The Key to Rebecca (11 page)

Bogge smiled. “If I went to Field Security with this story of an Arab Fagin stealing canteen menus I’d be laughed out of the office.”

“But—”

“We’ve discussed this long enough, Major—too long, in fact.”

“For Christ’s sake—”

Bogge raised his voice. “I don’t believe the riot was organized, I don’t believe Abdullah intended to steal the briefcase, and I don’t believe Wolff is a Nazi spy. Is that clear?”

“Look, all I want—”

“Is that
clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Dismissed.”

Vandam went out.

I AM A SMALL BOY. MY FATHER TOLD ME HOW OLD I AM, BUT I FORGOT. I WILL ask him again next time he comes home. My father is a soldier. The place he goes to is called a Sudan. A Sudan is a long way away.

I go to school. I learn the Koran. The Koran is a holy book. I also learn to read and write. Reading is easy, but it is difficult to write without making a mess. Sometimes I pick cotton or take the beasts to drink.

My mother and my grandmother look after me. My grandmother is a famous person. Practically everyone in the whole world comes to see her when they are sick. She gives them medicines made of herbs.

She gives me treacle. I like it mixed with curdled milk. I lie on top of the oven in my kitchen and she tells me stories. My favorite story is the ballad of Zahran, the hero of Denshway. When she tells it, she always says that Denshway is nearby. She must be getting old and forgetful, because Denshway is a long way away. I walked there once with Abdel and it took us all morning.

Denshway is where the British were shooting pigeons when one of their bullets set fire to a barn. All the men of the village come running to find out who had started the fire. One of the soldiers was frightened by the sight of all the strong men of the village running toward him, so he fired at them. There was a fight between the soldiers and the villagers. Nobody won the fight, but the soldier who had fired on the barn was killed. Soon more soldiers came and arrested all the men in the village.

The soldiers made a thing out of wood called a scaffold. I don’t know what a scaffold is but it is used to hang people. I don’t know what happens to people when they are hanged. Some of the villagers were hanged and the others were flogged. I know about flogging. It is the worst thing in the world, even worse than hanging, I should think.

Zahran was the first to be hanged, for he had fought the hardest against the soldiers. He walked to the scaffold with his head high, proud that he had killed the man who set fire to the barn.

I wish I were Zahran.

I have never seen a British soldier, but I know that I hate them.

My name is Anwar el-Sadat, and I am going to be a hero.

 

Sadat fingered his mustache. He was rather pleased with it. He was only twenty-two years old, and in his captain’s uniform he looked a bit like a boy soldier: the mustache made him seem older. He needed all the authority he could get, for what he was about to propose was—as usual—faintly ludicrous. At these little meetings he was at pains to talk and act as if the handful of hotheads in the room really were going to throw the British out of Egypt any day now.

He deliberately made his voice a little deeper as he began to speak. “We have all been hoping that Rommel would defeat the British in the desert and so liberate our country.” He looked around the room: a good trick, that, in large or small meetings, for it made each one think Sadat was talking to him personally. “Now we have some very bad news. Hitler has agreed to give Egypt to the Italians.”

Sadat was exaggerating: this was not news, it was a rumor. Furthermore most of the audience knew it to be a rumor. However, melodrama was the order of the day, and they responded with angry murmurs.

 

Sadat continued: “I propose that the Free Officers Movement should negotiate a treaty with Germany, under which we would organize an uprising against the British in Cairo, and they would guarantee the independence and sovereignty of Egypt after the defeat of the British.” As he spoke the risibility of the situation struck him afresh: here he was, a peasant boy just off the farm, talking to half a dozen discontented subalterns about negotiations with the German Reich. And yet, who else would represent the Egyptian people? The British were conquerors, the Parliament was a puppet and the King was a foreigner.

There was another reason for the proposal, one which would not be discussed here, one which Sadat would not admit to himself except in the middle of the night: Abdel Nasser had been posted to the Sudan with his unit, and his absence gave Sadat a chance to win for himself the position of leader of the rebel movement.

