Nile Shadows (The Jerusalem Quartet Book 3)

by Edward Whittemore

  The Germans winning the war, yelled Bletchley. I’d do anything to keep that from happening.

  And that’s surely reasonable, thought Joe, surely sound and sane and then some. The man doesn’t want to let the Mongols in. Of course that anything of his is a warning to me in regard to Stern, but who would argue with keeping out these mechanized barbarians who go by the name of Nazis?

  Bletchley? he shouted. Have you ever wondered why the Germans make so much out of defending the Eastern Front against the barbarians? National destiny, holy assignment, racial mission and so forth? Why is it the Mongols of this world always tell us they’re defending us against the Mongols?

  Human nature, yelled Bletchley. Men always justify wars by claiming they’re fighting the barbarians. What they don’t bother to add is that the reason wars are continuous in history is because the barbarians are inside us. Have you ever been in a crowd when it’s transforming itself into a mob? There’s a Genghis Khan on every side of you. Give any one of them a horde of men on horseback and you’d see the thirteenth century in flames again.

  And that’s the truth, thought Joe. And Bletchley is just plain sound today, his thinking as clear as a bell.

  Soon they were passing other strange relics cast off in the wastes.

  An abandoned battery of Napoleonic muzzle loaders loomed up beside them, facing south toward the heart of the Dark Continent, stubby three-pounders mired in the sand, the debris of another civilizing adventure in Africa. But apparently the muzzle loaders had been no match in their day for Lord Nelson’s swift barkentines, one of which had brilliantly outmaneuvered Napoleon’s cannons and was now resting comfortably on its side behind them, clearly commanding a superior field of fire.

  A barkentine way out here in the desert, thought Joe. Extraordinary when you think of it, even though the winds of the Mediterranean have always been known for their treachery. But what can match man’s, and I wonder what the local bedouin make of the sight? Probably they think Europeans are a little daft.

  A single arch from an ancient Roman aqueduct came into view, a magnificent arch fully one hundred feet high and leading east or west as the case might be, barren desert stretching off in both directions. While not far away the solid surface of a well-engineered Roman road emerged from a sand dune and traveled at least ten feet before being swallowed up in another sand dune. There were also whole fleets of glittering sunspots on the sand, although they didn’t seem to be going anywhere either.

  Lord Nelson also had one eye, thought Joe.

  But by far the most awesome spectacle Joe saw was an enormous siege machine bristling with fire buckets and catapults and battering rams, covered with animal skins in receding tiers so that it had roughly the shape of a pyramid, an eagle’s nest at the top, a superb lookout for a mad tyrant to look down upon the nonexistent city he was about to destroy in the desert. Or a superb lookout for looking down upon all nonexistent cities in the world for a thousand years, why not. The thousand-year Third Reich in the wastes of nowhere … in all its stunning glory.

  Leaders are a wondrous invention, thought Joe. What would we ever do without them? How would we ever get the slaughter done?

  Bletchley shifted gears. As they rattled along Joe’s thoughts kept returning to the primitive siege machine they had passed, that huge deathly apparition all by itself in the desert, waiting to lay siege. The image of it haunted him and he couldn’t get it out of his mind. Was it because there had been a suggestion the machine was made of human skulls? A pyramid of skulls? The Nazis’ final solution to life, as Liffy had said? Or was it simply because of all the monuments reared by man in those desolate sun-blasted wastes, it was the only one that didn’t look abandoned and out of place?

  Joe shivered.

  It’s ghastly, he thought. Ghastly.

  The air snapped. Bletchley was shifting gears.

  How are you feeling? It’s not much farther.

  Good, I couldn’t go much farther. It’s exhausting out here, frightening too.

  Bletchley slowed.

  Because it’s all bleached bones and illusions, thought Joe.

  They stopped. The engine died.

  Call of nature, said Bletchley quietly. I’ll only be a moment.

  They started off again. Joe drifted around in his seat, occasionally humming one of Liffy’s tunes.

  Was the Monastery ever actually a monastery? he shouted at some point.

