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

marry Elene: she had refused. Now Claud, too, had gone.
    She had known from the start there was no future in it.
    It was her fault as much as theirs that the affairs broke up. The ostensible reasons—Charles’ brother, Johnnie’s proposal, Claud’s wife—were just excuses, or maybe catalysts. The real cause was always the same: Elene was unhappy.
    She contemplated the prospect of another affair. She knew how it would be. For a while she would live on the little nest egg she had in Barclays Bank in the Shari Kasr-el-Nil—she always managed to save, when she had a man. Then she would see the balance slowly going down, and she would take a job in a dance troupe, kicking up her legs and wiggling her bottom in some club for a few days. Then . . . She looked into the mirror and through it, her eyes unfocusing as she visualized her fourth lover. Perhaps he would be an Italian, with flashing eyes and glossy hair and perfectly manicured hands. She might meet him in the bar of the Metropolitan Hotel, where the reporters drank. He would speak to her, then offer her a drink. She would smile at him, and he would be lost. They would make a date for dinner the next day. She would look stunning as she walked into the restaurant on his arm. All heads would turn, and he would feel proud. They would have more dates. He would give her presents. He would make a pass at her, then another: his third would be successful. She would enjoy making love with him—the intimacy, the touching, the endearments—and she would make him feel like a king. He would leave her at dawn, but he would be back that evening. They would stop going to restaurants together—“too risky,” he would say—but he would spend more and more time at the flat, and he would begin to pay the rent and the bills. Elene would then have everything she wanted: a home, money and affection. She would begin to wonder why she was so miserable. She would throw a tantrum if he arrived half an hour late. She would go into a black sulk if he so much as mentioned his wife. She would complain that he no longer gave her presents, but accept them nonchalantly when he did. The man would be irritated but he would be unable to leave her, for by this time he would be eager for her grudging kisses, greedy for her perfect body; and she would still make him feel like a king in bed. She would find his conversation boring; she would demand from him more passion than he was able to give; there would be rows. Finally the crisis would come. His wife would get suspicious, or a child would fall ill, or he would have to take a six-month business trip, or he would run short of money. And Elene would be back where she was now: drifting, alone, disreputable—and a year older.
    Her eyes focused, and she saw again her face in the mirror. Her face was the cause of all this. It was because of her face that she led this pointless life. Had she been ugly, she would always have yearned to live like this, and never discovered its hollowness. You led me astray, she thought; you deceived me, you pretended I was somebody else. You’re not my face, you’re a mask. You should stop trying to run my life.
    I’m not a beautiful Cairo socialite, I’m a slum girl from Alexandria.
    I’m not a woman of independent means, I’m the next thing to a whore.
    I’m not Egyptian, I’m Jewish.
    My name is not Elene Fontana. It’s Abigail Asnani.
    And I want to go home.
    Â 
    The young man behind the desk at the Jewish Agency in Cairo wore a yarmulke. Apart from a wisp of beard, his cheeks were smooth. He asked for her name and address. Forgetting her resolution, she called herself Elene Fontana.
    The young man seemed confused. She was used to this: most men got a little flustered when she smiled at them. He said: “Would you—I mean, do you mind if I ask you why you want to go to Palestine?”
    â€œI’m Jewish,” she said abruptly. She