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

SIGNET TRADEMARK REG. VA PAT. 017. A14D FOREIGN COUNTRIES

REGISTERED TRADEBLUX- MARCA, REGISTRADA RECHO FN WINNUVA CANA"

SIGNET. SIGNET CLASSICS, MENTOR, PLUMP, MERIDIAN and NAL BOOKS

are publbbed In Canada by The Now American Library of Canada,

Limited, Scarborough,'Ontario PRINTED IN CANADA COVER PRINTED IN

U.S.A. PUBLISHERS NOTE

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

are either the product of the author's imagination or are used

fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

events, or locales is entirely coincidental. To RoBiN MCGIBBON "Our spy in Cairo is the greatest hero of them all."

-ERWIN ROMMEL, September 1942

(Quoted by Anthony Cave Brown in Bodyguard of Lim) PART ONE

TOBRUK 1

The last camel collapsed at noon.

It was the five-year-old white bull he had bought in Gialo, the youngest

and strongest of the three beasts, and the least ill-tempered: he liked

the animal as much as a man could like a camel, which is to say that he

hated it only a little.

They climbed the leeward side of a small hill, man and camel planting big

clumsy feet in the inconstant sand, and at the top they stopped. They

looked ahead, seeing nothing but another hillock to climb, and after that

a thousand more, and it was as if the camel despaired at the thought. Its

forelegs folded, then its rear went down, and it couched on top of the

bill like a monument, staring across the empty desert with the

indifference of the dying.

The man hauled on its nose rope. Its head came forward and its neck

stretched out, but it would not get up. The man went behind and kicked

its hindquarters as hard as he could, three or four times. Finally he

took out a razor-sharp curved Bedouin knife with a narrow point and

stabbed the camel's rump. Blood flowed from the wound but the camel did

not even look around.

The man understood what was happening. The very tissues of the animal's

body, starved of nourishment, had simply stopped working.. like a machine

that has run out of fuel. He had seen camels collapse like this on the

outskirLs of an oasis, surrounded by life-giving foliage which they

ignored, lacking the energy to, eat.

There were two more tricks he migbt have tried. One was to pour water

into its nostrils until it began to drown; the other to light a fire

under its hindquarters. He could not

3 4 Ken Follett

spare the water for one nor the firewood for the other, and besides neither method had a great chance of success.

It was time to stop, anyway. The sun was high and fierce. The long

Saharan summer was beginning, and the midday temperature would reach 110

degrees in the shade.

Without unloading the camel, the man opened one of his bags and took out

his tent. He looked around again, automatically: there was no shade or

shelter in sight---one place was as bad as another. He pitched his tent

beside the dying camel, there on top of the hillock.

He sat cross-legged in the open end of the tent to make his tea. He

scraped level a small square of sand, arranged a few precious dry twigs

in a pyramid and lit the fire. When the kettle boiled he made tea in the

nomad fashion, pouring it from the pot into the cup, adding sugar, then

returning it to the pot to infuse again, several times over. The

resulting brew, very strong and rather treacly, was the most revivifying

drink in the world.

He gnawed at some dates and watched the camel die while he waited for the

sun to pass overhead. His tranquillity was practiced. He had come a long

way in this desert, more than a thousand miles. Two months earlier he had

left El Agela, on the Mediterranean coast of Libya, and traveled due

south for five hundred miles, via Gialo and Kufra, into the empty heart

of the Sahara. There he had turned cast and crossed the border into Egypt

unobserved by man or beast. He had traversed the rocky wasteland of the

Western Desert and turned north near Kharga; and now he was not far from

his destination. He knew the desert, but he was afraid of it-all intelli-

gent men were, even the nomads who lived all their lives here. But he

never allowed that fear to take hold of him, to panic him, to use up his

liervous energy. There were always catastrophes: mistakes in navigation

that made you miss a well by a couple of miles; water bottles that leaked

or burst; apparently healthy camels that got sick a couple of days out.

The only response was to say Inshallah: It is the will of God.

Eventually the sun began to dip toward the west. He looked at the camel's

load, wondering how much of it he could carry. There were three small

European suitcases, two heavy and one light, all important. There was a

little bag of clothes, a sextant, the maps, the food and the water

bottle. It THE KEY TO REBECCA 5

was already too much: he would have to abandon the tent, the tea set, the cooking pot, the almanac and the saddle.

He made the three cases into a bundle and tied the clothes, the food and

the sextant on top, strapping the lot together with a length of cloth.

He could put his arms through the cloth straps and carry the load like

a rucksack on his back. He slung the goatskin water bag around his neck

and let it dangle in front. It was a heavy load.

Three months earlier he would have been able to carry it all day then

play tennis in the evening, for he was a strong man; but the desert had

weakened him. His bowels were water, his skin was a mass of sores, and

he had lost twenty or thirty pounds. Without the camel he could not go

far. Holding his compan in his hand, he started walking.

He followed the compass wherever it led, resisting the temptation to

divert around the hills, for he was navigating by dead reckoning over the

final miles, and a fractional error could take him a fatal few hundred

yards astray. He settled into a slow, long-strided waUL His mind emptied

of hopes and fears and he concentrated on the compass and the sand. He

managed to forget the pain of his ravaged body and put one foot in front

of the other automatically, without thought and therefore without effort.

The day cooled into everung. The water bottle became lighter around his

neck as he consumed its contents. He refused to think about how much

water was left: he was drinking six pints a day, he had calculated, and

he knew there was not enough for another day. A flock of birds flew over

his head, whistling noisily. He looked up, shading his eyes with his

hand, and recognized them as 11chtenstein7s sandgrouse, desert birds,

like brown pigeons that flocked to water every morning and evening. They

were heading the same way as he was, which meant he was on the right

track, but he knew they could fly fifty miles to water, so he could take

little encouragement from them.

Clouds gathered on the horizon as the desert cooled. Be. hind him, the

San Bank lower and turned into a big yellow balloon. A little later a

white moon appeared in a purple sky.

He thought about stopping. Nobody could walk all night. But he had no

tent, no blanket, no rice and no tea. And he 6 Ken Follett

was sure he was close to the well: by his reckoning he should have been there.

He walked on. His calm was deserting him now. He had set his strength and

his expertise against the ruthless desert, and it began to look as if the

desert would win. He thought again of the camel he had left behind, and

how it had sat on the hillock, with the tranquillity of exhaustion,

waiting for death. He avould not wait for death, he thought: when it be-

came inevitable he ~would rush to meet it. Not for him the hours of agony

and cncroaching madness-that would be undignified. He had his knife.

The thought made him feel desperate, and now he could no longer repress

the fear. The moon went down, but the landscape was bright with

starlight. He saw his mother in the distance, and she said: "Don't say

I never warned you!" He heard a railway train that chugged along with his

heartbeat, slowly. Small rocks moved in his path like scampering rats.

He smelled roast lamb. He breasted a rise and saw, close by, a red glow

of the fire over which the meat had been roasted, and a small boy beside

it gnawing the bones. Ilicre were the tents around the fire, the bobbled

camels grazing the scattered thorns, and the wellhead beyond. He walked

into the hallucination. The people in the dream looked up at him,

startled. A tall man stood up and spoke. The traveler pulled at his

howli, partially unwinding the cloth to reveal his face.

The tall man stepped forward, shocked, and said, "My cousinf"

The traveler understood that this was not, after all, an illusion; and

he smiled faintly and collapsed.

When he awoke he thought for a moment that he was a boy again, and that his adult life had been a dream.

Someone was touching his shoulder and saying "Wake up, Achmed," in the

tongue of the desert. Nobody had called him Achmed for years. He realized

he was wrapped in a coarse blanket and lying on the cold sand, his head

swathed in a howli. He opened his eyes to see the gorgeous sunrise like

a straight rainbow against the flat black horizon. The icy morning 'wind

blew into his face. In that instant he experienced again all the

confusion and anxiety of his fifteenth year. THE KEY TO REBECCA 7

He had felt utterly lost, that first time he woke up in the desert. He

had thought My father is dead, and then I have a new father. Snatches

from the Surahs of the Koran had run through his head, mixed with bits

of the Creed which his mother still taught him secretly, in German. He

remembered the recent sharp pain of his adolescent circumcision, followed

by the cheers and rifle shots of the men as they congratulated him on at

last becoming one of them, a true man. Then there had been the long train

journey, wondering what his desert cousins would be like, and whether

they would despise his pale body and his city ways. He had walked briskly

out of the railway station and seen the two Arabs, sitting beside their

camels in the dust of the station yard, wrapped in traditional robes

which covered them from head to foot except for the slit in the howli

which revealed only their dark, unreadable eyes. They had taken him to

the well. It had been terrifying: nobody had spoken to him, except in

gestures. In the evening he had realized that these people had no

toilets, and he became desperately embarrassed. In the end he had been

forced to ask. There was a moment of silence, then they all burst out

laughing. It transpired that they had thought he could not speak their

language, which was why everyone had tried to communicate with him in

signs; and that he had used a baby word in asking about toilet

arrangements, which made it funnier. Someone had explained to him about

walking a little way beyond the circle of tents. and squatting in the

sand, and after that he had not been so frightened, for although these

were hard men they were not i-inkind.

