Thieves Fall Out (3 page)

Mystified, Pete did as he was told. Hastings flicked the booklet open with one finger, glanced at the photo, picked at it with his nail, felt the texture of the paper, and then, all in a half minute, let the passport close. “Thanks very much,” he said.

Pete put the document back in his pocket.

“Like you to meet a friend of mine,” said Hastings. “Lady who lives here in the hotel. Might have a chat with her. Get to know her. Then later on we’ll have a talk, you and I. How does that sound, eh?”

Just weird, said Pete to himself. “Mighty interesting.” he said aloud.

“Good chap,” said Hastings. “Fact you haven’t a bean won’t bother her at all,” he added, to Pete’s surprise.

* * *

“There you are, my dear,” said Hastings, and he and Pete rose as a slender, dark-haired woman walked toward them from the main lobby. She was dressed in white, very simply, with a tight-fitting blouse that revealed the sculptural line of her figure. She wore no jewels and her hair was drawn softly back from her face, revealing an oval face with black eyes and scarlet lips. Pete guessed her age at thirty.

She gave her hand briefly to each of them. Her smile was brilliant. “Come, let’s sit over here, in the shadows.” She spoke with an agreeable French accent; her voice was low and musical, “I always feel like a spy when I sit in this room,” she said, as they sat around a circular table in an alcove hidden from the lobby by potted plants.

“American…Peter Wells. This is the Comtesse de Rastignac,” mumbled Hastings.

“Mr. Wells is very brave to come here in July,” said the Countess.

“Came here to look for oil, too, on his own hook. Much braver.”

Pete grinned at the Frenchwoman. “Bravery or ignorance,” he said. “I just thought I’d come out and try my luck. It’s usually pretty fair.”

“I can see.” She clapped her hands loudly and a servant came and took their order: tea. Pete preferred a drink, but he was growing hungry again and the idea of tea wasn’t disagreeable.

“Oh…bit of business. Excuse it, Wells. Did the consignment get routed properly?” Hastings’ voice became suddenly low.

She nodded serenely. “Everything has been taken care of.” She turned to Pete. “How long have you been here?”

He told her; then Hastings interrupted. “Boxer, too.”

The Countess looked startled. “What?”‘

“Boxer. You know…chap fights with boxing gloves, fighter, pugilist. In the Army.”

“Ah, how interesting!” She smiled mockingly. “You must give us a demonstration,” she said.

“I didn’t bring any gloves,” said Pete a little sharply, wondering why Hastings had this obsession about his boxing days.

“We don’t use them in Egypt, anyway,” said the Countess cryptically.

“Must be off.” Hastings stood up abruptly. “Can’t wait for tea, my dear. I’ll call you in the morning. Meantime, keep in touch, Wells. I’m at the Semiramis Hotel. Call me around noon tomorrow. Might have a drink, have a talk.”

“I’d like that, sir,” said Pete, standing up. They shook hands; then the Englishman was gone.

“I am fond of Hastings,” said the Countess as they watched the erect military figure move off down the mosquelike room to the main lobby. “He is so British that I sometimes suspect he must be an impostor.”

“He’s very typical, I guess.”

“Very. But then, I have that Cairo habit of thinking if anything seems to be one thing it
must
be another.”

“And what do
I
seem to be?” He was surprised at his own boldness.

“You? A tourist.”

“Nothing more sinister?”

She smiled. “No, I don’t think so.” They drank hot tea and Pete ate a small soggy sandwich. “How do
I
seem to you?” she asked playfully, her dark eyes shining.

“Like a spy,” he said, grinning, remembering her remark when they first met.

She laughed, not at all taken aback. “Well, I will confess that you’re not too far wrong. I
was
a spy, for the Free French during the war. But I’m afraid I did nothing colorful. I was here in Cairo almost all the time, spying on the German spies. You have no idea what a silly time it was. At one moment there were eighty-two known spies registered here at Shepheard’s, from every country in the world.”

“Why so many?”

“Rommel. He was almost in Egypt. No one could stop him. If Rommel had conquered Egypt, then the war would have been over. Whoever controls Suez wins. Until he was stopped, hundreds, perhaps thousands of agents were at work here, undermining the country, watching each other.”

