‘I was wondering when you were going to ask.’
‘Will you?’
‘Perhaps. Not now.’
‘But you love me. Why cannot you give them to me now?’
‘It’s difficult to explain,’ Bartlett said. ‘It has nothing to do with my feeling for you. It has a lot to do with being made a fool of. Yosevitz, Ralston, that thieving Arab, and you. You’ve all tried to make a fool of me. I don’t intend to part with the maps now. I’ve given my word.’
‘You’ve given your word? Who have you given your word to?’
‘To Ralston, I’m afraid.’
The knowledge of what she now had to do settled heavily upon Raquel. Like fear, like sickness. ‘Why did you make such a promise to Ralston?’
‘Why not? It’s quite true that I don’t intend to help the Arabs or the Russians.’
‘Or the Israelis?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Give me the maps, then.’
‘Can you tell me why everyone wants them?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘because I don’t know.’ She looked away towards the serried skyline of broken buildings so that he could not see the lie on her face.
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘So be it,’ she said. With one hand she picked up his hand and kissed it. ‘So be it, my Thomas.’ She pushed her foot down on the accelerator and the Jeep leaped forward towards the ruined city of Kantara.
From a distance of one mile Kantara appeared to have been devastated.
But as they got nearer they saw the occasional building still standing nursing its war wounds. Of humanity there was no Sign.
They passed a dry, overgrown park with a dead fountain in the middle. Signs swinging in front of heaps of rubble that had been cafés and shops; a scarred house of comparative dignity lonely behind a line of gum trees; empty streets with grass already invading through the cracks. A couple of dogs with herring-bone ribs barked at them feebly. There was a smell of putrefaction in the air.
Raquel looked anxiously around. She didn’t want to get as far as the battered hotel where the United Nations were billeted. She stopped the Jeep and pointed ahead at a shell-torn church. ‘That’s the Coptic Church,’ she said. ‘We gave permission for it to be rebuilt after the June war. Then the Egyptians shelled it again.’
‘Where is everyone?’ Bartlett said.
‘We arranged for them all to be evacuated because of the shelling.’ She decided to emphasise the point. ‘Arabs shelling Arabs, you understand.’
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘Let’s get on to the Canal.’
Raquel considered the heavy pistol concealed beneath the oil rags beside her seat. Too big for a girl. But not for an Israeli girl. She drove slowly forwards.
They passed a terrace of ruined khaki-coloured houses to which a long verandah adhered. Perched on the verandah was an armchair, its upholstery ripped apart by a shell splinter. A wall creaked in the imperceptible breeze.
‘Why don’t you get a move on?’ Bartlett said.
She accelerated slightly.
They were just passing the Coptic Church when Raquel saw a Jeep rattling towards them down a side street. She stopped their Jeep.
‘Why are you stopping?’ he said.
She looked at him sadly.
The other Jeep stopped at right angles to them. In it were a major and two soldiers in shirt sleeves. The major held a pistol in his hand and the two soldiers had Uzi submachine guns over their shoulders.
Raquel beckoned them over and spoke to the major In Hebrew.
Bartlett said: ‘What are you talking about?’
Raquel said: ‘I’m sorry, Thomas. We have to have those maps. I have told these men about the situation. In fact they knew we were coming here. You must have realised that I had to warn the Army about our approach.’
Bartlett shrugged. ‘It hadn’t occurred to me.’
‘Thomas,’ she said, ‘please forgive me.’
‘Get on with it,’ he said. ‘What are you going to do now?’
‘We will go with them in their Jeep to an Army post where there is an officer of Israeli intelligence. There we will hand over the maps to him. You see, I have no alternative Thomas.’
The major gestured with his pistol. He was very dark with a small moustache and taut features. ‘Please hurry up,’ he said.
Raquel nodded. ‘The maps,’ she said. ‘Please get them, Thomas.’
Bartlett said: ‘Do you really think they are worth all this?’
‘They are worth it to us,’ she said.
‘Very well.’ He put his hand under Raquel’s empty seat and brought out the satchel containing the maps. He handed it to Raquel.
The major waved his pistol again and said: ‘You’d better come with us.’
