by Gavin Lyall
‘When we get there,’ he asked Mitzi, ‘what are you going to say?’
‘I will tell him my father is dead and ask where is the sword he found.’
It was all right – the taxi driver didn’t speak English. That’s why I’d picked him out of the bunch that rush you whenever you step out of a hotel in that town.
Ken said: ‘That sounds a bit sort of … straightforward.’
‘But why? He knows it is true, that he owes me the sword.’
It all sounded a bit straightforward and true to me, too, but of course I’ve never had the chance to play the bereaved daughter. The Lebanese can be sentimental about family ties. Their own, anyway.
Eleanor said: ‘I wonder if …’ and then seemed to change her mind and went on: ‘Do you have any idea why Mr Aziz got involved in this at all?’
‘My father needed some person to sell for him. He was an archaeologist, not a salesman.’
‘But why somebody in Beirut?’
I said: ‘I can guess at that. Anywhere else – Cyprus or Rome or anywhere – the Israeli government might get an injunction to stop the sale as an illegal export. They’d try, anyway. The Lebanon just doesn’t recognise Israeli law.’
Eleanor grunted and sat back – the three of them were on the back seat, me leaning over from beside the driver.
Then Mitzi got an idea: ‘He cannot have sold it already?’
There was a silence except for the roar of the engine and the squeal of the tyres. The headlights swept across a battered wall covered in rows of political posters, all showing almost identical confident chubby faces with a few lines of coloured script below. Only the colours were different.
Eleanor said: ‘No, I don’t think so. We’d have heard something. And like I said: it wouldn’t go for half the price without the documentation that you’ve got. I guess that’s why your father kept the two separate while he was … while he was away.’
That didn’t exactly explain why the Prof had posted the authentication off to Aziz just before he died, though. But I didn’t mention it.
Ken said: ‘So, in a way, that bit of paper’s worth as much as the sword itself.’
‘In a way,’ Eleanor agreed, ‘Hell’ – her voice got a little thoughtful – ‘I’m in a kind of equivocal position about all this. Employees of the Met aren’t supposed to go chasing about after illegal exports.’
‘You mean they’re not supposed to get caught,’ Ken said dryly.
Aziz lived not quite at the top of the hill and not quite where the driver first thought he did, either. But we found it; a rambling modern split-level affair dug back into the raw rock hillside, and a drive-way jammed with big cars glistening in the warm orange light flooding from a dozen thinly-curtained big windows. But outside, there was a sudden sharp chill to the air. We’d climbed less than 2,000 feet, but that included the difference between the hot, cramped streets and an open hillside facing the sea. You should be here in summer to get the real contrast.
Eleanor and Mitzi were shivering slightly, but still looking out over the spread-out lights of Beirut below. It’s funny how, down there, you never seem overlooked by the hills, but up here you seem to be staring straight down the city’s cleavage.
Ken came back from bargaining with the driver and said briskly: ‘Any city looks beautiful from up high at night. Let’s get in where the booze is free.’
Eleanor murmured: ‘I bet he writes fairy stories in his spare time, too,’ but she followed.
It was a big room, with a higher ceiling than you’d expect in that shape of house, bright and white-walled and not looking full with over thirty people standing around sipping and chattering. As we came in at the top of a small flight of steps, most turned to look at us.
I’d known Ken and I wouldn’t be contending for the best-dressed award, but I’d put off thinking about it. Now we stood out like two witches at the Princess’s christening. Almost everybody else – they were mostly men anyway – was in a neat city suit and crisp white shirt. The exceptions were a character in the gold-embroidered white robes of the Yemen and a cove who’d had his length of blue pinstripe cut into a normal jacket and a calf-length skirt; arab head-dress and sandals, of course. I’d seen the mixture before but it still gets me.
The door-opener in the white jacket was still wondering if we’d come to collect the garbage when our host bustled through the crowd with hand outstretched.
‘You must be Mademoiselle Braunhof-Spohr, of course. And Mademoiselle Travis. Eleanor Travis of the Met? You don’t know me but I’ve heard of you. And also …?’ He looked at Ken and me and held the smile with an effort.
