“Fine. Why don’t you call on me tomorrow morning. I live—P “You’ll have to come with me. Those are my orders.” “From whom?” “The assistant provost marshal.” “Very well, then,” said Wolff. He stood up. He could feel the fear pumping desperate strength into his arms. “But either you or the provost will be in very deep trouble in the morning.” Then he picked up the table and threw it at the MP. He had planned and calculated the move in a couple of seconds. It was a small circular table of solid wood. Its edge struck the MP on the bridge of the nose, and as he fell back the table landed on top of him. Table and MP were on Wolff’s left. On his right was the proprietor. Sonja was opposite him, still sitting, and the other two MPs were on either side of her and slightly behind her. Wolff grabbed the proprietor and pushed him at one of the MPs. Then he jumped at the other MP, the Australian, and punched his face. He hoped to get past the two of them and run away. It did not work. The MPs were chosen for their size, belligerence and brutality, and they were used to dealing with soldiers desert-hardencd and fighting drunk. The Australian took the punch and staggered back a pace, but he did not fall over. Wolff kicked him in the knee and punched his face again; then the other MP, the second Englishman, pushed the proprietor out of the way and kicked Wolfrs feet from under him. Wolff landed heavily. His chest and his cheek hit the tiled floor. His face stung, he was momentarily winded and be saw stars. He was kicked again, in the side; the pain made him jerk convulsively and roll away from the blow. ne MP jumped on him, beating him about the head. He struggled to push the man off. Someone else sat on Wolff’s feet. Then Wolff saw, above him and behind the English MP on his chest, Sonja’s face, twisted with rage. The thought flashed through his mind that she was remembering another beating that had been administered by British soldiers. Then he saw that she was raising high in the air the chair she had been sitting on. The MP on Wolffs chest glimpsed her, turned around, looked up, and raised his arms to ward off the blow. She brought the heavy chair down with all her might. A cor- THE KEY TO REBECCA 155
ner of the seat struck the MP’s mouth, and he gave a shout of pain and anger as blood spurted from his lip. The Australian got off Wolff’s feet and grabbed Sonja from behind, pinning her arms. Wolff flexed his body and threw off the wounded Englishman, then scrambled to his feet. He reached inside his shirt and whipped out his knife. The Australian threw Sonja aside, took a pace forward, saw the knife and stopped. He and Wolff stared into each other’s eyes for an instant. Wolff saw the other man’s eyes flicker to one side, then the other, seeing his two partners lying on the floor. The Australian’s hand went to his holster. Wolff turned and dashed for the door. One of his eyes was closing: he could not see well. The door was closed. He grabbed for the handle and missed. He felt like screaming. He found the handle and flung the door open wide. It hit the wall with a crash. A shot rang out.
Vandam. drove the motorcycle through the streets at a dangerous speed. He had ripped the blackout mask off the headlight-nobody in Cairo took the blackout seriously anyway-and he drove with his thumb on the horn. The streets were still busy, with taxis, gharries, army trucks, donkeys and camels. The pavements were crowded and the shops were bright with electric lights, oil lamps and candles. Vandarn weaved recklessly through the traffic, ignoring the outraged hooting of the cars, the raised fists of the gharry drivers, and the blown whistle of an Egyptian policeman. The assistant provost marshal had called him at home. “Ah, Vandam, wasn’t it you who sent up the bal-loon about this funny money? Because we’ve just had a call from a restaurant where a European is trying to pass-” “Where?” The APM gave him the address, and Vandam ran out of the house. He skidded around a corner, dragging a heel in the dusty road for traction. It had occurred to him that, with so much counterfeit money in circulation, some of it must have got into the hands of other Europeans, and the man in the restaurant might well be an innocent victim. He hoped not. He wanted desperately to get his hands on Alex Wolff. Wolff had outwitted and hurnfliated him and now, with his access to 156 Ken Follett