  You mean before we took it over? yelled Bletchley. Well St Anthony is known to have spent time in this part of the desert, but since St Anthony had visions, I don’t think anyone could say with any certainty where he was abusing his flesh all the time. It might be that one of his caves is down in the bowels of the Monastery somewhere, but who knows? St Anthony’s chains were of the invisible kind.

  The water got to him, thought Joe. Bad water or no water or even a change of water can bring on an advanced case of hallucinations out here. Or visions, as saints raving in the wilderness used to call them.

  Joe drifted off. A moment later his head snapped back. The track was climbing, Bletchley shifting gears.

  What’s that up ahead?

  We’re there, yelled Bletchley. That’s the gate to the back entrance. Most of the Monastery is up above, you can’t really see it very well from down here.

  They drew up in a small paved courtyard where other military vehicles were parked. High walls of rough masonry reared above them, narrow slits cut into them. The walls overhead receded away from the courtyard, so that it was impossible to guess how far up they went.

  Not all that far, whispered Bletchley, it’s not really that big a place. It just looks big because it was built around the top of a small mountain, a hill really.

  Round hill?

  Yes.

  Probably shaped like a head, thought Joe. Bowels and intestines and other internal organs in hiding down below, along with St Anthony’s memories and Whatley’s maps.

  This way, whispered Bletchley.

  Bletchley unlocked a wooden door and they passed through a short tunnel into another courtyard, this one larger and unpaved, with cloisters running along its sides. Men with long staves in their hands appeared languidly from amongst the shadows under the colonnades, strolling up to take a look at Joe and then retiring out of sight somewhere, while still others went on milling around the courtyard rather like pilgrims who had arrived unexpectedly at some way station on their journey, ahead of schedule, and were unsure what to do next. The pilgrims seemed to be wearing every conceivable kind of costume, both uniforms and civilian clothes, some dressed as lawyers and businessmen and bankers and professors, others as commandos or balloonists or even bedouin. But all of them without exception, the moment they caught sight of Bletchley, turned away and withdrew slightly, showing only their backs.

  The multitude of tall staves carried by the pilgrims was particularly striking to Joe. Gently the staves waved to and fro as stalks of grain might toss in the wind, protected and enclosed, touched only by the mildest breezes.

  It must be about time for the refectory to open for early tea, whispered Bletchley. Otherwise you’d never see such a large idle gathering of agents milling around out here.

  Abruptly Bletchley seized a startled pilgrim at random, grabbing the man by the arm, spinning him around. The pilgrim looked so frightened he was ready to deny anything.

  What’s for tea? demanded Bletchley.

  Three kinds of sand … sand … sandwiches, stammered the man. Including cucumber. They said we could choose the kind we like, so long as we don’t all choose the same one.

  And which are you going to choose? demanded Bletchley.

  I was hoping for cucumber, whispered the pilgrim, but I’ll gladly eat anything.

  Bletchley released the nervous man, who immediately faded back into the milling crowd. From somewhere high above, the opening chords of Bach’s Mass in B Minor came booming down over the courtyard.

  That man seemed afraid of you, said Joe. Why is that? />
  Bletchley smiled.

  We’ll just step this way, he whispered.

  Bletchley unlocked another door and Joe followed him down one dimly lit corridor after another. All the chambers in the Monastery seemed to be kept in perpetual near-darkness, which was cool and soothing after the strong sunlight outside. As they padded along, the distant strains of organ music faded and lapsed, only to surge anew from some unexpected quarter. They descended stairs and more stairs and finally entered a small cell lit by a single candle. There was a folding camp table with a huge swivel chair behind it, sumptuously padded in dark leather. Bletchley pointed at the comfortable leather chair.

  Just sit down and make yourself at home, he said. I’ll let Whatley’s aides know we’ve arrived.

  Joe collapsed in the swivel chair and swung slowly back and forth. In a corner stood an apparatus on wheels which he knew he should be able to recognize, but in his fever he couldn’t quite place it. The apparatus consisted of several tank cylinders and various hoses and gauges. Bletchley, meanwhile, turned the crank of a military telephone and whispered into the mouthpiece.

  Whatley’s on his way down, he announced. Now then….

