World War II Thriller Collection by Ken Follett

here,” she said. “My name is Joan.”
    â€œWilliam. Is your husband here?”
    â€œI’m not married.”
    â€œPardon me.” Now he saw her in a new light. She was single and he was a widower, and they had been seen talking together in public three times in a week: by now the English colony in Cairo would have them practically engaged. “You’re a surgeon?” he said.
    She smiled. “All I do these days is sew people up and patch them—but yes, before the war I was a surgeon.”
    â€œHow did you manage that? It’s not easy for a woman.”
    â€œI fought tooth and nail.” She was still smiling, but Vandam detected an undertone of remembered resentment. “You’re a little unconventional yourself, I’m told.”
    Vandam thought himself to be utterly conventional. “How so?” he said with surprise.
    â€œBringing up your child yourself.”
    â€œNo choice. If I had wanted to send him back to England, I wouldn’t have been able to: you can’t get a passage unless you’re disabled or a general.”
    â€œBut you didn’t want to.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThat’s what I mean.”
    â€œHe’s my son,” Vandam said. “I don’t want anyone else to bring him up—nor does he.”
    â€œI understand. It’s just that some fathers would think it . . . unmanly.”
    He raised his eyebrows at her, and to his surprise she blushed. He said: “You’re right, I suppose. I’d never thought of it that way.”
    â€œI’m ashamed of myself, I’ve been prying. Would you like another drink?”
    Vandam looked into his glass. “I think I shall have to go inside in search of a real drink.”
    â€œI wish you luck.” She smiled and turned away.
    Vandam walked across the lawn to the clubhouse. She was an attractive woman, courageous and intelligent, and she had made it clear she wanted to know him better. He thought: Why the devil do I feel so indifferent to her? All these people are thinking how well matched we are—and they’re right.
    He went inside and spoke to the bartender. “Gin. Ice. One olive. And a few drops of very dry vermouth.”
    The martini when it came was quite good, and he had two more. He thought again of the woman Elene. There were a thousand like her in Cairo—Greek, Jewish, Syrian and Palestinian as well as Egyptian. They were dancers for just as long as it took to catch the eye of some wealthy roué. Most of them probably entertained fantasies of getting married and being taken back to a large house in Alexandria or Paris or Surrey, and they would be disappointed.
    They all had delicate brown faces and feline bodies with slender legs and pert breasts, but Vandam was tempted to think that Elene stood out from the crowd. Her smile was devastating. The idea of her going to Palestine to work on a farm was, at first sight, ridiculous; but she had tried, and when that failed she had agreed to work for Vandam. On the other hand, retailing street gossip was easy money, like being a kept woman. She was probably the same as all the other dancers: Vandam was not interested in that kind of woman, either.
    The martinis were beginning to take effect, and he was afraid he might not be as polite as he should to the ladies when they came in, so he paid his bill and went out.
    He drove to GHQ to get the latest news. It seemed the day had ended in a standoff after heavy casualties on both sides—rather more on the British side. It was just bloody demoralizing, Vandam thought: we had a secure base, good supplies, superior weapons and greater numbers; we planned thoughtfully and we fought carefully, and we never damn well won anything. He went home.
    Gaafar had prepared lamb and rice. Vandam had another drink with his dinner. Billy talked to him while he ate. Today’s geography lesson had been about wheat farming in Canada. Vandam would have