Nile Shadows jq-3

by Edward Whittemore

  That's about what I had in mind.

  I'll see to it. Three knocks for the whiskey, two for breakfast.

  Joe turned toward the stairs and stopped, as if a thought had just come to him.

  Oh by the way, would you happen to have something on the first floor up? Heights bother me.

  The large Egyptian reached for another key.

  First floor rear. Smaller, but just as quiet really.

  Joe climbed the stairs and found his room at the back of the building, away from the street. He looked around and then dropped lightly to his knees to peek through the keyhole. He could see the end of a narrow bed, a chair, a table. On the far side of the room was a window with a screen in it. He unlocked the door carefully and dropped the key into his pocket. Then he picked up his valise and held it to his chest. He turned the handle.

  The door burst open under his hand and Joe went flying across the room, hurling his valise at the screen in the window. The screen and the valise disappeared and he dived after them, landing with a roll on the soft earth behind the hotel as a dull thud went off in the room above him. He was on his feet at once, in a crouch, but there was nothing to see. He was standing in a small courtyard strewn with debris. A door behind him led back into the hotel. Another door faced him from the far side of the small courtyard. Joe picked up his valise and crossed to the door in the far wall. He tried the handle and the door opened.

  Stairs led down to a basement.

  At the bottom of the stairs was another door. Joe opened it and found himself in a narrow cellar with a low ceiling. A man was sitting at a table, mostly obscured by the newspaper he was reading. A single naked light bulb burned overhead, a string hanging from it. An electrical cord spiraled down from the fixture to an electric ring at the man's elbow. A kettle was steaming and there was also a chipped teapot and several battered metal cups. Joe dropped into a chair and brushed off the dirt he had picked up in the courtyard.

  Bletchley?

  The man continued to read his newspaper, hidden behind it.

  That's right.

  What went off up there?

  Oh, just a popper. Of course it could have been a bomb.

  Of course. But is that your standard welcoming procedure?

  You might call it that.

  Why the game?

  It's not a game, they just like to know whether you're on your toes or not. There's no room for amateurs out here.

  On my toes, is it? And what did they expect after sending that crazed item to pick me up at the airport?

  The man known as Bletchley peered over his newspaper at Joe, only one of his eyes showing. There seemed to be tears in his eye and there was something wrong with his expression, something very wrong.

  But his head disappeared again and Joe didn't have time to make out what it was.

  Is he crying? wondered Joe. Why is he hiding like that?

  Vivian must have been in an expansive mood this morning, said the man known as Bletchley. He's an old music-hall trooper, an actor by profession, and he can put on quite a show when he has a mind to.

  Perhaps you caught his fancy, or perhaps he's just bored these days. Cup of tea for you?

  Thanks.

  The teapot disappeared behind the raised newspaper.

  How many sugars?

  None.

  It is just sugar.

  I'm sure, but I don't take any.

  Get your share through the drink, do you?

  Something like that.

  A metal cup, a hand pushing it, appeared from around the side of the newspaper. The hand was that of an old man, which the voice wasn't. A withered hand, trembling slightly. Joe reached for the cup and sipped, burning his lips on the metal. He held the cup away and blew on it.

  Did you have all the rooms up there wired?

  No, just two. The rear rooms on the first two floors. If you'd jumped out the front of the hotel on the first two floors you'd have taken a chance of breaking a bone on the cobblestones in the alley, and if you'd jumped from higher up, front or back, you almost certainly would have broken a bone, quite possibly your neck. But I didn't imagine you'd want to do that, so I didn't imagine you'd be anywhere but where you were.

  Well that makes sense, said Joe.

  Yes it does. Now I assume you'll want to get some sleep after your trip. These stairs in front of you will let you out in another alley. Follow your hose around to the left and you'll be back at the corner where you started. You didn't hurt yourself, did you?

  No.

  That's good. They wouldn't want that to happen before you even got started.

  And that makes sense too. Tell me, is this cellar your regular office or just one of your forward supply depots in the field?