All these thoughts had run through his mind as he looked at his first

desert sunrise, and they came back again twenty years later, as fresh and

as painful as yesterday's bad memories, with the words "Wake up, Achmed."

He sat up abruptly, the old thoughts clearing rapidly like the morning

clouds. He had crossed the desert on a vitally important mission. He had

found the well, and it had not been a hallucination: his cousins were

here, as they always were at this time of the year. He had collapsed with

exhaustion, and they had wrapped him in blankets and let him sleep by the

fire. He suffered a sudden sharp panic as he thought of his precious

baggage-had he still been carrying it when he arrived?-then he saw it,

piled neatly at his feet. 8 Ken Follett

Ishmael was squatting beside him. It had always been like this:

throughout the year the two boys had spent together in the desert,

Ishmael had never failed to wake first in the morning. Now he said:

"Heavy worries, cousin." Achmed nodded. "There is a war."

Ishmael proffered a tiny jeweled bowl containing water. Achmed dipped his

fingers in the water and washed his eyes. Ishmael went away. Achmed stood

up.

One of the women, silent and subservient, gave him tea. He took it

without thanking her and drank it quickly. He ate some cold boiled rice

while the unhurried work of the encampment went on around him. It seemed

that this branch of the family was still wealthy: there were several

servants, many children and more than twenty camels. The sheep nearby

were only a part of the flock-the rest would be grazing a few miles away.

There would be more camels, too. They wandered at night in search of

foliage to eat, and although they were hobbled they sometimes went out

of sight. The young boys would be rounding them up now, as he and Ishmael

had done. The beasts had no names, but Ishmael knew each one

individually, and its history. He would say: "This is the bull my father

gave to his brother Abdel in the year many women died, and the bull

became lame so my father gave Abdel another and took this one back, and

it still limps, seeT' Achmed had come to know camels well, but he had

never quite adopted the nomad attitude to them: he had not, he

remembered, lit a fire underneath his dying white yesterday. Ishmael

would have.

Achmed finished his breakfast and went back to his baggage. Ile cases

were not locked. He opened the top one, a small leather suitcase; and

when he looked at the switches and dials of the compact radio neatly

fitted into the rectangular case he had a sudden vivid memory like a

movie: the bustling frantic city of Berlin; a tree-lined street called

the Tirpitzufer; a four-story sandstone building; a maze of hallways and

staircases; an outer office with two secretaries; an inner office,

sparsely furnished with desk, sofa, filing cabinet, small bed and on the

wall a Japanese painting of a grinning demon and a signed photograph of

Franco; and beyond the office, on a balcony overlooking the Landwehr

Canal, a pair TIN KEY TO REBECCA 9

of dachshunds and a prematurely white-haired admiral who said: "Rommel wants me to put an agent into Cairo."

The case also contained a book, a novel in English. Idly, Achmed read the

first line: "Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again." A folded

sheet of paper fell out from between the leaves of the book. Carefully,

Achmed picked it up and put it back. He closed the book, replaced it in

the case, and closed the case.

Ishmael was standing at his shoulder. He said: "Was it a long journey?"

Achmed nodded. "I came from El Agela, in Libya." The names meant nothing

to his cousin. "I came from the sea." "From the seal" "Yes.,$ "Alone?" "I had some camels when I started."

Ishmael was awestruck: even the nomads did not make such long journeys,

and he had never seen the sea. He said: "But why?" "It is to do with this war."

"One gang of Europeans fighting with another over who shall sit in

Cairo-what does this matter to the sons of the desertT' "My mother's people are in the war," Achmed said. "A man should follow his father." "And if he has two fathersT' Ishmael shrugged. He understood dilemmas.

Achmed lifted the closed suitcase. "Will you keep this for me?" "Yes." Ishmael took it. "Who is winning the war?"

"My mother's people. They are like the nomads-they are proud, and cruel,

and strong. They are going to rule the world."

Ishmael smiled. "Achmed, you always did believe in the desert lion."

Achmed remembered: he had learned, in school, that there had once been

lions in the desert, and that it was possible a few of them remained,

hiding in the mountains, living off deer and fennec fox and wild sheep.

Ishmael had refused to believe him. The argument had seemed terribly

important 10 Ken Follett

then, and they had almost quarreled over it. Achmed grinned. "I still believe in the desert lion," be said.

The two cousins looked at one another. It was five years since the last

time they had met. The world had changed. Achmed thought of the things he

could tell: the crucial meeting in Beirut in 1938, his trip to Berlin, his

great coup in Istanbul . . . None of it would mean anything to his

cousin-and Ishmael was probably thinking the same about the events of his

last five years. Since they had gone together as boys on the pilgrimage to

Mecca they had loved each other fiercely, but they never had anything to

talk about.

After a moment Ishmael turned away, and took the case to his tent. Achmed

fetched a little water in a bowl. He opened another bag, and took out a

small piece of soap, a brush, a mirror and a razor. He stuck the mirror in

the sand, adjusted it, and began to unwind the howli from around his head. The sight of his own face in the mirror shocked him.

His strong, normally clear forehead was covered with sores. His eyes were

hooded with pain and lined in the corners. The dark beard grew matted and

unkempt on his fineboned cheeks, and the skin of his large booked nose was

red and split. He parted his blistered lips and saw that his fine, even

teeth were filthy and stained. He brushed the soap on and began to shave.

Gradually his old face emerged. It was strong rather than handsome, and

normally wore a look which he recognized, in his more detached moments, to

be faintly dissolute; but now it was simply ravaged. He bad brought a small

phial of scented lotion across hundreds of miles of desert for this moment,

but now he did not put it on because he knew it would sting unbearably. He

gave it to a girl-child who had been watching him, and she ran away,

delighted with her prize.

He carried his bag into Ishmael's tent and shooed out the women. He took

off his desert robes and donned a white English shirt, a striped tie, gray

socks and a brown checked suit. When he tried to put on the shoes he

discovered that his feet had swollen: it was agonizing to attempt to force

them into the hard new leather. However, he could not wear his European

suit with the improvised rubber-tire sandals of the desert. In the end he

slit the shoes with his curved knife and wore them loose. THE KEY TO REBECCA 11

He wanted more: a hot bath, a haircut, cool soothing cream for his sores,

a silk shirt, a gold bracelet, a cold bottle of champagne and a warm soft

woman. For those he would have to wait.

When he emerged from the tent the nomads looked at him as if he were a

stranger. He picked up his hat and hefted the two remaining cases-one

heavy, one light. Ishmael ~aame to him carrying a goatskin water bottle.

The two cousins embraced.

Achmed took a wallet from the pocket of his jacket to check his papers.

Looking at the identity card, he realized that once again he was

Alexander Wolff, age thirty-four, of Villa les Oliviers, Garden City,

Cairo, a businessman, raceEuropean.

He put on his hat, picked up his cases and set off in the cool of the

dawn to walk across the last few miles of desert to the town.

The great and ancient caravan route, which Wolff had followed from oasis to oasis across the vast empty desert, led through a pass in the mountain range and at last rnerged with an ordinary modem road. The road was like a line drawn on the map by God, for on one side were the yellow, dustv, barren hills, and on the other were lush fields of cotton 2quared off with irrigation ditches. The peasants, bent over their crops, wore galabiyas, simple shifts of striped cotton, instead of the cumbersome protective robes of the nomads. Walking north on the road, smelling the cool damp breeze off the nearby Nile, observing the increasing signs of urban civilization, Wolff began to feel human again. The peasants dotted about the fields came to seem less like a crowd. Finally he heard the engine of a car, and he knew he was safe.

The vehicle was approaching him from the direction of Assyut, the town.

It came around a bend and into sight, and he recognized it as a military

jeep. As it came closer he saw the British Army uniforms of the men in

it, and he realized he had left behind one danger only to face another.

Deliberately he made himself calm. I have every right to be here, he

thought. I was born in Alexandria. I am Egyptian by nationality. I own

a house in Cairo. My papers are all 12 Ken Follett

genuine. I am a wealthy man, a European and a German spy behind enemy lines-

The jeep screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust. One of the men jumped

out. He had three cloth pips on each shoulder of his uniform shirt: a

captain. He looked terribly young, and walked with a fimp. The captain said: "Where the devil have you come from?"

Wolff put down his cases and jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. "My

car broke down on the desert road."

The captain nodded, accepting the explanation instantly: it would never

have occurred to him, or to anyone else, that a European might have

walked here from Libya. He said: "I'd better see your papers, please."

Wolff handed them over. The captain examined them, then looked up. Wolff

thought: There has been a leak from Berlin, and every officer in Egypt

is looking for me; or they have changed the papers since last time I was

here, and mine are out of date; or-

"You look about all in, Mr. Wolff," the captain said. "How long have you

been walking?"

Wolff realized that his ravaged appearance might get some useful sympathy

from another European. "Since yesterday afternoon," he said with a

weariness that was not entirely faked. "I got a bit lost."

'.You've been out here all night?" The captain looked more closely at

Wolffs, face. "Good Lord, I believe you have. You'd better have a lift

with us." He turned to the jeep. "Corporal, take the gentleman's cases."

Wolff opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again abruptly. A man who

had been walking all night would be only too glad to have someone take

his luggage. To object would not only discredit his story, it would draw

attention to the bags. As the corporal hefted them into the back of the

jeep, Wolff realized with a sinking feeling that he bad not even bothered

to lock them. How could I be so stupid? he thought. He knew the answer.

