The Cairo Code Read online

  BRANDENBURG

  * * *

  “Fast, sly, and slick, this thriller delivers the goods—tension, action, plot twists—until the smoke finally clears.”

  —Booklist

  “Chilling . . . Another literate and suspenseful thriller from an estimable storyteller who proves that beginner’s luck had nothing to do with his impressive debut.”

  —Kìrkus Reviews

  “This is a terrific book. I confidently predict that it will enjoy a triumph and that we will see many more bestsellers from the same pen. Sheer, nail-biting suspense, a tour de force—Hitchcock would have filmed it as it stands, without changing a single detail.”

  —The Sunday Telegraph

  “BRANDENBURG is a skillfully plotted and grippingly exciting thriller. BRANDENBURG is a book that I can confidently foresee in the bestseller lists for months to come.”

  —The Sunday Press (Ireland)

  “BRANDENBURG by Glenn Meade is certainly one of the best thrillers I’ve read this year. It has all the signs of a bestseller. First-class plot, credible characters and dialogue, and exotic settings—definitely a winner.”

  —Ted Allbury

  EXTRAORDINARY ACCLAIM FOR GLENN MEADE

  Praise for The Cairo Code, previously published as

  THE SANDS OF SAKKARA

  * * *

  “Meade weaves well-developed characters into a complex plot that moves at a brisk pace. His vivid descriptions of the sights and sounds of Egypt made me feel like I was back at Sakkara.”

  —San Francisco Examiner

  “Compelling.”

  —Raleigh News & Observer

  “Meade captures the flavor of the era, the war and the people.”

  —Daily Oklahoman

  “A nonstop World War II thriller that will prove much enjoyment to fans of the sub-genre. The story line uses authentic events, which enhance the speed of the novel. . . . Glenn Meade is quickly attaining a reputation for historical thrillers.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “A sizzling read, packed with action, great characters, and adventure writing of the highest caliber.”

  —Irish-American News

  “A heart-wrenching tale of friendship, love and treachery set against the exotic and intriguing backdrop of wartime Egypt.”

  —Sullivan County Democrat

  “Terrific entertainment, a page-turner in the best tradition of thrillers. It’s also unsettlingly plausible.”

  —Campbell Armstrong

  “Ingenious . . . [Meade] spins out this involving yarn with skill and clarity . . . An outstanding premise!”

  —Publishers Weekly

  SNOW WOLF

  * * *

  “Rich in period detail, crisply plotted and paced, SNOW WOLF runs well ahead of the pack.”

  —People

  “A riveting thriller in the tradition of Day of the Jackal . . . what a white-knuckler it is. . . . The good old-fashioned swashbuckling suspense never lets up . . . A major accomplishment.”

  —Washington Post Book World

  “Consistently absorbing . . . Deftly drawn characters . . . The sweep of a historical romance and the power of a classic heroic quest.”

  —New York Times Book Review

  “An entirely believable and completely gripping thriller filled with intrigue, treachery, and a wealth of dark secrets.”

  —Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “[Meade’s] scintillating characterization and brilliant plot has you bound to your armchair. Be assured, you will lose sleep—this book is extremely unputdownable.”

  —Time Out

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  FOR UNA AND NEAL

  We had this incredible plan. It would throw the Allies into complete chaos and ruin their intentions of invading Europe. You can’t possibly realize how close Germany came to winning the war.

  —WALTER SCHELLENBERG, SS GENERAL, IN AN INTERVIEW WITH HIS ALLIED INTERROGATORS AT NUREMBERG, FEBRUARY 1946

  Between friends, there is no need of justice.

  —ARISTOTLE

  THE PRESENT

  1

  * * *

  CAIRO

  It was April and the khamsin was blowing, a howling desert wind that lashed the streets with gusts of blinding sand.

  As the taxi pulled up outside the morgue and I stepped out, I wondered again what had possessed me to come here on such a wicked night, and with no more evidence to go on than the corpse of an old man washed up on the banks of the Nile.

  “Do you want me to wait, sir?” The taxi driver was a young man with a beard and a mouthful of bad teeth.

  “Why not?” It definitely wasn’t the kind of night to go looking for another cab.

  The morgue was one of those grand, solid old stone buildings you often see in Egypt, a relic of its colonial past, but now it looked quite gloomy and the worse for wear, the granite blackened by years of pollution and neglect. I saw a filthy alleyway at the side, litter swirling in the driving wind. A porch light blazed above a blue-painted door, a metal grille set in the middle. I went down the alleyway and rang the bell. I heard it buzz somewhere inside the building and after a few moments the grille opened and a man’s unshaven face appeared.

  “Ismail?”

  The man nodded.

  “I’ve come to see the old man’s body,” I said in Arabic. “The one they fished out of the Nile. Captain Halim of the Cairo police told me to ask for you.”

