The patrol left Siwa at six a.m. heading northwest toward Giarabub, which they reached late in the day. The town lay in a small depression on the edge of the Great Sand Sea, and where Siwa was pleasant, Giarabub was dismal. Aside from the domed mosque where the founder of the Muslim Senussi sect lay buried, there was little else, a collection of squat buildings that appeared ready to collapse at any moment. Flies and mosquitoes were everywhere, buzzing their faces relentlessly.
The patrol found sanctuary in an airplane hangar abandoned by the retreating Italians some months before. Fitzhugh hopped off the lead truck. “We’ll stay the night here. I want everyone to stay close at hand and for God’s sake don’t even think of drinking the bloody water.”
While others went to the oasis, Thorley used the time to get to know Byron Wilson, the radioman who would be trekking across those last two miles to Rommel’s base near Hatiet el Etla.
A warm and humorous man, Thorley took an immediate liking to him. After small talk, Wilson showed him the radio. It was remarkably compact, arranged in a backpack format for ease of carriage, yet it weighed almost fifty pounds. “It’s the batteries, you see. They’re more than half the weight of the blighter.” He then went on to show how both he and Thorley would have a pair of headphones to listen in. Wilson would home in on the frequency of the signal and Thorley would verify that it was the correct one. “The last we’ve been told is that the tanks are using 27 megacycles. It’s a low frequency on the 11-meter band and it has to be ‘line of sight,’ or we’ll never hear it. That’s why we’ve got to be up their bums on this one.”
“How long do the batteries last?”
Wilson shrugged. “Oh, if you left it on continuously...about half an hour. The valves suck up a lot of juice.”
That meant they would have to be judicious about the radio’s use, survey the situation, and wait until the traffic became heavy. That might take hours, and they would be vulnerable to detection the longer they remained in position. “What about spare batteries?” Thorley asked.
Wilson shook his head. “We’ve got a total of four. Two will go with us; the other two stay with the patrol. We can’t risk taking them all because these same batteries run the main wireless. Without them we’ve lost our ability to report back to Siwa. If that happens, we might as well turn tail and head back.”
The rest of the day crawled by and the men grew anxious. Fortunately, someone had a deck of cards and they all occupied themselves playing Whist and Old Maid until nightfall. Dinner was another stew and quite forgettable.
The next morning, the trucks pulled out of the hangar and continued the journey north. An hour out of Giarabub, one of the trucks broke an axle in a sink hole, and the stores and men had to be redistributed to the other five trucks, necessitating a delay of several hours in the broiling sun.
It was noon when they began moving again. They were now in Libya proper in the area known as Cyrenaica. Vast and trackless, it seemed to Thorley that this is what the moon would look like if it had an atmosphere. Hot, dry, lonely, and silent. The trucks found a flat area, picked up a bit of speed and Thorley eased himself down into the stores, prepared to sleep away some of the monotony.
The Macchi C.202 fighters came out of nowhere, streaking overhead at what would have been treetop level. One moment the desert had been as quiet as a grave, the next the two planes roared overhead, banking to get a better glimpse of the patrol. Several of the men waved, but something about the way the pilots flew their aircraft gave Thorley a bad feeling. He turned to Wilson, who lounged next to him. “Get the Vickers out.”
Wilson scrambled to his feet and tore off a tarpaulin. The Vickers Gun was a relatively light tripod-mounted machine gun that fired .303 caliber bullets at the rate of 450 rounds per minute. Primarily produced for use with tanks, the LRDG found it extremely useful on their patrols, especially for road watches.
Thorley kept his eyes on the Macchis as they each did a split-S and came around facing the patrols head on.
They were making a strafing run!
“Get that bloody gun cocked!” Thorley screamed.
He heard Wilson curse and then the sound of the bolt pulling back and slamming home. Ahead and behind him, Thorley heard others pulling out their guns, but his was the only one battle-ready.
The Macchis began firing from half a mile out, their 12.7mm Breda SAFAT machine guns blazing. He saw the muzzle flashes before he heard them, and the bullets striking the desert floor, kicking up plumes of sand in straight parallel lines that raced toward them.
“Fire!” Thorley shouted.
Wilson wasted no time. The Vickers chattered, and he pivoted the gun as the Macchis blurred by.
“Jesus C—Christ!” Wilson stammered, eyes wide with terror.
The Macchis rolled and came on again, Bredas roaring. The guns from the other three trucks joined Wilson’s and Thorley saw a smattering of hits in the engine cowling of one of the planes, bits of debris flying off. Black smoke streamed out, and the plane nosed to the ground, exploding into the sand in a large orange-black fireball. The pilot never had a chance.
