Blue Damask (32 page)

     Descartes looked worse for wear as well, though his beloved whiskey gave him a distinctive odor unlike the bitter sour smell that emanated from Mr. Sloane.

     “Gentlemen, let’s get you washed up and dressed properly.  I take it the English Quarter in Baghdad is humming with night life.”

     Mr. Sloane agreed. “Jolly good entertainment. Excellent.”

     She took Sloane by the arm, led him to the bench and sat him down.

     Descartes sat heavily on the floor.  “I will sleep now,
cherie.
”  And he did.  His snores were loud in the small room.

     Elsa sharpened Descartes’ razor on the strop and went to work on Sloane.  He enjoyed the attention, leering at her and making kissing noises as she shaved his cheeks.

     “What are you doing here?” he asked her when the razor was a safe distance from his lips.  “Don’t expect to see German women in the Irak.”

     “I am an adventurer, Mr. Sloane.”  She told him evenly as she eyed her handiwork.  The hair and mustache matched the passport.  She knew the sentry’s eyes would go there first and if he was asked a question, he might not look at the photo again.  After a good bath and some strong coffee he would be fine.

     By the time Descartes awoke from his nap Mr. Sloane was chatting comfortably with a cup of coffee on his knee and basking in Elsa’s full attention.  She was as charming as possible and had Sloane eager to make his attempt on Headquarters.  She didn’t exactly promise further friendly contact with Mr. Sloane, but she did make carnal suggestions she was not intending to keep.  She felt very mercenary about it.  One must use all of one’s weapons when one was at war.

     Sloane was easy to convince.  He had come to Baghdad after the war to aid in construction of the English buildings and roads and set up telegraph and telephone poles that had been destroyed by the late uprisings.  The pay was not generous, the living conditions were poor and he was eager to return to London.  Marshall’s tie tack and cuff links would get him home in style and keep him until he could find another position.  He was eager.

     She gave Descartes the papers she had drawn up, releasing Henry Sinclair, Lord Sonnenby, from His Majesty’s Mesopotamian Group to Foreign Office Field Agent Archibald Marshall.  She made it look very official.  She had copied Marshall’s signature from the power of attorney.

     Lastly, she carefully pressed Marshall’s heavy silver pocket watch into Sloane’s hand.  She looked him in the eyes and said, “I will want this back when you are finished.  Be sure and pull it out, flip the lid and look at it and say ‘Harumph’ if they don’t pass you through quickly enough.”

     Descartes nodded.  “I will make sure he does.  Do not worry,
cherie
.”

     “I will worry every second you are gone.”  She handed Sloane Marshall’s passport.  “When you show your papers, wait for the sentry to open the book and then ask him how many months he has been in Baghdad, or how long until he gets his leave, or how long Lord Sonnenby has been in confinement.   Asking number questions causes the brain to switch from one task to a very different one and can work to your advantage by confusing him.”  She looked at both men.  “It doesn’t matter what you ask, but it has to be a mathematics question, do you understand?”

    “
I
do.”  Descartes said, then elbowed Sloane.  “Do you understand what she is saying?”

     “Yes.”  Sloane puffed himself up.  He was enjoying the masquerade.  He would impersonate a Foreign Office official and pull a fast one on the Army.  And there was the hundred grams of gold.  He could not stand still.  “Let’s go.”

     “
Bonne chance
,” she murmured as they shut the door behind them.  She sat down in the dark to wait.

     Only two hours later the door burst open and three men entered, two on their feet and one suspended between them.

     Descartes raised his voice, “Get the Luminal,
cherie
, he has gone mad!”

     Elsa did not bother to give him a second opinion.  She flew to her case and fumbled through the papers for the vial and the hypodermic.  Behind her the sounds of the men struggling with Sonnenby were confirmation enough.  She could hear the grunts and the heavy breathing that accompanied a wrestling match.  She turned and held the hypo to the light from the high window, she thumped the chamber with her finger and set the plunger.

     Descartes leaned toward her and turned, Sloane had Sonnenby’s other arm and twisted it behind his back.

     “Hurry
cherie
, he has been worn down, but is still very strong.”

     She slipped past the struggling men, aiming for Sonnenby’s largest muscle.  She waited for a pause in the confused movements of six arms and six legs, worried she might sedate the wrong person.  When the legs stopped moving for a few seconds, she located Sonnenby’s thigh and lunged, stabbing him with the needle and pressing the plunger as hard as she could.

     There was a great roar from Sonnenby and he broke the grip on his right arm and struck at the sting in his thigh.  The hypodermic flew across the room, bounced against the wall and clattered to the floor.  Elsa escaped being struck by backing quickly out of range and climbing up on the brick bench.

     Sloan and Descartes increased their efforts and brought Sonnenby down to the floor and pinned him there.  Sloane across his legs and Descartes on his chest.  They held him there until he stopped struggling.  They released him little by little, limb by limb, first his legs, then his arms one by one.  Sonnenby lay still, staring open-eyed at the ceiling.

