Suddenly the door swung open and the officer who had brought him there was standing in the door-way. He looked at The Virgin for a long moment without expression. “You have big problem. You have pornography in your bag.”
“What?” The Virgin could not believe what he had heard.
“You have pornography in your bag. The chief officer is coming.” He turned and left, the cryptic accusation still hanging in the air.
What were they thinking about, he asked himself, what has blown their tiny minds this time? It could not have been Elena’s knickers, surely not. Even in Tabriz that could not be against the law. Was there something in the Guardian newspaper he had picked up at the airport, an advertisement with a naked lady perhaps? He could not remember one, and naked ladies were not the Guardian’s style. What else did he have? Had they slipped something into his bag? Why bother? Were they just trying to frighten him? Again, why bother? Once in Tabriz they could do what they liked to him anyway. They were probably listening to him, or watching him right now. He looked around for a camera.
He sat back in his chair and started thinking of his toes. Slowly he moved his focus up to his shins, his knees and above. He was taking an inventory, tensing muscles individually, feeling them react. By the time he reached his ears, he was ready to start remembering again. In his mind he got onto the plane in Heraklion. The empty seat beside was filled by a pretty, no, a beautiful girl called Elena. They started to talk.
He was in the taxi into town, holding hands with Elena, when the door opened again. The same officer, but this time he was holding a magazine. The magazine he had bought in Heraklion and not read on the plane because he had Elena next to him. The one that had lain hidden and unopened in his briefcase throughout his trip. “This is yours, I think?”
Sick at his own stupidity, The Virgin nodded. “It is a big problem. The chief officer is coming.”
The Virgin was alone again. They would watch him, he knew it. He played the part. He let the fear take a corner of his mind just to see what he would do. He got out of his chair and paced the room. He stood on tip-toe and tried to look out of the high window. He took a tissue from the ornate box on the table and wiped his brow. He sat down again in the other chair. Finally he tried the door. Outside was a uniformed man with a Kalashnikov looking straight at him.
“Er - I want to see the officer, please.” The man waved him back inside with the Kalashnikov.
Back in the room he started to over-act. Or perhaps he was not acting, he was no longer sure. He paced. He stood on his chair to look out of the window, and paced again. The daylight had gone and he was losing sense of time. He did not know how long he had waited when the officer re-appeared. “What do you want?” he asked, woodenly.
“I want to see Major Jamal,” said The Virgin in a voice that was barely his own. There was no sign of recognition in the man’s face. “Major Jamal. He is in Military Security, a tall man, with a moustache. I need to talk with him. Or telephone. Can I telephone him?”
The man still showed no response but he answered, “Major Jamal, I will see.” He turned and left.
Again he had no way of telling how long he had waited before the door opened. It seemed a short time, too short to have brought Major Jamal from his home but there he was, his large frame filling the doorway. With him was Captain Zella. They burst into the room bringing noise and light. The Virgin felt a wave of relief. “Mr Cartwright! How are you? Kefahlik! Did you have a good trip to London? How is your family?” Major Jamal was reaching out a rescuing hand and The Virgin shook it gratefully. He even felt benign towards Captain Zella as he shook hands. The Major took the throne behind the desk and Captain Zella sat opposite him.
“Major Jamal, I’m awfully sorry to have called you, but I’ve got a bit of trouble. It’s just that when I was flying out to London I bought a magazine. One with girls in it. And I forgot to throw it away and it’s still in my bag. So now Customs are upset and I needed some-one to speak for me and I thought of you, if you don’t mind. I need your help.”
Major Jamal seemed to think The Virgin was being far too hasty. “Did they give you tea? Or coffee? How do you like your coffee? I will call for some.”
As he went to the door, Captain Zella spoke in a low voice. “It is a serious thing, what you have done. This is strictly illegal in Tabriz. To bring in pornography is a very serious thing.”
“Er - yes. I know. I mean, I didn’t want to do it. It was an accident.”