  He seemed surprised that I spoke his language, but then he opened the door with a rattle of bolts and moved aside to let me enter. I stepped in out of the bitter wind, shook sand from my coat, and went into the hallway. I felt a strange excitement fluttering in my chest. Here I was, a man in my middle fifties, feeling like an excited schoolkid, hoping that at last I might find answers to a bizarre mystery that had haunted me for so many years.

  It was surprisingly cool inside, and an almost overpowering smell greeted me. A mixture of fragrant scent and decaying flesh. I could see a wooden archway that led into the morgue itself, the area beyond poorly lit by a dim bulb and a couple of guttering, aromatic candles. Several metal tables were set around the room, grubby white sheets draped over the corpses that lay underneath, and built into the morgue’s granite walls were at least a dozen stainless steel vaults, their scratched surfaces pitted with dents.

  Ismail stared up at me, a well-practiced look of grief on his face. He was small and overweight and wore a faded cotton djellaba. “Are you a relative of the dead one?”

  “I’m a journalist.”

  The expression of grief faded instantly. “I don’t understand.” He frowned. “What do you want here?”

  I took out my wallet, generously peeled off several notes and handed them across. “For your trouble.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Your time. And I won’t take up much of it. I’d just like to see the old man’s body. Would that be possible? There may be a story in it for me, you understand?”

  Ismail obviously did. The money banished any argument, and he smiled as he stuffed the notes into his pocket. “Of course, as you wish. I’m always happy to oblige the gentlemen of the press. You’re an American?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I thought so. Come this way.”

  • • •

  He led me into the morgue. It was very cool inside, the flaking walls painted duck-egg blue and the delicate Arab filigree woodwork on the arches and
doors an art in itself, but the place looked shabby and in need of renovation.

  Ismail gestured to what looked like a small work area, enclosed by a heavy beaded curtain. “The body is over here. I was just working on it when you rang. Not a very pleasant experience when a corpse has been in water for several days. You still wish to see it?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  I followed him over and he drew back the curtain. A couple of flickering scented candles were set beside a marble slab, a naked male corpse on top, and next to it was a small metal table with some of the simple tools of the mortician laid out. Waxed cord, cotton wool, some bowls of water. The paraphernalia of death didn’t really change much no matter where you were, Cairo or Kansas. There were some clean clothes folded neatly beside the table, an old linen suit and a shirt and tie, socks and shoes, as if they were meant for laying out the corpse.

  The old man on the slab must have been well into his seventies and quite tall, at least six foot. His eyes were glassy and open in death, his thinned gray hair sleeked back off his forehead. The skin was white and shriveled from being in the water, his features tight and horribly contorted. But there was no sign of a long scar in the middle of his chest, evidence that he had been sewn up after an autopsy. In Muslim countries, they bury their dead quickly, usually before sunset if death occurs in the morning, otherwise the following day, and the dead are considered sacred and barely touched. Even murder victims are usually only treated to a necropsy: an external visual inspection of the remains to help determine the cause of death, which is educated guesswork at best.

  I felt a shiver go through me, for the scent of the candles didn’t hide the stench of decomposition, and nodded at the corpse. “What can you tell me about him?”

  The mortician shrugged, as if one more death in a chaotic city of fifteen million souls hardly mattered. “He was brought here yesterday. The police found him in the water near the Nile railway bridge. The identification in his wallet said his name was Johann Halder, a German, and he had an address at a flat in the Imbaba district.”

  That much I already knew. “Did anyone claim the body?”

  “Not yet. The corpse will be kept for a time while relatives are sought. But so far none have been found. It seems he lived alone.”

  “I take it he’s not of the Muslim faith?”

  “A Christian, the police think.”

  “Did he drown?”

  Ismail nodded. “The pathologist believes so. As you can see, there are no wounds on the body. He thinks maybe the old man fell into the river by accident, as happens sometimes. Or perhaps he’s a suicide from one of the bridges.”

  He rubbed his stubble. “But it’s impossible to know for certain.”

  “Anything else you can tell me?”

  “I’m afraid not. You’ll have to ask the police.”

  “From what I hear, they discovered our dead friend had a second set of identity papers hidden at his flat. They were pretty old, and in the name of Hans Meyer.”

  Ismail shrugged. “I’m just a simple mortician. I heard nothing about such matters. But I know we have many foreigners living in Cairo, including Germans. You’re from an American newspaper?”

  “I’m their Middle East correspondent.”

  “Interesting.”

  “But not half as interesting as the old man could be.”

  “You knew him?” Ismail said, surprised.

  “Let’s just say if he’s who I think he is, you could be looking at the earthly remains of a truly incredible man, considering he’s supposed to have been dead for well over fifty years.”

  “Pardon?”

  “A long story. But if it is him, then you’ve got a very remarkable corpse keeping you company tonight.”

  Ismail whistled. “Then no wonder the other gentleman was so interested.”

  “Other gentleman?”

  “He was here not half an hour ago. He came to inspect the body. An elderly American. Used to getting his way, like most Americans. He barged in here and demanded to see the remains.” Ismail grinned and tapped the pocket of his djellaba. “Alas, he wasn’t as generous as some of his countrymen. When I asked him for a little baksheesh he threatened to cut off my hand.”

