by Harold Lamb
Rousing himself from contemplation, he looked at Jacob. "Now for my cards. I will not ask either of you never to repeat what I am saying, because that would be foolish. But I do ask you not to reveal it unless you feel it necessary for, shall we say, the Anglo-American cause."
"That's fair," agreed Jacob. "You have my promise on that."
He thought: this man trusts the Kurd more than me; he is doing this unwillingly because he must, yet he is very honest.
"My first card: the Mullah Ismail has taken up arms to resist the Iraki Government's taxation and conscription, and there has been some fighting along the roads already."
"The roads are closed," put in Daoud. "I came through the Kurds' lines."
"The Mullah is a fanatic in his desire to fight for freedom. He would not listen to me even if I were to be carried down to his camp. Only one thing would hold those Kurds back. And that is a command from Araman." As Daoud started to speak, he lifted his hand. "Wait, please. I mean that even Ismail would obey without question a word from those in Araman. It is possible that Captain Ide and you can get through to that place and bring back such a word for a truce."
Jacob thought: he mentioned people first and then a place.
Like a surgeon diagnosing a fresh wound, the orientalist measured the danger in the border fighting between the Mullah's Kurds and the troops. If it kept on, other tribes would join in, believing themselves menaced in the mountains. And all because some European official in Baghdad, Cairo, or elsewhere, had made the mistake of counting on this armed clash to further some political aim, like a pawn moved out in a chess game. The fighting along the river might spread to other frontiers, now that the unpredictable Soviet Union was moving out pawns in its turn, to extend southward into these lands where she had never ventured before.
"My second card is Vasstan. I know a little of his mind. You see, in the last war I was pulled out after the Dardanelles fiasco, to rest in India, and I joined the hunt after him and found the gold he abandoned beyond the Karakorum Pass. I fancy he remembers that. And I doubt if he has retired, as I have, from an active and damaging life."
"Have you any actual trace of him?" Jacob was curious because Vasstan had disappeared from view in the last months.
"Only a report that he was seen in the Khanikin bazaar, not fai from here." The orientalist smiled. "But you forget the pen case he sent to the museum two weeks ago with the compliments of Araman."
"I did not forget," Daoud put in.
"I rather think he meant that for me. I had been in hospital in Baghdad, you know. Knowing Vasstan, I would say he's hit on something that pleases him hugely, and he announced it in a way that was bound to attract attention. By the same token, he's cocksure we'll never find it, or him."
"The pen case had been in use," Jacob pondered.
"An important point. By whom? Not by Europeans, certainly, and not by modern-minded Asiatics like Daoud. Evidently by individuals who still use ancient implements but are able to write. That combination of new-old is not extraordinary in Asia. Taking another bearing, what situ would appeal most to our German friend? Quite certainly a place where he could escape our search. It must be unusual, in that respect. We can assume it must be among the mountains. In any case, he has christened it Araman."
A boyish gleam came into the tired eyes, and he felt in the chest beside him, drawing out a large envelope and a battered photograph. "But he has given us a valuable lead, this picture of some very interesting mountain scenery. I don't think he knows we have it."
"A photograph of——"
"What might be Araman taken from the air."
Sir Clement explained that German Intelligence had operated very thoroughly throughout Iraq and Iran before the war. At least one celebrated Teutonic archaeologist had made a labor of love of taking air views of all the historical ruins within the remoter border zones, including some archaeological remains that had not been noticed until the air views brought them out.
"Our counterintelligence found a batch of Vasstan's papers in a coffee shop in Khanikin, and they took copies of all the photographs, leaving the originals undisturbed. Evidently my old friend had obtained them from his friend the flying archaeologist, who is now safely lecturing in a neutral country. This particular one seemed to be no known archaeological site—in fact, no ordinary site at all. What do you make of it, Captain Ide?"
He handed Jacob a small magnifying glass.
Jacob had been studying the print which showed serried mountain summits, bare and featureless, appearing like giant waves arrested in motion. At that distance no forests or riverbeds were discernible. The central mountain—apparently the object of the picture—rose like an artificial cone, cut off near the summit. That flat summit was ringed by a dark line that might have been a wall. Upon it a lake gleamed, and dark patches showed what might have been groves of trees. There was no sign of human life, yet the prominent central cone seemed to have been erected by artificial means.
Jacob put down the glass. "The central truncated cone was the object of the photograph. It looks artificial but is much too large to have been made by human beings. The lake is too large to be a rain-water basin; it must be fed by springs from below."
"Quite correct." Sir Clement nodded over his replenished teacup. "So far."
"The big question is whether the summit is inhabited. Those white specks spreading out from the lake could be natural outcropping of some white stone, probably limestone. They seem to be spaced too regularly for that, and they show up where buildings would be constructed—close to the lake and trees. If they are manmade, then the dark line rimming the summit would be a stone wall, a high rampart. It's a tossup whether men have lived on this mountaintop. My guess is they have."
