Bimbashi Baruk Of Egypt

by Sax Rohmer

  She wrote in a cipher familiar to Cairo Military Intelligence, but this particular example was not intended for the eyes of Colonel Roden-Pyne; it was for someone who had never been far from Yasmina's thoughts since the moment when first she had seen him, in Beirut; someone she had met only twice, secretly, but someone whom she knew she would meet again: in fact, it was for Bimbashi Baruk. They had carried on in this way for a long time a clandestine correspondence, because Yasmina's father, the Sheikh Ismail, was of the old school and never permitted his daughter to go out alone; also, she was betrothed to Raschid Azem, their influential neighbor, whom she detested. He had been detained once, but Vichy influence had secured his release.

  “I am always afraid of spies,” read the passage which she coded, “and I am never sure that someone may not find out the cipher. As I have had no word from you for nearly a month I fear a letter has perhaps been intercepted ...”

  These letters went by way of the same underground post as did those for the Cairo authorities; that is, Aida, Yasmina's Syrian maid companion, left a note at the shop of Abu Hassan the barber in Damascus, and he in due course passed another note to Aida which stated the time at which a confidential messenger would present himself at a selected meeting place to collect the report. This time was always some hour after dusk, and either Aida or Yasmina herself kept such appointments. A letter for the bimbashi usually accompanied one containing information for Colonel Roden-Pyne, and that equine officer forwarded it, sometimes with a sardonic comment in pencil on the envelope. During the bimbashi's absence in England a hiatus unavoidably had occurred.

  The official message which was to go with Yasmina's letter informed Cairo Intelligence that the Grand Imam had actually collected names of no less than four hundred enthusiasts sworn to smite down existing governments and protectorates. Backed by thousands of planes and tanks, pledged by Dr. Rosener, they would purge the East of Western influence and restore in all its grandeur the ancient Arab empire. A list of some twenty prominent supporters was appended.

  In what manner a young girl, subject to those restraints associated with harem life, acquired this exact information was a mystery which Colonel Roden-Pyne had never solved, and Bimbashi Baruk, who knew, derived an impish satisfaction from keeping his knowledge to himself. It was really so simple. Ismail ed-Din, one of the largest landowners in the Lebanon, was being assiduously wooed by Nazi agents, of whom Yasmina's fiance was one, and his office adjoined his daughter's rooms. She had established an ingenious listening post at the back of a wardrobe, and only three days before had overheard a conversation between her father and Raschid Azem which afforded material for her present report....

  “This mad imam is a godsend to our cause, my friend. He has won hundreds of important helpers.

  “He says so,” Ismail ed-Din had interjected.

  “Ha!”—a rustle of paper—“here are some of the names. Listen closely.”

  And Yasmina had listened closely, notebook in hand.

  Yes, it was really so simple, but it had greatly lightened the British task of mopping up undesirable elements.

  A LITTLE-USED MOSQUE on the western outskirts of Kermanshah was uncommonly crowded when diemaghrib, or sunset call to prayer, rang forth from its wooden minaret. Believers of all shades of opinion and of many social classes, few of whom normally crossed the threshold of this house of devotion, seemed to be possessed of unusual religious fervor. Led by a tall, bearded figure wearing the robes of an imam, all performed the subscribed ceremonies. The imam, who wore spectacles, was unable to touch the dust with his ascetic brow, owing to the presence of a paunch difficult to acquire by fasting and abstinence. Prostrations completed, the worshipers remained kneeling, and the imam mounted the pulpit. Many eyes were raised to the bearded face, none more eagerly than the light, fierce eyes of a ragged dervish who knelt by the door, his staff laid upon the floor beside him. A murmur ran from lip to lip. The Grand Imam of Khorassan was about to speak; what message did he bring to the Faithful of Kermanshah?