Sobered, Thorley watched the other plane make a pass without firing. Someone from one of the other trucks yelled out: “Go on, you yellow Eyetie bastard, turn tail like you all do!”
It was almost as if the pilot had heard. Instead of going off the way he’d come, he turned for one last pass. He came in lower this time, as if daring them to hit him with their Vickers.
Suddenly, Thorley realized Wilson wasn’t firing, he turned, ready to scold the man and froze. Wilson sat back, his hands still on the trigger, a neat half-inch hole drilled through his forehead. Behind him the canvas tarpaulin was spattered with gore. The worst of it wasn’t the blood and the brains, it was the tiny smile of surprise frozen on his face. Screaming, Thorley tore Wilson’s hands from the gun and began firing, following the Macchi as it flew by. It was a lot like the skeet and trap shooting he’d done as a young boy with his father in the Midlands. One just had to lead the bird and let him fly to meet the projectile. Instead of waiting for it to make another strafing run, he waited for the plane to pass by. Aiming just ahead of the nose, he squeezed off the last of the magazine. He watched, amazed, as the .303 slugs tore into the side of the Macchi, raking down the fuselage in an almost perfect line. For a moment it seemed that it would have no effect, and then in a bright flash the plane disintegrated. Hundreds of pieces plummeted to the ground.
The men cheered.
Wilson had been a good man, and now he’d spend eternity in a lonely grave far from his family and friends. It was all too bloody much. Thorley reloaded the Vickers and stowed it away. He then set about wrapping Wilson’s body in the tarp stained with his blood.
“You all right there, Thorley?”
He looked up and saw it was Fitzhugh, a look of solemn concern on his face.
“I’ll be okay.”
“Right. I’ll send someone to help you with Wilson. We’ll stay here tonight. I don’t think we need worry about the Eyeties any longer.”
He walked away, his head bowed.
At sunset, the men gathered and buried Wilson, his beret lying atop the shallow mound. They stood around it in a semicircle and Fitzhugh pulled out a tiny dog-eared Bible and read one of the Psalms in a voice heavy with emotion.
Next came dinner, though no one felt much like eating. It was Fitzhugh who brought up what no one wanted to voice.
“Right. With Wilson done in, there doesn’t seem to be much point in going to Hatiet el Etla.” The flames from the fire reflected in his brown eyes, making him look demonic. “We’ve no one to operate the radio. We’ll get a good night’s rest, and in the morning, we’ll head back to Siwa.”
“Excuse me, sir, but how about letting me take a crack at it?”
It was Brady who’d spoken. Thorley thought he looked uncommonly grave. Then again, what was there to be jocular about?
Fitzhugh frowned and stared back at Brady with an intensity that would have made most men look away. Brady met his gaze head on. “You have radio experience?” Fitzhugh asked. The tone of his voice belied his suspicions.
“I’ve enough to get Mikey and me there and back with what we came for, and not make this whole patrol and Wilson’s life a bloody waste, if that’s what you be gettin’ at.”
Fitzhugh’s jaw clenched and Thorley could tell the older man was angered by Brady’s brash remarks. But he couldn’t help admiring his friend’s audacity. He also noticed the others were nodding in agreement.
“Has anybody checked the radio for damage?” Fitzhugh asked.
That prompted two of the men to run off and retrieve the radio and bring it back to the fire. He motioned for the two men to hand it to Brady.
“Let’s see what you can do with it.” Fitzhugh said, his gaze level.
To his credit, Brady studied the panel for a moment and then reached for the “on” switch. A jeweled red light went on as did a light behind the frequency dial. A moment later the hiss of white noise could be heard through the built-in speaker. He then twisted the dial until a stream of Italian issued forth. He listened for a moment, then said. “That’s radio traffic from Italian Headquarters in Benghazi,” Brady said. “Heard enough?”
He switched off the radio and zipped it back into its carry pack. Fitzhugh still looked unconvinced. “Obviously you found that quite by accident. We can’t afford lucky accidents out here.”
“Excuse me, Lieutenant,” Thorley cut in, “but there won’t be any lucky accidents, as you put it. I know the frequency we’ll be monitoring. We’ve come this far, let us have a crack at it. And as Corwin said, it’s better than turning tail.”
Fitzhugh caved in, throwing up his hands. “All right,” he said. “Let’s just hope we don’t get caught with our pants down again.”
The next morning, they all voted to forego breakfast so they could make Hatiet el Etla by midmorning. Their last intelligence put the bulk of the Afrika Korps about five miles north of the town. They decided to skirt the tiny settlement on the off chance that any Germans might be in the town. By noon, they were as close as they dared to get. Now, it was up to Thorley and Brady to hike the rest of the way on foot.
