citement became dominant. Some kind of change had occurred in Wolff in the last twenty-four hours, she thought. When she first met him he had been a very poised, suave man. His face bad rarely shown any spontaneous emotion other than a faint arrogance, his features had been generally rather still, his movements had been almost languid. Now all that had gone. He fidgeted, he looked about him restlessly, and every few seconds the corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly, as if he were about to grin, or perhaps to grimace, at his thoughts. The poise which had once seemed to be part of his deepest nature now turned out to be a cracked facade. She guessed this was because his fight with Vandarn had become vicious. What had begun as a deadly game had turned into a deadly battle. It was curious that Wolff, the ruthless one, was getting desperate while Vandam just got cooler. Elene thought: Just so long as he doesn’t get too damn cool. Wolff stood up and took his case from the luggage rack. Elene and Billy followed him from the train and on to the platform. This town was bigger and busier than the others they had Passed through, and the station was crowded. As they stepped down from the train they were jostled by people trying to get on. Wolff, a head higher than most of the people, looked around for the exit, spotted it, and began to carve a path through the throng. Suddenly a dirty boy in bare feet and green striped pajamas snatched Wolfrs case, shouting: “I get taxil I get taxi!” Wolff would not let go of the case, but neither would the boy. Wolff gave a good-humored shrug, touched with embarrassment, and let the boy pull him to the gate. They showed their tickets and went out into the square. It was late afternoon, but here in the south the sun was still very hot. The square was lined with quite tall buildings, one of them called the Grand Hotel. Outside the station was a row of horse-drawn cabs. Elene looked around, half expecting a detachment of soldiery ready to arrest Wolff. There was no sign of Vandam. Wolff told the Arab boy: “Motor taxi, I want a motor taxi.” “Mere was one such car, an old Morris parked a few yards behind the horse cabs. The boy led them to it. 326 Ken FoUett
“Get in the front,” Wolff told Elene. He gave the boy a coin and got into the back of the car with Billy. The driver wore dark. glasses and an Arab headdress to keep the sun off. “Go south, toward the convent,” Wolff told the driver in Arabic. “Okay,” the driver said. Elene’s heart missed a beat. She knew that voice. She stared at the driver. It was Vandam.
Vandam drove away from the station, thinking: So far, so good-except for the Arabic. It had not occurred to him that Wolff would speak to a taxi-driver in Arabic. Vandam’s knowledge of the language was rudimentary, but he was able to give-and therefore to understand- -directions. He could reply in monosyllables, or grunts, or even in English, for those Arabs who spoke a little English were always keen to use it, even when addressed by a European in Arabic. He would be all right as long as Wolff did not want to discuss the weather and the crops. Captain Newman had come through with everything Vandam had asked for, including discretion. He had even loaned Vandam his revolver, a sixshot Enfield .380 which was now in the pocket of Vandam’s trousers beneath his borrowed galabiya. While waiting for the train Vandam had studied Newman’s map of Assyut and the surrounding area, so he had some idea of how to find the southbound road out of the city. He drove through the souk, honking his hom more or less continually in the Egyptian fashion, steering dangerously close to the great wooden wheels of the carts, nudging sheep out of the way with his fenders. From the buildings on either side shops, caf6s and workshops spilled out into the street. The unpaved road was surfaced with dust, rubbish and dung. Glancing into his rear-view mirror Vandam saw that four or five children were riding his back bumper. Wolff said something, and this time Vandam. did not understand. He pretended not to have beard. Wolff repeated it. Vandam caught the word for petrol. Wolff was pointing to a garage. Vandam tapped the gauge on the dashboard, which showed a full tank. “Kifaya,” he said. “Enough.” Wolff seemed to accept that. Pretending to adjust his mirror, Vandam stole a glance at THE KEY TO REBECCA 327