Glenn Meade (56 page)

He had a fifty-piastre note tucked
into his pocket, not as much as the sergeant, because the greedy son of a
flee-ridden whore had pocketed most of the money the American professor had
given him, but at least Ali had got a share. The sergeant was gone now, slipped
off home to lie with his grumbling wife, leaving Ali alone to guard the
barrier.

Half asleep, looking up at the
stars as he lay on a rush mat he'd placed on one of the boulders near the
sentry box, his rifle propped at his elbow, he heard the sound of an engine
approaching.

He yawned, scratched himself as he
rose lazily, then picked up his rifle and dusted his uniform. He wondered who
it could be at such an hour.

Some nights, Allied soldiers
brought women out from the city in taxis or horse-drawn gharries, begged Ali to
let them visit the tombs and pyramids by moonlight, and for a little baksheesh
he would always oblige. He licked his lips in anticipation as the vehicle
approached up the incline. "With luck, he might be able to add to his
fifty piastres. In the moonlit darkness, he could make out a motorcycle, two
people on board. As it came closer he flicked on his torch, frowned as he recognized
the faces of the man and woman from the professor's car earlier in the evening.

Ali relaxed his grip on the rifle
as the motorcycle halted and the couple climbed off. It was well after
midnight. What did they want this time? He bowed his head politely. 'Effendi, madam.'

'You remember us?' Deacon said in
perfect Arabic.

'Of course.'

'There's a problem,' Deacon went
on. 'We left something at the excavation site and have to return. I need to
speak to your sergeant.'

'The sergeant is not here,
effendi.' ‹ 'Then where is he?'

Ali hesitated. The sergeant was
asleep in his bed when he should have been on duty, but to tell the truth would
have been unthinkable, so he simply said, 'He's away on important police
business, and will return by sunrise.'

Deacon nodded, understanding. 'So,
you're alone here?'

'Alas, effendi, I am the only
person on duty.' AH grinned, the grin he always used when the smell of
baksheesh was in the air.

He rubbed his forefinger and thumb
together in the universal gesture, so the man would notice. 'Perhaps it might
be possible for you to return to the site.'

Deacon smiled back, made to reach
inside his jacket for his wallet. 'Of course.'

Ali hadn't been watching the
woman, which was his mistake.

For some reason, she had gone over
to search among the boulders off to one side of the barrier, and when she came
back she nodded to her companion. 'He's telling the truth. The sergeant's not
here.'

Ali frowned in puzzlement, knowing
something wasn't right, and as he turned back the man brought out his hand, not
with a wallet, but with a pistol. The metal smashed hard against the side of
Ali's skull, there was a ringing pain that made him want to vomit, and a
blanket of darkness smothered him.

Sanson squinted through the
binoculars. With only one good eye, he could barely see the villa in the
silvery darkness.

'No wonder we couldn't find Haider
and the woman after they fled Rashid - this is probably where they've been
hiding out. And I'll make a bet it's where Deacon's been making his radio
transmissions from too.'

'Sir?'

Sanson put down the binoculars,
looked back at the major. 'Another part of the story. Remind me to tell you
some time.'

They had halted on the private
road leading up to the villa, left the Jeep and truck-load of troops behind
them, and walked ahead in the darkness - Sanson, the major, and one of the men
- until they came to a small rise, within a hundred and fifty yards of the
property. "Without the binoculars this time, Sanson peered towards the
whitewashed villa, the walled gardens dotted with palm trees. He saw no lights
on and the windows were shuttered, but he thought he'd noticed what looked like
the end of a private pier, jutting into the
Nile
from the back of the property.

'You'd better send half a dozen
men down to the water to try and secure the rear. It's likely Deacon and his
friends have a boat. I don't want anyone getting away. These people have to be
caught, dead or alive.'

The major didn't reply, but
squinted ahead into the darkness, and Sanson said, 'What's the matter?'

'There's a vehicle parked just
forward, to the right of the track. If I'm not mistaken, it looks like a staff
car.'

The major pointed. Sanson saw the
shadowy outline of a staff
Humber
, drew his
pistol. 'Let's have a look.'

When they approached the
Humber
it was empty, the front doors ajar, the keys still
in the ignition. The major shone a torch as Sanson looked inside. He caught
sight of the hack sawed remains of a pair of handcuffs discarded on the
passenger floor, and his mouth tightened in fury. 'Weaver. I might have bloody
known.'

Suddenly, from the direction of
the villa, they heard the rasp of an engine starting up, and Sanson cocked an
ear. 'What was that?'

'It sounded like a motorcycle,
sir.'

Sanson heard the engine rev and
fade. 'The bastards may be on the move. Signal the men at once. We're going
in.'

