Chapter III: Part VIII
Chapter III: The Lion’s Den
Part VIII
July 11, 1936
“Your name?” the Egyptian guard asked in thick, phlegmy English.
“John Thorpe.”
“Your papers?”
They were handed over without comment.
“Mr. Thorpe, who is young man with you?”
“He is my servant and interpreter.” He gestured toward this second man, who was sitting in the passenger seat of the Ford Model C Ten .
“What is his name?”
“Hussein. Hussein Gaffar.” The second man, in traditional Egyptian dress, nodded vigorously.
“Does he have papers?” The guard was eyeing the two men far more intently than was called for.
“No.”
Leaning over lip of the checkpoint’s window, the guard spat on the ground. “Where did you come from and to where is your destination?”
“Alexandria by ship. Going to see a colleague at the American University in Cairo. I’m from Cambridge, you see.”
The guard spat a second time. “Go through.” He raised the gate and waved them through.
There was silence in the car for several minutes, as it wound its way into the northern suburbs of Cairo.
“I think that was the last checkpoint,” the man in the passenger seat said in German.
John Thorpe, otherwise known as Fritz-Albert Geier, nodded with relief.
He was an Abwehr Agent (Section III) -- tasked with leading one team of Operation Sphynx, one of the Abwehr’s first attempts at carrying out Hitler’s directive to “inflame the entire Mohammedan world” against the British Empire.
And so, he traveled under the fictitious name John Thorpe, which was apparently associated with a very real Briton who had drowned in Canada ten years earlier. His papers looked eminently legitimate -- painting a convincing but utterly spurious picture of an upper-crust academic traveling to Cairo on some errand about a Nubian tribe that evidently fancied themselves to be long-lost Hungarians. He had, at least, been truthful with the checkpoint guard about his education, having read Economics at Emmanuel College, Cambridge just before the outbreak of the Great War. He had served for a year on the Alpine Front before being sent home with serious stomach ulcers, and served out the rest of the war in Berlin. There he had the married, and through his young wife made the acquaintance of a bright law student named Hans Bernd Gisevius. They had remained friends, and when in 1935 Gisevius was first courted by the Abwehr he had immediately recommended Geier for a position, citing his natural intelligence, professionalism and fluency in four languages. After Gisevius was made an agent, he had introduced Geier to Canaris, who personally recruited him just after the Belgian Crisis. And so, with the outbreak of war in April he had been sent into France, performing admirably behind enemy lines and winning enough of Canaris’ confidence to be assigned a position of leadership in Operation Sphynx. Unrest had been stirring in British-administered Egypt ever since the entry of Italy into the war, and Sphynx was Canaris’ bid to bring it to a rolling boil. Geier felt the weight of many eyes upon him.
The man in the passenger seat grunted, fanning himself as scorching waves of foul-smelling air entered the car’s open windows. Geier heard him mutter something derogatory about the Egyptians’ capabilities in the area of public sanitation.
This was Johannes Eppler, a German Jew who had been raised in Alexandria and Cairo following his mother’s remarriage to an Egyptian. At twenty-two, he was one of the youngest men in the Abwehr, but his fluency in Arabic and ability to pass as an Egyptian had already proven invaluable to the mission.
Johannes Eppler, some time after insertion. Early July, 1936.
Eppler was now giving rapid-fire directions as Geier took the car deeper and deeper into the warren of twisting streets that formed the district of Azbakeya.
“At last! Yes, good, Herr Geier. This is the street.”
The car nosed through the crowded street at a crawl. Geier winced as a camel stuck its curious mouth into his window. More smells assaulted him now. Human waste was now joined by a cloying blend of spices -- cardamom, cinnamon, cloves and several others he didn’t recognize.
The Azbakeya district bustled with activity, as people, carts and automobiles choked its streets each day to do business.
If Eppler was right about the street, they would be looking for the single-story building with three carpets hanging from the roof: black, white and red. Geier spotted it several minutes later without much difficulty. The street was not wide enough to accommodate true parking, so he just pulled the car as close to the building as possible, leaving as little space as possible between the gas cap and the wall so as to discourage would-be siphoners.
He slid out Eppler’s door and the two men made their way to the door. Before they could even knock, a figure emerged in billowing brown robes and a completely hooded face. He led them inward.
With a firm thud the door closed behind them and the man threw off his hood. It was Robert Litz, Agent (Section III). “Heil Hitler.”
They were in a low-ceilinged parlor furnished in the Egyptian fashion -- thick rugs, dark wood and overstuffed fabric furniture. Little sunlight penetrated the room.
Geier’s eyes began to adjust. Litz showed them to the low couches and poured each a cup of tea.
It was pleasant-tasting and a relief to his parched throat. “Good to see you here Robert. Is Gamma team ready?”
“Yes. Now that you have made it here, everything is ready.”
They drained their cups quickly. Litz called hoarsely into another part of the house. They heard footsteps, and a fourth man ambled into the room.
Franz Altheim, an academic and archeologist of some small note, made up the other half of the team led by Litz. Altheim was a queer-looking fellow, with large ears and deeply hooded eyelids. When Geier had last seen him in Taranto, Altheim had been bald with a mangy beard. Now he was clean-shaven and wore an expensive toupee and tailored suit. He was to be Operation Sphynx’s emissary to the society of Islamic dissidents who were integral to success of the mission.
Franz Altheim, early 1936.
“Mr. Thorpe, you look well,” Altheim crooned.
Geier nodded.
“Our Mohammedan contact,” the archeologist said, “just confirmed the meeting. It would be well if we departed right away.”
“Very well.” Geier nodded to Eppler, who produced a sack from under his robes and began to dole out fresh high-denomination Egyptian pound notes. Litz give each man a loaded revolver. They piled into the C Ten -- this time with Eppler at the wheel -- and made for the heart of the Egyptian capital. It was easy to become disoriented by the blazing afternoon sun or the tangled streets and Geier gave up even trying to memorize the way back to the safe house. He closed his eyes.
Along with Eppler, he had been inserted by an Italian submarine along the coast near Gamasa nearly a week before. Litz and Altheim had been inserted by a different submarine further west at the end of June. Each team had used forged papers to travel south, by train and by Abwehr-arranged car, making their way at last to Cairo. They had been lucky so far -- seemingly not having aroused suspicion from the British authorities.
Geier was awakened by the lurch of braking. “Here we are,” called Eppler.
From a nearby minaret, a muezzin began to sing the lilting, alien call to prayer. “Asr,” noted Altheim. “Afternoon prayers. Let us wait here before proceeding.”
Some time after the final notes had faded from the wind, they got out of the car and looked around. They had arrived at a small but well-maintained annex to what appeared to be a school. The whole area was overlooked by the dome of the great Al Rifa’i Mosque. It was a tall sandstone-colored structure, with a stately square profile. On one side, the burly corners rounded in a massive column that rose twice the height of the mosque to form its principal minaret. From there, one could look out over much of Cairo, including the residential neighborhood where they now stood. The streets were virtually empty. Geier placed his fingers on the revolver concealed in his suit jacket. Fear of the unknown.
To appearances, the party consisted of two westerners -- Geier as a Briton and Altheim as a Finn -- with Litz as a Cypriot and Eppler as an Egyptian. There are many such groups of men in Cairo. The British will not be alarmed.
Eppler led them through a plaster archway and into a small colonnaded court.
Several robed men stood within, talking with one another in a small group. They took no notice of the newcomers.
“What do we do, Hussein?” asked Geier in English.
“Patience. I am sure that our friends will meet us here, sadiq.”
Geier flicked his head around, scanning the many darkened doorways that opened onto the court. He couldn’t see anyone. Listening to the low conversation of the Egyptians, the four spies simply waited in silence.
“Maybe we should ask them to help us.”
“No,” Eppler said. “We must --”
“We must speak to the dissidents. That is what we must do. Just confirm that this is the right place.”
Eppler swallowed and strode forward, Geier behind him. When they were very close, one of the men turned to face them. His eyes were a milky shade of blue.
“He is blind. They are all blind.” Eppler exchanged a few brisk words of Arabic with them. “They are employed singing the daily calls to prayer from the tops of the minarets.” The man who had turned to face them leaned close to Eppler and said something else. “He says that --”
“Salaamu Alaykum!” Behind them, an Egyptian was pacing rapidly toward Altheim from out of one of the doorways.
“Wa ‘Alaykum As-Salaam.” Returning the greeting, the archeologist shook the man’s hand three times.
This latest Egyptian wore a western-style suit and tie, with the traditional tasseled red tarboosh cap.
“Herr Gregor, I would like you to meet the man who has been my contact with our Egyptian friends. May I present Omar el-Telmesany.”
Shaking el-Telmesany’s hand, Geier shot Altheim a look. Gregor? Evidently the archaeologist had coined a new alias at a whim. Geier imagined Litz also wincing under his hood at Altheim’s lack of caution.
