The Accidental Spy

by Jacqueline George

  The Virgin parked in line under the eucalypts and switched off the engine. The afternoon washed sleepy quiet around him. The only sound was the continuous drip of irrigation water at the foot of each tree. He went into the low wooden building to look for Florian.

  Late that evening he was tucked up in bed recovering from a long and tedious safety meeting followed by too much dinner. The desert air always made him dog-tired and he was having trouble keeping his eyes open to read. A knock at the cabin door woke him. Standing on the sand outside was Florian in a track suit. A ragged Tabrizi soldier with an AK-47 stood behind him.

  “You picked the wrong day to come down, Greg. These guys want your car.”

  “You’re joking!”

  “No. They want three pick-ups and your car. You’d better give me the keys.”

  “No way! They can’t do that! Besides, my sunglasses are in it.”

  “Come on then. But you’ll have to give it to them. The silly bastards will shoot you if you don’t.”

  The Virgin threw on his clothes and stepped outside. There was a bitter wind blowing. Just my luck, he thought, coming when the Army has run out of pick-ups. Standing outside the office lounged several more soldiers, all armed, dressed in a promiscuous assortment of military and casual clothes. Most wore sandals, and loose turbans outnumbered berets. The gang leader was dressed no differently but stood at the front of his men.

  The Virgin hurried into the office and found Florian trying to sort out keys and documents for the three pick-ups the soldiers had selected.

  “Give me the phone. I’m going to call a friend.” He dialled Major Jamal’s number. It was a relief to hear his deep voice answer. The Virgin controlled himself long enough to go through the greeting ritual before laying out his troubles.

  “Well, Greg, I must tell you that they can do that, you know. No-one will sell us military equipment anymore and companies like yours must help Tabriz. But I am surprised they are looking for three pick-ups and a car all from one company. What does the receipt say?”

  “Receipt?” He looked over at Florian who was shaking his head. “They didn’t show us a receipt.”

  “No receipt? Ah, now I can help you. They are taking the cars from you but giving the receipt to one of their friends to collect the compensation. How could you get paid if they do not give you a receipt? Call the officer to the phone and I will see what I can do.”

  The Virgin went outside and called for the gang boss in pidgin Arabic. “Mudir. Mudir - telephone.” The man followed reluctantly, laying his pistol on the desk as he sat in Florian’s chair. His expression went from confusion to horror as he held the phone to his ear. Major Jamal was doing the talking and the officer only managed occasional words. Still listening, he reached into his jacket and brought out an envelope. It held the receipt and copies, complete with signatures and multiple stamps. His hand trembled as he filled in one of the main lines. He pushed it over to Greg and handed him the telephone.

  “All is well, Greg. I have spoken to the lieutenant and he has given you the receipt. It is for one pick-up only, just as I thought. The other two and your car were just a little private business. But you must give him a reasonable pick-up.”

  “I was going to ask you about that. They’ve picked out three of our newest units.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to give them those. But it must be in working condition.”

  “How about something two or three years old? We could manage that without upsetting anyone too much.”

  “Only three years old? Greg, the Army will be delighted with something so young, and I know MacAllans always keeps its vehicles in good condition. Just take the licence plates off and give the lieutenant only a photocopy of the log book. You must give the original log book and the plates to Security in Blida with a photocopy of the receipt.”

  The officer had left Florian’s chair and was standing respectfully with his hands together. “Major Jamal, thank you so much! You cannot imagine how much help you’ve been to us.”

  “Don’t worry Greg. Call me any time. If I can be so much help just with a few words on the telephone, I will do it whenever you need, believe me. Now just give me back to the lieutenant for a moment and I will make sure none of his friends bother you for a while also. Goodnight.”

  The Virgin enjoyed the cup of coffee he had with Florian afterwards. He had met the enemy and won three new pick-ups and a car. Anything was possible in Tabriz, if you knew the right people. Florian was stunned. In all his long years in the desert, he had never seen the Army beaten off like that. The Virgin was a hero for the moment.

  The Virgin had little enough to do next day. Planning the 9-5/8” cement job on RomDril-1, visiting the lab and discussing likely cement recipes, having a tuna and onion sandwich with the Filipino store-man in an effort to prise some spare photocopy paper loose from the store. He decided not to wait for lunch. He would rather get on the road and be back home in Sabah before night fell. After fuelling the car and filling in the travel board, he swung out of the gate and raced off across the desert. Another still and clear day. Each time he reached a hillcrest he could see forever in the cold winter air.

  It was on the way back that he firmed up his decision to ask for a meeting. He would run past the office as soon as he got back and call Elena. Would she come herself, or would she fix up a trip out of Tabriz?

  - 15 -

  Christmas in Sabah was a covert affair. The church had been strong before the Revolution but as foreigners were pushed out, so the mosque achieved dominance. The cathedral had been taken over and loudspeakers now called the faithful to prayer from the old bell-tower. Not that Christians had been suppressed, for Islam is generally tolerant of other faiths. Christianity now existed discretely in the back streets. The central Roman Catholic church for Sabah was the old convent chapel. Concealed behind high walls in the maze of the old town, a flame flickered. The Tabrizis tolerated it, and for the most part ignored its presence.

