She had been silent for too long. She was supposed to be witty and engaging. She should talk to him. “Have you heard the war news?” she asked, and realized at once it was not the most lighthearted of topics. “ne Germans are still winning,” he said. “Of course.” “Why’of course’?” He smiled condescendingly at her. “T’he world is divided into masters and slaves, Elene.” He spoke as if he were explaining simple facts to a schoolboy. “The British have been masters too long. They’ve gone soft, and now it will be someone else’s turn.” “And the Egyptians-are they masters, or slaves?” She knew she should shut up, she was walking on thin ice, but his complacen6y infuriated her. “The Bedouin are masters,” he said. “But the average Egyptian is a born slave.” She thought: He means every word of it. She shuddered. They reached the outskirts of the city. Tt was after midnight, and the suburbs were quiet, although downtown would gMI be buzzing. Wolff said: “Where do you liveT’ She told him. So it was to be her place. Wolff said: “We must do this again.” “I’d like that.” They reached the Sharia Abbas, and he told the driver to stop. Elene wondered what was going to happen now. Wolff turned to her and said: “Thank you for a lovely evening. I’ll see you soon.” He got out of the car. She stared in astonishment. He bent down by the driver’s window, gave the man some money and told him Elene’s address. The driver nodded. Wolff banged on the roof of the car, and the driver pulled away. Elene looked back and saw Wolff waving. As the car began to turn a comer, Wolff started walking toward the river. She thought: What do you make of that? No pass, no invitation to his place, no nightcap, not even a good-night kiss-what game was he playing, hard-to-get? She puzzled over the whole thing as the taxi took her home. Perhaps it was Wolff’s technique to try to intrigue a woman. Perhaps he was just eccentric. Whatever the reason, she was very grateful. She sat back and relaxed. She was not obliged to choose between fighting him off and going to bed with him. Thank God. 194 Ken Follett
The taxi drew up outside her building. Suddenly, from nowhere, three cars roared up. One stopped right in front of the taxi, one close behind, and one alongside. Men materialized out of the shadows. All four doors of the taxi were flung open, and four guns pointed in. Elene screamed. Then a head was poked into the car, and Elene recognized Vandam. “Gone?” Vandarn said. Elene realized what was happening. “I thought you were going to shoot me,” she said. “Where did you leave him?” “Sharia Abbas.” “How long ago?” “Five or ten minutes. May I get out of the car?” He gave her a hand, and she stepped on to the pavement. He said: “I’m sorry we scared you.” “This is called slamming the stable door after the horse has bolted.” “Quite.” He looked utterly defeated. She felt a surge of affection for him. She touched his arm. “You’ve no idea how happy I am to see your face,” she said. He gave her an odd look, as if he was not sure whether to believe her. She said: “Why don’t you send your men home and come and talk inside?” He hesitated. “All right.” He turned to one of his men, a captain. “Jakes, I want you to interrogate the taxi driver, see what you can get out of him. Let the men go. I’ll see you at GHQ in an hour or so.” “Very good, sir.” Elene led the way inside. It was so good to enter her own apartment, slump on the sofa, and kick off her shoes. The trial was over, Wolff had gone, and Vandam was here. She said: “Help yourself to a drink.” “No, thanks.” “What went wrong, anyway?” Vandam. sat down opposite her and took out his cigarettes. “We expected him to walk into the trap all unawares-but he was suspicious, or at least cautious, and we missed him. What happened then?” TIRE KEY TO REBECCA 195