There was a fluid stream of Arabic from el-Telmesany. “Please my brothers,” Eppler translated, “come with me. Shaykh Hassan is very eager to speak with you.”
He led them out of the open-air court and through the doorway from which he had come. The followed him through a narrow tiled hallway, and up a short flight of stairs. A left turn. Geier looked out to his right, where a row of narrow windows overlooked the street that they had parked on. At last this gallery terminated at a heavy wooden door. el-Telmesany said something unintelligible and the door swung open.
Several men dressed like el-Telmesany sat in a square chamber, illuminated by a high window with a wooden latticework that cast patterned shadows onto the whole room. One of them showed the Germans to seats at the near side of a table that dominated the small space.
el-Telmesany introduced them to his companions in Arabic, identifying Eppler and Litz as their interpreters. The man sitting directly across from Geier, he was told, was the esteemed Shaykh Hassan -- founder and leader of the Muslim Brothers.
Hassan al-Banna, founder and General Guide of the Muslim Brotherhood.
He was not a large man, but held himself well. The Shaykh had a youthful face and neatly trimmed beard, listening with great interest as Eppler introduced Altheim as their emissary and explained the procedure for translation -- Altheim would speak to Shaykh Hassan in Arabic so as to assure the Egyptians as to the veracity of what was being said, and Eppler would translate into German for the benefit of “Herr Gregor.”
Good catch, Eppler.
Altheim drew several deep breaths and addressed the Muslim Brothers in Arabic.
Eppler took it all in. “He thanks the Shaykh for the meeting. Several compliments. Then: ‘Did Britain grant independence to Egypt?’ he asks.”
Shaykh Hassan looked puzzled that such a thing was being asked, but slowly nodded. “Na’am.”
“‘Yes.’ ‘When did this occur?’”
Another short reply in Arabic.
“He says it was in 1922 that this occurred.”
The archaeologist nodded gravely.
“‘But you are not free,’ Altheim says. ‘The British still dominate this country after fourteen years, and march army soldiers through the streets of Cairo.’”
The Shaykh’s jaw hardened.
“‘The British have brought this war to Egypt. Egypt did not declare war on Italy or Germany. Yet even now, Italian soldiers are advancing deeply into Egypt. Do the British defend the people? No, they raze villages to construct their defenses. Do they respect the religion of Egyptians? No, instead they erode proper religion and promote atheism and greed.’”
After some reflection, Shaykh Hassan responded at length.
“The Shaykh agrees with these things. He says -- he says that it is the hope of the Muslim Brothers to bring about self-governance under Islamic laws and principles. The rule of the British Empire has corrupted the proper religion of the people and has stripped Egyptians of their dignity.” Eppler cleared his throat. “Now Altheim is assuring him that it is the intention of the Pact of Steel to drive the British out and restore the rightful independence of the Egyptian people. He would like to see Islam respected and colonialism abolished. Neither the Italians nor the Germans have any permanent territorial ambitions in Egypt.”
Shaykh Hassan looked pleased. Several other Muslim Brothers voiced their approval.
“Altheim is explaining the objectives to them now. He explains that the calm in Egypt has allowed the British to use all of their forces against the Italians, and that the decision of the campaign is now in the balance. He says that it is critical that British forces be drawn away. Shaykh Hassan asks him how. Altheim replies -- replies that there must be unrest throughout Egypt, but starting in Cairo. Whatever unrest can be achieved: ‘demonstrations, protests, riots, uprisings,’ he says.”
Geier and Litz watched the Shaykh intently, trying to judge his reaction. Slowly, he began to nod in support. So did the others with him.
Altheim wasted no time in trying to close the deal.
“He is asking how many men the Shaykh can promise to the expulsion of the British.”
Shaykh Hassan turned to confer with the others -- el-Telmesany seemed to be reciting a list of some kind -- before speaking. “He says that the Muslim Brotherhood numbers more than two thousand committed members. He says perhaps a thousand of these will be ready to take up arms in violent struggle. Now Altheim asks them how soon these men can be ready... ‘Tonight, if necessary,’ he answers.”
“Hussein,” said Litz. “Ask Shaykh Hassan if he has any mechanics.”
Eppler asked the question, but the Egyptians seemed unsure of what he was driving at.
“Ask them if they have anyone who can take apart an automobile... He doesn’t have to know how to put it back together, just take it apart.”
With liberal use of hand gestures, Eppler’s Arabic managed to convey Litz’ meaning. Shaykh Hassan nodded.
“He says that one of the Brothers owns an automotive garage not far from here.”
“Tell the Shaykh, then, that we will depart from here by hired car, leaving the Ford with him. Tell him that they are to take it to this garage tonight, and when they are sure no one can see their work, disassemble every piece of the car. They will find more than two hundred firearms, which they must be ready to use. Within the rear seat bench they will also find a radio set and printed Arabic instructions for its use. We will use this to contact them. They must get it working immediately.”
Three hours later, the two teams had made it back to the safe house in Azbakeya. Geier, Litz and Altheim conferred in the parlor.
Thee archaeologist was quite optimistic. “Hassan seems quite charismatic, in an Egyptian sort of way. I spoke, Herr Geier, with people on the street all yesterday, learning about the reputation of the Muslim Brothers. It seems that he is held in very high regard as a spiritual leader even by those who are not actually members of his organization.”
“Good. Do you think they will be able to truly fight?”
“I do. The Muslim Brothers are not soldiers -- being rather primarily artisans, laborers and teachers -- but their fervor immunizes them to fear.”
Litz lit a cigarette. “I have doubts.”
“About what?” Altheim looked at him sourly.
“The size of the garrison, for one. Speaking only of the British soldiers that we know about, there are a thousand men from the East Yorkshire Regiment quartered across three different posts throughout the Old City. Then three times that number of colonials at Giza. Things will have to spread quickly if this is to turn into a general insurrection -- of the sort that would require additional troops above the four thousand.”
The archaeologist’s brows furrowed. “Admittedly I am not a military expert but it seems that even with tens of thousands of civilian rioters, there would be very little prospect of taking Cairo.”
“Remember, though,” Litz said, “that our objective is not to capture Cairo, but merely to cause as much chaos and unrest as possible. A military and political center of its importance is vital to the working of the entire British administration in Africa and the Near East. If they have to burn half of it down, kill hundreds of its inhabitants and alienate the rest to hold onto it, all the better.”
Geier sat silently, reflecting. “So are you sure that the first act should still begin tonight?”
“Yes. Even if not, to call it off at this point we would have to contact the --”
“Of course, of course. I am just worried that the Brothers might have trouble with the radio.”
“Hah!” Altheim scowled. “You do not give them enough credit. They are not savages. Some Brothers have been to Cambridge just as you have!”
“All I am saying,” Geier said, “is that I shall be more confident when I hear from them.”
“As will we all,” said Litz placatingly, “but for now we must eat and then rest.”
The two teams dined on fresh fruits and roast goat purchased by Eppler at the nearby market, with a vanilla tea brought from the Italian naval base at Taranto. When they had finished, Altheim produced a small bottle of champagne and poured some for each of them. “Much success.”
Together: “Much success.”
They dispersed to their beds, taking care to draw the curtains closed as tightly as possible. The sun had not yet set.
Geier awoke to Litz shaking him.
“It has begun.”
The darkened bedchamber swam before Geier’s eyes. It took him several seconds to remember where he was. “What?”
“el-Telmesany just got through to Eppler on the radio. The Al Rifa’i Mosque is ablaze.”
Geier nodded.
“They want to know what to do.”
“Tell Eppler to tell them to gather in force. We’ll be there as soon as we can.” Geier realized that that might be some time. The logistics of caching the weapons in the body of the C Ten left Operation Sphynx without transport of its own for the time being. It was an planning error of the sort that they could not afford to suffer again.
Some two hours later, the Germans were speeding through Cairo towards the mosque in the first car they could find -- a battered French Peugeot Type 201 for which one of the safe house’s very groggy neighbors had accepted two thousand pounds cash. There was a dull amber glow in the sky in the direction of the Old City. As they drew nearer, they found the streets gradually filling with people heading on foot toward the scene. Still others, mainly young boys and adolescents, were running away from the direction of the fire, rousing neighbors and friends from bed to come to the Al Rifa’i Mosque.
As Eppler took the car around a curve, it came into view. Bright orange tongues of flame licked up through the great mosque’s cracked windows. The glow from the fire illuminated a thick gray cloud of smoke that rose hundreds of feet into the night sky. Some parts of the façade sloughed off in great sheets, crumbling on the ground below. Embers from the conflagration had taken hold in many of the palm trees in the plaza around the mosque; they now burned like giant torches. Here and there, blazing fronds tumbled in the wind -- sometimes burning to ash in midair, and a few landing amongst the crowding throngs around the mosque.
Al-Rifa’i Mosque (left), before its destruction.
“Stay in the car!” barked Litz. “Don’t anybody get out! Hussein, take us in closer.”
