The Mule on the Minaret (18 page)

Fadhil explained how this could be done. Letters were written with a pen that looked like a safety match. The head of the match was covered with a chemical substance. A pen of this kind could be carried in the slot inside a soft collar which normally held a bone stiffener. The acid that developed this writing could be poured inside a bottle of after-shave lotion.

‘A friend of mine,' said Fadhil, ‘is shortly going up to Istanbul. He will carry the materials; and he will give them to your friend and explain to him how to use them. Your friend will then write to thank you for the presents you have sent him. That is your signal to open operations, and you can begin writing letters that contain questions written in secret ink which your friend will answer. The correspondence can then proceed smoothly. Is that perfectly clear?'

A perplexed look crossed Aziz's face. ‘You are sure that this isn't a black market deal?'

‘It isn't a deal at all, as yet. It's certainly not black market.'

‘Then why should there be the need for this deception?'

‘Because it's wartime. If it weren't wartime, you'd be able to move your money where you chose. It's your own money, isn't it? It's not the government's. They make restrictions in wartime to protect the many; but those restrictions press upon the individual. The individual has to protect himself. You want those records, don't you? There is no reason why you shouldn't have them. This is the easiest way to get them.'

There was a silence.

‘Could this possibly get my friend into trouble?' Aziz asked.

‘How could it? The secret ink matches and the secret acid will not be detected at the frontier. How could they be? Nor will your correspondence be detected, provided the letters are such as two friends could be expected to exchange.'

‘Isn't that against the law?'

Fadhil shrugged. ‘In wartime everything is against the law. A number of stodgy people get themselves good jobs drawing up these regulations: sensible men elude them. Do you think that I, a professor at a University, would lend myself to something that was underhand, that I would imperil the safety and future of a
student? I see your point, of course, I see your point and respect it. If you don't want to help me in this way I shall understand, perfectly; but I do believe that we could help each other. Think it over. Let me know in two days' time.'

Farrar chuckled when the report of this meeting reached him. ‘We've got him. I bet you a hundred to one we've got him. You look distressed, Professor. Yes, I understand, this fellow appeals to you, as one of your own students did. You've been a guest at his aunt's house. The obligations that a guest incurs, I know, I know. But this is wartime.'

‘And who is this reputed friend of Fadhil's who is acting as a go-between?'

‘One of the Pullman porters on the Taurus. We call him Chessman. Most of them are working for one side or another; some of them are working for both; but we trust Chessman.'

‘What happens to the package when it gets to Istanbul?'

‘That's up to our boys in Istanbul. Our job's done when we hand over the package to the Pullman porter. They'll tell us how the case proceeds.'

Half a week later Abdul Hamid reported that Aziz had accepted Fadhil's proposition. He had resisted a little longer on the grounds that his friend would be reluctant to send the information in such a subterranean manner. ‘He will be suspicious. He will not like using this secret ink.'

Fadhil swept away his objections. ‘My friend is very persuasive. Let us leave it to him. In the meantime you must write a letter to your friend, explaining that this friend of yours is shortly visiting Istanbul, asking him to give him any assistance that he may require; a straightforward letter that will not disturb the censor. This kind of thing—'

The letter that Fadhil dictated was intercepted by the censor, photographed, sent on its way and entered in the Aziz file. The letter ran:

‘Dear Ahmed,

‘I am working very hard and the date of my examination is very close. I have so much to say that I have very little to say; nothing that can be said in a few words. But I have found a way of giving you my news. A friend of mine is shortly visiting Istanbul. His name is Ismail Hilli. He has few friends in Turkey and he would be very
grateful for any help that you can give him. He is in the export-import business. He has my complete confidence. Your affectionate friend, Aziz.'

Another document had preceded it in the file. Fadhil had said to Aziz, ‘That is fine; now we are started. In a few weeks we shall be embarked on a correspondence which will prove useful to all of us. I want to prove to you that I can be trusted. Take any two records out of this pile. You can then make a list of the records that you most want. When I go to Cairo I will get them for you. There's one extra point, however. I'll need a receipt for the records that I give you, for income tax purposes. I can then explain to the inspector that you do secretarial work for me. It is more satisfactory if the receipt is made out in money. We avoid complications that way.'

