The Twisted Wire

by Richard Falkirk

  Bartlett said: ‘Could I have cream, please?’

  Raquel said: ‘You seem to forget where you are, Mr Bartlett.’

  Their rooms were next to each other on the top of a small, one-storey block a couple of hundred yards from the restaurant. They walked across the lawn in silence. The air smelled of sweet peas and jasmine and tobacco plants. They walked up the stone stairs and stood on the verandah listening to the frogs croaking.

  Finally Raquel said: ‘We must go to bed now. We have an early start in the morning. I want you to see El Hamma. It is a very beautiful place, I think.’ She pronounced the Hamma with a throaty aspirate.

  ‘I’m looking forward to it,’ Bartlett said unhappily. He knew that he should take her in his arms; but he was afraid of being repulsed – as he had been afraid as a young man.

  ‘Good night then,’ she said.

  ‘Good night,’ he said. ‘It’s been a wonderful day.’

  ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it. Sleep well, Thomas.’

  At least it was Thomas again and not Mr Bartlett. ‘Pleasant dreams,’ he said.

  They lingered for a moment, then went to their rooms. As he undressed he could hear her running water next door. He washed and climbed into bed.

  He listened to the frogs and wondered if she was waiting for him. He closed his eyes and waited for sleep; but his alertness seemed to intensify. He heard a light switch click and the springs of her bed creak. He looked at his watch; it was eleven. He lit a cigarette and hoped that she would hear the scrape of the match. He heard the bedsprings creak again.

  When the knock came he was trembling with anticipation. He put on his dressing gown and opened the door.

  ‘Thomas,’ she said. She wore a robe over her nightdress.

  ‘Yes?’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry I was so bad tempered. I quite understand that you don’t want to tell anyone.’

  ‘Come in,’ he said.

  She stood just inside the room and he closed the door. ‘It was just that I didn’t want us to go to sleep bad friends,’ she said. ‘You understand?’

  ‘I understand,’ he said. He slipped his arms around her and she came to him. She seemed very light and fragile for such a strong girl.

  They laid on the bed and he kissed her small firm breasts.

  ‘Thomas,’ she said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You are very sweet.’

  But it wasn’t enough to be very sweet. He removed her robe and her nightdress.

  ‘I told you that we Israeli girls are very forward,’ she said.

  He smiled at her and kissed her mouth and hoped that, in the peace after passion, she would not ask him where he had hidden the papers.

  But she didn’t. And when he awoke to find that the dawn sky was pink and pearled she was still in the bed beside him, her face innocent in sleep.

  TWELVE

  They reached El Hamma at 10 a.m. Before they began the descent through the hills they were stopped by an Israeli half-track with a machine gun mounted on it.

  A bronzed lieutenant with a long scar on his cheek, very white against the tan, talked to Raquel in Hebrew. She climbed back into the Jeep smiling.

  Bartlett said: ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said there had been some shooting during the night. Nothing much. He advised us not to show ourselves too much.’

  ‘Then why are you looking so pleased with yourself?’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Come on,’ Bartlett said. ‘It’s very bad manners to talk in your own language in front of a foreigner.’

  She shrugged. ‘He said you were a very lucky man.’ She leaned across and kissed him. ‘He was right, was he not?’

  ‘He was,’ Bartlett said. He envied the lieutenant his tanned toughness. But it didn’t perturb him too much; he was too occupied with his own happiness. The tufts of clouds, the sheep on the hills, the sharpness of the morning fading into heat of the day – all seemed part of his happiness.

  To their right the hillside dropped steeply to the Yarmouk River and old railroad to Damascus. There were two bridges across the gorge. One had been wrecked, the other was still intact – high and noble. The sort of bridge he imagined French partisans blowing during World War II when a German ammunition train was halfway across.

  The village, which had been a popular spa, was covered with the mauve confetti of jacaranda trees. The branches of the trees, still without leaves, held on tightly to the remaining blossom. In the centre of the village stood a white mosque. Nearby, the bubbling waters of a hot spring had been coaxed into a staircase of pools leading to the baths. The air smelled of rotten eggs.