“It must’ve been dangerous work.”

She chuckled. “It was absurd, really. I was not very efficient, but I did go to many wonderful parties. It was an exciting time.”

“You’re French?”

She nodded. “From Paris. My parents came to Alexandria when I was a child. Egypt used to be French—before my time, of course. I was brought up in Alexandria.”

“Your family?”

“All dead.” Then, guessing at his next question, she said, “My husband is dead, too, in the war. Killed in the
maquis.”

They were both silent. Pete wondered what to say next. He still had no idea what was expected of him, if anything.

“Why don’t you take me to dinner?” This was sudden. “We could talk and you could see the night life of the city. It is very gay.”

“I’d like nothing better,” he said slowly, “but you see…”

“Good. Meet me here at eight.” She rose. Then she added, “You can come the way you are. We’re not formal these days.” Before he could say anything about his finances she was gone, her perfume subtle and unique upon the air, like jasmine.

* * *

He walked about the streets until eight o’clock, staring at the crowds. He was propositioned a hundred times. Boys tried to sell him their sisters, their aunts, themselves; men offered to arrange erotic exhibitions for him, to sell him dope, stolen jewels, Persian rugs. He got very tired of them, but they were a part of this strange world and he was determined to make the best of it.

At eight, exactly, the Countess appeared in the lobby, wearing an evening gown of black lace with a short full skirt in the latest Paris fashion. At her throat diamonds flamed and around her head she wore a filmy veil of black, glittering with jet. Men turned to look at her admiringly as she crossed the lobby. The British ladies in their shapeless evening gowns glared and turned their backs, the highest tribute.

“I’m not late?” She took his arm automatically, as though they were old friends, or lovers.

“On the dot,” he said, awed by her beauty. They went down the steps of the hotel. The porter in livery bowed and opened the door to a black sedan. They got in.

“Is this a cab?”

“No. It’s a car I sometimes use.” She unrolled the window that separated them from the driver, a dark little man in uniform. She said something to him in Arabic and he nodded. She rolled the window back up again.

“You know,” he said, “I haven’t got any money.”

She laughed with mock surprise. “And I thought you had at least one oil well! What a disappointment!”

“You see…”

“Of course you have no money. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

He nodded. She was not always easy to follow. She seemed continually to be suggesting more than she ever said.

“Besides, we won’t have to pay tonight. I will sign, like a businessman.”

“But I hate—”

“Come, Peter, don’t be one of those…how do you say—moral? One of those moral American men.”

“I’ll try not to be,” he said, smiling, aware that their thighs were touching, that his arm was pushed tight against hers, that neither had moved apart although the car seat was wide. “What’s your name?” he asked, trying vainly to think only of business. “Your first name.”

“Hélène,” she said. “But I have never launched a thousand ships.”

“You could, I think,” said Pete, feeling the slow tickle of desire. But despite the closeness of their bodies she gave him no lead, and so, talking of everyday, they arrived at Mena House, a hotel on the edge of Cairo, across the Nile from the main city and close to the desert, to the pyramids and the Sphinx. From the rose garden where they dined by candlelight they could see the solemn bulk of the Great Pyramid, silver by moonlight. They were the only guests on the rose terrace.

“This is the most romantic place in the world, this garden,” she said.

Pete nodded, too contented to speak.

They talked quietly during dinner. It was the best food Pete had had in some months. They drank champagne. They talked of themselves. No mention was made of Hastings, of money, of the present…except for the moonlight. Finally, when they had finished coffee and she had signed the check, she said, “Now that you have seen the beautiful Cairo, I’ll show you the more exciting one.”

The exciting Cairo turned out to be a nearby night club called L’Auberge des Pyramides, an exotic, modern place, like a New York night club with an imported dance band. Well-dressed men and women sat at the bar or danced on the small dance floor, which was as small and inconvenient as any in Manhattan. They were led immediately to a ringside table by the
maître d’hôtel
, who knew Hélène and seemed pleased to welcome her.

