part0017

“That, my friends, is the book used for code messages by the two Jerries we apprehended the other night,” said Johnny. “Our analysts in MI6 were particularly intrigued that the Germans were using an English book. They noted some markings on specific pages and with the help of the notes found near the book, they’ve worked out the way they used words and pages in the book as a code. This means that using the same code, we shall be able to send contrived messages to the German authorities using our own radio here, which will hopefully cause the German command to make wrong decisions or at least create some confusion.”

“Wow! That is such an innocent-looking book,” said Jamie, “although we all thought it was a bit strange that Germans would be using an English language book for bedtime reading. That’s a bloody good idea from your MI6 people to start feeding the enemy command with false information. Do you think it’ll work?”

“Yes, of course. It’s been done before and it’s part of our reason for being here. It has to be done with subtlety and we’ll be getting further instructions from London on this. In the meantime, our Scottish friends will keep our ex-agents, Hans and Hermann, isolated so that no one knows where they are. I have already sent a coded message to their chiefs saying that there is nothing new to report. They have been sent similar reports previously. They’ve acknowledged my message already. Germans are such methodical fellows!”

“Yes, we have quite an interesting list of brigadiers and colonels, even a major general. Mainly all swagger-stick wavers from the Turf Club. They probably never had much sensitive intelligence, although the old-boy network sometimes picks up a thing or two. In any case, our superiors want us to leave them alone at this time as we don’t want to alert anyone about our operation. We also won’t be making any move yet against Henry Marshall, our phony Texan. MI6 believes we can make better use of him by getting our lovely Fifi to feed him seemingly crucial but false information at strategic times, which might aid our army’s efforts against Rommel in the desert. We can carefully dress it up so that it sounds genuine to Henry, remembering we have to protect Fifi. So, even if she is able to obtain specific intel on Henry’s local contacts, we will not act on that information until instructed to do so. Any questions?”

“Yes, good question,” said Johnny. “I think it would be a good idea if you and Matt take it in turns to keep Yasmina, and possibly Fahmy, under surveillance once in a while, as this has worked before. We might find another little cell of enemy agents operating in Cairo. We might also be able to put that pretty little girl, Sheena, onto our payroll if she’s willing, and I think she will be. All she will have to do is alert us if Yasmina or Fahmy are taking off with army officers straight after the show, and then we can take it from there. We might have to spend a bit of time once in a while at the Casino Opera but that shouldn’t be a very onerous task, eh chaps?”

It wasn’t until early December that Jacko reported an increase in extracurricular activity by the alluring Yasmina. Until then, they had known she had visited the houseboat of her former German contacts several times and been confused by their apparent sudden departure.

Johnny had sent regular radio messages requested by MI6 to the German command using the codes derived from the agents’ files and A Tale of Two Cities . His group also met regularly with Fifi, who maintained a close relationship with the ersatz Texan, Henry Marshall. As agreed, she occasionally gave him phony information that she told him she had overheard at the horse races or polo matches, in such a way that his suspicions were unlikely to be aroused.

Jacko had managed to take time off several times to visit Monique Rousseau and her family, who always made him feel welcome. He knew that he was becoming more captivated by Monique and was always excited whenever he was invited to join her family for a meal or an outing.

In early December, after a tip-off from Sheena when the show had finished at the Casino Opera, Jacko followed Yasmina to a restaurant near the Continental Hotel. There, she shared a late supper with an elderly uniformed British major general who sported a large moustache and a florid face. Jacko presumed that this activity meant she had made contact with new German agents who were now handling her. After midnight, she accompanied the officer as he staggered into the Continental Hotel. Jacko waited until he observed them entering a lift to the third floor, and then he set off for home. It was still warm and there were few people around at this time of night. He was able to walk unimpeded through the dark streets.

“You fellows are up late,” said Jacko. “You probably won’t be surprised to learn that the beautiful Yasmina is up to her old tricks again bedding aristocratic British officers. Her latest prey is staying at the Continental and I plan to go back in the morning and follow her when she carries to her new handlers whatever intelligence she can worm out of a fairly boozy old major general.”

“Excellent, Jacko,” said Johnny. “We also have some pretty amazing news for you. We’ve learned that the Japanese attacked the US naval base at Pearl Harbour yesterday and the Americans are now in the war with us against the Japanese and the Germans. Apparently a number of US ships were sunk but we don’t have any details.”

Jamie nodded. “At least the 8th Division is on the spot. But I think you might be right. They’ll probably send some units from the 7th Division who are largely on garrison duty in Palestine back home to bolster up the 8th. Your fellows in the 9th were relieved from the siege at Tobruk last month, Matt, but they will all remain part of the British Eighth Army so I guess they’ll stay around for a while. For Australia’s security it depends a bit on how badly the US navy was damaged at Pearl Harbour.”

