Oh, my uniform. Well you see, sir, since secret intelligence work requires a high degree of initiative, we’re encouraged to express our individualism in our dress of the day. And as for the manner in which I hailed you when you debarked, we’ve found that the direct approach is the best one. When matters are secretly at their murkiest, in other words, we try to keep outward appearances as natural as possible. It’s by far the most effective cover.
I wasn’t aware, said Joe, that tennis whites and a leopardskin would look natural at Cairo airport in wartime.
Oh yes, sir, if the whites are modified a bit. You may be a little rusty now, been out of touch and that sort of thing, it could happen to any retiree from Arizona attempting a comeback. But the naked truth of the matter today, sir, is that we don’t carry on the way they did in the old films.
I see.
Precisely, sir, that’s it in a nutshell. This is definitely espionage in the 1940s that we practice here and the old films are definitely out of date, irrelevant to say the least. And then too, we’re in the plain old sandy sunny Middle East, not lounging around in a shadowy parlor car on the Orient Express as it goes weaving into Bulgaria, while you and I lunge at our glasses between hoots. The servant problem, sir. Lackeys just aren’t what they used to be, neither as nations nor individuals. Take the Balkans, for example.
What?
Exactly, sir, especially the Balkans. They’re not at all what they used to be. In fact it would probably be wise to put aside your secret hopes of outwitting some sneaky little Dimitri in the sewers of Sophia, despite his many masks, in order to obtain the truth about the Bulgarian submarine force. This just isn’t the place for vague notions about honor and fair play and all that rot. Times change, sir, what?
Joe groaned.
… can’t straighten at all, he muttered.
No? Well don’t be discouraged, sir. People pretty much expect a spy to look like Quasimodo loping around in his belfry with a demented leer on his twisted face. The important thing is to keep abreast of the latest technical developments, that’s the name of this game. In intelligence, you’re modern or you’re nothing. Can you just imagine how it would look if the two of us were to skulk around Cairo airport first thing in the morning in trench coats with a cigarette or two dangling out of the corners of our mouths? Looking over our shoulders to see if Peter Lorre has caught up with us yet? Or possibly even the fat man?
Oh.
Precisely, sir, the locals. They may be no more dark-skinned than they were in the epics of yesteryear, but they’re just not as predictable as extras used to be.
As he rambled on, the subaltern was keenly observing Joe. After several painful attempts, Joe managed to straighten. The subaltern grinned, nodding.
Very good, sir. I see we’re making a stunning comeback. So the point is, we have this slovenly lot of blithering wogs hanging about with time on their hands, just waiting to catch a glimpse of something they can pass on to Jerry. Such as a suspicious little foreigner arriving at Cairo airport early one morning? A wiry little fellow in some dreadful secondhand suit that’s much too big for him? Suspiciously sporting a scruffy growth of whiskers on his face as if he were trying to look like the anonymous spy of tradition? Could it be that you’re growing a beard, sir?
I am.
Very good, sir. Although given the sand in the air around here, most of our fighting men seem to prefer a moustache when it comes to providing that distinguishing touch. When a show of hair is wanted, sir, to emphasize brute masculinity.
Quietly, the subaltern guffawed. He himself wore an enormous walrus moustache, its waxed ends nearly reaching to the tops of his ears.
Hair aside, said Joe, I was told to expect a different reception.
Were you, sir? Could we be referring to the recognition signals, so called, which veteran spies use to spot one another when among the common herds in the trenches?
The subaltern immediately slammed his tennis shoes together, coming to attention. He saluted and narrowed his eyes.
Please assume we are in the airport terminal, sir, and you are having your papers examined by some barely literate enlisted swine. As you dither around, a handsome subaltern sweeps up and shrewdly engages you in amiable conversation, in the course of which he chances to use two key words. Brooklyn and garbage. At that point the subaltern suavely removes a key ring from his pocket and jangles the keys in the air, as if bored.
Still holding his salute, the subaltern reached into his pocket with his left hand and brought out a key ring. He squinted intently at Joe, rattling the keys in front of his face.
