking tea from a glass. The guard stood up. "Some tea,
  General?"
  "No, thank vou." Vandarn had to shout to make himself heard over the
  noise of the wheels beneath them. "I have to check the papers of all
  first-class passengers."
  "All in order, all very good," said the guard, trying to be helpful.
 "How many first-class carriages are there?"
 "All in order-"
 318       Ken Follett

  Vandam bent to shout in the man's ear. "How many firstclass coaches?"
 The guard held up two fingers.
  Vandarn nodded and unbent. He looked at the door. Suddenly he was not
  sure that he had the nerve to go through with this. He thought that Wolff
  had never got a good look at him-they had fought in the dark, in the
  alley--but he could not be absolutely sure. The gash on his cheek might
  have given him away, but it was almost completely covered now by his
  beard; still be should try to keep that side of his face away from Wolff.
  Billy was the real problem. Vandam had to warn his son, somehow, to keep
  quiet and pretend not to recognize his father. There was no way to plan
  it, that was the trouble. He just had to go in there and think on his
  feet.
 He took a deep breath and opened the door.
  Stepping through, he glanced quickly and nervously at the first few seats
  and did not recognize anyone. He twmed his back to the carriage as he
  closed the door, then turned around again. His gaze swept the rows of
  seats quickly: no Billy.
  He spoke to the passengers nearest him. "Your papers, please, gentlemen."
  "What's this, Major?" said an Egyptian Army officer, a colonel.
 "Routine cheek, sir," Vandam replied.
  He moved slowly along the aisle, checking peoples papers. By the time he
  was halfway down the carriage he had studied the passengers well enough
  to be sure that Wolff, Elene and Billy were not here. He felt he had to
  finish the pantomime of checking papers before going on to the next
  coach. He began to wonder whether his guesswork might have gone wrong,
  Perhaps they weren't on the train at all; perhaps they weren't even
  heading for Assyut; perhaps the atlas clue had been a trick . .
  He reached ihe end of the carriage and passed through the door into the
  space between the coaches. If Wolff is on the train, I'll see him now,
  he thought. If Billy is here-if Billy is here-
 He opened the door.
  He saw Billy immediately. He felt a pang of distress like a wound. The
  boy was asleep in his seat, his feet only just
         THE KEY TO REBECCA      319

 reaching the floor, his body slumped sideways, his hair falling over his
 forehead. His mouth was open, and his jaws were moving slightly: Vandam
 knew, for he had seen this before, that Billy was grinding his teeth in
 his sleep.
  The woman who had her arm around him, and on whose bosom his head rested,
  was Elene. Vandam had a disorienting sense of d6jA vu: it reminded him
  of the night he had come upon Elene kissing Billy good night ...
 Elene looked up.
  She caught Vandam's eye. He saw her face begin to change expression: her
  eyes widening, her mouth coming open for a cry of surprise; and, because
  he was prepared for something like this, he was very quick to raise a
  finger to his lips in a hushing sign. She understood immediately, and
  dropped her eyes; but Wolff had caught her look, and he was turning his
  head to find out what she had seen.
  They were on Vandam's left, and it was his left check which had been cut
  by Wolff's knife. Vandam turned around so that his back was to the
  carriage, then he spoke to the people on the side of the aisle opposite
  Wolff s. "Your papers, please."
 He had not reckoned on Billy being asleep.
  He had been ready to give the boy a quick sign, as he had done with
  Elene, and he had hoped that Billy was alert enough to mask his surprise
  rapidly, as Elene had done. But this was a different situation. If Billy
  were to wake up and see his father standing there, he would probably give
  the game away before he had time to collect his thoughts.
 Vandam turned to Wolff and said: "Papers, please."
  It was the fint time he had seen his enemy face to fam Wolff was a
  handsome bastard. His big face had strong features: a wide forehead, a
  hooked nose, even white teeth, a broad jaw. Only around the eyes and the
  comers of the mouth was there a hint of weakness, of self-indulgence, of
  depravity. He handed over his papers then looked out of the window,
  bored. The papers identified him as Alex Wolff, of Villa les Oliviers,
  Garden City. The man had remarkable nerve.
 Vandam said: "Where are you going, sirT'
 "Assyut."
 "On business?"
 320        Ken Follett

  "To visit relations." The voice was strong and deep, and Vandam would not
  have noticed the accent if he had not been listening for it.
 Vandam said: "Are you people together?"
 "That's my son and his nanny," Wolff said.
  Vandam took Elene's papers and glanced at them. He wanted to take Wolff
  by the throat and shake him until his bones rattled. That's my son and
  his nanny. You bastard.
  He gave Elene her papers. "No need to wake the child," he said. He looked
  at the priest sitting next to Wolff, and took the proffered wallet.
 Wolff said: "What's this about, Major?"
  Vandam looked at him again, and noticed that he had a fresh scratch on
  his chin, a long one: perhaps Elene had put up some resistance.
  "Security, sir," Vandam replied.
 ne priest said: "I'm going to Assyut, too."
 "I see," said. Vandam. "To the convent?"
 "Indeed. You've heard of it, then."
  "rhe place where the Holy Family stayed after their sojourn in the
  desert."
 "Quite. Have you been there?"
 "Not yet-perhaps I'll make it this time."
 "I hope so," said the priest.
  Vandam handed ba~k the papers. "Thank you." He backed away, along the
  aisle to the next row of seats, and continued to examine papers, When he
  looked up he met Wolff's eyes. Wolff was watching him expressionlessly.
  Vandam wondered whether he had done anything suspicious. Next time be
  looked up, Wolff was staring out of the window again.
  What was Elene thinking? She must be wondering what I'm up to, Vandarn
  thought. Perhaps she can guess my intentions. It must be hard for her all
  the same, to sit still and see me walk by without a word. At least now
  she knows she's not alone.
  What was Wolff thinking? Perhaps he was impatient, or gloating, or
  frightened, or eager . . . No, he was none of those, Vandarr, realized;
  he was bored.
  He reached the end of the carriage and examined the last of the papers.
  He was handing them back, about to retrace his steps along the aisle,
  when he heard a cry that pierced his heart:
         THE KEY TIO REBECCA     321