In the cellar, Helen Kane
struggled with the ropes. Perspiration ran down her slip. Her wrists were tied
painfully tight, and it was impossible to free herself. A crack of moonlight
seeped through a metal door at the far end of the cellar, barely enough to see
by.

She heard something move in the
semi-darkness, and recoiled in horror as a rat scurried past her legs.

She tried to move the chair, with
great effort managed to shift it round, almost toppling over in the process.
She looked over at the racks of wine bottles. If she could only manage to break
one of the bottles, she might be able to use the glass to cut the ropes. She
inched forward, grating her heels against the stone floor, every tiny movement
an effort. She reached the nearest rack, tilted her head forward, and tried to
nudge out a cob webbed bottle with her mouth. It moved an inch, but no more.

She tried again. This time the
bottle moved out a little further.

She brushed it with her cheek,
teased it out. The bottle crashed to the stone floor, splashing liquid, glass
shards splintering everywhere. She inched back, tilted the chair, and crashed
to the floor, landing painfully on some glass chips, grazing her arm and
shoulder in the process.

She muffled her cry, but at that
precise moment the cellar door opened and Hassan stood in the doorway with the
lamp.

He scowled dangerously and was
down the steps in an instant.

'Bitch!' he roared, and slapped
her hard across the face, grabbed her by the hair and dragged her upstairs.

As Kleist ushered Weaver and
Haider towards the French windows at gunpoint, they all heard the roar of
engines outside, followed by the screech of tyres.

Hassan pushed Helen Kane roughly
into the room and moved quickly to the window, peered through a crack in the
shutters. 'We've got company - soldiers, many of them.'

'Scheisse’ Kleist pushed Helen
Kane over to join Haider and Weaver. 'Cover them,' he told Hassan, and crossed
to the nearest window, the M3 at the ready. He peered through the shutter, and
in the darkness outside saw a uniformed officer, a patch over one eye, his
pistol drawn as he rushed through the open gate. Before Kleist had a chance to
open the shutters and fire the machine-pistol, the man darted into the
blackness of the garden and vanished, soldiers jumping down from a truck as it
drew up outside the villa's walls.

Orders were being screamed in the
darkness, and suddenly there was the sound of wood splintering out in the
hallway, someone trying to force the front door. Kleist turned frantically to
Hassan. 'Get down to the cellar. Quickly!'

Hassan glared at Weaver and the
others. 'What about them?'

'Leave it to me.' As Hassan moved
off towards the door, Kleist swung the M3 round. 'This is where it ends for you
and your friends, Haider. No time for prayers, I'm afraid.' He laughed like a
madman and brought up the machine-pistol, his finger tightening on the trigger.

There was a click, and nothing happened.
The laughter died in Kleist's throat and his face sagged, but in one fluid
movement he recocked the weapon, ejected an unspent cartridge on to the floor,
and squeezed the trigger again.

Click.

'You're right,' Haider said. 'This
is where it ends.' He lunged forward, his fist smashing hard into Kleist's jaw,
sending the SS man reeling back. At the door, Hassan was already reacting,
turning as he moved to bring up his pistol, but Haider was quicker. He yanked
the pistol from Kleist's trouser belt, firing as he rolled on to the floor,
hitting the Arab in the chest, sending him flying backwards, another shot
catching him in the throat, the pistol flying from his grasp, his body reeling
in an obscene dance of death.

As a dazed Kleist made to scramble
to his feet and reach for Hassan's weapon, Weaver got to it first, shot him
twice in the chest, punching the SS man back, then fired again, hitting him in
the head.

'You did better than I expected,
old friend.' Haider bent to pick up the M3. 'Either the gods are smiling on us,
or Kleist was one unlucky bastard - two dud cartridges one after another almost
beggars belief He drew back the bolt of the machine pistol, examined it, raised
an eye. 'Looks like I'm wrong on both counts. The firing pin's been tampered with.
Very thoughtful of someone.'

Weaver turned white. 'Rachel?'

'It's a distinct possibility,
considering she deliberately gave Kleist the weapon.' A look like remorse
crossed his face. 'So, she's redeemed herself, at least on our account. And
maybe that says something. But I'm quite sure your President's another matter.'

From the hallway came further
sounds of splintering wood, and they could hear the clatter of boots out beyond
the French windows, troops moving round the back. A heavy burst of fire splintered
one of the wooden shutters, and lead ripped in through the windows, shattering
glass.

'Down!' roared Weaver. He grabbed
Helen Kane and the three of them dropped to the floor.

As Haider lay there, he looked at
Weaver. 'Your friends will be on top of us any second. The bar on the front
door isn't going to hold out for ever. Well, what's it to be, Harry? Surrender?
Or do we try to put the brakes on this before it's too late?'

