running and fighting. He thought: I took dangerous. He walked on, and turned at the next comer to take an indirect route which would avoid the main streets. Those imbeciles in Berlin had given him counterfeit moneyl No wonder they were so generous with it-they were printing it themselves. It was so foolish that Wolff wondered if it might he more than foolishness. The Abwehr was run by the military, not by the Nazi Party; its chief, Canaria, was not the staunchest of Hitler’s supporters. When I get back to Berlin there will be such a purge … How had it caught up with him, here in Cairo? He had been spending money fast. The forgeries had got into circulation. The banks had spotted the dud notes-no, not the banks, the paymaster general. Anyway, someone had begun to refuse the money, and word had got around Cairo. The proprietor of the restaurant had noticed that Wolff’s money was fake and had called the military. Wolff grinned ruefully to himself when he recalled how flattered he had been by the proprietor’s complimentary brandy-it had been no more than a ruse to keep him there until the MPs arrived. He thought about the man on the motorcycle. He must be a determined bastard, to ride the bike around those alleys and up and down the steps. He bad no gun, Wolff guessed: if he had, he would surely have used it. Nor had he a tin hat, so presumably he was not an MP. Someone from Intelligence, perhaps? Major Vandam, even? Wolff hoped so. I cut the man, he thought. Quite badly, probably. I wonder where? The face? I hope it was Vandam. He turned his mind to his immediate problem. They had Sonja. She would tell them she hardly knew Wolff-she would make up some story about a quick pickup in the ChaCha Club. They would not be able to hold her for long, be- cause she was famous, a star, a kind of hero among the Egyptians, and to imprison her would cause a great deal of trouble. So they would let her go quite soon. However, she would have to give them her address; which meant that Wolff could not go back to the houseboat, not yet. But he was ex- hausted, bruised and disheveled: he had to clean himself up and get a few hours’ rest, somewhere. THE KEY TO REBECCA 161
He thought: I’ve been here before-wandering the city, tired and hunted, with nowhere to go. This time he would have to fall back on Abdullah. He had been heading for the Old City, knowing all along, In the back of his mind, that Abdullah was all he had left; and now he found himself a few steps from the old thief’s house. He ducked under an arch, went along a short dark passage and climbed a stone spiral staircase to Abdullah’s home. Abdullah was sitting on the floor with another man. A nargileb stood between them, and the air was full of the berbal smell of hashish. Abdullah looked up at Wolff and gave a slow, sleepy smile. He spoke in Arabic. “Here is my friend Achmed, also called Alex. Welcome, Achmed-Alex.” Wolff sat on the floor with them and greeted them in Arabic. Abdullah said: “My brother Yasef here would like to ask you a riddle, something that has been puzzling him and me for some hours now, ever since we started the hubble-bubble, speaking of which He passed the pipe across, and Wolff took a lungful * Yasef said: “Achmed-Alex, friend of my brother, welcome. Tell me this: Why do the British call us wogs?” Yasef and Abdullah collapsed into giggles. Wolff realized they were heavily under the influence of hashish: they must have been smoking all evening. He drew on the pipe again, and pushed it over to Yasef. It was strong stuff. Abdullah always had the best. Wolff said: “As it happens, I know the answer. Egyptian men working on the Suez Canal were issued with special shirts, to show that they had the right to be on British property. They were Working On Government Service, so on the backs of their shirts were printed the letters W.O.G.S.” Yasef and Abdullah giggled all over again. Abdullah said: “My friend Achmed-Alex. is clever. He is as clever as an Arab, almost, because he is almost an Arab. He is the only European who has ever got the better of me, Abdullah.” “I believe this to be untrue,” Wolff said slipping into their stoned style of speech. “I would never try to outwit my friend Abdullah, for who can cheat the devilT’ Yasef smiled and nodded his appreciation of this witticism. 162 Ken Follett