The Accidental Spy

by Jacqueline George

  Evelina looked coldly at him. “Where’s Danka?”

  “Er - I don’t know. She’s nothing to do with me.” It did not sound convincing and did nothing to soften her look. What was he supposed to tell her? ‘She didn’t sleep with me. She was with a stray commando we picked up on the beach. In the guest room, just like you were.’ Why did he feel embarrassed anyway?

  “Look, she’s not with me, and she never was. She came home for something to eat and that was it. Nothing else.”

  “That’s not what she said. Anyway, it’s good for you to have a Polish girl-friend. I am very pleased. Look, it’s my turn now.” She turned and went to the dart-board.

  He spent most of the evening sitting at the bar talking to Eytie Joe about the days before the Revolution, when Sabah was a tourist resort and the sort of place a man could enjoy himself. It took an elastic imagination to see himself sitting in a pavement cafe with a cold beer, watching the pretty girls go by. That was the place Joe had come to twenty-seven years ago, and he had watched it go down-hill ever since. Of course, there were more roads and buildings now than there had been then, but there were many more people as well. The Revolution had tended to travel first class when it came to building apartment blocks and bridges. They had employed the best European and American engineers and contractors, who built to the highest and most expensive standards. Then the East Europeans came and carried on the work with a little less finesse and for a slightly lower price. Now Sabah was a strange mixture of municipal grandeur and gimcrack private buildings, all inhabited by people who would probably have been happier with something far simpler. The funding for the big construction projects of the 1970’s and 1980’s had just about run out now and the Western experts had gone with it. The Russians had fallen from political favour and only the ex-satellite countries remained in the game.

  Eytie Joe, the local manager of a tiny Italian concern that seemed forever on the edge of bankruptcy, had seen them all come and go. He had made a great deal of money for his home company over the years and if bad times seemed to have fallen now, it did not worry him. The contacts he had built up over the years meant he had first news of any small project where a dollar or two might be made. He made his money from the stage payments that any contract might bring, and hoped that one day some of the two million dollars he was owed in final payments would be paid as a wind-fall. It occurred to The Virgin that if anyone would have heard about ‘the little doctor’, it would be Eytie Joe.

  “Joe, you hear much about the security situation here? Do you think the Great Man is going to survive?”

  “Ah, you listen to me. The Great Man is very intelligent, you see. He knows that he must give the ordinary people what it is they want. That is why he is always travelling. He never stays long in one place, you know. It’s not because he is afraid of the CIA; no, that is a stupid story. He travels to see the people. Always he is visiting the villages and the people come to him and tell him all their troubles. And he helps them. So outside the big towns, they love him. They don’t know any better.

  “Also, he does the same with the Army. Always visiting and talking to the officers. He knows what to look for. That is the way he started, right here in Sabah. He and a few friends from the wrong sort of families started the Revolution, and in two weeks the King was living in Switzerland. So he visits and talks to the officers personally, and he knows if they are for him or not. And if he is worried by what he sees, they are taken away and killed. Finish! Just like that. He is a very intelligent man.

  “So; nothing happens here. No-one talks about making problems or playing with politics, or they develop a terminal condition very quickly. And they have most of what they want; their macaroni and tomato paste, tea, sugar, they are all very cheap. All they have to do is join The Party, and they can buy food for next to nothing. So they all join; wouldn’t you? And now they have their little shops where they can sit with their friends, may be trade a little bit. Perhaps if they have the right friends they can change a few dinars at the official rate and make easy money changing them back. They are happy enough and trying to change anything is quickly fatal, believe me.”

  “So the Great Man’s going to just carry on?”

  “Why not? No-one else is going to volunteer. None of the foreign countries care too much as long as he doesn’t send too many bombs out to Germany. And the Americans have got bored with him now he’s quietened down.” He paused to sip his drink and chuckled. “No, no. This is a very good place to do business, if you know how. Always there are new projects coming, not so big now, so my friends and I can do business. They leave me alone, I do nothing except business, there is no problem. When I get tired or want shopping, I catch the plane to Rome, three hours, and go to my headquarters. It is not so bad, but summer is better.”

  Evelina came to him as he left. “Did you hear that Danka had trouble with the Army yesterday?”

  “Jesus! What happened?”

  She was gratified by his concern. “They came to the hospital and spoke to her with Captain Zella. She looked very white when they finished with her.”

  “What did they want?” he asked although he already knew the worst.

  “She didn’t say. Only that she’d been told not to talk about it. And they took all the papers from the office. All the files, all the patients’ records. Even the roster off the wall. It must be impossible in Outpatients now; every case has to be treated like a new patient. I don’t suppose the records will ever come back. I hope Danka’s alright.”

  So did The Virgin. Very heartily. He toyed with the idea of driving around to Barani to check what had happened, but it was already late. The chances of being stopped by police were always higher in the evening, and after eleven o’clock, the chances were better than even. He went straight home and lay in bed thinking about how he could get out of the mess that loomed over him. There was no legal way of course. His passport had been impounded by the tax department, a standard practice with office managers and meant to ensure that no foreign companies cheated on their bills to the Government. The earliest he could get the Almadi office to lodge a substitute passport in its place would depend on who in the Almadi office was planning to stay in-country for a while. And then he would have to work up an excuse for getting out quickly, and get a plane ticket sent over.

