by Sax Rohmer
“Possibly you are mistaken, sir. I wish to rejoin my unit.”
“You are seconded for special duties.”
“For how long?”
“What does if matter? I have heard you say more than once that you disliked service with a mechanized unit.”
“I may have said that I would rather die of sunstroke on a camel than be suffocated in a tank.”
“Do you speak Japanese?”
“Certainly not. Why should I? Furthermore, I am imperfectly acquainted with Eskimo and my pronunciation of Choctaw is often criticized. I may add that I refuse to believe in the existence of any human being entitled Mr. Ko.”
Colonel Roden-Pyne gave a lifelike imitation of a mare whinnying to her foal. Himself, he would have described the sound as laughter. “I rather sympathize. Ko, in Japanese, means Marquis. I have been making inquiries, and I find that a Mr. Ko was formerly attached to the Legation in Baghdad, where, although ostensibly a clerk, he was treated with marked respect. The Iraki authorities requested the Japanese representative to leave, and Mr. Ko disappeared. There is no evidence, however, to show that he returned to Tokyo. Later that very remarkable British agent known to me as A 14, but to you, I believe, as Rose of the Lebanon, reported that Mr. Ko was none other than the Marquis Karasu.”
Yasmina—A 14—daughter of the Sheikh Ismail ed-Din, represented a chink in the bimbashi's armor, but he did not wince. “Who is the Marquis Karasu?”
“He is the brain behind Japanese Secret Service —a really formidable character.”
“I must decline to believe it—although some small apes can be trained to perform quite amusingly.”
“He financed the usurper, Raschid Ali, aided and abetted by Dr. Rosener of the Nazi staff, and planned the Baghdad coup.”
“The coup failed. Dr. Rosener is a poor trainer.”
“But his latest coup has not failed; it has placed us in an uncommonly hot spot. My reputation in this Department is at stake. I—” he broke off.
The blue eyes of Bimbashi Baruk lighted up as if from within. Those clear English eyes shining out from a dark Arab face were a phenomenon which had puzzled many men, and which had intrigued several women. The bimbashi possessed an extra sense, possibly inherited from Eastern ancestors, or possibly from a half-Celtic mother. He could tell, sometimes, what another was thinking; hear the unspoken word. Now he had heard a call, urgent, pathetic, from this ultra-reserved officer whom he had known, and respected, since boyhood—for Baruk had won field rank while still a young man. It said, “I am in desperate trouble.”
“Count on me, Colonel, to do my best. What has happened?”
And Colonel Roden-Pyne, no trace of levity remaining, related a story which reduced the bimbashi to silence.
A transport plane equipped to accommodate six passengers, and capable of high performance, had set out from Cairo two days before. It was a well-tried machine reserved for a special purpose—the swift conveyance of staff officers from point to point. Piloted by Flight-lieutenant Walburton, with Flying Officer J. J. Camper as navigator, it was destined for Teheran via Habbaniyeh, the airport serving Baghdad. Sergeant Marks was radio operator and Corporal Dimes acted as standby and steward. There were four passengers. Three of them were Brigadier General Desmond Cooper, with Colonel P. J. Western, both of the U. S. Army, and Captain Wallace of Headquarters Staff, an officer intimately acquainted with Russian and Persian affairs, and one who spoke both languages fluently. The fourth member of the party was Miss Lotus Yuan, a young lady of good family, a brilliant linguist and a graduate of London University, who had represented Free China at a number of international conferences. She was generally admired for her chic and respected for her talents.
The plane made good time to its first stop, in Syria. Walburton reported that the engines were behaving “like black velvet.” Recognizing the importance of those composing the party, Colonel Roden-Pyne had arranged for a chain of contacts. When they took off again, it was on a course which would pass over Rutbah on the motor road, where a pipe line crosses it. A code word to establish identity was flashed down to the station there from the plane, which was flying low and twenty minutes late, together with a brief report, “All's well.” Rutbah notified Habbaniyeh of the party's approach. But Habbaniyeh waited in vain.