He was still in tune with the desert, where you were lucky to see other

people once a week, and the last thing they wanted to steal was a radio

transmitter that had to be plugged in to a power outlet. His senses were

alert to all the wrong things: he was watching the movement of the sun,

smelling the air for water, measuring THE KEY TO REBECCA 13

the distances he was traveling, and scanning the horizon as if searching for a lone tree in whose shade he could rest during the beat of the day. He had to forget R11 that now, and think instead of policemen and papers and locks and lies. He resolved to take more care, and climbed into the jeep.

The captain got in beside him and said to the driver: "Back into town."

Wolff decided to bolster his story. As the jeep turned in the dusty road

he said: "Have you got any water?"

"Of course." The captain reached beneath his seat and pulled up a tin

bottle covered in felt, like a large whiskey flask. He unscrewed the cap

ind handed it to Wolff.

Wolff drank deeply, swallowing at least a pint. "Thanks," he said, and

handed it back.

"Quite a thirst you had. Not surprising. Oh, by the wayI'm Captain

Newman." He stuck out his hand.

Wolff shook it and looked more closely at the man. He was young-early

twenties, at a guess-and fresh-faced, with a boyish forelock and a ready

smile; but there was in his demeanor that weary maturity that comes early

to fighting men. Wolff asked him: "Seen any action?"

"Some." Captain Newman touched his own knee. "Did the leg at Cyrenaica,

that's why they sent me to this one-horse town." He grinned. "I can't

honestly say I'm panting to get back into the desert, but I'd like to be

doing something a bit more positive than this, minding the shop hundreds

of miles from the war. The only fighting we ever see is between the

Christians and the Moslems in the town. Where does your accent come

from?"

The sudden question, unconnected with what had gone before, took Wolff

by surprise. It had surely been intended to, he thought: Captain Newman

was a sharp-witted young man. Fortunately Wolff had a prevared answer.

"My ?.arents were Boers who came from South Africa to Egypt. I grew up

speaking Afrikaans and Arabic." He hesitated, nervous of overplaying his

hand by seeming too eager to explain. "The name Wolff is Dutch,

originally; and I was christened Alex after the town where I was born."

Newman seemed politely interested. "What brings you here?" Wolff had prepared for that one, too. "I have business in- 14 Ken Follett

terests irk several towns in Upper Egypt." He smiled. "I like to pay them surprise visits."

They were entering Assyut. By Egyptian standards it was a large town,

with factories, hospitals, a Muslim university, a famous convent and some

sixty thousand inhabitants. Wolff was about to ask to be dropped at the

railway station when Newman saved him from that error. "You need a

garage," the captain said. "We'll take you to Nasif's: he has a tow

truck."

Wolff forced himself to say: "Ibank you." He swallowed drily. He was

still not thinking hard enough or fast enough. I wish I could pull myself

together, he thought; it's the damn desert, it's slowed me down. He

looked at his watch. He had time to go through a charade at the garage

and still catch the daily train to Cairo. He considered what he would do.

He would have to go into the place, for Newman would watch. 1hen the

soldiers would drive away. Wolff would have to make some inquiries about

car parts or something, then take his leave and walk to the station.

With luck, Nasif and Newman might never compare notes on the subject of

Alex Wolff.

The jeep drove through the busy, narrow streets. The familiar sights of

an Egyptian town pleased Wolff: the gay cotton clothes, the women

carrying bundles on their heads, the officious policemen, the sharp

characters in sunglasses, the tiny shops spilling out into the rutted

streets, the stalls, the battered cars and the overloaded asses. They

stopped in front of a row of low mud-brick buildings. The road was half

blocked by an ancient truck and the remains of a cannibalIzed Fiat. A

small boy was working on a cylinder block with a wrench, sitting on the

ground outside the entrance.

Newman said: "I'll have to leave you here, rm. afraid; duty calls." Wolff shook his hand. "Youve been very kind."

"I don't like to dump you this way," Newman continued. 'You've had a bad

time." He frowned, then his face clearedL 'vrell you what-I'll leave

Corporal Cox to look after you." Wolff said: "It's kind, but reafly--2'

Newman was not listening. "Get the man's bags, Cox, and look sharp. I

want you to take care of him-and don't you leave anything to the wogs,

understand?" THE KEY TO REBECCA is

"Yes, sirl" said Cox.

Wolff groaned inwardly. Now there would be more delay while he got rid of

the corporal. Captain Newman's kindness was becoming a nuisance-could that

possibly be intentional?

Wolff and Cox got out, and the jeep pulled away. Wolff walked into Nasif's

workshop, and Cox followed, carrying the cases.

Nasif was a smiling young man in a Mthy galabiya, working on a car battery

by the light of an oil lamp. He spoke to them in English. "You want to rent

a beautiful automobile? My brother have Bentley-"

Wolff interrupted him in rapid Egyptian Arabic. "My car has broken down.

They say you have a tow truck." "Yes. We can leave right away. Where is the car?"

"On the desert road, forty or fifty miles out. Ifs a Ford. But we're not

coming with you." He took out his wallet and gave Nasif an IRngliab pound

note. "You'll find me at the Grand Hotel by the railway station when you

return."

Nasif took the money with alacrity. "Very goodl I leave immediatelyl"

Wolff nodded curtly and turned aroand. Walking out of the workshop with Cox

in tow, he considered the implications of his short conversation with

Nasif. The mechanic would go out into the desert with his tow truck and

search the road for the car. Eventually he would return to the Grand Hotel

to confess failure. He would learn that Wolff had left. He would consider

he had been reasonably paid for his wasted day, but that would not stop him

telling all and sundry the story of the disappearing Ford and its

disappearing driver. The likelihood was that all this would get back to

Captain Newman sooner or later. Newman might not know quite what to make of

it all, but he would certainly feel that here was a mystery to be

investigated.

WoIW& mood darkened as he realized thathis plan of dipping unobserved into

Egypt might have failed.

He would just have to make the best of it. He looked at his watch. He still

had time to catch the train. He would be able to get rid of Cox in the

lobby of the hotel, then get something to eat and drink while he was

waiting, if he was quick.

Cox was a short, dark man with some kind of British regional accent which

Wolff could not identify. He looked 16 Ken Follett

about Wolff's age, and as he was still a corporal he was probably not too bright. Following Wolff across the Midan el-Mahatta, he said: "You know this town, sir?" "I've been here before," Wolff r-plied.

They entered the Grand. With twenty-six rooms it was the larger of the

town's two hotels. Wolff turned to Cox. "Thank you, Corporal. I think you

could get back to work now."

"No hurry, sir," Cox said cheerfully. "I'll carry your bags upstairs." "I'm sure they have porters here-~' "Wouldn't trust 'em, sir, if I were you."

The situation was becoming more and more like a nightmare or a farce, in

which vell-intentioned people pushed him into increasingly senseless

behavior in consequence of one small lie. He wondered ..,gain whether

this was entirely accidental, and it crossed his -nind with terrifying

absurdity that perhaps they knew everything and were simply toying with

him.

He pushed the thought aside and spoke to Cox with as much grace as he

could muster. "Well, thank you."

He turned to the desk ind asked for a room. He looked at his watch: he

had fifteen minutes left. He filled in the form quickly, giving an

invented address in Cairo-there was a chance Captain Newman would forget

the true address on the identity papers, and Wolff did not want to leave

a reminder.

A Nubian porter led them upstairs to the room. Wolff tipped him off at

the door. Cox put the cases down on the bed.

Wolff took out his wallet: perhaps Cox expected a tip too. "Well,

Corporal," he began, "you've been very helpful--2'

"Let me unpack for you, sir," Cox said. "Captain said not to leave

anything to the wogs."

"No, thank you," Wolff said firmly. "I want to lie down right now."

"You go ahead and lie down," Cox persisted generously. "It won't take

me-" "Don't open thatl"

Cox was lifting the lid of the case. Wolff reached inside his jacket,

thinking Damn the man and Now I'm blown and I should have locked it and

Can I do this quietly? The little THE KEY TO REBECCA 17

corporal stared at the neat stacks of new English pound notes which filled the small case. He said: "Jesus Christ, you're loadedl" It crossed Wolff's mind, even as he stepped forward, that Cox had never seen so much money in his life. Cox began to turn, saying: "What do you want with all tbat--2' Wolff pulled the wicked curved Bedouin knife, and it glinted in his hand as his eyes met Cox's, and Cox flinched and opened his mouth to shout; and then the razor-sbarp blade sliced deep into the soft flesh of his throat, and his shout of fear came as a bloody gurgle and he died; and Wolff felt nothing, only disappointment. 2

It was May, and the khamsin was blowing, a hot dusty wind from the south. Standing Inder the ihower, William Vandarn had the depressing thought that this would be the only time he would feel cool all day. He tumed off the water and dried himself rapidly. His body was full of small aches. He had played cricket the day before, for the first time in years. General Staff Intelligence bad got up a team to play the doctors from the field hospital- - spies versus quacks, they had called it-and Vandam, fielding on the boundary, had been run ragged as the medics hit the Intelligence Department's bowling all over the park. Now he had to admit he was not in good condition. Gin had sapped his strength and cigarettes had shortened his wind, and he had too many worries to give the game the fierce concentration it merited.

