City of Gold

by Len Deighton

  Ross saw what he was thinking. ‘Nothing like that, Captain Marker. I don’t hit handcuffed men. Anyway he’s been a perfect prisoner. But I don’t want the army blamed for ill-treating him. I think we should do it all according to the rule book. Get him on a stretcher and get him to hospital for examination.’

  ‘There’s no need for you to be concerned with that, sir.’ Marker turned to one of his MPs. ‘One of you stay with the prisoner. The other, go and phone the hospital.’

  ‘He’s still handcuffed,’ said Ross who’d put the steel cuffs on the dead man’s wrists to reinforce his identity as the prisoner. ‘You’ll need the key.’

  ‘Just leave it to my coppers,’ said Marker taking it from him and passing it to the remaining red cap. ‘We’d better hurry along and sort out your baggage. The thieves in this town can whisk a ten-ton truck into thin air and then come back for the logbook.’ Marker looked at him; Ross smiled.

  Ten billion particles of dust in the air picked up the light of the dying sun that afternoon, so that the slanting beams gleamed like bars of gold. So did the smoke and steam and the back-lit figures hurrying in all directions. Even Marker was struck by the scene.

  ‘They call it the city of gold,’ he said. There was another train departing. It shrieked and whistled in the background while crowds of soldiers and officers were fussing around the mountains of kitbags and boxes and steamer trunks that were piling up high on the platforms.

  ‘Yes, I used to know a poem about it,’ said Ross. ‘A wonderful poem.’

  ‘A poem?’ Marker was surprised to hear that this man was a devotee of poetry. In fact he was astonished to learn that any SIB major, particularly one who’d risen to this position through the ranks of the Glasgow force, would like any poem. ‘Which one was that, sir?’

  Ross was suddenly embarrassed. ‘Oh, I don’t remember exactly. Something about Cairo’s buildings and mud huts looking like the beaten gold the thieves plunder from the ancient tombs.’ He’d been about to recite the poem, but suddenly the life was knocked out of him as he remembered that his own kitbag was there too. His first impulse was to ignore it, but then it would go to ‘Lost Luggage’ and they’d track it back to a prisoner named James Ross. What should he do?

  ‘I should have brought three men,’ said Marker apologetically as they stood near the baggage car, looking at the luggage. ‘I wasn’t calculating on us having to sort out your own gear.’

  ‘Just one more bag,’ said Ross. ‘Green canvas, with a leather strap round it. There it is.’ Then he saw the kitbag. Luckily it had suffered wear and tear over the months since his enlistment. The stencilled name ROSS and his regimental number had faded. ‘And the brown kitbag.’

  ‘Porter,’ called Marker to a native with a trolley. ‘Bring these bags.’ He kicked them with his toe. ‘Follow us.’ To his superior he explained, ‘You must always get one with a metal badge and remember his number.’ He politely took Cutler’s leather briefcase. ‘It’s not worth bringing a car here,’ explained Marker. ‘We’re in the Bab-el-Hadid barracks. It’s just across the midan.’

  Marker kept walking, out through the ticket barrier, across the crowded concourse and the station forecourt. The porter followed. Once outside the station, there was all the bustle of a big city. It was the sort of day that Europeans relished. It was winter, the air was silky, and the sun was going down in a hazy blue sky.

  So this was Cairo. Ross was looking around for a way of escape but Marker was determined to play the perfect subordinate. ‘You’ll find you’ve got a pretty good team,’ said Marker. ‘And what a brief! Go anywhere, interrogate anyone and arrest almost anyone. “You’re a sort of British Gestapo,” the brigadier told us the other day. The brigadier’s a decent old cove too; you’ll like him. He’ll support you to the end. All you have to worry about is catching Rommel’s spy.’

  Ross grunted his affirmation.

  Marker froze. Suddenly he realised that this probably wasn’t the way the army treated a newly arrived superior. And not the way to describe a brigadier. Marker had been the junior partner in a law office before volunteering for the army. It was the way he treated his colleagues back home, but perhaps this fellow Cutler was expecting something more formal and more military.