Eppler drove up a curb and onto the lawns behind the mosque, where a thick crowd of hundreds had gathered just out of range of the falling debris. Through his window, Geier could see the rage and grief on their faces. Nearby, a man with a thick black beard was being restrained by three other men, tearing almost out of his clothes in an attempt to rush into the conflagration.
Geier’s eyes were drawn to a dark, chanting mass ahead. It was an unbelievably dense swarm of men -- crowding around something, it seemed, for from the way they were standing there was a gap at their center. He felt a clammy sensation deep within his throat.
“Don’t go any further,” Litz warned. “Try to get el-Telmesany on the radio.”
After several minutes: “Nothing.”
Not long after he had said this, an Egyptian knocked on the Peugeot’s window. It was not el-Telmesany, but Geier recognized him as one of the others who had been sitting next to Shaykh Hassan the day before.
Eppler lowered the window and there was a short exchange. “This is Abdul el-Maak. He says that Shaykh Hassan has massed an immense force that is at this very moment moving toward the mosque.
There were relieved exhalations of breath in the car.
“Ask him,” Geier instructed Eppler, “what is going on up ahead with all those men.”
When Eppler relayed the question, el-Maak’s face convulsed violently. Then words moved by an anger so strong that even in the darkness Geier could see his forehead purpling.
“It is... A hateful, most hateful graffito. A most hateful British Imperialist graffito that was scrawled on the sacred pavers before the mosque. A hateful, hateful outrage.”
Geier did his best to display appropriate shock and indignation.
“el-Maak asks you what you will seek to do when the full force is gathered.”
“Tell him that we will try to overwhelm the British army post three blocks from here. It only has two hundred men, and though they may cause casualties, we will be able to arm ourselves with their weapons. Surely some will also become hostage prisoners to be bargained with.”
el-Maak soon ran off to spread word of this. Minutes passed. Half an hour. Still sitting on the middle of the mosque’s lawn in a flimsy French sedan, Geier became increasingly nervous. “Where are they? Where are the Muslim Brothers? Where is their huge force?”
The others were silent.
“I’m getting out. Eppler is coming with me.” The two of them burst out of the car. Geier drew his revolver. He could see that the crowd had begun to move in the direction of the army post.
“Salaamu Alaykum!” Geier turned. el-Telmesany was bounding up to him, carrying a Boer War-surplus rifle.
“I am very happy to see you. About how large has the crowd become?”
Eppler relayed his query.
“He says there are forty-seven of them.”
“What?” It couldn’t be.
“Forty-seven Muslim Brothers have arrived to take part in an insurrection.”
The eager little Egyptian was standing there as though forty-seven would not be a disappointing figure at all.
Geier swore. Thousands. They said thousands. Struggling to regain himself, he dispatched el-Telmesany to gather all the fighters around the Peugeot -- then sprinted back to the window to relate this development to Litz and Altheim, who were equally dismayed.
With a splitting rumble, the dome of the mosque collapsed onto itself.
“What do we do?” Geier wondered aloud, ignoring the renewed wails from what remained of the crowd.
Litz paused. “What do you mean?”
“That other man... el -- el-Maak -- just went off trying to start an attack on the army post. Which I thought would be possible if the Muslim Brothers had rallied three or four or five thousand people, many of them armed. As it is, we’ve got probably two thousand sightseers in pajamas. They’ll start to riot, and that will alert the British that an insurrection is afoot, and then they can crush it before we can get organized!”
“Both of you listen!” Altheim held his hands up. “Drive me up to the front of the mob and I’ll speak to them -- I’ll put a stop to it.”
Eppler started the engine, and surrounded by the forty-seven Muslim Brothers who had mustered around the car, began to press through the crowd. The three blocks was desperately slow going, and it had begun grow light in the eastern sky by the time the army post was in view. To Geier’s great surprise, he found the scene relatively peaceful. I line of British soldiers stood atop the compound’s rampart with their rifles out. On the street below, a cleric stood atop a wooden crate chanting to a crowd that Geier estimated as perhaps now no more than eight hundred. They were not armed. Even with more men, it would be impossible to start a proper riot without weapons.
Eppler listened silently for a time. “Translated roughly, he is shouting, ‘Why do you not leave Egyptians in peace? Why do you not leave Egyptians in peace? The widows and the orphans call out to live in peace!’”
The crowd chanted back, pumping fists angrily into the air. Geier saw that some of the native Egyptian police had joined in the protest. He was struck by an idea.
“Omar!” He called to el-Telmesany. “Hussein! Tell him that his men are to storm the police station that we passed on the way here.”
el-Telmesany acknowledged, and Eppler threw the 201 into reverse, following the Muslim Brothers as they made their way upstream through the crowd, back in the direction of the mosque. Dawn was breaking. Over the nearest rooftops, he could see that delicate wisps of smoke still trailed into the sky from what remained of the ancient Al Rifa’i Mosque. The exterior was scorched and blackened, with the facing fallen away in some places to reveal bare masonry beneath.
The Germans got out of the car, trying to take control of the men reaching the police station. It was a squat and thick-walled brown building. Metal bars covered the narrow windows, through which nothing could be seen. Geier jumped to hear a loud report from just over his shoulder and see a puff of plaster chip off the outer wall near the heavy front doors. He turned, grabbing the rifle of a watery-eyed Muslim Brother and forcing the barrel downwards. He screamed for Eppler to tell everyone to hold their fire.
el-Telmesany had rolled himself a cone of fish paper as a makeshift megaphone and approached the entrance, calling on the police officers within to surrender and join the insurrection against the British.
There was a sharp crack and Geier felt everyone around him flinch. He looked around himself. The man whose rifle he had deflected was standing dully in the spot where Geier had last seen him, rifle still pointed at the street beneath him. What...
el-Telmesany was hopping on one foot with a pained grimace on his face. Before Geier or Litz could call them off, the Muslim Brothers began firing whatever weapons they had at the police station. Geier clenched his teeth. At last he saw, crystallized, his suppressed misgivings about arming the Brotherhood and expecting its members to fight credibly without training. Now, they were wasting hundreds of precious rounds shooting at a fortified building.
“Stop! Stop! Qif! Qif!” Geier desperately tried to wave them off. “Don’t shoot unless you can see someone!”
They did not hear or understand. Those who had guns stood or knelt, firing round after round at the police station. Those without guns hurled rocks or debris -- all with little apparent effect.
The police station was fortified against whatever the Muslim Brothers and the crowd that had trailed after them could find to attack it. It was constructed to thwart escapes and lynch mobs -- and now proved more than a match for this group of rebellious clerks and tailors.
Rioting spread rapidly during the afternoon of July 12.
Geier glanced upward. About a dozen young Egyptians were climbing onto the roof of the police station from that of an adjacent building by way of a rope line. They had begun smashing roof tiles and two were hard at work pulling down the building’s radio antenna.
Casting about frantically for Eppler, Geier found that the young agent had already read his mind. He had gotten the attention of the men on the roof and was now clinging to a rope with which they pulled him onto the roof. Soon the shooting from the crowd had subsided to the point that it was safe for Geier, Litz and Altheim to be pulled onto the roof as well. A gang of young men had succeeded in tearing off the three chimney pots that appeared to cover a shaft down to the kitchen. About five feet down, the shaft was blocked by a metal grate.
A rough hand clasped the shoulder of Geier’s jacket. He turned.
Accompanied by several armed Brothers, el-Telmesany had managed to get onto the roof. A crimson drop of blood filled the wide gap between his front teeth, and looking down, Geier saw that his right shoe had been removed. The bare foot was swollen and streaked with blood from a gunshot wound along the top.
el-Telmesany dropped prone and pulled himself to the lip of the ventilation shaft. Over the occasional pops of gunfire from below, he bellowed something in Arabic to the men inside.
“From what they are saying,” Eppler said for the benefit of Geier and Litz, “these are the Egyptian police who refused to join in the demonstration before the Phillips Post south of here.”
“They are probably afraid,” Altheim said, peering down the shaft, “of the hundred or two men outside that are armed better than they are and shooting at them.” The ricochet of an errant bullet off a flagpole less than a meter over the archaeologist’s head underscored the point.
Litz began rummaging in his pockets. “Hussein, ask them how many men are in the police station.”
“Sixteen.”
“If they all agree to lay down their arms and go home, each man will be given one hundred pounds in cash. Tell them.”
There was a long delay during which those on the roof could here a heated conference going on somewhere off the police station’s kitchen.
At last, a single voice called up through the shaft.
“They have agreed to the terms, stressing our obligation not to harm them.”
A chorus of cheers broke out on the rooftop. Geier and Altheim had themselves lowered to the street, where the archaeologist explained to the swelling crowd in Arabic what had just happened. With el-Telmesany’s help, he was able to ensure that the policemen were not molested when they opened the heavy front doors and marched out in a daze. Altheim paid each man from the money Operation Sphynx had brought to Egypt. As soon as they were gone, the jittery mob poured into the building -- most found weapons to arm themselves with or give to unarmed friends, but a sizable minority took to looting the other effects of the police that lived at the station. The standoff had worn away most of the morning. The British and British-backed Egyptian authorities would be mobilizing now. The operation was lagging behind its carefully-orchestrated timetable.