He lit a cigarette, cotighed -.tnd started to shave. He always smoked

while he was shaving- -it was the only way he knew to relieve the boredom

of the inevitable daily task. Fifteen years ago he had sworn he would

grow a beard as soon as he got out of the Army, but he was still in the

Army.

He dressed in the everyday -iniform: heavy sandals, socks, bush shirt and

the khaki ~horts with the flaps that could be let down and buttoned below

the knee for protection against mosquitoes. Nobody ever osed the flaps,

and the younger officers usually cut them off, they looked so ridiculous.

There was an emptv gin bottle on the floor beside the bed. Vandam looked

at it, feeling -lisgusted with himself: it was the first time he had

taken the damn bottle to bed with him. He picked it up, replaced the cap

and threw the bottle into the wastebasket. Then he went downstairs.

18 THE KEY TO REBECCA 19

Gaafar was in the kitchen, making tea. Vandam's servant was an elderly Copt

with a bald head and a shuffling walk, and pretensions to be an English

butler. That he would never be, but he had a little dignity and be was

honest, and Vandam had not found those qualities to be common among

Egyptian house servants. Vandam said: "Is Billy up?" "Yes, sir, he's coming down directly."

Vandarn nodded. A small pan of water was bubbling on the stove. Vandarn put

an egg in to boil and set the timer. He cut two slices from an English-type

loaf and made toast. He buttered the toast and cut it into fingers, then he

took the egg out of the water and decapitated it.

Billy came into the kitchen and said: "Good morning, Dad."

Vandarn smiled at his ten-year-old son. "Morning. Breakfast is ready."

The boy began to eat. Vandam sat opposite him with a cup of tea, watching.

Billy often looked tired in the mornings recently. Once upon a time he had

been infallibly daisy-fresh at breakfast. Was he sleeping badly? Or was his

metabolism simply becoming more like an adult's? Perhaps it was just that

be was staying awake late, reading detective stories under the sheet by the

light of a flashlight.

People said Billy was like his father, but Vandam could not see the

resemblance. However, he could see traces of Billy's mother: the gray eyes,

the delicate skin and the faintly supercilious expression which came over

his face when someone crossed him.

Vandam always prepared his son's breakfast. The servant was perfectly

capable of looking after the boy, of course, and most of the time he did;

but Vandam liked to keep this little ritual for himself. Often it was the

only time he was with Billy all day. They did not talk much-Billy ate and

Vandam smoked-but that did not matter: the important thing was that they

were together for a while at the start of each day.

After breakfast Billy brushed his teeth while Gaafar got out Vandam's

motorcycle. Billy came back wearing his school cap, and Vandam put on his

uniform cap. As they did every day, they saluted each other. Billy said:

"Right, sir-let's go and win the war." 20 Ken Follett

Then they went out.

Major Vandam's office was at Gray Pillars, one of a group of buildings surrounded by barbed-wire fencing which made up GHQ Middle East. There was an incident report on his desk when he arrived. He sat down, lit a cigarette and began to read.

The report came from Assyut, three hundred miles south, and at first

Vandam could not see why it had been marked for Intelligence. A patrol

had picked up a hitchhiking European who had subsequently murdered a

corporal with a knife. The body had been discovered last night, almost

as soon as the corporal'ti absence was noted, but several hours after the

death. A man answering the hitchhiker's description had bought a ticket

to Cairo at the railway station, but by the time the body was found the

train had arrived in Cairo and the killer had melted into the city. There was no indication of motive.

The Egyptian police force and the British Military Police would be

investigating already in Assyut, and their collekgues in Cairo would,

like Vandam, be learning the details this morning. What reason was there

for Intelligence to get involved?

Vandam frowned and thought again. A Europe-an is picked up in the desert.

He says his car has broken down. He checks into a hotel. He leaves a few

minutes later and catches a train. His car is not found. The body of a

soldier is discovered that night in the hotel room. Why?

Vandam. got on the phone and called Assyut. It took the army camp

switchboard a while to locate Captain Newman, but eventually they found

him in the arsenal and got him to a phone.

Vandam said: "This knife murder almost looks like a blown cover."

"That occurred to me, sir," said Newman. He sounded a young man. "That's

why I marked the report for Intelligence."

"Good thinking. Tell me, what was your impression of the man?" "He was a big chap--2' THE KEY TO REBECCA 21

"I've got your description here-six foot, twelve stone, dark hair and

eyes-but that doesn't tell me what he was like."

"I understand," Newman said. "Well, to be candid, at first I wasn't in the

least suspicious of him. He looked all in, which fitted with his story of

having broken down on the desert road, but apart from that he seemed an

upright citizcn: a white man, decently dressed, quite well spoken with an

accent he said was Dutch, or rather Afrikaans. His papers were perfect-I'm

still quite sure they were genuine." "But ... ?11

"He told me he was checking on his business interests in Upper Egypt." "Plausible enough."

"Yes, but he didn't strike me as the kind of man to spend his life

investing in a few shops and small factories and cotton farms. He was much

more the assured cosmopolitan type: if he had money to invest it would

probably be with a London stockbroker or a Swiss bank. He just wasn't a

small-timer . It9s very vague, sir, but do you see what I mean?"

"Indeed." Newman sounded a bright chap, Vandarn thought. What was he doing

stuck out in Assyut?

Newman went on: "And then it occurred to me that he had, as it were, just

appeared in the desert, and I didn't really know where he might have come

from ... so I told poor old Cox to stay with him, on the pretense of

helping him, to make sure he didn't do a bunk before we had a chance to

check his story. I should have arrested the man, of course, but quite

honestly, sir, at the time I had only the most slender suspicion---~'

"I don't think anyone's blaming you, Captain," said Vandam. "You did well

to remember the name and address from the papers. Alex Wolff, Villa les

Oliviers, Garden City, right?" "Yes, sir."

"All right, keep me in. touch with any developments at your end, will youT' "Yes, sir."

Vandam hung up. Newman's suspicions chimed with his own instincts about the

killing. He decided to speak to his 22 Ken Follett

immediate superior. He left his office, carrying the incident report.

General Staff Intelligence was ran by a brigadier with the title of

Director of Military Intelligence. The DMI had two deputies: DDMI(O)-for

Operational-and DDMI(I)-for Intelligence. The deputies were colonels.

Vandam's boss, Lieutenant Colonel Bogge, came under the DDMI(l). Bogge

was responsible for personnel security, and most of his time was spent

administering the censorship apparatus. Vandam's concern was security

leaks by means other than letters. He and his men had several hundred

agents in Cairo and Alexandria; in most clubs and bars there was a waiter

who was on his payroll, he had an informant among the domestic staffs of

the more important Arab politicians, King Farouk's valet worked for

Vandam, and so did Cairo's wealthiest thief. He was interested in who was

talking too much, and who was listening; and among the listeners, Arab

nationalists were his main target. However, it seemed possible that the

mystery man from Assyut might be a different kind of threat.

Vandam's wartime career had so far been distinguished by one spectacular

success and one great failure. The failure took place in Turkey. Rashid

Ali had escaped there from Iraq. The Germans wanted to get him out and

use him for propaganda; the British wanted him kept out of the limelight;

and the Turks, jealous of their neutrality, wanted to offend nobody.

Vandam's job had been to make sure Ali stayed in Istanbul, but Ali had

switched clothes with a German agent and slipped out of the country under

Vandam's nose. A few days later he was making propaganda speeches to the

Middle East on Nazi radio. Vandam had somewhat redeemed himself in Cairo.

London had told him they had reason to believe there was a major security

leak there, and after three months of painstaking investigation Vandam

had discovered that a senior American diplomat was reporting to

Washington in an insecure code. The code had been changed, the leak had

been stopped up and Vandam had been promoted to major.

Had he been a civilian, or even a peacetime soldier, he would have been

proud of his triumph and reconciled to his defeat, and he would have

said: "You win some, you lose some." But in war an officer's mistakes

killed people. In the aftermath of the Rashid Ali affair an agent had

been mur-

THE KEY TO REBECCA 23

dered, a woman, and Vandam was not able to forgive himself for that.

He knocked on Lieutenant Colonel Bogge's door and walked in. Reggie Rogge

was a ihort, square man in his fifties, with an immaculate iniform. and

brilliantined black hair. He had a nervous, throat-clearing cough which

he used when he did not know quite -vhat to say, which was aften. He sat

behind a huge curved desk -bigger than the DMIS--going through his in

tray. Always #illing to talk rather than work, he motioned Vandam to a

chair. He picked up a bright-red cricket ball and began to toss it from

hand to hand. "You played.% good game yesterday," he said.

"You didn't do badly yourself," Vandam said. It was true: Bogge had been

the only 4ecent bowler on the Intelligence team, and his slow googli,%

had -aken four wickets for fortytwo runs. "But are -we -nnning the war?"

"More bloody had news, T'm -fraid." The morning briefing had not yet

taken place, but Rogge always heard the news by word of mouth beiorehand.

"We. expected Rommel to attack the Gazala Line head on. Should have known

better --fellow never 'Ights fair and square. He went around our southern

flank, took the Seventh Armored's headquarters, and captured General

Messervy."

It was a depressingly familiar story, and Vandam suddenly felt weary.

