The Accidental Spy

by Jacqueline George

  Zella had not made the connection – yet. Perhaps he never would. And if he did? The Virgin was just an innocent salesman. Even a paranoid like Zella would have to admit that he could not have had anything to do with loading the container. On the other hand, The Virgin might just know something about it, and it would be worth a few fingernails to find out exactly what he did know. The Virgin would have to get out immediately. He could not risk being questioned. It was time to send a distress signal.

  Elena was at home when he called, cooking lunch.

  “Hey, Greg, I’m cooking Greek shrimps wrapped in bacon. Do you want to come?”

  “I wish I could. I’ve just had some really bad news. They’ve impounded my passport. It looks like I won’t be able to leave the country for ages, maybe not until next year or even later.”

  “No! What happened? Can they do that?”

  “They can do what they want. Foreigners are on their own out here. A friend of mine died in an accident and they want to keep me here for questioning. As some sort of witness, I suppose.”

  “Greg, that’s terrible. What friend? What sort of accident?”

  “It was a Tabrizi friend, an important man called Major Jamal. He was a nice old man. I liked him but he’s had an accident and I don’t even know what sort of accident. I think the man holding my passport is just doing it to upset me. What could I know about any accident anyway? Or perhaps he’s going to ask me to do something for him.”

  “Do something for him? Like what? Money?”

  “Oh no – I shouldn’t think so. I don’t know. Perhaps it’s business. I wish he’d just come straight out and ask me for whatever it is he wants. He should know that if he puts enough pressure on MacAllans, they can do quite a lot for him. He doesn’t need to screw me around.”

  “But I was planning to go to Crete with you…”

  “I guess you’ll have to cancel that idea.”

  “What about Christmas?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know. Perhaps he’ll ask for something and we can get it all sorted out quickly. I hope. On the other hand…”

  “But you must come for Christmas! That’s ages away. Surely they’ll give you back your passport by then. Or can you just leave without it?”

  “Without it? Not a chance. You’ve got to have a passport with an exit visa to cross the border and here’s one foreigner who’s not playing any games crossing borders illegally. Don’t worry, I’ll get there for Christmas even if I have to put all your presents in a wheelbarrow and push it from here to Almadi.” There – he had sent up the distress rocket. Elena took it in her stride.

  “Oh Greg, I hope it won’t come to that. You’ve spoilt my lunch now.”

  “Yeah – mine’s not going to taste very good either.”

  - 25 -

  The Virgin had to get out of the office. It was lunch time and the streets were empty. He drove aimlessly. There was nothing to do except brood and waste time until Danka would be free. He could not stop himself re-living Zella’s visit and his hatred of the pencil moustache grew in his mind. He could see it wriggle up and down, semaphoring its owner’s unique mix of vindictiveness and narrow stupidity. He shook off his mood and started to drive home. Then he realized that he should be checking if he was being followed. On the quiet road approaching his house he stopped the car as if he had changed his mind and turned back to go to the vegetable shop. The road was empty. No hint of a shifty glance or a following car caught by surprise. He bought fruit and vegetables, and carried on to the street of butchers. He parked again, this time under the rows of sheep’s heads hanging over the shop doorways. Still no hint of a tail. He bought a kilo of camel steak and carried on.

  It was still too early for Danka. He drove out of town on the coast road. Now he was sure that he was not being tailed. No one could follow him on that empty modern highway without being obvious. He went on to leave some oranges with Terry and drove cautiously back into town.

  Danka’s building was busy with people popping in and out, and he did not have to wait for entry. Danka was happy to see him, and even happier with the steak and vegetables. She did not want to walk on the beach but caught the urgency of The Virgin’s mouthed message and changed her mind. He did not let her talk until they reached the beach.

  “What is it, Virgin? You find the container?”

  “No. Not that. I’ve got to leave. Urgently. I’ve got to get out, and Security have my passport. I’m in trouble, Danka.”

  “Boże, Virgin, what can I do?”

  “Listen, you told me once the guys from the tannery go down to the desert for a picnic sometimes. I’ve got to get down to the desert. Secretly.”