  They remained not long in doubt. A voice issued from behind the black beard which would have penetrated the remotest galleries of St. Sophia and which threatened to crack the unstable dome above them. The imam said that Kermanshah had formerly produced the most famous carpets in the East, grown the best opium poppies, and in return had received from Baghdad rare merchandise and so acquired much wealth. He asked what had become of the looms of Kermanshah and where now were the poppyfields. Since he had selected declining industries, the answers were not clear to his congregation; but, as the imam proceeded to state, to him they were plainly revealed. European interference accounted for everything. The former prosperity of their Eastern world, from the frontiers of India to Damascus, could be restored in one way, and in one way only. Western ways, Western machinery and Western politics must go; railways be demolished. Once again the camel must be seen in the land.

  “Hear, hear!” growled the dervish, so that those near to him started and stared curiously. They did not stare long, however. One glance at that fierce, black-browed face with its stubble of beard, at the tattered robe, at the green turban, was sufficient to identify a hadji of the Bektashiyeh; and prudent men desire no conversation with such. The Grand Imam, alone, seemed rather to single him out, as if anxious to add a member of the Order to his corps of converts. He began to speak of the glory of Islam, which would be fully restored when no European foot rested upon Eastern soil; he declared that he spoke with high authority and that he had those supporters who would enable the Faithful to cast out their despoilers. He was beginning to grip those of his listeners who had axes to grind; such a campaign promised loot. And at this point his katib, or clerk, appeared carrying a large volume, pens and ink, and seated himself below the pulpit. The clerk, whose hazel eyes shone with fanaticism, exhaled an effluvium of camel perceptible above all other odors.

  A slow starter, the Grand Imam, when he got into his stride put up a really impressive performance: he, the Broom of the Prophet, called upon every Believer to sweep the infidel out of the lands of Islam. When names of workers for Allah were demanded, more than a score came forward, the dervish striding to the front and offering himself first.

  “Welcome to the fold, brother hadji,” said the katib, opening his book and inscribing the name of the fakir at the head of a blank page. “Here, my master”—turning to the Grand Imam—“here is one of deeds, O Broom of the Lord, one worth a hundred others.”

  The imam, perspiring glossily from his efforts, peered through misty spectacles. “Do you seek the freedom of the Faithful, hadji?”

  “Is it for thee to ask one of my Order such a question?” snarled the dervish. “What do I teach as I roam the pastures of the Prophet?”

  “May we count upon brethren of the Bektashiyeh to sweep despoilers into the sea?”

  “To the last brother, preacher of the Word. What said our divine Founder, the Old Man of the Mountain?”

  “I would have further speech with thee, hadji. Take meat, then, at the house of Omar Rakkum tonight. My katib will guide thee.”

  As a result of this conversation, the dervish later formed one of a party of guests in the anteroom of a large house, for Omar Rakkum was a wealthy merchant fired by political ambitions. The room was sparsely furnished and surrounded on three sides by divans. Kermanshah stands nearly five thousand feet above sea level and the nights are cold. A charcoal stove burned in the center of the room. Beside this stove the dervish seated himself, counting his beads and muttering prayers. From time to time the imam's clerk came to a door, beckoning one or more of the men assembled. They would go out and presently return, resuming their places. When the call of the dervish came it proved necessary to touch him on the shoulder; and he sprang up, fierce-eyed, staff in hand, as if rudely aroused from meditation.

  “Follow me, O hadji,” the katib directed, and led the way.

  Along a passage, uncarpeted and dim, he led, then up a short stair. The dervish found himself in a square c
abinet of a room, lighted by a brass lantern, in which the only furniture consisted of a finely inlaid table and two chairs. On the table were the big book of names, the pens and the ink. His guide carefully closed the door.

  “Glad you managed it, B.B.,” he said, “because the plot thickens stickily and I need help.”

  They shook hands; and the gleam in the hazel eyes of the clerk was no longer one of fanaticism nor that in the blue eyes of the dervish a gleam of anger.

  “Glad to be here, Pop. What became of the original scribe whom you mentioned in one of your reports?”