  “Who was he?”

  Ismail scratched his head. “Harry Weaver, I think he said.”

  I was intrigued, felt a strange tingling down my spine. “Harry Weaver? You’re sure of the name?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Describe him to me.”

  “Quite tall. Old, perhaps eighty, maybe even older, but he looked in excellent condition. A very capable-looking fellow.” Ismail looked surprised when he saw my startled reaction. “You know this Mr. Weaver?”

  “Not personally, but I’ve heard of him.”

  “He seemed like an important man. Used to giving orders. A military type.”

  “He was certainly that,” I offered. “And you can thank Allah you didn’t lose your life, never mind your hand. Harry Weaver is definitely not the kind of man to solicit for bribes. He’s a model of authority. For almost forty years he was an adviser on American presidential security.”

  Ismail spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “But baksheesh is the way of our world.”

  “Don’t I know it.” I pulled up the collar of my coat and made to go.

  Ismail said, “Do you think the body belongs to the German you spoke of?”

  I looked down at the corpse. “Who knows? The poor soul’s in such a state it’s hard to tell which end of him is up. Do you know where Mr. Weaver went?”

  “To the house where the German lived. I heard him talk to the taxi driver who waited for him outside.”

  “This gets more interesting by the minute. Do you know the address?”

  “Of course. I went there yesterday to fetch some clothes for the burial, on the instructions of the police.” Ismail wrote the address on a slip of paper I handed him.

  “The rooms are on the top floor.”

  “Have the police sealed up the apartment?”

  “No. It was hardly necessary, the old man hadn’t got many belongings worth talking about. But if they bothered to lock his rooms, the landlord has the keys.”

  As I tucked the paper into my pocket, Ismail said, “Will there be anything else?”

  I took one last look at the old man’s corpse before I turned to leave. “No, thanks, you’ve been more than helpful.”

  • • •

  Imbaba is a working-class district, parts of it a crumbling shantytown of wooden and concrete dwelling houses near the banks of the Nile. The streets are puddled with open sewers, and the homes are huddled closely together as if to protect themselves from the poverty and squalor all around. The taxi driver found the address without any problem.

  The house was built in the Arab style, a big old dwelling, all ancient brown wood and very run-down, the windows covered in shabby, faded net curtains, and there was a rotting, carved wooden balcony jutting out from the second floor. There wasn’t another taxi outside but the front door was open, banging in the wind, a dark hallway beyond.

  “Wait here,” I told the driver, and stepped out of the cab.

  • • •

  The hallway stank of urine and stale food. As I went up the stairs, the wood creaked. I could hear a child crying and a couple arguing somewhere below in the darkness of the house. When I got to the landing I saw that one of the doors leading off was open and I stepped inside.

  The room I found myself in was typically Egyptian, but it was shabby and in complete disarray. Drawers were open and their contents spilled out, as if someone had searched the place. Old papers and correspondence, clothes and personal belongings, and a pair of shattered spectacles lay crushed on the floor. A couple of doors led to other rooms, and there was a window that looked out onto the Nile, covered in darkness. I looked through the correspondence and papers, but there was really nothing of interest. As I closed one of the drawers, I knocked over a table lamp. I
t fell to the floor with a clatter, and then one of the other doors slammed open.

  I turned and saw a tall, elderly man come into the room. The bedroom he’d stepped out of was in disarray behind him, papers scattered everywhere, and he held a pair of reading glasses in his hand. He wore a pale trench coat, his silver hair was flecked with sand, and he had a slightly haunted look on his tanned face. I knew he was at least in his eighties, but he was remarkably well preserved, a freshness about him that made him appear ten years younger. And he still looked every inch the military type—over six feet, his features finely chiseled, though his shoulders were slightly stooped and his piercing gray eyes looked watery with age.

  They narrowed as he took me in. “Who the devil are you?” he demanded, his accent unmistakably American.

  “I could ask you the same question, if I didn’t already know the answer, Colonel Weaver.”

  He seemed taken aback. “You know me?”

  “Not personally, but what American hasn’t heard of Harry Weaver? A legend in his own lifetime. Security adviser to American presidents for almost forty years.”

  “And who are you?” Weaver snorted.

  “The name’s Frank Carney.”

  He seemed unimpressed, but then something flickered in his eyes and he frowned. “Not Carney the New York Times reporter?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Weaver relaxed for a moment. “I used to read your columns. Not that I agreed with everything you wrote, mind.”

  “You must have agreed with some of it, though,” I offered. “I was a cub reporter covering Dallas as a stand-in when Kennedy was killed. You were one of his security advisers. You told him not to go, remember?”

  “Too many weak spots. Holes everywhere in the local security. And he was a sitting duck in that open-top car, despite the assurances of the Secret Service that they could protect him.”

  “Had Jack Kennedy listened to you, he might still be alive today. I said as much when I wrote about it afterwards.”