World War II Thriller Collection Read Free

and it still limps, see?” Achmed had come to know camels well, but he had never quite adopted the nomad attitude to them: he had not, he remembered, lit a fire underneath his dying white yesterday. Ishmael would have.
    Achmed finished his breakfast and went back to his baggage. The cases were not locked. He opened the top one, a small leather suitcase; and when he looked at the switches and dials of the compact radio neatly fitted into the rectangular case he had a sudden vivid memory like a movie: the bustling frantic city of Berlin; a tree-lined street called the Tirpitzufer; a four-story sandstone building; a maze of hallways and staircases; an outer office with two secretaries; an inner office, sparsely furnished with desk, sofa, filing cabinet, small bed and on the wall a Japanese painting of a grinning demon and a signed photograph of Franco; and beyond the office, on a balcony overlooking the Landwehr Canal, a pair of dachshunds and a prematurely white-haired admiral who said: “Rommel wants me to put an agent into Cairo.”
    The case also contained a book, a novel in English. Idly, Achmed read the first line: “ ‘Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.’ ” A folded sheet of paper fell out from between the leaves of the book. Carefully, Achmed picked it up and put it back. He closed the book, replaced it in the case, and closed the case.
    Ishmael was standing at his shoulder. He said: “Was it a long journey?”
    Achmed nodded. “I came from El Agela, in Libya.” The names meant nothing to his cousin. “I came from the sea.”
    â€œFrom the sea!”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAlone?”
    â€œI had some camels when I started.”
    Ishmael was awestruck: even the nomads did not make such long journeys, and he had never seen the sea. He said: “But why?”
    â€œIt is to do with this war.”
    â€œOne gang of Europeans fighting with another over who shall sit in Cairo—what does this matter to the sons of the desert?”
    â€œMy mother’s people are in the war,” Achmed said.
    â€œA man should follow his father.”
    â€œAnd if he has two fathers?”
    Ishmael shrugged. He understood dilemmas.
    Achmed lifted the closed suitcase. “Will you keep this for me?”
    â€œYes.” Ishmael took it. “Who is winning the war?”
    â€œMy mother’s people. They are like the nomads—they are proud, and cruel, and strong. They are going to rule the world.”
    Ishmael smiled. “Achmed, you always did believe in the desert lion.”
    Achmed remembered: he had learned, in school, that there had once been lions in the desert, and that it was possible a few of them remained, hiding in the mountains, living off deer and fennec fox and wild sheep. Ishmael had refused to believe him. The argument had seemed terribly important then, and they had almost quarreled over it. Achmed grinned. “I still believe in the desert lion,” he said.
    The two cousins looked at one another. It was five years since the last time they had met. The world had changed. Achmed thought of the things he could tell: the crucial meeting in Beirut in 1938, his trip to Berlin, his great coup in Istanbul . . . None of it would mean anything to his cousin—and Ishmael was probably thinking the same about the events of his last five years. Since they had gone together as boys on the pilgrimage to Mecca they had loved each other fiercely, but they never had anything to talk about.
    After a moment Ishmael turned away, and took the case to his tent. Achmed fetched a little water in a bowl. He opened another bag, and took out a small piece of soap, a brush, a mirror and a razor. He stuck the mirror in the sand, adjusted it, and began to unwind the howli from around his head.
    The sight of his own face in the mirror shocked him.
    His strong, normally clear forehead was covered with sores. His eyes were hooded with pain and lined in