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