  They walked on in silence, brushing aside hordes of people. All of them seemed to be selling something. They brandished trays upon which were arrayed shoelaces, flyswatters, sweet cakes, pencils and guidebooks. The great open space before the station was alive with peddlars. And there was Englishness too: little trees, neat little patches of flowers, and even green grass.

  ‘That’s the barracks,’ said Marker. ‘Not far now.’

  In the distance, Ross saw a grim-looking crusader castle of ochre-coloured stone. The low rays of the sun caught the sandstone tower so that it too gleamed like gold.

  Ross looked around. He didn’t want to go into the barracks; he wanted to get away. There were too many policemen in evidence for him to run. Half a dozen men of the Cairo force came riding past, mounted on well-groomed horses. The British army’s policemen were not to be seen on horses. With their red-topped peaked caps they stood in pairs, feet lightly apart and hands loosely clasped behind their backs. They were everywhere, and all of them were armed.

  Back at the train compartment, the two MPs were waiting for the doctor to arrive. The elder of the two men assumed seniority. He wore First World War ribbons on his chest. He’d leaned into the compartment and spoken to the dead man a couple of times and got no response. Now he said, ‘Dead.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Stone cold. In France I saw more dead men than you could count.’

  ‘What will we do?’

  ‘Do? Nothing. The officer says he’s sick; he’s sick. Let the doctor decide he’s dead. That’s what he’s paid for, ain’t it?’

  He got down from the compartment, and they both stood alongside the open train door and waited.

  The younger red cap did not relish the prospect of moving the body. He changed the subject and said to his companion, ‘I reckon that’s the one they’ve sent to take over from that major with the big walrus moustache.’

  ‘Well, that bastard lost a pip and was booted out to Aden or somewhere.’

  They watched a civilian coming through the crowd. They hoped it might be the doctor, but when he stopped for a moment at the sight of the snake-charmers they knew it couldn’t be. Only tourists and newcomers stopped to see the magicians and snake charmers and acrobats. ‘I heard the new bloke was coming today. Some sort of detective from Blighty, according to what the rumours say.’

  ‘Well, that one won’t last long,’ said the elder man. ‘He obviously doesn’t know Cairo from a hole in the ground. How’s he going to start finding a bloody spy here?’

  ‘Nice disguise though.’

  ‘The corporal’s uniform?’

  ‘Yes, the corporal stunt.’

  ‘You get the idea, don’t you?’ said the elder man bitterly. ‘If that Captain Marker hadn’t brought us over here to sort him out, that bastard would have ambled over to the barracks, and if he’d got through improperly dressed, and no one asking him for his leave pass, we’d all be for the high jump for dereliction of duty and suchlike.’

  ‘I suppose. Where’s that bloody doctor?’ said the young one. He’d phoned. ‘They said straightaway. We’re back on duty tonight again, aren’t we?’

  ‘Too right. It’s El Birkeh tonight, my old pal. I hope you’re feeling up to it.’

  ‘I dread that rotten poxy place. It stinks. I’ve asked to go back on traffic duties. I’m sick of patrolling whorehouses.’

  Ross had been completely accepted in his corporal’s uniform. Marker showed no suspicion at all. But there just seemed to be no way of escaping his amiable friendliness.

  When they got to the gate of Bab-el-Hadid barracks there was an armed sentry there. The porter dumped the bags and Marker paid him off. Ross offered him his identity card but the sentry gave it no attention.
His eyes were staring straight ahead as he gave the two men a punctilious salute.

  ‘The staff all know you are coming,’ explained Marker. He flipped open the special card issued by SIB Middle East, so that his superior saw it. ‘Your pass is no use to you here. We don’t let people in and out of here with the ordinary passes and so forth, not even SIB people. We have our own identity cards. I think we should get you photographed today, sir, if you can spare the time. It’s difficult to keep the sentries on their toes unless we set an example.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Ross.

  ‘And then you will have your new pass and identity document tomorrow.’ He led the way up the stone steps.

  ‘Very efficient,’ said Ross. His voice echoed. This place was just like an ancient castle, but no doubt the coolness of the stone would be welcome when summer came.