In perfect weather, under an azure sky, the plane from that moment passed out of view, and out of the knowledge of men. Nothing whatever had been heard of it, or of those on board, since Rutbah had exchanged signals.
“There are some hundreds of miles of desert,” the bimbashi pointed out, “in any spot of which they might have been forced down by engine trouble.”
“This would have been reported, and the exact point of a proposed landing indicated by radio.”
“Their radio might have cracked up.”
“Rutbah is roughly two hundred and twenty miles southwest of Habbaniyeh. Reconnaissance has been carried out over a wide belt. There is no trace.”
“There are wadis in the desert which lie in black shadow. In any one of these the plane might have crashed.”
“A mechanized battalion from Baghdad is searching the whole area at this present moment. They have been on the job for twenty-four hours. They worked by the light of the moon all last night. I tell you, B.B., it's black magic. Incidentally, it's going to break me. I was responsible for the General's safety.”
It was then that silence descended upon Bimbashi Baruk.
Certainly the case presented baffling features, not the least obscure being the behavior of the radio operator. Even allowing for sudden enemy interference, such as attack by a fighter aircraft— which possibility the colonel firmly wrote off— failure on the part of Sergeant Marks to send out an SOS remained inexplicable. There had been no electrical disturbances. Flight-lieutenant Walburton was an experienced pilot, recently awarded a bar to his D.F.C.; he had himself selected flying Officer Camper to accompany him. Supposing some unimaginable mishap to have befallen both, Marks and Dimes were fully competent to fly the machine. But when Bimbashi Baruk broke a long silence, his words indicated that he was thinking of something else.
“I am naturally anxious to learn,” he said, “what Mr. Ko has to do with the matter.”
Colonel Roden-Pyne nodded; the bimbashi almost expected to hear the rattle of harness. He swung his leg free of the chair arm, opened a drawer and proffered a typewritten slip. The colonel typed execrably, not only running as many as four words into one another, but also using abbreviations; however, coughing dryly in disapproval, Bimbashi Baruk succeeded in making out the following:
“Agents of Ko, who is in Persia, planning intercept General C. on way to T. Escort should accompany plane. A 14.”
Bimbashi Baruk looked up: his eyes now seemed to dance, so bright was that inward fire.
“I received this warning from A 14 too late.” Colonel Roden-Pyne's voice sounded off-key. “It arrived at about the same time as the message from Rutbah reporting 'All's well.'”
6. Lotus Yuan Loses Her Vanity Case
BIMBASHI BARUK began his inquiry at dawn, proceeding there by air without an unnecessary moment of delay. His final words to the colonel had been, “I am deeply indebted. I was obliged to you already for several jobs which no mere human could, reasonably, be expected to carry out. But this one is the plum. What am I supposed to do? Crawl all over the Syrian desert with a magnifying glass looking for American footprints?”
On the way he studied a large-scale map of that desolate region which lies between Syria's border and the Euphrates. Part of it seemed to be practically uncharted, just waterless rock and sand amid which few creatures could sustain life. Assuming General Cooper's party to have been alive at the time that the plane landed (and it must have been hard-going), they were trapped in a forbidden wilderness the bimbashi found impossible to contemplate.
The dusk drew near again; black ribbons of fire striped the desert to show where wadis lay. The whole smoldering waste burned redly as though years of h
eat at last had set it on fire; and sunset, grand-master of a stage lighting which can change this prehistoric ocean bed into an enchanted carpet, passed his wizard wand across the scene. Then, out of the east, into prismatic glory from the west, came that wandering Arab who brought news at last.
His camel excited the bimbashi's pity. The poor beast had been driven hard, for this nomad from nowhere bore a message which he knew would earn reward. Fifty miles southeast of Rutbah, on a stretch of level sand near the Wadi Amej, there was a deserted airplane. Bimbashi Baruk took the man in hand.
What kind of plane?
It was large—at least, it was large in the eyes of the one who had seen it. There was a ladder leading up from the sand to an open door.
What had he found inside?
He had not dared to enter such a magic chariot, which was the work of efreets and other devils. The bimbashi challenged this statement, and was satisfied: the Bedawi's superstitious beliefs had held him back from exploration.