They waited until after lunch when the sun began to wane, then they set off. Brady carried the radio, and Thorley carried the compass and the spare battery, as well as the food and water for the both of them. By Fitzhugh’s estimation, Rommel’s tanks lay in a shallow depression due north from where the patrol had set up camp. The hike, though only two miles, felt like two hundred. The weight of the stores they’d taken, enough for two days if needed, began to take its toll on Thorley’s body within the first half mile. Part of the problem was the terrain. Extremely rocky, it took longer to go a given distance because one had to step carefully over and around the countless obstacles strewn in their path. And then there was the relentless heat. They could only take so much water, because of weight and rationing. Already, Thorley could feel his throat crying out for it, knowing that if he gave in too soon, they would run out.
For his part, Brady appeared to be in his element. He moved over the rocks like a mountain goat, his pace never flagging, a continual grin on his face. They reached their destination at three o’clock and found the tanks just where intelligence said they would be. Putting down their supplies, both men crept to the top of the rise and looked over. Down in the depression they counted over three hundred tanks parked in even rows across from an equally large area filled with tents. They could see hundreds of German troops going about their business.
“Go get the radio,” Thorley said.
“There won’t be anything now, Mikey, they’re all parked.”
“Let’s try it, anyway.”
Brady shrugged and slid down the rise. He returned a moment later with the radio in hand. Unzipping the front of the carry pack, he erected the special antenna with its neatly coiled length of copper wire, turned the radio on and the two of them huddled around the speaker as Brady tuned the radio to 27 megacycles. There was nothing but static.
“I told you, Mikey,” he said, flipping off the radio. “Sure as God’s in his Heaven, they’ll be firing up those tanks come morning. That’s when we’ll hear something, if there’s anything to hear.”
They spent the night huddled next to each other for warmth, proximity to the enemy making a fire impossible.
The sun was creeping over the horizon, casting its crimson light across the steamy desert, when both men awakened to the sound of hundreds of tank engines revving. Grabbing the radio, Thorley and Brady scrambled up the small rise. The German camp was breaking up, tents folded and thrown into the backs of trucks, men running every which way shouting orders. From their position high overhead, it resembled a busy anthill. The tanks began pulling out of their neat rows and into formation for traveling.
“Blast this infernal thing!”
Thorley turned at the sound of Brady’s curse and saw him tinkering with the radio. A stab of fear pierced his heart.
“What’s wrong?”
Brady looked up from the radio, a sneer curling his lip. “This bloody contraption has decided not to work, that’s what’s wrong!”
Thorley decided to leave well enough alone and turned his attention back to the tanks. From his vantage point, it looked as if Rommel was sending the tanks north, toward Tobruk, but that was a guess, and not a very educated one. Still, unless they got the radio working, they would have very little else to report.
“Got you, you little bastard!” Brady said triumphantly. “Radio’s up, Mikey.”
Brady tossed him the headphones, which he plugged into the jack and then placed onto his head. He nodded and waited as Brady tuned the dial to 27 megacycles. From what little he knew of radio, there could be a thousand working frequencies between 27 and 28 megacycles, all with separate conversations going on. It would take a steady hand on the dial to tune into them all. What worried Thorley were the odds involved in actually hearing what he came to hear, odds that someone would actually talk about it over the air, unlikely at best. If they did, Thorley might miss it simply because he wouldn’t be listening on the correct frequency at the precise moment it was spoken. It was obvious the Panzer units were moving out of the area. That meant they would have perhaps half an hour, forty-five minutes at most before the last tanks were out of range. And that would be that, for there was no way for them to shadow the tanks on foot. And the patrol would be vulnerable if they tried to follow as a unit. It was clear they would just have to muddle through.
Thorley held up his hand as he heard a flash of conversation. “Go back, slowly.”
Brady barely tweaked the dial and the headphones squawked to life. “Anton Übermut Nordpol, Dies ist Zachari Fünf. Verstanden? Aus.”
The reply came back tinged with static. “Ja, Dies ist Anton Übermut Nordpol. Ich habe Verstanden. Nächster Punkt Viktor. Aus.”
“Jawohl. Aus.”
The radio fell silent and he pulled one of the headphone cans off one ear, leaving the other covered.
“What was that frequency?” Thorley asked.
“27.135 megacycles.”
“Make a note of that one and keep scanning.”
“You heard something. What did they say?”
Thorley shook his head. “Routine. One of the Panzers identified themselves and the base commander ordered them to proceed to a point they’re calling Viktor.”
