The Twisted Wire

by Richard Falkirk

  SEVENTEEN

  It was Saturday evening. The air smelled of grass recently cut; a couple of bats dipped and swooped in the uncertain light.

  Helen Bartlett shut the French windows and switched on the television. But she couldn’t concentrate. She went into the lounge, mixed herself a Martini cocktail and reviewed the situation with some bitterness: her husband was in Israel, her lover was unobtainable – he had been for the past few days – and her employment at the American Embassy had been terminated.

  Cocktail in hand she continued her restless patrol of the house and stopped in her husband’s study. His desk was as untidy as ever – sheafs of papers anchored with stones shaped like flat snails. The appendages of his profession had always annoyed her because she couldn’t understand them.

  But why had they sacked her? There had never been any complaints about her work. Could it be her association with Ahmed? She didn’t see why: she hadn’t communicated any embassy secrets. In fact the only information she had imparted had been connected with Tom’s visit to Israel.

  She swallowed her Martini and went into the lounge to mix another. Through the door the television filled the adjoining room with blue and grey animation. She listened vaguely to the newscaster’s voice. Nasser had made a speech in which he said the Arabs would fight their way to victory regardless of bloodshed or suffering. A commentator then quenched some of the fire by explaining that the speech was probably made to appease extreme Arab elements challenging the recognised leadership.

  But to Helen Bartlett, the speech had an ominous and personal message. She thought of Ahmed, his immovable cap of hair, his unflagging virility. Could she in some way have betrayed her husband by discussing his business with an Arab? It didn’t really seem possible. But the dusk, the loneliness, Nasser’s speech, and the Martinis awakened instincts of worry and affection.

  She poured herself another Martini and returned to the study to consult Tom’s itinerary. He should now be at the Intercontinental in Jerusalem. Suddenly she wished she was there with him. She picked up the phone, asked for the international exchange and put through a call to Jerusalem.

  Then she sat down, tinkled the ice in her glass and regretted the errors of her marriage. If only Tom had been more assertive, more interested in her than he had been in the strata of the earth. But every man had a right to be absorbed with his job. Helen Bartlett felt so sad that she returned to the lounge and poured herself the last of the cocktail from the shaker.

  In the past she had accused Tom of infidelity. The accusation now seemed ludicrous. It was merely that, with his disordered ways, he appeared to many women to be fair game. The bitches. She had been condemning Tom when she should have been condemning the women.

  The call came within five minutes. She heard a woman’s voice saying, ‘Jerusalem on the line.’ There was a confusion of voices; then, although the call was person-to-person, another woman’s voice announced the name of the hotel.

  Helen said: ‘Is Mr Bartlett there, please?’

  The woman’s voice which had a slight American accent said: ‘Do you mean Mr Bartlett of the Geological Conference?’

  ‘Yes,’ Helen said. ‘That’s the Mr Bartlett I mean.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s here right now. I believe he stayed the night in Tel Aviv.’

  Then another woman cut in. ‘Is that Miss Rabinovitz on the line for Mr Bartlett?’ She sounded like another hotel switchboard operator.

  The first woman said: ‘Could you get off the line please – I am talking to London.’

  Helen Bartlett said: ‘Who was that? Who is Miss Rabinovitz?’

  ‘I don’t know, I’m sure. I’m sorry about the interruption. Can I take a message for you?’

  Helen said: ‘Do you have a number for Mr Bartlett in Tel Aviv?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry. But if I can leave a message …’

  Helen said: ‘No, don’t worry.’ She replaced the receiver.

  Miss Rabinovitz. Who the hell was Miss Rabinovitz?

  She picked up the phone again and called Ahmed. Instead of Ahmed she got an answering service. She hung up again.

  She went into the lounge and made herself one more Martini, small and strong, and sat in front of the television. The news was over and there was a feature about the Sinai on the screen. But instead of camels and Bedouins it seemed to Helen that the desert was populated by plump-breasted Israeli girl soldiers. She leaned forward and switched over to the other channel.

