World War II Thriller Collection by Ken Follett Read Free Book Online Page A

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.
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    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 showbusiness 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 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.
    â€œWho 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.”
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    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