"What a shambles," he said.

"Fortunately he failed to get through to the coast, so the divisions on

the Gazala Line didn't get isolated. Still..." "Still, when are we going to stop him?"

"He won't get much farther." It was an idiotic remark: Bogge ifinply did

not want to get involved in criticism of generals. "What have you got

there?"

Vandam gave him the incident report. "I propose to follow this one

through myself."

Rogge read the paper and looked up, his face blank. "I don't see the

point." "It looks like a blown cover." .4TATI

"T'here's no motive for the murder, so we have to speculate," Vandam

explained. "Here's one possibility: the hitchhiker was not what he said

he was, and the corporal 24 Ken Follett

discovered that fact, and so the hitchhiker killed the corporal."

"Not what he said he was--you mean he was a spy?" Bogge laughed. "How

d'you suppose he got to Assyut-by parachute? Or did he walk?"

That was the trouble with explaining things to Bogge, thought Vandarn: he

had to ridicule the idea, as an excuse for not thinking of it himself.

"It's not impossible for a small plane to aneak through. It's not

impossible to cross the desert,

It either.

Bogge sailed the report through the air across the vast expanse of his

desk. "Not very likely, in my view," he said. "Don't waste any time on that

one."

"Very good, sir." Vandam. picked up the report from the floor, suppressing

the familiar frustrated anger. Conversations with Bogge always turned into

points-scoring contests, and the smart thing to do was not to play. "I'll

ask the police to keep us informed of their progress-copies of memos, and

so on, just for the ffic."

"Yes." Bogge never objected to making people send him copies for the file:

it enabled him to poke his linger into things without taking any

responsibility. "Listen, how about arranging some cricket practice? I

noticed they had nets and a catching boat there yesterday. I'd like to lick

our team into shape and get some more matches going." "Good idea." "See if you can organize something, win you?" "Yes, 3ir." Vandarn went out.

On the way back to his own office, he wondered what was so wrong with the

administration of the British Army that it could promote to lieutenant

colonel a man as empty-headed as Reggie Bogge. Vandams father, who had been

a corporal in the first war, had been fond of saying that British soldiers

were "lions led by donkeys." Sometimes Vandam thought it Was still true.

But Bogge was not merely dull. Sometimes he made bad decisions because he

was not clever enough to make good decisions; but mostly, it seemed to

Vandarn, Bogge made bad decisions because he was playing some other game,

making himself look good or trying to be superior or something, Vandarn did

not know what. A woman in a white hospital coat saluted him and he re- THE KEY TO REBECCA 25

turned the salute absent-mindedly. The woman said: "Major Vandam, isn't it?"

He stopped and looked at her. She had been a spectator at the cricket

match, and now he remembered her name. "Dr. Abuthnot," he said. "Good

morning." She was a tall, cool woman of about his age. He recalled that

she was a surgeon--highly unusual for a woman, even in wartime-and that

she held the rank of captain. She said: "You workedhard yesterday."

Vandam smiled. "And I'm suffering for it today. I enjoyed myself,

though."

"So did L" She had a low, precise voice and a great deal of confidence.

"Shall we see you on Fridayr, "Where?" "The reception at the Union."

"Ah." The Anglo-Egyptian Union, a club for bored Europeans, made

occasional attempts to justify its riame by holding a reception -for

Egyptian guests. "I'd like that. What time?" "Five o'clock, for tea." Vandam was professionally interested: it was an occasion at which Egyptia ns -night 'pick up service gossip, and service gossip sometimes included information useful to the enemy. "I'll come," he said. "Splendid. I'll see you there." She turned away.

"I look forward to it," Vandam said to her back. He watched her walk

away, wondering what she wore under the hospital coat. She was trim,

elegant and self-possessed: she reminded him of his wife.

He entered his office. He had no intention of organizing a cricket

practice, and he had no intention of forgetting about the Assyut murder.

Bogge could go to hell. Vandam. would go to work.

First he spoke again to Captain Newman, and told him to make sure the

description of Alex Wolff got the widest possible circulation.

He called the Egyptian police and confirmed that they would be checking

the hotels and flophouses of Cairo today.

He contacted Field Security, a unit of the prewar Canal Defense Force,

and asked them to step up their spot checks on identity papers for a few

days. 26 Ken Follett

He told the British paymaster general to keep a special watch for forged

currency.

He advised the wireless listening service to be alert for a new, local

transmitter; and thought briefly how useful it would be if the boffins

ever cracked the problem of locating a radio by monitoring its

broadcasts.

Finally he detailed a sergeant on his staff to visit every radio shop in

Lower Egypt--there were not many-and ask them to report any sales of

parts and equipment which might be used to make or repair a transmitter. Then be went to the Villa lea Oliviers.

The house got its name from a small public garden across the street where a grove of olive trees was now in bloom, shedding white. petals like dust ou to the dry, brown grass.

The house had a high wall broken by a heavy, carved wooden gate. Using

the ornamentation for footholds, Vandam climbed over the gate and dropped

on the other aide to find himself in a large courtyard. Around him the

whitewashed walls were smeared and grubby, their windows blinded by

closed, peeling shutters. He walked to the center of the courtyard and

looked at the stone fountain. A brightgreen lizard darted across the dry

bowl. The place. had not been lived in for at least a year.

Vandam opened a shutter, broke a pane of glass, reached through to

unfasten the window, and climbed over the sill into the house.

It did not look like the home of a European, he thought as he walked

through the dark cool rooms. There were no hunting prints on the walls,

no neat rows of bright-jacketed novels by Agatha Christie and Dennis

Wheatley, no three-piece suite imported from Maples or Harrods. Instead

the place was furnished with large cushions and low tables, handwoven

rugs and hanging tapestries.

Upstairs he found a locked door. It took him three or four minutes to

kick it open. Behind it there was a study.

The room was clean and tidy, with a few pieces of rather luxurious

furniture: a wide. low divar- covered in velvet, a hand-carved coffee

table, three matching antique lamps, a bear-skin rug, a beautifully

inlaid desk and a leather chair. On the desk were a telephone, a clean white blotter, an THE KEY TO REBECCA 27

ivory-handled pen and a dry inkwell. In the desk drawer Vandam, found company reports from Switzerland, Germany and the United States. A delicate beaten-copper coffee service gathered dust on the little table. On a shelf behind the desk were books in several languages: nineteenth-century French novels, the Shorter Oxford Dictionary, a volume of what appeared to Vandarn to be Arabic poetry, with erotic illustra- tions, and the Bible in German. There were no personal dpcuments. There were no letters. There was not a single photograph in the house.

Vandam sat in the soft leather chair behind the desk and looked around

the room. It was a masculine room, the home of a cosmopolitan

intellectual, a man who was on the one hand careful, precise and tidy and

on the other hand sensitive and sensual. Vandam was intrigued.

A European name, a totally Arabic house. A pamphlet about investing in

business machines, a book of Arab verse. An antique coffee jug and a

modern telephone. A wealth of information about a character, but not a

single clue which might help find the man. The room had been carefully cleaned out

There should have been bank statements, bills from tradesmen, a birth

certificate and a will, letters from a lover and photographs of parents

or children. The man had collected all those things and taken them away,

leaving no trace of his identity, as if he knew that one day someone

would come looking for him. Vandam said aloud: "Alex Wolff, who are you?"

He got up from the chair and left the study. He walked through the house

and across the hot, dusty courtyard. He climbed back over the gate and

dropped into the street. Across the road an Arab in a green-striped

galabiya sat cross-legged on the ground in the shade of the olive trees,

watching Vandarn incuriously. Vandarn felt no impulse to explain that he

had broken into the house on official business: the uniform of a British

officer was authority enough for just about anything in this town. He

thought of the other sources from which he could seek information about

the owner of this house: municipal records, such as they were; local

trades-

28 Ken Follett

men who might have delivered there when the place was occupied; even the neighbors. He would put two of his men on to it, and tell Bogge some story to cover up. He climbed onto his motorcycle and kicked it into life. The engine roared enthusiastically, and Vandam drove away. 3

Full of anger and despair Wolff sat outside his home and watched the British officer drive away.

He remembered the house as it had been when he was a boy, loud with talk

and laughter and life. "ere by the great carved gate there had always been

a guard, a black-skinned giant from the south, -sitting on the ground,

;mipervious to the heat. Each morning a holy man, old and almost blind,

would recite a chapter from the Koran in the courtyard. In the cool of the

arcade on three sides the men of the family would sit on low divans and

smoke their hubble-bubbles while servant boys brought coffee in long-necked

jugs. Another black guard stood at the door to the harem, behind which the

women grew bored and fat. The days were long and warm, the family was rich

and the children were ;ndulged.

The British officer, with his shorts and his motorcycle, his arrogant face

and his prying eyes hidden in the shadow of the peaked uniform cap, had

broken in and violated Wolfrs childhood. Wolff wished he could have seen

the man's face, for he would like to kill him one day.

He had thought of this place all through his journey. In Berlin and Tripoli

and El Agela, in the pain and exhaustion of the desert crossing, in the

fear and haste of his flight from Assyut, the villa had represented a safe

haven, a place to rest and get clean and whole again at the end of the

voyage. He had looked forward to lying in the bath and sipping coffee in

the courtyard and bringing women home to the great bed. Now he would have to go away and stay away.