Sir Clement nodded, obviously pleased. "That is very good indeed. Most fortunately our methodical enemies the Germans have confirmed your reasoning. They have an incurable habit of making notes, often leaving their papers in convenient portfolios for us to find and profit by. In this case Vasstan made an identifying note on the back of his photograph: that it was taken at an altitude of forty-one hundred meters, on the south or entrance side of the mount. Now he would not have used the word entrance unless there was something to go into. It might be anything—a ruined city, an inhabited lamasery, or merely a cavern." Sir Clement looked up curiously. "But does nothing about this simple cone appear to you to be menacing—even terrifying?"
Jacob shook his head. "Its steep slopes may be corded lava—they don't look climbable."
"Nothing more?"
The regular cone standing among bare mountains did look stark and formidable. It looked like the ziggurats of the Tigris Valley, like the Tower of Babel.
Sir Clement sighed. "Ah well, you have no means of knowing. And I could be quite wrong. I do not wish to put ideas into your mind——" He broke off. "If only we knew where it was."
"If you are really looking for this one," Jacob pointed out, "you ought to find it quickly by an air survey. Summits with oversize lakes can't be so rare."
"We tried. I gave nearly a hundred copies of this to the pilots of our Air Force and BOAC. Not one of them reported sighting the summit we call Araman. From that we deduce it must lie at a distance from the traveled air lanes. Now our friend the flying archaeologist might well have gone where our pilots do not go, even after the war's end, and that is northeast of here toward the Caucasus where so many frontiers, including the Soviet, meet. This northeasterly area has a labyrinth of ranges volcanic for the most part and several mountain lakes including Urmiah which is, I believe, the loftiest body of water on earth. This area is the ancient Kurdistan."
"If Araman were so near, the Kurds could take you there, picture or no picture."
"Yes. And that is precisely what these Kurds will not do. A man like Badr should know where this mountain is. Yet devoted as he is to Miss Michele, he will not admit there is such a mountain. For generations the Kurds have defeated, rifle in hand, any attempt to penetrate north of here
by force. They have been defending something more than their pasturelands and villages."
Daoud stirred restlessly, and for the first time Jacob realized that he was uneasy.
"Daoud thinks, of course, that it is the ancient dwelling place of his people—you recall how the Tibetans for long defended Lhasa and the Chinese of the north their Forbidden City, so called? The Dalai Lama of Tibet was often a child, and always a child mentally—compared to Westerners—yet how many Easterners paid reverence to his name?"
Fingering the long envelope, Sir Clement meditated. "It might be a shrine or a tomb, at Araman. Perhaps the Kurdish tribesmen of today, like Mullah Ismail, have forgotten who or what was buried there, yet by long-established custom they guard it. The black stone of the Ka'aba at Mecca is only a meteorite, and so a rarity. Still it influences the actions of a hundred million human beings. Captain Ide, there must be some such force residing in Araman."
"Force?" Jacob questioned.
"The same that moved you from Cairo to Riyat," laughed Daoud.
"Forgive me for speaking ex cathedra " murmured the orientalist. "You have been concerned with the potentiality of Araman for how many days, Captain Ide? Seven? I have been studying it for twenty and seven years without arriving at anything that is definite. There are indications of an immense power emanating from the point we call Araman—power of a nature unknown in the West. Two things are certain. It existed millenniums ago; it is very little understood by the Kurds of today."
Daoud shook his head. "There is nothing alive today. We may find the remains of a civilization predating history."
"The culture that produced Captain Ide's winged horse? Perhaps. But I have indications that the influence of Araman is not dead; and it seems to recur periodically, especially after a cycle of wars, as at this moment."
He paused, his eyes on Jacob. "I have not strength to go into that now, nor is there time. I have made some notes—they were to form a chapter of my book—which I have put into this envelope. If you decide to go, you will take them with you and read them at the monastery after you have formed some idea of your own. As I said, I would not wish you to start out with any fixed idea."
Jacob thought of his own journey to Riyat, to which he had been drawn by coincidences that were intangible and still perceptible. "There's a monastery?" he asked. "Where?"
"I forgot that you do not know our monastery," apologized Sir Clement. "Daoud can take you to it. A word in explicio:
"You know, Captain Ide, how refugees from wars or migrations tend to seek sanctuary in the heights? The sweep of warfare, plague, or destruction through the lowlands has driven human flotsam up to these hills as well as into the Swiss Alps. Men have even fled hither to escape religious persecution. In medieval days Eastern Christians took refuge here and built monasteries, where they have been more or less cut off from contact with the outer world for centuries.
"One of them, known as Darbatash, is situated in a ravine above the headwaters of this river, eighty miles or so—I have ridden it easily in three days—from Riyat to the north. The priests are quite medieval, I assure you; they live by cultivating their gardens. I went some years ago to Darbatash because I had heard in Baghdad that they had some manuscripts in estrangelo of the history of Abul-feda.
"While visiting the chapel at Darbatash I noticed a metal plaque set in the stone by the altar. The metal was tarnished gold, which of course gave no indication of its age; but the brief inscription in medieval script could be read clearly. It said: Here begins the way of the wanderers; let those who are not of their fellowship turn aside?
"Would that mean anything?" murmured Jacob.
