City of Gold

by Len Deighton

  An attractive woman of about thirty-five came in, carrying some files. ‘Give them to Percy, Babs,’ Wallingford told her. He turned to Darymple again. ‘Tell them that what I’m doing is secret. S-e-c-r-e-t. It’s not their bloody business. That’s all they need to know.’ He winked at Babs conspiratorially. She smiled and handed the files over to Percy. Then she left the room with that exaggerated care about disturbing them that was impossible to ignore.

  Darymple watched her and thought about his predicament. He wished he’d never mentioned to Wallingford that there was an empty office next door to his. And he wished he’d got into the building early enough to forestall Wallingford’s seizure of it. Darymple didn’t relish the idea of telling the sort of people who might inquire that Wallingford’s unauthorised occupation of one of the most desirable offices in Cairo was none of their business. And yet, as things were, he was in no position to antagonise Wallingford. ‘How long will you need the room?’ said Darymple.

  ‘No telling. The way things work with us, we might get an “action this day” telegram from the War Cabinet in London and be a thousand miles away, tackling the Japs.’

  As far as Darymple could see, Wallingford was not joking. ‘The War Cabinet?’

  ‘Once, a few weeks back for a special show, the boss got a note signed by Winston himself. Winnie calls us his pirates.’ Wallingford looked Darymple in the eyes and grinned. He’d long since discovered that in this war you simply couldn’t go too far. The more absurd and extravagant the stories you told, the less you divulged, the more willing people were to believe you, and do as you wished. Wars were like that.

  ‘Those two secretaries you have working for you,’ said Darymple. ‘One of them is the wife of Colonel Smythson, a damned fiery little staff colonel at British Troops in Egypt.’

  ‘Well, of course she is, old bean. You don’t think I selected her for her secretarial skills, do you? When she came in this morning I asked her to type a letter for me. After she’d been seated motionless behind that bloody machine for ten minutes, I asked her what was the matter. She said, I don’t know how to type capital letters. Can you beat that, Robbie? She didn’t know how to type capitals.’ He laughed. ‘I’ll bet even you can type a capital letter, if you put your mind to it. Am I right?’

  ‘Stop acting the bloody fool, Wally. Suppose some admin bod comes checking out the office space? They do sometimes. How am I going to explain that you have taken over this office – and the secretaries – when we’ve got majors on this same floor cramped three to a room?’

  ‘Stop worrying. We’ll get Mrs Colonel to chase them away. She can be fierce at times. You should have heard her on the phone getting those desks for me.’

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ said Darymple.

  ‘Look, Robbie, old sport. Let me explain the facts of life to you. These officers’ wives are avoiding the evacuation order. They all should be on the boat to South Africa or home. The only way they can stay with their husbands is by getting a job with the army. Hell, I had the choice of a dozen or more women as soon as I said there were jobs going. So who do you think I chose? I’m not batty. I chose two women whose husbands have enough clout to get us out of trouble. Get the idea, old son?’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And of course they love the idea of working for a secret outfit like ours.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘So hands off Babs and her friend.’ Big smile. ‘I don’t want any added complications.’

  ‘But I –’

  ‘Just a word to the wise, old fruit. Hands off my two girls.’

  ‘I’ll just say the commander in chief knows all about you.’

  ‘Wonderful! That should bring enquiries to a full stop. Now bugger off and let me get on with my work.’

  ‘Okay, Wally. But there’s something else I want to talk with you about.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘That money your Arab friend loaned me.’

  ‘Mahmoud. His name is Mahmoud. Is he chasing you for it? These Arabs get a bit emotional about money sometimes.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do, Wally.’

  ‘You’d better pay him, Robbie. It was only a short-term loan as I remember. Just a few days, you said. They can get nasty.’

  ‘I haven’t got it.’

  ‘Get it! You’ll have to pay him. You know what these Arabs are likely to do if you don’t pay them.’

  ‘No. What?’

  Sometimes Darymple could be exasperatingly dense. ‘He won’t take you to court, Robbie.’