 ,THArs MY DAD!"
  He looked up. Billy was running along the aisle toward him, stumbling,
  swaying from side to side, bumping against the seats, his arms
  outstretched.
 Oh, God.
  Beyond Billy, Vandam could see Wolff and Elene standing up, watching;
  Wolff with intensity, Elene with fear. Vandam opened the door behind him,
  pretending to take no notice of Billy, and backed through it. Billy came
  flying through. Vandam slammed the door. He took Billy in his arms.
 "It's all right," Vandam, said. "It's all right."
 Wolff would be coming to investigate.
  "They took me awayl" Billy said. "I missed geography and I was really
  really seared I"
  "It's all right now." Vandam felt he could not leave Billy now; he would
  have to keep the boy and kill Wolff, he would have to abandon his
  deception plan and the radio and the key to the code . . . No, it had to
  be done, it had to be done . . . He fought down his instincts. "Listen,"
  he said. "I'm here, and I'm watching over you, but I have to catch that
  man, and I don't want him to know who I am. He's the German spy I'm
  after, do you understand?"
        19
 "Yes, yes ...
  "Listen. Can you pretend you made a mistake? Can you pretend I'm not your
  father? Can you go back to him?"
  Billy stared, openmouthed. He said nothing but his whole expression said
  No, no, nol
  Vandam said: 'qlis is a real-life tee story, Billy, and we're in it, you
  and 1. You have to go back to that man, and pretend you made a mistake;
  but remember, I'll be nearby, and together we'll catch the spy. Is that
  okay? Is it okay?"
 Billy said nothing.
 The door opened and Wolff came through.
 "What's all this?" Wolff said.
  Vandam made his face bland and forced a smile. "He seems to have woken
  up from a dream and mistaken me for his father. We're the same build, you
  and I ... You did say you were his father, didn't you?"
  Wolff looked at Billy. "What nonsense!" he said brusquely. "Come back to
  your seat at once."
 Billy stood still.
 322       Ken Follett

  Vandam put a hand on Billy's shoulder. "Come on, young man," he said.
  "Let's go and win the war."
  The old catchphrase did the trick. Billy gave a brave grin. "I'm sorry,
  sir," he said. "I must have been dreaming."
 Vandam felt as though his heart would break.
  Billy turned away and went back inside the coach. Wolff went after him,
  and Vandam followed. As they walked along the aisle the train slowed
  down. Vandam realized they were already approaching the next station,
  where his motorcycle would be waiting. Billy reached his seat and sat
  down. Elene was staring at Vandam uncomprehendingly. Billy touched her
  arm and said: "It's okay, I made a mistake, I must have been dreaming."
  She looked at Billy, then at Vandam, and a strange light came into her
  eyes: she seemed on the point of tears.
  Vandam did not want to walk past them. He wanted to sit down. to talk,
  to do anything to prolong the time he spent with them. Outside the train
  windows, another dusty little town appeared. Vandam yielded to temptation
  and paused at the carriage door. "Have a good trip," he said to Billy.
 "Thank you, sir."
 Vandam went out.
  The train pulled into the station and stopped. Vandam got off and walked
  forward along the platform a little way. He stood in the shade of an
  awning and waited. Nobody else got off, but two or three people boarded
  the economy coaches. There was a whistle, and the train began to move.
  Vandam's eye was fixed on the window which he knew to be next to Billy's
  seat. As the window passed him, he saw Billy's face. Billy raised his
  hand in a little wave. Vandam waved back, and the face was gone.
 Vandam realized he was trembling all over.
  He watched the train recede into the hazy distance. When it was almost
  out of sight he left the station. There outside was his motorcycle, with
  the young policeman from the last town sitting astride it explaining its
  mysteries to a small crowd of admirers. Vandam gave him the other half
  of the pound note. The young man saluted.
  Vandam climbed on the motorcycle and started it. He did not know how the
  policeman was going to get home, and he
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     323

 did not care. He drove out of town on the road south. The sun had passed
 its zenith, but the heat was still terrific.
  Soon Vandam. passed the train. He would reach Assyut thirty or forty
  minutes ahead of it, he calculated. Captain Newman would be there to meet
  him. Vandam knew in outline what he was going to do thereafter, but the
  details would have to be improvised as he went along.
  He pulled ahead of the train which carried Billy and Elene, the only
  people he loved. He explained to himself again that he had done the right
  thing, the best thing for everyone, the best thing for Billy; but in the
  back of his mind a voice said: Cruel, cruel, cruel.
               28