"I might have attached no importance to it if it were not for one other indication. The name of the Nestorian monastery Darbatash was ancient Iranian—or Aryan—signifying the Gate of the Fire. I thought of the early local custom of preserving a supposedly sacred fire on a mountain summit. It's pure supposition, but the monastery might be the gateway to the mountain region of the photograph."
Sir Clement rested on his cushions, his eyes closed. Jacob studied him a moment in silence. This elderly scholar had concentrated for twenty-seven years upon one idea, and he had built up that idea by joining together conjectures as thin as spiders' webs. He was sincere, no doubt of that. What did all that boil down to? No more than the fact that an unvisited mountain chain existed somewhere within this hinterland. Two observant Germans had noticed it, and it might contain, as Daoud believed, some archaeological ruins—and probably more bronzes.
"Squadron Leader Leicester," Jacob said flatly, "is the one who might influence Mullah Ismail. I am nobody up here. And there are half-a-dozen reasons why I wouldn't be any use to you."
The man on the couch gathered himself together defensively. "Name them, please."
"I've never been in Asia before this war. I don't know a Parsee from a Brahmin. I read some Persian, and speak a little bazaar Arabic. I couldn't even talk to the people up there."
"Daoud could do all that."
"Yes. But he'd be better off alone."
Sir Clement smiled. "He does not agree. He wants you."
Jacob looked at the Kurd, who nodded. Jacob wished in that moment that Michal Thorne might be there in the chair. Her quick voice would cut through this fabric of imagination, making a jest of it.
"I haven't the first thing in the way of equipment," he objected. "Not a compass or large-scale map, or arms."
"You shouldn't have a weapon. It would be uncommonly dangerous. These hills are filled with men who would kill even a European for a rifle."
"All right. But what about following a route?"
"I can give you no compass bearings to follow. Your best chance is to find someone to guide you at the different stages." Sir Clement paused. "Your only guide will be the word we have, Araman—and perhaps that photograph."
"What about transport? I have very little money."
"You will not need money in the hills."
"Mr. Parabat will give us horses," put in Daoud, adding, "I have picked out two already."
"Why Mr. Parabat?"
Sir Clement interposed. "I have reason to believe the Zoroastrian communicates with the monastery, if not with Araman. At all events he seems uncommonly ready to help you go—if you will make the attempt, of course, Captain Ide."
Jacob laughed. "It has to be done, and you've convinced me that I'm the only person here able to try it. I'll try, Sir Clement."
The Englishman nodded gravely. "Your appearance here and acceptance has been well-nigh providential."
Providential. So they still talked like that, Jacob thought, in the colonial world of Asia. He could not have refused to go.
"We can start in an hour," exclaimed the Kurdish scientist, making no attempt to hide his satisfaction. Springing up, he hurried out.
"You can trust Daoud, Captain Ide, as long as you are with him. Does that sound strange?" Thoughtfully the elderly orientalist fingered the envelope in his hands. "Remember that the splendid chap is only one generation removed from the tribesmen of Riyat. If he no longer believes in ghosts, he is still afraid of them. If he went alone, he would turn back at the first uncertainty. With you he will go through hell and high water, as you Americans say."
He handed over the long envelope, and Jacob noticed that it was carefully sealed with wax. "Please do not open it until you feel the need of doing so. I must warn you to be very careful of what lies ahead of you, and I cannot tell you what that may be, except that Daoud may be able to guide you safely to Darbatash. After that——" He broke off. "You will be seeking for a secret that is not only kept but jealously guarded by warlike tribes. If you find that you face any great physical risk, turn back at once. Quite selfishly, I do not want to have your death on my conscience."
"All right," said Jacob.
The Englishman held out his hand. "I lost my son in the last war, Captain Ide. Send me word when you can." He hesitated. "Please do not mention to Michele your purpose in going."<
br />
"If you like."
"She will assume that you are merely looking for antiquities of some kind. If so, she will not worry. Her neurosis——" He paused and chose his words carefully. "She was a brilliant student at the Sorbonne and Leyden before this war, and her experience in Greece has affected her deeply. Think of her as trying to escape from anything that has to do with war. If she knew where you were going, and why——"
"I see," said Jacob.
When he approached the veranda of his quarters, Michal was sitting as he had seen her first, bending over a book, among the magazines and flowers of the veranda.
When she did not speak, he paused by her uncertainly. "You've taken to Spengler," he muttered stupidly.
She did not look up. "In preparation for my evening causerie " Somehow he felt relieved that he was departing, with all preparations made for him without further effort on his part. "Apparently I won't need to beg a horse. Mr. Parabat is doing the arranging, and Daoud Khalid is going with me."
She looked up, but not at him. "When are you going?"
"I've got to pack now. They want—I want to thank you." The old resentment at himself roughened his voice. For the first time he noticed that her eyes were clear blue, expressionless. The scent of dried flowers touched him.
"You have been kind to me, and I am sorry to see you go, Jacob."
Almost the only things he needed to pack in the sitting room were his Aristotle and his pipe. He made an awkward business of it until he heard her step behind him.
"I think I read Spengler as you do Aristotle, Jacob." She picked up the envelope he had left on the table. "Does this go in or are you leaving it to be opened when the body is found or on some other happy occasion?"