‘We’ll follow you,’ Raquel said.
‘No, please, you come with us. There are many mines about. If you even stray away from our tyre tracks you might blow yourselves up.’
Bartlett said: ‘You’d better go with him whether there are any mines or not.’
‘Why?’ Raquel said.
‘Because if I’m not much mistaken that gentleman you’ve just handed the maps to is an Egyptian.’
Raquel stood still, muscles tensed.
The two soldiers looked questioningly at the major.
Then Raquel leaped for the gun beside the driving seat. She knew it was hopeless but it was preferable to whatever the Arabs had in store for her. It was also preferable to failure.
She felt the butt of the gun beneath the rags. She was aware that Bartlett and the major were fighting behind her.
She felt a blow on the head and the hot blue sky darkened to dusk to night.
TWENTY-TWO
Bartlett was lying on a beach and waves were falling across his face, drowning him. He tried to move his head to one side but pain illuminated by red light exploded inside him. When he finally opened his eyes the Egyptian was throwing water in his face. He stopped drowning, but the pain remained. He wanted to massage it away with his hands; but his hands were tied behind his back. He stopped struggling and lay on his back looking at the Egyptian.
The Egyptian said: ‘I’m sorry I had to hit you so hard but you were putting up a very good fight.’ His English was elaborate, his tone sarcastic. He pointed at his own puffed eye. ‘You did not look as if you had it in you.’
Bartlett tried to speak but the pain gagged him.
The Egyptian said: ‘I wish I could give you something to ease the pain but we brought nothing like that with us.’ He looked beyond Bartlett. ‘Your girlfriend is in better shape than you.’
Bartlett managed to turn his head. Raquel lay beside him, hands and feet bound. Her face was pale but she was conscious. She said: ‘Hallo, Thomas.’
Bartlett tried to speak. The words felt very thick. ‘Where are we?’
The Egyptian said: ‘In the ruins of a small hotel on the outskirts of Kantara where no one can find us.’
Bartlett looked at the wall. There was a shell-hole the size of a coffee table in it. It was burned black at the edges and the haphazard brickwork was exposed.
The Egyptian saw where he was looking. ‘Those bricks – bad workmanship, I’m afraid. But, bad though it is, it belongs to us. As does the Sinai.’ He glanced at Raquel. ‘As does the whole of Palestine.’
‘Israel,’ she said.
The Egyptian smiled. ‘She has courage, that one. But so do most Israelis. I should know – I was brought up there.’
Bartlett said nothing.
The Egyptian said: ‘We have a little time. I will answer obvious questions to save you the effort of speaking.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘I was ten when Palestine was handed over to the Jews. My father had to stay behind because he was sick – he had been a strong and proud man, I inherited his pride. I decided I would never be a second-class citizen and I would never give up the fight. When I was fifteen I managed to cross the border. I went to Cairo because I believed that was the
true centre of the Arab world.’
Bartlett spoke very slowly. ‘You speak very good English,’ he said. The pulses of pain were coming a little slower.
‘The Egyptians realised my worth. A dedicated Arab Nationalist. Hebrew-speaking with a good knowledge of Palestine. They must also have thought I was intelligent because they gave me the best education possible. That is how I come to speak English. Yamani is my name, by the way.’
Bartlett realised that he was in the presence of a man very much in love with himself. As he was entitled to be. Handsome, strong, intelligent. The Arabs could do with a few more like him.
Raquel said to him: ‘If you are caught you will be shot as a spy.’
Yamani laughed. ‘Very true. But then you are a spy as well. You have been spying on this man Bartlett for a long time.’
‘He knows about it,’ she said.
‘Very touching,’ Yamani said. He knelt and allowed them each a smoke of his cigarette. ‘You are probably wondering how we got here?’
Bartlett shrugged because he didn’t want to fuel the Arab’s ego. But it didn’t need fuel.
Yamani said: ‘Cairo was informed from Tel Aviv that you were probably heading in this direction. During the night while an artillery duel was in progress we crossed the Canal. That is not an uncommon practice. But this time we came wearing Israeli combat dress.’
Raquel said: ‘You will be caught.’