He was shortish, with a comfortable round body in a dark blue-green silk suit and a surprisingly bony square face. It was as if forty-five years – I guessed – of good living had all sunk into his belly and left his chin and cheeks untouched. His hair was thin and dark, shading to pure white over his ears.
Ken said: ‘Case and Cavitt. We fly aeroplanes. We brought the ladies to Beirut and they brought us up here. I hope we’re not intruding.’
‘Of course not, messieurs, naturally not. All friends of Ma’m-zelle Spohr … You must have a drink …’ Another white jacket materialised at his elbow with a tray. ‘Champagne or gin and tonic for the ladies. And for the gentlemen …?’
‘Scotch,’ Ken said. ‘I never know where I am with champagne.’
Aziz didn’t get it, thank God, but smiled briefly and turned to Mitzi. ‘And how is your dear father? Did he send you to see me?’
It wasn’t long and it wasn’t quiet, but it felt like a long silence to me. Eleanor stiffened, Ken froze, Mitzi’s eyes sparkled darkly. She said calmly: ‘My father died last night.’
It took a moment to sink into Aziz, and then, oddly, his first reaction was anger. He snapped his head from side to side. ‘Why was I not told this? It must have been reported?’ Then he recovered and turned back to Mitzi, taking her elbow protectively. ‘But my dear, this is most terrible. You must sit down, tell me what happened …’ And he led her out through an arched doorway filled with a bead curtain.
Ken sipped and frowned. ‘That boy’s got class. Of a sort.’ He grinned at Eleanor. ‘And Miss Travis of the Met, I presume?’
She smiled automatically and rather artificially. ‘Yes. If he knows the Met’s staff that well … he’s no little grave-robber. You can see that anyway.’ She nodded at the wall beside us.
It was long and plain white – most Beirut houses go in for more decor – and packed with alcoves, each holding some antiquity: a Greek vase, a curved sword, an amphora on a metal stand, a green-crusted bronze helmet.
‘They mostly aren’t medieval so I can’t tell, but they look pretty valuable pieces. I don’t know …’ she frowned and her voice trailed off.
The conversation around us had got buzzing again, together with some appraising glances at Eleanor. She might not know it, but her blonde Nordic good looks put her up with the Swiss franc as hard currency in Beirut. I planned on sticking by her; alone, I’d be ignored. Ken seemed to have the same idea.
A couple of minutes later we had a discussion group of a man from a pipeline company, a manager of an Italian bank branch, somebody to do with hotel management and a vulture in blue spectacles who said he was the Minister of this or that.
‘I’m afraid I didn’t quite gather what our host does,’ I said to the hotel management, who was staring past me at Eleanor’s chest.
‘Some of everything,’ he said without shifting his eyes. ‘But the main family business is arranging and leasing concessions, you understand?’
‘No.’
He glanced at me, a little impatiently since he’d rather be talking to Eleanor’s cleavage. ‘If you want to make Coca-Cola in the Yemen or build a Hilton in Aden, he will do the arrangements. Hilton know he will pick only good men to finance it, and the financiers know he will get good terms from Hilton. Then he puts in a little Aziz money for good faith and takes out a lot as his fee. Very simple.
’
I nodded. ‘All you need is to be a big man in a big family with a reputation going back five generations.’
He smiled briefly and maybe sourly. ‘That is all.’
‘I heard they were opening a Castle hotel out here …’
This time his grin was quite genuine and satisfied. ‘That is gone; busted. Pierre was not involved in that; he is not a fool. The English end let them down, and my poor friends who put money in do not know what to do. They were buying the name Castle and now it means failure.’
If his poor friends had fallen into the pool of the sacred crocodile he might have been happier, but only might.
I tried to make the next question sound vague and disinterested. ‘Was a man called Uthman Jehangir involved in that?’
He looked at me sharply. ‘Jehangir? Do you know him?’
‘Met him in Cyprus once. He mentioned the Castle.’