  Raquel said: ‘How do you like it?’

  ‘It’s great apart from the smell.’

  ‘It’s very good for you. Behind the pools there are some very ancient ruins which should interest you very much. And across in those hills’ – she pointed through the mauve filigree of jacaranda – ‘are the guns of the Arabs. They are most probably trained on the spa now. If you look very carefully you can see tanks over there, too. Russian ones.’

  They walked down beside the steaming pools to the cluster of huts that formed the spa. On the hillside above the half-track began to move. The bombardment started just as they reached the huts.

  The first two shells exploded about a mile away on the side of the gorge above the bridges.

  Raquel said: ‘I think it is only an isolated incident. They probably saw that half-track moving.’

  On the hills across the Yarmouk, Bartlett saw more balls of smoke and heard the slither of shells. As they exploded he felt the earth stir.

  Raquel said: ‘It is very unusual. The officer said there had been some shelling earlier this morning. He didn’t think there would be any more.’

  They were crouching beside one of the pools, faces close to the popping bubbles of gas. Bartlett said: ‘Let’s get to the huts – anything’s better than this smell.’

  Raquel said: ‘We will wait for a lull.’

  More shells exploded on the Israeli-held hills and a herd of fat-tailed sheep stampeded. They left woolly carcasses behind them.

  ‘I’ll say this for you,’ Bartlett said. ‘Your guided tours are different.’ He hoped that fear could not be detected in his voice.

  ‘I did not expect this,’ she said.

  The explosions this time had a different calibre.

  Raquel nudged Bartlett. ‘Our boys are firing back.’

  The Israeli shells exploded, brief red poppies on the green slopes. The explosions rolled into thunder that found its way into the valleys and ravines. The River Yarmouk – even more of a stream than the Jordan – continued on its muddy way. Bartlett imagined the shells thudding into the green cushions of the South Downs in Sussex.

  Nothing moved in the exaggerated silence after the explosions. Raquel squeezed Bartlett’s arm. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Now.’

  ‘Why on earth are you whispering?’

  ‘Come on,’ she said.

  Ten yards from the huts they heard the whine of more shells. They lay close together looking into each other’s eyes. Instinctively he moved so that his body was over hers. The shells ripped into the hillside above them.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she said.

  He smiled and felt stupid. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  ‘Were you trying to protect me?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  She kissed him quickly, pulled at his arm and sprinted fo the huts. Both sides were now firing at the same time. Bartlett wondered vaguely if the shells ever hit each other in mid-air.

  The explosions had merged into a continuous roar of futility. As they reached the huts some of the ancient ruins behind them blew up. When the smoke cleared they were a little more ruined. This time the explosion was different again – vicious and spitting.

  ‘A Katyusha rocket,’ Raquel said. ‘They might start up with mortars in a minute. They take twenty seconds to land, you know.’

  �
��That’s interesting,’ he said. ‘You really are the perfect guide.’ He ducked as another rocket exploded among the ruins. Its blast scattered the mauve confetti of the jacaranda trees.

  Keeping low, they slunk into one of the huts. ‘This is something I never thought I would do,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t suppose you did. I do not think you have much shelling in England.’

  ‘No, that.’ He pointed at the sign above the door. It said Ladies.

  Debris clattered on to the roof of the changing rooms. Bartlett found it was becoming more difficult to maintain his calm.

  Raquel said: ‘It looks as if we’re in for quite a long exchange.’

  ‘What the devil are they shelling an old spa for?’

  ‘Who knows why the Arabs do these things? Because they saw that half-track. Because someone important is touring their gun-sites. Or just because they’ve got to keep up their morale.’

  ‘I can’t see that blowing a spa to smithereens is going to boost morale very much.’

  ‘It won’t just be a spa on their radio. It will be a vital Israeli observation post.’

  Above the explosions of the shells and rockets they heard a sharp stuttering bark.

  Raquel said: ‘Now that is unusual. A Gruyanov machine gun, I think.’

  ‘Why’s that so unusual?’