He had remained outside all morning, alternately walking the street and

sitting under the olive trees, just in case Captain Newman should have

remembered the address and sent

29 30 Ken Follett

!omebody to search the house; and he had bought a galabiya in the souk beforehand, knowing that if someone did come they would be looking for a European, not an Arab.

It had been a mistake to show genuine papers. He could see that with

hindsight. The trouble was, he mistrusted Abwehr forgeries. Meeting and

working with other spies he had heard horror stories about crass and

obvious errors in the documents made by German Intelligence: botched

printing, inferior-quality paper, even misspellings of common English

words. In the spy school where he had been sent for his wireless cipher

course the current rumor had been that every policeman in England knew

that a certain series of numbers on a ration card identified the holder

as a German spy.

Wolff had weighed the alternatives and picked what seemed the least

risky. He bad been wrong, and now he had no place to go. He stood, picked up his cases and began to walk.

He thought of his family. His mother and his stepfather were dead, but

he had three stepbrothers and a stepsister in Cairo. It would be hard for

them to bide him. They would be questioned as soon as the British

realized the identity of the owner of the villa, which might be today;

and while they might tell lies for his sake, their servants would surely

talk. Furthermore, he could not really trust them, for when his

stepfather had died, Alex as the oldest son had got the house as well as

a share of the inheritance, although he was European and an adopted,

rather than natural, son. There had been some bitterness, and meetings

with lawyers; Alex had stood firm and the others had never really

forgiven him.

He considered checking in to Shepheard's Hotel. Unfortunately the police

were sure to think of that, too: Shepheard's would by now have the

description of the Assyut murderer. Ile other major hotels would have it

soon. That left the pensions. Whether they were warned depended on how

thorough the police wanted to be. Since the British were involved, the

police might feel obliged to be meticulous. Still, the managers of small

guest houses were often too busy to pay a lot of attention to nosy

policemen.

He left the Garden City and headed downtown. The streets were even more

busy and noisy than when he had left Cairo. There were countless

uniforms--not just British but Austral-

THE KEY TO REBECCA 31

fan, New Zealand, Polish, Yugoslav, Palestinian, Indian and Greek. The slim, pert Egyptian girls in their cotton frocks and heavy jewelry competed successfully with their red-faced, dispirited European counterparts. Among the older women it seemed to Wolff that fewer wore the traditional black robe and veil. "I'lie men still greeted one another in the same exuberant fashion, swinging their right arms outward before bringing their hands together with a loud clap, shaking hands for at least a minute or two while grasping the shoulder of the other with the left hand and talking excitedly. The beggars and peddlers were out in force, taking advantage of the influx of na7ive Europeans. In his galabiya Wolff was immune, but the foreigners were besieged by cripples, women with fly-encrusted babies, shoeghine boys and men selling everything from secondhand razor blades to giant fountain pens guaranteed to hold six monthe supply of ink.

The traffic was worse. The slow, verminous trams were more crowded than

ever, with passengers clinging precariously to the outside from a perch

on the running board, crammed into thecab with the driver and sitting

cross-legged on the roof. The bases and taxis were no better: there

seemed to be a shortage of vehicle parts, for so many of the cars had

broken windows, flat tires and ailing engines, and were lacking

headlights or windshield wipers. Wolff saw two taxis-an elderly Morris

and an even older Packard-which had finally stopped running and were now

being drawn by donkeys. The only decent cars were the monstrous American

limousines of the wealthy pashas and the occasional prewar English

Austin. Mixing with the motor vehicles in deadly competition were the

horse-drawn gharries, the mule carts of the peasants, and the

livestock-camels, sheep and goatswhich were banned from the city center

by the most unenforceable law on the Egyptian statute book. And the noise--Wolff had forgotten the noise.

Ile trams rang their bells continuously In traffic jams all the cars

hooted all the time, and when there was nothing to hoot at they hooted

on general principles. Not to be outdone, the drivers of carts and camels

yelled at the tops of their voices. Many shops and all caf6s blared Arab

music from cheap radios turned to full volume. Street vendors called con-

tinually and pedestrians told them to go away. Dogs barked 32 Ken Follett

and circling kites screamed overhead. From time to time it would all be swamped by the roar of an airplane. This is my town, Wolff thought; they can't catch me here.

There were a dozen or so well-known pensions catering for tourists of

different nationalities: Swiss, Austrian, German, Danish and French. He

thought of them and rejected them as too obvious. Finally he remembered

a cheap lodging house run by nuns at Bulaq, the port district. It catered

mainly for the sailors who came down the Nile in steam tugs -tnd feluccas

laden with cotton, coal, paper and stone. Wolff could be sure he would

not get robbed, infected or murdered, and nobody would think to look for

him there.

As he headed out of the hotel district the streets became a little less

crowded, but not much. He could not see the river itself, but

occasionally he glimpsed, through the huddled buildings, the high

triangular sail of a felucca.

The hostel was a large, decaying building which had once been the villa

of some pasha. There was now a bronze crucifix over the arch of the

entrance. A black-robed nun was watering a tiny bed of flowers in front

of the building. Through the arch Wolff saw a cool quiet hall. He had

walked several miles today, with his heavy cases: he looked forward to

a rest. Two Egyptian policemen came out of the hostel.

Wolff took in the wide leather belts, the inevitable sunglasses and the

military haircuts in a swift glance, and his heart sank. He turned his

back on the men and spoke in French to the nun in the garden. "Good day,

Sister."

She unbent from her watering and smiled at him. "Good day." She was

shockingly young. "Do you want lodgings?" "No lodgings. Just your blessing."

The two policemen approached, and Wolff tensed, preparing his answers in

case they should question him, considering which direction he should take

if he had to run away; then they went past, arguing about a horse race. "God bless you," said the nun.

Wolff thanked her and walked on. It was worse than he had imagined. The

police must be checking everywhere. Woffs feet were sore now, and his

arms ached from carrying the luggage. He was disappointed, and also a

little indignant, for everything in this town was notoriously haphazard,

yet it THE KEY TO REBECCA 33

seemed they were mounting an efficient operation just for him. He doubled back, heading for the city center again. He was beginning to feel as he bad in the desert, as if he had been walking forever without getting anywhere.

In the distance he saw a familiar tall figure: Hussein Fahmy, an old

school friend. Wolff was momentarily paralyzed. Hussein would surely take

him in, and perhaps he could be trusted; but he had a wife, and three

children, and how would one explain to them that Uncle Achmed was coming

to stay, but it was a secret, they must not mention his name to their

friends ... How, indeed, would Wolff explain it all to Hussein himself?

Hussein looked in Wolff's direction, and Wolff turned quickly and crossed

the road, darting behind a tram. Once on the opposite pavement he went

quickly down an alley without looking back. No, be could not seek shelter

with old school fTiends.

He emerged from the alley into another street, and realized he was close

to the German School. He wondered if it were still open: a lot of German

nationals in Cairo had been interned. He walked toward it, then saw,

outside the building, a Field Security patrol checking papers. He turned

about quickly and headed back the way he had come. He had to get off the streets.

He felt like a rat in a maze--every way he turned he was blocked. He saw

a taxi, a big old Ford with steam hissing out from under its hood. He

hailed it and jumped in. He gave the driver an address and the car jerked

away in third gear, apparently the only gear that worked. On the way they

stopped twice to top up the boiling radiator, and Wolff skulked in the

back seat, trying to hide his face.

The taxi took him to Coptic Cairo, the ancient Christian ghetto.

He paid the driver and went down the steps to the entrance. He gave a few

piasters to the old woman who held the great wooden key, and she let him

in.

It was an island of darkness and quiet in the stormy sea of Cairo. Wolff

walked its narrow passages, hearing faintly the low chanting from the

ancient churches. He passed the school and the synagogue and the cellar

where Mary was supposed to have brought the baby Jesus. Finally he went

into the smallest of the five churches. 34 Ken Follett

The service was about to begin. Wolff put down his precious cases beside

a pew. He bowed to the pictures of saints on the wall, then approached

the altar, knelt and kissed the hand of the priest. He returned to the

pew and sat down.

The choir began to chant a passage of scripture in Arabic. Wolff settled

into his seat, He would be safe here until darkness fell. Then he would

try his last shot.

The Cha-Cha was a large open-air nightclub in a garden beside the river. It was packed, as usual. Wolff waited in the queue of British officers and their girls while the safragis set up extra tables on trestles in every spare inch of space. On the stage a comic was saying: "Wait till Rommel gets to Shepheard's-that will hold him up."

Wolff finally got a table and a bottle of champagne. The evening was warm

and the stage lights made it worse. The audience was rowdy-they were

thirsty, and only champagne was served, so they quickly got drunk. They

began to shout for the star of the show, Sonja el-Aram.

First they had to listen to an overweight Greek woman sing "I'll See You

in Mv Dreams" and "I Ain't Got Nobody" (which made them laugh). Then

Sonja was announced. However, she did not appear for a while. The

audience became noisier and more impatient as the minutes ticked by. At

last, when they seemed to be on the verge of rioting, there was a roll

of dr"ms, the stage lights went off and silence descended.

When the spotlight came on Sonja stood still in the center of the stage

with her arms stretched skyward. She wore diapbanous trousers and a

sequined halter, and her body was powdered white. The music began-drums

and a pipe-and she started to move.