“So, what does it mean?”
“I don’t bloody know. I was afraid of this.”
Brady looked puzzled, prompting Thorley to explain.
“The Germans use radio codes, phonetic words that stand for actual German words. Just as we use, ‘Abel, Baker, Charley,’ they use the German equivalent. They also use them as vectors on a map, point Viktor, or ‘V,’ being one of them. And every branch of the Wehrmacht uses a different code. Unless I have access to a German map, I can’t tell you where Point Viktor is.”
Thorley watched the tanks forming ranks for traveling.
Brady shook his head, exasperated. “Bloody Christ. All this work and they’re speaking gibberish. What about what you just heard?”
“Like I said, routine. There was no reason for the code, except for their destination. That could mean any place.”
“Like Tobruk.”
“Yes, like Tobruk,” Thorley echoed, his mood turning dark. He readjusted the headphones. “Let’s keep going.”
They caught another snippet of conversations between two tanks and like he feared, it was almost entirely in code, something about “Sago” and “Kurfürst” and “Indianer.” The words themselves, though formal German vocabulary, he knew were being used to mean something entirely different here and now.
The first column of tanks began moving out of the depression. There was more coded chatter intermixed with some joking between the Panzer crews. Thorley turned to Brady. “What’s your frequency?
“27.225.”
“Go back to 27.135.”
Brady nodded and turned the dial. At first there was nothing. And then Brady must have nudged the dial one way or the other because his headphones suddenly filled with laughter and then a question.
“Dort sollen die Frauen gutaussehen. Aus?”
The reply came in a guttural Bavarian accent. “Ja, sehr gut. Du wirst Jamila kennen lernen. Sie besizt das beste wirtshaus in Alamein. Ich war dort bevor dem Krieg. Sie wird sich freuen, uns zusehen. Aus.”
“Oh, ja. Das ist ausgezeichnet.”
Thorley was riveted. Someone in one of those tanks had mentioned El Alamein, as if they planned on being there sometime soon. Either this meant Rommel was planning his own offensive and these lovesick tankers had just given away the objective, or it was all idle chatter, wishful thinking on the part of two war weary men. One thing was for sure, he needed to hear more, something of a more military nature. No one had mentioned anything about General Auchinleck’s offensive. Thorley returned to the conversation between the two tankers, eager to hear more. By this time, however, the talk had degenerated into bathroom humor that was soon ended when an officer cut in on them and demanded they stop jabbering.
Thorley ripped off the phones and began writing on a tiny notepad. Brady watched, his tense expression giving away his eagerness to learn what Thorley had heard. Thorley resisted the urge to smile, enjoying his newfound power over the impetuous Irishman.
“You’re about ready to burst, aren’t you?” Thorley asked, allowing himself to smile.
Brady looked annoyed. “Bloody right. Now spill it. What did you hear?”
“Basically this. Two men were discussing the merits of Egyptian women and one of them promised to introduce him to the tart that runs his favorite bar in El Alamein.”
“It’s not much to go on, Mikey.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Did they say anything about Crusader?”
Thorley shook his head wearily. “Not yet, so I suggest we keep listening. The tanks will all be gone in a little while, maybe someone else will let slip with something.”
“Fine by me,” Brady said, staring after the departing tanks.
Thorley replaced the headphones and listened as Brady ran through the spectrum between 26 and 28 megacycles. They caught a few more conversations, mostly in that blasted code. He transcribed what he could, hoping that something would jog his mind later, but without knowing what the clear German words were, it would be a guessing game at best.
The tanks took longer to evacuate the area than they had anticipated, and Brady had to change the battery. They scanned the frequencies one last time and Thorley caught the tail end of another conversation. The word Alamein was mentioned again. That clinched it for him. Rommel was up to something, and had no idea that Auchinleck was about to mount a major offensive. The information they had would be invaluable, and from what he knew of El Alamein, it was the perfect ground for a confrontation, the advantage going to those who would be ready and waiting.
After the last tank had disappeared over the next rise and all possibility of surveillance had ceased, they packed up the radio and moved out. The sun fell toward the horizon and a cooling breeze had sprung up when they made their way back toward the spot where the rest of the patrol had encamped. Thorley shivered and made an effort to pick up the pace. He had no desire to be caught out in this godforsaken place after nightfall.
Winded and feeling the cold, they reached the camp under the light of the full moon. Fitzhugh and the others greeted them like long lost brothers and feted them with hot lamb stew and a fresh bottle of Scotch someone had brought along contrary to regulations.
