The Mule on the Minaret

by Alec Waugh

  Chapter Four

  As Jenkins settled down in London to his afternoon routine, Reid was waiting on the platform of Mosul station for the arrival of the Taurus. It was six o’clock in Iraq and the train was due. On that train, if the plans held, Chessman would be travelling with the wireless set. Or rather would be travelling without the wireless set which he had deposited in the reserved compartment. The platforms and the waiting-rooms were, as always, crowded. To welcome and to see the Taurus off was part of the Maslawi pattern. Very few of the group there would be travelling on the train. It was no use for Reid to scrutinize them, even had he wanted to, which he did not. It was his role to appear unconcerned. There had been no need for him to come down to Mosul. But the temptation to be a part of the operation had been too great. He had made an excuse of a conference with his Mosul representative. And it was high time, at that, that he did see his representative.

  From far down the line he heard the long high whistle of the train. Another minute and it would be here. He slung his bedding roll on to his shoulder. He had not reserved a sleeper. He would lie out along the seat of a first-class carriage, as he had done twenty years ago on the Riviera Express, booking himself second class but moving into a first-class carriage at Dijon for the sake of four clear hours’ sleep between there and Avignon. In those days of second-class European travel, he had always tried to prolong his visit to the dining-car where he could sit in luxury, but he was not this evening going to put himself to the expense of a railway dinner. He had brought sandwiches.

  A British Major, a G.2 in Administration whom Reid knew slightly, came down the platform. ‘Travelling alone, Prof.?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Shall we share a carriage, then?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He would have preferred to be alone, but it was not necessary. He did not want to appear standoffish, besides the other, his junior in years, would be more agile and adroit in getting an empty carriage.

  The train had a fifteen minute wait in Mosul. It was the third time that Reid had caught this train. There was no difference in this departure from the other two; there was the same mixed group of Arabs and Europeans; the same vendors of brightly coloured soft drinks and cakes and rolls; the same chatter, the same pushing and shoving. He wondered how often he had been on a train in Paris or in England when, for three or four fellow passengers, that trip so ordinary to him had been a high adventure. He might have brushed shoulders with that adventure; he might, as this young staff officer had done, have forced his company upon an acquaintance who had wanted to be alone.

  The whistle shrieked and a flag waved. The train drew slowly from the station. Reid sat back in his corner, opened his haversack and took out a book. He did not want to make conversation for very long. He felt restless and on edge and he did not want to appear restless and on edge. He did not want to have this officer saying in his mess tomorrow: ‘I travelled up from Mosul with the Prof. He was like a cat on hot bricks. I wonder what mischief he was cooking up.’ At the same time he did not want to appear unsociable. He had a flask of Canadian whisky. He offered it to his companion.

  ‘That’s very nice of you, Prof. That’s very nice of you, indeed. But I don’t want to rob you of your ration.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. In our racket we have our own sources of supply.’

  ‘I bet you do. You don’t have a bad time, you cloak-and-dagger boys. You can go about in mufti, can’t you?’

  ‘When we’re on duty.’

  ‘And that’s an elastic term, I’ll bet.’

  ‘It can be made so.’

  ‘I bet you make it so.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you, if you were in our position?’

  ‘I’ll say I would. I often wonder what you cloak-and-dagger boys really do.’

  ‘That’s what we ask ourselves sometimes.’

  The other laughed at that. ‘I’ll say one thing about you chaps. You’ve got a sense of humour. You can laugh at yourselves. Well, here’s cheers and thank you, Prof.’

  They gossiped over their drink, indulging in the kinds of gossip that two men share who share nothing beyond the fact that they are stationed together in wartime in a foreign city. By the time their glasses were empty, they had come to feel very much in tune. There was a disparity of fifteen years between them; they had not a mutual friend in England; they had not a common interest. If they were to meet in London after the war, they would have nothing to say to one another beyond ‘Do you see anything of the old crowd now?’. ‘I wonder what became of Gerald.’ In five minutes they would have exhausted one another, but here, cut off from their ‘real lives’, they had momentarily and on the surface more in common with one another than they would have had with their oldest friends. That was one of the pleasant things about a war. You were conscious of an instantaneous fellowship with any one of your own race and rank. Reid dropped into a vernacular he would never have used in peacetime. ‘You’ll have the other half,’ he said.