     All three men were covered in sweat.  Sloane staggered to his feet and gasped, “
Monsieur
, I have earned my pay.”

     Descartes agreed.  He unbuttoned one of the many pockets in his khakis and removed the small jeweler’s case and handed it to the other man.  “Good work.  You deserve a bonus.”

     “I do.  I will keep the suit.”

     No one objected to that.  Sloane bent to pick up the little bowler that had been lost in the struggle to the floor.  “And the hat.”  He placed it on his head and bowed slightly to Elsa with a hand in his pocket.

     “Madam Germany.”  He handed her Marshall’s watch.  He turned and bowed to Descartes as he tucked the gold jewelry into his trousers.  “Monsieur France.”  He stepped to the door, “Mister England, good riddance.”  He was gone.

     Elsa and Descartes exchanged looks.

     “
Victoire est à nous
,” he said, though he didn’t sound victorious.  He sounded tired.

     “
Gelingen
,” she mumbled.  “It was a victory.”

     “
Vous êtes magnifique,
” he said with a slow smile.

     “No,
monsieur
, I am not magnificent.  I am practical.”  She straightened her robe and stood to re-tie her sash.  “You have accomplished your goal, it is time for me to get to work.”

     She looked down at Sonnenby.  His eyes stared up, unseeing.  He blinked slowly every few seconds and his chest rose and fell deeply and regularly. “
Gott im Himmel
, what is wrong with him?” She didn’t try to keep the exasperation out of her voice.  “Why did he not recognize you and play along? I assumed he would.”

     Descartes shook his head.  “He was wild when they brought him out of the holding cell.  When they took the handcuffs off he started swinging and didn’t stop.  I don’t think he even looked at me.”

     She understood.  “Yet he is not psychotic, I know that.  But after thinking about everyone I have met on this trip, I am beginning to think the whole world is neurotic.”

     Descartes gave a little humorless laugh.  “Job security for you, then.”

     She shook her head.  It wasn’t funny.  “He does not have epilepsy, but it could be something organic.  Some tropical diseases can cause dementia, some parasites—“

     “Ugh,” Descartes said.

     “But he has not been to India or the tropics.  Why didn’t he recognize you?”

     “Malaria?”  Descartes suggested.

     She rubbed her cheek.  “He spent time in Egypt.  Maybe.  The delta is rife with it.  But he has no other symptoms.  He has not been down with fever.  There is no mention of fevers in his files.  It would be there if he suffered paroxysms.”  She stood and walked around Sonnenby’s prone body, looking at him and forcing her brain to come up with a diagnosis.  “He is too lucid most of the time to be schizophrenic.  He does not hallucinate.”

     Descartes shrugged.  “When we were in El Zor he functioned admirably as a soldier.  I could see nothing in his speech or behavior that would suggest he needed a therapist.  I heard the arguments he made to Mehmet.  Admirable.  Well-informed.  Practical.  Not the ravings of a madman.”

     “Yes.”  She had noticed that, too.  She knelt by his chest.  “I think it is extreme anxiety brought on by certain stimuli.  Otherwise he is perfectly normal.”

     “And the violence?  He did not recognize me at Headquarters.  He seemed to go mad when he was released to us, striking at everything and everyone.  You were correct in assuming they would be glad to see him go.  They nearly pushed us out the door.”

     “A panic attack,
monsieur
.  When you and Mr. Sloane were taken to him, was he in a straightjacket?”

     “He was not, but he was in handcuffs and bound around the arms and shoulders with rope to secure him to a chair.”

     She nodded to herself.  “He was subjected to terrible experimental treatments in the asylum.  He reacts badly to being restrained.”

     Descartes snorted.

     She reached out to touch Sonnenby’s cheek.  His eyes did not respond.  “It is some kind of stress disorder related to shell shock, which can be from damage to the brain or a nervous disorder,” she explained to him.  “But I have not seen it like this before. The sudden loss of consciousness could be related to a heart condition.  He is otherwise so healthy.”

     “You will fix it,
fraulein
.  He is counting on it.”

     “I need to tend these wounds now.”  She pointed to the many cuts and bruises evident on his body.  “I assume these are from the fighting in Deir El Zor?”

     “Yes,” Descartes said softly.

     “And you?  Are you injured?”  She glanced up at him.

     “No.”  Descartes said, “I will go to get some food.  There is some clean clothing in my satchel, some cotton you can rip to make bandages.  My francs are running out, however.  My bank is in Damascus.  We are far from there.”

     “Mr. Marshall had some pound notes in his wallet.  Take that.”

     “I will.”

     “Thank you for your help,
monsieur
. 
Merci
.”

     He smiled down on her as he stood and picked up his fedora.  He gave it a slap against his knee and put it on his head.  “I will return with food and drink.  Much drink.”

