Now the network of gullies and hillocks ended, and the desert was flat and rocky under the blazing stars. Still the wolf raced on, its heart beginning to beat harder and its lungs pumping the clean smell of freedom, like the perfume of life, into its nostrils. It snapped its head quickly to the left, released the handcuff, and gripped the satchel’s leather handle so the bag no longer bumped the ground. It fought and defeated the urge to spit the handle out, because it held the foul taste of a man’s palm.
And then, from behind, another guttural growl, this one lower-pitched than the voices of the other two predators. The wolf glanced back, saw a pair of yellow moons speeding across the desert, following the animal’s tracks. Machine-gun fire erupted—a red burst above the double moons—and bullets shot up sand less than three feet to the wolf’s side. It jinked and spun, checked its speed, and darted forward again, and the next long burst of tracers singed the hairs along its backbone.
“Faster!” Stummer shouted to his driver. “Don’t lose it!” He got off another burst, and saw sand kick up as the wolf angled sharply to the left. “Damn it!” he said. “Hold it steady!” The animal still had Voigt’s satchel, and was heading directly toward the British lines. What kind of beast was it, that would steal a case full of maps instead of scraps from the garbage heap? The damned monster had to be stopped. Stummer’s palms were sweating, and he struggled to line the thing up in the gun’s sights, but it kept dodging, cutting, and then picking up its speed as if it…
Yes, Stummer thought. As if it could think like a man.
“Steady!” he bellowed. But the car hit a bump, and again his aim was knocked off. He had to spray the ground ahead of the thing and hope the beast ran into the bullets. He braced himself for the gun’s recoil and squeezed the trigger.
Nothing. The gun was hot as the midday sun, and it had either jammed or run dry.
The wolf glanced back, marking that the machine was closing fast. And then it returned its attention to the distance ahead—but too late. A barbed-wire fence stood just ahead, less than six feet away. The wolf’s hind legs tensed, and its body left the ground. But the fence was too close to avoid completely; the wolf’s chest was sliced by barbed knots, and as its body went over, its right hind leg caught in the coils.
“Now!” Stummer shouted. “Run it down!”
The wolf thrashed, muscles rippling along its body. It clawed the earth with its forelegs, to no avail. Stummer was standing up, the wind rushing into his face, and the driver pressed the accelerator to the floorboard. The armored car was about five seconds away from smashing the wolf beneath its stubbled tires.
What Stummer saw in those five seconds he might never have believed, had he not witnessed it. The wolf twisted its body, and with its front claws grasped the barbed-wire that trapped its leg. Those claws parted the wire, and held them apart as it wrenched its leg loose. Then it was on all fours again and darting away. The armored car ground the wire under its bulk, but the wolf was no longer there.
But the headlights still held it, and Stummer could see that the animal was bounding instead of running, leaping right and left, sometimes touching a single hind leg to the earth before it leaped and twisted again in another direction.
Stummer’s heart slammed in his chest.
It knows, he realized. That animal knows…
He whispered, “We’re in a mine fi—”
And then the left front tire hit a mine, and the blast blew Major Stummer out of the car like a bloody pinwheel. The left rear tire detonated the next mine, and the shredded mass of the right front wheel hit the third one. The armored car buckled, its gasoline ignited and tore the seams apart, and in the next second it rolled into yet another mine and there was nothing left but a center of red fire and scorched metal flying heavenward.
Sixty yards ahead, the wolf stopped and looked back. It watched the fire for a moment, its green eyes aglow with destruction, and then it abruptly turned away and continued threading through the mine field toward the safety of the east.