  ‘If you will.’

  ‘I’m certainly going to.’

  ‘Well, cheers again, then, Prof. Bit of luck my meeting you. You must come round to my mess and have the return match one day.’

  ‘I’d love to.’

  ‘It isn’t as grand a mess as yours. But it’s all right. We’ve got some pretty decent fellows there. I expect you know some of them.’

  ‘I expect I do. Who have you?’

  But as a matter of fact, he did not know very many. Through the nature of their work, I.S.L.O, officers lived apart from the main traffic of G.H.Q. life. They saw a number of civilians, and of Iraqis. They also had their own representatives in the city who did not wear uniform. But he had met one or two members of the A. mess on the golf course and at the Alwiyah Club. The length of a drink occupied them in personalities. There was still some whisky in his glass, but two highballs were enough for Reid.

  ‘Now for my sandwiches,’ he said.

  ‘Aren’t you going to the diner?’

  Reid shook his head. ‘That’s one of the things that I can’t charge against the house.’

  ‘I’m so tired of eating in a mess that I can use a change.’

  ‘I’ll see you later, then.’

  Which suited Reid’s plans well. His companion would be away at least an hour. And he had warned the F.S. Sergeant that he would not be going to the diner.

  The F.S. Sergeant was a brisk, lively Cypriot; dark and neat with a sense of mischief. He had a lengthy name which no one attempted to pronounce. He was known as Frisky, because part of his job on the Taurus consisted in the ‘frisking’ of the passengers. It was held that he particularly enjoyed his work when he had to deal with female passengers. A diplomat’s wife had complained of the thoroughness of his attentions. But no one had questioned his efficiency.

  Reid was munching his last sandwich when Sergeant Frisky tapped upon the door. ‘Coast clear?’ he asked.

  ‘Coast clear with you?’

  ‘All fine and dandy, sir, everything under control. Can I sit down?’

  ‘Of course, and leave the door open. Keep it above-board. He’s on the train?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And have you seen him?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Are you going to?’

  ‘In a routine way. No search of course. It’s passengers from across the frontier that we question.’

  ‘Has Chessman seen him?’

  ‘To check his ticket, yes.’

  ‘What does he report?’

  ‘A man of about forty. An Iraqi. A stranger to him.’

  ‘How was he dressed?’

  ‘As a European. The clothes that Iraqis wear; dark, the kind you wouldn’t notice.’

  ‘Have you got his name?’

  ‘I’ve got the name he uses.’

  ‘I see.’ Reid paused. ‘There really isn’t any problem, is there?’

  ‘There shouldn’t be.’

  The plan was very simple. Frisky would move into
the next coach a minute or two before the train reached Baghdad. He would get out of the train, as it was stopping. He was to stand outside the agent’s carriage long enough for the detective who was waiting in the crowd to recognize the carriage. Then he would move quickly away without looking round. The detective in the crowd would follow the agent and see where he lived. The plan was cut and dried. It should work smoothly. ‘When are you going to see the chap?’ Reid asked.

  ‘I thought I’d go right away, before he turns in for the night.’

  ‘You might come back and see me when you have.’

  ‘Right, sir, certainly.’

  ‘But if I’m not alone, don’t come.’

  ‘Right, sir. Right.’

  Frisky was back within ten minutes. Reid was still alone. ‘Well?’ Reid asked.

  ‘Just as Chessman said, sir. The kind of guy you wouldn’t notice in a crowd.’

  ‘Would you recognize him in a line-up?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Do you think our man at the station will?’

  ‘Well enough to track him to his house, and anyhow that’s his job. He knows how to pick out a distinctive trait.’