  She frowned. ‘It is not part of an ordinary artillery duel.’

  ‘What is it, then? A full-scale war?’

  A row of bullets smacked into the wall. He felt their impact. He imagined them slamming him against a wall, shattering bone and flesh. His hands and lips were trembling. He found Raquel’s hand and held it and was reassured to find that she, too, was shivering. He didn’t speak because he didn’t want her to hear the fear in his voice.

  The machine gun stopped. And the rockets. Only the shells continued whining overhead, wounding the hills beyond and killing the sheep.

  Raquel squeezed his hand. ‘Thomas.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m scared.’

  He pressed her hand without replying. He thought he heard a sound in another of the changing rooms. But it was probably a broken window moving in the blast from the explosions.

  The door was kicked open as Bartlett was sitting up. There were three of them. Two were pointing submachine guns, the third held a Kalashnikov automatic rifle. They wore black and white cloths around their heads and grenades in their belts.

  The Arab with the rifle frisked them.

  Bartlett said: ‘What the hell is this all about?’ It sounded completely inadequate. His voice was dry with fear.

  ‘You will understand later,’ said the Arab with the rifle who was the leader. ‘Now we must be quick. You must come with us.’

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘El Fatah,’ said the Arab.

  ‘Where are you taking us?’

  ‘Across the river while the shelling is still going on. Please – come with us.’ He jerked the rifle.

  ‘Both of us?’

  ‘No, just you. The girl must stay here.’

  He spoke such good English that he might have been a diplomat.

  Bartlett said: ‘What’s going to happen to her?’

  ‘You need not bother yourself about that.’

  One of the Arabs armed with a submachine gun approached Raquel. She hit him in the face with a small, white-knuckled fist. Blood trickled from one of his nostrils.

  The El Fatah leader said: ‘That was very foolish. He was only going to tie you up. Please tell her to co-operate, Mr Bartlett.’

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘It does not matter. Now put your hands up and walk in front of me.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere without the girl.’

  The Arab slung the rifle over his shoulder and drew a pistol. He rammed the barrel into Bartlett’s back. ‘I’m afraid you are, Mr Bartlett. Now move.’

  Bartlett considered swinging round and hitting him across the throat with the side of his hand. But even if it worked it wouldn’t divert the bullets of the two submachine guns. He moved towards the open door.

  He was through the door leading into a lounge when there was a blur of movement beside him. He saw an arm raised and heard it chop on to the El Fatah leader’s neck. The Arab moaned, dropped his pistol and pitched forward. A hand grabbed Bartlett and pulled him to one side. As Bartlett jerked sideways one of the other Arabs fired a burst from his submachine gun. The explosions in the confined space hurt the eardrums; the bullets ricocheted round the room smashing windows and fracturing a water pipe.

  The newcomer who had an American accent said: ‘You stay here. Distract their attention. I’m going round the back.’

  He took the Arab’s pistol, crawled across the floor and disappeared outside the building.

  Raquel shouted to Bartlett from the changing room. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m okay,’ he said. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m all right.’

  One of the Arabs spoke in very bad English. ‘Drop all your weapons and come back here. We have the girl.’

  ‘Take no notice,’ Raquel said. ‘Try and get back to that half-track and let them know what’s happening.’

  One of the Arabs fired a burst into the ceiling above the door. The ferocity of the impact scared Bartlett. Chunks of plaster fell around him. ‘I’ll have to give myself up,’ he said. ‘They’ll shoot you if I don’t.’

  ‘If you do I’ll never respect you again,’ she said.

  One of the Arabs said slowly: ‘You must come in here now. If you do not then we shall kill the girl.’

  ‘I’m coming,’ Bartlett said.

  Through a broken window he saw flame and smoke blossoming on the hillside. By this time the American must surely be somewhere behind the Arabs.

  Another clutch of bullets slammed into the ceiling.

  One of the Arabs said: ‘This is your last chance. If you do not come we shoot the Israeli girl.’

  ‘Just a minute.’

  ‘What is the matter?’