  Marker didn’t respond to the compliment. ‘The routine is to close all the Cairo offices between one PM and five PM. I’ve asked your staff to be at their desks early. I thought you might like to meet them. Then you could cut away and see your quarters.’

  ‘I’ll take your advice, Marker.’

  ‘Unless you want to go through the files, sir. I have told your clerk – if you decide to keep the same clerk as your predecessor – to have all the current files ready for you to examine. Or I can take you through them verbally.’

  ‘Are you always like this, Marker?’

  ‘Like what, sir?’

  ‘Super bloody efficient.’

  Marker looked at him trying to decide if he was being sarcastic. He couldn’t tell. This new man knew how to keep an inscrutable face. ‘In civvy street I worked for myself, sir.’

  ‘You’re beginning to give me an inferiority complex, Marker. Do you know that?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ How far was Major Cutler joking? It was hard to know. They were walking along the open balcony overlooking the parade ground. A dozen red caps were being paraded and inspected before going off on their patrols through the streets of the town.

  ‘This way, sir. This is your office.’

  The department that Cutler had been assigned to take over had its offices on this floor. This part of the building was only one room deep. The offices that were reached from the balcony overlooked the midan and the railway station beyond it.

  They were all lined up waiting for him: privates, corporals and a sergeant plus four radio-room staff and their corporal in charge. There was even a cunning-looking old soldier who was assigned to be his clerk.

  ‘Organise a photographer right away,’ said Marker to one of the clerks. ‘Identity photo for the major, double quick.’

  ‘We’ll get to know each other soon enough,’ said Ross trying to remember other clichés he’d come across during his duties in the orderly room. Marker introduced each of them and described their duties, their accomplishments and, where applicable, their previously held civilian jobs. None of them were ex-policemen. Poor old Cutler had guessed right about that.

  ‘Is that everyone?’

  Marker hesitated.

  ‘Well, is it?’ said Ross.

  ‘There is only one member of your staff not here yet,’ said Marker. ‘It’s a female clerk: Alice Stanhope. I’m sure she’ll be here any minute.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She went to see her mother in Alexandria.’

  ‘Is she sick?’

  ‘Her mother? No. No, not as far as I know.’

  ‘Why isn’t she at work then?’

  Marker hesitated. It was difficult to explain about Alice Stanhope. ‘Her mother … that is to say her family are good friends with the brigadier. That’s really how she came to be working here.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, sir. Alice Stanhope is a highly intelligent young woman. She speaks several languages and knows more about this wretched country than any other European I’ve met.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Well, her mother knows everyone. I mean everyone.’ He went to the door and looked over the balcony. Then he came back. ‘Yes, I thought that was her car. It’s an MG sports car, I recognised the sound of the engine.’

  ‘Do you mean to say she parks her car on the parade ground?’ said Ross incredulously.

  ‘Her mother arranged it with the brigadier,’ said Marker. In a way Marker enjoyed explaining the situation to his boss, just to watch his face.

  ‘I can’t wait to meet her,’ said Ross.

  ‘You won’t be disappointed,’ said Captain Marker.

  He guessed of course that the big surprise was yet to come, so he was watching very carefully when Alice Stanhope came down the exterior balcony and swung in through the door. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late, sir,’ she said. Then, remembering she should have saluted, she came to attention and put her hat back on.

  ‘That’s quite all right,’ said Ross. Until that moment he’d firmly intended to leave his quarters that evening and disappear, thanking his lucky stars for preserving him. Now his plans, and indeed his life, changed. He would have to come back to the office tomorrow.

  Alice Stanhope was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He must see her again, if only just once.

  2

  The region called El Birkeh, where so many of Cairo’s brothels were found, stretched from the railway station almost to Ezbekiya Gardens. This forbidden area – marked OUT OF BOUNDS by means of circular signs bearing a black cross – was constantly patrolled by red-capped military policemen. Its main streets were Clot Bey – named after a physician who did notable work on venereal disease, and Wagh El Birkeh, after which the whole ‘Birkeh’ district was named. For centuries this pleasure district had been spoken of with wonder throughout the Arab world, from Casablanca to Zanzibar.

