unknown for subalterns to sew a few pips on their shirts just to get in here.'
Wolff pulled himself together. 'Look here, sir, if you'd care to check-'
'No, no, no,' Smith said hastily.
'The resemblance was rather a shock.'
'Of course, I understand. Let's have another drink. Ezma!'
The MP who had spoken to the colonel was taking a long look around the room, His armband identified him as the assistant provost marshal. He looked at Wolff. Wolff wondered whether the man remembered the description of the Assyut knife murderer. Surely not. Anyway, they would not be looking for a British officer answering the description. And Wolff had grown a mustache to confuse the issue. He forced himself to meet the MP's eyes, then let his gaze drift casually away. He picked up his drink; sure the man was still staring at him.
Then there was a clatter of boots and the picket went out.
By an effort Wolff prevented himself from shaking with relief. He raised his glass in a determinedly steady hand and said: 'Cheers.' They drank. Smith said: 'You know this place. What's a chap to do in the evening, other than drink in Shepheard's bar?'
Wolff pretended to consider the question. 'Have you seen any belly dancing?'
Smith gave a disgusted snort. 'Once. Some fat wog wiggling her hips.'
'Ah. Then you ought to see the real thing.'
'Should I'
'Real belly dancing is the most erotic thing you've ever seen.'
There was an odd light in Smith's eyes. 'Is that so?'
Wolff thought: Major Smith, you are just what I need. He said: 'Sonja is the best. You must try to see her act.'
Smith nodded. 'Perhaps I shall.'
'Matter of fact, I was toying with the idea of going on to the Cha-Cha Club myself. Care to join me?'
'Let's have another drink first,' said Smith.
Watching Smith put away the liquor Wolff reflected that the major was, at least on the surface, a highly corruptible man. He seemed bored, weak-willed and alcoholic. Provided he was normally heterosexual, Sonja would be able to seduce him easily. (Damn, he thought, she had better do her stuff.) Then they would have to find out whether he had in his briefcase anything more useful than menus. Finally they would have to find a way to get the secrets out of him. There were too many maybes and too little time.
He could only go step by step, and the first step was to get Smith in his power.
They finished their drinks and set out for the Cha-Cha. They could not find a taxi, so they took a gharry, a horse drawn open carriage. The driver mercilessly whipped his elderly horse.
Smith said: 'Chap's a bit rough on the beast.'
'Isn't he,' Wolff said, thinking: You should see what we do to camels. The club was crowded and hot, again. Wolff had to bribe a waiter to get a table.
Sonja's act began moments after they sat down. Smith watched Sonja while Wolff watched Smith. In minutes the major was drooling. Wolff said: 'Good, isn't she?'
'Fantastic,' Smith replied without looking around.
'Matter of fact, I know her slightly,' Wolff said. 'Shall I ask her to join us afterwards?'
This time Smith did look around. 'Good Lord!' he said. 'Would you?'
The rhythm quickened. Sonja looked out across the crowded floor of the club. Hundreds of men feasted their eyes greedily on her magnificent body. She closed her eyes.
The movements came automatically: the sensations took over. In her imagination she saw the sea of rapacious faces staring at her. She felt her breasts shake and her belly roll and her hips jerk, and it was as if someone else was doing it to her, as if all the hungry men in the audience were manipulating her body. She went faster and faster. There was no artifice in her dancing, not any more; she was doing it for herself. She did not even follow the music-it followed her. Waves of excitement swept her.
She rode the excitement, dancing, until she knew she was on the edge of ecstasy, knew she only bad to jump and she would be flying. She hesitated on the brink. She spread her arms. The music climaxed with a bang. She uttered a cry of frustration and fell backward, her legs folded beneath her, her thighs open to the audience, until her head hit the stage. Then the lights went out.
It was always like that.
In the storm of applause she got up and crossed the darkened stage to the wings. She walked quickly to her dressing room, head down, looking at no one. She did not want their words or their smiles. They did not understand. Nobody knew how it was for her, nobody knew what she went through every night when she danced.
She took off her shoes, her filmy pantaloons and her sequined halter, and put on a silk robe. She sat in front of the mirror to remove her makeup. She always did this immediately, for the makeup was bad for the skin. She had to look after her body. Her face and throat were getting that fleshy look again, she observed. She would have to stop eating chocolates. She was already well past the age at which women began to get fat. Her age was another secret the audience must never discover. She was almost as old as her father had been when he died. Father...
He had been a big, arrogant man whose achievements never lived up to his hopes. Sonja and her parents bad slept together in a narrow bard bed in a Cairo tenement. She had never felt so safe and warm since those days. She would curl up against her father's broad back. She could remember the close familiar smell of him. Then, when she