  “But you can go to the desert. Go to your company.”

  He had thought about that. If the worst came to the worst, he would get down to Florian somehow and beg him to help. But there was not much a foreign organization could do when it came to crossing Tabrizi borders. “That’s no good. That’s the first place they’ll look for me, and you can’t hide in the camps. Too many Tabrizis around. Look, it’s Wednesday today. Any chance we could talk a group of the guys into going down on Friday?”

  “But what will you do, Virgin? You cannot live in the desert…”

  “Don’t ask, Danka. Just get me down the Cape Town Road, and I’ll manage. Do you think you can do it?”

  Once again The Virgin was sitting in Janusz’s cell, sipping at his flash. Danka talking urgently with Janusz. They got up to go. “Wait, Virgin,” she said as she left. “We do something, I think.”

  They returned with a stocky man with a greying walrus moustache. “Is Pawel, Virgin. He is manager now. The real manager goes to Warsaw.”

  Pawel held out a farmer’s hand to shake. “Witajcie, Wirgin,” he rumbled, and still holding The Virgin’s hand said something to Danka.

  “He says you’re welcome and they will do their best to help. They can lend you a desert pass and badaka from a man who left last month. But we must be careful. No talking.”

  “Please tell him thank you. I’ll need to drop some things here tomorrow after work.”

  “It is not a problem, Virgin. I tell him tomorrow we come with the meat for the picnic, and Pepsi, and your things. Then you come and sleep with me, and on the tomorrow they will take us from Barani. Good, no?” and Janusz was filling glasses all around to toast their fortune.

  The Virgin dropped Danka off at Barani and drove into the packed suburbs of Sabah. He was looking for Rubberdy-Dub’s villa. He lived with four other computer operators in a drab pile with a genuine Swedish sauna on the roof. The only one in the whole of Tabriz. Imported by a Scandinavian company back in the days when money flowed freely and new infrastructure projects were coming off the drawing boards every week. Times had changed and the elegant blonde Scandinavians working on a prestige project had been replaced by down-at-heel Brits and Canadians working for a Greek body shop that rented them out to TAMCO as filing clerks. And the sauna had been converted into an English pub bar.

  The Virgin pulled Rubberdy out of the bar and took him down to his apartment. “Look, Rubberdy, I’m in deep shit and I need help.”

  Rubberdy did not know how to respond. “You mean, you need some money?” he asked.

  “No, no – nothing like that. I mean real trouble. With Security. I think they want to arrest me.”

  Now he was shocked and frightened, but he understood. At heart everyone was frightened of Tabriz. “But help? What can I do…?”

  “You’re going to give me your little cart to take down to the desert for an engineering check.”

  “My cart? But – but it’s OK – it doesn’t…”

  “Rubberdy, we’re talking about my arse here. Seriously. And I promise it’ll never come back on you. No one will ever know. Not even the foreigners, unless you tell them yourself.”

  Rubberdy looked at him dumbly. “I suppose… But where are you going?”

  “Don’t ask. Really, don’t ask. I’ve come around for a
drink and you’re going to ask me to take the cart down to our desert workshop for checking. I’ll back my car into your yard, we’ll load it up, and I’m out of town on Friday. That’s all you want to know, OK?”

  “OK, I suppose.” There was really nothing else he could say. Then he cheered up. “Do you want me to show you how it all works? It’s really good.” The cart was standing against a wall behind the villa. Its aluminium mesh body hung between two bicycle wheels. Rubberdy had imported a carbon fibre pack to make the two elegant shafts that stretched out in front of it. Together they dismantled it, Rubberdy showing off all the features he had built into his baby over the last year. The Virgin backed his car into the yard and they packed it into the boot. The shafts fitted diagonally over the back seats.