  The newspaper rustled but the man's head didn't appear. For a moment there was silence at the table.

  Unfriendly innkeeper, thought Joe.

  Listen, said the voice from behind the newspaper. There's no reason for you to take this personally, but you might as well know from the beginning that you're nothing special to me. I don't know who you are or what your assignment is, and I don't care. That's not my job. I do what's required of me and the Monastery expects you to do the same. If my orders include wiring a door, I wire it. And if you're looking for fellowship, you can try your luck on the streets like anybody else. With me, business is business. Understood?

  Fair enough, said Joe.

  Good. I'll meet you here at nine o'clock this evening.

  Joe tried his tea again but the metal cup was still too hot. He stood.

  Know a man named Stern by any chance, Bletchley?

  Not personally, all of that's much too high-level for me. I just chair the Monastery's arrival and departure committee. Pleasant dreams.

  Joe started toward the stairs. When he was halfway up he turned and looked back at the raised newspaper.

  Oh by the way, could you see that this wallet is returned to Vivian? There's not much of interest in it but he may be wanting it back all the same. And who might Cynthia be?

  One of Bletchley's eyes appeared above the newspaper.

  Who might what be?

  This little lovely by the name of Cynthia. There's a slip of paper hidden in the lining of the wallet with her name and telephone number on it.

  Who cares?

  I don't know, I thought you might. The telephone number is almost the same as one I was given for emergency contact. I mean it wouldn't do, would it, to have one of your music-hall performers dallying with one of your secretaries, without you knowing about it. Of course it's all in the committee family, but I would imagine Papa would like to know what's going on in his family by way of a little incest. Insofar as it affects Monastery business, I mean, no other reason. I'll just leave the evidence on the step here so you can take a look when you're finished with the personal columns.

  The man known as Bletchley said nothing. His withered hand trembled slightly and his single eye, rapidly blinking back tears, continued to glare over the top of the newspaper as Joe leapt up the last few steps and closed the cellar door behind him.

  ***

  Once outside, Joe walked a short distance and stopped in a patch of morning sunlight. He leaned against a wall and closed his eyes, taking deep breaths.

  From the Viv to the Bletch, he thought, heaven help us. But at least things ought to get better. Have to, you'd think, after starting out like this.

  By the time Joe was walking back through the front door of the hotel he was whistling happily. An unusual occurrence in the Hotel Babylon, perhaps, for Ahmad immediately looked up from his newspaper.

  Beautiful morning, said Joe.

  Ahmad stared at him, an astonished expression on his face.

  You people are amazing, he murmured.

  Joe smiled.

  We are? Why do you say that?

  Because of your disguises. I could have sworn your exact double just walked in here.

  Joe's smile broadened.

  This double of mi
ne, he headed upstairs, did he?

  First floor rear. No more than five or ten minutes ago.

  Badly in need of some whiskey, was he, when last seen passing in front of your counter?

  Ahmad held up a bottle.

  Here it is. I was just going to take it up.

  Well there's no need for both of us to make the trip, said Joe. I'll see that he gets it all right. He and I have some talking to do.

  Joe took the bottle as Ahmad studied him, perplexed.

  Wait a minute, said Ahmad. Are you really that other one's double, or are you the same man?

  That depends, replied Joe. We both happen to occupy the same head but that doesn't mean we think alike all the time, or even most of the time. That one upstairs tends to listen a lot and keep his thoughts to himself, while me, I'm not like that at all.

  Slowly, a shy smile spread across Ahmad's somber features.

  Oh I see. Well I ordered the breakfast, that's why the whiskey wasn't up sooner.

  Lovely. And isn't it a beautiful morning here in the land of the Nile?

  Ahmad looked confused.

  You keep saying that but what are you referring to? The weather?

  Yes.

  But the weather's always the same here. It never changes.

  And that may well be, but I'm not always the same.

  And what does that mean?

