‘If a Moslem suspect turned up in Tripoli to look for a job, where would he stay?’
He gave me the names of three likely doss-houses and assured me that every one was regularly visited by the police. A dubious stranger would at once be reported to Captain Magnat, and he, Davila, who had excellent contacts in the police, would be informed unofficially.
‘Any loop-hole in that?’
‘Of course if we could fix his papers…’
‘I have no intention of fixing anybody’s papers, Corporal Davila.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I thought by your tone of voice…’
‘Do you all know exactly what I want from my tone of voice?’
‘Well, we’ve been together quite a while and can’t help noticing when you are worried.’
‘I am. This chap should be able to move around on his own business, day or night.’
‘Better be selling something then. Could he pass as an Egyptian?’
‘Easily.’
‘I hear that Alexandrian business men are looking for accommodation. Funk more than summer holidays. Suppose your agent was an enterprising one-man travel bureau?’
Davila! I wonder what he is doing now. Retired and writing his memoirs, I should think. I can’t claim to have trained him. He came to me ready-made.
I told him to look into it at leisure and reminded him, quite unnecessarily, not to gossip with his mates.
My equanimity was restored by a period of quiet, respectable Field Security. Biddy Ronson-Bolbec came down at last for that tête à tête but had no news. I listened to her memories of the late colonel who had obviously kept her in order and been adored in return. That led her to the happy state of matrimony and how sweet Valerie could be when she chose. I could see how it was that Biddy, once established in the valley, had to stay put whether she liked it or not. Her horse was not up to her weight for the return journey, and I had to run her back in the truck to Sir—where she managed to borrow a fiver off me.
The memory of Khalid was fading and I had no real faith in Oliver’s tentative deductions from his money-changing. Even if he raked up something worth passing on, no one would pay any attention to my report when I could not disclose the source of information. I hoped—though rather ashamed of it—that he had found Damascus too hot to hold him and moved on to Turkey or the devil. But no such luck! My uncontrollable Arab agent came smartly to life with a message that I would find him in the ruins of Byblos. He never chose the same rendezvous twice.
He was wandering through the Phoenician city with the proper uncomprehending stare of the Arab for whom history begins with Mohammed. The place was desolate, its ancient quays just visible through that smooth and disillusioned sea. I imagine that today there would be a twisting worm of tourists, blinkered by their dark glasses and listening to an inaccurate guide while a decrepit baggage camel belches in the car park waiting for some fezzed fool to sit on its back and be photographed. For God’s sake, don’t these people slung with cameras have any trustworthy store of memories behind their eyes?
But in those days you would find nobody in Byblos beyond a British soldier or two who had left the immemorial coast road from curiosity, and perhaps a Lebanese giggling in the hope of money over some proud stone phallus aspiring to the unknown. So we two were perfectly in keeping.
Oliver was evasive. He would not give me any direct reply on the activities of Abdullah el Bessam, merely muddling me with a lecture on Exchange Control and transfers of cash. So I changed the subject and asked him, without bringing in Biddy at all, what he knew of a Persian named Moustofi Khan.
‘He has provided magnificent shooting over his mountain estates for the Headquarters staff in Persia,’ Oliver replied ironically. ‘So of course he is considered pro-British.’
‘Isn’t he?’
‘The bazaars don’t think so. I have been told mysteriously that he and I have much in common.’
He explained that Moustofi Khan, being a Persian heretic, could never be widely trusted by Arabs; he would, however, be a natural leader of Persian tribes in any rising; they loathed the Russians, tsarist or communist, and were on the German side.
‘A generous, impulsive fellow, it’s said. Nobody ever starves on Moustofi’s estates. But murder and bribery are all in the day’s work. Why do you want to know?’
‘Because I have identified him as the rider on the Hermel track, and he has been seen in d’Aulnoy’s village.’
