Glenn Meade Read Free Page B

Haider's collection. There's a good chance it probably ended
up in Russian hands after
Berlin
was stormed.
    Almost everything of value did.'
    'I figured that was a distinct
possibility. But what about Johann Haider? It seems to me he's the only link
left in all of this mystery. What can you tell me about him?'
    Weaver was uncomfortable, as if
the pain he'd tried to expel had returned. He looked around the room. 'Is there
a drink in this place?'
    'I guess not.'
    'Damn.' Weaver stood and moved to
the window. The wind was lashing the tall palm trees along the
Nile
. He didn't look back as he spoke, almost
absent-mindedly. '
Cairo
used to be quite a place during the war, did you know that? You could even say
the fate of the entire world was decided here.'
    'Really? Care to tell me about
it?'
    He didn't answer for a moment,
lost in thought as he looked out through the window. 'I could give you a story,
Carney.
    Maybe the strangest you've ever
heard. The real question is, would you believe it?'
    'Try me.'
    He turned back, and his face was
deathly serious. 'On one condition. You don't publish anything I tell you until
after I die.'
    I was surprised. 'You look like a
man in remarkably good health, Colonel. That could be a long wait.'
    'Maybe not so long. I'm an old
man, Carney, I can't have much time left. And I kind of guess at that stage the
truth of it wouldn't hurt anyone, not with so many years passed. But you know
the oddest thing? I've never told my story to a soul. I could have done, wanted
to, many times, because it haunted me, but I kept it to myself for over fifty
years. And maybe the time's come to unburden it to someone, before it's too
damned late.'
    He stared at me. 'You could be
right about fate, Carney. Destiny playing its part. Besides, having read your
work, and if you're anything like your father, I believe you might be an honest
man, one who'll abide by my wishes.'
    I met his stare, nodded. 'You have
my word.'
    Weaver glanced around the filthy
room, as if suddenly uneasy in his surroundings.
    'You mind if we get out of here?'
    'I've a taxi waiting outside. I
can give you a lift.'
    'On an evening like this, I won't
say no. By the way, I'm staying at the new Shepheard's. It's nothing quite like
the old hotel it replaced, but at least it serves pretty decent American
Scotch.'
    'Now you're talking.'
    Weaver pulled up the collar of his
trench coat, stepped out on to the landing, and went quickly down the stairs. I
took one last look around the shabby flat, closed the door, and followed him.
    The drive to Shepheard's was
something of a trial. For some reason, Weaver hardly spoke, just stared out of
the cab window, lost in a world of his own. I had a terrible feeling he might
have been reconsidering his offer to tell me his story, but when we reached the
hotel, he shook sand from his trench coat and said as we entered the lobby,
'I'll meet you in the bar in ten minutes.
    Mine's a very large Dewars.
Straight.'
    He stepped into the elevator and I
went into the restaurant bar. The old Shepheard's Hotel had what the guidebooks
like to call atmosphere. It had a certain faded glory that suggested belle époque,
all dark wood and soaring marble columns, rich carpets and antique furniture.
It used to be one of the old grand hotels, built to accommodate wealthy Europeans.
The modern Shepheard's is a pale imitation by comparison, though it still
attracts the tourists. But there were none in the bar that night, just a couple
of foreign businessmen chatting over drinks. I took a seat near a window and
ordered two large Dewars, then changed my mind and told the waiter to bring the
bottle.
    Weaver came down ten minutes
later. He had changed into a sweater and cotton pants and he seemed more at
ease as he looked around the bar. 'Damn it, but this looks nothing like the old
place.'
    'Does Shepheard's bring back
memories, Colonel?'
    'Far too many, I'm afraid,' Weaver
replied almost