  The extreme western edge of El Birkeh was a maze of narrow alleys, twisting and turning between low mud-brick buildings. Day and night it was always populous, rowdy and predatory. Once musicians, magicians, soothsayers and dancers had plied their trades along with the whores. Now, in January 1942, the cabarets, peep shows and whores predominated. Women of all colours, all sizes, all shapes and all nationalities were to be had here. There were women for the rich and women for the poor. They sat on their tiny balconies calling down to men in the streets below. They were available in accommodations that varied from curtained alcoves in mud-wall huts to ornate rooms in palatial houses.

  One of the more expensive establishments in El Birkeh was the brothel the soldiers called Lady Fitzherbert’s after the heroine in a ribald army song. The woman they called Lady Fitz was a fifty-year-old Greek dentist who’d arrived in Cairo penniless in 1939. The war, and the buildup of the army, was making her rich. She had already become one of the most influential people in Cairo. Lady Fitz ran her establishment with all the managerial skills of a Swiss hotelier. She sent gold coins to the ministers, provided the choicest young women for the Cairo police inspectors and gallons of whisky for the British red caps.

  It was a cardinal rule with Lady Fitz that she did business only with those she knew. She knew the two soldiers who were using one of her best upstairs rooms. They came regularly. She knew them as Sergeant Smith and Sergeant Percy. What their real names were she did not care; the money they paid was genuine and they never gave her any trouble. She looked at her watch. The expensive Longines wristwatch was one of her few concessions to luxury, for her hair was simply combed, her makeup minimal, her dark blue cotton dress was simple and her flat-heeled shoes purchased in the souk. It was almost time; she made a signal to one of her girls.

  The two soldiers had been upstairs for almost an hour. It was time that Lady Fitz sent the girl up to them. She was a beautiful half-Tunisian child who didn’t know the date of her own birth. She knew only that all her family had been killed during the fighting in Sidi Barrani in December 1940. From there she had walked about 350 miles to Cairo. Lady Fitz had found her begging outside the great al Azhar mosque. She’d looked after her well, and was saving her for someo
ne special, which meant someone who could pay.

  Sergeant Percy always paid for everything well in advance, and without argument or complaint. Sergeant Percy was different from all the others. He wore South African badges, but she was not convinced that he was from South Africa. She didn’t inquire. The important thing to her was that he was quiet, sober and polite. He seldom smiled, never made a joke and always wanted a different girl. It was the sort of behaviour that Lady Fitz expected of men, and she liked him. The other one, Smith, was sober too but fat, flashy and arrogant and too ready with sarcastic jokes. He ordered everyone around as though they were his subordinates, but for Lady Fitz his worst fault was in showing a complete indifference to her girls. Sometimes she wondered whether he was a homosexual. She could have offered him boys, men, anything he wanted, but he showed no interest in her offerings. She’d never fathomed him.

  ‘Get ready now,’ she told the girl. ‘Prepare the tea. It will soon be time to go to them. Do exactly as I told you.’

  The girl had that earnest expression with which many children face the world of grown-ups. She looked at Lady Fitz and nodded solemnly.

  The rough surfaces of the khaki uniforms the two soldiers wore, and even their tanned flesh, was made into gold by the light of the oil lamp. The big brass bedstead glinted like gold, and across it a lace shawl had been draped. The polished metal fittings on the chest of drawers glittered, and the flame of the oil lamp was seen again in the swivelled vanity mirror that reflected the room. To a casual observer they could have been old friends getting drunk together, but a closer look might have revealed the sort of tension that came from arguing and bargaining, for when the two men met here it was for business, not for pleasure. A brothel provides a discreet rendezvous for men who want their meetings to remain secret.

  Sergeant Smith was on the bed. At first his feet had been resting on the large oriental carpet but, having stubbed out his cigarette, he untied his laces, eased off his boots, and swung his stockinged feet up onto the bed. ‘Ahh!’ he said wriggling his toes and delighting in the feeling of resting full-length upon the freshly laundered bedding.