  The Virgin picked up Danka from Barani after work on Christmas Eve and ferried her into town. The evening streets were busy with shoppers and through the bustle came Filipinos dressed in their Sunday best. Along with them was a smattering of Africans, Arabs and Indians and a few Europeans, mostly single men far from home at Christmas time. But the goodwill was there. As they picked their way through the cars patiently inching their way down streets designed for donkeys, The Virgin and Danka were greeted by most of the people they met. She was famous from the hospital, and most of the Filipino girls knew The Virgin. Being part of Christmas made them feel good, and it felt even better in the church, packed together and standing at the back while the timeless ritual went on around them.

  The congregation dissolved rapidly once Mass was over and The Virgin joined the stream heading back to the hospital. Here one of the roofed verandahs had been decorated with ribbons and computer print-outs and the party was ready to go. Children dressed in doll’s clothes ran screaming in and out of the adults’ legs, tolerated and caressed. Music came from a straining ghetto blaster. The nurses were bringing large plates of food from their bed-sits and passing around plastic cups of watered-down cola. There was some disgusting flash available if you went and chatted to the small group of men in the corner, but most of the party was building up its spirit on cola alone.

  Danka did not get any affection from Evelina but she was welcomed by the rest of the nurses, all of them junior to her. Evelina got The Virgin into a corner and started to grill him. He had expected that she would be fishing for gossip about Danka, but now she had other things on her mind.

  “Why has Captain Zella been asking about you? What have you been doing with him?”

  The Virgin did not need to fake surprise. “Zella? What’s he up to?”

  “Caridad went to him for a visa stamp and he made her sit down and answer questions about you. What have you been saying to him?”

  “Jesus! What does that bastard want? He came to my office once, with somebody else, and w
anted to give me a hard time. What did Caridad tell him?”

  Evelina shrugged. “What could she say? Just that she knew you, and that you come visiting sometimes. He kept asking if you had a special friend here and she said no. He wanted to know about you and me.”

  “Damn him. I bet I know what he’s thinking. He’ll be reckoning that I’m after him for what he did to you, and he’ll try and get rid of me first. Has he spoken to you since then?”

  “Do you think I’d say anything to him?” said Evelina fiercely. “I’ll stay here forever before I ask him for a visa. I’ll just wait until he’s on leave, or I’ll get the Director to ask for me. But don’t talk to him, will you? He’ll only make more trouble. For both of us. He was asking about you and Danka too.”

  “I guess that’s good. Better to keep him confused.”

  She looked at him quizzically. “He’s not the only one who’s confused.”

  “Good. I shall have to take more ladies for parties now and again. Make him really blow his fuse.”

  “Greg, you’re crazy. You should get a nice girl-friend, a Polish girl who will give you what you want.”

  “Oh yes? And what’s that? And what can Polish girls do that Filipinos can’t?”

  Evelina looked at the floor. “You know! Polish girls are different. They’ll do anything.”

  “Evelina, you have a totally exaggerated view of what I do in my spare time. And of who I want to do it with. When are you coming to visit me again?”

  “Don’t start again! Have a party and we’ll all come, but I’m not coming by myself. People will talk.”

  “They talk anyway. You ought to let your hair down and give them something to talk about.” She smiled and left him standing.

  They did not stay long at the party. Danka wanted to get to the tannery before everyone got too drunk, and while there was still some good Polish food left. When they drove up, the ornate gate complex looked dark and dusty. The steel gates were shut and chained. No one came from the gatehouse; the gaffirs did not want to come out of their warm hut and open the gate. With resignation, The Virgin climbed out of the car and took his driving licence from his pocket. The gatehouse had a small window for communication but it had been closed with cardboard against the draught. He went around to the door. Inside three old men sat in a bare and dirty room. Heat came from an electric fire element laid across two concrete blocks.

  The Virgin offered his driving licence. “Salaam Alleikum” he said with as much enthusiasm as he could manage. Without bothering to reply, one of the men took his licence and waved him in. He went out and looked at the gate. The chain at the centre was not locked. He swung open the gate and drove in. For a moment he toyed with the idea of leaving the gate open, but the old men had his driving licence and they were quite capable of refusing to return it if he upset them. He climbed out of the car and closed the gate.

  The Polish contingent lived in two lines of tacky wooden sheds, probably the accommodation used by the workers who built the tannery in the first place. They were clean and functional, but very basic. The party was in the mess hall and had already warmed up. At a long table along one side all the tannery workers and several nurses were sitting on benches. They nibbled Polish snacks and passed bottles of flash along the table. Cigarette smoke was heavy on the air. The Virgin was swept up and sat in front of a plate of pickled fish and potato salad. Seconds later a large flash appeared. “Na zdrowie! Na zdrowie!” shouted his neighbours holding up their glasses. Convention demanded that he sink the first glass in one gulp but The Virgin had long since given up trying to compete. He shouted and smiled with the rest but drank no more than a swallow. There was enough flash in the glass to lay him out for the night, and he had only just arrived.