  ‘Fine, thank you, Sergeant; now you can concentrate on the side of your work you really can enjoy.’

  ‘Ah, come now, sir. That isn’t fair. How could I have guessed she was a high-up’s wife?’

  ‘She didn’t look it?’

  ‘I’ll say she didn’t. And I don’t mind betting that she hadn’t been it long.’

  The train was due to reach Baghdad at seven. It was on time, Reid learnt. He had been awake since daybreak. His companion, who had not returned from the dining-car until he had himself curled up in his bedding roll, was still asleep. It was a brisk, clear morning and the sun glittered on the golden domes of Kahdimain. The agent’s compartment was only two carriages away. From his window he would be able to watch the entire drama. There was no need for him to get on the platform. ‘The entire drama.’ But probably it would seem far more dramatic in the report that he would be writing in his cell-like office, than it would here on the platform.

  The train’s pace diminished. The scattered mud houses became more frequent; imperceptibly a village became a suburb, which became a town. The carriages were now level with the platform. The train was scarcely moving. He saw Frisky’s door swing open, saw Frisky jump out on to the platform, to stand with his back to the train, his eyes searching the waiting-room as though he were expecting to be met. He did not once look behind him. He appeared to have judged exactly how long it would take the agent’s coach to reach him. All down the train, doors were flying open. The door behind Frisky remained closed. The platform was beginning to empty before it opened. A man of medium height stepped out. He was wearing a black coat and a Sidara hat. He was carrying a small black suitcase. For a moment he was standing beside Frisky. Then he moved slowly towards the waiting-rooms. No one came out to join him. Frisky did not move. He stood as though he were still expecting some one. Then he moved away, at an angle from the man whose name on the Pullman porter’s list had been entered as Majid Semal. Reid turned to watch Majid walk towards the exit. His walk was leisurely and unconcerned. No one came to welcome him. He was enveloped by the crowd. No one detached himself from the crowd. ‘I was right,’ thought Reid. ‘Nothing could have been less dramatic.’

  The office car was waiting for him. In ten minutes, he was at the mess. He had already shaved and he went straight in to breakfast. The Colonel had finished his eggs and was consolidating his powers with toast and marmalade. The Colonel raised his eyebrows interrogatively. Reid nodded. And in return the Colonel gave him a congratulatory nod, then said: ‘I’ve a message for you, Prof. Judge Forsyth wants you for golf this afternoon. You can? I thought you could.’

  Reid was not hungry. He was too excited to be hungry. ‘No, no eggs,’ he said. ‘Some coffee and some toast.’ Besides, he was anxious to see if there was any mail for him. An answer from Jenks was overdue or at least he felt it was. He had been away two days. He went to his office before unpacking. There was a small pile of letters. Nothing, though, from Jenks. Nothing from Rachel, either. He wondered if she had decided not to write to him, till the case was over. That seemed incredible. There was so much they had to write about; about their boys, about the house, about their joint responsibilities. A marriage, even if it ceased to be a love affair, remained a business partnership. Or did it suddenly cease to be that, when a marriage broke?

  There was a letter from his elder son. Had she told the boys, he wondered. And there was a letter from his father. How shaky his handwriting had become. This would be a blow to him. He hoped Rachel had said nothing to his father. Why should she have? Why worry him? It would all come to nothing. Surely it would all come to nothing. He had been so certain of that when he had written to Jenks. But now he was less certain. This silence had lasted for a month too long.

  It was eight o’clock. The clerks were filing into their offices. He put his letters in a drawer. Time for them later on. He crossed to the main filing-room. ‘Anything of importance come?’ he asked.

  ‘One thing, yes, sir, from Beirut.’

  ‘Good, I’ll take it with me.’