After he and Brady had eaten, Fitzhugh asked them what had happened. Thorley told him what he’d heard, and Fitzhugh listened intently.
“I think you’re onto something, Major,” he said when Thorley had finished recounting their mission. “General Auchinleck will be pleased. Good work.”
The whisky hit them all hard and everyone turned in soon after. The next morning the trucks retraced their route to Siwa. They arrived back at Rest House a little after dawn the next day. Michael was called upon to debrief for Prendergast, who seemed a little less than enthusiastic at his findings. By now, Thorley knew that Prendergast’s lack of emotion was not a reflection either on him or his information, simply a part of the man. But Thorley knew he’d scored a coup by the twinkle in the man’s eyes when he shook his hand.
“I spoke with General Auchinleck this morning,” Prendergast said. “He wants you in Cairo day after tomorrow to brief him personally on your mission. You and Brady will leave on the outgoing supply truck. You also have three day’s leave, by the way. Good show, Thorley.”
After his debriefing with Prendergast, Thorley took a much-needed bath and changed into a fresh uniform, taking time to shave off the four days growth that stubbled his chin. He’d noticed some gray hairs in his beard and for some reason it bothered him. It was as if the war and his recent experiences were taking an inevitable toll—the theft of his youth, his innocence long since gone.
Outside Rest House, Thorley found Brady waiting for him next to the idling supply truck, which ran back and forth from Cairo every other day to bring petrol and travel rations for the patrols. Usually, the drivers would then take outgoing mail or passengers bound for Cairo.
Brady clapped him on the shoulders. “When you and me hit the big “C,” boyo, we’re going to have us a grand old time. You just leave it to Corwin.” He winked and climbed up on the back of the truck and Thorley joined him. The driver, a nervous sort, glanced at his watch and shook his head. “One more minute and you blokes would have been left behind, General or no General.” He then climbed into the cab, started the engine, threw it into gear and they were off.
Unlike their journey to Siwa, the return to Cairo seemed far shorter. Thorley reasoned that the supply truck drivers knew the best and fastest routes, and knew where to avoid the sinkholes and other pitfalls so common in the desert. They reached Cairo and the hospitality of Shepheard’s by nightfall. Brady made several phone calls. When he got off, he clapped his hands and laughed.
“I just got the poop. There’s a little spot on the other side of town where the girls are easy, and the liquor is cheap. What do you say, we paint this town a new color?”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll pass on that one. I’ve got to see Auchinleck at 0700, and I’d rather not be nursing a hangover. “
“Come on, Mikey. We’re in Cairo, for Christ’s sake. You’ve just been given three days to put the war and the dirt behind you. Besides, I’ll not have me friend mopin’ about on his night of glory.”
“What glory, we just listened to the radio.”
“It was a lot more than that, and you know it. I’m standin’ you drinks, boyo, and the least you can do is come along, drink up and enjoy yourself. If you’re not wantin’ female companionship, that’s okay by me.”
Thorley sighed. There was no getting out of this one. “All right, boyo,” he said, putting on a fake Irish accent that made Brady wince. “Let’s be going then.”
The “little spot” Brady mentioned was the Kit Kat Club, a splashy nightspot on the opposite side of Cairo from the hotel. Decorated in a cross between Art Deco and Egyptian motifs, it boasted a seventeen-piece band up on its own stage, and two full bars with enough exotic concoctions to melt the brains of several armies. It was packed when they walked in, smoke hanging thickly about the dimly lit room. Pools of light dotted the floor in between tables covered in crisp white linen. To Thorley it all looked like something out of a Hollywood B-movie.
Wading through the smartly dressed crowd, Brady found them an empty table near one of the bars just vacated by an amorous couple heading for the door. A young Egyptian busboy came by, scooped up all the empty glasses, replaced the linen and the table lamp, and scurried away. Thorley took his seat and let his eyes run over the crowd, already regretting his decision to come. The club was too dark, the band too loud, and the smoke made his eyes water. Moments after they’d taken their seats, a white-coated waiter came up to them and took their drink order: two scotches, neat.
When the drinks came, Thorley took a generous sip and let the fiery liquor flow down his throat, feeling it warm his stomach. It felt good. And he was beginning to think that it was just what he needed. He realized Brady was talking to him and leaned forward to hear over the band’s rendition of “Little Brown Jug.”
Brady was grinning like the Cheshire Cat and pointing toward the bar. Thorley followed his gaze and noticed two women seated at the end drinking tall glasses of what looked like champagne. Brady grinned at them and they returned the smile with toothy ones of their own.
“There’s a couple of ripe ones, eh, Mikey.” Brady’s voice was thick with desire, and Thorley felt his stomach twist as his anxiety level rose a notch.