“That is not important. What is important is that you have a very bad magazine. It is non-Islamic. Do you understand that it is a big problem?”
“Oh Jesus, yes! I wish I had never seen the damn thing. I haven’t read it anyway. And I certainly wouldn’t risk bringing it into Tabriz if I hadn’t forgotten about it. But can you help me? Do you know what they will do?” Captain Zella was expressionless. He seemed to be much less of a saving angel than the Major. The Virgin refused to think of what might be going through his mind, how he would be thinking of the opportunity that The Virgin’s slip-up had given him, how the lever could be used in the future.
Major Jamal came back leading a porter with a tray of coffee cups and Captain Zella slipped back into silence. The coffee was sweet and heavenly.
Major Jamal sipped delicately and started to question him. “How was London? Did you have your meeting with your manager?”
“Oh yes. He wanted to talk about Russia. It’s getting very busy and they want to send me there. To Siberia. From the Sahara to Siberia.”
“Really? When will they send you?”
“Oh, probably never. We’re always making plans that don’t turn into anything. But we’ve got to be ready, just in case. It won’t be for at least a couple of months anyway.”
“And did you get any news about our order of solvent?”
“I’m sorry. I was so busy I didn’t even telephone the supplier. I’ll have to get after that first thing on Monday.”
“I see. So what else did you do in London?”
“Well, I met a friend and we spent some time together. You know, shopping, going out, that sort of thing. I was only in London one day really. I spent most of Friday in the office hanging around, so it didn’t leave much time.”
“I tried to call you at your hotel. I wanted you to bring me some shirts from Gieves and Hawkes, but you weren’t there.”
“Ah - yes. I didn’t stay where I was going to stay. My friend didn’t like that hotel so we went to the Holiday Inn instead.”
“Oh. You stayed with your friend in a hotel?”
“Well, yes. It was a girl friend, you see, and she had stayed at the Rutland before and she was afraid they might recognise her.”
“Ah. I see. That sort of friend. The one who sent you the card and souvenir of her affection in your brief-case?”
The Virgin felt himself colouring. “That’s right. Look, Major Jamal, I’m awfully sorry about what happened. It was so stupid of me. Would it be possible for you to talk to some-one about it?” He was on the verge of offering to pay for his error but Major Jamal seemed too grand for that.
“Perhaps I can help. If everything is as you say, I will speak to the officer in charge now. Perhaps he will let you leave if you give me your parole. I know him; he is an old friend.”
The request for parole dropped the whole affair another notch into unreality. How seriously was The Virgin meant to take the situation? A pledge on his honour as an English gentleman? It was absurd. He decided to play along.
“I would be very grateful if you could sort it out. Anything you need from me to help, just ask.”
“Good. Come with me and we will fetch your bags.”
His luggage was still on the desk outside. His hold-all lay open and had been clumsily re-stuffed. His wallet, keys and passport lay beside it. He followed the Major and Captain Zella out into the evening. He was free again; it had been that easy.
The Major was full of himself. “You will come home in our car. There is no need
for friends to take taxis.”
“But I have my car here.”
“No problem. Then you can give me a lift instead. Captain Zella can drive our car.” He gave Zella some quick instructions in Arabic and they left him, still silent and morose.
Major Jamal relaxed in the car. Sitting back with his legs stretched out, it was difficult to be suspicious of him. “Captain Zella is a very serious man,” ventured The Virgin.
“Ah yes. He is serious. He is one of the new men who came up with the Revolution. There are many people like him now. All very serious, but not educated. His father was a poor man, you know. A baker. He had a small shop, one of the very small stalls you used to see before the Committees made them illegal. This man had his shop just outside the gates of the Muharraq army barracks, when the Great Man was stationed there. He used to like sweet cakes - he still does, that’s why he is so fat - and he would spend his spare money with the baker. So, come the Revolution and suddenly the baker is a big man. That’s how it was in Tabriz in those times. People from the streets were made into big men, and all the old families lost everything. All their money, their businesses, farms, everything.” He was looking out into the darkness and remembering.