  ‘You don’t mean he’ll…?’

  ‘Yes, he’ll cut your balls off. Pay him. Borrow the money, or go into the red with your bank.’

  ‘I’m already in the red with my bank. Look here, Wally. He’s your friend. You said he was your friend. You could talk to him.’

  ‘I never mix business with pleasure. And in any case, they wouldn’t listen to me. What would I say to them, Forget about the money my chum Darymple owes you? I’d get a royal raspberry in reply, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Should I go see him and explain?’

  ‘Be your age, Robbie.’

  ‘I can’t pay!’

  ‘Don’t get excited, old boy. If you are really in a spot, there might be a way I can help you.’

  ‘I’ll do anything, Wally,’ said Darymple solemnly.

  ‘Tonight I’ll sit down and draft out a few notes. I’ll see if there’s not some clever way in which we could fix it. Get you off the hook.’

  ‘I’ll do anything.’

  ‘I’d be sticking my neck out for you, Robbie. You wouldn’t go back on it afterwards, would you?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Darymple went over to the window. He was on the third floor, looking down into the street. It was noon and packed with vehicles, animals and people; people all concerned with nothing but their own affairs. What a madhouse! The traffic had all been brought to a halt by the collapse of some wretched camel. Expediently, the animal had been slaughtered on the spot and was now being butchered. A child driving sheep across the intersection had lost control of them at the scene of the butchery. The smell of blood had sent the frightened animals in all directions. A soldier leaning from the turret of a newly painted armoured car was shouting at someone out of sight, and behind him the rest of the traffic had come to a halt. In the doorway of a seed merchant, a Scots sergeant, complete with tartan kilt, was bargaining with an old man who had six heavily laden donkeys roped together. A bearded Arab carrying a live baby goat was trying to get into the back seat of a tiny dented Fiat. At that moment Darymple would have willingly changed places with almost any of them.

  As if reading his friend’s mind, Wallingford said, ‘We’re all here to better fight the Hun, Robbie. I’m just short-cutting all the red tape, so we can fight the bad men. Right? Nothing wrong with that surely?’

  Robin Darymple was a shallow personality, but he was not stupid. It was in failing to make this fine distinction that many of his acquaintances went wrong. Darymple knew now that Wallingford was not interested in fighting the Hun. Wallingford was deeply involved in some highly illegal racket that lined his own pockets. Wally had always been a cheat. He’d cheated his way through school exams. Darymple now felt sure that Wallingford had deliberately trapped him into taking the cash loan from his Arab cronies in the souk. Wallingford was no friend, he was a scheming bastard! But no matter how many times Darymple went back over the events of that day he could not think of any alternative. He’d needed the money that day or Lucia would have thrown him out of the Magnifico.

  Darymple had always needed money. Even at his prep school he’d never been able to manage his pocket money so it lasted the whole term. Finally his father had arranged for the matron to give him an allowance each week. Even then he’d ended every term owing money to the other boys.

  ‘Okay, Robbie. Push off now. I’ve got work to do.’

  Darymple smiled. He knew that Wally was being deliberately offensive. Or, rather, that
Wally was establishing what would in future be the relationship between them: Darymple would be the little boy who ‘pushed off’ when Wallingford had man’s work to do.

  When Darymple had gone, Wallingford went to the connecting door and called, ‘Percy? Come in here a minute.’

  Percy was wearing clean pressed khaki drill; that was normal for all the pen-pushing soldiers in the GHQ that the fighting men called Muddle East.

  ‘He bought it,’ said Wallingford triumphantly. He sat down behind his desk, leaned back in his swivel chair, swung from side to side, and grinned.

  ‘He did not have much choice,’ said Percy.

  Wallingford looked at his German colleague. Percy was a practical, pragmatic fellow. Given Darymple’s situation, Percy would have given in, just as Darymple had given in. Stamping and signing bits of paper so that military stores could be stolen did not seem such a difficult decision. ‘You don’t realise what this means, my dear old Hun. With the right bits of paper, we can go into any depot we like, and load up what we want. We can go into the base; we can go into the docks. These pen-pushers rule the world, Percy. And now we’ll have a blank cheque that will get us whatever we fancy of it.’

