The Arab was worried. 'Go to the nearest telephone,' the Englishman had said. Well, there were telephones in some of the nearby houses. But houses with phones were occupied by, Europeans, who would not take kindly to an Egyptian-even a police officer-banging on their doors at eleven o'clock at night and demanding to use the phone. They would almost certainly refuse, with oaths and curses: it would be a humiliating experience. He was not in uniform, not even wearing his usual plainclothes outfit of white shirt and black trousers, but was dressed like a fellah. They would not even believe he was a policeman.
There were no public phones on Zamalek that he knew of. That left him only one option: to phone from the station house. He headed that way, still trotting.
He was also worried about calling GHQ. It was an unwritten rule for Egyptian officials in Cairo that no one ever voluntarily contacted the British. It always meant trouble. The switchboard at GHQ would refuse to put through the call, or they would leave the message until morning-then deny they had ever received it--or they would tell him to call back later. And if anything went wrong there would be hell to pay. How, anyway, did he know that the man on the towpath had been genuine? He did not know Major Vandam from Adam, and anyone could put on the uniform shirt of a major. Suppose it was a hoax? There was a certain type of young English officer who just loved to play practical jokes on well-meaning Egyptians.
He had a standard response to situations like this: pass the buck. Anyway, he had been instructed to report to his superior officer and no one else on this case. He would go to the station house and from there, he decided, he would call Superintendent Kernel at home.
Kemel would know what to do.
Elene stepped off the ladder and looked nervously around the interior of the houseboat. She had expected the decor to be sparse and nautical. In fact it was luxurious, if a little overripe. 77here were thick rugs, low divans, a couple of elegant occasional tables, and rich velvet floor-to-ceiling curtains which divided this area from the other half of the boat, which was presumably the bedroom. Opposite the curtains, where the boat narrowed to what had been its stern, was a tiny kitchen with small but modern fittings.
'Is this yours?' she asked Wolff.
'It belongs to a friend,' he said. 'Do sit down.'
Elene felt trapped. Where the hell was William Vandam? Several times during the evening she had thought there was a motorcycle behind the car, but she had been unable to look carefully for fear of alerting Wolff. Every second, she had been expecting soldiers to surround the car, arrest Wolff and set her free; and as the seconds turned into hours she had be-gun to wonder if it was all a dream, if William Vandam existed at all. Now Wolff was going to the icebox, taking out a bottle of champagne, finding two glasses, unwrapping the silver foil from the top of the bottle, unwinding the wire fastening, pulling the cork with a loud pop and pouring the champagne into the glasses and where the hell was William?
She was terrified of Wolff. She had had many liaisons with men, some of them casual, but she had always trusted the man, always known he would be kind, or if not kind, at least considerate. It was her body she was frightened for: if she let Wolff play with her body, what kind of games would be invent? Her skin was sensitive, she was soft inside, so easy to hurt, so vulnerable lying on her back with her legs apart . . . To be like that with someone who loved her, someone who would be as gentle with her body as she herself, would be a joy-but with Wolff, who wanted only to use her body . . . she shuddered.
'Are you cold?' Wolff said as he handed her a glass.
'No, I wasn't shivering...'
He raised his glass. 'Your health.'
Her mouth was dry. She sipped the cold wine, then took a gulp. It made her feel a little better.
He sat beside her on the couch and twisted around to look at her. 'What a super evening,' he said. 'I enjoy your company so much. You're an enchantress.'
Here it comes, she thought.
He put his hand on her knee.
She froze.
'You're enigmatic,' he said. 'Desirable, rather aloof, very beautiful, sometimes naive and sometimes so knowing will you tell me something?'
'I expect so.' She did not look at him.
With his finger-tip he traced the silhouette of her face: forehead, nose, lips, chin. He said: 'Why do you go out with me?'
What did he mean? Was is possible he suspected what she was really doing?
Or was this just the next move in the game?
She looked at him and said: 'You're a very attractive man.'
'I'm glad you think so.' He put his hand on her knee, again, and leaned forward to kiss her. She offered him her cheek, as she had done once before this evening. His lips brushed her skin, then he whispered: 'Why are you frightened of me?'
There was a noise up on deck-quick, light footsteps-and then the hatch opened.
Elene thought: William
A high-heeled shoe and a woman's foot appeared. The woman came down, closing the hatch above her, and stepped off the ladder. Elene saw her face and recognized her as Sonja, the belly dancer.
She thought: What on earth is going on?
'All right, Sergeant,' Kernel said into the telephone. 'You did exactly the right thing in contacting me. I'll deal with everything myself. In fact, you may go off duty now.'
'Thank you, sir,' said the sergeant. 'Good night.'