Right, sir, and so far so good. Now stuffed into the left pocket of your shabby jacket is a rolled-up edition of a popular London illustrated weekly. You remove this rag with your right hand, the old cross-draw, and hold it up in the air as if curious about which way the wind is blowing. The formidable subaltern is satisfied as to your credentials and takes it from there. Well, sir, on the mark, are we?
Joe handed him the magazine.
It’s a little old. I stole it from a library in London to save money. Chamberlain’s on the cover announcing peace in our time.
Excellent, sir, we could all use a little of that. Now then, the trusty clandestine steed is right over here.
The subaltern opened the door of a small old-fashioned delivery van and stood proudly beside it, waiting. The van was a civilian model, cream-colored and ancient, dented in a number of places. Bright green lettering, obviously new, was splashed across the side of the van.
AHMAD’S GREASY FISH
&
LEVANTINE CHIPS
The subaltern followed Joe’s gaze. He snorted.
Clever, what? Known secretly in undercover circles as the impregnable Ahmadmobile, and out here it’s worth a regiment of tanks any day, I can tell you. Confuses the enemy and makes the wogs think we’re in the delivery business, which in a way we are. But the fact is, you can never be too careful when you’re serving a sentence in the spy trade. Not only a keen lookout at all times, but the keener the lookout the better the times, that’s my motto. Are we right then, sir?
As soon as they had climbed into the cab of the small van, the subaltern made a show of carefully locking both doors. He then reached over and fumbled around in Joe’s lap, groping for Joe’s hand, pumping it enthusiastically when he found it.
Vivian’s the name, sir, and despite appearances I’m not a regular army man. Actually I’m an archeologist in real life. I don’t have to tell you how these intelligence types get carried away by men with unusual backgrounds. Their eyes positively light up. Well I did some digs over here before the war, and that’s how I happened to get into this end of the show. Know the underground terrain, so to speak.
Oh. I see, yes.
Right, sir, the pharaohs that be don’t miss a trick. Well briefly, it came about like this. When Jerry figured out another generation had gone by and it was time to give it another go, war, damn it, I naturally presented myself to the authorities in London straightaway. Vivian here, I said, and went on to explain that I’d be more than happy to carry a rifle in whatever trench was weak. But they took one look at my digging experience and packed me off to one of those unnumbered rooms you know about near Queen Anne’s Gate. See here, old horse, said the unnumbered general in mufti, we can’t have you oozing around in the mud of Flanders like some common uneducated lout, you’re much too valuable for that. We simply have to have you in the secret show, what those on the outside call intelligence. Now what do you say to that?
Vivian wiggled his eyebrows.
Well needless to say, sir, what I said to that was, Top drawer. Just point me in the general direction of Mata Hari, I said, and I’m off to make do in the gloom. Whereupon the general in mufti gave me a hearty shake of the hand and mumbled, Good show, old fruit. And now that you’re officially a secret agent, Viv old horse, Vivvy my boy, old Viv dear fellow, now that you’re a mysterious spy like the rest of us, added the general in mufti, the first th
ing you have to do is trundle yourself out back and see C.
And do what? asked Joe.
Vivian chuckled.
Very good, sir. Well I went out the back door, as instructed, and strolled down the appropriate alley to another unnumbered address, and climbed more stairs to another unnumbered room, and all at once right there in front of me was the very secret chief of the Secret Service, C as we secretly call him, sitting in his very own chair but turned around and facing the wall, keeping his secret identity secret. Well. Here was a devilishly clever fellow, our good old secret C, I knew that from the beginning. So I flashed the old smile at his back and said, Viv here, secret agent of the Empire, ready and willing. Whereupon good old C said, his back to the world, See here, Viv, C here.
Vivian guffawed.
Or perhaps our secret chief said, C here, Viv, C here. Or he might have said, See here, Viv, see here. Or in other words, who in God’s name has any idea what he said? No doubt a secret C has to be unknowable by nature, a regular Delphic oracle when it comes to garbled meanings and ambiguous messages.
Vivian nodded eagerly.