He pushed the thought out of his mind, for it was ignoble. He had to get the others to agree to the proposal, then to agree to the means of carrying it out.

It was Kernel who spoke first. “But will the Germans take us seriously?” he asked. Sadat nodded, as if he too thought that was an important consideration. In fact he and Kernel had agreed beforehand that Kernel should ask this question, for it was a red herring. The real question was whether the Germans could be trusted to keep to any agreement they made with a group of unofficial rebels: Sadat did not want the meeting to discuss that. It was unlikely that the Germans would stick to their part of the bargain: but if the Egyptians did rise up against the British, and if they were then betrayed by the Germans, they would see that nothing but independence was good enough—and perhaps, too, they would turn for leadership to the man who had organized the uprising. Such hard political realities were not for meetings such as this: they were too sophisticated, too calculating. Kernel was the only person with whom Sadat could discuss tactics. Kernel was a policeman, a detective with the Cairo force, a shrewd, careful man: perhaps police work had made him cynical.

The others began to talk about whether it would work. Sadat made no contribution to the discussion. Let them talk, he thought: it’s what they really like to do. When it came to action they usually let him down.

As they argued, Sadat recalled the failed revolution of the previous summer. It had started with the sheik of al-Azhar, who had preached: “We have nothing to do with the war.” Then the Egyptian Parliament, in a rare display of independence, had adopted the policy : “Save Egypt from the scourge of war.” Until then the Egyptian Army had been fighting side by side with the. British Army in the desert, but now the British ordered the Egyptians to lay down their arms and withdraw. The Egyptians were happy to withdraw but did not want to be disarmed. Sadat saw a heaven-sent opportunity to foment strife. He and many other young officers refused to hand in their guns and planned to march on Cairo. To Sadat’s great disappointment, the British immediately yielded and let them keep their weapons. Sadat continued to try to fan the spark of rebellion into the flame of revolution, but the British had outmaneuvered him by giving way. The march on Cairo was a fiasco: Sadat’s unit arrived at the assembly point but nobody else came. They washed their vehicles, sat down, waited awhile, then went on to their camp.

Six months later Sadat had suffered another failure. This time it centered on Egypt’s fat, licentious, Turkish King. The British gave an ultimatum to King Farouk: either he was to instruct his Premier to form a new, pro-British government, or he was to abdicate. Under pressure the King summoned Mustafa el-Nahas Pasha and ordered him to form a new government. Sadat was no royalist, but he was an opportunist: he announced that this was a violation of Egyptian sovereignty, and the young officers marched to the palace to salute the King in protest. Once again Sadat tried to push the rebellion further. His plan was to surround the palace in token defense of the King. Once again, he was the only one who turned up.

He had been bitterly disappointed on both occasions. He had felt like abandoning the whole rebel cause: let the Egyptians go to hell their own way, he had thought in the moments of blackest despair. Yet those moments passed, for he knew the cause was right and he knew he was smart enough to serve it well.

“But we haven’t any means of contacting the Germans.” It was Imam speaking, one of the pilots. Sadat was pleased that they were already discussing
how
to do it rather than
whether
to.

Kemel had the answer to the question. “We might send the message by plane.”

“Yes!” Imam was young and fiery. “One of us could go up on a routine patrol and then divert from the course and land behind German lines.”

One of the older pilots said: “On his return he would have to account for his diversion—”

“He could not come back at all,” Imam said, his expression turning forlorn as swiftly as it had become animated.

Sadat said quietly: “He could come back with Rommel.”

Imam’s eyes lit up again, and Sadat knew that the young pilot was seeing himself and Rommel marching into Cairo at the head of an army of liberation. Sadat decided that Imam should be the one to take the message.