He shook his head. ‘He is not big enough. He is a sportsman – no, you would say playboy. A gambler. Perhaps they asked him to run the opening night party, to bring a film star. He knows such people. But he would not put money in a long-term affair, even if they let him.’
I nodded and said: ‘Uh-huh,’ as if that finished Jehangir for me, too. And, nice man that I am, I gave my friend his reward: ‘Eleanor, have you met Mr umm errr from the hotel business?’
On the edge of the crowd I found a waiter with a tray and prised another Scotch out of him and then stood there admiring the vast antique chandelier that didn’t really fit with the modern teak or white furniture. But in Beirut you have to have one; it’s as much a status symbol as a Rolls-Royce is to a pop singer. It was nice to know that even after five generations of success you don’t get immune to it.
Ken drifted up beside me. ‘Met anybody who knows God personally?’
‘Not unless He’s in the hotel business.’
He jerked his head at the archway. ‘They’re taking their time in—’ But just then Mitzi and Aziz appeared. She looked pale, big-eyed and serious; Aziz just serious. He saw us, came over, and said in a low voice: ‘Messieurs – if you could kindly help us …’
‘Eleanor too?’ Ken asked.
Aziz looked over to where she was under siege and smiled faintly. ‘No, I think she seems busy enough. And – as yet – this does not concern the Met.’
He led the way back through the arch.
Chapter 14
The husk of the house may have looked sharp and modern, but inside it had the thick cool walls, the stone floors and heavy doors of the traditional Middle East. We turned left at the end of the corridor and almost immediately through another arched doorway into a smaller, lower-ceilinged room.
If you wanted to pick it apart, it was an odd mixture of east and west: pottery jars turned into shaded lamps, embroidered leather cushions scattered over solid, square-cut Scandinavian furniture, Afghan rugs on the floor, a leather-topped antique French desk in a corner. But there was nothing self-conscious about it; the man himself was this mixture. So is Beirut, but not usually in such good taste.
He waved us to sit down, and I parked my glass on a hammered brass table top. Mitzi sat upright on the edge of her chair and said: ‘He won’t give me the sword.’
Aziz sighed gently and perched his wide backside on the corner of his desk. ‘I have been trying to explain to Ma’mzelle Braunhof-Spohr that, until this evening, I had not heard of this sword. I did not know it existed until I saw this.’
‘This’ was a small sheet of paper covered in handwriting. Ken got up, took it, read aloud: ‘Das Schwert das wir in der Gruft…’ I looked over his shoulder and saw it was a piece of St George’s Hotel paper.
So our Mitzi hadn’t taken any chances. She’d copied it out and put the original …? Without the Prof’s signature the paper was worthless, but Aziz would recognise the description as real.
Ken handed it back, his face quite calm. ‘So?’
Aziz said: ‘You were a friend of Professor Spohr?’
‘We shared a cell in Beit Oren.’
Aziz smiled. ‘Some of the best friendships of this century are formed in prison. However … did he talk to you of this sword?’
Ken shook his head. ‘You don’t talk about things like that in jail.’
‘I understand. So now you are helping Ma’mzelle to track down … her inheritance, one might say.’
Mitzi burst out: ‘My father found that sword! It is his … memorial!’
‘Unhappily,’ Aziz said gently, ‘he found it with my money.’
Ken had his head cocked on one side, as if he was trying to identify a distant sound. Or idea, maybe. ‘Say again, please. I didn’t quite follow.’
Aziz opened a cedarwood box on the desk and took out a long thin cigar, then remembered his manners and gestured the box to us. I shook my head, but dug out a pipe and started filling it. He struck a match, then looked at Mitzi. ‘If Ma’mzelle does not mind …?’ He lit the cigar.
‘An archaeological dig is, you must understand, a slow affair and therefore expensive. At times, one digs with a spoon, not a spade. And all the time, one must live, one must have assistance – these things cost money.’
‘My father was not poor!’ Mitzi snapped.
‘You must know best, Ma’mzelle, but … he lived well. And a dig is also a speculation. Naturally no man wishes to sink all his capital into an affair that may have no return at all. So he treats it as a business matter and – one might say – issues shares.’