“Our family was stripped. The Committees took all we had. I made myself very small and shouted for the Revolution with the rest of them. What else could I do? If I couldn’t live with the Great Man, I would lose my job and probably my head as well. So I sat on the Committees and helped him as well as I could. He knew me from before, of course. We served together. The Royal Tabriz Scouts, that’s what our regiment used to be called. We were the old King’s favourite troops. We had a small Camel Corps then, and a little Air Force. A few patrol boats for the Navy, that was all Tabriz needed. But we were the cream. We had English and Tabrizi officers, you know. All trained in Sandhurst. The Scouts would march past on the King’s birthday and His Majesty would stand up straight and salute us - those were good times. A soldier was a proud man then. Afterwards, we all had to be politicians and play dirty games.
“Look at the soldiers now. Rubbish. Sons of street sweepers. Dirty, poor, ignorant rubbish. They don’t want to be there and the Army doesn’t want them either. All the good families pay a little money and their sons don’t have to join the Army. They can go to University in Moscow or Czechoslovakia instead. Before I used to have proud men from the desert, and Sudanese who stood up straight and did just what they were ordered to do. If I had told them to lie down in front of this car, they would have done it. They would die for their King and be proud of it. Now, I can’t even give the simplest order without dirty sons of Egyptian prostitutes coming to discuss it with me.
“The officers we have now are just politicians. Captain Zella! He should be minding his father’s old shop. That would be more suitable for him. He would shit himself if he ever heard a gun fired in anger. And I have to drag him around because he is a revolutionary and they still don’t believe I am. He watches me and reports back. All this time, and they still don’t trust me.
“Maybe it will be better one day. Maybe. Perhaps the Great Man will retire before some-one helps him do it, and we can have a proper Army again. Too late for me. I’m getting old and this business of Security, it makes you old very quickly. Were you in the Army, Mr Cartwright?”
“Me? No, never. They’d finished conscription long before I was old enough and I went to University and then joined the oil business. Was Sabah very different before the Revolution?”
“Oh, Sabah was a good place then. People used to come here for their holidays. That is hard to believe, isn’t it? It was a tourist resort. Italians, Greeks, English of course, rich Lebanese, they would all come here and enjoy the restaurants and the casino. We had rich men’s boats in the harbour, and you could sit in the cafes on the pavement and drink wine with your pasta, and watch the girls go by. Ah, it was like the Riviera, believe me. We could go to those cafes also. The good families mixed with the foreigners, we lived just as they did. You would have enjoyed yourself. You wouldn’t have to go all the way to London to find a girl-friend then.
“What was your friend’s name?”
They were back to reality with a bump. “Er - Elena.”
“What does she do, this Elena?”
“She works in a travel agency. She had a cheap ticket to Crete and we sat next to each other on the flight to London. Bloody idiot!” He swerved to avoid a taxi pick-up that had decided to stop in the middle of the road.
Major Jamal was watching him. “You didn’t know her before?”
“Well, no.”
“And she came to stay with you in the hotel?”
“Yes; but she’s a nice girl. Not - um, you know what I mean - not doing it for money. I’d like to see her again. Perhaps we can go to Greece together.”
“Ah-ha, Mr Cartwright! I believe you have fallen in love! And so quickly. She must be very exciting.”
“Oh, she’s certainly that. Very sort of glamorous and alive and - well, it was really good being with her.”
“Perhaps you should bring her to Tabriz?”
“Wouldn’t that be nice? But you know how it is. Single ladies can never get visas because they must be prostitutes.”
“Don’t worry about that. I am very pleased you thought of me when you had trouble today. Any time I can help you, you must ask me. I have many friends who will help you. If you want to bring your girl-friend to visit, I can get her a visa tomorrow.”
They were getting into town at the worst time of day; the traffic was crazy and avoiding the other cars kept The Virgin fully occupied. “You drive very well, Mr Cartwright. You do not shout or complain like most foreigners.”