2
He would soon be here. The countess felt as excited as a schoolgirl on a first date. It had been more than a year since she’d seen him. Where he’d been in that time, and what he’d done, she didn’t know. Nor did she care. That was not her business. All she’d been told was that he needed a sanctuary, and that the service had been using him for a dangerous assignment. More than that, it was not safe to know. She sat before the oval mirror in her lavender-hued dressing room, the golden lights of Cairo glittering through the French doors that led to the terrace, and carefully applied her lipstick. On the night breeze she could smell cinnamon and mace, and palm fronds whispered politely in the courtyard below. She realized she was trembling, so she put her lipstick down before she made a mess of her mouth. I’m not a dewy-eyed virgin, she told herself, with some regret. But perhaps that was part of his magic, too; he had certainly made her feel, on his last visit here, that she was a first-grader in the school of love. Perhaps, she mused, she was so excited because in all this time—and through a procession of so-called lovers—she had not felt a touch such as his, and she longed for it.
She realized she was the kind of woman her mother had once told her to stay away from, back in Germany before that insane maniac had brainwashed the country. But that was part of this life, too, and the danger invigorated her. Better to live than exist, she thought. Who had told her that? Oh, yes. He had.
She ran an ivory brush through her hair, which was blond and styled like Rita Hayworth’s, full and falling gently over her shoulders. She had been blessed with a fine bone structure, high cheekbones, light brown eyes, and a slim build. It wasn’t hard to keep her figure here, because she didn’t care much for the Egyptian cuisine. She was twenty-seven years old, had been thrice married—each husband more wealthy than the first—and she owned a major share in Cairo’s daily English newspaper. Lately she’d been reading her paper with more interest as Rommel advanced on the Nile and the British fought valiantly to stem the Nazi tide. Yesterday’s headline had been ROMMEL HELD TO A STANDSTILL. The war would go on, but it appeared that, at least this month, Hitler would not be saluted east of El Alamein.
She heard the soft purr of the Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow’s engine as the limousine pulled to the front door, and her heart jumped. She’d sent the chauffeur to pick him up, following the instructions she’d been given, at the Shepheard’s Hotel. He was not staying there, but had attended a meeting of some kind—a “debriefing,” she understood it was called. The Shepheard’s Hotel, with its well-known lobby of wicker chairs and Oriental rugs, was full of war-weary British officers, drunken journalists, Muslim cutthroats, and, of course, Nazi eyes and ears. Her mansion, on the eastern outskirts of the city, was a safer place for him than a public hotel. And eminently more civilized.
The Countess Margritta stood up from her dressing table. Behind her was a screen decorated with blue and golden peacocks, and she took the pale sea-green dress that was hanging over it, stepped into it, and buttoned it up. One more look at her hair and makeup, a quick misting spray of Chanel’s new fragrance over her white throat, and she was ready to go. But no, not quite. She decided to undo a strategic button so the swell of her breasts was unconfined. Then she slid her feet into her sandals and waited for Alexander to come up to the dressing room.
He did, in about three more minutes. The butler rapped quietly on the door, and she said, “Yes?”
“Mr. Gallatin has arrived, Countess.” Alexander’s voice was stiffly British.
“Tell him I’ll be down shortly.” She listened to Alexander’s footsteps moving along the teak-floored corridor. She was not so eager to see him that she would go downstairs without making him wait; that was part of the game between ladies and gentlemen. So she gave it another three or four minutes, and then taking a deep breath, she left the dressing room at an unhurried pace.
She walked along a corridor lined with suits of armor, spears, swords, and other medieval weapons. They belonged to
the former owner of the house, a Hitler sympathizer, who’d fled the country when the Italians had been knocked around by O’Connor back in 1940. She didn’t care much for weapons, but the knights seemed to go with the teak and oak of the house, and anyway they were valuable and made her feel as if she were being guarded around the clock. She reached the wide staircase with its banisters of carved oak and descended to the first floor. The living room doors were closed; that’s where she’d instructed Alexander to take him. She took a few seconds to compose herself, held her palm up against her mouth to get a quick hint of her breath—spearminty, thank God—and then she opened the doors with a nervous flourish.
Silver lamps burned on low, polished tables. A small fire flickered in the hearth, because after midnight the desert breeze would turn chilly. Crystal glasses and bottles of vodka and Scotch caught the light and gleamed on a decanter against the stucco wall. The carpet was a blaze of intertwined orange and gray figures, and on the mantel a clock ticked toward nine.