The document that was entered in the file read: ‘Received from Fadhil, 20 Syrian pounds in return for services in connection with trade with Turkey.'

It was dated and it was signed ‘Aziz.'

The letter announcing this operation was opened in the Istanbul office of the I.S.L.O. by an English girl in her early twenties called Eve Parish. She was the youngest daughter of a minor Treasury official. She was small, trim figured, with pale cheeks, brown hair, and hazel-coloured eyes. She was short-sighted and wore large horn-rimmed spectacles. She was not a girl whom men stared at in the streets, but at cocktail parties one man at least would ask to be introduced to her. She had been in Istanbul for a year and was the liaison link between her branch and the British Embassy. She recognized at once that this operation which appeared to have been undertaken very light-heartedly in Beirut had a number of Turkish complications which the Lebanon and Cairo offices had not foreseen. She opened a main file for the operation; she already had files open for the Amin Maruns and for Fadhil. She cross-checked the references to the main file, then took the collection to her office chief.

Her chief was a man of forty, tall, thin, with receding brown hair that had grown grey beside the ears. He had a long thin nose and a tight mouth; he had an air of distinction, but he suggested bloodlessness. His hands were long, with thin-pointed fingers and carefully tended nails. It might be assumed that he was proud of his hands since he displayed them prominently. He did not exactly fidget, but he was invariably playing with some object on his desk, a pen or a paperweight. This playing did not fuss his interlocutors; on the contrary, it put them at their ease. It had a mesmeric property.

He had had no military training. He was a Wykehamist, a scholar of New College, seconded from the Treasury to the Ministry of Economic Warfare, in which capacity he had been posted to Istanbul. He spoke in a slow precise well-modulated voice. He was neither liked nor disliked. It was recognized that he was extremely competent. He was appreciative of work well done. He might have been expected to be sarcastic but he never was. Eve would have felt more at her ease addressing him as ‘Sir', but he insisted on being called by his Christian name, Francis, his full name being Francis Mariott Sedgwick. He was not the head of the section, the head was in Ankara, but he was the most important member of it. In the last Honours List he had received a C.B.E. He was married, and on his desk was a framed photograph of a formidably handsome young woman wearing the feathers of a Court presentation. Eve could not imagine such a formal couple indulging in connubial practices, but the marriage had produced two sons.

Outside his door he had a light that flashed red when he was busy, green when he was free. The light was green. Eve handed him the files. ‘These are marked urgent,' she said, ‘I think they are important.' He nodded. ‘Good.' He looked at his in-tray, and at the engagement calendar on his desk. ‘I have not much on this morning. Come back in half an hour.' He pressed the red light button as she left the room.

On her return he pointed to a chair. ‘Take the weight off your feet,' he said.

He never liked to have anybody standing beside his desk. That was one of the things she liked about him. ‘Well, what do you make of this?' he asked. And that was another of the things she liked about him. He gave his subordinates a feeling of responsibility. They were not cyphers. She had expected to be asked that question, and she had her answer ready. ‘Won't the Turks be annoyed if they find that we, on our own, are making use of one of their employees?'

‘Precisely: they would not like it at all. Any more than we would like it if Turkish Intelligence were to seduce one of our people in Baghdad. It is most important that we should stay on good terms with the Turks. Aunt Mildred is a valued friend. They should have realized that in Beirut. Have you any suggestions?'

‘Only to refuse; to say that the operation is too dangerous.'

