World War II Thriller Collection by Ken Follett Page A

“tart” was not the right word for Elene. “She heard a rumor that the riot had been organized by Abdullah—”
    â€œWho’s he?”
    â€œHe’s a kind of Egyptian Fagin, and he also happens to be an informant, although selling me information is the least of his many enterprises.”
    â€œFor what purpose was the riot organized, according to this rumor?”
    â€œTheft.”
    â€œI see.” Bogge looked dubious.
    â€œA lot of stuff was stolen, but we have to consider the possibility that the main object of the exercise was the briefcase.”
    â€œA conspiracy!” Bogge said with a look of amused skepticism. “But what would this Abdullah want with our canteen menus, eh?” He laughed.
    â€œHe wasn’t to know what the briefcase contained. He may simply have assumed that they were secret papers.”
    â€œI repeat the question,” Bogge said with the air of a father patiently coaching a child. “What would he want with secret papers?”
    â€œHe may have been put up to it.”
    â€œBy whom?”
    â€œAlex Wolff.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œThe Assyut knife man.”
    â€œOh, now really, Major, I thought we had finished with all that.”
    Bogge’s phone rang, and he picked it up. Vandam took the opportunity to cool off a little. The truth about Bogge, Vandam reflected, was probably that he had no faith in himself, no trust in his own judgment; and, lacking the confidence to make real decisions, he played one-upmanship, scoring points off people in a smart-alec fashion to give himself 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?”
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œContaining 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?”
    â€œDon’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?”
    â€œWell. I’ve talked to Abdullah. He denies all knowledge of Alex Wolff, and I think he’s lying.”
    â€œIf 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—”
    â€œGeneral Staff Intelligence does not pull people in and sweat them, Major—”
    â€œField 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.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œWe’ve discussed this long enough, Major—too long, in fact.”
    â€œFor Christ’s