You’re beginning to smile, sir, so it’s obvious we agree as to the essentials. Now then, to continue.
Viv? muttered C, addressing the wall, please listen carefully because I can only say this once. The Suez Canal is in danger, the very lifeline of the Empire, and we need a reliable man down there to keep an eye on the locks. So just pick up that black pill on the desk behind me, that thing that looks like a jelly bean, regulation potassium cyanide in case life ever seems as black as all that, and head for the Nile and may the best team win.
And there you have it, sir, and all the time while C had his back to me, he seemed to be knitting.
Knitting? asked Joe.
Vivian chuckled.
Right, sir. The knitting needles of fate, I suppose. Then after that I was given intensive training in silence and exile and cunning, and a quick course in forgery with emphasis on forging the uncreated conscience of the race, and here I am. Vivian of Arabia…. Now then.
Vivian hummed a music-hall tune and started the engine. A thunderous roar crashed around them. Vivian grinned, shouting to be heard above the deafening noise.
Sorry about that, sir. Hole in the exhaust somewhere, only happened yesterday. Haven’t had time to let the maintenance apes get their paws on it.
I see.
What?
It’s a nice day, shouted Joe, leaning into Vivian in order to be heard. When Joe sat back again he seemed more at ease. He reached under his jacket, apparently to scratch himself somewhere, but actually to tuck away Vivian’s wallet, newly stolen, in an inside pocket.
That’s better, shouted Joe. Carry on.
Very good, sir. Off we go then.
There was a fierce grinding noise and the small delivery van went careening away down the runway at full speed, the heavy tread of its soft desert tires screeching wildly. Vivian laughed and swerved back and forth, assuming a racing position. Joe stared. The impressive walrus moustache had come loose in the wind, revealing a cloth backing to it and a thin line of glue above Vivian’s upper lip. One end of the waxed moustache had climbed up his face, giving him a permanently crooked smile. And when he bared his teeth at a spot of grease on the runway and careened around it, snarling as he whipped the wheel to and fro, the expression on his face seemed dangerously close to delirium.
A gate with a sentry box came into view. Vivian began to slow down.
Security check coming up, he yelled. Just play dumb, sir. I’ll handle these sun-crazed dolts.
They stopped. Several military policemen were standing around in front of the sentry box, metal cups in their hands. When one of them came over to the van, Vivian leaned out and sniffed at the man’s cup.
Tea, he yelled to Joe, and turned back to the military policeman.
This shabbily dressed fellow, he screamed, is a Yank who’s come over to win the war for us. But see here, lance corporal or battle-ax corporal or whatever you are, you look like you could use a stiff one this morning, right?
Vivian guffawed.
Am I right? Right?
The military policeman studied the card Vivian had given him.
What’s this? he asked in wonder.
What’s what, my dear fellow?
The military policeman read out loud.
This coupon good for all the bearer can drink at the Kit Kat Kabaret. Just say Ahmad sent you and you’ll never be sorry. But remember, AHMAD SENT ME. Those are always the magic words in the ancient land of the pyramids.
(And Ahmad also has other coupons, if you are interested. See him today and make your dreams come true. Mummies available by special appointment.)
The military policeman stared down at Vivian, who laughed happily.
Wrong pocket, what? Have to keep a tight rein on before breakfast. But look here, my dear fellow, why don’t you keep that bit of cheer as a gift from the management? Now then, this is what we’re looking for when there’s a war on.
Vivian fumbled in another pocket and came up with a pass. The military policeman waved them through. They left the airport and worked their way into a long line of military traffic moving in the direction of the city. Before they had gone very far Vivian began screaming again.
Now I know what you’re dying to ask me, sir. What about the locals, is that it? The other fellows can loll over their gin and beer when they’re not giving it a go in their tanks, but a spy has to move through the desert the way a fish swims through water, right? As the old saying goes?
So what about the locals, you say, sir? Well as history tells us, the casts of thousands who built the pyramids were fed exclusively on onions and garlic and radishes.
Vivian belched noisily.
