The Key to Rebecca by Ken Follett Page B

of the battle, giving my orders on the spot.”
    “Still, you might have stayed in touch.”
    “That’s the way the British fight,” Rommel snapped. “The generals are miles behind the lines, staying in touch. But I’m winning. If I’d had my supplies, I’d be in Cairo now.”
    “You’re not going to Cairo,” Kesselring said sharply. “You’re going to Tobruk. There you’ll stay until I’ve taken Malta. Such are the Fuehrer’s orders.”
    “Of course.” Rommel was not going to reopen that argument; not yet. Tobruk was the immediate objective. Once that fortified port was taken, the convoys from Europe—inadequate though they were—could come directly to the front line, cutting out the long journey across the desert which used so much gasoline. “And to reach Tobruk we have to break the Gazala Line.”
    “What’s your next step?”
    “I’m going to fall back and regroup.” Rommel saw Kesselring raise his eyebrows: the field marshal knew how Rommel hated to retreat.
    “And what will the enemy do?” Kesselring directed the question to von Mellenthin, who as Ic was responsible for detailed assessment of the enemy position.
    “They will chase us, but not immediately,” said von Mellenthin. “They are always slow to press an advantage, fortunately. But sooner or later they will try a breakout.”
    Rommel said: “The question is, when and where?”
    “Indeed,” von Mellenthin agreed. He seemed to hesitate, then said, “There is a little item in today’s summaries which will interest you. The spy checked in.”
    “The spy?” Rommel frowned. “Oh, him!” Now he remembered. He had flown to the Oasis of Gialo, deep in the Libyan desert, to brief the man finally before the spy began a long marathon walk. Wolff, that was his name. Rommel had been impressed by his courage, but pessimistic about his chances. “Where was he calling from?”
    “Cairo.”
    “So he got there. If he’s capable of that, he’s capable of anything. Perhaps he can foretell the breakout.”
    Kesselring broke in: “My God, you’re not relying on spies now, are you?”
    “I’m not relying on anyone!” Rommel said. “I’m the one upon whom everything else relies.”
    “Good.” Kesselring was unruffled, as always. “Intelligence is never much use, as you know; and intelligence from spies is the worst kind.”
    “I agree,” Rommel said more calmly. “But I have a feeling this one could be different.”
    “I doubt it,” said Kesselring.

4
    ELENE FONTANA LOOKED AT HER FACE IN THE MIRROR AND THOUGHT: I’M twenty-three, I must be losing my looks.
    She leaned closer to the glass and examined herself carefully, searching for signs of deterioration. Her complexion was perfect. Her round brown eyes were as clear as a mountain pool. There were no wrinkles. It was a childish face, delicately modeled, with a look of waiflike innocence. She was like an art collector checking on his finest piece: she thought of the face as hers, not as her. She smiled, and the face in the mirror smiled back at her. It was a small, intimate smile, with a hint of mischief about it: she knew it could make a man break out into a cold sweat.
    She picked up the note and read it again.
    Thursday
     
    My dear Elene,
     
    I’m afraid it is all over. My wife has found out. We have patched things up, but I’ve had to promise never to see you again. Of course you can stay in the flat, but I can’t pay the rent anymore. I’m so sorry it happened this way—but I suppose we both knew it could not last forever. Good luck.
     
Your,
Claud
    Just like that, she thought.
    She tore up the note and its cheap sentiments. Claud was a fat, half-French and half-Greek businessman who owned three restaurants in Cairo and one in Alexandria. He was cultured and jolly and kind, but-when it came to the crunch he cared nothing for Elene.
    He was the third in six years.
    It had started with Charles, the stockbroker. She had been seventeen years old, penniless,