The Mule on the Minaret (21 page)

Aziz shrugged. ‘They aren't playing anything that I care to hear.' He had retreated behind his habitual indifference. It was hard to believe that he had been so outspoken on the evening when they had talked of music. But then he had been alone. Reid remembered Rachael's complaint that the two boys could not talk when they were together; the one inhibited the other. Aziz would not talk in the presence of his aunt and uncle.

*   *   *

A copy of Aziz's letter to his friend reached the Istanbul office three days later; three days before it could be expected to reach Ahmed since it would be delayed inevitably by the Turkish censors. Eve entered it in the file and took it down the passage. Sedgwick read it thoughtfully. ‘We've got to take Beirut into our confidence,' he said.

Eve nodded.

‘Is there anything that strikes you immediately about this?' he asked.

‘That Ahmed may not answer it?'

‘Precisely. Would you yourself if you got a letter like this from a casual friend?

‘It does not call for an immediate answer.'

‘Precisely. You would put it away for a week, two weeks, till you had some news to send. You might even not answer at all.'

‘That's so.'

‘Aziz can't expect an answer for a few days; Ahmed has to find the answers to these questions. We have two weeks before we need start worrying; then he'll probably write again. But we must let Beirut know. And there's another point: Aziz may come up here.
If he does, we must ensure that he doesn't go to Ahmed until we have warned him. We've got to find the best way of warning him, and what do you think is, in my opinion, the best way of warning him.'

He paused. She was sufficiently familiar with his methods to recognize this question as rhetorical. He did not expect an answer to it. ‘We'll continue,' he said, ‘with our technique of the purloined letter. You are the one to warn him.'

She opened her eyes wide. ‘Surely that's risky?'

He shook his head. ‘It's far too obvious to be risky; and it has this advantage: if Aziz ever does compare notes with Ahmed he'll find that there has been the same intermediary each time. I don't suppose that he will compare notes, but if he does this will give him confidence. You have to remember that he had no idea who brought up that present. He was simply told that it was a friend travelling by the Taurus. You will give him a changed version of that story. You will say that this man Ismail Hilli changed his mind at the last moment. He had a qualm of conscience, and of fear; it wasn't fair to Ahmed. It might get him into trouble with the Turks so he substituted a genuine present for those secret inks, and flung the original package through the window. He did not want to be connected with the transaction so he asked you to deliver it. Now I know all this sounds highly involved, and if you had a skilful barrister putting you under cross-examination the whole transaction would be torn to shreds in a few minutes. But this young man isn't a skilful barrister. He is by all accounts more than a little dumb. He'll believe what you tell him. He has no training in counter-espionage. He'll swallow it.'

‘And how am I to meet him?'

‘Beirut, through Fadhil, must explain that there has been a muddle and that before he sees Ahmed he must contact you.'

‘But where does he contact me?'

‘The obvious place: your flat.'

‘But, surely . . .'

He interrupted her. ‘There couldn't be a safer place. I had the possibility of this in mind when I suggested that you should share a flat with that girl from the British Council. A number of Turks visit that flat, presumably.'

‘They certainly do.'

‘It is reputed that she is a free-hearted young person with a number of beaux. One more or less would not excite curiosity. We will
give him the telephone number of the Perapalas Otel. He will let you know when he arrives. You then make your own appointment.'

‘I see.'

‘Do you foresee any complications?'

‘Not in the way you put it.'

‘Let's hope there'll be none. And of course there may not be any immediate need of this. It may be a long time before the young man comes up here. Our job is to be ready for him when he does. I'll draft out a letter to the Beirutis.'

‘I still don't see what is the real purpose of this exercise.'

Sedgwick shrugged. ‘It's early days to tell. Let's call it ground bait. We've got this young man in a position where he has to do what we want. We can put the pressure on at any time. It may never come to anything. In the meantime we can keep him upon ice.'

*   *   *

Diana whistled when she registered the letter. She took the file into Reid. ‘Here's a headache for you,' she announced.

He read it, then took it down to Farrar. ‘I'll leave this with you,' he said. ‘Let's have a gossip when you've digested it.'