He shook his head. ‘This plan has Cairo's backing. We have to take their orders. We want to keep on good terms with Beirut.
Farrar's a clever fellow. The controller thinks a lot of him; besides, there are possibilities in this. We may be able to use this young Turk ourselves. The story's only starting. No, we must retain Aziz without involving the Turkish civil servant. What's his name? Ahmed Bahjat. He must never know anything about it. I haven't worked out the details yet. But my general idea is this: to keep these secret inks here, and send round a message to Ahmed, saying that Aziz's friend has arrived and has brought a present. One of our boys will take round that present. Ahmed will thank him for it. That will be the signal for Aziz to send him letters. We shall know from Beirut what the questions are. Ahmed will get these letters, but he won't know there's any message there in secret ink; he will regard it as a piece of routine correspondence. Fadhil will see to it, however, that it is a letter that requires an answer. That answer will be intercepted by the Lebanese censor, and one of Farrar's boys will write in secret ink the answers to the questions that Aziz sent up. Aziz will develop the letter and hand over the information to Fadhil. In return he will receive a supply of records. Everyone will be happy. Do you see any objections to it?'

She thought. There was only one objection to it that she could see and that was so obvious that it must have occurred to Francis. ‘When Aziz comes back to Turkey, and meets Ahmed, he'll learn that Ahmed knows nothing of this deal in secret messages.'

‘I've thought of that. We shall have to be on our guard. We'll have to intercept Aziz and tell him what has happened. By that time he should be in our power. We can't tell yet how this case will develop. It might be something big. We are not in any hurry.'

‘Are you going to explain all this to Beirut?'

‘Not for the moment. We'll wait till we've delivered a present to Ahmed and he has sent off his thank-you letter to Aziz. When is Chessman due here next?'

‘On Monday.'

‘Good. When he comes we can decide what to do. I shouldn't be surprised if Master Aziz did not provide us with some lively entertainment.'

On Monday Chessman arrived with the secret ink matches and a bottle of acid for developing the secret messages. On the train, in his brown uniform, his braid, his gilt and his peaked cap, he was an impressive personality. But off parade, in a drab suit, with a
soiled shirt and a frayed tie, he looked a depressed member of the white-collar class. He was middle-aged, with a scraggy moustache. He was the kind of man whom you would never notice in a crowd; which was precisely the effect he endeavoured to produce in public. At home he wore a brocaded smoking jacket, a tarboosh, and gilded slippers, as he puffed ruminatively at a large water pipe, in the intervals of sipping at a sweet, very strong coffee.

On his arrival at the I.S.L.O. building he was shown at once into Eve's office. He placed the packet on the table. ‘You know about this?' he asked.

She nodded. ‘Is there anything more you need?' he asked.

‘No, that is all and as always we are very grateful.'

‘In Beirut, they suggested that there might be a special errand in connection with this errand.'

‘We have made different arrangements here.'

‘Very good.' He stood up, hesitated.

She said, ‘I will give you a receipt for Suki.'

Suki was the secretary adjutant of the department. Eve scribbled on a sheet of paper, ‘Chessman's mission completed,' and initialled it. She handed it to Chessman with a smile. In return for that chit, Chessman would receive a sum of money, then Suki would burn the chit. Eve presumed that some tally was kept of these transactions. The office was allowed so much a year out of secret funds, and Whitehall presumed that it was spent advantageously; but if, for security reasons, every chit had to be destroyed the moment the purchase had been made, what was there to prevent Suki from entering in her ledger a larger sum than she had actually paid to Chessman, and herself pocketing the difference, since the entries in the ledger were in code and the ledgers were destroyed each month, only the total being carried forward? Eve wondered, then she smiled, picturing Suki, a prim, angular spinster, who had worked in Turkey before the war on behalf of the R.S.P.C.A. Who could imagine her embezzling public funds, even for the benefit of homeless cats?

Eve walked down the corridor, carrying the package. The light over Sedgwick's door was green. It always astonished her that it should be so often green. Did he take work home at night? He was nearly always accessible. He greeted her with a smile.

‘Well?'

‘Chessman's package.'

‘Good. It may come in handy one day. Sit down, please. Now
what do you think ‘I've been thinking about all this—' He paused. He looked at her with a teasing smile.