  Back home, The Virgin spread Rubberdy’s map on his table. It was a section of the international aviation map, confidently displaying all the official airstrips around the oilfields, and less confidently shading in the topographic relief and sand dunes. His father’s generation had fought battles back and forth across this desert. Nearer the coast some of the prominent features still had their war-time names. Rubberdy had marked his route out in red ink. South from Sabah crossing low hills and a small sabkha, and then further south coming to the Al Ha’il Depression, a really big sabkha. Al Ha’il stretched from near the Cape Town Road all the way east to the Egyptian border and beyond.

  He rose early from a sleepless night and packed a small bag. He knew he was playing for time and that every moment that his departure could be hidden would be a moment gained. He left his bed unmade as normal and tried to leave no suggestion that he was departing for good. If Zella thought he was coming back, perhaps he would not start looking for him too seriously. Socks, Bandaid and his walking boots. A thick sweater against the desert cold. Just for luck he rolled Elena’s panties up into a small ball and hid them in one of his boots. Toothbrush, razor. He took two double sheets from his linen cupboard. They would be his shelter and camouflage. There was still enough room in the car boot for his bag and the sheets. He threw his straw hat onto the back shelf of the car and went back to lock the door. He clicked the garden door closed. Whatever happened, he would never see this house again. Excited and a little sad, he drove into town.

  Time dragged in the office. He called Elena. He sensed she wanted to sound cheerful. “Have you packed your little wheel barrow?” she asked. “You’d better start pushing it now if you want to get here by Christmas.” It was not comforting, but what else could she say? No one in London could help him now.

  He told Abdul and Rabka that he might have to go to Almadi. He thought he might drive down on Friday, and take in some of the sights on the way. The highway to the west passed two beautiful Roman towns and the ridge of the Jabal Al Dun was only a short diversion into the edge of the desert.

  On the rig he told Rene a different story. He was going on a trip east to the war cemeteries at Hell-fire Hill and might be away for a day or two. Could he please pass that on to Florian by radio as the telephone was giving trouble?

  After leaving the rig he still had time to kill. He drove to Cape Horn and sat in the sun, watching the tireless Mediterranean lap at the rocks and thinking that Crete was only a short boat ride away. Not far, but out of reach.

  His watch was moving in treacle, but at last he could pick up Danka and buy the meat and the Pepsi for the picnic. As he followed Danka along the crowded pavements, he was moving in a daze and he tried to resist the urge to hurry. Apparently Danka did not feel the pressure. She chattered with the shopkeepers normally and bargained unsuccessfully for cheaper prices. The Virgin felt glad when at last they could load the car and drive to the tannery. Janusz was waiting for them and helped them unload the cart. He promised to put everything onto the bus and to fill the water containers.

  The sun was dipping in the sky as they drove back towards town. Now they would have to get rid of the car. They joined the evening procession into town and wound slowly around to the Egyptian souk. It was an informal island of tolerated enterprise on one of the flat empty lots that surrounded the town centre. They wove between the puddles to the high wall of the souk, ignoring offers from Sudanese waifs to wash the car. Hiring a car washer meant you had an informal guard for your car, something he definitely did not need tonight. He hoped he was talking naturally to Danka as they got out and he slammed the door with the key still in the ignition and the window slightly open. The car would not survive the evening.

  They picked their way into the souk, avoiding porters and puddles and diving into the narrow lanes of stalls selling the produce of Egypt. Here everything was available. Watches, radios, shoes, sports clothes, all very cheap, and of very poor quality. He followed Danka as she patiently pushed her way through the crowds to the far corner of the souk. They stepped out into a mass of parked cars and strolled out towards the road and Barani. Ten minutes later they were fumbling their way up the stairs in the dark.

  Wanda was waiting for them with food ready to cook. The Virgin sat in the front room sipping flash and Pepsi. The girls busied themselves in the kitchen. He flicked through an old woman’s magazine in Polish; they had nothing to read in English. He thought of the hours he had wasted sitting in this room with his thoughts, not listening to the Polish conversation flowing over him, content to have company as he sat alone. Tonight was different. The girls had taken him in even though they knew he was trouble. These were real friends, ones that he could count on even when life itself might be at stake.

