World War II Thriller Collection by Ken Follett

gave it to Sonja, then took a long drink from the bottle.
    â€œListen,” he said. “Our army is winning in the desert. We can help them. They need to know about the British strength—numbers of men, which divisions, names of commanders, quality of weapons and equipment and—if possible—battle plans. We’re here, in Cairo; we can find these things out. Then, when the Germans take over, we will be heroes.”
    â€œWe?”
    â€œYou can help me. And the first thing you can do is give me a place to live. You hate the British, don’t you? You want to see them thrown out?”
    â€œI would do it for anyone but you.” She finished her champagne and refilled her glass.
    Wolff took the glass from her hand and drank. “Sonja. If I had sent you a postcard from Berlin the British would have thrown you in jail. You must not be angry, now that you know the reasons why.” He lowered his voice. “We can bring those old times back. We’ll have good food and the best champagne, new clothes and beautiful parties and an American car. We’ll go to Berlin, you’ve always wanted to dance in Berlin, you’ll be a star there. Germany is a new kind of nation—we’re going to rule the world, and you can be a princess. We—” He paused. None of this was getting through to her. It was time to play his last card. “How is Fawzi?”
    Sonja lowered her eyes. “She left, the bitch.”
    Wolff set down the glass, then he put both hands to Sonja’s neck. She looked up at him, unmoving. With his thumbs under her chin he forced her to stand. “I’ll find another Fawzi for us,” he said softly. He saw that her eyes were suddenly moist. His hands moved over the silk robe, descending her body, stroking her flanks. “I’m the only one who understands what you need.” He lowered his mouth to hers, took her lip between his teeth, and bit until he tasted blood.
    Sonja closed her eyes. “I hate you,” she moaned.
    Â 
    In the cool of the evening Wolff walked along the towpath beside the Nile toward the houseboat. The sores had gone from his face and his bowels were back to normal. He wore a new white suit, and he carried two bags full of his favorite groceries.
    The island suburb of Zamalek was quiet and peaceful. The raucous noise of central Cairo could be heard only faintly across a wide stretch of water. The calm, muddy river lapped gently against the houseboats lined along the bank. The boats, all shapes and sizes, gaily painted and luxuriously fitted out, looked pretty in the late sunshine.
    Sonja’s was smaller and more richly furnished than most. A plank led from the path to the top deck, which was open to the breeze but shaded from the sun by a green-and-white-striped canopy. Wolff boarded the boat and went down the ladder to the interior. It was crowded with furniture: chairs and divans and tables and cabinets full of knickknacks. There was a tiny kitchen in the prow. Floor-to-ceiling curtains of maroon velvet divided the space in two, closing off the bedroom. Beyond the bedroom, in the stern, was a bathroom.
    Sonja was sitting on a cushion painting her toenails. It was extraordinary how slovenly she could look, Wolff thought. She wore a grubby cotton dress, her face looked drawn and her hair was uncombed. In half an hour, when she left for the Cha-Cha Club, she would look like a dream.
    Wolff put his bags on a table and began to take things out. “French champagne . . . English marmalade . . . German sausage . . . quail’s eggs . . . Scotch salmon . . .”
    Sonja looked up, astonished. “Nobody can find things like that—there’s a war on.”
    Wolff smiled. “There’s a little Greek grocer in Qulali who remembers a good customer.”
    â€œIs he safe?”
    â€œHe doesn’t know where I’m living—and besides, his shop is the only place in North Africa where you can get