‘Then he’s a likely man to have paid Khalid to assassinate you. But don’t jump to conclusions! All I have discovered about Khalid is that he was a Vichy agent in a small way and spying on Magnat. What do you know of the village?’
‘Nothing. It’s tiny. I’ve never been right into it.’
‘So it’s time you were. And as you won’t catch on to what is under your nose, you must take me with you. That’s the next move. I don’t see how d’Aulnoy’s village can be of any interest, but I must rule it out once and for all.’
‘But if you are seen in my presence…’
‘I am going to come with you openly as a hearty naval officer.’
‘Why not as Winston Churchill?’
‘Because I dislike him. I have two other good reasons. Nobody outside the Admiralty ever connects Jolly Jack Tars with security. And they are allowed beards whereas the military are not.’
I protested that this was wild, irresponsible rashness; he replied that it was only impudence which was usually successful. I warned him that Biddy would write to London and Cairo that dear Captain Enwin had called on them and was now in the Navy; he assured me that Valerie would see that she didn’t and that his name would mean nothing to her correspondents anyway, since the Enwin case was sure to be Top Secret.
‘Where are you supposed to have come from?’
‘Beirut. I shall change on the way back to Tripoli. Now, what about your current girl friend? Does she visit the office?’
‘Among Field Security officers my chastity is unique.’
‘Nonsense! Jeremy asked me for a report on your Jewish mistress. By the time I had it you had changed to a Christian Arab.’
‘Evidence of my complete neutrality in the troubles of the Holy Land.’
‘I find it disgusting. What have you got now? For the sake of my safety I must know.’
I told him that it was no business of his. In fact the transaction was quite my most discreet. The hotel laundress was a Druse. Her daughter, she told me, was leading an infidel life among Alaouites. I saw no reason why she should not lead a more godly one with an agnostic, always assuming that she pass inspection and medical examination. She was primitively charming and smelt like a musk-scented pussy-cat. As she could attend the hotel any afternoon, ostensibly to assist her mother, our arrangement was never public knowledge and my shirts were immaculately ironed.
‘Your safety depends entirely on yourself,’ I said. ‘And you must drop any idea of staying in Tripoli after visiting Sir and the village.’
He insisted that he would not be recognised and that even a trained detective could not abstract a face from its conditions.
‘Memory gives you what you ought to have seen, not what you really saw,’ he went on. ‘Say, you have a drink with a bus conductor and a month later some bearded farmer shows you his pigs. You will never spot the two as the same man unless you already have reason to suspect they might be. Voice is the only danger. And the difference between English and Arabic takes care of that.’
Well, there it was. I badly needed his experienced eye in that village, and I had no way of stopping him coming to Tripoli beyond handing him over. So I weakly told him of Davila’s idea. He thought it excellent but decided not to be an Egyptian because an Egyptian travel agent would wear European clothes.
‘I’ll be from Jerusalem,’ he said, ‘which allows me to wear the headcloth and emphasises the difference betwe
en a quiet, courteous Arab and the coarse European I am going to be in d’Aulnoy’s village.’
‘And what have you cast me as?’
‘Just be yourself and natural! You don’t understand Arabs, but at least you don’t offend them.’
All very brilliant! But these clever operators are inclined to ignore the small problems on which everything depends. It was the hell of a business to lay my hands on a naval officer’s uniform of the right size. Zappa, Davila and Holloway were all on the job and only produced a Chief Petty Officer’s cap which Holloway said he ‘found’. Eventually I had to run down to Beirut and tell lies to my colleague about amateur theatricals at the hospital. He borrowed for me the winter uniform of a lieutenant. The Navy had already changed into whites, but nobody was going to know that in d’Aulnoy’s valley.
Oliver had worked out the rest very well. I picked him up one morning on the Sir road in a patch of scrub just about large enough for him to change unseen. He emerged from the bushes as a neat, naval lieutenant with a more squarely cut beard than the slightly satanic point which he had worn as Youssef Mokaddem. Both hair and beard were light brown. He used to muck about with dyes and rinses like a teenager on her first factory job.