Farrar was back in his office within ten minutes. ‘Sometimes one can be too clever at this game.'

‘Who's being too clever, we or they?'

‘By “they” do you mean our boys in Istanbul?'

‘Of course.'

‘I'd say it was fifty-fifty. We probably ran a risk in the first place. Whatever we do, we mustn't upset the Turks. And again we worked too fast, suggesting that Aziz should go up to Istanbul after his exams. I'd have liked to have got back a letter from Ahmed first, even though it means writing in our message in secret ink ourselves. As it is, this whole operation with Fadhilhas to be closed down.'

‘Does it matter?'

‘Not very much. Fadhil has to be told. He had better start grumbling about the delay, but he might give Aziz a few more records. I rather like the chap and there's a good deal of trouble on its way to him. Oh, well, it'll be summer soon.'

Spring comes suddenly to the Lebanon. In December when heavy waves had dashed upon the waterfront and in January when winds had swept down from the mountains, when draughts had whistled under ill-fitting doors, when bare floors and stair
cases had been cold under the feet and the Arabs wrapped tight in their djellabahs had huddled over charcoal braziers, Reid had wondered whether winter was not preferable in England where houses were constructed in view of the cold with sandbags to keep out the draughts, with heavy curtains, radiators, open fireplaces. He had never felt so cold, so uncomfortable in England; but Farrar had smiled knowingly. ‘Don't worry, spring will come on the fifteenth of March.'

‘How can you say that? Seasons vary. This may be a bad winter.'

‘It is already. But ask any Arab. He'll tell you the same thing. Spring comes on the fifteenth of March.'

And sure enough, within a week, it happened; one day it was wet and cold, with the skies grey, and with sudden gusts of wind scattering papers across desks, and then, sixty hours later, the sky was blue and the sun was shining, the gardens were bright with flowers and larks were singing; the air was soft and scented. Was not this the promised land of the Old Testament that flowed with milk and honey?

‘Think, plan, act in terms of March 1942,' said Farrar. ‘Well, here we are.'

In the last week in March there was to be a security congress in Damascus, a high level gathering from Palestine, Egypt, Transjordan and Iraq.

‘Let's go up a couple of days before,' said Farrar. ‘There are people we ought to see. We can do with a holiday, and let's take Diana. She needs one, too.'

Damascus, if you went to it straight, was a three and a half hours' drive across the mountains, but in three and a half months Reid had not been outside Beirut.

‘We'll make a scenic tour of this, we'll take in Baalbec,' Farrar said.

Baalbec was deserted; there were no tourists, no guides, no charges for admission. They wandered among the deserted terraces and temples and stared with appropriate awe at the seven majestic pillars that stood against the sky; that perhaps were more impressive now in their lonely abandoned grandeur than they had been when they were part of a complete building; their size was more apparent. They dwarfed the surrounding ruins, as they could never have done in the days when they were part of a symmetrical, harmonious design.

They lunched in Zahlé, at an open-air café beside a river that ran noisily through a tree shaded valley underneath the mountain. The sun fell in dappled colouring across their table. Diana was dressed as though she were on a hitchhike, in dark green velveteen corduroy slacks and a short primrose jacket. She had knotted a pink silk handkerchief in her hair. ‘I'll promise to dress respectably in Damascus,' she assured them.

It was the first time he had seen her so relaxed. ‘I wish I could have seen you in your skiing days,' he said.

‘I looked much like this.'

‘That's what I was thinking.'

They smiled at one another across the table. Farrar noted the smile; for a moment he ruminated, then he reassumed his casual, careless manner.

‘Let's do ourselves very well,' he said. ‘This is all in the course of duty. It is on the house.'

But actually they lunched very modestly. Some of the best Arak comes from Zahlé, and they had an Arak lunch, with mezze and river trout, with little squares of Kibbé and thick black coffee at the end. ‘We'll make up for it tonight,' said Farrar.

They drove in the mid-afternoon across the Bekaa valley.

‘This is where the opium comes from,' Farrar said.

