The line consisted of artillery on the ridges, tanks on the level ground and minefields all along. The Alam Halfa ridge, five miles behind the center of the line, was also heavily fortified. Wolff noted that the southern end of the line was weaker, both in troops and mines. Smith's briefcase also contained an enemy-position paper. Allied Intelligence thought Rommel would probably try to break through the line at the southern end, but noted that the northern end was possible. Beneath this, written in pencil in what was presumably Smith's handwriting, was a note which Wolff found more exciting than all the rest of the stuff put together. It read: 'Major Vandam proposes deception plan. Encourage Rommel to break through at southern end, lure him toward Alam Halfa, catch him in quicksand, then nutcracker. Plan accepted by Auk.'
'Auk' was Auchinleck, no doubt. What a discovery this was! Not only did Wolff hold in his hand the details of the Allied defense line-he also knew what they expected Rommel to do, and he knew their deception plan. And the deception plan was Vandam's!
This would be remembered as the greatest espionage coup of the century. Wolff himself would be responsible for assuring Rommel's victory in North Africa.
They should make me King of Egypt for this, he thought, and he smiled. He looked up and saw Smith standing between the curtains, staring down at him.
Smith roared: 'Who the devil are you?'
Wolff realized angrily that he had not been paying attention to the noises from the bedroom. Something had gone wrong, the script had not been followed, there had been no champagne-cork warning. He had been totally absorbed in the strategic appreciation. The endless names of divisions and brigades, the numbers of men and tanks, the quantities of fuel and supplies, the ridges and depressions and quick sands had monopolized his attention to the exclusion of local sounds. He was suddenly terribly afraid that he might be thwarted in his moment of triumph.
Smith said: 'That's my bloody briefcase!'
He took a step forward.
Wolff reached out, caught Smith's foot, and heaved sideways. The major toppled over and hit the floor with a heavy thud.
Sonja screamed.
Wolff and Smith both scrambled to their feet.
Smith was a small, thin man, ten years older than Wolff and in poor shape. He stepped backward, fear showing in his face. He bumped into a shelf, glanced sideways, saw a cutglass fruit bowl on the shelf, picked it up and hurled it at Wolff.
It missed, fell into the kitchen sink, and shattered loudly.
The noise, Wolff thought: if he makes any more noise people will come to investigate. He moved toward Smith.
Smith, with his back to the wall, yelled: 'Help!'
Wolff hit him once, on the point of the jaw, and he collapsed, sliding down the wall to sit, unconscious, on the floor.
Sonja came out and stared at him.
Wolff rubbed his knuckles. 'It's the first time I've ever done that,' he said.
''What?'
'Hit somebody on the chin and knocked him out. I thought only boxers could do that.'
'Never mind that, what are we going to do about him?'
'I don't know.' Wolff considered the possibilities. To kill Smith would be dangerous, for the death of an officer-and the disappearance of his briefcase-would now cause a terrific rumpus throughout the city. There would be the problem of what to do with the body. And Smith would bring home no more secrets.
Smith groaned and stirred.
Wolff wondered whether it might be possible to let him go. After all, if Smith were to reveal what had been going on in the houseboat he would implicate himself. Not only would it ruin his career, be would probably be thrown in jail. He did not look like the kind of man to sacrifice himself for a higher cause.
Let him go free? No, the chance was too much to take. To know that there was a British officer in the city who possessed all of Wolff's secrets . . . Impossible.
Smith had his eyes open. 'You . . .' he said. 'You're Slavenburg . . .' He looked at Sonja, then back at Wolff. 'It was you who introduced ... in the Cha-Cha . . . this was all planned...'
'Shut up,' Wolf said mildly. Kill him or let him go: what other options were there? Only one: to keep him here, bound and gagged, until Rommel reached Cairo.
'You're damned spies,' Smith said. His face was white.
Sonja said nastily: 'And you thought I was crazy for your miserable body.'
'Yes.' Smith was recovering. 'I should have known better than to trust a wog bitch.'
Sonja stepped forward and kicked his face with her bare foot.
'Stop itl' Wolff said. 'We've got to think what to do with him. Have we got any rope to tie him with?'
Sonja thought for a moment. 'Up on deck, in that locker at the forward end.'
Wolff took from the kitchen drawer the heavy steel he used for sharpening the carving knife. He gave the steel to Sonja. 'If he moves, hit him with that,' he said. He did not think Smith would move.
He was about to go up the ladder to the deck when he heard footsteps on the gangplank.
