Shepheard’s was crowded. It always was. Wolff paid off his taxi, pushed through the pack of hawkers and dragomans outside, mounted the steps and went into the foyer. It was packed with people: Levantine merchants holding noisy business meetings, Europeans using the post office and the banks, Egyptian girls in their cheap gowns and British officers-the hotel was out of bounds to Other Ranks. Wolff passed between two larger-than-life bronze ladies holding lamps and entered the lounge. A small band played nondescript music while more crowds, mostly European now, called constantly for waiters. Negotiating the divans and marbIe-topped tables Wolff made his way through to the long bar at the far end. Here it was a little quieter. Women were banned, and serious drinking was the order of the day. It was here that a lonely officer would come. Wolff sat at the bar. He was about to order champagne, 82 Ken Follett
then he remembered his disguise and asked for whiskey and water. He had given careful thought to his clothes. The brown shoes were officer pattern and highly polished; the khaki socks were turned down at exactly the right place, the baggy brown shorts had a sharp crease; the bush shirt with captain’s pips was worn outside the shorts, not tucked in; the flat cap was just slightly raked. He was a little worried about his accent. He had his story ready to explain it-the line he bad given Captain Newman, in Assyut, about having been brought up in Dutch-speaking South Africa–but what if the officer he picked up was a South African? Wolff could not distinguish English accents well enough to recognize a South African. He was more worried about his knowledge of the Army. He was looking for an officer from GHQ, so he would say that he himself was with BTE-British Troops in Egyptwhich was a separate and independent outfit. Unfortunately he knew little else about it. He was uncertain what BTE did and how it was organized, and he could not quote the name of a single one of it-, officers. He imagined a conversation: “How’s old Buffy Jenkins?” “Old Buffy? Don’t see much of him in my department.” “Don’t see much of him? He runs the showl Are we talking about the same BTE?” Then again: “What about Simon Frobisher?” “Oh, Simon’s the same, you know.” “Wait a minute-someone said he’d gone back home. Yes, I’m sure he has-how come you didn’t know?” Then the accusations, and the cafling of the military police, and the fight, and finally the jail. Jail was the only thing that really frightened Wolff. He pushed the thought out of his mind and ordered another whiskey. A perspiring colonel came in and stood at the bar next to Wolfrs stool. He called to the barman: “E7.ma!” It meant “Listen,” but all the British thought it meant “Waiter.” The colonel looked at Wolff. Wolff nodded politely and said: “Sir.” THE KEY TO REBECCA 83
“Cap off in the bar, Captain,” said the colonel. “What are you thinking of?” Wolff took off his cap, cursing ‘himself silently for the error. The colonel ordered beer. Wolff looked away. There were fifteen or twenty officers in the bar, but he recognized none of them. He was looking for any one of the eight aides who left GHQ each midday with their briefcases. He had memorized the face of each one, and would recognize them instantly. He bad already been to the Metropolitan Hotel and the Turf Club without success, and after half an hour in Shepheard’s he would try the Officers’ Club, the Gezira Sporting Club and even the Anglo-Egyptian Union. If he failed tonight he would try again tomorrow: sooner or later he was sure to bump into at least one of them. Then everything would depend on his skill. His scheme bad a lot going for it. The uniform made him one of them, trustworthy and a comrade. Like most soldiers they were probably lonely and sex-starved in a foreign country. Sonja was undeniably a very desirable woman-to look at, anyway-and the average Englisb officer was not well ar- mored against the wiles of an Oriental seductress. And anyway, if he was unlucky enough to pick an aide smart enough to resist temptation, he would have to drop the man and look for another. He hoped it would not take that long. In fact it took him five more minutes. The major who walked in was a small man, very thin, and about ten years older than Wolff. His cheeks had the broken veins of a bard drinker. He had bulbous blue eyes, and his thin sandy hair was plastered to his head. Every day be left GHQ at midday and walked to an unmarked building in the Shari Suleiman Pasha-carrying his briefcase. Wolff’s heart missed a beat. The major came up to the bar, took off his cap, and said: “Ezma! Scotch. No ice. Make it snappy.” He turned to Wolff. “Bloody weather,” he said conversationally. “Isn’t it always, sir?” Wolff said. “Bloody right. I’m Smith, GHQ.” “How do you do, sir,” Wolff said. He knew that, since Smith went from GHQ to another building every day, the 84 Ken Follett