City of the Sun (40 page)

“Open up,” a voice ordered. “Police. We know you’re in there.”

Kesner bolted back down. He was trapped. It was impossible for the radio scanners to have picked up his transmissions and tracked him down so quickly … unless they had already been on the quay. His mind raced.
Stay calm
, he told himself, his legs shaking as he reached the bottom. He had prepared for this eventuality and started to count silently in an effort to keep his wits about him.
Eins, zwei, drei
.

The men above were shouting, pounding on the door.

Shoes first, Kesner reminded himself, trying his mightiest to control the trembling of his hands as he removed them. He had a full set of dry clothing in the watertight bag he kept along with his diving gear inside his escape chamber in the cramped communication room. He opened the chamber, which was the size of a phone booth, and pulled out the rubber suit. He put it on over his trousers and shirt and zipped it up to his neck. It was too tight. He removed his belt. He put on his fins. It all seemed unreal. Stay calm.
Eins, zwei, drei
. He heard a shot, then a loud kick—the door upstairs burst open. The police threatened to shoot on sight if he did not surrender.

Eins, zwei, drei
. It had all been carefully worked out. The booby trap he’d made was in place. The stairway was wired with a fishing line connected to the gas burner in the kitchen, which was right above the communication room. All he had to do was pull the trip wire to activate the trap and then flip on the incendiary line. The gas burner would ignite when the police tripped the stairway wire and the blast would destroy the radio and create a fire that would sink the boat in minutes. He hoped the cash he’d put in the dry bag along with passports and other important papers would be adequate.

He heard another door smash open.
Eins, zwei, drei
. He put on the rebreather diving unit, the vest first, making sure its valves were tightly connected to the hoses in the mask. Then, after taking one last deep breath, he pulled on the mask and adjusted the straps around his head. There were more shouts upstairs as the boat rocked violently. He had to hurry. Within seconds they would be coming down the stairs. He stepped inside the chamber and closed the door. He activated the wire trip, then with one hand on the incendiary line switch, and the other on the hatch, he opened the hatch ever so slowly so that water would not come rushing in and pulled the switch. He grabbed the dry bag and crawled out.

Seconds later a massive explosion shook the boat, but Kesner was already safely on his way.

He could stay under water for thirty to forty minutes, but with all the attention on the quay being paid to the boat in flames, Kesner didn’t need much time before resurfacing. He reemerged ten minutes later in a marshy area, hoping it was under the Zamalek Bridge. His calculations turned out to be fairly accurate, but when he removed his mask and looked up, he saw red lights blinking and
police lorries parked on the bridge above. He quickly dove back under and swam downstream, where he reemerged on a secluded bank covered with reeds. He hastened to get rid of his diving gear, shoveling it all into his dry bag. He loaded the bag with rocks and threw the damn thing into the water, where it dropped to the bottom. He was now close to Dokki, and he walked across the English Bridge to Gezira Island, where he grabbed a taxi to Café Riche. He stored his clothing disguises there, and, since the loss of Dr. Massoud’s office, he had been using the café as a message drop as well.

Ironically, Café Riche, a haven for Egyptian intellectuals, was located in the heart of the foreign-dominated downtown. Kesner felt like hugging the owner when he got there. A friend of Sadat’s, he was a patron of Egyptian arts and a committed nationalist. He had made the bar in the basement available to the Revolutionary Committee as a meeting place, and though he would not allow Kesner to conduct his operations from the café, it was a perfect place for the spy to regroup.

Arriving in his shirtsleeves and sagging trousers, Kesner needed to wash up and change. He also needed a cup of coffee, some cigarettes, a telephone, and a pen and pad of paper. He had to formulate a new plan of action. If he could find Blumenthal, he could redeem himself in one stroke. If he couldn’t deliver him to Rommel alive, he would kill him to prevent him from falling into the hands of the Americans and Brits.

“It’s good to be among friends,” Kesner said to the owner as the Egyptian ushered him down the stairs into the main room, which was thick with cigarette smoke.

In a corner under the filtered light of a brass lampshade, Kesner rolled up his sleeves and began to write:

Things to do:

Number one: A place to stay.

The Windsor Hotel would do for a night or two, but he needed to borrow a private, furnished apartment with a telephone and basic amenities in a discreet building. He would have to force Abdoul back in line to find him such a place.

Number two: Must have radio.

It was vital for him to stay in touch with Tripoli, and Sadat, being a signals officer, would be his best bet. But he knew he would first have to address Sadat’s inquiries about whether Hitler had signed the letter promising Egyptian independence. He pulled out another piece of paper and began to write:
Happy to confirm that the document is safely in Germany and has been signed by Hitler. Expect it back shortly
. A lie of expedience. He would leave the note with the owner.

Number three: Men.

If he was to revive his mission, he would need help. The American spy needed to be followed. He had to put his personal feelings aside. As much as he would love to kill him, the spy could still lead him to Blumenthal. Here he would have to rely on Abdoul. He braced himself and called the fat idiot at his home.