  Bletchley wheeled the apparatus over to a position behind the huge leather chair. He leaned down and studied it, testing a valve or two. Joe had swung around to face him.

  What is it? asked Joe.

  Nitrous oxide. Laughing gas.

  What’s it for?

  For your interview with Whatley.

  Bletchley went on tinkering with valves. There was a long low hiss and he smiled.

  Nothing to be alarmed about, he murmured, spinning dials. It’s just laughing gas. Dentists use it all the time.

  I know they do, but what’s the point of using it on me?

  Standard Monastery procedure, that’s all.

  But why?

  Wartime, murmured Bletchley. Ours not to reason why and so forth. But look at it another way. Wouldn’t you rather face what’s coming with a comforting cloud of nitrous oxide inside you? Wouldn’t any man at war? Just to make matters seem a little more reasonable? Not quite so idiotic as they actually are?

  Bletchley laughed.

  To be honest, there’s not an agent up there in the cloisters who wouldn’t love to be on nitrous oxide at this very moment. Of course they wouldn’t want to be down here, but life’s like that, isn’t it? Gas is enjoyable, certainly, but we always have to take what goes with it.

  Which is Whatley, thought Joe, shivering and staring dully at the apparatus. A tune ran through his head, one of Liffy’s, but he couldn’t quite remember the words. Tarry in caves but beware of local bats, was that it? Beware of bats, my child?

  So the point is, Bletchley was saying, the gas will help you relax and be receptive in these unfamiliar surroundings, even though you’re not feeling too well today. And it also serves as a security precaution. You’ll be able to hear everything Whatley says and ask whatever questions you may have, but afterward your impression of Whatley’s voice will be just a little distorted. As the chief here, he prefers it that way.

  Being distorted? asked Joe. Why?

  Now then, murmured Bletchley, just breathe normally through your nose.

  Bletchley fitted a small rubber mask over Joe’s nose. Joe sat there listening to a rhythmic sigh, growing stronger. After some moments had gone by, a door opened. A man with only one arm, immaculately dressed in starched khakis, was moving around on the edge of Joe’s vision. Was that really the notorious Whatley at last, in the flesh?

  Ah, said a voice from far away. And this must be our new Purple Seven Armenian who has traveled all the way from a mesa in Arizona to be with us. No please, Joe, don’t bother to get up. You look quite comfortable where you are. And I believe you take your tea without sugar, is that right?

  Joe nodded. Beware of bats, he thought.

  Yes, continued the voice, it’s a pleasure to have you with us at last. Now let’s not waste any time, let’s get right down to the bottom of things immediately. We’re here to talk about Stern—the man, the agent, everything. Yes, everything….

  Most of Joe’s memories of the Monastery were a blur after that. Later, after the briefing in the huge leather chair with the gas mask had ended, he did remember finding himself on a narrow stone terrace.

  The terrace must have been quite high up in the Monastery, for there was a beautiful view of the desert. He and Bletchley were sitting alone there, side by side in canvas deck chairs. A camouflaged canvas awning provided shade and there were potted palms along the walls. The skin of a Bengal tiger was hanging at one end of the terrace. From the color of the sky, Joe guessed it must be almost twilight.

  … and for those reasons, Bletchley was saying, I don’t think you should be upset by the violence of Whatley’s language when he speaks of Stern. Passions run high in wartime and poor Whatley has never gotten over losing his right arm to the Germans. In fact he told me once he can still feel the fingers on his missing hand twitching late at night. The forefinger especially, his trigger finger. It just never stops twitching, he said.

  Nor will it, thought Joe. Not if it’s missing.

  He had no idea what the conversation was about or where it had started. There was a half-empty glass in his hand and he sniffed it. Quinine water. Bletchley was leaning forward and leisurely adding gin to his own glass, stretching and smiling, relaxing. All at once Joe had the sensation of being on a passenger liner bound for the East, for India. He and Bletchley were chance acquaintances sitting together on deck, chatting and having drinks before sundown, passing the time before they went in to dress for the late sitting

  Tarry in open spaces, my child, thought Joe.

  At least you must feel better after your nap, said Bletchley.