  Just that I like the desert and I like the sun, said Joe. And I think I'm going to like the Coptic Quarter, also known as Old Cairo. And probably this seedy place you call the Hotel Babylon, and probably Vivian too. Not Bletchley, I wouldn't imagine. But then, everything can't be perfect.

  Ahmad stirred, gazing at Joe.

  I know Bletchley of course, but who's Vivian?

  Joe described him. Ahmad shook his head.

  I've never seen anyone like that around here.

  You haven't?

  No. And I've never heard of anyone called Vivian, either.

  I see. Well is this the only Hotel Babylon in the neighborhood?

  Fortunately for all of us, it's the only one in Egypt.

  And your name is Ahmad, isn't it?

  Ahmad smiled. There's no doubting that, he said. I live with it and I know.

  Well there. That's a start at least and more than enough for now by way of facts, I'd say. Too many facts at one time can only be confusing. So then. Beautiful morning, and good-night now.

  Joe laughed and made for the stairs with the bottle of whiskey in his hand.

  Breakfast? Ahmad called out.

  Whenever it gets here. Two knocks, I'm waiting.

  Joe went whistling up the stairs. Ahmad watched him until he was out of sight, then got down on his hands and knees again behind the counter, where he had been when Joe had come bursting into the lobby the second time. He didn't think Joe had noticed him down there, but all the same he decided he would have to be more careful now that there was a guest, at last, staying in the Hotel Babylon.

  A mysterious smile played on Ahmad's face as he silently opened the secret panel in the wall behind the counter.

  ***

  High in the ancient fortresslike structure in the desert known as the Monastery, an orderly climbed the last steep steps of a spiraling tunnel stairway and knocked on the wooden door at the top. He waited, slowly counting to twelve, then pressed down on the thick iron handle to the door.

  The tower room he had entered might have served once as a lookout for the ancient place, for it was small and round with tall narrow slits cut through the thick masonry at regular intervals, giving a view or the desert in every direction. Tiny shafts of brilliant sunshine pierced the heavy shadows of the little room, which was still gloomy at that early hour despite the blinding light outside.

  A man with only one arm, immaculately dressed in starched khakis, stood close to one of the slits in the far wall. His back was turned but he appeared to be studying the desert to the west, the direction of the advancing Germans. The man held himself rigidly erect at parade rest, his one hand tucked stiffly into the small of his back. The orderly waited. After a moment a dim strain of organ music rose from somewhere below in the ancient fortress. The man with one arm swung around to face the orderly.

  Oh it's you. What is it?

  The orderly held out a sheet of paper to his superior, who read the message at a glance and turned to gaze out again at the desert.

  Well well, he murmured. So our new Purple Seven is finally in place and ready to begin. . . .

  He smiled, his face hidden from the orderly.

  Who met the Armenian at the airport?

  The actor, sir. The man called Liffy. He knows nothing. He met the plane and took the Armenian directly to the Hotel Babylon.

  The man with one arm laughed.

  For the Armenian, a bizarre introduction to Cairo, no doubt. And also perhaps a trifle misleading. . . .

  Well he has much to learn but not much time to do it in. Are the maps laid out for the briefing?

  Yes, sir.

  I'll be down in ten minutes. Have the shutters closed and everything ready.

  Yes, sir.

  That's all.

  Yes, sir.

  The orderly clicked his heels and left, quietly closing the door behind him. From the depths of the Monastery the organ music soared and swelled more loudly, filling the small tower room with its booming echoes.

  Stern, muttered the man with one arm, his face hard. And now we'll finally be done with this traitor and Rommel won't know our every move before we make it. . . . But we must be meticulous, without a mistake.

  Without a mistake, he repeated, his eyes narrow as he sensuously stroked the thick medieval masonry protecting him from the merciless glare of the desert sun.

  -5-

  Liffy

  Several nights later Joe was sitting alone in his tiny hotel room, perched on the windowsill gazing out at the darkness, when all at once a light rapping fell on the door, so soft he almost didn't hear it.