And there he was, sitting in a wicker chair, his legs crossed at the ankles and his body in repose, as if he owned the area he occupied and would warrant no intrusion. He was staring thoughtfully at the mounted trophy on the wall above the mantel.
But suddenly his eyes found her, and he stood from the chair with smooth grace. “Margritta,” he said, and offered her the red roses he held in his hands.
“Oh… Michael, they’re lovely!” Her voice was smoky, with the regal lilt of the north German plains. She walked toward him—not too fast! she cautioned herself. “Where did you find roses in Cairo this time of year?”
He smiled slightly, and she could see his white, strong teeth. “Your neighbor’s garden,” he answered, and she could hear a trace of the Russian accent that mystified her so much. What was a Russian-born gentleman doing working with the British Secret Service in North Africa? And why was his name not Russian?
Margritta laughed as she took the roses from him. Of course he was joking; Peter Van Gynt’s garden did indeed have an immaculate rosebed, but the wall separating their properties was six feet tall. Michael Gallatin couldn’t possibly have gotten over it, and anyway his khaki suit was spotless. He wore a light blue shirt and a necktie with muted gray and brown stripes, and he had a burnished desert tan. She smelled one of the roses; they were still dewy.
“You look beautiful,” he said. “You’ve done your hair differently.”
“Yes. It’s the new style. Do you like it?”
He reached out to touch a lock of her hair. His fingers caressed it, and slowly his hand moved to her cheek, a gentle touch grazing the flesh and goose bumps rose on Margritta’s arms. “You’re cold,” he said. “You should stand closer to the fire.” His hand moved along the line of her chin, the fingers brushing her lips, then pulled away. He stepped closer to her and put an arm around her waist. She didn’t back away. Her breath caught. His face was right there in front of hers, and his green eyes caught a red glint from the hearth as if flames had sparked within them. His mouth descended. She felt an ache throb through her body. And then his lips stopped, less than two inches from hers, and he said, “I’m starving.”
She blinked, not knowing what to say.
“I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” he went on. “Powdered eggs and dried beef. No wonder the Eighth Army’s fighting so hard; they want to go home and get something edible.”
“Food,” she said. “Oh. Yes. Food. I’ve had the cook make dinner for you. Mutton. That’s your favorite, isn’t it?”
“I’m pleased you remembered.” He kissed her lightly on the lips, and then he briefly nuzzled her neck with a softness that made the chill bumps burst up along her spine. He released her, his nostrils flared with the scent of Chanel and her own pungent woman-aroma.
Margritta took his hand. The palm was as rough as if he’d been laying bricks. She led him to the door, and they were almost there when he said, “Who killed the wolf?”
She stopped. “Pardon me?”
“The wolf.” He motioned toward the gray-furred timber wolf mounted above the fireplace. “Who killed it?”
“Oh. You’ve heard of Harry Sandler before, haven’t you?”
He shook his head.
“Harry Sandler. The American big-game hunter. He was in all the papers two years ago, when he shot a white leopard atop Mount Kilimanjaro.” Still there was no recognition in Michael’s eyes. “We’ve become… good friends. He sent me the wolf from Canada. It’s a beautiful creature, isn’t it?”
Michael grunted softly. He glanced at the other mounted trophies Sandler had given Margritta—the heads of an African water buffalo, a magnificent stag, a spotted leopard, and a black panther—but his gaze returned to the wolf. “Canada,” he said. “Where in Canada?”
“I don’t know exactly. I think Harry said up in Saskatchewan.” She shrugged. “Well, a wolf’s a wolf, isn’t it?”
He didn’t answer. Then he looked at her, his eyes piercing, and smiled. “I’ll have to meet Mr. Harry Sandler someday,” he said.
“Too bad you weren’t here a week ago. Harry passed through Cairo on his way to Nairobi.” She gave a playful tug at his arm to pull his attention off the trophy. “Come on, before your food gets cold.”