  EIGHTEEN

  Bartlett looked at his watch. It was 10.30 a.m. – half an hour before Raquel was due to pick him up. They were going into the Sinai for two days following the further postponement of the conference. Bartlett blessed the bacillus that had attacked his fellow geologists.

  He decided with some trepidation to have the showdown with her when they were four hours out of Jerusalem. He set the alarm on the gimmicky wrist watch for 3 p.m.

  His feelings about guessing Raquel’s true occupation were confused. He was delighted with his perspicacity but sad that she had not been able to trust him.

  He picked up the phone and ordered a Gold Star. The identification of Raquel’s role in recent events had not been particularly astute. A professional agent would have classified her on the aircraft; but, he thought, it was not bad for a man whose job was classifying rocks.

  It had been a process of elimination. The Arabs wanted the contents of the briefcase. So did the Russians – through the agency of the Polish Jew Yosevitz. Everett had been an American agent and there were no prizes for guessing the identity of his successor – although Ralston looked so much like a policeman that you tended to eliminate him. That left one interested party unaccounted for. But Bartlett respected Israeli efficiency too much to believe that they were not in the game. It had to be Raquel.

  He paid for the beer and sipped it standing at his bedroom window gazing over Jerusalem.

  What was still puzzling was the motive for pursuit and attempted murder. He had reread the paper he proposed to deliver to the conference. It seemed harmless enough. Which meant it had to be the maps. God knows why. But he was quite prepared to play the game.

  His new determination surprised him. It had only happened once before when, with the world’s geological opinion against him, he had determined to prove a principle relating to the formation of the Rockies. He had been right.

  Bartlett finished the ice-cold beer and glanced at his watch again. It was 10.40.

  The knock on the door was sharp, almost aggressive.

  Bartlett said: ‘Okay, I’m coming.’

  But when he opened the door he found Ralston, not Raquel, waiting outside.

  Ralston said: ‘I guess it’s about time we put our cards on the table, Mr Bartlett.’

  Bartlett said: ‘I think it’s about time you put your cards on the table, Mr Ralston.’

  Ralston sat on the chair in front of the dressing table. All his inquisitors sat there, Bartlett thought. In the mirror he could see Ralston’s powerful neck with the skin just beginning to crease.

  Ralston nodded. ‘I figured that even you wouldn’t be convinced that El Hamma was a coincidence.’

  ‘I resent the phrase “even you”,’ Bartlett said.

  Ralston said: ‘I’m sorry. We don’t seem to be getting off to a great start, do we?’

  Bartlett said nothing.

  Ralston lit a cigarette with his big lighter. ‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ he said, ‘I’m just recovering from an unnerving experience. I had some guy with a gun stalking me in the Old City. I thought he might take a shot at me but he chickened out at the last moment. We had someone right behind him so I guess I would have lived, whatever happened. But I still can’t figure out why he lost his nerve – he isn’t the type.’

  ‘Who, Yosevitz?’

  The surprise on Ralston’s face pleased Bartlett. ‘You know about him?’

  ‘I know he tried to kill me. I suspect he did kill your predecessor. I also suspect that he’s got a very r
ed face today.’

  Again Ralston looked surprised. ‘He has, as a matter of fact. How the hell did you know that?’

  ‘He was following me yesterday and I led him on to the beach. I rather thought he wasn’t the tanning type.’

  Ralston grinned. ‘Mr Bartlett,’ he said, ‘you continue to amaze me. So you were wise to me and you were wise to Yosevitz. The Arabs have tried to snatch your briefcase and kidnap you. That leaves the Israelis. Are you wise to the Israelis, Mr Bartlett?’

  Bartlett nodded. ‘You don’t have to be Hercule Poirot to work that one out.’

  ‘The girl?’

  ‘Of course,’ Bartlett said.

  ‘And yet you still encourage her?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  Ralston considered the question for a moment. ‘Yes, I guess I would,’ he said.

  ‘And she will be here in five minutes.’

  ‘In that case,’ Ralston said, ‘we’d better get down to business. We have a lot to discuss, Mr Bartlett.’

