World War II Thriller Collection Read Free Page B

“I’d better see your papers, please.”
    Wolff handed them over. The captain examined them, then looked up. Wolff thought: There has been a leak from Berlin, and every officer in Egypt is looking for me; or they have changed the papers since last time I was here, and mine are out of date; or—
    â€œYou look about all in, Mr. Wolff,” the captain said. “How long have you been walking?”
    Wolff realized that his ravaged appearance might get some useful sympathy from another European. “Since yesterday afternoon,” he said with a weariness that was not entirely faked. “I got a bit lost.”
    â€œYou’ve been out here all night ?” The captain looked more closely at Wolff’s face. “Good Lord, I believe you have. You’d better have a lift with us.” He turned to the jeep. “Corporal, take the gentleman’s cases.”
    Wolff opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again abruptly. A man who had been walking all night would be only too glad to have someone take his luggage. To object would not only discredit his story, it would draw attention to the bags. As the corporal hefted them into the back of the jeep, Wolff realized with a sinking feeling that he had not even bothered to lock them. How could I be so stupid? he thought. He knew the answer. He was still in tune with the desert, where you were lucky to see other people once a week, and the last thing they wanted to steal was a radio transmitter that had to be plugged in to a power outlet. His senses were alert to all the wrong things: he was watching the movement of the sun, smelling the air for water, measuring the distances he was traveling, and scanning the horizon as if searching for a lone tree in whose shade he could rest during the heat of the day. He had to forget all that now, and think instead of policemen and papers and locks and lies.
    He resolved to take more care, and climbed into the jeep.
    The captain got in beside him and said to the driver: “Back into town.”
    Wolff decided to bolster his story. As the jeep turned in the dusty road he said: “Have you got any water?”
    â€œOf course.” The captain reached beneath his seat and pulled up a tin bottle covered in felt, like a large whiskey flask. He unscrewed the cap and handed it to Wolff.
    Wolff drank deeply, swallowing at least a pint. “Thanks,” he said, and handed it back.
    â€œQuite a thirst you had. Not surprising. Oh, by the way—I’m Captain Newman.” He stuck out his hand.
    Wolff shook it and looked more closely at the man. He was young—early twenties, at a guess—and fresh-faced, with a boyish forelock and a ready smile; but there was in his demeanor that weary maturity that comes early to fighting men. Wolff asked him: “Seen any action?”
    â€œSome.” Captain Newman touched his own knee. “Did the leg at Cyrenaica, that’s why they sent me to this one-horse town.” He grinned. “I can’t honestly say I’m panting to get back into the desert, but I’d like to be doing something a bit more positive than this, minding the shop hundreds of miles from the war. The only fighting we ever see is between the Christians and the Moslems in the town. Where does your accent come from?”
    The sudden question, unconnected with what had gone before, took Wolff by surprise. It had surely been intended to, he thought: Captain Newman was a sharp-witted young man. Fortunately Wolff had a prepared answer. “My parents were Boers who came from South Africa to Egypt. I grew up speaking Afrikaans and Arabic.” He hesitated, nervous of overplaying his hand by seeming too eager to explain. “The name Wolff is Dutch, originally; and I was christened Alex after the town where I was born.”
    Newman seemed politely interested. “What brings you here?”
    Wolff had prepared for that one, too. “I have business interests in