“Ah, well. I guess I’m used to it by now. Getting excited doesn’t help.”
“You are right. One must be quiet and just keep on going. Can you take me to the People’s Hotel? Captain Zella should be meeting me there. Tell me, do you think you will have an answer about our solvent tomorrow?”
“That’s Sunday. I might have one waiting for me, but if they haven’t sent anything I’ll call them first thing on Monday. Don’t worry. I’ll let you know as soon as I have anything.”
The Virgin pulled into the forecourt of the People’s Hotel, a modern glass and marble palace built by the Koreans and run by Moroccans. A stiffly uniformed doorman ran to help Major Jamal. He struggled out of the car and turned with the door still open. “I am glad you had a good visit to London. I was worried that perhaps you would be delayed and so we would not be able to order our solvent quickly. It was good talking with you. Goodnight.”
When he got home The Virgin found his luggage had been thoroughly searched. Nothing was packed the way it had been and every packet had been opened. But everything was there, even the offending magazine. He left his bag on the bedroom floor and boiled saucepans for a hot bath.
- 10 -
Seven o’clock next morning was a hard target to achieve. Still half asleep, The Virgin drove through the dark streets to the office. Driving and parking was easy at this time of day; everyone else had the sense to stay in bed until the sun got up. He made a coffee and started to call the desert. Life had improved sensibly since he had carried in an automatic dialling telephone. He could now punch in the number and let the machine do the work. Of course, the Tabrizi telephone system often defeated the electronics and the process stalled, but a touch of a button and it was clicking away again. He no longer had to sit with the hand-set wedged under one ear, spinning away at one of the old-fashioned dial phones.
As he waited, he started through the messages left by Abdul. Some-one in TAMCO had been trying to reach him. That would be Tayfun with some niggling problem on the RomDril-1 cement job. Tayfun could wait until he got to TAMCO later that morning.
There was a telex from Rotterdam announcing the scheduling of the next charter vessel. It should be loading 18th January. Wonderful. Any delay on that and the boat would reach Tabriz just in time for Ramadan. Things happened slowly in Tabriz at
the best of times, but in Ramadan everything was twice as much trouble and took twice as long. Bless Rotterdam’s little hearts. Their problem was that they did not want to load any earlier as that would mean making their preparations during the Christmas/New Year period.
His in-tray held a wad of supply orders wanting descriptions for Customs purposes. This was the critical part of The Virgin’s job. Anything imported had to have a description in Arabic, and the wording of the description determined the duty payable. ‘Water pump’ would get off lightly at 10% duty but ‘Water pump for truck engine’ would get hit with 30% as a spare part. It could make a big difference. He put those aside for later in the day when he would have time to do them carefully.
There was a letter crudely typed in Arabic with a large green stamp over the signature. Abdul had written ‘This is from the People’s Agricultural Congress. They say they are the owners of our yard and we must pay rent to them from 1983. They want $100,000.’ Oh shit! That meant another bunch of unwashed people would be pestering them for a month or two, waving a photocopy of some grandiose Congress decision and claiming that it gave them the right to blackmail whoever they wanted. It was a great strain to be polite to some of them when they crowded into his office, all smoking and trying to speak at once. It would come to nothing in the end. The Great Man’s style of leadership left the local committees with a great deal of freedom to make rules and regulations, but once they started to interfere with the oil industry they would be brought up very sharply.
The lab tests for the RomDril-1 job were in. Nothing unusual there. He had better get to the rig that day and see how things were going. Still reading, his practised ear identified some useful sounds in the clicking from the telephone; it might have got an open line. He waited with his pen poised; the hollow buzz was broken by a ringing tone. Hamdullah! Another miracle of modern technology. He opened his telephone log and started to exchange news with Florian, the desert Operations Supervisor. Nothing much was happening, and everyone was waiting for RomDril-1 to reach casing point.
The Accidental Spy Page 11