The girls were voluptuous in the classic sense: narrow waists book-ended by large breasts and derrieres. The word “Junoesque” came to mind. Both were darkly complected with raven hair and chocolate-brown eyes that smoldered with frank invitation.
“A feast for the eyes, as well as the soul,” Brady said, raising his glass to the girls. They took it as their cue and began threading their way through the crowd toward their table. Each wore a slinky cocktail dress that clung to them, undulating with their every move.
Thorley fumed.
“I told you I didn’t want this, Corwin. I’m married, for God’s sake!”
“Just relax,” he said, a sly grin on his face that made Thorley even angrier. “No one’s twisting your arm, here. Let’s enjoy their company. Nothing has to happen. Okay?”
Thorley felt as he’d been neatly boxed into a corner: Leave and be the party poop, the bloody stick-in-the-mud, or stay and risk—what, temptation?
He sighed, shaking his head at the absurdity of the situation. “All right, you win. I’ll be a good boy.”
Brady clapped him on the back and smiled. “That’s the way to play it!”
When the women drew closer, Thorley saw they were both very young, probably under twenty-five. Their smiles widened when they reached the table. Both men stood.
“Ladies, may I present Major Michael Thorley, and I’m Lieutenant Corwin Brady, both of His Majesty’s Long Range Desert Group. And we are honored to meet you.”
He made a mock bow and both girls looked at each other and laughed. The taller of the two girls spoke first. “Hello, British, my name is Aziza and this is my friend, Femi.” Aziza’s accent was thick, but understandable. Femi, however just smiled and giggled. Apparently, Aziza would have to do the talking for the both of them.
They sat down and Aziza moved her chair closer to Thorley, her spicy perfume hitting him like one of the L.R.D.G’s trucks. Subtlety was obviously not this girl’s strong suit.
“What are you girls drinking?” Brady asked, his smile widening as Femi stroked his arm.
“Champagne,” Aziza purred, her eyes drilling through Thorley.
Brady waived to the waiter and rattled off the order in rapid Arabic. The waiter nodded and scurried off, returning moments later with two more flutes and an iced magnum. Brady raised his glass. “A toast. To my good friend, Michael Thorley, who has very probably saved his country single-handed!”
Thorley was embarrassed; not only because of what Brady had just said, which was patently foolish, but because the man was already drunk and drawing unwarranted attention to the both of them.
And then there were the girls.
Femi continued to become overly familiar with Brady, who lapped it all up like a thirsty dog, while Aziza’s mere existence and close proximity was enough to upset Thorley’s equilibrium.
“Corwin, likes to joke,” he said, shooting his friend a disapproving glare.
Brady drained his glass of champagne and laughed, and Femi joined in, perhaps thinking that she should. “Ahh, Mikey’s a modest one, that’s for sure. Now take me, for instance.” He paused for dramatic effect, his eyes moving from one girl to the next. “I’ll tell you I’m the best and to hell with you if you disagree. Hah!”
The girls laughed and Thorley shook his head, taking a long gulp of the champagne. It was surprisingly good, and he quickly drained the glass, then refilled it. He let Brady dominate the conversation, as he usually did, and watched him regale the girls with a series of his infamous pub stories, alternating between both English and Arabic. He soon had the women hysterically laughing. Bored and not a little sad that his big moment in the desert was already behind him, Thorley kept refilling the glass with the bubbly wine. A quick glance at the label nearly brought him up short: Dom Perignon—1932.
Not a cheap wine, to say the least. It was then he decided to throw caution to the wind along with his money. After all, hadn’t he come close to death once this week already, and hadn’t he completed the mission his superiors set out for him, and successfully at that? He bloody well deserved to at least enjoy an evening out.
Twenty minutes later, he realized he was drunk, and when the band came back from its break and began playing a fast-paced Swing tune, he impulsively asked Aziza to dance. She practically dragged him out onto the floor and began a frantic jitterbug that would have been the envy of any teenager at the Hammersmith Palais. Reticent at first, Thorley let loose and began to mimic her moves, surprised that he was able to pick them up so quickly. And then the music changed, the tempo slowing. Aziza came to him, vital and brimming with her youth, and cleaved her curvaceous body to his. Unlike Lillian’s, her body meshed effortlessly with his, like a jigsaw puzzle made of flesh.
Lillian.