  Some time later Danka appeared at his elbow with a tousled young man in tow. He had a bemused smile on his face and looked like a stocky elf. “Virgin, come and meet Janusz. He is electrician and makes best flash in tannery. He does not speak English; also he is very out of order because he started party at lunch time.” Janusz held out a rough paw and smiled some more. Danka manoeuvred him onto the bench beside The Virgin and went back for his glass.

  She squeezed herself between two men on the bench opposite. “Janusz says if you want work for your house or office, he is happy to come.”

  “Thank you very much. Is he good?” It was an interesting offer; competent electricians were as rare as pork sausages in Sabah.

  “Excellent. He can fix refrigerator and air con. Also water pump. He fix my washing machine.” She explained to Janusz what was going on. Still smiling, he gave her a long reply. “Now he is talking about family in Poland. Excuse me.”

  The Virgin sat quietly and let his mind drift above the Polish conversations around him. His neighbours were good people; hard-working men here to earn some real money for their families. Most of them probably sent home three or four hundred dollars a month. It was a sad situation but with conditions at home changing rapidly, it was the only avenue open to most of them. You had to admire them.

  The door at the back of the hall opened and two men slipped in. The older one was short and stocky. He had a full beard and his hairline had receded so far that his frizzy grey hair was standing up around his face and pate like an exotic monkey. His face was red and smiling. His companion was a tall young man with a stoop, quiet and dour. As soon as the crowd noticed them a shout went up. “Victor, Victor! Wesołych swiąt!” The old man was in amongst them, shaking hands and shouting. Someone put a large flash in his hand and he sank it without effort. A real Slav.

  “Virgin, this is Russians I tell you about. They work for Army.” She jumped up and thrust her way through the crowd to drag Victor over. “Virgin, this is Professor Victor Ivanovitch Kuryagin. Virgin is an English man.”

  “Ah, Mr Virgin! Now I will practice my English again. How are you?” His handshake was as full of energy as the rest of him. “Do you work with this people?”

  “No - I’m an oil-field engineer. And you?”

  “We work for the Army here, but I will not talk about this. Not for Christmas. Now we must drink! You have whisky?”

  “Hah! Some chance! No - just flash like everyone else. But this is the best flash in Tabriz. Janusz made it.”

  “My friend Janusz. He is very good technician. Before my laboratory has good equipment. Then the Arabs work here and now everything is finish. Believe me; completely finish. Janusz come and fix everything for me. I give him meat from the Army - very best beef from Bulgaria. He come and give me his expertise. He is more useful than professor, I think. Here, you must drink for Janusz. Na zdrawie!”

  Mechanically, Janusz raised his glass with the Professor. The Virgin was forced into taking another swallow. “Mr Virgin, you will meet Boris. He is cousin of my wife. We work together.” Boris reached across the table to shake hands, but said nothing.

  “Now I will dance,” announced the Professor, taking Danka’s hand and leading her to the floor.

  Boris took his place on the bench. Leaning forward, he said in a low voice, “My name is Boris.” His English accent was American.

  “Hi, Boris. Are you enjoying Tabriz?”

  He considered for a moment. “No. It is not good here, but I am here for money.”

  “Aren’t we all? No one is here because they like it. What’s it like working for the Army?”

  “It is not very bad. There are many officers who have been in Russia and understand how to work in laboratory. They try and help us, but the young Tabrizis are not good. They do not understand.”

  “What are you doing for them?”

  “This I cannot tell you. I do not understand exactly why we are here. Now I am helping Victor repair the laboratory. I am not for this work. I do not like to be welder and carpenter and electrician. I am medical technician. My training is for working with blood. In Russia if the equipment is not working we have special technicians who will repair. Here Victor must do the work. He has nothing. Not even books for eq
uipment.”

  The Virgin laughed. “It all sounds very familiar. How did you come to be here?”

  “It was very easy. Victor wanted laboratory technician so he call my mother and she sent me. I think she not know how it is here. It is like prison. We cannot go outside. Now it is possible to come here, but is not enough. Polish people only smoke and drink and talk. There is no culture here, no sport. Do you have culture in Sabah?”

  “Culture? You mean concerts and ballet?” He had to laugh at the idea. “Not a chance. I don’t know about the Tabrizis; maybe they play music in their houses. But they certainly don’t go out to concerts. It’s not part of their tradition. All the men seem to do is visit each other’s houses in the evening and drink tea. Their women don’t go anywhere. Sometimes they take their families out for a picnic at the weekend. Or to the beach in summer.

  “You’ll like it better in summer. I’m sure they’ll let you go to the beach with the Polish people if you keep asking them quietly. The beach is really nice here. Much better than anything at home.”

  Boris thought about that for a while. “They say we can go to the church with the Polish people. Is that good?”

  “Ah, well. That depends on what you feel. Are you a Christian?”

  “My mother was a quiet Christian, and now she goes to church. She likes it. I went with her once. It was very historical. Is it the same here?”

  “Pretty much, I guess. Though it’s Roman Catholic here so it will be a bit different. The Polish people are very religious. I suppose it was almost a political statement for them. To go to church under communism was like attacking the Government. Now they must be wondering what they’ve been encouraging. The Church can be very conservative.”