  Two knocks for food and three for drink, although he hadn't asked Ahmad for anything. With one hand in his pocket, Joe crossed to the door and opened it.

  A slight man faced him from the middle of the corridor, a nondescript figure neither young nor old, his nationality impossible to place. The man's eyes darted back and forth and he kept moving his lips, a twitch here and a nibble there, his face abruptly smiling and somber and uneasy by turns.

  Joe stared in wonder.

  Most amazing mouth I've ever seen, he thought. Just never stops at all.

  A wild gleam suddenly flashed in the stranger's eyes, an eerie play of colors and lusters and depths. He shuffled his feet and shifted his weight, his height shooting up and down as he did so. Then his gaze cast about in panic and he retreated even farther away down the corridor, never once looking at Joe, staring down at the floor in defeat.

  Bundle of nerves all right, thought Joe.

  The stranger sputtered and grinned, shaking his head as if some overwhelming doubt had seized him.

  Even his size seemed to expand and contract as Joe watched him moving back and forth in the corridor, now large and looming as he worked his elbows and thrust his head forward, then small and shrinking as he subsided back into himself, not a part of him ever still, his entire presence constantly changing.

  To and fro, thought Joe, like a wee boat tossing on the shadowy nighttides of the Nile. But what's it supposed to mean and who is he anyway?

  The stranger's arms were heaped with shopping bags, which he was having trouble holding together. He took a step forward and attempted what might have been meant as a smile, but the smile abruptly faded and a gargling sound rose in his throat, an effort to speak gone wrong.

  Arghh?

  Graaa. . . .

  Joe was reminded of a shy lion cub fitfully rolling its head and muttering to itself.

  Can I help you? asked Joe, reaching for the bags before they fell. He scooped up several and carried them back inside the room. The stranger still stood in t
he hallway, nervously shifting his weight back and forth.

  Don't you want to come in?

  Two if for food and three if for drink, muttered the stranger. Paul Revere said that.

  The stranger reluctantly shuffled forward, avoiding Joe's eyes. There was a wistful sadness in his voice.

  The hell with Paul Revere, who cares about him. You don't recognize me, do you?

  I don't think so, said Joe. Should I?

  I suppose not. I suppose there's no reason why anybody should ever recognize me. That's my problem.

  Excuse me?

  Being recognized as myself, when I'm myself. Nobody ever does. Wouldn't you find that a problem too?

  Joe had to resist an urge to wrap his arms around the stranger, so forlorn did he seem. Instead he eased the last paper bag out of the man's arms and put it safely down on the table.

  They're heavy. What's in them?

  The stranger shuffled his feet in embarrassment and said nothing. Joe touched the man's arm.

  Who are you?

  The stranger stole a timid glance at Joe and lowered his eyes.

  I'm the official tourist guide for this street, he whispered, although frankly business has been terrible since the war started. The last war, that is, not this one. But nonetheless . . .

  Yes?

  The stranger took a deep breath.

  . . . but nonetheless, the rue Clapsius was once world-famous among those who knew the secret of life.

  In fact this little rue used to be considered the ultimate oasis of the soul by many, many philosophers.

  There was even a popular saying acknowledging the fact. See the rue Clapsius and leave the world humming. And do you know why this little rue used to be considered more significant, finally, than the Sphinx and the pyramids and even the Nile?

  Why?

  Because of its hum-jobs. History is really very simple, isn't it?

  Joe's eyes widened. He stared at the stranger, who continued to move nervously back and forth, his mouth working all the while, never still.

  Hum-jobs, you say?

  That's right, muttered the stranger, and I'm talking now about the ultimate in good vibrations. The whores on this little rue, you see, were once spectacularly clever at humming off their customers. So much so that it wasn't at all unusual to find philosophers from every corner of the globe, strong men, determined men, simply curled up and gurgling on the cobblestones at all hours of the day and night, unable even to drool, not even a hint of a syllogism in their heads, mere husks of their former selves. . . . But what do I mean? I mean drained.