Geier and Altheim made their way to the building’s entrance, where el-Telmesany and two other Brothers were handing out police clubs to those without weapons. “Tell el-Telmesany to send runners out to all the cities and villages around Cairo -- all the people must be told that the time is at hand to drive out the British. The time is at hand to fight for a free and independent Egypt.”
Altheim relayed this, and soon, young boys could be seen darting off down different alleyways with the news of uprising. The two Germans continued to assist in handing out clubs.
Egyptian Boy Scouts, such as these, took part in the July riots as messengers, stretcher-bearers and lookouts.
With a worried expression, Eppler pushed his way through the crowd to el-Telmesany’s side. He traded a significant look with Geier. A torrent of terse Arabic.
“I have just informed Herr el-Telmesany that I have just received intelligence on our radio. The British have discovered the whereabouts of Shaykh Hassan and have sent soldiers to capture or kill him. We must go to him at once. He says he will lead us to his safe house by the quickest way.”
Shaykh Hassen’s wounded lieutenant opened his eyes fiercely wide, braying for the most heavily armed Brothers to come to his side.
One minute later, el-Maak was leading the armed crowd toward Phillips Post, while el-Telmesany and the four Germans were packed into the Peugeot, careening down narrow streets with three other Muslim Brothers clinging to the car’s exterior. The radio on his lap, Eppler held the wheel expertly -- roaring through mostly-empty streets following el-Telmesany’s directions. Here and there, they passed figures running in the direction of the demonstration at Phillips Post. They sped past the smoldering shell of the Al-Rifa’i Mosque -- now surrounded by a crowd even more vast than that outside the army post -- and deep into a poor neighborhood that abutted the district where they had first met the Shaykh the day before.
Increasing numbers of men poured into the heart of Cairo throughout the day, swelling the two principal crowds by many thousands.
At the first sign of braking, the men all opened their doors and sprang out onto the street. Geier looked back. All except Eppler.
“I’ll wait in the car to guard against thieves.”
el-Telmesany, his foot now almost entirely black and blue, led them up a wooden staircase to a second floor flat and knocked rhythmically on the door. They were quickly let in. Geier found Shaykh Hassan, two men in clerical robes and several elderly women huddling in an empty room.
The archeologist took charge, giving orders to the brothers to take up defensive positions. He approached Shaykh Hassan and bowed low.
“He says he is pleased to see us. I explained that we shall take him by car to our own safe house. The Brothers that rode with us will lead the Shaykh’s kinsmen over the rooftops to safety in a nearby mosque.”
There was a brief exchange between the Brothers.
“el-Telmesany does not believe that the Shaykh will leave them behind. What should I say?”
Geier thought for a moment. “We have just enough time. Have the Brothers lead the others to safety, and then they can come with us if they do not trust us with their leader.”
Altheim’s forceful presence prompted quick action and soon the Brothers had returned from leading the women and clerics to safety. They now raced back onto the street, guns drawn, and packed into the Peugeot. Once again three men had to cling to the outside -- two from the rear corners, and the largest man on top of the hood brandishing a Thompson submachine gun. Eppler started the engine and accelerated down the street, leaning out his window to see the road.
After what seemed like several minutes, he felt the car come to a quick stop. Up ahead, Geier could see not the white plaster homes of Azbakeya but the Al-Rifa’i Mosque. Unnumbered thousands of Egyptians were in the plaza now.
el-Telmesany was shouting something at Eppler in Arabic.
“Get out here,” Litz said. “Tell him we have to change vehicles.”
The Germans got out of the Peugeot, pulling Shaykh Hassan and el-Telmesany with them. The three Brothers that had been riding on the outside leapt off and conferred with the two leaders. They were at the outer edge of the crowd.
Geier’s heart was pounding. “Altheim!” Time seemed to dilate as he stood next to the car, trying to block from his mind the noise from the crowd in the plaza. “Altheim! Where are you?”
“What?” Altheim made his way out of a thick and angry mass of people. His suit jacket was missing and his toupee gone, revealing a glistening bald head.
Geier pointed. In the direction of Phillips Post, a trail of brown smoke was winding into the sky. Scanning the horizon, he could make out over the palms and rooftops the signs of several other fires throughout the city. The archaeologist nodded his approval.
Anxious crowds surround a library mysteriously set on fire on July 12.
The nearby roar of an engine drew Geier’s attention over his shoulder. A large truck, painted with the insignia of the British Army came to a stop just short of the Peugeot. Four men in pith helmets and khaki leapt out of the canvas-covered bed with rifles raised.
The three armed Brothers sprang between the soldiers and Shaykh Hassan, but the truck’s driver dispatched them with a pistol before they could even raise their weapons.
“Hassan al-Banna,” called a man in the uniform of a British sergeant, “surrender immediately and you will not be harmed.”
A second man shouted something to the stunned crowd in clumsy Arabic. Even Geier caught the meaning: Do not interfere.
el-Telmesany was frantically screaming something at Eppler, who clamped a forceful hand over his mouth.
“Do not shoot!” Altheim waved a handkerchief at the men.
“Stay where you are!” the driver called back. “We will come to you.” The four soldiers approached quickly. “Do not resist in any way. We will not harm you.”
Altheim complied and allowed his hands to be bound by one of the soldiers.
Likewise the other three Germans were bound by the wrists, followed by the Shaykh and el-Telmesany after some reassurance from Eppler. Geier scanned the crowd. He did not see anyone armed. Why don’t Litz and Altheim look more fearful?
They were quickly bound and all six men loaded into the back of the truck. Two of the soldiers stood guarding them, weapons at the ready. The bound prisoners sat on crates in the truck’s bed. The far wall, closest to the cab, was made up of a giant rack of brandy bottles. Geier made eye contact with Litz, who was sitting next to el-Telmesany. In an undertone: “Don’t let him try anything stupid and hit someone with one of those bottles. I know he’s contemplating it.”
The truck lurched forward, but stopped just before exiting the plaza.
A third soldier swung up into the truck bed and pulled el-Telmesany out. Geier leaned out the back to see el-Telmesany being helped into the car of a passing Egyptian doctor. The crowd was racing towards the stopped truck like a living carpet. The three soldiers came back in -- this time dragging out he bound Shaykh and throwing him to the ground behind the truck’s fender. Geier turned around and returned to his seat. He drew a deep breath. The shot reverberated in the enclosed space. Out of the corners of his downcast eyes, Geier saw the three men hurl themselves back into the truck as it roared out of the square. Each fired a few rounds into the pursuing mob before the truck made a wide turn and they were at last out of sight.
“Well done, Leutnant Leyer,” Litz said.
The man in the British sergeant’s uniform turned and saluted. “Gamma team would not allow Operation Sphynx to fail, Herr Litz... May I?” He held out his hand toward Litz, pointing with the other toward the rack of bottles. The agent obliged. “We finished a whole rack like that one on our way to you this morning, Herr Litz.” He pulled from his pocket a thin strip of sandpaper and struck it against a storm match taped to side of the Brandy bottle. A bright yellow flame hissed to life in the shaded interior of the truck. “Gasoline and powdered rubber.” In a single motion, Leutnant Leyer sprang to the back of the truck and hurled the bottle at a passing building. Geier saw a large tarry fireball blossom from the spot where it shattered.
Anton Leyer, pictured here in the western deserts of Egypt after Operation Sphynx’s Gamma team crossed British lines posing as lost mail couriers.
The other four members of Gamma team in Cairo, pictured with a local boy who acted as their guide. They were all Luftwaffe men placed under the Abwehr’s Section III specifically for Operation Sphynx. Photo taken by Leyer, early July, 1936.
All around them, Cairo was slipping quickly into chaos. Violence was spreading throughout the city, as fires spread and furious crowds took to the streets in ever-greater numbers. The smoke and noise had begun to draw curious Cairenes by the tens of thousands, many of whom lived in the slums that surrounded the city proper. The destruction of the Al-Rifa’i Mosque and the murder of Hassan al-Banna -- both seemingly at the hands of the British -- would surely set them to violent uprising.
Even if the riots in Cairo were ultimately suppressed, as Geier had little doubt they would be, the disruption and distraction caused to the British in Egypt might prove crucial to the success of the Italian armies fighting in the Libyan desert. He smiled to himself. Operation Sphynx had been unexpectedly successful. Operation Pharos would soon follow it, but these nine men would play no part.
Now only 150 kilometers of mostly open country stood between the Germans and the Italian submarine waiting for them off Gamasa.
Almost too quickly for Geier to realize, he heard a series of gunshots, then the sound of snapping wood. A destroyed checkpoint came into view behind the truck. Was it the one he had passed through the day before as Mr. John Thorpe? It was already too small and too distant for him to tell.
