The Key to Rebecca by Ken Follett Read Free Book Online

could not seek shelter with old school friends.
    He emerged from the alley into another street, and realized he was close to the German School. He wondered if it were still open: a lot of German nationals in Cairo had been interned. He walked toward it, then saw, outside the building, a Field Security patrol checking papers. He turned about quickly and headed back the way he had come.
    He had to get off the streets.
    He felt like a rat in a maze—every way he turned he was blocked. He saw a taxi, a big old Ford with steam hissing out from under its hood. He hailed it and jumped in. He gave the driver an address and the car jerked away in third gear, apparently the only gear that worked. On the way they stopped twice to top up the boiling radiator, and Wolff skulked in the backseat, trying to hide his face.
    The taxi took him to Coptic Cairo, the ancient Christian ghetto.
    He paid the driver and went down the steps to the entrance. He gave a few piasters to the old woman who held the great wooden key, and she let him in.
    It was an island of darkness and quiet in the stormy sea of Cairo. Wolff walked its narrow passages, hearing faintly the low chanting from the ancient churches. He passed the school and the synagogue and the cellar where Mary was supposed to have brought the baby Jesus. Finally he went into the smallest of the five churches.
    The service was about to begin. Wolff put down his precious cases beside a pew. He bowed to the pictures of saints on the wall, then approached the altar, knelt and kissed the hand of the priest. He returned to the pew and sat down.
    The choir began to chant a passage of scripture in Arabic. Wolff settled into his seat. He would be safe here until darkness fell. Then he would try his last shot.
     
    The Cha-Cha was a large open-air nightclub in a garden beside the river. It was packed, as usual. Wolff waited in the queue of British officers and their girls while the safragis set up extra tables on trestles in every spare inch of space. On the stage a comic was saying: “Wait till Rommel gets to Shepheard’s—that will hold him up.”
    Wolff finally got a table and a bottle of champagne. The evening was warm and the stage lights made it worse. The audience was rowdy—they were thirsty, and only champagne was served, so they quickly got drunk. They began to shout for the star of the show, Sonja el-Aram.
    First they had to listen to an overweight Greek woman sing “I’ll See You in My Dreams” and “I Ain’t Got Nobody” (which made them laugh). Then Sonja was announced. However, she did not appear for a while. The audience became noisier and more impatient as the minutes ticked by. At last, when they seemed to be on the verge of rioting, there was a roll of drums, the stage lights went off and silence descended.
    When the spotlight came on Sonja stood still in the center of the stage with her arms stretched skyward. She wore diaphanous trousers and a sequined halter, and her body was powdered white. The music began—drums and a pipe—and she started to move.
    Wolff sipped champagne and watched, smiling. She was still the best.
    She jerked her hips slowly, stamping one foot and then the other. Her arms began to tremble, then her shoulders moved and her breasts shook; and then her famous belly rolled hypnotically. The rhythm quickened. She closed her eyes. Each part of her body seemed to move independently of the rest. Wolff felt, as he always did, as every man in the audience did, that he was alone with her, that her display was just for him, and that this was not an act, not a piece of show-business wizardry, but that her sensual writhings were compulsive, she did it because she had to, she was driven to a sexual frenzy by her own voluptuous body. The audience was tense, silent, perspiring, mesmerized. She went faster and faster, seeming to be transported. The music climaxed with a bang. In the instant of silence that followed Sonja uttered a short, sharp cry; then she fell