  He was in a mood for work; for the impersonality of work. He would have to wait at least an hour before any news reached him from the detective. The detective was a member of the Iraqi police. The Centre’s and British relations generally with the Iraqi police were excellent. An Englishman, a career policeman called Forester, had been seconded to the C.I.D. division. It was through Forester that the Centre maintained contact with the Police Force. Forester had supplied the detective who had followed the agent from the station. Reid knew that Forester would telephone as soon as he had received the detective’s report. There was plenty of time to spare before that happened. He looked at the cover of the file that the staff sergeant had brought him. It was headed: Aziz. It was a little time since he had had news of Aziz. He began to read with a quickened interest. The letter was addressed to the Istanbul office.

  ‘We are puzzled as to what is happening to Aziz. Three weeks running he went to the restaurant, but no one contacted him. He has not been to the restaurant since. We wonder whether the Germans have lost interest in Aziz, or whether they have found another channel of communication. We do not see how they could have done this, but if they have, we do not see how we are going to find out. We have asked Chessman but he has no information. He has simply not been given any newspapers to bring through. We are worried at the possibility that a channel of communication is in existence of which we are unaware. This is a considerable danger to security. We ourselves are in touch with Aziz, both socially and through Fadhil. He listens to Fadhil’s records, and occasionally obtains records from Fadhil. But now that correspondence with Aziz’s Turkish friend has been discontinued, there is no contact for us with Turkey through Aziz. It is in fact a highly ridiculous situation. Every month or so, we provide Aziz with a series of questions, the answers to which are supplied by the British Council. In return for this, Aziz is supplied with gramophone records.

  ‘Aziz occasionally visits the Centre’s flat here in Beirut. We are supposed to be one of his sources of information. At one time, we talked rather openly to see how quick he was at putting two and two together. We do not do that any more. He seems unchanged. If he is at all changed, it is only through his air of being more relaxed. He was ill at ease originally, possibly because we were foreigners; and he had not met many English then. But he certainly does not seem to have anything on his mind. We are in a difficult position because we must not let him suspect that we suspect him.

  ‘We are in fact feeling that this particular operation, which promised so hopefully, has somewhere along the line gone wrong. We are afraid that we have a liability on our hands. We shall be most grateful if you can give us any clue as to what is happening. If you are unable to, and we are left in the dark, we shall, we feel, have to take steps to liquidate this liability.�
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  Reid raised his eyebrows as he read. Everything seemed to be happening at once. Rachel asking for a divorce, the wireless set and now Aziz in trouble. Over the balcony, the Colonel shouted, ‘Prof.’ He picked up the Aziz file and took it with him. ‘Well, how’s our Sherlock Holmes?’ the Colonel said.

  Reid made his report. The Colonel nodded as he listened. ‘That sounds all right; provided our friend with his black suitcase hasn’t vanished in those back streets.’

  ‘We shall know in half an hour, sir.’

  ‘Exactly. That’s the soldier’s point of view. Launch your attack, and wait in your dugout. There’s nothing you can do.’

  Reid handed over the Aziz file. ‘Have you read this, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did you make of it?’

  ‘There isn’t any need for us to make anything. It’s not our pigeon. It’s Beirut’s and Istanbul’s. We are only being kept in the picture.’

  ‘I can’t help feeling some responsibility. I began this operation.’

  ‘I know you did. But that’s the Army. With each new job you start afresh. Think how a colonel feels when he’s posted to another unit on the eve of an attack he’s planned. His men are his men no longer. Their fates are in another’s hands. It isn’t pretty. But he has to forget that and concentrate on the job in hand.’

  ‘What do you think Farrar will do, sir?’

  ‘What would you do in Farrar’s position?’

  ‘Farrar and I are very different people.’

  ‘I know you are, that’s why I’m asking. What would you do?’

  ‘I suppose I’d cut my losses, call the whole thing off.’

  ‘And leave that channel open?’

  ‘No, sir. I’d take Aziz up to the interrogation centre. Those French boys can be tough. I think that he’d break down.’

  ‘That’s one way, certainly. I’m not saying that it’s not the best, but I fancy that Master Nigel has something more dramatic up his sleeve.’