He began to suspect the answer when they crossed the bridge to Zamalek. This was where the dancer, Sonia, had her houseboat. It was surely not possible that Wolff was living there, Vandarn thought, for the place had been under surveillance for days. But perhaps he was reluctant to take Elene to his real home, and so was borrowing the houseboat. Wolff parked in a street and got out. Vandam stood his motorcycle against a wall and hurriedly chained the wheel to prevent theft-he might need the bike again tonight. He followed Wolff and Elene from the street to the towpath. From behind a bush he watched as they walked a short distance along the path. He wondered what Elene was thinking. Had she expected to be rescued before this? Would she trust that Vandam was still watching her? Would she now lose hope? They stopped beside one of the boats-Vandam noted carefully which one-and Wolff helped Elene on to the gangplank. Vandam thought: Has it not occurred to Wolff that the houseboat might be under surveillance? Obviously not. Wolff followed Elene on to the deck, then opened a hatch. The two of them disappeared below. Vandam thought: What now? This was surely his best chance to fetch help. Wolff must be intending to spend some time on the boat. But supposing that did not happen? Suppose, while Vandam was dashing to a phone, something went wrong-Elene insisted on being taken home, Wolff changed his plans, or they decided to go to a nightclub? I could still lose the bastard, Vandam thought. There must be a policeman around here somewhere. “Hey!” he said in a stage whisper. “Is anybody there? Police? This is Major Vandam. Hey, where are–2′ A dark figure materialized from behind a tree. An Arab voice said: “Yes?” “Hello. I’m Major Vandam. Are you the police officer watching the houseboat?” “Yes, sir.” “Okay, listen. The man we’re chasing is on the boat now. Do you have a gun?” “No, sir.” “Damn.” Vandarn considered whether he and the Arab could raid the boat on their own, and decided they could not: 258 Ken Follett
the Arab could not be trusted to fight enthusiastically, and in that confined space Wolff’s knife could wreak havoc. “Right, I want you to go to the nearest telephone, ring GHQ, and get a message through to Captain Jakes or Colonel Bogge, absolutely top priority: they are to come here in force and raid the houseboat immediately. Is that clear?” “Captain Jakes or Colonel Bogge, GHQ, they are to raid the houseboat immediately. Yes, sir.” “All right. Be quick!” The Arab left at a trot. Vandam found a position in which he was concealed from view but could still watch the houseboat and the towpath. A few minutes later the figure of a woman came along the path. Vandam thought she looked familiar. She boarded the houseboat, and Vandam realized she was Sonja. He was relieved: at least Wolff could not molest Elene while there was another woman on the boat. He settled down to wait. 22
The Arab was worried. “Go to the nearest telephone,” the Englishman had said. Well, there were telephones in some of the nearby houses. But houses with phones were occupied by, Europeans, who would not take kindly to an Egyptian-even a police officer-banging on their doors at eleven o’clock at night and demanding to use the phone. They would almost certainly refuse, with oaths and curses: it would be a humiliating experience. He was not in uniform, not even wearing his usual plainclothes outfit of white shirt and black trousers, but was dressed like a fellah. They would not even believe he was a policeman. There were no public phones on Zamalek that he knew of. That left him only one option: to phone from the station house. He headed that way, still trotting. He was also worried about calling GHQ. It was an unwritten rule for Egyptain officials in Cairo that no one ever voluntarily contacted the British. It always meant trouble. The switchboard at GHQ would refuse to put through the call, or they would leave the message until morning-then deny they had ever received it–or they would tell him to call back later. And if anything went wrong there would be hell to pay. How, anyway, did he know that the man on the towpath had been genuine? He did not know Major Vandam from Adam, and anyone could put on the uniform shirt of a major. Suppose it was a hoax? There was a certain type of young English officer who just loved to play practical jokes on well-meaning Egyptians. He had a standard response to situations like this: pass the buck. Anyway, he had been instructed to report to his su- 259 260 Ken Follett