'Good night.' Kernel hung up. This was a catastrophe. The British had followed Alex Wolff to the houseboat, and Vandam was trying to organize a raid. The consequences would be two-fold. First, the prospect of the Free Officers using the German's radio would vanish, and then there would be no possibility of negotiations with the Reich before Rommel conquered Egypt. Second, once the British discovered that the houseboat was a nest of spies, they would quickly figure out that Kernel had been concealing the facts and protecting the agents. Kernel regretted that he had not pushed Sonja harder, forced her to arrange a meeting within hours instead of days; but it was too late for regrets. What was he going to do now?
He went back into the bedroom and dressed quickly. From the bed his wife said softly: 'What is it?'
'Work,' he whispered.
'Oh, no.' She turned over.
He took his pistol from the locked drawer in the desk and put it in his jacket pocket, then he kissed his wife and left the house quietly. He got into his car and started the engine. He sat thinking for a minute. He had to consult Sadat about this, but that would take time. In the meanwhile Vandam might grow impatient, waiting at the houseboat, and do something precipitate. Vandam would have to be dealt with first, quickly; then he could go to Sadat's house.
Kernel pulled away, heading for Zamalek. He wanted time to think, slowly and clearly, but time was what he lacked. Should he kill Vandam? He had never killed a man and did not know whether be would be capable of it. It was years since he had so much as hit anyone. And how would he cover up his involvement in all this? It might be days yet before the Germans reached Cairo-indeed it was possible, even at this stage, that they might be repulsed. Then there would be an investigation into what had happened on the towpath tonight, and sooner or later the blame would be laid at Kernel's door. He would probably be shot.
'Courage,' he said aloud, remembering the way Imam's stolen plane had burst into flames as it crash-landed in the desert.
He parked near the towpath. From the trunk of the car he took a length of rope. He stuffed the rope into the pocket of his jacket, and carried the gun in his right hand.
He held the gun reversed, for clubbing. How long since he had used it? Six years, he thought, not counting occasional target practice.
He reached the riverbank. He looked at the silver Nile, the black shape, of the houseboats, the dim line of the towpath and the darkness of the bushes. Vandam would be in the bushes somewhere. Kemel stepped forward, walking softly.
Vandam looked at his wristwatch in the glow of his cigarette. It was eleven-thirty. Clearly something had gone wrong. Either the Arab policeman had given the wrong message or GHQ had been unable to locate Jakes, or Bogge had somehow fouled everything up. Vandam could not take the chance of letting Wolff get on the radio with the information he had now. There was nothing for it but to go aboard the houseboat himself, and risk everything.
He put out his cigarette, then he heard a footstep somewhere in the bushes. 'Who is it?' he hissed. 'Jakes?'
A dark figure emerged and whispered: 'It's me.'
Vandam could not recognize the whispered voice, nor could he see the face. 'Who?'
The figure stepped nearer and raised an arm. Vandam said: 'Who-' then he realized that the arm was sweeping down in a blow. He jerked sideways, and something hit the side of his head and bounced on his shoulder. Vandam shouted with pain, and his right arm went numb. The arm was lifted again. Vandam stepped forward, reaching clumsily for his assailant with his left hand. The figure stepped back and struck again, and this time the blow landed squarely on top of Vandam's head. There was a moment of intense pa' then Vandam lost consciousness.
Kernel pocketed the gun and knelt beside Vandam's prone figure. First he touched Vandam's chest, and was relieved to feet a strong heartbeat. Working quickly, he took off Vandam's sandals, removed the socks, rolled them into a ball and stuffed them into the unconscious man's mouth. That should stop him from calling out. Next he rolled Vandam over, crossed his wrists behind his back, and tied them together with the rope. With the other end of the rope he bound Vandam's ankles. Finally he tied the rope to a tree.
Vandam would come round in a few minutes but he would find it impossible to move. Nor could he cry out. He would remain there until somebody stumbled on him. How soon was that likely to happen? Normally there might have been people in these bushes, young men with their sweethearts and soldiers with their girls, but tonight there had surely been enough comings and goings here to frighten them away. There was a chance that a late coming couple would see Vandam, or perhaps bear him groaning ... Kernel would have to take that chance, there was no point standing around and worrying.
He decided to take a quick look at the houseboat. He walked light-footedly along the towpath to the Rhan. There were lights on inside, but little curtains were drawn across the portholes. He was tempted to go aboard, but he wanted to consult with Sadat first, for he was not sure what should be done.
He turned around and headed back toward his car.
Sonja said: 'Alex has told me all about you, Elene.' She smiled. Elene smiled back. Was this the friend of Wolff's who owned the houseboat? Was Wolff living with her? Had he not expected her back so early? Why was neither of them angry, or puzzled, or embarrassed? Just for something to say, Elene asked her: 'Have you just come from the Cha-Cha Club?'
'Yes.'
'How was it?'
'As always-exhausting, thrilling, successful.'
Sonja was not a humble woman, clearly.
Wolff handed Sonja a glass of champagne. She took it without looking at him, and said to Elene: 'So you work in Mikis shop?'
'No, I don't,' Elene said, thinking: Are you really interested in this?
'I helped him for a few days, that's all. We're related.'
