“But, then, so will you.”
Reichleitner frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Only this. That if you do decide to tell Deakin and Donovan what you know, it might be worth bearing in mind that I won’t be the only person who’s arrested for spying. There’s you for one. Don’t forget, Major Deakin’s still got your name on chit for a firing squad. And for another, there’s this little lady. Cairo’s answer to Mata Hari.”
I handed Reichleitner the photograph from Elena’s album. “This was taken just a few months ago. At the opening of the Auberge des Pyramides. Quite apart from the many questions it begs about what you were doing here at that time, it also begs just as many about Elena Pontiatowska. You see, Major Reichleitner, I know all about the radio in the little room behind the bookcase. And that, on its own, would be enough to book her the firing squad after yours.”
“What do you intend to do?” Reichleitner asked grimly.
“If it was just you and her and the odd bit of information about what the SOE is up to in Yugoslavia, then I think I might be inclined merely to warn Elena that I was on to her. That she should cease operations and get the hell out of Cairo. You see, we’re good friends. Maybe good friends like you and she were good friends. That I don’t know.
“What I do know is that it’s more serious than just a bit of spying. A lot more serious. You see, I believe she’s involved in a plot to assassinate Stalin in Teheran.”
I showed Reichleitner the plaintext message I had taken from the bin in Elena’s radio room and tossed the half-baked part of my theory in his lap.
“What was the idea with the Beketovka File, anyway? To use it as some sort of post factum justification for killing Stalin? Yes, that might play quite well with the world’s press. Stalin was a tyrant, a monster, a mass murderer. He deserved to die because God knows how many others have been murdered on his orders. And here’s the proof. This is what Germany has always been fighting against. This kind of Bolshevik barbarism. And this is why Britain and America have been fighting the wrong enemy.” I nodded. “It makes a lot of sense when you think of it like this.”
“To you, maybe,” said Reichleitner. “But not to me, I’m afraid. It wasn’t like that at all. I don’t know anything about a plot to kill Stalin.”
“No? Then what about that photograph? At the very least it proves you’ve been here in Cairo before. As a spy.”
“It’s true, I’ve been here before. But not as a spy.”
“I get it. You were on vacation.” I grinned and threw my cigarette onto the floor of Reichleitner’s cell. “See the Pyramids and then back to Berlin with some dirty postcards and a couple of cheap souvenirs.”
Reichleitner said nothing. He was looking green around the mouth. But I was through being patient. I grabbed him by the vest and banged him hard against the cell wall.
“Come on, Max, you idiot,” I yelled. “It’s not just your ass that’s facing a firing squad. It’s Elena’s, too. Or are you too dumb to realize that?”
“All right. I’ll tell you what I know.”
I let him go and stood back. He sat down heavily and lit a cigarette. “From the top,” I said. “When you’re ready.”
“I’ve been operating in this theater for a while. Ankara and Cairo, mainly. But I’m not a spy. I’m a courier. I’ve been involved in some secret peace negotiations between Himmler, von Papen, and the Americans. In particular, a man named George Earle who is yet another of your president’s special representatives.”
“Earle? What’s he got to do with this?”
“Listen, I don’t deny that the Beketovka File was intended to undermine U.S.-Soviet relations. And, by the way, it’s completely genuine. But there was never any talk of an assassination. At least nothing of which I have been made aware.”
“How much did Elena know of your activities?”
“Almost nothing. Only that there was an important document I was required to go back and fetch from Germany. And which then had to find its way into the president’s hands by the shortest route possible.”
“I suppose that was where I came in handy,” I said grimly.
Reichleitner shook his head, hardly understanding what I was talking about. “She’s just the station master, that’s all. She helps whichever German gets off the train, so to speak. Not asking questions. Just facilitating one mission and then another.”
“This week a peace envoy, next week an assassin, is that it?”
“You say you’re an expert on German intelligence? Then you’ll know that the Abwehr and the SD don’t tend to share much in the way of information or operational plans. And neither of them is much disposed to keep the Foreign Ministry or the Gestapo informed of what they’re up to.”
“But surely Himmler knows what’s happening?”
“Not necessarily. Himmler and Admiral Canaris don’t get on any better than Canaris and Schellenberg. Or Schellenberg and von Ribbentrop.”
“And you. Where do you fit into all this?”
“I’m SS. Before the war I was with the Criminal Police. And, like I say, I’m just a courier between Himmler and von Papen, and your Commander Earle. I met Earle here in Cairo when I was last here. You could probably ask him to confirm my story. I’m certainly not an assassin.” Reichleitner handed back the plaintext message from the Abwehr. “But it’s possible I could help you catch him. This Brutus. If he really exists.”
“Why would you do that?”
“To help Elena, of course. If there is an attempt made to kill Stalin, then it might go badly for her. I’ve no wish to see any harm come to her.” He paused. “I might be able to persuade her to cooperate in bringing in Brutus. Or I could simply persuade her to tell you who this man is. How would that be?”
“All of that in spite of the fact you told me you’d like to see Stalin dead.”
“I’d much prefer that Elena stayed alive.” Reichleitner glanced wistfully at the photograph of himself and Elena that lay on the table. “I don’t see that she has got much choice but to cooperate, do you? And what have you got to lose?”
“Nothing, probably. All the same, I’d like to think about it. Over breakfast.” I glanced at my watch. “I’m going back to my hotel. Have a bath and something to eat while I’m considering your proposal. Then I’ll come back here and tell you what I’ve decided to do.”
By now it was clear to me that the major was fond of Elena-probably as fond of her as I was myself.
“What shall I do with these transcripts?” he asked.
“Don’t say I told you to. But burn them. And the codebooks.”
On the cab ride back to the hotel, I asked myself if I could risk telling Reilly and Hopkins what I had discovered. What was the life of a woman I was fond of, a woman who was, after all, a German spy, alongside the fate of the only man capable of driving Russia on to the Pyrrhic victory over Germany that seemed inevitable? I should probably just have walked around the corner from Grey Pillars to the American legation and placed the whole matter in the hands of the Secret Service. But then, I couldn’t rule out the possibility that one of the Treasury agents was Brutus, the potential assassin. I needed time to think, and with the conference in Teheran still several days away, the small matter of a few hours seemed neither here nor there.
Climbing out of the cab in front of Shepheard’s, I scratched my hand on a metal hinge. Having wrapped my handkerchief around the wound to stop it bleeding, I cleaned the cut with some iodine when I was back in my room. In Cairo, it didn’t do to neglect these things. Then I shaved and drew a bath. I was just about to step into the tepid water when there was a loud knock at the door. Cursing, I wrapped a bath towel around my middle and opened the door to find myself faced by four men, two of them tall, thin Egyptians wearing the white uniform of the local police. The two Europeans with them were breathing hard, as if they’d used the stairs. One of them addressed me politely, but behind his wire-frame glasses, he had a nasty look in his eye.
“Are you Professor Willard Mayer?”
“Yes.”
The man held up a warrant card. “Detective Inspector Luger, sir. And this is Sergeant Cash.” The inspector did not bother to identify the two Egyptians. In their white uniforms they looked like a couple of pipecleaners. “May we come in, sir?”