At six the following morning, Jacko sat in the lobby of the Continental Hotel exactly as he had done months before, supposedly reading an Arabic newspaper and waiting for the same girl to emerge. At last his waiting was rewarded as Yasmina alighted from one of the lifts. She was wearing a white dress and looking fresh despite her late night. Jacko thought that the brigadier, who had looked the worse for wear the night before, had probably not been able to demand much from the fit young girl. She walked out the same side door she had previously used and Jacko followed her through the narrow streets until they arrived at the east bank of the Nile, well south of the hotel. She continued walking upriver until she reached one of the small parks along the east bank, where she sat down on a wooden bench facing the Nile. With her long black hair blowing in the breeze, she sat watching the lateen-sailed feluccas and other small craft sailing back and forth along and across the river. Finally, a large pale-skinned man with a round head and thinning hair dressed in a tropical suit sat down beside her and started an apparently casual conversation with her. During their discussion, Jacko noticed that she handed him a small package, then after about twenty minutes, she stood and set off towards the centre of the city.

The man remained seated another five minutes and then left in the opposite direction. After about 100 yards, he mounted a bicycle propped up against a tree and pedalled south along the river. Jacko sprinted after him; however, he had trouble keeping up as the man kept up a steady pace on his bicycle. His quarry slowed when he passed a bridge to one of the small north–south islands in the River Nile in the Maadi district and after that, Jacko saw him enter a small street a few hundred yards south of the bridge. He ran down to the street corner and saw the bicycle disappearing through a gateway into a house on the left side about 150 yards from where he stood. He wasn’t sure what to do next. He finally decided it was important to take a closer look. As he approached the house, a tall man who was walking towards him turned into the gate in front of the house and knocked at the door.

“Russian!” exclaimed Johnny. “What the hell are the Russkies doing spying on us? I don’t think they’ll learn much from our boozy old major general, but hell! They are supposed to be our allies, as of six months ago anyway. I expect that Uncle Joe Stalin and his Russkies are suspicious of everyone, even themselves. I don’t expect that Stalin will make the most reliable of allies anyway. I’ll let the brass at MI6 know about this and they can make of it what they will.”

A few days before Christmas, in the late afternoon, Fanny Bright walked unsteadily out of the Turf Club. She had lunched and spent the rest of the afternoon with a circle of friends who had adopted the title ‘The Widows Club’, or TWC for short. They were all wives of British officers who had been killed in the war or who had died by accident or misadventure, leaving their wives stranded in Cairo. All available transport between Egypt and Britain was totally committed to the war effort.

Their main conversation had centred on bemoaning the fact that most of the British officers in Cairo were either married or preferred the local girls, who seemed to be available in large numbers. They also touched on the sensitive subject of their treatment by the wives of living officers, who often snubbed them and treated them with disdain and jealous suspicion.

They had all consumed a large quantity of gin cocktails and Fanny knew she would have to walk carefully to her small flat next to the Shepheard’s Hotel. She had made this short journey after similar sessions several times already and, as usual, she took off her high-heeled shoes to make her walk a little less wobbly. She was unhappy and resentful that Lionel, her husband of only three years, had died in the fighting way out there in the desert somewhere. Now, wishing she was back in London amongst her friends, she felt abandoned and unloved in this smelly place.

Passing by the front door of Shepheard’s Hotel, she hesitated and decided that one more drink would be nice. Putting her shoes back on, she walked into the ground-floor bar, sat down at a table and ordered a gin and tonic. As she contemplated her cocktail and decided that this was probably a bad idea, she looked up and saw a tall figure in uniform looking down at her with a smile. He had dark hair and eyes and looked as though he could be quite handsome except for some deep scars on his left cheek.

“My name is Fanny, and you are correct, I am lonely here. About two months ago, my husband Lionel who was a lieutenant in a tank division was killed way out there in the desert in some godforsaken place with an unpronounceable name. There doesn’t seem to be any way to get back to England so I am adrift here with other young widows. You have a funny accent – where are you from?”

She was starting to have warm feelings towards this newly met stranger. Although she knew that could be partly due to the alcohol, it had been a long while since she had spent any time with a gentleman, and this young man seemed to be genuinely concerned about her. She felt like telling him all about herself; he appeared to be an attentive listener, and in spite of his scarred face, she thought he was not a bad looker. She also knew that if they spent much longer chatting to each other, which was certainly likely, they would possibly finish up in her bed. She mentally shrugged her shoulders ....