 The train entered the station and stopped. Elene saw a sign which said, in
 Arabic and English, Assyut. She realized with a shock that they had arrived.
  It had been an enormous relief to see Vandam's kind, worried face on the
  train. For a while she bad been euphoric: surely, she bad felt, it was all
  over. She had watched his pantomime with the papers, expecting him at any
  moment to pull a gun, reveal his identity, or attack Wolff. Gradually she
  had realized that it would not be that simple. She had been astonished, and
  rather horrified, at the icy nerve with which Vandam had sent his own son
  back to Wolff; and the courage of Billy himself had seemed incredible. Her
  spirits had plunged farther when she saw Vandarn on the station platform,
  waving as the train pulled out. What game was he playing?
  Of course, the Rebecca code was still on his mind. He must have some scheme
  to rescue her and Billy and also get the key to the code. She wished she
  knew how. Fortunately Billy did not seem to be troubled by such thoughts:
  his father had the situation under control, and apparently the boy did not
  even entertain the idea that his father's schemes could fail. He had perked
  up, taking an interest in the countryside through which the train was
  passing, and had even asked Wolff where he got his knife. Elene wished she
  had as much faith in William Vandarn.
  Wolff was also in good spirits. The incident with Billy had scared him, and
  he had looked at Vandam. with hostility and anxiety; but he seemed
  reassured when Vandam got off the train. After that his mood had oscillated
  between boredom and nervous excitement, and now, arriving in Assyut, the
  ex324
         THE KEY TO REBECCA      325

 citement became dominant. Some kind of change had occurred in Wolff in the
 last twenty-four hours, she thought. When she first met him he had been
 a very poised, suave man. His face bad rarely shown any spontaneous
 emotion other than a faint arrogance, his features had been generally
 rather still, his movements had been almost languid. Now all that had
 gone. He fidgeted, he looked about him restlessly, and every few seconds
 the corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly, as if he were about
 to grin, or perhaps to grimace, at his thoughts. The poise which had once
 seemed to be part of his deepest nature now turned out to be a cracked
 facade. She guessed this was because his fight with Vandarn had become
 vicious. What had begun as a deadly game had turned into a deadly battle.
 It was curious that Wolff, the ruthless one, was getting desperate while
 Vandam just got cooler.
  Elene thought: Just so long as he doesn't get too damn cool.
  Wolff stood up and took his case from the luggage rack. Elene and Billy
  followed him from the train and on to the platform. This town was bigger
  and busier than the others they had Passed through, and the station was
  crowded. As they stepped down from the train they were jostled by people
  trying to get on. Wolff, a head higher than most of the people, looked
  around for the exit, spotted it, and began to carve a path through the
  throng. Suddenly a dirty boy in bare feet and green striped pajamas
  snatched Wolfrs case, shouting: "I get taxil I get taxi!" Wolff would not
  let go of the case, but neither would the boy. Wolff gave a good-humored
  shrug, touched with embarrassment, and let the boy pull him to the gate.
  They showed their tickets and went out into the square. It was late
  afternoon, but here in the south the sun was still very hot. The square
  was lined with quite tall buildings, one of them called the Grand Hotel.
  Outside the station was a row of horse-drawn cabs. Elene looked around,
  half expecting a detachment of soldiery ready to arrest Wolff. There was
  no sign of Vandam. Wolff told the Arab boy: "Motor taxi, I want a motor
  taxi." "Mere was one such car, an old Morris parked a few yards behind
  the horse cabs. The boy led them to it.
 326         Ken FoUett

  "Get in the front," Wolff told Elene. He gave the boy a coin and got into
  the back of the car with Billy. The driver wore dark. glasses and an Arab
  headdress to keep the sun off. "Go south, toward the convent," Wolff told
  the driver in Arabic.
 "Okay," the driver said.
  Elene's heart missed a beat. She knew that voice. She stared at the
  driver. It was Vandam.

 Vandam drove away from the station, thinking: So far, so good-except for
 the Arabic. It had not occurred to him that Wolff would speak to a
 taxi-driver in Arabic. Vandam's knowledge of the language was rudimentary,
 but he was able to give-and therefore to understand- -directions. He could
 reply in monosyllables, or grunts, or even in English, for those Arabs who
 spoke a little English were always keen to use it, even when addressed by
 a European in Arabic. He would be all right as long as Wolff did not want
 to discuss the weather and the crops.
  Captain Newman had come through with everything Vandam had asked for,
  including discretion. He had even loaned Vandam his revolver, a sixshot
  Enfield .380 which was now in the pocket of Vandam's trousers beneath his
  borrowed galabiya. While waiting for the train Vandam had studied
  Newman's map of Assyut and the surrounding area, so he had some idea of
  how to find the southbound road out of the city. He drove through the
  souk, honking his hom more or less continually in the Egyptian fashion,
  steering dangerously close to the great wooden wheels of the carts,
  nudging sheep out of the way with his fenders. From the buildings on
  either side shops, caf6s and workshops spilled out into the street. The
  unpaved road was surfaced with dust, rubbish and dung. Glancing into his
  rear-view mirror Vandam saw that four or five children were riding his
  back bumper.
  Wolff said something, and this time Vandam. did not understand. He
  pretended not to have beard. Wolff repeated it. Vandam caught the word
  for petrol. Wolff was pointing to a garage. Vandam tapped the gauge on
  the dashboard, which showed a full tank. "Kifaya," he said. "Enough."
  Wolff seemed to accept that.
 Pretending to adjust his mirror, Vandam stole a glance at
         THE KEY TO REBECCA      327