“Hello? Hello? It’s me!” Kesner shouted into the mouthpiece, sure he’d recognized Abdoul’s voice before the line cut off abruptly.

Annoyed, he rang again, but this time a servant answered.

“Mr. Nukrashi is not here,” the fellow lied.

“But I just talked to him!”

“Sorry, sir. He’s gone out.”

“Fine,” Kesner barked. “I’ll call back in a couple of hours.”

“He’s not coming back until very late, sir.”

“It is urgent I reach him tonight. How late is late?”

“I don’t know, sir,” the servant said nervously. “He was
dressed in his tuxedo for the cinema event tonight. Who can I tell him is calling?”

“Never mind.” Kesner hung up. If the mountain would not come to Mohammed, Mohammed would go to the mountain. The weasel was not going to get away so easily.

CHAPTER 38

Mickey banged on the door. “Open up!” he demanded. “You have no right to detain me. I am an American citizen,” he shouted, giving the door a solid kick. He’d been locked up at GHQ, the British Army General Headquarters, after being interrogated all morning about his interference with the ambush. His requests to talk to Kirk or Donovan had fallen on deaf ears. Making matters worse, they’d refused to let him know the outcome of the entrapment operation. Given the way he’d been treated, he had to presume that the German spy was still at large.

He passed his hand through his hair, dejected. The chief of police had been livid, saying that he ought to be shot for interfering with a military operation. Men with rifles had been stationed behind the gateways of the compound, and thanks to Mickey’s amateurish and disastrous interference, the man they were chasing had changed course, escaping into the market below instead of running into their waiting arms at the guarded gateways. Mortified, Mickey felt like the foolish amateur that he was.

He understood he’d messed up, but still, he was a friend, not an enemy. He paced his five-by-ten, windowless cell restlessly. The premiere of
Gone with the Wind
would be starting in two hours, and he did not want to miss the opportunity to see
Maya there. He needed to confront her and find out why she had her uncle lie about her leaving the country.

“Let me out,” he yelled, hammering at the door again.

Miraculously, it opened this time.

“Stay back,” warned the gruff sergeant posted by the doorway. “This way, Ambassador.”

In his white dinner jacket, Kirk was the picture of elegance. Mickey leaped toward him, never having been more glad to see him.

“This man is no criminal. You can leave us alone, and please close the door.” Kirk dismissed the sergeant. Once alone, he turned to Mickey. “Mickey, Mickey,
Mickey
!” he reprimanded forcefully, his lips tight, his expression severe. “What have you done? Why on earth did you go there when you were specifically told not to?” He enunciated each word with great severity and crossed his arms.

“I wanted to see the son of a bitch get caught,” Mickey admitted sheepishly. “I owed it to Dorothy.”

“You owed it to Dorothy? Messing up the capture of her killer? Making all of us at the embassy look like imbeciles?”

“I’m sorry. I guess I haven’t been thinking too clearly these days.”

“That’s right, you haven’t. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but that was plain stupid,” Kirk cried out. “The man you were chasing
was
the German spy.”

Mickey was speechless. He slammed his palm against the wall in frustration, wishing he could undo his egregious mistake.

“It’s not all bad, though,” Kirk sighed. “They’ve arrested a number of people connected to the Muslim Brotherhood. One of them was the spy’s driver, Mohammed Rafat, who is Hassan al-Banna’s number-two man. MI5 put pressure on his son, who admitted to participating in their kidnap attempt and said he saw the spy crossing the Zamalek Bridge. The field police believe he must be living on the other side of Gezira Island. They sent a truck with radio-detecting
equipment into the Agouza area, and guess what?” Kirk asked, the trace of a smile beginning to peek out.

“I wouldn’t know,” Mickey answered as he took a seat.

“The fellow was operating out of a houseboat. He even had the audacity to put a small antenna on the roof. I don’t know how they didn’t notice it sooner. Anyway, he blew up the boat and vanished just as they were closing in on him.”

Mickey shook his head. “I can’t believe that the one guy I chased turned out to be the spy.”

“They’ll get him sooner or later,” Kirk said. “The net is closing around him. They’ve arrested a lot of people who they think are in cahoots with him, including that dancer, Samina.”

“Samina?” Mickey said as it dawned on him that he’d been played. “Shit, I bet my winning the lottery for the dance with her was rigged. She pretended to be so interested in me,” he said as he shook his head. He jumped to his feet. A sparkle of light. Here was a chance to redeem himself. “I can help nail her.”

“Whatever you can tell MI5 will be useful, but I have to warn you, Mickey, they want you out of the country. This time there is nothing I can do about it.”

A silence fell over them. Rather than argue, Mickey let it slide. With the spy at large and Maya still in town, he had a lot to do. “Fine. I’ll leave,” he said. He rested a hand on Kirk’s shoulder. “But now, I need you to get me out of this cell, Ambassador. Right away.”