Was the magic chariot damaged in any way?
Apparently not. It had alighted, to judge from data familiar to a son of the desert, as one would expect such an invention of Sheitan to alight—smoothly.
What signs did it bear?
Here the informant failed. He began well by recognizing an R.A.F. disk shown to him, but he wavered, as to further indications, between correct identity marks and the slogan, “Beer is best,” which Bimbashi Baruk offered, chalked on a board, as possible alternatives.
Was there any evidence to suggest that the occupants had gone to seek help?
None. Moreover, Rutbah, a pathless and waterless journey of fifty miles, was the nearest point at which they could have found it.
Would he swear by the Prophet that no one remained on board?
He would swear that no one remained on board, alive. He had ridden his camel around the plane many times, crying out in a loud voice. He was of opinion that no dead men were inside.
Why?
He had seen no vultures and had heard no jackals.
The Bedawi's firm refusal to act as a flying dragoman threatening to lead to a free fight, Bimbashi Baruk set out guideless, in moonlight, by air for the Wadi Amej, his pilot working by chart. The Bedawi was accommodated, with guard, beneath the roof of the rest house or beneath that part of it which had remained after German bombers and rebel Iraki troops had done their worst, and their best. The night was crystal-clear but bitterly cold, and Bimbashi Baruk found himself glad to be wearing one of those hooded camel-hair coats which enable a man to defy wind, rain or snow.
They experienced little difficulty in finding the deserted plane. It lay on a sort of small plateau which appeared to be flat as a bowling green; but the light of a three-quarter moon is not the best illumination in which to attempt an experimental landing. However, the bimbashi instructed Flight-lieutenant Carr to land; and Flight-lieutenant Carr landed. He was intensely bucked to have been chosen to pilot this mystery man whose name was known in every mess from Reykjavik to Singapore; he would gladly have attempted a landing on the top of the Statue of Liberty. Now he taxied right to the port side of the other craft over a surface which might have been rolled for a golf course.
“A perfect natural airfield, sir,” he remarked. “Walburton must have been up on his maps.”
“H'm,” muttered the bimbashi, “one wonders.”
This, indeed, was the missing plane. Bimbashi Baruk walked all around it, silently, followed by Carr, Captain Maitland of the Sappers and a sergeant pilot, who had accompanied him. No one spoke as he went up the ladder; Maitland and Carr followed. The sound of their footsteps must have been audible for miles, so complete was the desert stillness.
When, at the end of twenty minutes or so, they switched off lights and descended again to the moonbright plateau, Captain Maitland stared blankly at Bimbashi Baruk.
“It's supernatural,” he said, and he seemed to be afraid of his own voice. “It's aMarie Celeste of the air.”
The facts justified his words. They had been able to identify places occupied by various members of the party for the reason that nothing, apparently, had been disturbed. On one table they found an open attache case initialed “P.D.C.”; it contained two recent handbooks on Persia, a sealed box of a hundred Turkish cigarettes, and a copy of theEgyptian Gazette. Near it was a writing pad beside which lay a fountain pen and a pair of reading glasses. A letter headed “En route to Teheran,” and jerkily written, began with the words “Dear Jack.” A purely personal note to a friend, it contained such sentences as, “Lucky I gave up smoking years ago, as good cigars are unobtainable here”; and it concluded: “We are approaching a place called Rutbah which I understand is about halfway to Baghdad (where we spend the night). Desmond.” There was a P.S. It said: “At the moment of writing there seems to be...”
At this point, clearly enough, the General had laid down his pen. On the rack were a uniform cap, gloves and a regulation revolver. Similar equipment was found in a neighboring rack and on the table a pigskin portfolio bearing the words: “Colonel P. J. Western.” It contained some large-scale maps and a quantity of forms and official correspondence. An open novel lay face downward beside a pack of playing cards. There was a cup containing coffee dregs.