 Billy, wondering if he had recognized his father. Billy was staring at the
 back of Vandam's head with an expression of delight. Vandam. thought: Don't
 give the game away, for God's sakel
  They left the town behind and headed south on a straight desert road. On
  their left were the irrigated fields and groves of trees; on their right,
  the wall of granite cliffs, colored beige by a layer of dusty sand. The
  atmosphere in the car was peculiar. Vandam could sensc Elene's tension,
  Billy's euphoria and Wolff's impatience. He himself was very edgy. How much
  of all that was getting througb to Wolff? The spy needed only to take one
  good look at the taxi driver to realize he was the man who had inspected
  papers on the train. Vandam hoped Wolff was preoccupied with thoughts of
  his radio.
 Wolff said: "Ruh alyaminak."
  Vandam knew this meant "Turn right." Up ahead he saw a turn-off which
  seemed to lead straight to the cliff He slowed the car and took the turn,
  then saw that he was headed for a pass through the hills.
  Vandam was surprised. Farther along the southbound road there were some
  villages and the famous convent, according to Newman's map; but beyond
  these hills there was nothing but the Western Desert. If Wolff had buried
  the radio in the sand he would never find it again. Surely he knew better?
  Vandam hoped so, for if Wolff's plans were to collapse, so would his.
  The road began to climb, and the old car struggled to take the gradient.
  Vandam changed down once, then again. The car made the summit in second
  gear. Vandarn looked out across an apparently endless desert. He wished he
  had a jeep. He wondered how far Wolff had to go. They had better get back
  to Assyut before nightfall. He could not ask Wolff ques~ tions for fear of
  revealing his ignorance of Arabic.
  The road became a track. Vandam drove across the desert, going as fast as
  he dared, waiting for instructions from Wolff. Directly ahead, the sun
  rolled down the edge of the sky. After an hour they passed a small flock of
  sheep grazing on tufty, sparse camel thorn, guarded by a man and a boy.
  Wolff sat up in his seat and began to look about him. Soon
 328        Ken Follett

 afterward the road intersected a wadi. Cautiously Vandam let the car roll
 down the hank of the dried-up river.
 Wolff said: "Ruh ashshinzalak."
  Vandam turned left. The going was firm. He was astonished to see groups
  of people, tents and animals in the wadi. It was like a secret community.
  A mile farther on they saw the explanation: a wellhead.
  The mouth of the well was marked by a low circular wan of mud brick. Four
  roughly dressed tree trunks leaned together over the hole, supporting a
  crude winding mechanism. Four or five men hauled water sontinuously,
  emptying the buckets into four radiating troughs around the wellhead.
  Camels and women crowded around the troughs.
  Vandam. drove close to the well. Wolff said: "Andak.Vandam --,topped the
  car. The Aesert people were incurious, although it must have been rare
  for them to see a motor vehicle: perh*ps, V.,mdam thought, their hard
  lives left them no time to investigate oddities. Wolff was asking
  questions of one of the men in rapid Arabic. There was a short excbange.
  The man pointed shead. Wolff said to Vandam: "Dughri." Vandam 4rove on.
  At last they came to a large encampment where Wolff made Vandam. stop.
  There were several tents in a cluster, some penned sheep, several hobbled
  camels and a couple of cooking fires. With a sudden quick movement Wolff
  reached into the front of the car, switched off the engine and pulled out
  the key. Without a word he got out.

 Ishmael was sitting by the fire, making tea. He looked up and said: "Peace
 be with you," as casually as if Wolff had dropped in from the tent next
 door.
  "And with you be health and God's mercy and blessing," Wolff replied
  formally.
 "How is thy healthT'
  "God bless thee; I am well, thank God." Wolff squatted in the sand.
 Ishmael handed him a cup. "Take it."
 "God increase thy good fortune," Wolff said.
 "And thy good fortune also."
 Wolff drank the tea. It was hot, sweet and very -strong. He
         THE KEY TO REBECCA      329

 remembered how this drink had fortified him during his trek through the
 desert ... was it only two months ago?
  When Wolff had drunk, Ishmael raised his hand to his head and said: "May it
  agree with thee, sir."
 "God grant it may agree with thee."
  The formalities were done. Ishmael said: "What of your friends?" He nodded
  toward the taxi, parked in the middle of the wadi, incongruous among the
  tents and camels.
 "They are not friends," Wolff said.
  Ishmael nodded. He was incurious. For all the polite inquiries about one's
  health, Wolff thought, the nomads were not really interested in what city
  people did: their lives were so different as to be incomprehensible.
 Wolff said: "You stiff have my boxr'
 "Yes.,'
  Ishmael would say yes, whether he had it or not, Wolff thought; that was
  the Arab way. Ishmael made no move to fetch the suitcase. He was incapable
  of hurrying. "Quickly" meant "within the next few days"; "immediately"
  meant "tomorrow."
 Wolff said: "I must return to the city today."
 "But you will sleep in my tent."
 "Alas, no."
 "Then you will join us in eating."
  "Twice alas. Already the sun is low, and I must be back In the city before
  night falls."
  Ishmael shook his head sadly, with the look of one who contemplates a
  hopeless case. "You have come for your box."
 "Yes. Please fetch it, my cousin."
  Ishmael spoke to a man standing behind him, who spoke to a younger man, who
  told a child to fetch the case. Ishmael offered Wolfe a cigarette. Wolff
  took it out of politeness. Ishmael lit the cigarettes with a twig from the
  fire. Wolff wondered where the cigarettes had come from. The child brought
  the case and offered it to Ishmael. Ishmael pointed to Wolff.
  Wolff took the case and opened it. A great sense of relief flooded over him
  as he looked at the radio, the book and the key to the code. On the long
  and tedious train journey his euphoria had vanished, but now it came back,
  and he felt intoxicated with the sense of power and imminent victory. Once
 330        Ken Follett

 again he knew he was going to win the war. He closed the lid of the case.
 His hands were unsteady.
  Ishmael was looking at him through narrowed eyes. "Ibis is very important
  to you, this box."
 "It's important to the world."
  Ishmael said: "The sun rises, and the sun sets. Sometimes it rains. We
  live, then we die." He shrugged.
  He would never understand, Wolff thought; but others would. He stood up.
  "I thank you, my cousin."
 "Go in safety."
 "May God protect thee."
 Wolff turned around and walked toward the taxi.