  A quick legal exit was not possible, and he did not know how to start leaving illegally. Being caught anywhere near the frontier without a passport would mean instant imprisonment, and the loss of his job. His boss in Almadi was not an understanding person, so flying over there for a couple of days would not help. Anyway, no-one could help if they were after him. All he could do was deny anything they charged him with. He sketched out a plan for the morning and got some fitful sleep.

  After he had made his morning call to the desert, he walked down to the Italian Consulate and left a note for Giovanni the consul. If he did not call in tomorrow, at least some-one would start looking for him. Then around to Barani to see if he could find one of the girls. He waited at the barred door for one of the residents with a key. It had started to rain and the wind blew drops onto his legs as he sheltered in the door-way. He had been waiting for quarter of an hour when the hospital bus lurched up through the puddles and dropped the tired night-shift girls. Hamdullah; Wanda got off and she was always good for a coffee and some gossip.

  Not even bothering to check if the lift was working, they started on the climb to the eighth floor. Wanda was a tough child, out in Tabriz to support a family back home in Warsaw. She ushered him into the apartment. It was not a bad place to live. Of course, the promised hospital furniture had never materialised so they only had the few sticks that they could buy cheaply from foreigners going finish. At least Wanda had arrived in one of the older recruiting drives, which meant she had a room of her own. More recent arrivals were two to a room; six people making a home in an apartment that was full with three. She put the coffee on and lit up.

  “So, Wanda. How’s life? What i
s happening at the hospital?”

  “Boże! Everythings happens. The Army is coming every day to Captain Zella, and Captain Zella is calling people to his room to ask questions. Is a big problem.”

  “What’d he want?”

  “Ach, it is those soldiers who were burnt last week. They want to know who saw them. They know Danka saw and one of the Tabrizi doctors, and two of the Sudanese barella men. Everyone else is saying they not see anything, don’t know anything, not like to know anything. Is crazy, that is all. Stupid!”

  The Virgin felt his head start to pound. “What’s the big problem?”

  Wanda shrugged and reached for another cigarette. “Who knows it? Who cares it? Nobody! Is just politics, that is all.”

  Just politics. The soldiers had been playing around at something, got caught in an explosion of some sort, and now the authorities were trying to hush it up. He could feel a sense of relief reaching down to his toes. “So what’s going to happen to Danka?”

  “I think nothing. The two Sudanese have been transferred to work in army camp in the desert – may be prison - but nothing happen to Danka. The Polish consul came last night for visit, just to tell she is not alone. Is very good, I think. I never hear that consul can do this. Normally he is too busy with his real diplomatic vodka to do anything good for us.”

  “I heard they took all the files from the office.”

  “Yes. This is big problem for Danka. Everything she must do again and you know how it is. No photocopier, no secretary that can type in English or even Arabic. This is the worst problem.”

  The world was a happy place for The Virgin as he returned to the office. Abdul was in, working on the next charter vessel they expected. As usual, vital documents were scheduled to arrive at the very last minute and the Tabrizi Customs department was not a place where faxes or unstamped copies would be accepted. There was a deputation from one of the trucking co-operatives waiting for him. This time they not only wanted higher rates for transport, but they were insisting on payment in advance as well. The rates they had now were astronomical. It cost thirty percent less to hire a truck to the desert from Cairo than from Sabah, and Cairo was thousands of kilometres further away. It annoyed The Virgin to be forced to use these people at all, but a benevolent Government had granted them a monopoly in one of the Party Congresses and that was that.

  The co-operative leaders made real money for doing nothing much. No risk, no responsibility, all they did was submit an invoice on behalf of the truck-owners and then take a cut of it. Fortunately, the little power cells like these co-operative leaders abounded in Tabriz, and they could all persuade a Party Congress to issue a monopoly to do something or other. As no Congress felt bound to check what had been done last time, they issued contradictory local laws. Nobody knew for sure which laws were in force, as old ones were abandoned by neglect rather than decision. All The Virgin could do was play one group off against another and generally try to force prices down. It took more than an hour of polite insistence to make the co-operative see that if they tried to push too hard, they would just lose the work.

  Even negotiating with the Co-operative felt good that morning. Visiting Tayfun was no burden either. The cement programme had been signed as recommended and all they had to do now was wait for the rig to drill to casing depth. The Virgin rushed back to the office to give the desert the good news. He had a pagan suspicion it would be unlucky to add up the possible revenue from the job, but it was clearly going to be high. Tayfun had been frightened into cementing the casing right back to surface, so they would need a lot of materials on site. The desert would have to start moving them up right now. He spent the afternoon around at RomDril-1, checking the stock of chemicals and spares, and drinking coffee with Terry Jones the company man. They would have no problems with the cement job that he could see – always provided that the rain stopped. If it did not, the trucks would tear up the red soil and they would have something like Flanders Field to work in. The slick balloon tyres of the desert trucks were no help at all in mud.