In the dining room, Michael Gallatin ate his medallions of mutton at a long table under a crystal chandelier. Margritta picked at a hearts-of-palm salad and drank a glass of Chablis, and they made small talk about what was happening in London—the current popular plays, the fashions, the novels and music: all things Margritta missed. Michael said he’d enjoyed Hemingway’s latest work, and that the man had a clear eye. And as they spoke, Margritta studied Michael’s face and realized, here under the brighter light of the chandelier, that he’d changed in the year and five weeks since their last meeting. The changes were subtle, but there nonetheless: there were more lines around his eyes, and perhaps more flecks of gray in the sleek, close-trimmed black hair as well. His age was another mystery; he might be anywhere from thirty to thirty-four. Still, his movements had the sinuosity of youth, and there was impressive strength in his shoulders and arms. His hands were an enigma; they were sinewy, long-fingered, and artistic—the hands of a pianist—but the backs of them were dappled with fine dark hairs. They were a workman’s hands, too, used to rough labor, but they managed the sterling knife and fork with surprising grace.
Michael Gallatin was a large man, maybe six-feet-two, with a broad chest, narrow hips, and long, lean legs. Margritta had wondered at their first meeting if he’d ever been a track-and-field athlete, but his response had been that he “sometimes ran for pleasure.”
She sipped at her Chablis and glanced at him over the rim. Who was he, really? What did he do for the service? Where had he come from and where was he bound? He had a sharp nose, and Margritta had noticed that he smelled all food and drink before he consumed it. His face was darkly handsome, clean-shaven and rugged, and when he smiled it was like a flare of light—but he didn’t let her see that smile very often. In repose his face seemed to become darker still, and as the wattage of those green eyes fell their somber hue made Margritta think of the color in the deep shadow of a primeval forest, a place of secrets best left unexplored. And, perhaps, a place also of great dangers.
He reached for his goblet of water, disregarding the Chablis, and Margritta said, “I’ve sent the servants away for the evening.”
He sipped at the water and put the goblet aside. Pressed his fork into another piece of meat. “How long has Alexander worked for you?” he asked.
The question was totally unexpected. “Almost eight months. The consulate recommended him. Why?”
“He has…” Michael paused, considering his words. An untrustworty smell, he’d almost said. “A German accent,” he finished.
Margritta didn’t know which one of them was crazy, because if Alexander was anymore British he’d be wearing a Union Jack for underdrawers.
“He hides it well,” Michael continued. He sniffed at the mutto
n before he ate it, and chewed before he spoke. “But not well enough. The British accent is a masquerade.”
“Alexander cleared the security checks. You know how stringent those are. I can tell you his life history, if you want to hear it. He was born in Stratford-on-Avon.”
Michael nodded. “An actor’s town, if there ever was one. That’s got the Abwehr’s fingerprints all over it.” The Abwehr, as Margritta knew, was Hitler’s intelligence bureau. “A car will be coming for me at oh-seven-hundred. I think you should go, too.”
“Go? Go where?”
“Away. Out of Egypt, if possible. Maybe to London. I don’t think it’s safe for you here anymore.”
“Impossible. I’ve got too many obligations. My God, I own the newspaper! I can’t just clear out on a moment’s notice!”
“All right, stay at the consulate. But I think you should leave North Africa as soon as you can.”
“My ship hasn’t sprung a leak,” Margritta insisted. “You’re wrong about Alexander.”
Michael said nothing. He ate another piece of mutton and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin.
“Are we winning?” she asked him after another moment.
“We’re holding,” he answered. “By our teeth and fingernails. Rommel’s supply network has broken down, and his panzers are running out of petrol. Hitler’s attention is fixed on the Soviet Union. Stalin’s calling for an Allied attack from the west. No country, even one as strong as Germany, can wage war on two fronts. So, if we can hold Rommel until his ammunition and petrol dries up, we can force him back to Tobruk. And past that, if we’re lucky.”
“I didn’t know you believed in luck.” She arched a pale blond eyebrow.
“It’s a subjective term. Where I come from, ‘luck’ and ‘brute strength’ are one and the same.”
She pounced on the opportunity. “Where do you come from, Michael?”