Wolff sipped champagne and watched, smiling. She was still the best.

She jerked her hips slowly, stamping one foot and then the other. Her

arms began to tremble, then her shoulders moved and her breasts shook;

and then her famous belly rolled hypnotically. The rhythm quickened. She

closed her eyes. Each part of her body seemed to move independently of

the rest. Wolff felt, as he always did, as every man in the audience did,

that he was alone with her, that her display was just for him, and that

this was not an act, not a piece of show-

THE KEY TO REBECCA ' 35

business wizardry, but that her sensual writhings were compulsive, she did it because she had to, she was driven to a sexual frenzy by her own voluptuous body. The audience was tense, silent, perspiring, mesmerized. She went faster and faster, seeming to be transported. The music climaxed with a bang. In the instant of silence that followed Sonja uttered a short, sharp cry; then she fell backward, her legs folded beneath her, her knees apart, until her head touched the boards of the stage. She held the position for a moment, then the lighti went out. The audience rose to their feet with a roar of applause. The lights came up, and she was gone. Sonja never took encores.

Wolff got out of his seat. He gave a waiter a pound-three months' wages for

most Egyptians-to lead him backstage. The waiter showed him the door to

Sonja's dressing room, then went away. Wolff knocked on the door. "Who is it?" Wolff walked in.

She was sitting on a stool, wearing a silk robe, taking off her makeup. She

saw him in the mirror and spun around to face him. Wolff said: "Hello, Sonja."

She stared at him. After a long moment she said: "You bastard."

She bad not changed.

She was a handsome woman. She had glossy black bair, long and thick; large,

slightly protruding brown eyes with lush eyelashes; high cheekbones which

saved her face from roundness and gave it shape; an arched nose, gracefully

arrogant; and a full mouth with even white teeth. Her body was all smooth

curves, but because she was a couple of inches taller than average she did

not look plump.

Her eyes flashed with anger. "What are you doing here? Where did you go?

What happened to your face?"

Wolff put down his cases and sat on the divan. He looked up at her. She

stood with her hands on her bips, her chin thrust forward, her breasts

outlined in green silk. "You're beautiful," he said. 36 Ken Follett

"Get out of here."

He studied her carefully. He knew her too well to like or dislike her:

she was part of his past, like an old friend who remains a friend,

despite his faults, just because he has always been there. Wolff wondered

what had happened to Sonja in the years since he had left Cairo. Had she

got married, bought a house, fallen in love, changed her manager, had a

baby? He had given a lot of thought, that afternoon in the cool, dim

church, to how he should approach her; but he had reached no conclusions,

for he was not sure how she would be with him. He was still not sure. She

appeared angry and scornful, but did she mean it? Should he be charming

and full of fun, or aggressive and bullying, or helpless and pleading? "I need help," he said levelly. Her face did not change.

"The British are after me," he went on. "They're watching my house, and

all the hotels have my description. I've nowhere to sleep. I want to move

in with you." "Go to hell," she said. "Let me tell you why I walked out on you." "After two years no excuse is good enough."

"Give me a minute to explain. For the sake of . . . all that."

"I owe you nothing." She glared at him a moment longer, then she opened

the door. He thought she was going to throw him out. He watched her face

as she looked back at him, holding the door. Then she put her head

outside and yelled: "Somebody get me a drinkl" Wolff relaxed a little.

Sonja came back inside and closed the door. "A minute," she said to him.

"Are you going to stand over me like a prison guard? I'm not dangerous."

He smiled.

"Oh yes you are," she said, but she went back to her stool and resumed

working on her face.

He hesitated. The other problem he had mulled over during the long

afternoon in the Coptic church had been how to explain why he had left

her without saying good-bye and never contacted her since. Nothing less

than the truth sound-

THE KEY TO REBECCA 37

ed convincing. Reluctant as he was to share his secret, be had to tell her, for he was desperate and she was his only hope.

He said: "Do you remember I went to Beirut in nineteen thirty-eight?"

Is 'No. "I brought back a jade bracelet for you." Her eyes met his in the mirror. "I don't have it anymore."

He knew she was lying. He went on: "I went there to see a German army

officer called Heinz. He asked me to work for Germany in the coming war. I

agreed."

She turned from her mirror and faced him, and now he saw in her eyes

something like hope.

"They told me to come back to Cairo and wait until I heard from them. Two

years ago I heard. They wanted me to go to Berlin. I went. I did a training

course, then I worked in the Balkans and the Levant. I went back to Berlin

in February for briefing on a new assignment. They sent me here--2'

"What are you telling me?" she said incredulously. "You're a spy?" "Yes. "I don't believe you."

"Look." He picked up a suitcase and opened it. "This is a mdio, for sending

messages to Rommel." He closed it again and opened the other. "This is my

financing."

She stared at the neat stacks of notes. "My God!" she said. "It's a

fortune."

There was a knock at the door. Wolff closed the case. A waiter came in with

a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice. Seeing Wolff, be said: "Shall I

bring another glass?" "No," Sonja said impatiently. "Go away."

The waiter left. Wolff opened the wine, filled the glass, gave it to Sonja,

then took a long drink from the bottle.

"listen," he said. "Our army is winning in the desert. We can help them.

They need to know about the British strength-numbers of men, which

divisions, names of commanders, quality of weapons and equipment and-if

possible-battle plans. We're here, in Cairo; we can find these things out.

Then, when the Germans take over, we will be heroes." 'We?,* 'You can help me. And the first thing you can do is give 38 Ken Follett

me a place to live. You hate the British, don't you? You want to see them thrown out?"

"I would do it for anyone but you," She finished her champagne and

refilled her glass.

Wolff took the glass from her hand and drank. "Sonja. If I had sent you

a postcard from Berlin the British would have thrown you in jail. You

must not be angry, now that you know the reasons why." He lowered his

voice. "We c4n bring those old times back. Well have good food and the

best champagne, new clothes and beautiful parties and an American car.

We'll go to Berlin, you've always wanted to dance in Berlin, you'll be

a star there. Germany is a new kind of nation-we're going to rule the

world, and you can be a princess. We-" He paused. None of this was

getting through to her. It was time to play.his last card. "How is

Fawzi?" Sonja lowered her eyes. "She left, the bitch."

Wolff set down the glass, then he put both hands to Sonja's neck. She

looked up at him, unmoving. With his thumbs under her chin he forced her

to stand. "I'll find another Fawzi for us," he said softly. He saw that

her eyes were suddenly moist. His hands moved over the silk robe,

descending her body, stroking her Banks. "I'm the only one who

understands what you need." He lowered his mouth to hers, took her lip

between his teeth, and bit until he tasted blood. Sonja closed her eyes. "I hate you," she moaned.

In the cool of the evening Wolff walked along the towpath beside the Nile toward the houseboat. The sores had gone from his face and his bowels were back to normal. He wore a new white suit, and he carried two bags full of his favorite groceries.

The island suburb of Zamalek was quiet and peaceful. T'he raucous noise

of central Cairo could be heard only faintly across a wide stretch of

water. "Ibe calm, muddy river lapped gently against the houseboats lined

along the bank. The boats, all shapes and sizes, gaily painted and

luxuriously fitted out, looked pretty in the late sunshine.

Sonja's was smaller and more richly famished than most. A plank led from

the path to the top deck, which was open to the breeze but shaded from

the sun by a green-and-white striped canopy. Wolff boarded the boat and

went down the THE KEY TO REBECCA 39

ladder to the interior. It was crowded with furniture: chairs and divans and tables and cabinets full of knickknacks. There was a tiny kitchen in the prow. Floor-to-ceiling curtains of maroon velvet divided the space in two, closing off the bedroom. Beyond the bedroom, in the stern, was a bathroom.

Sonja was sitting on a cushion painting her toenails. It was

extraordinary how slovenly she could look, Wolff thought. She wore a

grubby cotton dress, her face looked drawn and her hair was uncombed. In

half in hour, when she left for the Cha-Cha Club, she would look like a

dream.

Wolff put his bags on a table and began to take things out "French

champagne . . . English marmalade . . . German sausage ... quail's eggs

... Scotch salmon..."

Sonja looked up, astonished. "Nobody can find things like that-there's

a war on."

Wolff smiled. "There's a little Greek grocer in Qulali who remembers a

good customer." "Is he safe?"

"He doesn't know where I'm living-and besides, his shop is the only place

in North Africa where you can get caviar."

She came across and dipped into a bag. "Caviarl" She took the lid off the

jar and began to eat with her fingers. "I haven't had caviar since-"

"Since I went away," Wolff finished. He put a bottle of champagne in the

icebox. "If you wait a few minutes you can have cold champagne with it." "I can't wait."

"You never can." He took an English-language newspaper out of one of the

bags and began to look through it. It was a rotten paper, full of press

releases, its war news censored more heavily than the BBC broadcasts

which everyone listened to, its local reporting even worse-At was Ulegal

to print speeches by the official Egyptian 3pposition politicians. "Still

nothing about me in here," Wolff said. He had told Sonja of the events

in Assyut.

"ney're always late with the news," she said through a mouthful of

caviar.