All at once, like a bad omen, she intruded, her face welling up in his mind, along with a flood of guilt. But instead of backing off, instead of coming to his senses and leaving the nightclub for the safety of Shepheard’s, he began to respond to Aziza’s none-too-subtle overtures. A part of his fogged mind knew it was wrong, knew it even as he succumbed to it. But the one image that kept him traveling down that inexorable road was that of the faceless man sitting in the back seat of that black Daimler with the C.D. plate. The man who’d held Lillian exactly as he now held this dusky jewel, the man who’d nearly stolen his wife from him.
As the mood of the music became more romantic, Aziza pressed even harder against him, her long crimson nails digging into his back; he felt himself growing hard against her. He looked down and saw that she was gazing up at him, a lost, pleading look in her dark eyes. A sweat broke out on the back of his neck and the room began to tilt. The band seemed unbearably loud; the smoke impossibly thick.
He needed to breathe.
Leaving Aziza on the dance floor, Thorley pushed through the crowd, oblivious to the angry snarls of those he elbowed past, his eyes focused on the exit. He burst through it, welcoming the cool breeze that caressed his face like a soft hand. His heart hammered against his ribs and he found that he needed to lean against the stucco wall of the nightclub or risk fainting.
It was the champagne.
He wasn’t used to drinking that much that fast. It still bubbled through his brain, making him feel surreal, otherworldly. But he had to admit, part of it was the girl. That she was attractive was obvious, but there was something else about her, something primal. And it had affected him in a way that scared him to the core.
“Are you okay, British?”
She was there, right next to him, her breath against his face—unavoidably sexual. She caressed his cheek, and a shock passed through his body, as if her fingers were electrified.
He wanted to hold her.
He wanted to kiss her.
He wanted to run.
Oh, God, Lillian, a man can only resist so much!
“I’m fine,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Just a little winded.” He avoided looking at her, afraid of what he might do.
“It is hard to be so far from home, yes?”
She sounded different, less predatory, and it was the note of empathy in her voice that made him turn and face her. She smiled and it made her glow with a genuine warmth he would have thought beyond her.
“Yes, it is.”
“You are married?”
Thorley nodded, and he found that he parted with that information reluctantly, as if some portion of his being did not want to alienate the girl.
“My husband was killed by the Germans, because he tried to help the British.”
Thorley studied her now, seeing the gleam of tears in her eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he said, hating the phoniness of those three words. A moment went by before he spoke again. “You must hate us, awfully.”
She shook her head, slowly. “No, I do not. You fight to save us, as Reshef did. He was a good man, and I think that you are a good man, too. I cannot hate you for that.”
She drew closer and planted a soft moist kiss on his lips, her hand cupping his chin. The dam broke in Thorley’s heart and he took her in his arms, kissing her with all the unspent passion within him. She groaned and melted against him, her agile tongue filling his mouth with hot expectant wetness. The kiss seemed endless, a total world unto itself. Moments, or hours later he couldn’t tell, they broke, staring into each other’s eyes, knowing that it wouldn’t end there.
“We can’t go back to where I’m staying,” he said, breathless. “I’m sharing a room.”
She put a finger to his lips. “I live nearby. Let me tell Femi that we are going, yes?”
He looked off toward the Pyramids, the outlines of those ancient tombs barely visible in the darkness, then turned back to her. “Yes, tell her.”
She retreated into the nightclub, leaving Thorley to the fury of his thoughts. When she returned clutching her purse, they began walking down the street, her arm through his. For the briefest of moments, he felt like a schoolboy on his first date.
Aziza lived in a tiny three-room apartment over a café, consisting of one bedroom, a modest bath, and the main kitchen/living area. Furnishings were scant: an ancient overstuffed sofa, a couple of straight-backed chairs, and a lot of gaudy throw pillows scattered about on what appeared to be a high-quality Persian rug. And while the apartment was by no means a palace, it was clean and cozy.
Aziza’s bedroom overlooked the street and had a small balcony, reached by a set of French doors trimmed with lace curtains. Aside from a bureau heaped with cosmetics, the room was barely big enough to fit the bed, a large full-sized affair also covered with pillows, and which sat directly on the floor without benefit of box springs.
Leading him by the hand, Aziza pulled him inside and began undressing him, her nimble fingers working patiently at the buttons of his shirt and trousers, kissing each new area of his exposed skin with her warm full lips. When he was naked, she gently pushed him back onto the bed. The moon poured through the window, its pale light throwing the pattern of the lace curtains onto his body.
Without taking her eyes off of him, Aziza moved to the bureau. She picked up a box of matches, struck one, and lit a fat candle. It sputtered at first, then settled into a steady flame that cast a romantic glow throughout the tiny space. She turned to him, eyes shining with lust. And then she began to disrobe.
