return to the Grand Hotel to confess failure. He would learn that Wolff had left. He would consider he had been reasonably paid for his wasted day, but that would not stop him telling all and sundry the story of the disappearing Ford and its disappearing driver. The likelihood was that all this would get back to Captain Newman sooner or later. Newman might not know quite what to make of it all, but he would certainly feel that here was a mystery to be investigated.
Wolffs mood darkened as he realized that his plan of slipping unobserved into Egypt might have failed.
He would just have to make the best of it. He looked at his watch. He still had time to catch the train. He would be able to get rid of Cox in the lobby of the hotel, then get something to eat and drink while he was waiting, if he was quick.
Cox was a short, dark man with some kind of British regional accent which Wolff could not identify. He looked about Wolff's age, and as he was still a corporal he was probably not too bright. Following Wolff across the Midan el-Mahatta, he said: 'You know this town, sir?'
'I've been here before,' Wolff replied.
They entered the Grand. With twenty-six rooms it was the larger of the town's two hotels. Wolff turned to Cox. 'Thank you, Corporal. I think you could get back to work now.'
'No hurry, sir,' Cox said cheerfully. 'I'll carry your bags upstairs.'
'I'm sure they have porters here'
'Wouldn't trust 'em, sir, if I were you.'
The situation was becoming more and more like a nightmare or a farce, in which well-intentioned people pushed him into increasingly senseless behavior in consequence of one small lie. He wondered again whether this was entirely accidental, and it crossed his mind with terrifying absurdity that perhaps they knew everything and were simply toying with him.
He pushed the thought aside and spoke to Cox with as much grace as he could muster. 'Well, thank you.'
He turned to the desk and asked for a room. He looked at his watch: he had fifteen minutes left. He filled in the form quickly, giving an invented address in Cairo-there was a chance Captain Newman would forget the true address on the identity papers, and Wolff did not want to leave a reminder.
A Nubian porter led them upstairs to the room. Wolff tipped him off at the door. Cox put the cases down on the bed.
Wolff took out his wallet: perhaps Cox expected a tip too. 'Well, Corporal,' he began, 'you've been very helpful'
'Let me unpack for you, sir,' Cox said. 'Captain said not to leave anything to the wogs.'
'No, thank you,' Wolff said firmly. 'I want to lie down right now.'
'You go ahead and lie down,' Cox persisted generously. 'It won't take me-'
'Don't open that'
Cox was lifting the lid of the case. Wolff reached inside his jacket, thinking Damn the man and Now I'm blown and I should have locked it and
Can I do this quietly? The little corporal stared at the neat stacks of new English pound notes which filled the small case. He said: 'Jesus Christ, you're loaded!' It crossed Wolff's mind, even as he stepped forward, that Cox had never seen so much money in his life. Cox began to turn, saying: 'What do you want with all that' Wolff pulled the wicked curved Bedouin knife, and it glinted in his hand as his eyes met Cox's, and Cox flinched and opened his mouth to shout; and then the razor-sharp blade sliced deep into the soft flesh of his throat, and his shout of fear came as a bloody gurgle and he died; and Wolff felt nothing, only disappointment.
Chapter 2.
It was May, and the khamsin was blowing, a hot dusty wind from the south. Standing under the shower, William Vandam had the depressing thought that this would be the only time he would feel cool all day. He turned off the water and dried himself rapidly. His body was full of small aches. He had played cricket the day before, for the first time in years. General Staff Intelligence bad got up a team to play the doctors from the field hospital- - spies versus quacks, they had called it-and Vandam, fielding on the boundary, had been run ragged as the medics hit the Intelligence Department's bowling all over the park. Now he had to admit he was not in good condition. Gin had sapped his strength and cigarettes had shortened his wind, and he had too many worries to give the game the fierce concentration it merited.
He lit a cigarette, coughed and started to shave. He always smoked while he was shaving- -it was the only way he knew to relieve the boredom of the inevitable daily task. Fifteen years ago he had sworn he would grow a beard as soon as he got out of the Army, but he was still in the Army.
He dressed in the everyday uniform: heavy sandals, socks, bush shirt and the khaki shorts with the flaps that could be let down and buttoned below the knee for protection against mosquitoes. Nobody ever closed the flaps, and the younger officers usually cut them off, they looked so ridiculous. There was an empty gin bottle on the floor beside the bed. Vandam looked at it, feeling disgusted with himself: it was the first time he had taken the damn bottle to bed with him. He picked it up, replaced the cap and threw the bottle into the wastebasket. Then he went downstairs.
Gaafar was in the kitchen, making tea. Vandam's servant was an elderly Copt with a bald head and a shuffling walk, and pretensions to be an English butler. That he would never be, but he had a little dignity and be was honest, and Vandam had not found those qualities to be common among Egyptian house servants.
Vandam said: 'Is Billy up?'
'Yes, sir, he's coming down directly.'
Vandam nodded. A small pan of water was bubbling on the stove. Vandam put an egg in to boil and set the timer. He cut two slices from an English-type loaf and made toast. He buttered the toast and cut it into fingers, then he took the egg out of the water and decapitated it.
Billy came into the kitchen and said: 'Good morning, Dad.'