  I do, but I’m still disturbed. Disturbed by Whatley, what?

  Well I could see that, but I don’t think Whatley was being intentionally evasive. I’m not privy to that much of it, but my impression is he wants you to come in fresh, without preconceptions about Stern and Stern’s role in this affair. Strictly from the outside, so to speak.

  Stern, muttered Joe, gazing out over the rolling desert. Someone from the outside, you say?

  Exactly.

  Or someone from the other side perhaps? added Joe. Wouldn’t that be another way of putting it? What if the Germans suddenly took a special interest in Stern? What could the Germans come up with? What could they uncover?

  I suppose it’s something along those lines, said Bletchley. I don’t know specifically what the nature of the operation is, but my impression of its general drift is about the same as yours.

  That’s it, thought Joe. The Monastery’s having me play a part similar to a German agent’s. Look into Stern’s activities from the point of view of the other side, and see what I can come up with. But why? They’ve got more than enough to do out here running operations against the Germans. Why go to the trouble of running an operation against Stern, one of their own men? The information he has must be very important. Even crucial, as the three men in white linen suits said back in Arizona.

  A thought struck Joe.

  And could it be that this information concerns the Monastery? Is that why these Monks are so tight-lipped about everything? Because they’re afraid for themselves? Because Stern knows something about this place that nobody else knows? And if the Germans were ever to find out … ?

  Bletchley sipped from his glass and began to talk about sunsets at sea. Once more they were on a passenger liner bound for the East, for India.

  Changing the subject, thought Joe. Bletchley doesn’t want me to become too curious about Stern’s specific piece of information. Report back on Stern in general, that’s all. Not recognize the nugget when I come across it. If I do.

  Joe found himself drifting away again, losing touch.

  We’ll have to be leaving soon, said Bletchley. I don’t like driving at night. It bothers my eye.

  You don’t like it but you do it, though
t Joe, an image flashing through his mind, something Liffy had mentioned in passing. Liffy accompanying Bletchley to meetings with agents at night in an automobile, Bletchley in front acting as merely the driver while Liffy was in disguise in back with the agent, debriefing the man according to Bletchley’s instructions. The agent concentrating on Liffy, giving Bletchley the opportunity to listen and to observe the agent through the rearview mirror. A simple trick and an old one, but effective.

  Well the game’s elaborate all right, thought Joe, but at least we know now why we’re sitting up here on the captain’s bridge with our hunting trophies and our potted palms. Bletchley’s the real skipper out here and he’s the one who’s in charge of this operation and in charge of the Monastery for that matter, and Whatley’s just someone on his staff, his deputy probably…. But why is the game so elaborate? These Monks have a war to worry about and Rommel’s out there with his panzers churning closer all the time, so what’s going on? Why are they so deathly afraid of Stern at a time like this? … One man after all, no more.

  Have you ever heard of the Sisters? asked Bletchley.

  Joe tried to think.

  The Weird Sisters, you mean? That old expression for the Fates?

  Bletchley laughed.

  No, this has nothing to do with folklore. I was referring to two women who used to be the reigning queens of Cairo society a while back. They’re twins and rather reclusive now. They live in a houseboat on the Nile, I’m told.

  Oh. No I haven’t heard of them, said Joe.

  But surely the name Menelik Ziwar means something to you, doesn’t it? That Egyptologist Stern used to know? He was also quite a society figure once … in his way.

  Yes, I’ve heard of old Menelik, said Joe. What about him?

  Bletchley didn’t answer. He got to his feet and stretched.

  We really must be leaving, he murmured. I don’t like driving at night. It bothers my eye.

  Joe didn’t remember the drive back through the desert with Bletchley, or arriving in Old Cairo, or Ahmad helping him up to his room. Nor did he know that Liffy had come that evening to take up the vigil, Liffy quietly humming to himself as Joe tossed with fever and the night swirled more deeply over that decaying ruin known as the Hotel Babylon, as all the while down below the taciturn Ahmad sat erect on his high stool in the gloomy corridor that passed for his office in life, the yellowing sheets of a thirty-year-old newspaper spread out in front of him, opened as always to the society page.