The Key to Rebecca by Ken Follett

the illusion that he was clever after all. Of course Bogge had no idea whether the briefcase theft was significant or not. He might have listened to what Vandam had to say and then made up his own mind; but he was frightened of that. He could not engage in a fruitful discussion with a subordinate, because he spent all his intellectual energy looking for ways to trap you in a contradiction or catch you in an error or pour scorn on your ideas; and by the time he had finished making himself feel superior that way the decision had been taken, for better or worse and more or less by accident, in the heat of the exchange.
    Bogge was saying: “Of course, sir, I’ll get on it right away.” Vandam wondered how he coped with superiors. The colonel hung up. He said: “Now, then, where were we?”
    “The Assyut murderer is still at large,” Vandam said. “It may be significant that soon after his arrival in Cairo a General Staff officer is robbed of his briefcase.”
    “Containing canteen menus.”
    Here we go again, Vandam thought. With as much grace as he could muster he said: “In Intelligence, we don’t believe in coincidence, do we?”
    “Don’t lecture me, laddie. Even if you were right—and I’m sure you’re not—what could we do about it, other than issue the notice you’ve sent out?”
    “Well. I’ve talked to Abdullah. He denies all knowledge of Alex Wolff, and I think he’s lying.”
    “If he’s a thief, why don’t you tip off the Egyptian police about him?”
    And what would be the point of that? thought Vandam. He said: “They know all about him. They can’t arrest him because too many senior officers are making too much money from his bribes. But we could pull him in and interrogate him, sweat him a little. He’s a man without loyalty, he’ll change sides at the drop of a hat—”
    “General Staff Intelligence does not pull people in and sweat them, Major—”
    “Field Security can, or even the military police.”
    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.

6
    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