Chapter III: The Lion’s Den
Part VIII
July 11, 1936
“Your name?” the Egyptian guard asked in thick, phlegmy English.
“John Thorpe.”
“Your papers?”
They were handed over without comment.
“Mr. Thorpe, who is young man with you?”
“He is my servant and interpreter.” He gestured toward this second man, who was sitting in the passenger seat of the Ford Model C Ten .
“What is his name?”
“Hussein. Hussein Gaffar.” The second man, in traditional Egyptian dress, nodded vigorously.
“Does he have papers?” The guard was eyeing the two men far more intently than was called for.
“No.”
Leaning over lip of the checkpoint’s window, the guard spat on the ground. “Where did you come from and to where is your destination?”
“Alexandria by ship. Going to see a colleague at the American University in Cairo. I’m from Cambridge, you see.”
The guard spat a second time. “Go through.” He raised the gate and waved them through.
There was silence in the car for several minutes, as it wound its way into the northern suburbs of Cairo.
“I think that was the last checkpoint,” the man in the passenger seat said in German.
John Thorpe, otherwise known as Fritz-Albert Geier, nodded with relief.
He was an Abwehr Agent (Section III) -- tasked with leading one team of Operation Sphynx, one of the Abwehr’s first attempts at carrying out Hitler’s directive to “inflame the entire Mohammedan world” against the British Empire.
And so, he traveled under the fictitious name John Thorpe, which was apparently associated with a very real Briton who had drowned in Canada ten years earlier. His papers looked eminently legitimate -- painting a convincing but utterly spurious picture of an upper-crust academic traveling to Cairo on some errand about a Nubian tribe that evidently fancied themselves to be long-lost Hungarians. He had, at least, been truthful with the checkpoint guard about his education, having read Economics at Emmanuel College, Cambridge just before the outbreak of the Great War. He had served for a year on the Alpine Front before being sent home with serious stomach ulcers, and served out the rest of the war in Berlin. There he had the married, and through his young wife made the acquaintance of a bright law student named Hans Bernd Gisevius. They had remained friends, and when in 1935 Gisevius was first courted by the Abwehr he had immediately recommended Geier for a position, citing his natural intelligence, professionalism and fluency in four languages. After Gisevius was made an agent, he had introduced Geier to Canaris, who personally recruited him just after the Belgian Crisis. And so, with the outbreak of war in April he had been sent into France, performing admirably behind enemy lines and winning enough of Canaris’ confidence to be assigned a position of leadership in Operation Sphynx. Unrest had been stirring in British-administered Egypt ever since the entry of Italy into the war, and Sphynx was Canaris’ bid to bring it to a rolling boil. Geier felt the weight of many eyes upon him.
The man in the passenger seat grunted, fanning himself as scorching waves of foul-smelling air entered the car’s open windows. Geier heard him mutter something derogatory about the Egyptians’ capabilities in the area of public sanitation.
This was Johannes Eppler, a German Jew who had been raised in Alexandria and Cairo following his mother’s remarriage to an Egyptian. At twenty-two, he was one of the youngest men in the Abwehr, but his fluency in Arabic and ability to pass as an Egyptian had already proven invaluable to the mission.
Johannes Eppler, some time after insertion. Early July, 1936.
Eppler was now giving rapid-fire directions as Geier took the car deeper and deeper into the warren of twisting streets that formed the district of Azbakeya.
“At last! Yes, good, Herr Geier. This is the street.”
The car nosed through the crowded street at a crawl. Geier winced as a camel stuck its curious mouth into his window. More smells assaulted him now. Human waste was now joined by a cloying blend of spices -- cardamom, cinnamon, cloves and several others he didn’t recognize.
The Azbakeya district bustled with activity, as people, carts and automobiles choked its streets each day to do business.
If Eppler was right about the street, they would be looking for the single-story building with three carpets hanging from the roof: black, white and red. Geier spotted it several minutes later without much difficulty. The street was not wide enough to accommodate true parking, so he just pulled the car as close to the building as possible, leaving as little space as possible between the gas cap and the wall so as to discourage would-be siphoners.
He slid out Eppler’s door and the two men made their way to the door. Before they could even knock, a figure emerged in billowing brown robes and a completely hooded face. He led them inward.
With a firm thud the door closed behind them and the man threw off his hood. It was Robert Litz, Agent (Section III). “Heil Hitler.”
They were in a low-ceilinged parlor furnished in the Egyptian fashion -- thick rugs, dark wood and overstuffed fabric furniture. Little sunlight penetrated the room.
Geier’s eyes began to adjust. Litz showed them to the low couches and poured each a cup of tea.
It was pleasant-tasting and a relief to his parched throat. “Good to see you here Robert. Is Gamma team ready?”
“Yes. Now that you have made it here, everything is ready.”
They drained their cups quickly. Litz called hoarsely into another part of the house. They heard footsteps, and a fourth man ambled into the room.
Franz Altheim, an academic and archeologist of some small note, made up the other half of the team led by Litz. Altheim was a queer-looking fellow, with large ears and deeply hooded eyelids. When Geier had last seen him in Taranto, Altheim had been bald with a mangy beard. Now he was clean-shaven and wore an expensive toupee and tailored suit. He was to be Operation Sphynx’s emissary to the society of Islamic dissidents who were integral to success of the mission.
Franz Altheim, early 1936.
“Mr. Thorpe, you look well,” Altheim crooned.
Geier nodded.
“Our Mohammedan contact,” the archeologist said, “just confirmed the meeting. It would be well if we departed right away.”
“Very well.” Geier nodded to Eppler, who produced a sack from under his robes and began to dole out fresh high-denomination Egyptian pound notes. Litz give each man a loaded revolver. They piled into the C Ten -- this time with Eppler at the wheel -- and made for the heart of the Egyptian capital. It was easy to become disoriented by the blazing afternoon sun or the tangled streets and Geier gave up even trying to memorize the way back to the safe house. He closed his eyes.
Along with Eppler, he had been inserted by an Italian submarine along the coast near Gamasa nearly a week before. Litz and Altheim had been inserted by a different submarine further west at the end of June. Each team had used forged papers to travel south, by train and by Abwehr-arranged car, making their way at last to Cairo. They had been lucky so far -- seemingly not having aroused suspicion from the British authorities.
Geier was awakened by the lurch of braking. “Here we are,” called Eppler.
From a nearby minaret, a muezzin began to sing the lilting, alien call to prayer. “Asr,” noted Altheim. “Afternoon prayers. Let us wait here before proceeding.”
Some time after the final notes had faded from the wind, they got out of the car and looked around. They had arrived at a small but well-maintained annex to what appeared to be a school. The whole area was overlooked by the dome of the great Al Rifa’i Mosque. It was a tall sandstone-colored structure, with a stately square profile. On one side, the burly corners rounded in a massive column that rose twice the height of the mosque to form its principal minaret. From there, one could look out over much of Cairo, including the residential neighborhood where they now stood. The streets were virtually empty. Geier placed his fingers on the revolver concealed in his suit jacket. Fear of the unknown.
To appearances, the party consisted of two westerners -- Geier as a Briton and Altheim as a Finn -- with Litz as a Cypriot and Eppler as an Egyptian. There are many such groups of men in Cairo. The British will not be alarmed.
Eppler led them through a plaster archway and into a small colonnaded court.
Several robed men stood within, talking with one another in a small group. They took no notice of the newcomers.
“What do we do, Hussein?” asked Geier in English.
“Patience. I am sure that our friends will meet us here, sadiq.”
Geier flicked his head around, scanning the many darkened doorways that opened onto the court. He couldn’t see anyone. Listening to the low conversation of the Egyptians, the four spies simply waited in silence.
“Maybe we should ask them to help us.”
“No,” Eppler said. “We must --”
“We must speak to the dissidents. That is what we must do. Just confirm that this is the right place.”
Eppler swallowed and strode forward, Geier behind him. When they were very close, one of the men turned to face them. His eyes were a milky shade of blue.
“He is blind. They are all blind.” Eppler exchanged a few brisk words of Arabic with them. “They are employed singing the daily calls to prayer from the tops of the minarets.” The man who had turned to face them leaned close to Eppler and said something else. “He says that --”
“Salaamu Alaykum!” Behind them, an Egyptian was pacing rapidly toward Altheim from out of one of the doorways.
“Wa ‘Alaykum As-Salaam.” Returning the greeting, the archeologist shook the man’s hand three times.
This latest Egyptian wore a western-style suit and tie, with the traditional tasseled red tarboosh cap.
“Herr Gregor, I would like you to meet the man who has been my contact with our Egyptian friends. May I present Omar el-Telmesany.”
Shaking el-Telmesany’s hand, Geier shot Altheim a look. Gregor? Evidently the archaeologist had coined a new alias at a whim. Geier imagined Litz also wincing under his hood at Altheim’s lack of caution.
There was a fluid stream of Arabic from el-Telmesany. “Please my brothers,” Eppler translated, “come with me. Shaykh Hassan is very eager to speak with you.”