After leaving the truck in the personal care of the Mukhtar of Sir, we took the two horses and walked them up that stony track and down into the valley, cantering the last two hundred yards out of bravado as befitted two hearty officers coming to see a pretty girl and her mother. Oliver was in high spirits. For one afternoon he could have a sense of freedom, of being back in his world—if, that is, it ever was his world. As for me, I was privately and professionally curious what the female reactions would be. Neither of us could warn them.
Valerie was the first to appear. After staring at Oliver for half a second, she gave him a cousinly little kiss and shouted for Mummy to look who’s here. Without that I don’t think Biddy would have recognised him under hair of unfamiliar colour. She held out both hands and received him as a prodigal slave.
‘But I thought you were in England!’
‘Yes, they posted me home when my job was finished and said I could do what I liked. So I joined the Navy.’
Oliver was always stronger on Levantine customs than those of the armed forces. What he had just said was inconceivable in peace and damned unlikely even in war. I could see that Biddy was puzzled.
‘A specialist appointment,’ I added. ‘He is training naval officers for liaison with Arabs and Turks. Very necessary.’
She gave me a supercilious, humorous glance which I think meant that we disapproved of officers who were schoolmasters instead of handling lethal weapons. But she was satisfied.
‘My ship is only in Beirut for twenty-four hours,’ Oliver said, ‘but I had to see you.’
The first essential was to get Biddy alone for a moment and impress it on her that she was not to ask Oliver to interpret for her and not to indicate in any way that he understood Arabic.
‘Oh, I see!’ she replied coldly.
‘No, you don’t. It has nothing to do with you, Moustofi Khan or d’Aulnoy. I want Oliver to listen to the villagers and find out what they think of the Turks.’
What does it matter what they think up here?’
‘My dear, you have always been part of the Army, so you will understand. You remember that I told you our defence line runs through here. Well, this sector might be held by the Turks.’
It was surprising how that atrocious lie restored her self-respect. I saw for the first time—I was stupid not to have seen it before—that if I appealed to her army background I could have a useful ally, though always unreliable.
I had brought up some bottles with me, and Biddy and I had a carefree party. Oliver pretended naval geniality. Valerie was bubbling with amusement but remembered to pay more attention to me than to Oliver. Ahmed must have been quite satisfied that I was her lover and that my naval friend was as casual and guileless as he appeared.
After lunch Oliver exclaimed at the charm of the Ronson-Bolbec estate and demanded loudly to be shown all over it. So we wandered along the main paths, led by Ahmed, while Oliver pestered him with inane agricultural questions and even asked why the villagers did not keep pigs. When we were near the group of houses he proposed that we should all go and say how-do-you-do to the natives who had been so kind to Madame.
The hamlet was built on rising ground close under the ridge. It was the usual cluster of flat-roofed, stone houses with the ground floors occupied by stores and animals, and the living quarters over. D’Aulnoy had repaired the more tumble-down houses with new stone and built a small community barn. A spring on the hillside was channelled into two stone tanks, one for watering the animals and one for washing. The overflow ran down the earth street along a deep, cobbled drain.
Chairs and a table were laid out for us under a mulberry tree, while the principal citizen, named Yasser, showed us over his house which was at the top of the village and separated from the steep hillside only by a small stockyard. He exclaimed his devotion to Madame and her daughter. As we drank our coffee, conventional conversation went back and forth with the customary bunch of men standing around and acting as chorus.
Lieutenant Enwin R.N. played the hearty seaman to perfection, back-slapping, making jokes about what they all missed by not using alcohol, using the vilest soldiers’ Arabic and managing to insult two of the villagers with the utmost good will. Ahmed translated for him from French to Arabic with a fixed smile and was not, I felt, at all sorry that a European was showing himself such a barbarian. No one could ever connect this square-bearded buffoon with a quiet, Jerusalem Arab. Oliver had proved his point to my satisfaction.