 Elene saw Wolff walk away from the fire with a suitcase in his hand. "He's
 coming back," she said. "What now?"
  "He'll want to go back to Assyut," Vandam said, not looking at her. "Mose
  radios have no batteries, they have to be plugged in, he has to go
  somewhere where there's electricity, and that means Assyut."
 Billy said: "Can I come in the front?"
 "No," Vandam said. "Quiet, now. Not much longer."
 "I'm scared of him."
 "So am 1.11
  Elene shuddered. Wolff got into the car. "Assyut," he said. Vandarn held
  out his hand, palm upward, and Wolff dropped the key in it. Vandam
  started the car and turned it around.
  Tley went along the wadi, past the well, and turned onto the road. Dene
  was thinking about the case Wolff held on his knees. It contained the
  radio, the book and the key to the Rebecca code: how absurd it was that
  so much should hang on the question of who held that case in his hands,
  that she should have risked her life for it, that Vandam should have
  jeopardized his son for it. She felt very tired. The sun was low behind
  them now, and the imallest objects-boulders, bushes, tufts of grass--cast
  long shadows. Evening clouds were gathering over the hills ahead.
 "Go faster," Wolff said in Arabic. "It's getting dark."
  Vandarn seemed to understand, for he increased speed. The car bounced and
  swayed on the unmade road. After a couple of minutes Billy said: "I feel
  sick."
 Elene turned around to look at him. His face was pale and
         THE KEY TO REBECCA      331

 tense, and he was sitting bolt upright. "Go slower," she said to Vandam,
 then she repeated it in-Arabic, as if she had just recalled that he did not
 speak English.
  Vandam slowee down for a moment, but Wolff said: "Go faster." He said to
  Elene: "Forget about the child."
 Vandarr went faster.
  Elene looked at Billy again. He was as white as a sheet, and seemed to be
  on the brink of tears. "You bastard," she said to Wolff.
 "Stop the car," Billy said.
  Wolff ignored him, and Vandam had to pretend not to understand English.
  There was a low hump in the road. Breasting it at speed, the car rose a few
  inche- into the air, and came down again with a bump. Billy yelled: "Dad,
  stop the car! Dadl"
 Vandarn slammed on the brakes.
  Elene braced herself against the dashboard and turned her head to look at
  Wolff.
  For a split second he was stunned with shock. His eyes went to Vandam then
  to Billy. then back to Vandam, and she saw in his expression flrst
  incomprehension, then astonishment, then fear. She knew he wai thinking
  about. the incident on the train, and the Arab boy at the railway station,
  and the kafflyeh that covered the taxi driver's face; and then she saw that
  he knew, he had understood it all in a flash.
  The car wa% screeching to a halt, throwing the passengers forward. Wolff
  regained his balance. With a rapid movement he threw his left arm around
  Billy and pulled the boy to him. Elene saw his band go inside his shirt,
  and then he pulled out the knife.
 The car stopped.
  Vandarr. looked around. At the same moment, Elene saw, his hand went to the
  side slit of his galabiya-and froze there as be looked into the back seat.
  Elene turned too.
  Wolff held the knife an inch from the soft skin of Billy's throat. Billy
  was wild-eyed with fear. Vandam looked stricken. At the corners of Wolffs
  mouth there was the hint of a mad smile.
 "Damn it," Wolff said. "You almost had me."
 They all stared at him in silence.
 "Take off that foolish hat," he said to Vandam.
 332       Ken Follett

 Vandam removed the kafflyeh.
  "Let me guess," said Wolff. "Major Vandam." He seemed to be enjoying the
  moment. "What a good thing I took your son for insurance."
  "It's finished, Wolff," said Vandam. "Half the British Army is on your
  trail. You can let me take you alive, or let them kill you."
  "I don't believe you're telling the truth," Wolff said. "You wouldn't
  have brought the Army to look for your son. You'd be afraid those cowboys
  would shoot the wrong people. I don't think your superiors even know
  where you are."
  Elene felt sure Wolff was right, and she was gripped by despair. She had
  no idea what Wolff would do now, but she felt sure Vandam had lost the
  battle. She looked at Vandam, and saw defeat in his eyes.
  Wolff said: "Underneath his galabiya, Major Vandarn is wearing a pair of
  khaki trousers. In one of the pockets of the trousers, or possibly in the
  waistband, you will find a gun. Take it out."
  Elene reached through the side slit of Vandam's galabiya and found the
  gun in his pocket. She thought: How did Wolff know? and then: Heguessed.
  She took the gun out.
  She looked at Wolff. He could not take the gun from her without releasing
  Billy, and if he released Billy, even for a moment, Vandam would do
  something.
  But Wolff had thought of that. "Break the back of the gun, so that the
  barrel falls forward. Be careful not to pull the trigger by mistake."
 She fiddled with the gun.
  Wolff said: "You'll probably find a catch alongside the cylinder."
 She found the catch and opened the gun.
 "Take out the cartridges and drop them outside the car."
 She did so.
 "Put the gun on the floor of the car."
 She put it down.
  Wolff seemed relieved. Now, once again, the only weapon in the picture
  was his knife. He spoke to Vandam. "Get out of the car."
 Vandam sat motionless.
 "Get out," Wolff repeated. With a sudden precise move-         THE KEY TO REBECCA      333