He led them out of the open-air court and through the doorway from which he had come. The followed him through a narrow tiled hallway, and up a short flight of stairs. A left turn. Geier looked out to his right, where a row of narrow windows overlooked the street that they had parked on. At last this gallery terminated at a heavy wooden door. el-Telmesany said something unintelligible and the door swung open.
Several men dressed like el-Telmesany sat in a square chamber, illuminated by a high window with a wooden latticework that cast patterned shadows onto the whole room. One of them showed the Germans to seats at the near side of a table that dominated the small space.
el-Telmesany introduced them to his companions in Arabic, identifying Eppler and Litz as their interpreters. The man sitting directly across from Geier, he was told, was the esteemed Shaykh Hassan -- founder and leader of the Muslim Brothers.
Hassan al-Banna, founder and General Guide of the Muslim Brotherhood.
He was not a large man, but held himself well. The Shaykh had a youthful face and neatly trimmed beard, listening with great interest as Eppler introduced Altheim as their emissary and explained the procedure for translation -- Altheim would speak to Shaykh Hassan in Arabic so as to assure the Egyptians as to the veracity of what was being said, and Eppler would translate into German for the benefit of “Herr Gregor.”
Good catch, Eppler.
Altheim drew several deep breaths and addressed the Muslim Brothers in Arabic.
Eppler took it all in. “He thanks the Shaykh for the meeting. Several compliments. Then: ‘Did Britain grant independence to Egypt?’ he asks.”
Shaykh Hassan looked puzzled that such a thing was being asked, but slowly nodded. “Na’am.”
“‘Yes.’ ‘When did this occur?’”
Another short reply in Arabic.
“He says it was in 1922 that this occurred.”
The archaeologist nodded gravely.
“‘But you are not free,’ Altheim says. ‘The British still dominate this country after fourteen years, and march army soldiers through the streets of Cairo.’”
The Shaykh’s jaw hardened.
“‘The British have brought this war to Egypt. Egypt did not declare war on Italy or Germany. Yet even now, Italian soldiers are advancing deeply into Egypt. Do the British defend the people? No, they raze villages to construct their defenses. Do they respect the religion of Egyptians? No, instead they erode proper religion and promote atheism and greed.’”
After some reflection, Shaykh Hassan responded at length.
“The Shaykh agrees with these things. He says -- he says that it is the hope of the Muslim Brothers to bring about self-governance under Islamic laws and principles. The rule of the British Empire has corrupted the proper religion of the people and has stripped Egyptians of their dignity.” Eppler cleared his throat. “Now Altheim is assuring him that it is the intention of the Pact of Steel to drive the British out and restore the rightful independence of the Egyptian people. He would like to see Islam respected and colonialism abolished. Neither the Italians nor the Germans have any permanent territorial ambitions in Egypt.”
Shaykh Hassan looked pleased. Several other Muslim Brothers voiced their approval.
“Altheim is explaining the objectives to them now. He explains that the calm in Egypt has allowed the British to use all of their forces against the Italians, and that the decision of the campaign is now in the balance. He says that it is critical that British forces be drawn away. Shaykh Hassan asks him how. Altheim replies -- replies that there must be unrest throughout Egypt, but starting in Cairo. Whatever unrest can be achieved: ‘demonstrations, protests, riots, uprisings,’ he says.”
Geier and Litz watched the Shaykh intently, trying to judge his reaction. Slowly, he began to nod in support. So did the others with him.
Altheim wasted no time in trying to close the deal.
“He is asking how many men the Shaykh can promise to the expulsion of the British.”
Shaykh Hassan turned to confer with the others -- el-Telmesany seemed to be reciting a list of some kind -- before speaking. “He says that the Muslim Brotherhood numbers more than two thousand committed members. He says perhaps a thousand of these will be ready to take up arms in violent struggle. Now Altheim asks them how soon these men can be ready... ‘Tonight, if necessary,’ he answers.”
“Hussein,” said Litz. “Ask Shaykh Hassan if he has any mechanics.”
Eppler asked the question, but the Egyptians seemed unsure of what he was driving at.
“Ask them if they have anyone who can take apart an automobile... He doesn’t have to know how to put it back together, just take it apart.”
With liberal use of hand gestures, Eppler’s Arabic managed to convey Litz’ meaning. Shaykh Hassan nodded.
“He says that one of the Brothers owns an automotive garage not far from here.”
“Tell the Shaykh, then, that we will depart from here by hired car, leaving the Ford with him. Tell him that they are to take it to this garage tonight, and when they are sure no one can see their work, disassemble every piece of the car. They will find more than two hundred firearms, which they must be ready to use. Within the rear seat bench they will also find a radio set and printed Arabic instructions for its use. We will use this to contact them. They must get it working immediately.”
Three hours later, the two teams had made it back to the safe house in Azbakeya. Geier, Litz and Altheim conferred in the parlor.
Thee archaeologist was quite optimistic. “Hassan seems quite charismatic, in an Egyptian sort of way. I spoke, Herr Geier, with people on the street all yesterday, learning about the reputation of the Muslim Brothers. It seems that he is held in very high regard as a spiritual leader even by those who are not actually members of his organization.”
“Good. Do you think they will be able to truly fight?”
“I do. The Muslim Brothers are not soldiers -- being rather primarily artisans, laborers and teachers -- but their fervor immunizes them to fear.”
Litz lit a cigarette. “I have doubts.”
“About what?” Altheim looked at him sourly.
“The size of the garrison, for one. Speaking only of the British soldiers that we know about, there are a thousand men from the East Yorkshire Regiment quartered across three different posts throughout the Old City. Then three times that number of colonials at Giza. Things will have to spread quickly if this is to turn into a general insurrection -- of the sort that would require additional troops above the four thousand.”
The archaeologist’s brows furrowed. “Admittedly I am not a military expert but it seems that even with tens of thousands of civilian rioters, there would be very little prospect of taking Cairo.”
“Remember, though,” Litz said, “that our objective is not to capture Cairo, but merely to cause as much chaos and unrest as possible. A military and political center of its importance is vital to the working of the entire British administration in Africa and the Near East. If they have to burn half of it down, kill hundreds of its inhabitants and alienate the rest to hold onto it, all the better.”
Geier sat silently, reflecting. “So are you sure that the first act should still begin tonight?”
“Yes. Even if not, to call it off at this point we would have to contact the --”
“Of course, of course. I am just worried that the Brothers might have trouble with the radio.”
“Hah!” Altheim scowled. “You do not give them enough credit. They are not savages. Some Brothers have been to Cambridge just as you have!”
“All I am saying,” Geier said, “is that I shall be more confident when I hear from them.”
“As will we all,” said Litz placatingly, “but for now we must eat and then rest.”
The two teams dined on fresh fruits and roast goat purchased by Eppler at the nearby market, with a vanilla tea brought from the Italian naval base at Taranto. When they had finished, Altheim produced a small bottle of champagne and poured some for each of them. “Much success.”
Together: “Much success.”
They dispersed to their beds, taking care to draw the curtains closed as tightly as possible. The sun had not yet set.
Geier awoke to Litz shaking him.
“It has begun.”
The darkened bedchamber swam before Geier’s eyes. It took him several seconds to remember where he was. “What?”
“el-Telmesany just got through to Eppler on the radio. The Al Rifa’i Mosque is ablaze.”
Geier nodded.
“They want to know what to do.”
“Tell Eppler to tell them to gather in force. We’ll be there as soon as we can.” Geier realized that that might be some time. The logistics of caching the weapons in the body of the C Ten left Operation Sphynx without transport of its own for the time being. It was an planning error of the sort that they could not afford to suffer again.
Some two hours later, the Germans were speeding through Cairo towards the mosque in the first car they could find -- a battered French Peugeot Type 201 for which one of the safe house’s very groggy neighbors had accepted two thousand pounds cash. There was a dull amber glow in the sky in the direction of the Old City. As they drew nearer, they found the streets gradually filling with people heading on foot toward the scene. Still others, mainly young boys and adolescents, were running away from the direction of the fire, rousing neighbors and friends from bed to come to the Al Rifa’i Mosque.
As Eppler took the car around a curve, it came into view. Bright orange tongues of flame licked up through the great mosque’s cracked windows. The glow from the fire illuminated a thick gray cloud of smoke that rose hundreds of feet into the night sky. Some parts of the façade sloughed off in great sheets, crumbling on the ground below. Embers from the conflagration had taken hold in many of the palm trees in the plaza around the mosque; they now burned like giant torches. Here and there, blazing fronds tumbled in the wind -- sometimes burning to ash in midair, and a few landing amongst the crowding throngs around the mosque.
Al-Rifa’i Mosque (left), before its destruction.
“Stay in the car!” barked Litz. “Don’t anybody get out! Hussein, take us in closer.”
