The Key to Rebecca - Ken Follett [151]
Wolff took the case and opened it. A great sense of relief flooded over him as he looked at the radio, the book arid the key to the code. On the long and tedious train journey his euphoria had vanished, but now it came back, and he felt intoxicated with the sense of power and imminent victory. Once again he knew he was going to win the war. He closed the lid of the case. His hands were unsteady.
Ishmael was looking at him through narrowed eyes. “This is very important to you, this box.”
“It’s important to the world.”
Ishmael said: “The sun rises, and the sun sets. Sometimes it rains. We live, then we die.” He shrugged.
He would never understand, Wolff thought; but others would. He stood up. “I thank you, my cousin.”
“Go in safety.”
“May God protect thee.”
Wolff turned around and walked toward the taxi.
Elene saw Wolff walk away from the fire with a suitcase in his hand. “He’s coming back,” she said. “What now?”
“He’ll want to go back to Assyut,” Vandam said, not looking at her. “Those radios have no batteries, they have to be plugged in, he has to go somewhere where there’s electricity, and that means Assyut.”
Billy said: “Can I come in the front?”
“No,” Vandam said. “Quiet, now. Not much longer.”
“I’m scared of him.”
“So am I.”
Elene shuddered. Wolff got into the car. “Assyut,” he said. Vandam held out his hand, palm upward, and Wolff dropped the key in it. Vandam started the car and turned it around.
They went along the wadi, past the well, and turned onto the road. Elene was thinking about the case Wolff held on his knees. It contained the radio, the book and the key to the Rebecca code: how absurd it was that so much should hang on the question of who held that case in his hands, that she should have risked her life for it, that Vandam should have jeopardized his son for it. She felt very tired. The sun was low behind them now, and the smallest objects—boulders, bushes, tufts of grass——cast long shadows. Evening clouds were gathering over the hills ahead.
“Go faster,” Wolff said in Arabic. “It’s getting dark.”
Vandam seemed to understand, for he increased speed. The car bounced and swayed on the unmade road. After a couple of minutes Billy said: “I feel sick.”
Elene turned around to look at him. His face was pale and tense, and he was sitting bolt upright. “Go slower,” she said to Vandam, then she repeated it in Arabic, as if she had just recalled that he did not speak English.
Vandam slowed down for a moment, but Wolff said: “Go faster.” He said to Elene: “Forget about the child.”
Vandam went faster.
Elene looked at Billy again. He was as white as a sheet, and seemed to be on the brink of tears. “You bastard,” she said to Wolff.
“Stop the car,” Billy said.
Wolff ignored him, and Vandam had to pretend not to understand English.
There was a low hump in the road. Breasting it at speed, the car rose a few inches into the air, and came down again with a bump. Billy yelled: “Dad, stop the car! Dad!”
Vandam slammed on the brakes.
Elene braced herself against the dashboard and turned her head to look at Wolff.
For a split second he was stunned with shock. His eyes went to Vandam, then to Billy, then back to Vandam; and she saw in his expression first incomprehension, then astonishment, then fear. She knew he was thinking about the incident on the train, and the Arab boy at the railway station, and the kaffiyeh that covered the taxi driver’s face; and then she saw that he knew, he had understood it all in a flash.
The car was screeching to a halt, throwing the passengers forward. Wolff regained his balance. With a rapid movement he threw his left arm around Billy and pulled the boy to him. Elene saw his hand go inside his shirt, and then he pulled out the knife.
The car stopped.
Vandam looked around. At the same moment, Elene saw, his hand went to the side slit of his galabiya—and froze there as he looked into the backseat. Elene turned too.
Wolff held the knife an inch from the soft