Got the picture, sir? Stink’s the word I had in mind. No doubt onions and garlic and radishes must have fired up those extras who built the pyramids, but the truth is, five thousand years of history haven’t made your average Gippo’s breath any sweeter. Brings us up to date, does it?
They turned off the highway and drove through crowded streets. Vivian was continually honking the horn and waving and smiling at the masses of people.
Bloody wogs, he shrieked out of the corner of his mouth. They look a fruitless bunch but they’re cunning, cunning’s the word.
Joe’s eyes widened. They had been inching along more and more slowly through the crowds until they had to stop altogether. While Vivian was turned toward Joe, the gaunt solemn face of an Arab had suddenly appeared in the window right behind Vivian. At first the Arab didn’t seem to be begging, merely curious. He studied the interior of the van, a piece of chalk between his teeth. Then he stared hard at the back of Vivian’s head, pulled his own head out of the window and took the chalk from between his teeth. He seemed to be writing something, and sure enough, a small blackboard appeared outside the window a moment later.
I AM A MARXIST MOSLEM MUTE.
GIVE ME ONE LARGE FREE ORDER OF GREASY
CHIPS BUT PLEASE HOLD THE SALT. I’M
ON A SALT-FREE DIET BECAUSE IT IS WRITTEN,
LIKE DESTINY AND HISTORY.
PRAISE BE TO ALLAH AND MARX, ALL POWER
TO MOHAMMED AND STALIN.
THANKS. HAVE A NICE DAY.
A slatternly people, screamed Vivian, unaware of the blackboard wagging a few inches behind his head.
Just plain slack, he shrieked. Fingers always on the move, sir, never forget that for a moment.
The blackboard disappeared. A hard wipe of the Arab’s arm across the slate and he was writing again. The blackboard bobbed up.
ARE YOU REFUSING TO SERVE ME BECAUSE
I’M DARK-SKINNED?
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, screamed Vivian. You can never be too careful when you’re rubbing shoulders out here.
The Arab looked murderous. Down went the blackboard, up it came again.
BUGGER YOUR CHIPS, YOU GREASY
CAPITALIST FISH.
/>
Vivian stared hard at Joe.
In other words, watch out for wogs. Got it, sir?
They drove awhile longer and finally pulled up on a quiet back street with the engine off. Joe sat entranced, listening to the squeals and cries of the city.
Here we are, sir.
Fine, Viv. Where?
A time-dishonored area, sir, well known to romantic travelers before the war as the Coptic Quarter and also as Old Cairo, but known to its residents, now as then, as simply a slum. Once infamous, now merely famous. This alley you will be going to is legally called the rue Lepsius, but popularly remembered as the rue Clapsius. It’s said that a good part of nineteenth-century Cairo acquired an incurable dose of nostalgia in these shadowy byways, and certainly the byways do give that impression. So if I do say so myself, sir, it seems an appropriate setting for your poetic Irish reveries between passes at the bottle.
Well thanks for the lift, Viv.
And thank you, sir, for your charming company this morning. War is hell, after all, and we frontline fellows would do well to live life fully when we’re not knee-deep in mud in the trenches.
Vivian vaguely pumped his hand in the air in a philosophical manner, a gesture apparently meant to end with a thoughtful fingering of his false moustache. But instead Vivian found his moustache halfway up the side of his face. He pressed it back into position and grinned.
The spy trade, sir, a queer and deadly game. Now if you meander forward and turn down the next alley, you’ll come to what must have been one of the last of the bawdy houses in this quaint decaying neighborhood, an excessively unseemly place, and that is where you will find your lodgings. Look for a dirty nondescript structure called the Hotel Babylon, formerly a tenth-class hovel used by failed commercial agents and poor clerks in search of romance during their siesta hours, a place of broken dreams and dreams that could never be.
But that was formerly, sir. For some time now the Hotel Babylon has been under the clandestine supervision of HM’s Secret Service, serving as an all-purpose hideaway for wandering spies in transit, a discreetly sordid haven amidst the turmoil for just such errant seekers as yourself.
Nile Shadows (The Jerusalem Quartet Book 3) Page 10