The Key to Rebecca - Ken Follett [23]
He was terribly embarrassed. “Oh, please don’t misunderstand me. There’s someone I want you to meet, that’s all.”
She wondered whether to believe him. She had nothing to lose, and she was thirsty. “All right.”
He held the door for her. They crossed the street, dodging the rickety carts and broken-down taxis, feeling the sudden blazing heat of the sun. They ducked under a striped awning and stepped into the cool of a café. The young man ordered lemon juice; Elene had gin and tonic.
She said: “You can get people in illegally.”
“Sometimes.” He took half his drink in one gulp. “One reason we do it is if the person is being persecuted. That’s why I asked you some questions.”
“I’m not being persecuted.”
“The other reason is if people have done a lot for the cause, some way.”
“You mean I have to earn the right to go to Palestine?”
“Look, maybe one day all Jews will have the right to go there to live. But while there are quotas there have to be criteria.”
She was tempted to ask: Who do I have to sleep with? But she had misjudged him that way once already. All the same, she thought he wanted to use her somehow. She said: “What do I have to do?”
He shook his head. “I can’t make a bargain with you. Egyptian Jews can’t get into Palestine, except for special cases, and you’re not a special case. That’s all there is to it.”
“What are you trying to tell me, then?”
“You can’t go to Palestine, but you can still fight for the cause.”
“What, exactly, did you have in mind?”
“The first thing we have to do is defeat the Nazis.”
She laughed. “Well, I’ll do my best!”
He ignored that. “We don’t like the British much, but any enemy of Germany’s is a friend of ours, so at the moment—strictly on a temporary basis—we’re working with British Intelligence. I think you could help them.”
“For God’s sake! How?”
A shadow fell across the table, and the young man looked up. “Ah!” he said. He looked back at Elene. “I want you to meet my friend Major William Vandam.”
He was a tall man, and broad: with those wide shoulders and mighty legs he might once have been an athlete, although now, Elene guessed, he was close to forty and just beginning to go a little soft. He had a round, open face topped by wiry brown hair which looked as if it might curl if it were allowed to grow a little beyond the regulation length. He shook her hand, sat down, crossed his legs, lit a cigarette and ordered gin. He wore a stem expression, as if he thought life was a very serious business and he did not want anybody to start fooling around.
Elene thought he was a typical frigid Englishman.
The young man from the Jewish Agency asked him: “What’s the news?”
“The Gazala Line is holding, but it’s getting very fierce out there.”
Vandam’s voice was a surprise. English officers usually spoke with the upper-class drawl which had come to symbolize arrogance for ordinary Egyptians. Vandam spoke precisely but softly, with rounded vowels and a slight burr on the r: Elene had a feeling this was the trace of a country accent, although she could not remember how she knew.
She decided to ask him. “Where do you come from, Major?”
“Dorset. Why do you ask?”
“I was wondering about your accent.”
“Southwest of England. You’re observant. I thought I had no accent.”
“Just a trace.”
He lit another cigarette. She watched his hands. They were long and slender, rather at odds with the rest of his body; the nails were well manicured and the skin was white except for the deep amber stains where he held his cigarette.
The young man took his leave. “I’ll let Major Vandam explain everything to you. I hope you will work with him; I believe it’s very important.”
Vandam shook his hand and thanked him, and the young man went out.
Vandam said to Elene: “Tell me about yourself.”
“No,” she said. “You tell me about yourself.”
He raised an eyebrow at her, faintly startled, a little amused and suddenly not at all frigid. “All right,” he said after a moment. “Cairo is full of officers and men who