The Key to Rebecca (21 page)

Vandam scratched his head. It was, to say the least, peculiar reading for 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 one-time pad had letters and numbers randomly printed in five-character 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 secondhand. Vandam 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.

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 Portugal—there 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 truck.

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 begin!”

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!” 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—”

Vandam said abruptly: “Not now, Jakes.”

“Stay here, Jakes,” Bogge countermanded. “This 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 had 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 security—this is your bloody responsibility!”

“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 wrath 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 pressure of blackmail. Of course it was possible that Wolff had nothing to do with it—but Vandam 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—”

“Yes, I do,” Jakes said. “It was a massacre.”

And it was my fault, Vandam 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. Vandam 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. It’s 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: Elene!

Maybe she made contact with Wolff. She must have—why else would she be desperate to speak to Vandam? Vandam 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.”

Vandam had swallowed enough abuse for one day. He snatched the phone, thrust his face into the major’s face, and said loudly: “I’ll use it as long as I need it.” He turned his back on the major and spoke into the phone. “Yes?”

“William?”

“Elene!” 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! Did you get his address?”

“No—but I’ve got a date with him.”

“Well done!” Vandam was full of savage delight—he would catch the bastard now. “Where and when?”

“Tomorrow night, seven-thirty, at the Oasis Restaurant.”

Vandam picked up a pencil and a scrap of paper. “Oasis Restaurant, seven-thirty,” he repeated. “I’ll 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 girlfriends?”

Vandam gave him a sunny smile. “That wasn’t a girlfriend, it was an informant,” he said. “She’s made contact with the spy. I expect to arrest him tomorrow night.”

WOLFF WATCHED SONJA EAT. THE 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 had 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 twenty 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?”

Wolff smiled. “I think I shall be Hitler’s 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 grocer’s 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 virgin?”

“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.

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 fortune. 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. What was so unfair was that they had confiscated 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.