  “He met with an accident,” said Pop darkly, “and had to be left behind. I volunteered, saying that I was used to keeping accounts. Also, I presented the Grand Imam with a camel. For your sake I shall be glad to push on. This is dangerous territory for that green turban.”

  Now, there were few traditions of the Bektashiyeh with which Bimbashi Baruk was unacquainted, for he had devoted close study to the subject. Islamic ritual was second nature to one reared in a Moslem household, and had not been effaced by the later influence of an English public school. Nevertheless, Madden's fears were well founded.

  “They are a poisonously unpleasant crew,” the bimbashi admitted, “which is why I usually work out as one of them; but this is the first time that I have found myself so near to their headquarters.” (The Order was founded in Khorassan.) “Heaven help me if I meet an authentic specimen! Where is the imam?”

  “Counting his money.”

  “Counting his money?”

  “Yes. He gets a sort of head-tax from Rosener on all disciples.”

  “Fat brute.”

  “Wait until you see him feeding. I pointed out to him that if we could interest the Bektashiyeh, we should have a ready-made organization at our service, and I am going to propose you as the fat one's bodyguard.”

  “Some duties are a keen pleasure. Where do we go from here?”

  “Into Irak. But more later. In that book”—he pointed—“are the names of most of the gang we shall round up when the fun starts. Do your best at the banquet. I have a bottle of Scotch hidden in the baggage.”

  And the bimbashi found confirmation, in a long, narrow saloon, of Colonel Roden-Pyne's words: “Those who listen to him are either already disaffected, slightly cracked, or they are ambitious crooks.” A vast dining table, conjuring up visions of medieval feasts, occupied the center of the floor. Nearly a score of covers appeared, and the chairs (the seats tipped up), gilt with purple plush, had been bought at an auction of the effects of some over-enterprising movie-palace proprietor. “Lot 21” had not been removed in every case. Windows facing on the garden displayed exquisitely carved lattices; three finely proportioned lamps of priceless perforated bronze hung from the carved roof; and Omar Rakkum's black butler wore a white tie and tails, and had a silver chain around his neck supporting a disk which said “Sherry.”

  Here, surely, were those “Western ways” denounced by the guest of honor—for the Grand Imam sat on the right of his host; and here, around the mighty board, was a crew motley as any to be imagined. Omar Rakkum clearly saw himself as an up-to-date Harun el-Raschid. The success of impudent adventurers—Hitler, Mussolini and their like—had injected large ideas into a small brain.

  A feast of ten courses was served. These included lumps of goat floating in fatty gravy, sheep's-milk cheese, eggs flavored with saffron, and other dishes of which the Grand Imam partook of double helpings. There were many odors to compete with those of the menu, but that contributed by Abdul the Camel Dealer remained outstanding. He smelled like a whole caravan.

  YASMINA WAS unhappy. She feared for the safety of Bimbashi Baruk, from whom no word had come although two more weeks had elapsed. Into the life of this lonely girl, educated in a European school in Beirut only to be condemned to a marriage with one whom she loathed, the bimbashi had burst like a spear of light. The sudden, fierce love of the East had flared up in her heart at exchange of a first glance; it had burned steadily ever since. Their stolen meetings had come to mean the only really important events in her life; and it was because of him, always it had been because of him, that she risked so much to transmit information to Cairo.

  She knew that her father, the Sheikh Ismail ed-Din, was not involved, but only held the candle to the devil, in the persons of Satan's representatives, Dr. Rosener and Yasmina's fiance, Raschid Azem. She was guilty of no disloyalty to Ismail; she felt sorry for him, since she was well aware that his true sympathies lay with the Allies. But regarding his views of her subterranean correspondence, should he discover it, she had no illusions.