  He dropped in on Evelina that evening. She was as friendly as she ever and made no acid references to Danka. She had not been called into Captain Zella’s office yet, and it looked as if she would be left alone. Captain Zella must feel too embarrassed to face her. A couple of men in plain clothes had visited that morning, but had only stayed a short while. Perhaps they had lost interest. Danka and The Virgin had survived for the moment.

  - 4 -

  It was not for another two weeks that Tabriz took an interest in The Virgin. He returned to the office after lunch and found Abdul waiting for him at the entrance. “You have visitors. I know one is from Security, and they will not tell me what they want. You must be very careful.”

  His mouth suddenly felt dry. He had no escape. He went into his office.

  Two men were sitting there, one of them behind the desk in The Virgin’s chair. In spite of the sign on the door, they had been smoking and there was a full ash-tray on his desk. The man behind the desk jumped to his feet.

  “I am sorry. I was using your telephone to call my family.” He edged around the desk and gestured The Virgin to his chair. He held out his hand. “I am Major Jamal, and this is Captain Zella.” The Virgin shook his hand and tried to get his bearings. Major Jamal was a big man with a grey, military moustache. He wore a tweed jacket, cavalry twill trousers and brilliantly polished brown shoes. His accent sounded upper class English. He was unmistakably Public School and Sandhurst. A pre-Revolutionary soldier. Captain Zella held The Virgin’s attention longer. He was a much smaller man, and much more typically Arabic. Dark wavy hair above a high fore-head, straight, prominent nose and a pencil moustache. Sitting on the other side of The Virgin’s desk he did not look as dominating as the nurses had painted him. He found himself looking for scratches that Evelina might have left.

  Abdul came in to offer coffee, which was a good indication of how he rated their importance. Both men accepted, and it began to seem as if their visit would be held at a social level. They made small talk about the weather and visits to England until the coffee came and then Zella said something to Abdul which made him leave, shutting the door behind him.

  The Virgin must have shown his surprise. “I am sorry, Mr Cartwright. It is better that we talk in private,” Major Jamal announced. “We have special things to talk of. We want you to do a favour for us.” He stopped and looked at Zella who blinked his watery black eyes and brought his chair nearer to the table.

  “Mr Cartwright. You are from Britannia, yes? I have your passport.” Zella reached into his jacket and pulled out a red British passport. “I can make too much trouble for you.”

  This should not be possible. The Virgin knew his passport had been given to the tax office and this little creep should not have been able to get his hands on it. He looked at Major Jamal who moved uncomfortably in his chair. Then Zella made a mistake and smiled.

  The Virgin felt his blood pressure rise. He addressed himself to the older man, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. “I don’t understand. You come into my office to talk privately and ask me to do a favour for you, and the first thing this man does is say he will make trouble for me. Why? If I can help you, maybe I will. But not if he is going to make trouble for me.”

  “Oh, Mr Cartwright. Do not be angry. We only want to talk business, nothing else.” He spoke sharply to Zella who put the passport back into his jacket. “Nothing will happen, believe me. Captain Zella is not in the right way. We can talk business, if you will allow me?”

  Trying to pretend that what he had just seen did not worry him, The Virgin bundled his thoughts together. Whatever they were in his office for, it did not seem to be connected with the little doctor. They really did want something from MacAllans, and Zella had just screwed up by threatening him. “He will take my passport back to the tax office?”

  “Of course. There is no problem. Believe me, I did not know he had it in his pocket.”

  Some chance o
f that, The Virgin thought. Still, he had better co-operate. He really had no option. They were probably looking for a used pick-up and he could just refer them to the desert where they would have to take their chances with the local bosses. Or else they wanted MacAllans to buy an improbably large number of dinars at the black market rate. “What do you need?”

  “Captain Zella wants to buy some chemicals - show him.”

  Again the Captain reached into his pocket and this time pulled out a folded paper. It was a poor quality photocopy from a catalogue. Headed ‘Laboratory Reagents - Diffraction’, it had half a dozen products listed together with their physical properties. One had been circled. Tetra-ethylene disulphide. It rang no bells. The chemical formula shown was apparently not so very complex, but it meant nothing to him. “What is it? Some kind of solvent?”

  “Yes, exactly,” the Major said. “A special solvent.”

  “Well, we don’t sell that one. Maybe we have another that will suit you. What are you trying to clean?”

  The question seemed to have caught the two men unprepared, and they looked at each other for a moment before Zella said firmly, “We must have this one exactly. No others. They are not the same.”

  “Well, I’m sorry. We don’t have it.”

  “You do not understand. We must have this one and you will bring for us on your boat. We will pay you to bring it.”

  They knew about MacAllans’ charter vessels. The Virgin began to wonder if this was a business opportunity after all. “How much do you want?”

  “We want a minimum of two thousand litres. May be a little more.”

  “So, if I can find this chemical, how will you pay us? If it’s good business, I might be able to help you.”

  They had the answer to that one. Zella spread his arms. “Anyway you like to be paid. It is not a problem. If you like we can pay in dollars cash. Or in your bank in England.”