‘You mean,’ I said, ‘the Israeli government let him dig there on money coming from the Lebanon?’
‘Oh no.’ He smiled. ‘No, it was from a foundation in America. I have quite forgotten what name I invented … Birch … Birch-wood … Birchbark … it does not matter. Most digs are backed by foundations, universities, museums, even governments.’
Ken said: ‘And they all want a return on their money, too?’
‘Not so much in the same way – but Professor Spohr was finding it a little difficult to get governments and museums to back him, by then.’
I glanced at Mitzi but she didn’t seem insulted. Not happy, just not insulted.
There was a time of silence while everybody else thought and I lit my pipe. The smoke drifted away on a gentle current of air from a hidden air-conditioner. The only windows in the room seemed to be just above head level on the wall behind the desk, behind a length of heavy curtain.
Then Aziz got off the desk and waddled over and opened a wall cupboard full of bottles. ‘Please help yourself, messieurs. Ma’mzelle?’ And Mitzi held out her glass to be refilled.
Ken said thoughtfully: ‘Bruno didn’t contact you after he got out of Beit Oren?’
‘No. I was a little sad, but I thought I would give him time.’
I’d expected Ken to follow that up, but he just said: ‘Well, that seems to be that. You don’t have the sword – that’s it.’
Aziz said quickly but quietly: ‘But no, not quite. You will understand – as a return on my investment, I want the original of the document.’ And he held up the piece of St George’s paper.
‘You see?’ Mitzi said bitterly. ‘He must have the sword already.’
‘No, no, no. That document itself is worthless until you have found the sword. But then – it ensures that I share in the profit. That must be fair, no?’
It sounded like it – assuming you believed the man, of course. I looked at Ken to see how he was taking it, and he was frowning uncertainly.
Then he said: ‘But that cuts out Mitzi completely if you find the sword yourself.’
‘I am hardly likely to, am I?’ Aziz spread his neat pudgy hands. ‘But I will also promise that she shares in the profit in any case. Half and half.’
We all looked at Mitzi, still sitting rigidly upright. She said: ‘Scheisse.’
Aziz stiffened where it hit him, then sighed and picked up the desk phone and said a few words.
Ken looked at me and I stayed slumped in the low chair. I had a good
idea of what was coming and no idea at all of what to do about it.
It came in about twenty seconds. The heavy door jerked open and a man the shape and size of a concrete gatepost walked slowly in. He had dark emotionless eyes in a square jowly face, sleeked-back dark hair and a greasy grey suit that bulged where it touched him, which was most places.
‘This is Pietro,’ Aziz said, almost apologetically. Then he told Pietro something in Arabic and Pietro took out a fat stubby revolver and just held it, not pointing anywhere special.
Still with a hint of apology, Aziz said: ‘Pietro is going to search you.’
Pietro did. First Ken, then I stood up for it. He did it efficiently, knowing what he was looking for. He passed all my papers to Aziz, now behind his desk, who just glanced through the documents about the Queen Air and its cargo and then stacked them neatly.
Our shoes, too. I was careful not to catch Ken’s eye, partly because I didn’t want to see what he was feeling, but mostly because I hadn’t any bright ideas to pass on and I didn’t want him to think I had.
Then Pietro turned to Mitzi.
She stood up with the slow, quivering stiffness of any angry kitten. ‘If you make that … that creature touch me, I will scream until—’
I said: ‘Look, love, women have screamed before in this house and it hasn’t done any good. Just relax.’
‘Please, Mr … er, Case,’ this time Aziz looked really hurt. ‘This is just a matter of business.’
So Pietro searched her, just as efficiently, running his fingers down here, squeezing there, feeling for the crackle of paper. It was about as sexless as being kissed by an alligator, but I don’t suppose she enjoyed it any more.
When Pietro stood back, Aziz – who’d been searching her handbag – sighed again and said: ‘I expected nothing, but … one has to be sure. Now please, everybody sit down.’