The Key to Rebecca - Ken Follett [68]
Somehow, Vandam assumed, Wolff had found one among those hundreds of people who was prepared to betray his country for money, or out of political conviction, or under pressure of blackmail. Of course it was possible that Wolff had nothing to do with it—but Vandam thought that unlikely, for a traitor needed a channel of communication with the enemy, and Wolff had such a channel, and it was hard to believe there might be two like Wolff in Cairo.
Jakes was standing beside Vandam, looking dazed. Vandam said: “Not only is this information getting through, but Rommel is using it. If you recall the fighting on five June—”
“Yes, I do,” Jakes said. “It was a massacre.”
And it was my fault, Vandam thought. Bogge had been right about that: Vandam’s job was to stop secrets getting out, and when secrets got out it was Vandam’s responsibility.
One man could not win the war, but one man could lose it. Vandam did not want to be that man.
He stood up. “All right, Jakes, you heard what Bogge said. Let’s get on with it.”
Jakes snapped his fingers. “I forgot what I came to tell you: you’re wanted on the field telephone. It’s GHQ. Apparently there’s an Egyptian woman in your office, asking for you, refusing to leave. She says she has an urgent message and she won’t take no for an answer.”
Vandam thought: Elene!
Maybe she made contact with Wolff. She must have—why else would she be desperate to speak to Vandam? Vandam ran to the command vehicle, with Jakes hard on his heels.
The major in charge of communications handed him the phone. “Make it snappy, Vandam, we’re using that thing.”
Vandam had swallowed enough abuse for one day. He snatched the phone, thrust his face into the major’s face, and said loudly: “I’ll use it as long as I need it.” He turned his back on the major and spoke into the phone. “Yes?”
“William?”
“Elene!” He wanted to tell her how good it was to hear her voice, but instead he said: “What happened?”
“He came into the shop.”
“You saw him! Did you get his address?”
“No—but I’ve got a date with him.”
“Well done!” Vandam was full of savage delight—he would catch the bastard now. “Where and when?”
“Tomorrow night, seven-thirty, at the Oasis Restaurant.”
Vandam picked up a pencil and a scrap of paper. “Oasis Restaurant, seven-thirty,” he repeated. “I’ll be there.”
“Good.”
“Elene ...”
“Yes?”
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am. Thank you.”
“Until tomorrow.”
“Good-bye.” Vandam put down the phone.
Bogge was standing behind him, with the major in charge of communications. Bogge said: “What the devil do you mean by using the field telephone to make dates with your bloody girlfriends?”
Vandam gave him a sunny smile. “That wasn’t a girlfriend, it was an informant,” he said. “She’s made contact with the spy. I expect to arrest him tomorrow night.”
12
WOLFF WATCHED SONJA EAT. THE LIVER WAS UNDERDONE, PINK AND SOFT, JUST as she liked it. She ate with relish, as usual. He thought how alike the two of them were. In their work they were competent, professional and highly successful. They both lived in the shadows of childhood shocks: her father’s death, his mother’s remarriage into an Arab family. Neither of them had ever come close to marrying, for they were too fond of themselves to love another person. What brought them together was not love, not even affection, but shared lusts. The most important thing in life, for both of them, was the indulgence of their appetites. They both knew that Wolff was taking a small but unnecessary risk by eating in a restaurant, and they both felt the risk was worth it, for life would hardly be worth living without good food.
She finished her liver and the waiter brought an ice-cream dessert. She was always very hungry after performing at the Cha-Cha Club. It was not surprising: she used a great deal of energy in her act. But when, finally, she quit dancing, she would grow fat. Wolff imagined her in twenty years’ time: she would have three chins and a vast bosom, her hair would be brittle