Ken Follett - The Key to Rebecca

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 show-business 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.

“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 he saw in her eyes something like hope.

“They told me to come back to Cairo and wait until I heard from them. Two years ago I heard. They wanted me to go to Berlin. I went. I did a training course, then I worked in the Balkans and the Levant. I went back to Berlin in February for briefing on a new assignment. They sent me here—”

“What are you telling me?” she said incredulously. “You’re a spy?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Look.” He picked up a suitcase and opened it. “This is a radio, for sending messages to Rommel.” He closed it again and opened the other. “This is my financing.”

She stared at the neat stacks of notes. “My God!” she said. “It’s a fortune.”

There was a knock at the door. Wolff closed the case. A waiter came in with a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice. Seeing Wolff, he said: “Shall I bring another glass?”

“No,” Sonja said impatiently. “Go away.”

The waiter left. Wolff opened the wine, filled the glass, gave it to Sonja, then took a long drink from the bottle.

“Listen,” he said. “Our army is winning in the desert. We can help them. They need to know about the British strength—numbers of men, which divisions, names of commanders, quality of weapons and equipment and—if possible—battle plans. We’re here, in Cairo; we can find these things out. Then, when the Germans take over, we will be heroes.”

“We?”

“You can help me. And the first thing you can do is give me a place to live. You hate the British, don’t you? You want to see them thrown out?”

“I would do it for anyone but you.” She finished her champagne and refilled her glass.

Wolff took the glass from her hand and drank. “Sonja. If I had sent you a postcard from Berlin the British would have thrown you in jail. You must not be angry, now that you know the reasons why.” He lowered his voice. “We can bring those old times back. We’ll have good food and the best champagne, new clothes and beautiful parties and an American car. We’ll go to Berlin, you’ve always wanted to dance in Berlin, you’ll be a star there. Germany is a new kind of nation—we’ re going to rule the world, and you can be a princess. We—” He paused. None of this was getting through to her. It was time to play his last card. “How is Fawzi?”