Wolff smiled. 'I think I shall be Hitler's, ambassador to Egypt, and wear an
SS uniform to the mosque.'
:'You'd have to take off your jackboots.'
'Shall I visit you in your palace?'
Yes, please-wearing your uniform.'
Would I have to take off my jackboots in your presence?'
'No. Everything else, but not the boots.'
Wolff laughed. Sonja was in a rare gay mood. He called the waiter and asked for coffee, brandy and the bill. He said to Sonja: 'There's some good news. I've been saving it. I think I've found another Fawzi.'
She was suddenly very still, looking at him intently. 'Who is she?' she said quietly.
'I went to the grocers yesterday. Aristopoulos has his niece working with him.'
'A shopgirl!'
'She's a real beauty. She has a lovely, innocent face and a slightly wicked smile.'
'How old?'
'Hard to say. Around twenty, I think. She has such a girlish body.'
Sonja licked her lips. 'And you think she will ...
'I think so. She's dying to get away from Aristopoulos, and she practically threw herself at me.'
'When?'
'I'm taking her to dinner tomorrow night.'
'Will you bring her home?'
'Maybe. I have to feel her out. She's so perfect; I don't want to spoil everything by rushing her.'
'You mean you want to have her first.'
'If necessary.'
'Do you think she's a virgin?'
'It's possible.'
'If she is. . .'
'Then I'll save her for you. You were so good with Major Smith, you deserve a treat.' Wolff sat back, studying Sonja. Her face was a mask of sexual greed as she anticipated the corruption of someone beautiful and innocent.
Wolff sipped his brandy. A warm glow spread in his stomach. He felt good: full of food and wine, his mission going remarkably well and a new sexual adventure in view.
The bill came, and he paid it with English pound notes.
It was a small restaurant, but a successful one. Ibrahim managed it and his brother did the cooking. They had learned the trade in a French hotel in Tunisia, their home; and when their father died they had sold the sheep and come to Cairo to seek their fortune. Ibrahim's philosophy was simple: they knew only French-Arab cuisine, so that was all they offered. They might, perhaps, have attracted more customers if the menu in the window had offered spaghetti bolognaise or roast beef and Yorkshire pudding; but those customers would not have returned, and anyhow Ibrahim had his pride. The formula worked. They were making a good living, more money than their father had ever seen. The war had brought even more business. But wealth had not made Ibrahim careless.
Two days earlier he had taken coffee with a friend who was a cashier at the Metropolitan Hotel. The friend had told him how the British paymaster general had refused to exchange four of the English pound notes which had been passed in the hotel bar. The notes were counterfeit, according to the British. What was so unfair was that they had confiscated the money. This was not going to happen to Ibrahim.
About half his customers were British, and many of them paid in sterling. Since he heard the news he had been checking carefully every pound note before putting it into the till. His friend from the Metropolitan had told him how to spot the forgeries.
It was typical of the British. They did not make a public announcement to help the businessmen of Cairo to avoid being cheated. They simply sat back and confiscated the dud notes. The businessmen of Cairo were used to this kind of treatment, and they stuck together. The grapevine worked well.
When Ibrahim received the counterfeit notes from the tall European who was dining with the famous belly dancer, he was not sure what to do next. The notes were all crisp and new, and bore the identical fault. Ibrahim double-checked them against one of the good notes in his till: there was no doubt. Should he, perhaps, explain the matter quietly to the customer? The man might take offense, or at least pretend to; and he would probably leave without paying. His bill was a heavy one-he had taken the most expensive dishes, plus imported wine-and Ibrahim did not want to risk such a loss.
He would call the police, he decided. They would prevent the customer running off, and might help persuade him to pay by check, or at least leave an IOU.
But which police? The Egyptian police would probably argue that it was not their responsibility, take an hour to get here, and then require a bribe. The customer was presumably an Englishman-why else would he have sterling?-and was probably an officer, and it was British money that had been counterfeited. Ibrahim decided he would call the military. He went over to their table, carrying the brandy bottle. He gave them a smile. 'Monsieur, madame, I hope you have enjoyed your meal.'
'It was excellent,' said the man. He talked like a British officer. Ibrahim turned to the woman. 'It is an honor to serve the greatest dancer in the world.'