"It's not that. If they report the murder they need to say what the

motive was--or, if they don't, people will guess. The British don't want

people to suspect that the Germans have spies in Egypt. It looks bad." 40 Ken Follett

She went into the bedroom to change. She called through the curtain: "Does

that mean they've stopped looking for you?"

"No. I saw Abdullah in the souk. He says the Egyptian police aren't really

interested, but there's a Major Vandarn who's keeping the pressure on."

Wolff put down the news,paper, frowning. He would have liked to know

whether Vandam was the officer who had broken into the Villa les Oliviers.

He wished he had been able to look more closely at that man, but from

across the street the officer's face, shaded by the peaked cap, had been a

dark blank. Sonja said: "How does Abdullah know?"

"I don't know." Wolff shrugged. "He's a thief, he hears things." He went to

the icebox and took out the bottle. It was not really cold enough, but he

was thirsty. He poured two glasses. Sonja came out, dressed: as he had

anticipated, she was transformed, her hair perfect, her face lightly but

cleverly made up, wearing a sheer cherry-red dress and matching shoes.

A couple of minutes later there were footsteps on the ganl-, plank and a

knock at the hatch. Sonja's taxi had arrived. She drained her glass and

left. They did not say hello and goodbye to one another.

Wolff went to the cupboard where he kept the radio. He took out the English

novel and the sheet of paper bearing the key to the code. He studied the

key. Today was May 28. He had to add 42-the year-to 28 to arrive at the

page number in the novel which he must use to encode his message. May was

the fifth month, so every fifth letter on the page would be discounted.

He decided to send HAVE ARRIVED. CHECKING IN. ACKNOWLEDGE. Beginning at the

top of page 70 of the book, he looked along the line of print for the

letter H. It was the tenth character, discounting every fifth letter. In

his code it would therefore be represented by the tenth letter of the

alphabet, J. Next he needed an A. In the book, the third letter after the

H was an A. The A of HAVE would therefore be represented by the third

letter of the alphabet, C. There were special ways of dealing with rare

letters, like X.

This type of code was a variation on the one-time pad, the only kind of

code which was unbreakable in theory and in THE KEY TO REBECCA 41

practice. To decode the message a listener had to have both the book and the key.

When he had encoded his message he looked at his watch. He was to

transmit at midnight. He had a couple of hours before he needed to warm

up the radio. He poured another glass of champagne and decided to finish

the caviar. He found a spoon and picked up the pot. It was empty. Sonja

had eaten it all.

The runway was a strip of desert hastily cleared of camel thorn and large rocks. Rommel looked down as the ground came up to meet him. The Storch, a light aircraft used by German commanders for short trips around the battlefield, came down like a fly, its wheels on the ends of long, spindly front legs. The plane stopped and Rommel jumped out.

The heat hit -him first, then the dust. It had been relatively cool, up

in the sky; now he felt as if he had stepped into a furnace. He began to

perspire immediately. As soon as he breathed in, a thin layer of sand

coated his lips and the end of his tongue. A fly settled on his big nose,

and he brushed it away.

Von Mellenthin, Rommel's Ic-intelligence officer-ran toward him across

the sand, his high boots kicking up dusty clouds. He looked agitated.

"Kesselring's here," iie said. "Auch, das noch," said Rommel. "Thafs all I need."

Kesselring, the smiling field marshal, represented everything Rommel

disliked in the German armed forces. He was a General Staff officer, and

Rommel hated the General Staff; he was a founder of the Luftwaffe, which

had let Rommel down so often in the desert war; and he was-worst of all-a

snob. One of his acid comments had gotten back to Rommel. Complaining

that Rommel was rude to his -tubordinate officers, Kesselring had said:

"It might be worth speaking to him about it, were it not that he's a

Wuerttemberger." Wuerttemberg was the provincial state where Rommel was

born, and the remark epitomized the prejudice Rommel had been fighting

all his career.

He stumned across the sand toward the command vehicle, with von

Niellenthin in tow. "General Cruewell has been captured," von Mellenthin

said. "I had to ask Kesselring to take over. He's spent the afternoon

trying to find out where you were." 42 Ken Follett

"Worse and worse," Rommel said sourly.

They entered the back of the command vehicle, a huge truck. The shade was

welcome. Kesselring was bent over a map, brushing away flies with his

left hand while tracing a line with his right. He looked up and smiled.

"My dear Rommel, thank heaven you're back," he said silkily.

Rommel took off his cap. "I've been fighting a battle," he grunted. "So I gather. What happenedT'

Rommel pointed to the map. 'Mis is the Gazala Line." It was a string of

fortified "boxes" linked by minefields which ran from the coast at Gazala

due south into the desert for fifty miles. "We made a dogleg around the

southern end of the line and hit them from behind." "Good idea. What went wrong?"

"We ran out of gasoline and ammunition." Rommel sat down heavily,

suddenly feeling very tired. "Again," he added. Kesselring, as commander

in chief (South), was responsible for Rommel's supplies, but the field

marshal seemed not to notice the implied criticism.

An orderly came in with mugs of tea on a tray. Rommel sipped his. There

was sand in it.

Kesselring spoke in a conversational tone. "I've had the unusual

experience, this afternoon, of taking the role of one of your subordinate

commanders."

Rommel grunted. There was some piece of sarcasm coming, he could tell.

He did not want to fence with Kesselring now, he wanted to think about

the battle.

Kesselring went on: "I found it enormously difficult, with my hands tied

by subordination to a headquarters that issued no orders and could not

be reached."

"I was at the heart of the battle, giving my orders on the spot." "Still, you might have stayed in touch."

"That's the way the British fight," Rommel snapped. "The generals are

miles behind the lines, staying in touch. But I'm winning. if rd had my

supplies, I'd be in Cairo now."

"You're not going to Cairo," Kesselring said sharply. "You're going to

Tobruk. There you'll stay until rve taken Malta. Such are the Fuehrees

orders." THE KEY TO REBECCA 43

"Of course." Rommel was not going to reopen that argument; not yet.

Tobruk was the immediate objective. Once that fortified port was taken,

the convoys from Europeinadequate though they were-could come directly

to the front line, cutting out the long journey across the desert which

used so much gasoline. "And to reach Tobruk we have to break the Oazala

Line." "What's your next step?"

"I'm going to fall back and regroup." Rommel saw Kesselring raise his

eyebrows: the field marshal knew how Rommel hated to retreat

"And what will the enemy do?" Kesselring directed the question to von

Mellenthin, who as Ic was responsible for detailed assessment of the

enemy position.

"They will chase us, but not immediately." said von Mellenthin. "They are

always slow to press an advantage, fortunately. But sooner or later they

will try a breakout." Rommel said: "The question is, when and where?"

"Indeed," von Mellenthin agreed. He seemed to hesitate, then said, "nere

is a little -tem in today's summaries which will interest you. The spy

checked in."

"The spy?" Rommel frowned. "Oh, him!" Now he remembered. He had flown to

the Oasis of Gialo, deep in the Libyan desert, to brief the man finally

before the spy began a long marathon walk. Wolff, that was his name.

Rommel had been impressed by his courage, but pessimistic about his

chances. "Where was he calling from?" "Cairo."

"So he got there. If he's capable of that, he's capable of anything.

Perhaps he can foretell the breakout."

Kesselring broke in: "My God, you're not relying on spies now, are you?"

"I'm not relying on anyonel" Rommel said. "I'm the one upon whom

everything else relies."

"Good." Kesselring was unruffled, as always. "Intelligence is never much

use, as you know; and intelligence from spies is the worst kind."

"I agree," Rommel said more calmly. "But I have a feeling this one could

be different." "I doubt it," said Kesselring. 4

Elene Fontana looked at her face in the mirror and thought: I'm twenty-three, I must be losing my looks.

She leaned closer to the glass and examined herself carefully, searching

for signs of deterioration. Her complexion was perfect. Her round brown

eyes were as clear as a mountain pool. There were no wrinkles, It was a

childish face, delicately modeled, with a look of waiflike innocence. She

was like an art collector checking on his finest piece: she thought of the

face as hers, not as her. She smiled, and the face in the mirror smiled

back at her. It was a small, intimate smile, with a hint of mischief about

it: she knew it could make a man break out into a cold sweat. She picked up the note and read it again.

Thursday

My dear Elene,

I'm afraid it is all over. My wife has found out. We have patched things

up, but I've had to promise never to see you again. Of course you can stay

in the flat, but I can't pay the rent anymore. I'm so sorry it happened

this way-but I suppose we both knew it could not last forever. Good luck.

Your,

Claud.

Just Me that, she thought. She tore up the note and its cheap sentiments. Claud was a 44 THE KEY TO REBECCA 45

fat, half-French and half-Greek businessman who owned three restaurants in Cairo and one in Alexandria. He was cultured and jolly and kind, but when it came to the crunch he carednothing for Elene. He was the third in six years.

It had started with Charles, the stockbroker. She had been seventeen

years old, penniless, unemployed and frightened to go home. Charles had

set her up in the flat and visited her every Tuesday night. She had

thrown him out after he offered her to his brother as if she were a dish

of sweetmeats. Then there had been Johnnie, the nicest of the three, who

wanted to divorce his wife and marry Elene: she had refused. Now Claud,

too, had gone. She had known from the start there was no future in it.

It was her fault as much as theirs that the affairs broke up. The

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.