  ‘You have a lot to explain,’ Bartlett said.

  ‘You have in your possession some very important maps. It’s those maps that everyone is after.’

  ‘I rather gathered that,’ Bartlett said. ‘Would it not have been easier if someone had asked me for them?’

  ‘Everett tried to but you wouldn’t give him a chance.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Bartlett glanced at his watch. Raquel was due in three minutes. ‘But if people want these maps why do they try to shoot me and kidnap me?’

  ‘That’s quite simple,’ Ralston said. ‘On the first occasion Yosevitz saw you out walking without your briefcase. He reckoned it would be easy enough to get the case from your hotel. He also reckoned with the characteristic thoroughness of the KGB that as you would know what was on those maps it would be necessary to kill you.’

  ‘And the kidnapping at El Hamma?’

  ‘I can only guess at that. But I figure the Arabs were insisting on taking some active part in the plan, because they don’t take too kindly to being under the thumb of the Soviets. No one loves their benefactor, you know.’

  ‘Then why didn’t they just try and kill me?’

  ‘Because by this time you had been cute enough to hide the maps. If I know anything about Arab methods I reckon they would have tortured you until you revealed the hiding place. I think you would agree that you owe me something, Mr Bartlett? Your life, for instance.’

  ‘I’ve already thanked you.’

  ‘You could be a little more generous.’

  ‘You mean I could tell you where I’ve hidden the maps?’

  ‘Right.’ Ralston smiled candidly at the simplicity of it all.

  ‘Can you give me one good reason why I should tell you?’

  ‘Unless you’re a Communist or an Arab sympathiser I shouldn’t have thought that was necessary.’

  ‘You forget, Mr Ralston, that I don’t know why you want those maps.’

  ‘I’ll be frank with you Mr Bartlett …’

  Bartlett’s new awareness stirred. It said: That means that Ralston will be everything but frank.

  Ralston weighed the big lighter in his hand and contemplated his large shoes. ‘The fact of the matter is that those maps can play a vital part in negotiating peace in the Middle East. I feel sure that you wouldn’t want to stand in the way of peace.’

  ‘I’ll be frank with you, Mr Ralston …’ Bartlett smiled. ‘I do not like people trying to interfere with my life. In particular I do not like them trying to rob and kill me. In particular the latter. Certainly I would not wish to do anything that would jeopardise peace. But just as certainly I want to know what this is all about. I want to know just how those maps can affect the future of the Middle East. I know those maps and frankly I can’t see it.’

  Ralston sighed. ‘It’s very difficult to explain. Can’t you just trust me? I promise you that it’s in the interest of the West and the fewer people who know the better.’

  Bartlett examined Ralston’s honest-looking face and said: ‘No, I can’t.’

  Ralston stood up and gazed across Jerusalem. ‘You’re making things very difficult. Especially when there’s so little time.’

  ‘Did you forge that note in Tel Aviv authorising the hotel porter to hand my briefcase over to you?’

  Ralston sighed, more heavily this time. ‘I’m afraid so. I need those maps.’

  ‘I don’t like people forging my signature,’ Bartlett said. ‘Please continue with your explanation.’

  Ralston said: ‘Sooner or later Israel is going to have to make a concession and give up some territory. It could just be that such a concession would appease the Arabs despite all the sabre-rattling from Nasser. Whoever has your maps will be in a stronger bargaining position than their opponents.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t really want to go into that too deeply,’ Ralston said.

  ‘That I believe,’ Bartlett said. He looked at his watch again. ‘You’ve got one minute in which to convince me. And I must warn you that I don’t much care for the word “bargaining”. Tell me this, Mr Ralston, if these maps are so vital to negotiate peace, why don’t we just give them to the Israelis?’

  ‘If you must know,’ Ralston said, ‘we reckon this whole thing should be handled at four-power level.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Jesus,’ Ralston said, ‘for a bumbly geologist you sure do ask the darnedest questions.’

