Read Online The Key to Rebecca by Ken Follett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ken Follett
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fight for the cause.”
“What, exactly, did you have in mind?”
“The first thing we have to do is defeat the Nazis.”
She laughed. “Well, I’ll do my best!”
He ignored that. “We don’t like the British much, but any enemy of Germany’s is a friend of ours, so at the moment—strictly on a temporary basis—we’re working with British Intelligence. I think you could help them.”
“For God’s sake! How?”
A shadow fell across the table, and the young man looked up. “Ah!” he said. He looked back at Elene. “I want you to meet my friend Major William Vandam.”
He was a tall man, and broad: with those wide shoulders and mighty legs he might once have been an athlete, although now, Elene guessed, he was close to forty and just beginning to go a little soft. He had a round, open face topped by wiry brown hair which looked as if it might curl if it were allowed to grow a little beyond the regulation length. He shook her hand, sat down, crossed his legs, lit a cigarette and ordered gin. He wore a stem expression, as if he thought life was a very serious business and he did not want anybody to start fooling around.
Elene thought he was a typical frigid Englishman.
The young man from the Jewish Agency asked him: “What’s the news?”
“The Gazala Line is holding, but it’s getting very fierce out there.”
Vandam’s voice was a surprise. English officers usually spoke with the upper-class drawl which had come to symbolize arrogance for ordinary Egyptians. Vandam spoke precisely but softly, with rounded vowels and a slight burr on the r: Elene had a feeling this was the trace of a country accent, although she could not remember how she knew.
She decided to ask him. “Where do you come from, Major?”
“Dorset. Why do you ask?”
“I was wondering about your accent.”
“Southwest of England. You’re observant. I thought I had no accent.”
“Just a trace.”
He lit another cigarette. She watched his hands. They were long and slender, rather at odds with the rest of his body; the nails were well manicured and the skin was white except for the deep amber stains where he held his cigarette.
The young man took his leave. “I’ll let Major Vandam explain everything to you. I hope you will work with him; I believe it’s very important.”
Vandam shook his hand and thanked him, and the young man went out.
Vandam said to Elene: “Tell me about yourself.”
“No,” she said. “You tell me about yourself.”
He raised an eyebrow at her, faintly startled, a little amused and suddenly not at all frigid. “All right,” he said after a moment. “Cairo is full of officers and men who know secrets. They know our strengths, our weaknesses and our plans. The enemy wants to know those secrets. We can be sure that at any time the Germans have people in Cairo trying to get information. It’s my job to stop them.”
“That simple.”
He considered. “It’s simple, but it’s not easy.”
He took everything she said seriously, she noticed. She thought it was because he was humorless, but all the same she rather liked it: men generally treated her conversation like background music in a cocktail bar, a pleasant enough but largely meaningless noise.
He was waiting. “It’s your turn,” he said.
Suddenly she wanted to tell him the truth. “I’m a lousy singer and a mediocre dancer, but sometimes I find a rich man to pay my bills.”
He said nothing, but he looked taken aback.
Elene said: “Shocked?”
“Shouldn’t I be?”
She looked away. She knew what he,was thinking. Until now he had treated her politely, as if she were a respectable woman, one of his own class. Now he realized he had been mistaken. His reaction was completely predictable, but all the same she felt bitter. She said: “Isn’t that what most women do, when they get married—find a man to pay the bills?”
“Yes,” he said gravely.
She looked at him. The imp of mischief seized her. “I just turn
“What, exactly, did you have in mind?”
“The first thing we have to do is defeat the Nazis.”
She laughed. “Well, I’ll do my best!”
He ignored that. “We don’t like the British much, but any enemy of Germany’s is a friend of ours, so at the moment—strictly on a temporary basis—we’re working with British Intelligence. I think you could help them.”
“For God’s sake! How?”
A shadow fell across the table, and the young man looked up. “Ah!” he said. He looked back at Elene. “I want you to meet my friend Major William Vandam.”
He was a tall man, and broad: with those wide shoulders and mighty legs he might once have been an athlete, although now, Elene guessed, he was close to forty and just beginning to go a little soft. He had a round, open face topped by wiry brown hair which looked as if it might curl if it were allowed to grow a little beyond the regulation length. He shook her hand, sat down, crossed his legs, lit a cigarette and ordered gin. He wore a stem expression, as if he thought life was a very serious business and he did not want anybody to start fooling around.
Elene thought he was a typical frigid Englishman.
The young man from the Jewish Agency asked him: “What’s the news?”
“The Gazala Line is holding, but it’s getting very fierce out there.”
Vandam’s voice was a surprise. English officers usually spoke with the upper-class drawl which had come to symbolize arrogance for ordinary Egyptians. Vandam spoke precisely but softly, with rounded vowels and a slight burr on the r: Elene had a feeling this was the trace of a country accent, although she could not remember how she knew.
She decided to ask him. “Where do you come from, Major?”
“Dorset. Why do you ask?”
“I was wondering about your accent.”
“Southwest of England. You’re observant. I thought I had no accent.”
“Just a trace.”
He lit another cigarette. She watched his hands. They were long and slender, rather at odds with the rest of his body; the nails were well manicured and the skin was white except for the deep amber stains where he held his cigarette.
The young man took his leave. “I’ll let Major Vandam explain everything to you. I hope you will work with him; I believe it’s very important.”
Vandam shook his hand and thanked him, and the young man went out.
Vandam said to Elene: “Tell me about yourself.”
“No,” she said. “You tell me about yourself.”
He raised an eyebrow at her, faintly startled, a little amused and suddenly not at all frigid. “All right,” he said after a moment. “Cairo is full of officers and men who know secrets. They know our strengths, our weaknesses and our plans. The enemy wants to know those secrets. We can be sure that at any time the Germans have people in Cairo trying to get information. It’s my job to stop them.”
“That simple.”
He considered. “It’s simple, but it’s not easy.”
He took everything she said seriously, she noticed. She thought it was because he was humorless, but all the same she rather liked it: men generally treated her conversation like background music in a cocktail bar, a pleasant enough but largely meaningless noise.
He was waiting. “It’s your turn,” he said.
Suddenly she wanted to tell him the truth. “I’m a lousy singer and a mediocre dancer, but sometimes I find a rich man to pay my bills.”
He said nothing, but he looked taken aback.
Elene said: “Shocked?”
“Shouldn’t I be?”
She looked away. She knew what he,was thinking. Until now he had treated her politely, as if she were a respectable woman, one of his own class. Now he realized he had been mistaken. His reaction was completely predictable, but all the same she felt bitter. She said: “Isn’t that what most women do, when they get married—find a man to pay the bills?”
“Yes,” he said gravely.
She looked at him. The imp of mischief seized her. “I just turn
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