For Biddy’s sake I put a question through Ahmed about the Turks. I could have betted on the reply I would get. By God, the Turks were much better governors than the French! But the people they really liked and hoped would stay for ever were the British. To the same question Magnat would have got a reply the other way round.
When we were back at the house after a tedious couple of hours I felt that the hamlet was too small and too open for any clandestine activities. D’Aulnoy’s tenants were just the same as any other Moslem fellahin: to the foreign eye a people entirely composed of good manners and pious exclamations, incapable of any determination.
We said good-bye and mounted our horses in the late afternoon since we needed daylight for Oliver’s final transformation. On our way down to Sir I asked him if he had got anything at all by listening.
‘Nothing. You are obsessed by your mystery tour. I’ve used that track often enough and I have never seen a soul on it.’
‘You only used it in daylight.’
‘Security is about people,’ he lectured, ‘not warpaths in the bush. Tripoli is the key. It was always a hotbed of sedition.’
‘Wasn’t Yasser loosing off greetings unnecessarily loudly?’
‘Yasser was only shouting at a foreigner to make his language easier to understand. I have noticed that British soldiers do the same.’
After returning the horses we stopped again at the patch of scrub on the Tripoli road. He emerged from the bushes with a red-chequered headcloth, a vile little toothbrush moustache like Hitler’s and stubble in place of the beard: a humble and respectable small trader. I put his naval uniform in the truck and left him by the roadside with a shabby suitcase in his hand to beg a lift into Tripoli or walk.
For most of the next week I was away from my section on escort duty. I had run in a couple of Roumanians who had arrived on the Island of Ruad by caique, presumably from neutral or enemy territory. Immediate orders came through from Ninth Army that I was to release the master of the caique from gaol and escort the Roumanians straight to Cairo. A comfortable staff car was provided.
Those occasional jobs for M.I.6—the genuine, copper-bottomed, British Secret Service—gave us a sense of importance, since we could pass an
y military control point or frontier post without question whereas they—without a lot of palaver—could not. And I’ll say this for them. They had a pleasant habit of handing out a wad of notes for expenses and never asking for the change. So I enjoyed a civilised night out in Cairo and covered the five hundred miles back to Tripoli in two easy stages.
I dropped into my office in the evening to see that all was well and found a letter on my desk addressed to me in block capitals. Limpsfield told me that it had been handed to him in the street the previous night by some petty Moslem clerk.
‘I’ve got a feeling that he used to be a shopkeeper in Acre,’ Limpsfield said, ‘but it was dark already and I couldn’t be sure.’
Evidently the matter was urgent, for Oliver must have been very reluctant to approach one of my section, however self-confident he was. But he had got away with it. Limpsfield’s memory could go no further than a vague connection with Palestine, though he had seen the A.D.S.O. Nazareth at least twice.
The note was hastily scribbled in pencil on a piece of wrapping paper and enclosed in a re-used envelope with a gummed label.
You will see Tissaphernes in your hotel. Am warning you so that you don’t show recognition.
Just like him to assume that everyone remembered their classics! Who was Tissaphernes? After sweating blood to return myself to the age of fourteen, I vaguely recalled some revoltingly treacherous Persian noble who always went one better than the Greeks. Moustofi Khan, of course.
The warning was invaluable. I flatter myself that I can always act, given time. But Oliver knew as well as I did that if I walked into the dining room and saw Moustofi Khan there some movement of eyes or mouth, easily perceptible by any sensitive oriental who was waiting for it, would give away the fact that I knew him.
I went to my room and cleaned up, turning on lights with morbid curiosity and trying to remember all the tricks I had once been taught for persuading explosives to explode—in which they show more reluctance than most people expect. It then occurred to me that he would hardly choose a hotel for an attempt on my life when there were so many discreeter possibilities. It seemed likely that he merely wanted to inspect me at close quarters or talk to me.
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