They saw little along the road; occasional military transport, and in the plains a hooded Arab driving a herd of goats. They came into Damascus late in the afternoon; a green oasis in the desert, it had, in spite of the mountains backing it, an air of Oxford with its mosques and minarets and gardens.

‘Shall we see Abana and Pharfa?' asked Reid.

‘You'll see Abana; a trivial stream.'

They were staying at the Omayyed, a hotel built by the French in modern Oriental style. It had wide lounges and deep armchairs and carpets. In its hall there was a vast mural of Syria, showing in relief its links by air and rail and car with Europe. There were advertisements of flights from Amsterdam. ‘That's ironic now,' said Reid.

‘This is even more ironic,' Farrar said. He pointed to the writing desk on which were set out the 1939 instructions as to the dates on which you could post airmail letters to Saigon.

They dined that evening in the French Officers' Club. ‘They still may have some French wine left,' said Farrar.

The Damascus Cercle was very quiet after the Beirut Cercle.
There were not many British officers in Damascus and only a small French garrison. The dining-room was high and dimly lighted but it had an air of France. It was a quiet, cosy dinner. At the end of it Farrar said: ‘Listen now. I hope you two won't mind, but I've a number of old friends here whom I'd like to see. Could you look after yourselves tomorrow, go sightseeing or whatever you like, and then we'll start in fresh on Thursday after breakfast? O.K. Fine.'

A long, long day with nothing to do but loiter. It was the first such day that Reid had had for longer than he could remember. Had he indeed had one since the war?

‘You've been here before, haven't you?' he asked Diana.

‘Only once for half a day.'

‘That's enough to let you act as guide.'

It was a warm, clear day and the sun brought a glint of gold into the high ochre brown mountains that screened the city from the northern winds. They went to the Souks first. ‘They are arranged in sections, according to the trade,' she told him. ‘This, by the way, is the street that was called straight.'

There was a steady roll of noise, the rattle of harness, the tinkle of camel bells, the honking of horns, the raising of impatient voices, the murmur of gossip. Cabs and carts and camels jostled pedestrians into the gutter. But the salesmen in the small theatres of their shops contributed little to the general din. They sat impassive among their goods, cloth or corn or leather; spices or silks or carpets; they were wrapped in heavy, coarse, brown cloaks, usually with the peaked headdress lowered over the shoulder, the head protected by a tightly fitting skull-cap. They did not solicit custom, though they bargained endlessly; that was their game and they enjoyed it. But their pride would not allow them to invite refusal. If you were interested in their goods they would display them for as long as you chose to look, in a spirit of Arab hospitality. Their time is yours, you are their guests. They do not press you to buy. Sometimes they will offer you a cup of coffee, but the offer of it entails no obligation. Salesmanship is dignified in the Souks.

‘We're coming to the goldsmiths' section,' Diana said. A succession of gnome-like figures were beating the yellow metal into brooches and bangles that were sold by weight. The yellow under the electric light was so vivid that it seemed unreal. The designs
of the articles were so commonplace and tasteless that you felt you were being offered brasswork in a county fair.

‘This is the street where they sell high-quality goods,' she told him. ‘This is their Rue de la Paix.'

They went into a large silk shop. ‘I must get something here,' he said. The owner spread out a succession of exquisite brocades. Reid took out his wallet. ‘I wish I'd brought more money.'

‘Don't worry about that,' the salesman said. ‘I will always cash a cheque on a British bank.'

‘Even in wartime?'

‘Especially in wartime.'

He hesitated between a red and a pale blue material.

‘Is it for your wife?' Diana asked. He nodded.

‘Is she fair or dark?'

‘She's dark.'

‘Then I should take the red.'

Often in a gap in the Souks would be a doorway, studded with brass.

‘That's probably the home of a rich Damascus merchant; many of them live here in the Souks.' One such house, the Azid Palace, was on show to tourists. It was a large, low building, or rather it was a succession of low buildings with courtyards and fountains playing; off it opened rooms with painted ceilings and rich harmonizing colours. There was a spacious air of leisure and deliberation. It was hard to realize that the din and traffic of the Souks were only a few yards distant.