She ordered champagne again. The orchestra played Cole Porter. A beautiful silver blonde danced by with a short fat man wearing dark glasses. Pete found it hard to remember where he was, that a few miles away the pyramids stood at the edge of an ancient desert.

Hélène reminded him, though, that this was still Cairo. “You see that man?” she said, pointing to the one with the blonde. “That’s Farouk.”

Pete stared hard at the King of Egypt. He looked, he decided, more like a dentist than a king. “I didn’t know kings went night-clubbing,” said Pete.

“This one does.” Hélène looked thoughtful. “Of course, he’s incognito. No one is supposed to recognize him or talk to him. But look over there.” She nodded at the corner of the dance floor. A square man in a gray business suit stood, his eyes on the King. Then Pete saw that in each corner a man stood, hand in pocket, guarding the King. “Make just one unexpected move in his direction…”

“How about in the blonde’s direction?”

She laughed. “Don’t tell me you have the American mania for bleached hair.”

“Bleached or real, it’s what goes with it,” said Pete. He was beginning to feel the effects of the champagne.

Then they danced. He held her very tight, aware of every part of her as they floated on the music, their bodies close together. But this contentment did not last long; after the third number a man cut in.

Pete was prepared to tell him to go on about his business, but a warning look from Hélène restrained him, and he went back to the table alone, leaving her with the stranger. The two waltzed together formally, the distance of her arms between them. The man was tall, with Arab features, swarthy and aquiline. He looked as though he should have been wearing a turban and robe, but he was impeccably dressed in evening clothes and his wiry gray hair was clipped short in the German fashion.

Hélène frowned as they talked to one another. Suddenly she stopped and turned on her heel, leaving her partner alone on the dance floor. On her way back to the table, Pete noticed that the King, who had been dancing with a bored, stolid air, looked suddenly interested; he said something to the blonde. They both looked at Hélène as she came back to the table.

“You took care of that fast.”

She shrugged. “Let’s not talk about it. I hate people who bother one at a dance, talking business. I want more wine, Peter.”

He filled her glass. “Business?”

“Yes. He’s a…a rival of mine.” She would say no more; but whoever the man was, he had put her in a bad mood, for after only one dance she wanted to go home.

In the car, on the way back to Shepheard’s, Pete put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her toward him, pulled the scarlet mouth against his lips. It was all easy, suddenly, dreamlike and exciting. But then, sensing his excitement, she pushed him gently away. “You’re ruining my veil,” she said.

“To hell with that,” he murmured, conscious of a familiar pounding in his ears; he held her tightly, and this time she accepted his embrace passively.

At the hotel they got out and she dismissed the driver. Then slowly they walked up the steps in the moonlight to the dim lobby, where only a few drowsy servants leaned against columns, nodding.

There was a difficult moment, for Pete at least, when they stood looking at one another, she with an odd expression in her gleaming eyes and he with a roaring in his ears.

She broke the silence. “You can walk me to my room,” she said lightly. “I’m on the ground floor, right on the garden.” He followed her without a word down the high-ceilinged, dim hall to the right of the desk. Her room was in a corner, at the end of the hall. She opened the door with a large brass key. “Come in,” she said, without looking back at him.

He followed her into a large room, Victorian, with a brass bedstead canopied with mosquito netting. She sat down at her dressing table and removed the veil, then she turned and motioned for him to sit in the armchair opposite her. Puzzled, he sat down. Her mood had abruptly changed. She was now cold and businesslike.

“What is your price?” This came with startling clarity.

“Price? Price for what?” For a moment he wondered if perhaps she thought she would have to pay him for making love to her, but this was too extraordinary.

She came to the point quickly. “For your time, for your intelligence, which I hope is high, for your body, which…” She paused thoughtfully; then: “It should take no longer than a week, and it will be dangerous.”

“What will be dangerous?”

“What you must do. The errand Hastings and I have in mind for you.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have a very clear idea—”

“You won’t have, for some time.” She smiled. “You will have to go up the Nile. It will be dangerous, but with luck and good sense you will be quite safe. You will be paid half in advance and half when you return at the end of the week.”

“Return from where?”

“Luxor. It’s several hundred miles to the south.”

“Paid how much?”