  Bartlett didn’t know what the matter was. Then he heard the American’s voice: ‘Drop those guns.’ Bartlett peered round the corner. The American was at the window with the pistol levelled at the two Arabs. He said again: ‘Drop those guns. Now. Or I’ll shoot.’ He jerked the pistol at them.

  One of the Arabs turned, pressing the trigger of the machine gun as he moved. But the American’s pistol fired first. The machine-gun bullets punctured a line of holes in the wall and smashed a cistern in a toilet. The Arab clutched his side and slumped on to the ground on top of his gun.

  The American said to the other Arab: ‘And now you. Drop that machine gun. And any other weapons you’ve got.’

  The Arab said: ‘This is all I have got.’ He turned slowly and deliberately and squeezed the trigger. The bullets smashed the remaining fragments of glass in the window. But the American had ducked before the Arab fired.

  Without really thinking what he was doing Bartlett grabbed the Arab from behind. He smelled sweat and cordite and felt the sprung power of the man beneath his camouflaged combat jacket. He knew he could only hold him briefly.

  The Arab stabbed backwards with the butt of the submachine gun. It hit Bartlett just below the sternum. His legs were folding and he wanted to vomit. But he held on to the Arab’s throat with the crook of his arm.

  The American vaulted through the window. The Arab pressed the trigger once more but Bartlett had spoiled his aim. Water gushed from a washbasin shattered by the bullets. The American clubbed him on the temple with the butt of the pistol and all was quiet in the ladies’ changing room except for the reverberations of the gunfire outside and the sound of escaping water.

  Finally the American said: ‘Boy, oh boy.’

  Raquel was cradling Bartlett’s head and stroking his hair. ‘You were wonderful,’ she said.

  The American said: ‘He sure was.’ He examined the Arab leader. ‘He’ll live,’ he said. ‘But he’l
l need some waking.’ He moved the second Arab’s body with his foot. ‘He’s dead.’ He looked at the third. ‘He’s waking up already.’ He kicked the submachine gun away and removed the grenades and another pistol tucked inside the combat jacket. ‘I guess we’d better tie him up.’ He looked around. ‘Is there any rope or anything around?’ He looked around and went to the closet. ‘I reckon we’ll just have to improvise,’ he said. He ripped down the chain and bound the waking Arab’s hands with it.

  Raquel said: ‘I think we will be waiting here for a long time. The Arabs started shelling so that these men could get across the river. They will be waiting for them to return.’

  ‘I seem to be the most wanted man in the Middle East,’ Bartlett said.

  The American said: ‘Just out of interest, what the hell is all this about?’

  ‘Just out of interest,’ Bartlett replied, ‘what were you doing outside the changing rooms?’

  ‘I just came up here on a visit. I’m a photographer, by the way. Name of Ralston. Dean Ralston. I work for a magazine in the States.’ He got up from one of the benches in the lounge and shook their hands.

  ‘But why did you choose El Hamma?’ Raquel said.

  Outside the gunfire was becoming spasmodic.

  Ralston said: ‘It’s got everything a photographer needs. Colour, spectacular scenery. A mosque and a spa. It’s God’s gift to a cameraman, Mr Bartlett. Especially if you’re lucky enough to get any action. And we’ve sure had that.’

  Bartlett said: ‘And you just happened to be standing here when the Arabs set on us.’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Ralston struck a match on the sole of his big shoe and lit a cigar. ‘I saw you arrive and walk down beside the sulphur springs just as the shelling started. I saw you heading for these huts and figured that was a good idea. Then I saw these guys running like hell from the direction of the river. So I hid behind the door. I was just wondering what to do when one of them marched you through the door right in front of me.’ He checked that his cigar was burning evenly. ‘Now you tell me what this was all about.’

  ‘I wish I knew,’ Bartlett said.

  ‘And you, ma’am. Do you know what they were up to? I guess they wanted you as a hostage or something. Perhaps they thought your friend here was an Israeli general.’ He glanced at Bartlett. ‘No, I guess not. He doesn’t really look like an Israeli, let alone a general.’