  ‘Yes, I understand,’ said Percy.

  ‘You’re not exactly delirious. You’re not singing the Horst Wessel song or heiling the Führer. What is it you chaps do in Krautland when you’re happy?’

  ‘We invade somewhere.’

  ‘Exactly. And that’s what we’re doing to this GHQ. So let’s have a big smile, my old sour Kraut.’

  Percy looked at him and didn’t smile. Although Percy always tried to hide it, his feelings about Wallingford were not everything that a number one should ideally feel about his chief. Wallingford was an excellent example of the effete English upper class that Percy’s history teacher had told him about. ‘Your friend Captain Darymple –’

  ‘Spit it out, Percy. What about the noble captain?’

  ‘He’s not your friend.’ When Wallingford frowned to indicate his puzzlement, Percy said, ‘Not a good friend. I think he does not like you. Suppose he went and reported us to the authorities.’

  ‘Chaps like us, Percy, have to take our friends as they come. We can’t be too choosy. I know what you mean, though. The noble captain is a bit miffed because Mahmoud is chasing him for the money he borrowed. Plus interest. I don’t think he’s completely understood all that yet. He thinks I should do something about it.’

  ‘And will you?’

  ‘In good time I might. But he’ll have to do his bit to help us first.’

  Percy nodded.

  Wallingford said, ‘Get on the blower to the police barracks. Tell those buggers that we are staging a little show and that we have to collect a consignment of Beretta machine pistols that are secreted away for us at Al Jaghbub.’

  ‘And who are we?’

  ‘The usual: Independent Desert Team – number three. Tell them we’ll push the paper work through in a day or two.’

  ‘Can you do that?’

  ‘Babs will draft out something that looks convincing on GHQ notepaper. Then I’ll get the noble captain to sign it and bash a few rubber stamp marks across it. There will be no problems.’

  ‘Eventually there will.’

  ‘Eventually we’ll be away from here. Isn’t that what you said you wanted?’

  Percy looked at Wallingford, trying to see if there was some other meaning in the question. Percy was sure Wallingford would do anything to prevent him going away. ‘Yes, you are right.’

  ‘While you’re getting things moving here, I’m going to drift along to Cleo’s Club early. I was there yesterday. You should have seen their eyes popping out at the prospect of cameras and binoculars. I’ve told them we have to be paid in gold, US dollars or Swiss francs. We’ve got to start getting rid of all those Gyppo bank notes, just in case we wake up one morning and find your pal Rommel thumping the counter in Shepheard’s and asking for a room with bath.’

  ‘The sooner we get all that stuff out of the warehouse, the better. Any time at all, one of your gang will break into the cases and start selling them piece by piece. They all keep talking about the Leica cameras.’

  Wallingford noted that it was his gang rather than our gang. Percy was an outsider and determined to remain one. ‘Yes, and now that it looks like we’ll be able to supply the necessary paperwork, I want to get some alternative buyers lined up for the Berettas too. If that fellow Solomon starts arguing about the price for these popguns, it would be nice to have someone else in the bidding.’ Wallingford put on his sailor’s cap, looking in the mirror as he settled it on his head. Then he gave Percy a salute. ‘Take over, Percy. The office is all yours.’

  ‘Be careful,’ said Percy quietly. He usually called Wallingford ‘sir’ in front of the others, but when there was just the two of them he saw no reason to do so. There were no ranks among outlaws.

  That morning Jimmy Ross had gone into his office very early, in order to get some extra work done. The brigadier was coming at eleven o’clock. On such visits he liked to be able to say truthfully that there was no unnecessary backlog of work.

  The brigadier was late. This was to be expected. His aide, Lieutenant Spaulding, had gone on a course in Palestine. Without his aide, the brigadier was apt to get his appointments mixed up and arrive late everywhere.