Eppler drove up a curb and onto the lawns behind the mosque, where a thick crowd of hundreds had gathered just out of range of the falling debris. Through his window, Geier could see the rage and grief on their faces. Nearby, a man with a thick black beard was being restrained by three other men, tearing almost out of his clothes in an attempt to rush into the conflagration.
Geier’s eyes were drawn to a dark, chanting mass ahead. It was an unbelievably dense swarm of men -- crowding around something, it seemed, for from the way they were standing there was a gap at their center. He felt a clammy sensation deep within his throat.
“Don’t go any further,” Litz warned. “Try to get el-Telmesany on the radio.”
After several minutes: “Nothing.”
Not long after he had said this, an Egyptian knocked on the Peugeot’s window. It was not el-Telmesany, but Geier recognized him as one of the others who had been sitting next to Shaykh Hassan the day before.
Eppler lowered the window and there was a short exchange. “This is Abdul el-Maak. He says that Shaykh Hassan has massed an immense force that is at this very moment moving toward the mosque.
There were relieved exhalations of breath in the car.
“Ask him,” Geier instructed Eppler, “what is going on up ahead with all those men.”
When Eppler relayed the question, el-Maak’s face convulsed violently. Then words moved by an anger so strong that even in the darkness Geier could see his forehead purpling.
“It is... A hateful, most hateful graffito. A most hateful British Imperialist graffito that was scrawled on the sacred pavers before the mosque. A hateful, hateful outrage.”
Geier did his best to display appropriate shock and indignation.
“el-Maak asks you what you will seek to do when the full force is gathered.”
“Tell him that we will try to overwhelm the British army post three blocks from here. It only has two hundred men, and though they may cause casualties, we will be able to arm ourselves with their weapons. Surely some will also become hostage prisoners to be bargained with.”
el-Maak soon ran off to spread word of this. Minutes passed. Half an hour. Still sitting on the middle of the mosque’s lawn in a flimsy French sedan, Geier became increasingly nervous. “Where are they? Where are the Muslim Brothers? Where is their huge force?”
The others were silent.
“I’m getting out. Eppler is coming with me.” The two of them burst out of the car. Geier drew his revolver. He could see that the crowd had begun to move in the direction of the army post.
“Salaamu Alaykum!” Geier turned. el-Telmesany was bounding up to him, carrying a Boer War-surplus rifle.
“I am very happy to see you. About how large has the crowd become?”
Eppler relayed his query.
“He says there are forty-seven of them.”
“What?” It couldn’t be.
“Forty-seven Muslim Brothers have arrived to take part in an insurrection.”
The eager little Egyptian was standing there as though forty-seven would not be a disappointing figure at all.
Geier swore. Thousands. They said thousands. Struggling to regain himself, he dispatched el-Telmesany to gather all the fighters around the Peugeot -- then sprinted back to the window to relate this development to Litz and Altheim, who were equally dismayed.
With a splitting rumble, the dome of the mosque collapsed onto itself.
“What do we do?” Geier wondered aloud, ignoring the renewed wails from what remained of the crowd.
Litz paused. “What do you mean?”
“That other man... el -- el-Maak -- just went off trying to start an attack on the army post. Which I thought would be possible if the Muslim Brothers had rallied three or four or five thousand people, many of them armed. As it is, we’ve got probably two thousand sightseers in pajamas. They’ll start to riot, and that will alert the British that an insurrection is afoot, and then they can crush it before we can get organized!”
“Both of you listen!” Altheim held his hands up. “Drive me up to the front of the mob and I’ll speak to them -- I’ll put a stop to it.”
Eppler started the engine, and surrounded by the forty-seven Muslim Brothers who had mustered around the car, began to press through the crowd. The three blocks was desperately slow going, and it had begun grow light in the eastern sky by the time the army post was in view. To Geier’s great surprise, he found the scene relatively peaceful. I line of British soldiers stood atop the compound’s rampart with their rifles out. On the street below, a cleric stood atop a wooden crate chanting to a crowd that Geier estimated as perhaps now no more than eight hundred. They were not armed. Even with more men, it would be impossible to start a proper riot without weapons.
Eppler listened silently for a time. “Translated roughly, he is shouting, ‘Why do you not leave Egyptians in peace? Why do you not leave Egyptians in peace? The widows and the orphans call out to live in peace!’”
The crowd chanted back, pumping fists angrily into the air. Geier saw that some of the native Egyptian police had joined in the protest. He was struck by an idea.
“Omar!” He called to el-Telmesany. “Hussein! Tell him that his men are to storm the police station that we passed on the way here.”
el-Telmesany acknowledged, and Eppler threw the 201 into reverse, following the Muslim Brothers as they made their way upstream through the crowd, back in the direction of the mosque. Dawn was breaking. Over the nearest rooftops, he could see that delicate wisps of smoke still trailed into the sky from what remained of the ancient Al Rifa’i Mosque. The exterior was scorched and blackened, with the facing fallen away in some places to reveal bare masonry beneath.
The Germans got out of the car, trying to take control of the men reaching the police station. It was a squat and thick-walled brown building. Metal bars covered the narrow windows, through which nothing could be seen. Geier jumped to hear a loud report from just over his shoulder and see a puff of plaster chip off the outer wall near the heavy front doors. He turned, grabbing the rifle of a watery-eyed Muslim Brother and forcing the barrel downwards. He screamed for Eppler to tell everyone to hold their fire.
el-Telmesany had rolled himself a cone of fish paper as a makeshift megaphone and approached the entrance, calling on the police officers within to surrender and join the insurrection against the British.
There was a sharp crack and Geier felt everyone around him flinch. He looked around himself. The man whose rifle he had deflected was standing dully in the spot where Geier had last seen him, rifle still pointed at the street beneath him. What...
el-Telmesany was hopping on one foot with a pained grimace on his face. Before Geier or Litz could call them off, the Muslim Brothers began firing whatever weapons they had at the police station. Geier clenched his teeth. At last he saw, crystallized, his suppressed misgivings about arming the Brotherhood and expecting its members to fight credibly without training. Now, they were wasting hundreds of precious rounds shooting at a fortified building.
“Stop! Stop! Qif! Qif!” Geier desperately tried to wave them off. “Don’t shoot unless you can see someone!”
They did not hear or understand. Those who had guns stood or knelt, firing round after round at the police station. Those without guns hurled rocks or debris -- all with little apparent effect.
The police station was fortified against whatever the Muslim Brothers and the crowd that had trailed after them could find to attack it. It was constructed to thwart escapes and lynch mobs -- and now proved more than a match for this group of rebellious clerks and tailors.
Rioting spread rapidly during the afternoon of July 12.
Geier glanced upward. About a dozen young Egyptians were climbing onto the roof of the police station from that of an adjacent building by way of a rope line. They had begun smashing roof tiles and two were hard at work pulling down the building’s radio antenna.
Casting about frantically for Eppler, Geier found that the young agent had already read his mind. He had gotten the attention of the men on the roof and was now clinging to a rope with which they pulled him onto the roof. Soon the shooting from the crowd had subsided to the point that it was safe for Geier, Litz and Altheim to be pulled onto the roof as well. A gang of young men had succeeded in tearing off the three chimney pots that appeared to cover a shaft down to the kitchen. About five feet down, the shaft was blocked by a metal grate.
A rough hand clasped the shoulder of Geier’s jacket. He turned.
Accompanied by several armed Brothers, el-Telmesany had managed to get onto the roof. A crimson drop of blood filled the wide gap between his front teeth, and looking down, Geier saw that his right shoe had been removed. The bare foot was swollen and streaked with blood from a gunshot wound along the top.
el-Telmesany dropped prone and pulled himself to the lip of the ventilation shaft. Over the occasional pops of gunfire from below, he bellowed something in Arabic to the men inside.
“From what they are saying,” Eppler said for the benefit of Geier and Litz, “these are the Egyptian police who refused to join in the demonstration before the Phillips Post south of here.”
“They are probably afraid,” Altheim said, peering down the shaft, “of the hundred or two men outside that are armed better than they are and shooting at them.” The ricochet of an errant bullet off a flagpole less than a meter over the archaeologist’s head underscored the point.
Litz began rummaging in his pockets. “Hussein, ask them how many men are in the police station.”
“Sixteen.”
“If they all agree to lay down their arms and go home, each man will be given one hundred pounds in cash. Tell them.”
There was a long delay during which those on the roof could here a heated conference going on somewhere off the police station’s kitchen.
At last, a single voice called up through the shaft.
“They have agreed to the terms, stressing our obligation not to harm them.”
A chorus of cheers broke out on the rooftop. Geier and Altheim had themselves lowered to the street, where the archaeologist explained to the swelling crowd in Arabic what had just happened. With el-Telmesany’s help, he was able to ensure that the policemen were not molested when they opened the heavy front doors and marched out in a daze. Altheim paid each man from the money Operation Sphynx had brought to Egypt. As soon as they were gone, the jittery mob poured into the building -- most found weapons to arm themselves with or give to unarmed friends, but a sizable minority took to looting the other effects of the police that lived at the station. The standoff had worn away most of the morning. The British and British-backed Egyptian authorities would be mobilizing now. The operation was lagging behind its carefully-orchestrated timetable.
