The Bible of Clay (54 page)

His heart was heavy as his plane landed in Cairo. This moment marked the beginning of the rest of his life, his new life, and he was filled with uncertainty. He had traveled with his real passport, as Georg had recommended; he would begin using false papers when his instinct told him the time had come—that is, when official word came that Germany had lost the war, which would be in a matter of weeks, perhaps days.

A taxi drove him to an out-of-the-way hotel near the American embassy. He smiled to himself, thinking how close his enemies were— they would never suspect that an SS officer would hole up next door.

The hotel was musty-smelling, and its tenants were mostly Europeans—refugees, spies, low-level diplomats, adventurers. He handed his passport to the clerk at the desk.

"Ah . . . I'm afraid I have only one room left, Herr Tannenberg, a double. If you take it, you'll have to pay for two occupants," said the front-desk clerk, knowing that the tall, steely-eyed German would not refuse.

"That's fine; I'm expecting someone else anyway," he said coolly. "Yes? And when will this person be arriving?" the reception clerk asked.

"I will let you know," Tannenberg said, never batting an eyelash.

The room boasted a fine view of the Nile from the window. A large bed, a sleeper-sofa, a table, two chairs, and a chest of drawers comprised the room's humble furnishings. A door opened into a small bathroom. Sitting on the bed, Tannenberg resigned himself to his new home until he found Georg's agent, an SS officer who, knowing the situation in Germany, specialized in relocating fellow officers who had been able to get out in time.

The fact was that all four of the old friends had left Berlin with their superiors' permission, even blessings: Georg to supervise agents abroad, Franz to join the SS in Latin America, Heinrich to be part of Germany's diplomatic corps in Portugal, and Alfred to work with agents dispatched to Cairo.

Alfred decided to be prudent. After he committed a map of Cairo to memory, he went out to scout the nearby neighborhoods. He walked for upward of an hour, and what he saw was a city filled with foreigners, almost all Europeans. He was struck by the chaotic traffic; taxis sped through intersections without looking in either direction, drivers seemed to use their horns more than their brakes, and the pedestrians, though they seemed remarkably cool, sometimes had to leap out of the way of oncoming vehicles.

He was pleased to see an inviting sign over a door:
Restaurant Kababgy.

He pushed open the door and went in. A perfectly uniformed waiter greeted him in English, much to Alfred's confusion, which the waiter picked up on.

"Parlez-vous Francais, sprechen sie Deutsch, parla Italiano, habla Espanol. . . ?"

"Deutsch . . .ja,ja, Deutsch,
" stammered Tannenberg.

"Ah!
Willkommenl
Do you have a reservation?"

"No, I didn't have time, I just arrived, and . . . well, a friend told me this was one of the best restaurants in the city."

"Thank you, sir. Can you tell me who your friend is?"

"You may not know him. He is . . . German, like me."

"There are many Europeans who dine with us. But come this way, we will find you a table."

The restaurant was very full, and the only free table was a small one in a far corner.

Alfred ate hungrily while studying the clientele, which was extremely varied. When he returned to the hotel, he told himself that the next day he would track down his contact. Georg had given him an address near Khan el-Khalili, the market where the artisans of Cairo made and sold their crafts.

He woke up shortly before dawn, feeling full of life. He would have liked to go on exploring the city, visit the pyramids, even go to Alexandria, but he told himself that those excursions would have to wait.

Khan el-Khalili turned out to be a city within the city. Its twisting, narrow streets all looked alike to him, and the dense fragrance of spices tickled his nose and stomach. He walked for a long time and, upon realizing his map wasn't quite as updated as he'd thought, at last decided to ask for directions from a man sitting in front of a small shop, smoking a long, aromatic cigarette. The stranger was quite friendly and was soon explaining how to find the shop Alfred was looking for. As Alfred walked away, the man called out to tell him there was no way to get lost—everyone in Cairo knew Yasir Mubak's store.

The three-story building looked better cared for than most structures in the area. A sign announced the offices of an import-export business and a shop that promised true antiques.

When Alfred pushed open the door, he was surprised to see the shop filled to the ceiling with furniture, lamps, rugs—everything. There was not a spare inch of surface, although a quick glance revealed that these "true antiques" were in fact cheap imitations and reproductions. Avery neat, well-groomed young man approached him.

"How may I help you?"

"I'm looking for Yasir Mubak."

"Is he expecting you?"

"No, I don't believe he knew that I was coming today, but tell him I am a friend of Herr Wolter."

The young man looked him up and down and hesitated. Motioning toward a chair, he invited Alfred to take a seat while he sent for Mr. Mubak, then disappeared up a flight of stairs at the back of the store.

Tannenberg waited for more than a quarter hour, conscious of being watched, before Yasir Mubak came down the stairs and walked over, smiling.

"Please, come in, come in. Friends of Herr Wolter are always welcome. Shall we talk in my office?"

Alfred followed Mubak upstairs into a large room decorated in traditional Egyptian fashion, then through another door into a private office. Alfred couldn't locate their source through the clutter of the store, but he could hear voices and the clicking of typewriters nearby.

"Well, Herr . . . ? I don't believe you've told me your name."

"No, I haven't. I'm Alfred Tannenberg, and it's urgent that I get in touch with Herr Wolter."

"Of course, of course. I will be happy to relay that to Herr Wolter, and he will contact you. Would you like to send him a note yourself or have me say anything in particular?"

Tannenberg took out a sealed envelope and handed it to Mubak.

"Give this to Herr Wolter for me, please, and tell him that I am at the Hotel National."