  Dinner was breaded camel steak and mashed potatoes, with ketchup as a vegetable. The meat looked oily and he ate out of duty rather than hunger. After eating, he sat in silence as the girls enjoyed their cigarettes and flash.

  Danka carried in a large saucepan of hot water from the kitchen. “Come, Virgin. You can have shower in Barani.” She led him into the bathroom. It was basic but clean. “Good – now, you must use this tap for cold water. The shower is not good – only cold.” She passed him a plastic jug and showed him how to half-fill it with cold water and dip a little hot water from the pan to take the edge off it. Oh well, thought The Virgin, it will be my last shower for a while, so I had better enjoy it.

  He went to Danka’s bedroom cold and only a little cleaner. It was a narrow cell with a single mattress on the floor. The Health Department provided only theoretical furniture so Danka’s bedside table was a small wooden box covered with a hand-sewn cloth. A cheap reading lamp gave soft red light. Danka was sitting on the mattress waiting for him.

  “You go into bed, Virgin. I make my shower, and come later.” She opened the covers for him and waited. There was nothing for it but to strip off, leave his clothes in a pile in the corner and dive into bed. The sheets felt good on his skin and he shivered. Danka smiled and stroked his hair. “You wait, Virgin, I come and make you warm.”

  She came to him in a rush, shivering under her thread-bare bathrobe. She threw it aside and jumped into bed. In the red light The Virgin caught a glimpse of her generous white body. He wriggled over to put his back against the wall and give her space to lie. She felt cold and moist from her shower. He put an arm over her and pulled her close to share his warmth. She burrowed her face into him and he felt her warm breath on his shoulder.

  His warmth was reaching her and she started to relax. He propped himself up on one elbow to look at her. The magic of love had transformed her and she looked beautiful. Her eyes, always pretty, were watching him curiously and the soft light gave her plain face radiance. He bent to kiss her. She tasted fresh, of toothpaste and smoke. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him over her.

  Later, she lay on her back with a smile on her face. “Was good, Virgin. Very good. We must do this before; it would be better. You like also?”

  He poked her in the ribs. “Of course. Wonderful. Fantastic.”

  “Ha! You say to all the girls. I know.” but she was still smiling. She pushed the pillow over for him to share. “Now, we sleep. Tomorrow will be very b
usy.”

  Danka had a shift worker’s ability to sleep on command and her breathing soon became regular. The Virgin was uncomfortable. Trapped between Danka and the wall, and with her wispy hair in his face, he lay awake and thought.

  Most of all, he wanted to be out in the desert. Free from Zella, free from MacAllans, just alone and independent. The desert did not frighten him. He knew about the desert and what it could do. What it would definitely do to the unwary or unprepared. But at least the desert had its own laws and it never deviated from them. The worst it would throw at him would be a ghibli and even that would not be too bad. It might throw his compass off but at least it would hide him, and only the very thickest ghibli would stop him locating the sun and navigating that way.

  He had only to get into the desert and he would be safe. That was the difficulty. There would be the five regular checkpoints to negotiate – they would not be a problem if the police were their normal sleepy selves. And then there was the main customs and police post on the Cape Town Road. Would anyone remember him from his trip down there to collect the cross-over for the rig? He had waited for at least twenty minutes before the pick-up from Lima-5 had met him. When was that? Last week? The week before? Would they recognize him at all? He had been driving a car then; this time he would be just another passenger in a Polish minibus.

  He did not know how long he had been lying there awake when he heard a soft knocking at the apartment door. Strange, he thought, why don’t they ring the bell? The knocking persisted and without waking Danka he crawled out of bed and tiptoed to the door. The peep hole was useless; there was no light in the corridor. As quietly as he could, he unlatched the door and opened it.

  Major Jamal stood there. Not wearing his tweed suit but a plain white djellabiyah. He did not look well. He was hunched, thin and pale, and his hair blew in sparse wisps over his crown. His eyes were intense and bloodshot. The Virgin stared at him. He was talking, his white moustache moved, but no sound came. Still in shock, he looked over Major Jamal’s shoulder at Stanford, who was giggling insanely and pointing at The Virgin’s nakedness.