The Key to Rebecca - Ken Follett [105]
Vandam said: “What can I do for the Secret Intelligence Service?”
“I’m sort of the liaison man between S.I.S. and the General Staff,” Smith explained. “You made an inquiry about a book called Rebecca ...”
“Yes.”
“The answer got routed through us.” Smith produced a piece of paper with a flourish.
Vandam read the message. The S.I.S. Head of Station in Portugal had followed up the query about Rebecca by sending one of his men to visit all the English-language bookshops in the country. In the holiday area of Estoril he had found a bookseller who recalled selling his entire stock—six copies—of Rebecca to one woman. On further investigation the woman had turned out to be the wife of the German military attaché in Lisbon.
Vandam said: “This confirms something I suspected. Thank you for taking the trouble to bring it over.”
“No trouble,” Smith said. “I’m over here every morning anyway. Glad to be able to help.” He went out.
Vandam reflected on the news while he went on with his work. There was only one plausible explanation of the fact that the book had found its way from Estoril to the Sahara. Undoubtedly it was the basis of a code—and, unless there were two successful German spies in Cairo, it was Alex Wolff who was using that code.
The information would be useful, sooner or later. It was a pity the key to the code had not been captured along with the book and the decrypt. That thought reminded him of the importance of burning his secret papers, and he determined to be more ruthless about what he destroyed.
At the end he considered his files on pay and promotion of subordinates, and decided to burn those too since they might help enemy interrogation teams fix their priorities. The cardboard box was full. He hefted it onto his shoulder and went outside.
Jakes had the fire going in a rusty steel water tank propped up on bricks. A corporal was feeding papers to the flames. Vandam dumped his box and watched the blaze for a while. It reminded him of Guy Fawkes Night in England, fireworks and baked potatoes and the burning effigy of a seventeenth-century traitor. Charred scraps of paper floated up on a pillar of hot air. Vandam turned away.
He wanted to think, so he decided to walk. He left GHQ and headed downtown. His cheek was hurting. He thought he should welcome the pain, for it was supposed to be a sign of healing. He was growing a beard to cover the wound so that he would look a little less unsightly when the dressing came off. Every day he enjoyed not having to shave in the morning.
He thought of Elene, and remembered her with her back arched and perspiration glistening on her naked breasts. He had been shocked by what had happened after he had kissed her—shocked, but thrilled. It had been a night of firsts for him: first time he had made love anywhere other than on a bed, first time he had seen a woman have a climax like a man’s, first time sex had been a mutual indulgence rather than the imposition of his will on a more or less reluctant woman. It was, of course, a disaster that he and Elene had fallen so joyfully in love. His parents, his friends and the Army would be aghast at the idea of his marrying a wog. His mother would also feel bound to explain why the Jews were wrong to reject Jesus. Vandam decided not to worry over all that. He and Elene might be dead within a few days. We’ll bask in the sunshine while it lasts, he thought, and to hell with the future.
His thoughts kept returning to the girl whose throat had been cut, apparently by Wolff, in Istanbul. He was terrified that something might go wrong on Thursday and Elene might find herself alone with Wolff again.
Looking around him, he realized that there was a festive feeling in the air. He passed a hairdresser’s salon and noticed that it was packed out, with women standing, waiting. The dress shops seemed to be doing good business. A woman came out of a grocer’s with a basket full of canned food, and Vandam saw that there was a queue stretching out of the shop and along the pavement. A sign in the window