"Indeed, indeed. And how else may I be of service?"

Alfred was about to reply when the door to the office opened and a dark-skinned woman vaguely resembling Mubak entered. The woman, like Mubak, was dressed in Western clothing—a dark gray suit and white blouse, black high-heeled shoes, hair in a fashionable chignon.

"Sorry! I thought you were alone," she said apologetically.

"No bother. Come in, come in. . . . Alia, this is Herr Tannenberg. Alia is my sister, and a fine asset to my business."

Alfred stood up and clicked his heels together, slightly bowing his head. He did not dare offer his hand, because although the woman looked Westernized, she might still be offended if a man touched her.

"Miss
..."

"Freut mich, sie kennen zu lernen,
" she said in passable German. "You speak my language."

"Yes, I lived for several years in Hamburg with my younger sister, who's married to a German businessman."

"My brother-in-law is a clothing manufacturer," Yasir explained, "who bought cotton from us. He met my sister and . . . well, they fell in love, got married, and lived in Hamburg until two or three years ago, when they moved here. The war . . ." Mubak had to say no more.

"I lived for months at a time in Hamburg, helping my sister with her four rambunctious children," Alia continued comfortably. Clearly she had none of the reservations Alfred had expected from a Middle Eastern woman.

Yasir invited Tannenberg to share a cup of tea, which he was happy to accept. As they sat and conversed, he watched Alia. She was neither beautiful nor ugly, short nor tall, but there was something about her— Tannenberg felt there was a certain magnetism at work. For the hour he was in Mubak's office, he never took his eyes off her. He figured that she must be about thirty, and she seemed quite acceptable. And that was when he made the decision. He would marry Alia Mubak—if, that is, his SS contact could confirm that this was a family that could be trusted wholeheartedly and was well positioned to advance his interests. Certainly the fact that Mubak's office was the rendezvous for SS agents retreating from Germany spoke volumes.

That same night Alfred received a visit from SS Commander Helmut Wolter.

The two men were more or less the same age; with Wolter's blond hair and steel-blue eyes, they looked almost like twins, though Wolter's white skin had been noticeably tanned by the sun. He was tall, with an athletic build—the model SS officer.

Commander Wolter brought Tannenberg up to date on the situation in Egypt. Like the other countries in the region, Egyptians were sympathetic to the Nazi cause, and their hatred of Jews was second only to the Germans'. SS officers were safe there, they had nothing to fear, and during the war Wolter and other agents had established a strong network of friends and allies. Now that Germany's cause seemed lost, they were going to put that network to good use. The SS, he told Tannenberg, would never surrender.

Aside from the obligatory patriotic discourse, Alfred liked the agent, who for the past five long years had been based in Cairo while traveling all over the Middle East, studying the lay of the land and doling out money to buy loyalty.

"Can Yasir Mubak be trusted?" Alfred asked.

"Yes, of course. He is the brother-in-law of a German factory owner, a Nazi like us, who has provided many services to the Reich. His entire family sympathizes with our cause and has helped us unconditionally.
We
can trust Yasir as we would trust one another," the commander assured him.

"Is he working for us?"

"He's working with us; he provides us with a great deal of very valuable information. He has his own network of agents all over the Middle East. He is a businessman and believes, quite rightly, that businessmen must keep themselves well informed. His help to us is free; he has never accepted money."

"I don't trust men who don't charge for their work," said Tannenberg.

"He does not work for us, as I said, he works with us. There is a dif-fernce, Captain."

"What about his family?"

"Yasir is married and has five or six children, several brothers and sisters, and heaven knows how many aunts, uncles, cousins, and so on. His parents are quite aged. If he likes you, someday he will invite you into his home; it's quite an experience."

"I met his sister Aba."

"Ah, yes, Alia! She is a peculiar woman but very capable. She helps Yasir with the business, since she speaks English, French, and German. She learned in Hamburg; she was the caregiver to her sister's four children. The old maid of the family, so to speak."

"Old maid?"

"She is thirty, after all, and in Egypt if a woman reaches that age without marrying, she will most likely never find a husband—unless, that is, her family bestows a very large dowry. But she doesn't seem to mind. People here do find her a bit odd; she doesn't want to dress like other women, and she's judged for that, although no one dares reprimand her publicly. Yasir is well connected to the spheres of power in the government."

Alfred Tannenberg took in this information and quickly processed it. The two men then talked about the immediate future and the role that Alfred might play in the SS underground in Egypt.

In the days that followed, Alfred pieced together his plan of action. The news that arrived from Germany was unambiguous: The Allies were drawing ever closer to winning the war outright. And the international community filling the Cairo hotels to capacity had no doubt that with the defeat of the Reich, a new era in German governance would begin. One that would not favor the old Aryan masters.

One evening when Tannenberg was visiting Mubak in his office in Khan el-Khalili, he boldly made him two proposals.

"Yasir, my friend, forgive me if what I am about to say offends you, but I would like to ask your permission to see more of Alia, to court her, in a word. My intentions are clear: If she wishes, and you and your family give your blessing, it would be an honor for me to make her my wife."

Yasir could do nothing but stare at Alfred. He could not understand how this wealthy, handsome German had fixed upon his beloved sister. Alia was not attractive, he knew, nor distinguished in any way except for her knowledge of English, French, and German. Ah, yes, she also knew how to type. But he doubted that those skills qualified her to be a good wife, and his family had resigned itself to the fact that Alia would remain unmarried. Now suddenly this upstanding German was asking his permission to marry her.
Why?
he wondered.