The Key to Rebecca - Ken Follett [37]
Sadat was staring at Kemel, blank-faced and quite still, his pipe going cold in his hand. In his mind Kemel saw the plane lying broken in the sand, with a German fire truck and ambulance speeding along the runway toward it, followed by ten or fifteen soldiers. He would never forget how, like a blossom opening its petals, the belly of the plane had burst skyward in a riot of red and yellow flame.
“It blew up,” he told Sadat.
“And Imam?”
“He could not possibly live through such a fire.”
“We must try again,” Sadat said. “We must find another way to get a message through.”
Kernel stared at him, and realized that his brisk tone of voice was phony. Sadat tried to light his pipe, but the hand holding the match was shaking too much. Kemel looked closely, and saw that Sadat had tears in his eyes.
“The poor boy,” Sadat whispered.
7
WOLFF WAS BACK AT SQUARE ONE: HE KNEW WHERE THE SECRETS WERE, BUT he could not get at them.
He might have stolen another briefcase the way he had taken the first, but that would begin to look, to the British, like a conspiracy. He might have thought of another way to steal a briefcase, but even that might lead to a security clampdown. Besides, one briefcase on one day was not enough for his needs: he had to have regular, unimpeded access to secret papers.
That was why he was shaving Sonja’s pubic hair.
Her hair was black and coarse, and it grew very quickly. Because she shaved it regularly she was able to wear her translucent trousers without the usual heavy, sequined G-string on top. The extra measure of physical freedom—and the persistent and accurate rumor that she had nothing on under the trousers—had helped to make her the leading belly dancer of the day.
Wolff dipped the brush into the bowl and began to lather her.
She lay on the bed, her back propped up by a pile of pillows, watching him suspiciously. She was not keen on this, his latest perversion. She thought she was not going to like it.
Wolff knew better.
He knew how her mind worked, and he knew her body better than she did, and he wanted something from her.
He stroked her with the soft shaving brush and said: “I’ve thought of another way to get into those briefcases.”
“What?”
He did not answer her immediately. He put down the brush and picked up the razor. He tested its sharp edge with his thumb, then looked at her. She was watching him with horrid fascination. He leaned closer, spread her legs a little more, put the razor to her skin, and drew it upward with a light, careful stroke.
He said: “I’m going to befriend a British officer.”
She did not answer: she was only half listening to him. He wiped the razor on a towel. With one finger of his left hand he touched the shaved patch, pulling down to stretch the skin, then he brought the razor close.
“Then I’ll bring the officer here,” he said.
Sonja said: “Oh, no.”
He touched her with the edge of the razor and gently scraped upward.
She began to breathe harder.
He wiped the razor and stroked again once, twice, three times.
“Somehow I’ll get the officer to bring his briefcase.”
He put his finger on her most sensitive spot and shaved around it. She closed her eyes.
He poured hot water from a kettle into a bowl on the floor beside him. He dipped a flannel into the water and wrung it out.
“Then I’ll go through the briefcase while the officer is in bed with you.”
He pressed the hot flannel against her shaved skin.
She gave a sharp cry like a cornered animal: “Ahh, God!”
Wolff slipped out of his bathrobe and stood naked. He picked up a bottle of soothing skin oil, poured some into the palm of his right hand, and knelt on the bed beside Sonja; then he anointed her pubis.