in the air. Can you smell it, Peggy?’
She had no idea what he might be talking about. She could see he was in an excited mood and guessed it was something to do with the work he did. ‘The desert?’
‘The desert, huh. You romantic. I’m talking about the stench of betrayal.’ He leaned back in his seat. ‘I sniffed that same stink in Madrid in ’thirty-seven. That hoodlum Franco was at the gates, as Rommel will soon be at the gates of Cairo. An anarchist patrol had murdered a Communist leader named Cortada. The Communists were giving the police their orders; the police were fabricating evidence to convict the Falangists. The Russian secret policemen were murdering the Trotskyite POUMists and the Radicalists and the other riffraff were fighting each other. It was easy; the Fascists didn’t have to fight. They had only to march in and win the war.’
She’d heard too much about the Spanish Civil War from her husband. For these men, who’d been on the losing side, it had become an obsession. ‘Yes, I know. We lost; Franco won.’
‘Don’t play the silly old woman with me, Peggy. We’ve known each other too long for that. You know what’s going on here.’
‘Young Egyptian hotheads want to overthrow the British. Is that what you mean?’ she asked. Her voice revealed that she was British enough to scorn their chances of succeeding.
He regretted having revealed his feelings. Now he answered her in a mocking drawl as if he were nothing but an impartial observer of local events. ‘That’s a part of it. Some young Egyptian officers are planning a palace coup. This wonderful town is full of people feathering their own nest while Rommel gets ready to send his tanks in to take it over.’
‘Rommel will never get here. He’s a long way away.’
‘Yes. And if he does get here, Rommel is not going to hand over his prize to crazy young Egyptians. Exactly. The very fact that they expect him to shows how naïve they are. But my masters keep asking me what exactly is going on here.’
‘Your masters?’
‘And Karl’s masters. Yes.’ There was a serious note in his voice now.
She was going to ask him who his masters were, but instead she said discreetly, ‘How do I fit in?’
‘You live in the little hotel where that fascistic old bastard Prince Piotr holds court. Drink up.’
‘Yes?’
‘For God’s sake, Peggy, wake up! Are you going to tell me you don’t know Piotr?’ He poured more whisky into her glass.
‘Of course I know him … Thank you, that’s enough. Everyone in Cairo knows him. He’s a White Russian prince who just loves what Hitler’s armies are doing to Stalin. Here in Cairo he has good friends in the palace … Some say he plays cards with Farouk. What is it you want to know?’ She helped herself to more water.
‘I’m not stupid, Peggy. The messages I send to Tel Aviv don’t retail stories got from the gossipers in the souks. I want to know what our princely friend really thinks and does and meets and talks about. Does that make sense to you?’
‘No. It doesn’t make much sense to anyone who has ever met him. He’s ancient. He’s an egotistical, name-dropping old snob, full of boring stories of long ago. He’s not a high-level go-between for Hitler and Farouk, if that’s what you are suggesting.’
Solomon smiled grimly; he liked a little sparring. ‘I’m suggesting nothing. I’m simply asking you to take a closer look at him so we can be sure.’
‘I hardly know him.’
‘You told me you have drinks with him every week.’
‘Everyone does; his apartment is an open house.’
‘Open house, eh? That would be a smart move for a Nazi spy.’
She looked at him: at one time she’d thought these earnest stares were a sign that he was attracted to her. But since then she’d decided that Solomon was too self-centred to fall in love with anyone. Those looks he gave her may have been demands for respect and admiration, but they were not the masculine pleas for respect and admiration that constitute a prelude to love. Solomon was a loner. ‘I thought you were more sophisticated than that, Solomon,’ she said.
‘Don’t go with closed ears,’ he said.
‘I shall report to you every last little drunken exchange I hear.’
‘Prince Piotr tells everyone he has an American shortwave radio. I want you to look at it carefully and tell me what name it has and which wavebands it can receive.’
‘Why?’
‘Everyone in this town knows that there is some big security leak. The British top brass are running round in small circles trying to find out where Rommel is getting his information about the British strengths and positions.’
‘Where would Prince Piotr get such secrets?’ she said scornfully.
He wasn’t going to debate with her. ‘We have to look into the future, Peggy. Whatever happens between the Germans and the British armies, we Jews will still have to defend ourselves against the Arabs. To do that we must have guns. Violence is the only language an Arab understands, Peggy. There will be no negotiations when the day comes. It will be a fight to the death.’
‘Whose death? Do you know how many million Arabs there are?’
He dismissed this with a flick of the fingers and a deep inhalation on his cigarette. She wondered how much of this stirring rhetoric he believed. ‘Are you familiar with the word tzedaka, Peggy?’
‘Charity?’
‘My father used to say it means, if we Jews don’t look after ourselves, we can be sure no one else will.’ He blew smoke in a studied way, as if demonstrating that he had his feelings completely under control. ‘You’re an old-timer, Peggy. We both know Cairo is a snake pit of conspiracy and betrayal. There are so many factions fighting for control of their particular little backyard that no one can see the true picture.’
‘Except you?’ She tried not to show her resentment at the way he liked to call her an old-timer. He only did it to ruffle her.
‘Except Tel Aviv.’
There was a knock at the door. Four knocks sounded in rapid succession, and in a rhythm that denotes urgency in any language.
‘I’m busy!’
Despite this response, the thin servant came into the room and said without pause, ‘There are soldiers, sir, searching all the houseboats.’
‘British soldiers?’ Solomon asked calmly.
‘Yes, British soldiers.’
‘Yes, British soldiers,’ said another voice and a man in the uniform of a British captain pushed the servant aside with a firm and practised movement of arm and body. He was in his middle thirties, a clean-shaven man with quick eyes. ‘And Egyptian policemen too. This is my colleague, Inspector Khalil, should you want to know more.’ He ushered a slim young Egyptian police officer past him into the room. The Egyptian was dressed in the black wool winter uniform with shiny buttons. Despite the deference shown to him, his presence was only to keep the legal niceties intact.
Solomon got to his feet. ‘My name is Solomon al-Masri.’ He put on a calm and ingratiating smile. ‘May I offer you a drink, major?’ He didn’t ask Khalil, politely assuming that he observed the Muslim strictures on alcohol.
‘Captain actually. Captain Marker. Field Security Police. No, thank you, sir.’
‘Captain, is it? How stupid of me. I can never remember your British rank insignia. Your face is familiar. Have I seen you at the Turf Club, Captain Marker?’
‘No, I’m not a member,’ said Captain Marker, without giving an inch. Marker’s voice was soft and educated but his eyes were hard and unblinking. Solomon