  Furthermore, when he did arrive, there was another symptom of Spaulding’s absence: the brigadier, always somewhat talkative, was positively garrulous. He threw his cap on to a chair in the corner with a careless flourish and greeted his major with a warm smile. His cap slid to the floor.

  ‘This secret stuff you’re getting on the Gyppo officers is absolutely first rate,’ he said. He went over to the filing cabinet and pulled open a drawer. Without a glance at its contents, he slid it shut again. It closed with a loud clang. ‘Have you got someone inside their cabal?’ He was in a good mood, and the brigadier’s good moods were apt to be manifested in displays of surplus energy. ‘What do they call themselves, the Free Officers or something?’

  Ross decided to sit down. When the brigadier started charging around the office like a demented water buffalo, it was better not to get in his path. ‘We can’t be absolutely sure there are no other organisations or plotters,’ he said.

  ‘Who is it, a secretary, or have you bribed one of the little buggers?’

  ‘It’s quite delicate, sir.’

  ‘Mind your own bloody business,’ he said with measured joviality. ‘That’s what you mean, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not at all, sir.’ Ross was cautious. He knew these euphoric moods could suddenly change, to be replaced by voluble expressions of extreme dissatisfaction. But whatever the consequences, he had no intention of telling the brigadier that the reports were coming from Sayed el-Shazli. That would entail a very real risk of the brigadier blurting out something about it when dining with the embassy people. Everyone knew the brigadier was indiscreet at times, and Ross had decided that Marker was right about the British embassy: it was a nest of lazy, gossiping old women.

  ‘To get really good information we have to offer something in return, sir. I wonder if I can ask you about that?’ Ross was nervous, and it showed.

  The brigadier sat down. He hadn’t encountered his major’s conspiratorial tone before. ‘Shoot.’

  ‘There is a suspect with a murder charge hanging over him. If I could offer him a full pardon…’

  ‘No, no, no,’ said the brigadier.

  ‘Or even a deal.’

  ‘I said, no,’ said the brigadier with unmistakable finality. ‘Forget deals. I know that sort of thing happens in civvy street. But the army’s first task is to maintain discipline. Even solving crime is not more important than that.’

  Ross was crushed by disappointment. For several days he’d cherished the idea that he might one day get a pardon for the murder with which he was charged. He had waited to get the brigadier in a good mood, but all to no avail. ‘I thought that perhaps in
very exceptional circumstances –’

  ‘No, Cutler. No.’ He smiled mirthlessly and tried to reestablish the former rapport. ‘Did I ever tell you about the time when my uncle was acting chief constable? I went with him on his inspection tours. I know all about coppers, Cutler. And I also know the way they jealously guard their sources of information.’

  Ross gave up on his hopes of a pardon. ‘GHQ Middle East have taken over responsibility for the Beretta guns that were hidden at Al Jaghbub. Did you see my message, sir?’

  The brigadier unbuttoned his breast pocket, brought out the message sheet he’d received and read it again. ‘It was just a phone call, was it? We’ll have to get this in writing, Cutler. I don’t rely on phone calls. Any Tom, Dick or Harry can dial a phone and say: I’m speaking from Ten Downing Street, hand my messenger a five-pound note.’

  ‘That’s true, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I know it’s true, major. What about it? What did you do to confirm its origin?’

  ‘I didn’t take the call personally, sir. My sergeant spoke with them.’

  ‘Sergeant Ponsonby?’ The brigadier nodded approval. He shared years of prewar regular army service with Ponsonby. They’d encountered each other in British army outposts in Palestine and Iraq and from garrison duties in peacetime Cairo. Ponsonby and the brigadier shared an arcane camaraderie that a wartime soldier would never be able to understand. Ponsonby and the brigadier were members of the real ‘regular’ army. ‘And what happened?’ There was always a story behind anything Ponsonby did. The brigadier got ready to enjoy it.

  ‘He told GHQ that we couldn’t act on telephoned instructions. He said something very much along the line you have just taken: about being in Ten Downing Street and so on.’

  ‘Umm,’ said the brigadier. He had perhaps overworked that illustration about telephoned instructions.