Ken Follett - The Key to Rebecca

“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 them around a little faster than the average housewife.”

Vandam burst out laughing. Suddenly he looked a different man. He threw back his head, his arms and legs spread sideways, and all the tension went out of his body. When the laugh subsided he was relaxed, just briefly. They grinned at one another. The moment passed, and he crossed his legs again. There was a silence. Elene felt like a schoolgirl who has been giggling in class.

Vandam was serious again. “My problem is information,” he said. “Nobody tells an Englishman anything. That’s where you come in. Because you’re Egyptian, you hear the kind of gossip and street talk that never comes my way. And because you’re Jewish, you’ll pass it to me. I hope.”

“What kind of gossip?”

“I’m interested in anyone who’s curious about the British Army.” He paused. He seemed to be wondering how much to tell her. “In particular ... At the moment I’m looking for a man called Alex Wolff. He used to live in Cairo and he has recently returned. He may be hunting for a place to live, and he probably has a lot of money. He is certainly making inquiries about British forces.”

Elene shrugged. “After all that buildup I was expecting to be asked to do something much more dramatic.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know. Waltz with Rommel and pick his pockets.”

Vandam laughed again. Elene thought: I could get fond of that laugh.

He said: “Well, mundane though it is, will you do it?”

“I don’t know.” But I do know, she thought. I’m just trying to prolong the interview, because I’m enjoying myself.

Vandam leaned forward. “I need people like you, Miss Fontana.” Her name sounded silly when he said it so politely. “You’re observant, you have a perfect cover and you’re obviously intelligent; please excuse me for being so direct—”

“Don’t apologize, I love it,” she said. “Keep talking.”

“Most of my people are not very reliable. They do it for the money, whereas you have a better motive—”

“Wait a minute,” she interrupted. “I want money, too. What does the job pay?”

“That depends on the information you bring in.”

“What’s the minimum?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s a little less than what I was hoping for.”

“How much do you want?”

“You might be a gentleman and pay the rent of my flat.” She bit her lip: it sounded so tarty, put like that.

“How much?”

“Seventy-five a month.”

Vandam’s eyebrows rose. “What have you got, a palace?”

“Prices have gone up. Haven’t you heard? It’s all these English officers desperate for accommodation.”

“Touché.” He frowned. “You’d have to be awfully useful to justify seventy-five a month.”

Elene shrugged. “Why don’t we give it a try?”

“You’re a good negotiator.” He smiled. “All right, a month’s trial.”

Elene tried not to look triumphant. “How do I contact you?”

“Send me a message.” He took a pencil and a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket and began to write. “I’ll give you my address and phone number, at GHQ and at home. As soon as I hear from you I’ll come to your place.”

“All right.” She wrote down her address, wondering what the major would think of her flat. “What if you’re seen?”

“Will it matter?”

“I might be asked who you are.”

“Well, you’d better not tell the truth.”

She grinned. “I’ll say you’re my lover.”

He looked away. “Very well.”

“But you’d better act the part.” She kept a straight face. “You must bring armfuls of flowers and boxes of chocolates.”

“I don’t know—”

“Don’t Englishmen give their mistresses flowers and chocolates?”

He looked at her unblinkingly. She noticed that he had gray eyes. “I don’t know,” he said levelly. “I’ve never had a mistress.”

Elene thought: I stand corrected. She said: “Then you’ve got a lot to learn.”

“I’m sure. Would you like another drink?”

And now I’m dismissed, she thought. You’re a little too much, Major Vandam: there’s a certain self-righteousness about you, and you rather like to be in charge of things; you’re so masterful. I may take you in hand, puncture your vanity, do you a little damage.

“No, thanks,” she said. “I must go.”

He stood up. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

She shook his hand and walked away. Somehow she had the feeling that he was not watching her go.

Vandam changed into a civilian suit for the reception at the Anglo-Egyptian Union. He would never have gone to the Union while his wife was alive: she said it was “plebby.” He told her to say “plebeian” so that she would not sound like a country snob. She said she was a country snob, and would he kindly stop showing off his classical education.

Vandam had loved her then and he did now.

Her father was a fairly wealthy man who became a diplomat because he had nothing better to do. He had not been pleased at the prospect of his daughter marrying a postman’s son. He was not much mollified when he was told that Vandam had gone to a minor public school (on a scholarship) and London University, and was considered one of the most promising of his generation of junior army officers. But the daughter was adamant in this as in all things, and in the end the father had accepted the match with good grace. Oddly enough, on the one occasion when the fathers met they got on rather well. Sadly, the mothers hated each other and there were no more family gatherings.

None of it mattered much to Vandam; nor did the fact that his wife had a short temper, an imperious manner and an ungenerous heart. Angela was graceful, dignified and beautiful. For him she was the epitome of womanhood, and he thought himself a lucky man.

The contrast with Elene Fontana could not have been more striking.

He drove to the Union on his motorcycle. The bike, a BSA 350, was very practical in Cairo. He could use it all the year round, for the weather was almost always good enough; and he could snake through the traffic jams that kept cars and taxis waiting. But it was a rather quick machine, and it gave him a secret thrill, a throwback to his adolescence, when he had coveted such bikes but had not been able to buy one. Angela had loathed it—like the Union, it was plebby—but for once Vandam had resolutely defied her.

The day was cooling when he parked at the Union. Passing the clubhouse, he looked through a window and saw a snooker game in full swing. He resisted the temptation and walked onto the lawn.

He accepted a glass of Cyprus sherry and moved into the crowd, nodding and smiling, exchanging pleasantries with people he knew. There was tea for the teetotal Muslim guests, but not many had turned up. Vandam tasted the sherry and wondered whether the barman could be taught to make a martini.