'What do you mean?'

The, I'm a dead man walking. But
Rachel might be a different matter. I'd hate to stake my life on it, but when
you consider why she's doing this, I'd like to think a military court might at
least spare her the noose. That's assuming we can stop her in time. If we can
somehow make it out to Giza, we just might stand a chance. It's your decision.'

'You mind telling me how we're
supposed to get out of here?'

'If we reach the hall, there's a
way out through the cellar, and a boat waiting for us on the river.'

'And after that?'

'For now, let's just worry about
getting out alive. Well?'

Another burst of fire stitched
across the shutters, chunks of wall masonry exploding, splinters of wood flying
into the room.

Weaver nodded. 'Let's go.'

Sanson was enraged. He kicked
savagely at the front door again, and in frustration fired another two rounds
into the lock, then heaved against it with his shoulder, but it still wouldn't
budge.

'Give me a grenade,' he said to
the private nearest him. The man handed him a grenade from his pouch.

'Stand back.' Sanson placed it
against the bottom of the door, ordered the men to move for cover, pulled the
pin, and flattened himself against the side wall. The explosion came seconds
later, a tremendous crump that blew the door off its hinges.

Sanson stood in the middle of the room,
surveying the carnage.

The Arab's body lay on the floor,
and another corpse sprawled in a corner, blood still pumping from two bullet
wounds to his chest and another through the head.

The major rushed into the room.
'There's no sign of anyone alive. Upstairs or down.'

'You're sure the men didn't see
anyone escape on the river?'

Sanson asked, livid.

'No, sir. We didn't hear an
engine, and there's a motorboat still out there. I don't see how anyone could
have got away.

Unless they left on the motorcycle
we heard earlier?'

'Have the men thoroughly search
outside.'

'They're already doing that, sir.'
The major nodded towards Kleist's body. 'One of the Germans?'

'If it is, it's not Haider. Check
every room again. Go through them with a fine-tooth comb - every closet and
nook and cranny, upstairs and down. And see if there's a cellar.'

They had heard the grenade
explosion as they hurried down the darkened cellar steps. Haider pulled open
the metal door at the end of the room and a draught of fresh warm air greeted
them, moonlight washing in. The boat was still there, nestled among the reeds,
and he pulled off the tarpaulin. 'We'll use the oars. The engine noise will
only give us away. And we'd better try to stay among the reeds - we might be
spotted if we move out on to open water.' He looked back grimly at Weaver. 'It
might be wiser if the lady remained and tried to surrender. No sense in risking
her life if we're fired on out on the river.'

Before Helen Kane could say a
word, Haider took her hand, brushed it with a kiss. 'You've been a very brave
woman, Helen. Another time, and different circumstances, and I'm sure it could
have been a pleasure to get to know you. But forgive me. Harry and I have
serious work to do. I'm sure he'll explain.' ‹ Weaver quickly told her,
explaining what had to be done.

'Try and stall Sanson until we get
away, then tell him to get in touch with the Mena as fast as he can, and let
them know what's been happening. And make sure he knows about Deacon's aircraft
pick-up near
Sakkara
. Think you can manage
that?'

'If you say so.'

'Give us a couple of minutes, then
scream your head off. Let them know whose side you're on, in case anyone comes
down the cellar stairs shooting first before they ask questions.'

Haider was already in the boat,
and as Weaver moved to join him, she touched his arm. 'The car - it might still
be where we parked, if you can get to it. And for God's sake, watch yourself,
Harry.'

Weaver saw the genuine concern on
her face, kissed her on the cheek. 'You're a wonderful woman, you know that?'

'Or just a damned silly fool.'

'Let's move,' Haider said
urgently.

Weaver climbed into the boat, and
Haider sank the oar into the water and pushed them out through the reeds.

Sanson was still fuming as he
paced one of the bedrooms upstairs, supervising the search, when he heard a
scream from somewhere downstairs, then a sudden commotion. He raced down the
stairs just as two soldiers came up out of the cellar, Helen Kane between them.
Her uniform was gone, and she stood there in her slip, hugging herself.

Sanson looked astounded. 'Helen-!'

'We found the lady in the cellar,
sir,' one of the soldiers said.

Sanson was red-faced, tried to
compose himself as he stared at her. 'What the devil are you doing here?
Where's Weaver?

Where's Haider and the woman?'

'You've got to listen to me.
There's no time to lose.'

Less than a hundred meters along
the river, Haider eased the boat through the reeds and pushed it into the bank.
They stepped out into the darkness, climbed up through the reeds, and Weaver
led the way towards the private track. They saw the staff
Humber
still parked there, scurried towards it and climbed in.