Aft of these places they identified that occupied by Captain Wallace. He had been solving a crossword puzzle from an old issue of theDaily Telegraph. A short cane and a “brass hat” were near by. A portside seat adjoining told a like story, the story of a smooth and uneventful passage suddenly interrupted. There was a sewing bag on the floor in which were balls of wool and some illustrated pamphlets containing instructions for making jumpers. Part of such a knitted garment lay on the chair, needles in place; a fur cloak over the chair back. On the table Bimbashi Baruk noted a Persian dictionary, a volume of Keats and a Baedeker's Palestine and Syria in German. All were closed, but the last was marked by a long strip of red wool. A camera (Miss Lotus Yuan was a photographic expert) and a vanity case filled with cosmetics, perfumes and other toilet articles rested in the rack.
The baggage room was empty. The vacant cockpit and its instruments were left for later inspection. Baruk found himself particularly interested in the steward's pantry. Four clean glasses and a dish of biscuits and hors d'oeuvres stood on a tray, a cocktail shaker beside them—and the shaker was full. He seated himself on the sand, leaning back against the ladder, and began to fill his pipe.
“Deliberation,” he remarked, “should always precede action.”
But he knew that he was baffled.
BIMBASHI BARUK was still deliberating when dawn broke and when sunrise threw golden spears of light across the wilderness. He had completed his inquiry and was boiling down findings to a working residue. Established facts were these: All log books and other records had been removed, together with heavy baggage. There was evidence to suggest that the passengers' personal belongings had undergone careful searching before being replaced where they were found. The engines were in order and there was enough petrol in the tanks for at least another two hundred miles. He knew that one case in possession of General Cooper might well have tempted enemy agents. This was a large leather portfolio, metal reinforced, with three Yale locks, and it contained scale plans and detailed directions for extending existing facilities by road and rail and speeding up Anglo-American supplies to Russia some three hundred per cent. This scheme was the work of a prominent transport expert dispatched to the area by President Roosevelt in person. Preknowledge of these designs on the part of the Axis might mean that they became worthless.
There were many problems which defeated him, but he had ample data, if only he knew how to use it, as he proceeded to point out to Captain Maitland.
“An important item,” he said, “is General Cooper's P.S.: 'At the moment of writing there seems to be—'”
“'Something wrong with the engines' is the conclusion of the sentence which leaps to one's mind.”
“But there is nothing wrong with the engin
es.”
“No. What about 'Something unusual taking place?'”
“Helpful, Maitland. I rather lean to that conclusion myself. Then there is the cocktail shaker.”
Captain Maitland, reddish, unimaginative, inclined to put on weight, stared. He had light blue eyes which meant little but ignorance of fear.
“There is nothing unusual about the cocktail shaker.”
“On the contrary: it is full. How long, after a cocktail has been prepared, does it remain in the shaker? A matter, not of minutes, but of seconds. Whatever disturbed the journey, therefore, entirely put Dimes off his stroke. He forgot to pour out the drinks. Again, at what hour would you expect cocktails to be served?”
“Six o'clock.”
“This gives us the time at which interruption probably occurred: six o'clock. We may assume that Walburton at this hour was following his proper course, and I have worked out where he should have been at six o'clock. General Cooper's unfinished postscript bears this out. You agree with my figures, Carr?”
“To within ten miles, sir,” the Air Force officer replied eagerly, “from the time when he set out for there. I have marked a likely spot on the map.”
Capless, his fair hair disarranged, the enthusiastic pilot spread out a map on the sand before Bimbashi Baruk; it was a humble offering from a devotee. The bimbashi smiled appreciatively, and Carr was rewarded.
“About three miles short of a place called El Dag. Anybody know anything about El Dag?” Nobody knew anything about it. “We have to suppose, then, in endeavoring to reconstruct what happened, that at El Dag Walburton saw or heard something which led him to behave in a really singular manner; namely, to pass over Rutbah, and then change his course and come here. Why here? It would be difficult to give a pilot directions to a spot like this, wouldn't it, Carr?”
“I should say impossible—unless ground signals were used.”
“Ah,” murmured the bimbashi, and his heavy-lidded eyes half closed; “that is a point.” His eyes woke up again. “We come, now, to Baedeker'sPalestine and Syria. What are we to make of Palestine and Syria?”