The little rented room was as unlike Doctor Engel’s infirmary as it could possibly be.  It was unlike a hospital room, or a reception area or a clinic.  Elsa knew the setting didn’t matter.  Sonnenby’s troubles were here and they would be there and they would be with him whether he was on a soft couch in Vienna talking about his mother, or like he was now, lying stretched out on the floor of a mud brick house in Baghdad, flies tormenting him and the lingering oppressive odors of old cooking pots, cooled fires, harsh spices, and unwashed bodies from years of lodgers.

     She wanted cool clean steel and wood and tile in the examining room, fresh white linens and a soft pillow for her patient’s head.  She wanted a pitcher of water and a pot of coffee or tea.  She wished she were wearing her brown suit with her hair swept up and back in a tasteful chignon, a little watch pinned to her breast and in her hands, notebooks and pencils.  She allowed herself these little wishes, acknowledged them to herself and then dismissed them all.

     “Henry,” she said softly.

     He moaned at the sound of his name.  She wrung a cloth in a bowl of water and bathed his face with it.  The phenobarbital would ease his muscles; it was a sedative, not a painkiller, but she knew he would feel nothing for an hour or two.  He should sleep but he might not.

     She could not be certain the exact amount she had injected, it had been so fast.  She checked his pulse and respiration.  He twitched, and his whole body jerked as the muscles responded to the drug.  She put a hand on his thigh to steady the trembling muscles.  A chemical war was raging inside him.  She waited.  Soon he relaxed completely and began to breathe slowly and deeply again.

     She washed his face, then his neck and chest.  She dipped her cloth and wiped his forehead again, smoothing the long forelock back and over his head so she could see his eyes.  They were still not closed, but the eyelids fluttered and his pupils were deeply dilated.  He was breathing through his mouth.  She touched his cheek.  He should have fallen asleep by now.

     “Relax, Henry,” she murmured to him.  “Let me help you.”

     The various bruises on his body were all the colors bruises can be, from the old faded yellow marks from the attack on the train to the fresh black and blue stripes and circles on his arms and chest from the most recent battle.  The stiches on the inside of his arm were intact and the skin had knitted beautifully.  That scar would be long and straight and smooth, with little dots on either side.  He had fresh marks with attendant swellings on one cheekbone and on a scabbed split lip that struggled to heal.  The bump on the left side of his head over his ear was still swollen.  She soaked her cloth and rested it over that scalp wound for several minutes.  That one would have to heal without stitches.  The surgical kit was gone.

     Then she rolled him away from her and removed the remnants of his
thobe
.  His back showed signs of the bullet Marshall had said saved his life.  A ricochet, with reduced energy, had given him a glancing blow, just drawing a stripe across his skin.  It had not been tended.  The bullet had struck him below the shoulder and traveled at an upward angle across his back, skipping the depression of his spine to nick the other shoulder before bouncing off.  It had bled and crusted over.

     She propped him on his side with her knee as she worked on cleaning this wound, careful not to disturb the scabs.  There was some reddening at the deepest part where the bullet had struck with them most force.  She would come back later with something to sterilize that.

     Below his back, the injection site showed a small round red mark, with promise of bruising tomorrow.  Below that his legs were bruised and scraped to the knee.  Below the knee he wore high laced army boots. The boots showed signs of considerable wear on the soles and scuffs on the backs but no damage.  She worked at the long laces until she could pull them off one by one.

     He moved his arms and legs like he might get up.  Removing his boots had revived him.  She remembered, too late, what he has said about the custom of stripping dead bodies. He probably thought the enemy was on him.  She crawled forward and put her hands on his chest.

     “No,” she said.

     “Let me up.”  His words were slurred.  He kicked one leg and dug his heel into the dirt floor ready to brace for a roll.

     “No,” she repeated and leaned over him, hands on his shoulders.  “I want you to rest.  You will feel better tomorrow.  Maybe a headache,” she added reluctantly.  “I can’t be sure how much I gave you.”

     “You drugged me.”  He flashed his dilated eyes and bared his teeth.

     “I had to, Henry, you had become violent.  Don’t you remember? You were going to hurt yourself…and others.”

     He closed his eyes.  It would become more and more difficult for him to fight the sedative.  She moved her hands and stroked the muscles of his arm from the shoulder to the elbow.  The muscles were twitching uncontrollably.  She rubbed them to encourage the circulation that brought the needed enzymes to the cells.  He opened his eyes.

     “Go to sleep, Henry.  Sleep.  Deep breath.  Another one.  Sleep. 
Schlafen, schlafen
.”

     “Stop it, Elsa…” His eyelids fluttered and he sighed again.

     Phenobarbital made a patient highly susceptible to suggestion.  There was little mental resistance.  The desire for sleep would become overwhelming if she continued this mantra.  She waited, patting his arm.  There.  His chest rose with a huge breath, then he exhaled slowly with a soft groan.  His hand came up, searching.  She put hers in it.

     “Go to sleep,” she told him again.  His knuckles were swollen and discolored.  She leaned over his chest to look at the other hand.  His right knuckles were worse than the left.  Cuts and scabs marked the fingers and blisters covered his palms.  She thought about soaking them in some salt water.  That might be the best she could do here.  She looked around the small room, taking inventory.