  Spies employed by Raschid Azem watched her continuously, not because her real purpose was suspected, but because Raschid Azem, consumed by desire, believed that Yasmina had a secret lover. It became increasingly difficult to meet the messengers dispatched by Colonel Roden-Pyne; and now came a letter of instruction from “Yosef” (the colonel's cover name) which added to her perplexities. At a late hour Aida—Yasmina's link with a wider world—had slipped in at the little postern gate to rejoin her mistress in the studio. It was no uncommon thing for Yasmina to work upon her plaques long after nightfall, so that she enjoyed a certain measure of freedom from sunset onward. Anxiously, she decoded the message.

  “Who was the messenger, Aida?”

  “The old Jew who has come twice before.”

  Aida was discarding a voluminous black garment and a veil with a brass nosepiece which they both employed for such occasions.

  “Do you think anyone saw you?”

  “No. They have not discovered the new meeting place.”

  “Listen, Aida. This is terrible. He—the bimbashi—was sent to Persia to stop the Grand Imam: the message says 'Acting on your information.'” She turned and stared at the comely Aida; her eyes were tragic. “No report has been received from him since he left Baghdad—and the imam is already in Syria!”

  “I don't understand at all,” said Aida; “and why does Yosef tell you this?”

  “Because he thinks I may have heard from him. He is evidently worried. He asks me to find out where the next meeting is to take place and to try to arrange for some reliable person to be present who can prepare a full report. Aida, whatever shall we do?”

  “They meet at the Old Mosque in the town below on Friday night after the adan” (Call to Prayer). “The Jew took the news back. But there is no one we can send—no one we can trust.”

  “Aida—they may have trapped him!”

  “He is too clever.”

  “Then what has become of him?”

  “Let me think what we can do.” The shrewd Syrian watched Yasmina's boyishly slender figure moving nervously to and fro in shaded lamplight; her brilliant eyes remained heavy with apprehension, but her lips were firm, her chin was resolute. “There must be a way...”

  THE CIRCUMSTANCES which led to Colonel Roden-Pyne's anxiety had occurred some time before, and they were these: In spite of Madden's mastery of his part and of an equally capable performance by Bimbashi Baruk, the Grand Imam had detected their imposture; the fact had crashed upon him, like a blow between the eyes, that dervish and camel dealer were British agents. It came about in this way.

  A complete list of names from the imam's ledger had been forwarded to G.H.Q. Cairo, in order that the responsible authority could arrange with Teheran for suitable action; but when the Nazi evangelist crossed into Irak, Pop Madden suggested that what he described as “the catch” might be dealt with more expeditiously; that is, by arrangement with Baghdad. The bimbashi agreed, and accordingly, after three gatherings west of the Persian frontier, Abdul the Camel Dealer appeared in Baghdad one evening and succeeded in establishing contact. (The Grand Imam was lying at the house of a sympathizer on the western outskirts of the capital.) A senior British officer by whom Pop was interviewed seemed disposed to make himself a nuisance.

  “We have ample evidence, Madden, to justify this fellow's arrest. I'll send a party along right away.”

&nb
sp; “But that would be a mistake, sir.”

  “It's what I understand Colonel Roden-Pyne wishes.”

  “Possibly you may be right. But the man's a perfect honeypot. Why throw him away until we have caught all the wasps?”

  “You are suggesting that we allow him to continue this treasonable tour right across to Syria? The last thing the colonel desires.”

  “But the best thing all the same, sir. We shall get to know what enemies we have nearer home. By all means gather in the crew whose names I have given you—but leave me my Grand Imam!”

  In the end Pop Madden had his way, and managed to get back undetected. The imam proposed to address a select gathering at the house of his present host on the morrow and then proceed further westward. Now that mountainous country was left behind, the camel had been sold, quite profitably, by Abdul, and from a Nazi source an old but serviceable Buick had been unearthed and placed at the evangelist's disposal. Abdul volunteered to drive it. Shortly before the meeting, a group of converts was privileged to listen to a relay of Hitler's Reichstag speech, which the bimbashi described as “the best imitation of Charlie Chaplin I ever heard.” Twelve names were added to the ledger later on; and the katib secured leave of absence for the evening.