World War II Thriller Collection by Ken Follett

aides worked at GHQ, and their secret papers would be locked up in the office at the end of the day. But these few were men who had to be at GHQ for the morning conference, but had their own offices in other parts of the city; and they had to carry their briefing papers with them in between one office and another. One of them went to the Semiramis. Two went to the barracks in the Nasrel-Nil. A fourth went to an unmarked building in the Shari Suleiman Pasha.
    Wolff wanted to get into those briefcases.
    Today he would do a dry run.
    Waiting under the blazing sun for the aides to come out, he thought about the night before, and a smile curled the corners of his mouth below the newly grown mustache. He had promised Sonja that he would find her another Fawzi. Last night he had gone to the Birka and picked out a girl at Madame Fahmy’s establishment. She was not a Fawzi— that girl had been a real enthusiast—but she was a good temporary substitute. They had enjoyed her in turn, then together; then they had played Sonja’s weird, exciting games . . . It had been a long night.
    When the aides came out, Wolff followed the pair that went to the barracks.
    A minute later Abdullah emerged from a café and fell into step beside him.
    â€œThose two?” Abdullah said.
    â€œThose two.”
    Abdullah was a fat man with a steel tooth. He was one of the richest men in Cairo, but unlike most rich Arabs he did not ape the Europeans. He wore sandals, a dirty robe and a fez. His greasy hair curled around his ears and his fingernails were black. His wealth came not from land, like the pashas’, nor from trade, like the Greeks’. It came from crime.
    Abdullah was a thief.
    Wolff liked him. He was sly, deceitful, cruel, generous, and always laughing: for Wolff he embodied the age-old vices and virtues of the Middle East. His army of children, grandchildren, nephews, nieces and second cousins had been burgling houses and picking pockets in Cairo for thirty years. He had tentacles everywhere: he was a hashish wholesaler, he had influence with politicians, and he owned half the houses in the Birka, including Madame Fahmy’s. He lived in a large crumbling house in the Old City with his four wives.
    They followed the two officers into the modern city center. Abdullah said: “Do you want one briefcase, or both?”
    Wolff considered. One was a casual theft; two looked organized. “One,” he said.
    â€œWhich?”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter.”
    Wolff had considered going to Abdullah for help after the discovery that the Villa les Oliviers was no longer safe. He had decided not to. Abdullah could certainly have hidden Wolff away somewhere—probably in a brothel—more or less indefinitely. But as soon as he had Wolff concealed, he would have opened negotiations to sell him to the British. Abdullah divided the world in two: his family and the rest. He was utterly loyal to his family and trusted them completely; he would cheat everyone else and expected them to try to cheat him. All business was done on the basis of mutual suspicion. Wolff found this worked surprisingly well.
    They came to a busy corner. The two officers crossed the road, dodging the traffic. Wolff was about to follow when Abdullah put a hand on his arm to stop him.
    â€œWe’ll do it here,” Abdullah said.
    Wolff looked around, observing the buildings, the pavement, the road junction and the street vendors. He smiled slowly, and nodded. “It’s perfect,” he said.
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    They did it the next day.
    Abdullah had indeed chosen the perfect spot for the snatch. It was where a busy side street joined a main road. On the corner was a café with tables outside, reducing the pavement to half its width. Outside the café, on the side of the main road, was a bus stop. The idea of queuing for the bus had never really caught on in Cairo despite sixty years of British domination, so those waiting simply milled