Geier and Altheim made their way to the building’s entrance, where el-Telmesany and two other Brothers were handing out police clubs to those without weapons. “Tell el-Telmesany to send runners out to all the cities and villages around Cairo -- all the people must be told that the time is at hand to drive out the British. The time is at hand to fight for a free and independent Egypt.”
Altheim relayed this, and soon, young boys could be seen darting off down different alleyways with the news of uprising. The two Germans continued to assist in handing out clubs.
Egyptian Boy Scouts, such as these, took part in the July riots as messengers, stretcher-bearers and lookouts.
With a worried expression, Eppler pushed his way through the crowd to el-Telmesany’s side. He traded a significant look with Geier. A torrent of terse Arabic.
“I have just informed Herr el-Telmesany that I have just received intelligence on our radio. The British have discovered the whereabouts of Shaykh Hassan and have sent soldiers to capture or kill him. We must go to him at once. He says he will lead us to his safe house by the quickest way.”
Shaykh Hassen’s wounded lieutenant opened his eyes fiercely wide, braying for the most heavily armed Brothers to come to his side.
One minute later, el-Maak was leading the armed crowd toward Phillips Post, while el-Telmesany and the four Germans were packed into the Peugeot, careening down narrow streets with three other Muslim Brothers clinging to the car’s exterior. The radio on his lap, Eppler held the wheel expertly -- roaring through mostly-empty streets following el-Telmesany’s directions. Here and there, they passed figures running in the direction of the demonstration at Phillips Post. They sped past the smoldering shell of the Al-Rifa’i Mosque -- now surrounded by a crowd even more vast than that outside the army post -- and deep into a poor neighborhood that abutted the district where they had first met the Shaykh the day before.
Increasing numbers of men poured into the heart of Cairo throughout the day, swelling the two principal crowds by many thousands.
At the first sign of braking, the men all opened their doors and sprang out onto the street. Geier looked back. All except Eppler.
“I’ll wait in the car to guard against thieves.”
el-Telmesany, his foot now almost entirely black and blue, led them up a wooden staircase to a second floor flat and knocked rhythmically on the door. They were quickly let in. Geier found Shaykh Hassan, two men in clerical robes and several elderly women huddling in an empty room.
The archeologist took charge, giving orders to the brothers to take up defensive positions. He approached Shaykh Hassan and bowed low.
“He says he is pleased to see us. I explained that we shall take him by car to our own safe house. The Brothers that rode with us will lead the Shaykh’s kinsmen over the rooftops to safety in a nearby mosque.”
There was a brief exchange between the Brothers.
“el-Telmesany does not believe that the Shaykh will leave them behind. What should I say?”
Geier thought for a moment. “We have just enough time. Have the Brothers lead the others to safety, and then they can come with us if they do not trust us with their leader.”
Altheim’s forceful presence prompted quick action and soon the Brothers had returned from leading the women and clerics to safety. They now raced back onto the street, guns drawn, and packed into the Peugeot. Once again three men had to cling to the outside -- two from the rear corners, and the largest man on top of the hood brandishing a Thompson submachine gun. Eppler started the engine and accelerated down the street, leaning out his window to see the road.
After what seemed like several minutes, he felt the car come to a quick stop. Up ahead, Geier could see not the white plaster homes of Azbakeya but the Al-Rifa’i Mosque. Unnumbered thousands of Egyptians were in the plaza now.
el-Telmesany was shouting something at Eppler in Arabic.
“Get out here,” Litz said. “Tell him we have to change vehicles.”
The Germans got out of the Peugeot, pulling Shaykh Hassan and el-Telmesany with them. The three Brothers that had been riding on the outside leapt off and conferred with the two leaders. They were at the outer edge of the crowd.
Geier’s heart was pounding. “Altheim!” Time seemed to dilate as he stood next to the car, trying to block from his mind the noise from the crowd in the plaza. “Altheim! Where are you?”
“What?” Altheim made his way out of a thick and angry mass of people. His suit jacket was missing and his toupee gone, revealing a glistening bald head.
Geier pointed. In the direction of Phillips Post, a trail of brown smoke was winding into the sky. Scanning the horizon, he could make out over the palms and rooftops the signs of several other fires throughout the city. The archaeologist nodded his approval.
Anxious crowds surround a library mysteriously set on fire on July 12.
The nearby roar of an engine drew Geier’s attention over his shoulder. A large truck, painted with the insignia of the British Army came to a stop just short of the Peugeot. Four men in pith helmets and khaki leapt out of the canvas-covered bed with rifles raised.
The three armed Brothers sprang between the soldiers and Shaykh Hassan, but the truck’s driver dispatched them with a pistol before they could even raise their weapons.
“Hassan al-Banna,” called a man in the uniform of a British sergeant, “surrender immediately and you will not be harmed.”
A second man shouted something to the stunned crowd in clumsy Arabic. Even Geier caught the meaning: Do not interfere.
el-Telmesany was frantically screaming something at Eppler, who clamped a forceful hand over his mouth.
“Do not shoot!” Altheim waved a handkerchief at the men.
“Stay where you are!” the driver called back. “We will come to you.” The four soldiers approached quickly. “Do not resist in any way. We will not harm you.”
Altheim complied and allowed his hands to be bound by one of the soldiers.
Likewise the other three Germans were bound by the wrists, followed by the Shaykh and el-Telmesany after some reassurance from Eppler. Geier scanned the crowd. He did not see anyone armed. Why don’t Litz and Altheim look more fearful?
They were quickly bound and all six men loaded into the back of the truck. Two of the soldiers stood guarding them, weapons at the ready. The bound prisoners sat on crates in the truck’s bed. The far wall, closest to the cab, was made up of a giant rack of brandy bottles. Geier made eye contact with Litz, who was sitting next to el-Telmesany. In an undertone: “Don’t let him try anything stupid and hit someone with one of those bottles. I know he’s contemplating it.”
The truck lurched forward, but stopped just before exiting the plaza.
A third soldier swung up into the truck bed and pulled el-Telmesany out. Geier leaned out the back to see el-Telmesany being helped into the car of a passing Egyptian doctor. The crowd was racing towards the stopped truck like a living carpet. The three soldiers came back in -- this time dragging out he bound Shaykh and throwing him to the ground behind the truck’s fender. Geier turned around and returned to his seat. He drew a deep breath. The shot reverberated in the enclosed space. Out of the corners of his downcast eyes, Geier saw the three men hurl themselves back into the truck as it roared out of the square. Each fired a few rounds into the pursuing mob before the truck made a wide turn and they were at last out of sight.
“Well done, Leutnant Leyer,” Litz said.
The man in the British sergeant’s uniform turned and saluted. “Gamma team would not allow Operation Sphynx to fail, Herr Litz... May I?” He held out his hand toward Litz, pointing with the other toward the rack of bottles. The agent obliged. “We finished a whole rack like that one on our way to you this morning, Herr Litz.” He pulled from his pocket a thin strip of sandpaper and struck it against a storm match taped to side of the Brandy bottle. A bright yellow flame hissed to life in the shaded interior of the truck. “Gasoline and powdered rubber.” In a single motion, Leutnant Leyer sprang to the back of the truck and hurled the bottle at a passing building. Geier saw a large tarry fireball blossom from the spot where it shattered.
Anton Leyer, pictured here in the western deserts of Egypt after Operation Sphynx’s Gamma team crossed British lines posing as lost mail couriers.
The other four members of Gamma team in Cairo, pictured with a local boy who acted as their guide. They were all Luftwaffe men placed under the Abwehr’s Section III specifically for Operation Sphynx. Photo taken by Leyer, early July, 1936.
All around them, Cairo was slipping quickly into chaos. Violence was spreading throughout the city, as fires spread and furious crowds took to the streets in ever-greater numbers. The smoke and noise had begun to draw curious Cairenes by the tens of thousands, many of whom lived in the slums that surrounded the city proper. The destruction of the Al-Rifa’i Mosque and the murder of Hassan al-Banna -- both seemingly at the hands of the British -- would surely set them to violent uprising.
Even if the riots in Cairo were ultimately suppressed, as Geier had little doubt they would be, the disruption and distraction caused to the British in Egypt might prove crucial to the success of the Italian armies fighting in the Libyan desert. He smiled to himself. Operation Sphynx had been unexpectedly successful. Operation Pharos would soon follow it, but these nine men would play no part.
Now only 150 kilometers of mostly open country stood between the Germans and the Italian submarine waiting for them off Gamasa.
Almost too quickly for Geier to realize, he heard a series of gunshots, then the sound of snapping wood. A destroyed checkpoint came into view behind the truck. Was it the one he had passed through the day before as Mr. John Thorpe? It was already too small and too distant for him to tell.
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. Thanks for your patience, though, really 