 ment he nicked the lobe of Billys ear with the knife. A drop of blood
 welled out.
 Vandam got out of the car.
 Wolff said to Elene: "Get into the driving seat."
 She climbed over the gear stick.
  Vandam had left the car door open. Wolff said: "Close the door." Elene
  closed the door. Vandam stood beside the car, staring in.
 "Drive," Wolff said.
  The car had stalled. Elene put the gearshift into neutral and turned the
  key. The engine coughed and died. She hoped it would not go. She turned
  the key again; again the starter failed.
  Wolff said: "Touch the accelerator pedal as you turn the key."
 She did what he said. The engine caught and roared.
 "Drive," Wolff said.
 She pulled away.
 "Faster."
 She changed up.
  Looking in the mirror she saw Wolff put the knife away and release Billy.
  Behind the car, already fifty yards away, Vandam stood on the desert
  road, his silhouette black against the sunset. He was quite still.
 Elene said: "He's got no waterl"
 "No," WolfF replied.
 Then Billy went berserk.
  Elene heard him scream: "You can't leave him behind!" She turned around,
  forgetting about the road. Billy had leaped on Wolff like an enraged
  wildcat, punching and scratching and, somehow, kicking-, yelling
  incoherently, his face a mask of childish rage, his body jerking
  convulsively like one in a fit. Wolff, who had relaxed, thinking the
  crisis was over, was momentarily powerless to resist. In the confined
  space, with Billy so close to him, he was unable to strike a proper blow,
  so he raised his arms to protect himself, and pushed against the boy.
  Elene looked back to the road. While she was turning around. the car had
  gone off course, and now the left-hand front wheel was plowing through
  the sandy scrub beside the road. She struggled to turn the steering wheel
  but it seemed
 334       Ken Follett

 to have a will of its own. She stamped on the brake, and the rear of the
 car began to slide sideways. Too late, she saw a deep rut running across
 the road immediately in front. The skidding car hit the rut broadside with
 an impact that jarred her bones. It seemed to bounce upward. Elene came
 up off the seat momentarily, and when she came down again she
 unintentionally trod on the accelerator pedal. The car shot forward and
 began to skid in the other direction. Out of the corner of her eye she saw
 that Wolff and Billy were being tossed about helplessly, still fighting.
 The car went off the road into the soft sand. It slowed abruptly, and
 Elene banged her forehead on the rim of the steering wheel. The whole of
 the car tilted sideways and seemed to be flying. She saw the desert fall
 away beside her, and realized the car was in fact rolling. She thought it
 would go over and over. She fell sideways, grabbing at the wheel and the
 gear stick. The car did not turn turtle, but perched on its side like a
 coin dropped edgeways into the sand. The gear shift came off in her hand.
 She slumped against the door, banging her head again. The car was still.
  She got to her hands and knees, still holding the broken-off gear stick,
  and looked into the rear of the car. Wolff and Billy had fallen in a heap
  with Wolff on top. As she looked, Wolff moved.
 She had hoped he was dead.
  She had one knee on the car door and the other an the window. On her
  right the roof of the car stood up vertically. On her left was the seat.
  She was looking through the gap between the top of the seat back and the
  roof.
 Wolff got to his feet.
 Billy seemed to be unconscious.
  Elene felt disoriented and helpless, kneeling on the side window of the
  car.
  Wolff, standing on the inside of the left-hand rear door, threw his
  weight against the floor of the car. The car rocked. He did it again; the
  car rocked more. On his third try the car tilted over and fell on all
  four wheels with a crash. Elene was dizzy. She saw Wolff open the door
  and get out of the car. He stood outside, crouched and drew his knife.
  She saw Vandam approaching.
 She knelt on the seat, watching. She could not move untU
         THE KEY TO REBECCA      335

 her head stopped spinning. She saw Vandarn crouch like Wolff, ready to
 spring, his hands raised protectively. He was red-faced and panting: he
 had run after the car. They circled. Wolff was limping slightly. The sun
 was a huge orange globe behind them.
  Vandam. moved forward, then seemed to hesitate curiously. Wolff lashed
  out with the knife, but he had been surprised by Vandam's hesitation, and
  his thrust missed. Vandam's fist lashed out. Wolff jerked back. Elene saw
  that Wolff's nose was bleeding.
 They faced each other again, like boxers in a ring.
  Vandam. jumped forward again. This time Wolff dodged back. Vandam kicked
  out, but Wolff was out of range. Wolff jabbed with the knife. Elene saw
  it rip through Vandam's trousers and draw blood. Wolff stabbed again, but
  Vandam had stepped away. A dark stain appeared on his trouser leg.
  Elene looked at Billy. The boy lay limply on the floor of the car, his
  eyes closed. Elene clambered over into the back and lifted him onto the
  seat. She could not tell whether he was dead or alive. She touched his
  face. He did not stir. "Billy," she said. '~Oh, Billy."
  She looked outside again. Vandam was down on one knee. His left arm hung
  limply from a shoulder covered with blood. He held his right arm out in
  a defensive gesture. Wolff approached him.
  Elene jumped out of the car. She still bad the broken-off gear stick in
  her hand. She saw Wolff bring back his arm, ready to slash at Vandam once
  more. She rushed up behind Wolff, stumbling in the sand. Wolff struck at
  Vandam. Vandam jerked sideways, dodging the blow. Elene raised the gear
  stick high in the air and brought it down with all her might on the back
  of Wolff's head. He seemed to stand still for a moment.
 Elene said: "Oh, God."
 Then she hit him again.
 She hit him a third time.
 He fell down.
 She hit him again.
 Then she dropped the gear stick and knelt beside Vandam.
 "Well done," he said weakly.
 "Can you stand up?"
 336        Ken Follett