“Let us agree on the text of the message,” Sadat said democratically. Nobody noticed that such a clear decision had not been required on the question of whether a message should be sent at all. “I think we should make four points. One: We are honest Egyptians who have an organization within the Army. Two: Like you, we are fighting the British. Three: We are able to recruit a rebel army to fight on your side. Four: We will organize an uprising against the British in Cairo, if you will in return guarantee the independence and sovereignty of Egypt after the defeat of the British.” He paused. With a frown, he added: “I think perhaps we should offer them some token of our good faith.”

There was a silence. Kemel had the answer to this question, too, but it would look better coming from one of the others.

Imam rose to the occasion. “We could send some useful military information along with the message.”

Kemel now pretended to oppose the idea. “What sort of information could
we
get? I can’t imagine—”

“Aerial photographs of British positions.”

“How is that possible?”

“We can do it on a routine patrol, with an ordinary camera.”

Kernel looked dubious. “What about developing the film?”

“Not necessary,” Imam said excitedly. “We can just send the film.”

“Just one film?”

“As many as we like.”

Sadat said: “I think Imam is right.” Once again they were discussing the practicalities of an idea instead of its risks. There was only one more hurdle to jump. Sadat knew from bitter experience that these rebels were terribly brave until the moment came when they really had to stick their necks out. He said: “That leaves only the question of which of us will fly the plane.” As he spoke he looked around the room, letting his eyes rest finally on Imam.

After a moment’s hesitation, Imam stood up.

Sadat’s eyes blazed with triumph.

 

Two days later Kernel walked the three miles from central Cairo to the suburb where Sadat lived. As a detective inspector, Kernel had the use of an official car whenever he wanted it, but he rarely used one to go to rebel meetings, for security reasons. In all probability his police colleagues would be sympathetic to the Free Officers Movement; still, he was not in a hurry to put them to the test.

Kemel was fifteen years older than Sadat, yet his attitude to the younger man was one almost of hero worship. Kemel shared Sadat’s cynicism, his realistic understanding of the levers of political power; but Sadat had something more, and that was a burning idealism which gave him unlimited energy and boundless hope.

Kernel wondered how to tell him the news.

The message to Rommel had been typed out, signed by Sadat and all the leading Free Officers except the absent Nasser and sealed in a big brown envelope. The aerial photographs of British positions had been taken. Imam had taken off in his Gladiator, with Baghdadi following in a second plane. They had touched down in the desert to pick up Kernel, who had given the brown envelope to Imam and climbed into Baghdadi’s plane. Imam’s face had been shining with youthful idealism.

Kernel thought: How will I break it to Sadat?

It was the first time Kernel had flown. The desert, so featureless from ground level, had been an endless mosaic of shapes and patterns : the patches of gravel, the dots of vegetation and the carved volcanic hills. Baghdadi said: “You’re going to be cold,” and Kernel thought he was joking—the desert was like a furnace—but as the little plane climbed the temperature dropped steadily, and soon he was shivering in his thin cotton shirt.

After a while both planes had turned due east, and Baghdadi spoke into his radio, telling base that Imam had veered off course and was not replying to radio calls. As expected, base told Baghdadi to follow Imam. This little pantomime was necessary so that Baghdadi, who was to return, should not fall under suspicion.

They flew over an army encampment. Kernel saw tanks, trucks, field guns and jeeps. A bunch of soldiers waved: they must be British, Kernel thought. Both planes climbed. Directly ahead they saw signs of battle: great clouds of dust, explosions and gunfire. They turned to pass to the south of the battlefield.

Kernel had thought: We flew over a British base, then a battlefield—next we should come to a German base.

Ahead, Imam’s plane lost height. Instead of following, Baghdadi climbed a little more—Kernel had the feeling that the Gladiator was near its ceiling—and peeled off to the south. Looking out of the plane to the right, Kemel saw what the pilots had seen: a small camp with a cleared strip marked as a runway.

Approaching Sadat’s house, Kernel recalled how elated he had felt, up there in the sky above the desert, when he realized they were behind German lines, and the treaty was almost in Rommel’s hands.

He knocked on the door. He still did not know what to tell Sadat.