World War II Thriller Collection by Ken Follett

façade was irregularly dotted with small misshapen windows. The entrance was a low doorless arch with a dark passage beyond. Wolff ducked under the arch, went along the passage and climbed a stone spiral staircase. At the top he pushed through a curtain and entered Abdullah’s living room.
    The room was like its owner—dirty, comfortable and rich. Three small children and a puppy chased each other around the expensive sofas and inlaid tables. In an alcove by a window an old woman worked on a tapestry. Another woman was drifting out of the room as Wolff walked in: there was no strict Muslim separation of the sexes here, as there had been in Wolff’s boyhood home. In the middle of the floor Abdullah sat cross-legged on an embroidered cushion with a baby in his lap. He looked up at Wolff and smiled broadly. “My friend, what a success we have had!”
    Wolff sat on the floor opposite him. “It was wonderful,” he said. “You’re a magician.”
    â€œSuch a riot! And the bus arriving at just the right moment—and the baboon running away . . .”
    Wolff looked more closely at what Abdullah was doing. On the floor beside him was a pile of wallets, handbags, purses and watches. As he spoke he picked up a handsome tooled leather wallet. He took from it a wad of Egyptian banknotes, some postage stamps and a tiny gold pencil, and put them somewhere under his robe. Then he put down the wallet, picked up a handbag and began to rifle through that.
    Wolff realized where they had come from. “You old rogue,” he said. “You had your boys in the crowd picking pockets.”
    Abdullah grinned, showing his steel tooth. “To go to all that trouble and then steal only one briefcase . . .”
    â€œBut you have got the briefcase.”
    â€œOf course.”
    Wolff relaxed. Abdullah made no move to produce the case. Wolff said: “Why don’t you give it to me?”
    â€œImmediately,” Abdullah said. Still he did nothing. After a moment he said: “You were to pay me another fifty pounds on delivery.”
    Wolff counted out the notes and they disappeared beneath the grubby robe. Abdullah leaned forward, holding the baby to his chest with one arm, and with the other reached under the cushion he was sitting on and pulled out the briefcase.
    Wolff took it from him and examined it. The lock was broken. He felt cross: surely there should be a limit to duplicity. He made himself speak calmly. “You’ve opened it already.”
    Abdullah shrugged. He said: “Maaleesh.” It was a conveniently ambiguous word which meant both “Sorry” and “So what?”
    Wolff sighed. He had been in Europe too long; he had forgotten how things were done at home.
    He lifted the lid of the case. Inside was a sheaf of ten or twelve sheets of paper closely typewritten in English. As he began to read someone put a tiny coffee cup beside him. He glanced up to see a beautiful young girl. He said to Abdullah: “Your daughter?”
    Abdullah laughed. “My wife.”
    Wolff took another look at the girl. She seemed about fourteen years old. He turned his attention back to the papers.
    He read the first, then with growing incredulity leafed through the rest.
    He put them down. “Dear God,” he said softly. He started to laugh.
    He had stolen a complete set of barracks canteen menus for the month of June.
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    Vandam said to Colonel Bogge: “I’ve issued a notice reminding officers that General Staff papers are not to be carried about the town other than in exceptional circumstances.”
    Bogge was sitting behind his big curved desk, polishing the red cricket ball with his handkerchief. “Good idea,” he said. “Keep chaps on their toes.”
    Vandam went on: “One of my informants, the new girl I told you about—”
    â€œThe tart.”
    â€œYes.” Vandam resisted the impulse to tell Bogge that