  He put a hand on her shoulder and struggled to his feet. "It's not as bad
  as it looks," he said.
 "Let me see."
  "In a minute. Help me with this." Using his good arm, he took hold of
  Wolfrs leg and pulled him toward the car. Elene grabbed the unconscious
  man's arm and heaved. When Wolff was lying beside the car, Vandam lifted
  Wolfrs limp arm and placed the hand on the running board, palm down. nen
  he lifted his foot and stamped on the elbow. Wolff's arm snapped. Elene
  turned white. Vandam said: "That's to make sure he's no trouble when he
  comes round."
  He leaned into the back of the car and put a band on Billy's chest.
  "Alive," be said. "Thank God."
 Billy's eyes opened.
 "It's all over," Vandam said.
 Billy closed his eyes.
  Vandam got into the front seat of the car. "Where's the gear stick?" he
  said.
 "It broke off. nat's what I hit him with."
  Vandam turned the key. The car jerked. "Good-it's still in gear," he
  said. He pressed the clutch and turned the key again. The engine fired.
  He eased out the clutch and the car moved forward. He switched off.
  "We're mobile," he said. "What a piece of luck."
 "What will we do with WolffT'
 "Put him in the boot."
  Vandam took another look at Billy. He was conscious now, his eyes wide
  open. "How are you, son?" said Vandam.
 "I'm sorry," Billy said, "but I couldn't help feeling sick."
  Vandam looked at Elene. "You'll have to drive," he said. There were tears
  in his eyes.
               29

 There was the sudden, terrifying roar of nearby aircraft. Rommel glanced
 up and aaw the British bombers approaching low from behind the nearest
 line of hills: the troops called them "Party Rally" bombers because they
 flew in the perfect formation of display aircraft at the prewar Nuremberg
 parades. "Take coverl" Rommel yelled. He ran to a slit trench and dived
 in.
  The noise was so loud it was like silence. Rommel lay with his eyes
  closed. He had a pain in his stomach. They had sent him a doctor from
  Germany, but Rommel knew that the only medicine he needed was victory.
  He had lost a lot of weight: his uniform hung loosely on him now, and his
  shirt collars seemed too large. His hair was receding rapidly and turning
  white in places.
  Today was September 1, and everything had gone terribly wrong. What had
  seemed to be the weak point in the Allied defense ]me was looking more
  and more like an ambush. The minefields were heavy where they should have
  been light, the ground beneath had been quicksand where hard going was
  expected, and the Alam Halfa ridge, which should have been taken easily,
  was being mightily defended. Rommel's strategy was wrong; his
  intelligence had been wrong; his spy had been Wrong.
  The bombers passed overhead. Rommel got out of the trench. His aides and
  oflicers emerged from cover and gathered around him again. He raised his
  field glasses and looked out over the desert. Scores of vehicles stood
  still in the sand, many of them blazing furiously. If the enemy would
  only charge, Rommel thought, we could fight him. But the 337
 338        Ken Follett

 Allies sat tight, well dug in, picking off the Panzer tanks like fish in
 a barrel.
  It was no good. His forward units were fifteen miles from Alexandria. but
  they were stuck Fifteen miles, he thought. Another fifteen miles. and
  Egypt would have been mine. He looked at the officerT around him. As
  always, their expressions reflected his own: he saw in their faces what
  they saw in his.
 It was defeaL

 He knew it was a nightmare, but he could not wake up.
  The cell was six feet long by four feet wide, and half of it was taker
  up by a bed. Beneath the bed was a chamberpot. The waffis were of smooth
  gray stone. A small light bulb hung from the ceiling by a cord. In one
  end of the cell was a door. In the other end was a small square window,
  set just above eye level: through it he could see the bright blue sky.
  In his dream he thought: I'll wake up soon, then it will be all right.
  I'll wake. up, and there will be a beautiful woman lying beside me on a
  silk sheet, and I will touch her breasts-and as he. thought this he was
  filled with strong lust-and she will wake up and kiss me, and we will
  drink champagne ... But he could not quite dream that, and the dream of
  the prison cell camc back. Somewhere nearby a bass drum waP beating-
  steadily. Soldierp were marching to the rhythm outside. The beat was
  terrifving, terrifying, boomboom, boom-boom, tramp-tramp the drum and the
  soldiers and the close gray walls of the cell and that distant, tanta-
  lizing square of blut sky and he was so frightened, so horrified, that
  he forced his eyes open and he woke up.
  He looked around him, not understanding. He was awake, wide awake, no
  question about it, the dream was over; yet he was still in a prison cell.
  It was six feet long by four feet wide, and half of it was taker) up by
  abed. He raised himself from the bed and looked underneath it. There was
  a chamberpot.
  He stood upright. Ilen, quietly and calmly, he began to bang his head
  against the wall.
         THE KEY TO REBECCA      339

 Jerusalem, 24 September 42
 My dear Elene,

  Today I went to the Western Wall, which is also called the Wailing Wall.
  I stood before it with many other Jews, and I prayed. r wrote a kvitlach
  and put it into a crack in the wall. May God grant my petition.
  Ibis is the most beautiful place in the world, Jerusalem. Of course I do
  not live well. I sleep on a mattress on the floor in a little room with
  five other men. Sometimes I get a little work, sweeping up in a workshop
  where one of my roommates, a young man, carries wood for the carpenters.
  I am very poor, like always, but now I am poor in Jerusalem, which is
  better than rich in Egypt.
  I crossed the desert in a British Army truck. They asked me what I would
  have done if they had not picked me up, and when I said I would have
  walked, I believe they thought me mad. But this is the sanest thing I
  ever did.
  I must tell you that I am dying. My illness is quite incurable, even if
  I could afford doctors, and I have only weeks left, perhaps a couple of
  monihs. Don't be sad. I have never been happier in my life.
  I should tell you what I wrote in my kvitlach. I asked God to grant
  happiness to my daughter Elene. I believe he will. Farewell,

                       Your Father.

