The Key to Rebecca by Ken Follett Read Free Book Online Page A

backward, her legs folded beneath her, her knees apart, until her head touched the boards of the stage. She held the position for a moment, then the lights went out. The audience rose to their feet with a roar of applause.
    The lights came up, and she was gone.
    Sonja never took encores.
    Wolff got out of his seat. He gave a waiter a pound—three months’ wages for most Egyptians—to lead him backstage. The waiter showed him the door to Sonja’s dressing room, then went away.
    Wolff knocked on the door.
    “Who is it?”
    Wolff walked in.
    She was sitting on a stool, wearing a silk robe, taking off her makeup. She saw him in the mirror and spun around to face him.
    Wolff said: “Hello, Sonja.”
    She stared at him. After a long moment she said: “You bastard.”
     
    She had not changed.
    She was a handsome woman. She had glossy black hair, long and thick; large, slightly protruding brown eyes with lush eyelashes; high cheekbones which saved her face from roundness and gave it shape; an arched nose, gracefully arrogant; and a full mouth with even white teeth. Her body was all smooth curves, but because she was a couple of inches taller than average she did not look plump.
    Her eyes flashed with anger. “What are you doing here? Where did you go? What happened to your face?”
    Wolff put down his cases and sat on the divan. He looked up at her. She stood with her hands on her hips, her chin thrust forward, her breasts outlined in green silk. “You’re beautiful,” he said.
    “Get out of here.”
    He studied her carefully. He knew her too well to like or dislike her: she was part of his past, like an old friend who remains a friend, despite his faults, just because he has always been there. Wolff wondered what had happened to Sonja in the years since he had left Cairo. Had she got married, bought a house, fallen in love, changed her manager, had a baby? He had given a lot of thought, that afternoon in the cool, dim church, to how he should approach her; but he had reached no conclusions, for he was not sure how she would be with him. He was still not sure. She appeared angry and scornful, but did she mean it? Should he be charming and full of fun, or aggressive and bullying, or helpless and pleading?
    “I need help,” he said levelly.
    Her face did not change.
    “The British are after me,” he went on. “They’re watching my house, and all the hotels have my description. I’ve nowhere to sleep. I want to move in with you.”
    “Go to hell,” she said.
    “Let me tell you why I walked out on you.”
    “After two years no excuse is good enough.”
    “Give me a minute to explain. For the sake of ... all that.”
    “I owe you nothing.” She glared at him a moment longer, then she opened the door. He thought she was going to throw him out. He watched her face as she looked back at him, holding the door. Then she put her head outside and yelled: “Somebody get me a drink!”
    Wolff relaxed a little.
    Sonja came back inside and closed the door. “A minute,” she said to him.
    “Are you going to stand over me like a prison guard? I’m not dangerous.” He smiled.
    “Oh yes, you are,” she said, but she went back to her stool and resumed working on her face.
    He hesitated. The other problem he had mulled over during the long afternoon in the Coptic church had been how to explain why he had left her without saying good-bye and never contacted her since. Nothing less than the truth sounded convincing. Reluctant as he was to share his secret, he had to tell her, for he was desperate and she was his only hope.
    He said: “Do you remember I went to Beirut in nineteen thirty-eight?”
    “No.”
    “I brought back a jade bracelet for you.”
    Her eyes met his in the mirror. “I don’t have it anymore.”
    He knew she was lying. He went on: “I went there to see a German army officer called Heinz. He asked me to work for Germany in the coming war. I agreed.”
    She turned from her mirror and faced him, and now