  ‘Geologists aren’t all bumbly,’ Bartlett said.

  .’Okay, okay. Anyway we think the whole thing should be hammered out at four-power level. It is, after all, the world’s problem. It is world peace that’s threatened. It shouldn’t be left to the Israelis and the Arabs.’

  Bartlett’s new awareness sharpened into intuition. ‘I have a strange feeling that your heart isn’t in that last remark.’

  Ralston mimed exasperation. ‘The earth’s stratum doesn’t stand much of a chance with a guy like you around,’ he said. ‘Okay, maybe I’m not a politician either. All I know is that the President of the United States thinks that this should be hammered out at the highest level there is.’

  A few of the words that he had overheard on the crossed wire came back to Bartlett. Something about prestige. He said: ‘I wish for once you’d be absolutely honest with me. I have the maps, remember.’

  ‘In what way am I not being honest?’

  ‘It’s not just a question of believing that discussion at four-power level is the best way of ensuring peace, is it? American prestige is at stake, is it not, Mr Ralston?’

  ‘In a way, I guess.’ Ralston sat down again and exhibited the back of his neck to Bartlett in the mirror: it seemed to have acquired another crease since they started talking. Ralston said: ‘Put it like this, Mr Bartlett. The whole motive behind this operation is peace. Please take my word for that. I wouldn’t be involved if it wasn’t. Sure, American prestige is involved, too. Why not? We want peace but we don’t surely want the Soviets to take all the credit for it, do we?’

  ‘I don’t see that it matters who takes the credit as long as you stop these people killing each other.’

  Ralston spoke with elaborate patience. ‘That’s what we aim to do. America wants to stop the killing. But we want it done cleanly and fairly – not on Communist terms. Is there anything wrong with that?’

  Bartlett shook his head. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘Then why are you holding back, for God’s sake?’

  ‘For the simple reason that until now I had no idea what you were all after.’

  ‘But you heard the President talking to the Ambassador. You must have known what it was all about.’

  Bartlett decided not to tell Ralston that he had been overcome by an attack of hay fever. He didn’t want to appear too ‘bumbly’ to this tough, efficient American. He said: ‘I couldn’t make out what it was all about. For that matter I’m still not sure. You’ll have to explain a little better, Mr Ralston. You’ve only got
about thirty seconds. But you could be lucky – she could be late.’

  ‘I thought I had explained.’

  ‘You still haven’t explained to me the importance of these maps.’

  ‘I don’t think I want to do that, Mr Bartlett. If you don’t realise their importance then I reckon it would be better for you not to understand. Now, please, tell me where you’ve hidden them.’

  Bartlett shook his head. ‘It’s not on, I’m afraid. Not on these terms, anyway. If I can help the cause of peace then I will do everything in my power to do so. But you need to be a little more explicit than that.’

  Ralston looked at the big deep-sea diving watch on his wrist. ‘Are you going to tell me where those maps are?’

  ‘Not unless you can explain a little better. I must know why you need them. That’s fair enough, isn’t it? For all I know I might be playing into the hands of big business. And in any case I want to be in a position to make up my own mind. I’m getting very tired of being pushed around.’

  ‘You won’t accept that it’s better for the United States of America to have those maps than the Arabs or the Russians?’

  ‘Or the Israelis?’

  ‘I’m sorry about this,’ Ralston said. ‘I think you’re a good guy. But we just haven’t the time.’ He took a .45 Colt from inside his jacket. ‘But it’s like this, Mr Bartlett. At the moment no one knows where you’ve hidden those maps. And the only person who knows what’s in them is yourself. If you won’t tell me where they are then I shall have no alternative but to shoot you.’

  Bartlett looked at the pistol. A police-issue, he thought. It had to be. He smiled because he wasn’t frightened.

  Ralston said: ‘This sure as hell isn’t a smiling matter.’

  ‘I’ve learned quite a bit in the past few days,’ Bartlett said. ‘I know that you wouldn’t shoot me. Not here anyway. There’d be too much of a stink and in any case you’d get yourself arrested.’