Starting with her evening dress, she teased each strap off her shoulder, slowly, sensually, then let the dress slide off her body to the ground. Thorley inhaled sharply as he saw her body now fully exposed, save for her panties and brassiere. Unlike so many Western women who insisted on starving themselves into sticks, Aziza was full-figured, curvesome—womanly. And she seemed to delight in his rapt attention. Smiling, she reached for her bra, unsnapped it from behind and tossed it aside, her generous breasts heaving. Thorley noticed the nipples and aureolas were a dark chocolate color against the unblemished café au lait of her skin. She caressed them, kneading them together, her eyes closed, her mouth pouting with pleasure. Aroused, she stepped up the pace of her striptease, her own eagerness overcoming her desire to titillate. She tore off her panties, then kicked off her high heels, revealing long, gracefully curved toenails polished a bright red to match her fingernails.
She climbed onto the bed and slid into his arms, encompassing him with her ripe body. He kissed her and again felt that swirling vertiginous feeling, as if the entire universe began and ended there. Pulling away from her mouth, he began to trail his lips down her body, feeling her back arch as he reached her pubic mound. Her hair was thick and dark, like wool and he filled his nostrils with her musk as he began to make love to her in earnest.
Sensing that her desire now matched his own, he rolled her onto her back and mounted her. Her groan as he entered her was deep and throaty. He began to thrust, slowly at first, marveling at her tightness, then increasing his speed as she began to respond. She moaned and writhed beneath him, beads of sweat breaking out on her dark skin. Her musk permeated the air and she began to buck against him. He could feel the tightness beginning in his scrotum and knew that would not last long. Scant moments later he ejaculated with a groan and fell onto her, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
After he’d caught his breath, he rolled onto his back, feeling the first onrush of guilt, his wife’s face once again before him. He wanted to shrivel up and blow away, melt through the mattress, anything to get the bloody hell out of there. His mind worked furiously, wondering how he would extricate himself from the situation gracefully. Then he realized that there was no need. All he had to do was get dressed and walk out, without another word or glance.
But as rotten as he felt for betraying Lillian—and himself—he couldn’t bring himself to be quite so callous.
Aziza spoke suddenly, as if reading his mind, her voice a husky whisper. “I am not quite so beautiful to you now, am I, British?”
Christ, what was it about women that they could sense when a man was thinking about another?
He turned to face her and was about to answer when the light snapped on in the room. Aziza scrambled to cover herself as Thorley whirled to face their intruder. It was Brady.
“Jesus bloody Christ, Corwin, what the hell are you doing here?”
The normally loquacious Irishman stared at him, a hard expression on his narrow face, then he raised his right arm. Clutched in his hand was a Walther PPK pistol with a silencer attached. He fired once, catching Aziza just over the right eye. She issued a strangled cry and flopped onto the mattress, blood spouting from the wound like a tiny geyser. Thorley was too stunned to move.
“My God, what are you doing? W—why did you shoot her?”
Brady kept the gun trained on him as he padded into the room. He went to the lace curtains, pulled them aside and looked out. Apparently satisfied, he returned his attention to Thorley, who watched him with saucer eyes.
Brady smiled without a trace of humor. “What are you talking about, Mikey? You shot her.”
“W—what?”
“You had a row after making love and you shot her, then, in a fit of remorse you took your own life.... I’m sorry, Mikey, you were a real friend.”
Brady raised the gun just as Thorley opened his mouth to scream, providing the perfect target. The gun coughed once more and the 7.65mm bullet caught Thorley squarely in the mouth, blowing out the back of his head. Without a sound, he fell across Aziza’s corpse, his body spasming in a grotesque parody of their lovemaking.
Working quickly, Brady unscrewed the silencer and wiped the gun down, then placed it firmly in Thorley’s right hand.
It was perfect.
The fact that he’d shot him in the mouth would make it hard to disprove suicide, except for the lack of powder burns. And he knew from experience that the incompetent Egyptian medical examiners would not bother looking for them, that is, if they even bothered to examine the bodies to begin with.
Standing back from the bed, Brady stared at Thorley a moment, a sadness creeping into his eyes, then he turned and left the apartment, taking the back stairs, careful not to let any of the early risers in the building see him leave.
Three hours later, he stood on the aft deck of a tramp steamer bound for Dublin, watching the shoreline as it pulled out of Alexandria harbor.
Another job well done.
Another job made neat and tidy for King and country.
This one, however, had left a bad taste in his mouth. He couldn’t wait to get back to the old sod and hide away in his farmhouse in Kerry for a month, or until those right old bastards in MI6 called him again. In any event, he’d had enough of sand, sun, and friendships to last a lifetime.