 The smoked ham was sliced as thin as paper and rolled into dainty
 cylinders. The bread rolls were home-baked, fresh that morning. There was
 a glass jar of potato salad made with real mayonnaise and crisp chopped
 onion. There were a bottle of wine, another bottle of soda and a bag of
 oranges. And a packet of cigarettes, his brand.
 Elene began to pack the food into the picnic basket.
  She had just closed the lid when she heard the knock at the door. She
  took off her apron before going to open it.
  Vandam stepped inside, closed the door behind him and kissed her. He put
  his arms around her and held her painfully tightly. He always did this,
  and it always hurt, but she never
 340       Ken Follett

 complained, for they had almost lost each other, and now When they were
 together they were just so grateful.
  Tley went into the kitchen. Vandam hefted the picnic basket and said:
  "Lord, what have you got in here, the Crown Jewels?"
 "What's the news?" Elene asked.
  He knew she meant news of the war in the desert. He said: "Axis forces
  in full retreat, and I auote." She thought how relaxed he was these days.
  He even talked differently. A little gray was appearing in his hair, and
  be laughed a lot.
  "I think you're one of those men who gets more good-looking as he gets
  older," she said.
 "Wait till my teeth drop out."
  They went out. The sky was curiously black, and Elene said "Oh!" in
  surprise as she stepped into the street.
 'T-nd of the world today," Vandam said.
 "T've never seen it like this before " Elene said.
  They got on the motorcycle and headed for Billy's school. The sky became
  even darker. The first rain fell as they were passing Shepheard's Hotel,
  Elene saw an Egyptian drape a handkerchief over his fez. The raindrops
  were enormous; each one soaked right through her dress to the skin.
  Vandam turned the bike around and parked in front of the hotel. As they
  dismounted the clouds burst.
  Ilev stood under the hotel canopy and watched the storm. The s&er
  quantity of water was incredible, Within minutes the gutters overflowed
  and the pavements were awash. Opposite the hotel the shopkeepers waded
  through the flood to put up shutters. The cars simply had to stop where
  they were.
  "nere's no main drainage in this town," Vandam remarked. "ne water has
  nowhere to go but the Nile. Look at it." The street had turned into a
  river.
 "What about the bike?" Elene said.
  "Damn thing will float away," said Vandam. "T'll have to bring it under
  here." He hesitated, then dashed out on to the pavement, seized the bike
  by its handlebars and pushed it through the water to the steps of the
  hotel. When he regained the shelter of the canopy his clothes were
  thoroughly soaked and his hair was plastered around his head like a mop
  coming out of a bucket. Elene laughed at him.
         THE KEY TO REBECCA     341

  The rain went on a long time. Elene sald- "What about Billy?"
  "They'll have to keep the kids at school until the rain stops."
  Eventually they went into the hotel for a drink. Vandarn ordered sherry: he
  had sworn off gin, and claimed he did not miss it.
  At last the storm ended, and they went out again; but they had to wait a
  little longer for the flood to recede. Finally there was only an inch or so
  of water, and the sun came out. The motorists began to try to start their
  cars. The bike was not too wet, and it fired first time.
  The sun came out and the roads began to steam as they drove to the school.
  Billy was waiting outside. "What a storm!" he said excitedly. He climbed on
  to the bike, sitting between Efene and Vandam.
  They drove out into the desert. Holding on tightly, her eyes half closed,
  Elene did not see the miracle until Vandam stopped the bike. The three of
  them got off and looked around, speechless.
 The desert was carpeted with flowers.
                            so
 "It's the rain, obviously," said Vandam. "But ...
  Millions of flying insects had also appeared from nowhere, and now
  butterflies and bees dashed frantically from bloom to bloom, reaping the
  sudden harvest.
 Billy said: "The seeds must have been in the sand, wait-
 
 ing.,,
  "That's it," Vandam said. "The seeds have been there for years, just
  waiting for this."
  The flowers were all tiny, like miniatures, but very brightly colored.
  Billy walked a few paces from the road and bent down to examine one. Vandam
  put his arms around Elene and kissed her. It started as a peck on the
  cheek, but turned into a long, loving embrace.
  Eventually she broke away from him, laughing. "You'll embarrass Billy," she
  said.
 "He's going to have to get used to it," Vandam said.
 Elene stopped laughing. "Is he?" she said. "Is he, really?"
 Vandarn smiled, and kissed her again.
         About the Author

 Ken Follett is the author of the bestselling EYE OF THE NEEDLE, which won
 the Mystery Writers of America Edgar Allan Poe Award, and TRIPLE. (Both
 are available in Signet edition.) Welsh-born, he is a former journalist
 for the London Evening News and editorial director of Everest Books in
 England. He now lives in Grasse, France, with his wife and children.