‘I think not,’ he said. ‘This morning on the radio we received confirmation that you were on your way. It was very simple to hide in the ruins of Kantara and await your arrival. Especially with the Israeli Army and the United Nations concentrating on the exchange of refugees. It will be even easier for us to get back across the Canal. The Israelis will not be looking for Arabs crossing in that direction.’
Raquel said: ‘But the Egyptians will. Perhaps they will shoot you.’
He shook his head. ‘They will be warned that we are coming.’ He turned his attention to Bartlett again. ‘Are you impressed with our efficiency on this occasion?’
‘I’m impressed with your self-satisfaction.’
‘You think I am a conceited man?’
‘You are not bashful,’ Bartlett said.
The smile faded a little. ‘It is time more of my people found their pride. We have wallowed in our inferiority complex for too long.’
Raquel said: ‘That is only natural because you are inferior.’
He pretended to ignore her. ‘But the spirit is changing. All along the borders with Israel you will see it. From the oldest Fedayeen down to the youngest Ashbal. Soon no force on earth will be able to stop us. This is not just a struggle for land, Mr Bartlett, this is Jihad – a Holy War.’
Bartlett said: ‘You have already been beaten by the Jews three times.’
‘We will not be beaten the fourth time.’ His composure was feeling the strain. ‘Next time we will drive the Jews into the sea.’
‘I don’t think they will go,’ Bartlett said.
‘Why not?’
Bartlett glanced at Raquel and managed to smile.
Yamani said again: ‘Why not?’
‘Because, as I understand it, they’re not very fond of swimming.’
The Arab stubbed out his cigarette viciously. ‘Make the most of your famous British sense of humour. You have not much longer in which to enjoy it.’
Raquel said: ‘What are you going to do with us?’
‘We have the maps,’ he said. ‘In particular one map. Unfortunately for Mr Bartlett he knows its content. Therefore he will have to be killed. And I’m afraid you will have to join him. You are, after all, an officer in Israeli Intelligence.’ He paused. ‘And now I’m afraid I must leave you.’
He called out in Arabic and one of the other two commandos came in, Uzi at the ready. Bartlett and Raquel were left looking up the barrel of a squat, efficient Israeli-made submachine gun.
Through the jagged hole in the wall Bartlett watched the dark blue of the sky begin to fade. Soon the outlines of the dunes in the desert would be softened by dusk, their hollows filled with mauve shadows.
He looked around their quarters. A small reception desk covered with dust and plaster; a punctured armchair which looked as if it had once been British Army married quarters issue; a photograph of Nasser perforated by a bullet hole on the wall; a greasy sofa under the shell-hole. Through an arch he could see a few chairs and broken tables.
A sour dirty smell pervaded the place. The smell of death.
The Arab guard sat behind the desk, a bizarre and burly receptionist in a dead hotel. He put his submachine gun on the desk and stared at them without expression. A big brown man with a wrestler’s physique, jagged teeth and a freshly healed wound down his cheek. The scar pulled slightly at one eye, adding menace to his gaze.
Raquel said: ‘I’m sorry, Thomas.’
‘I should bloody well think you are,’ Bartlett said.
‘Do you hate me?’
Bartlett said: ‘I hardly think this is the time or the place to discuss our future relationship. As far as I can see we haven’t got a future, let alone a relationship.’ The pain came at much longer intervals now.
‘We must escape,’ Raquel said.
‘An excellent suggestion,’ Bartlett said. ‘How?’
‘First,’ she said, ‘we must discover if this man speaks English.’
‘Insult him in English then.’
Raquel insulted him with fluency and feeling.
Bartlett said: ‘I didn’t know you knew words like that.’ He felt shocked; his shock amused him.
‘I’m sorry about the language. A few phrases I picked up in New York. But you see he doesn’t understand them. So we can talk freely.’
‘What do you want to talk about? How is your head, by the way?’
‘My head’s all right,’ she said. ‘They didn’t hit it very hard. The trouble is we can’t do much until it’s dark. Not in front of this fat pig.’
The Arab traced a picture in the dust with one finger.
‘I should imagine he’s drawing a gallows,’ Bartlett said.
‘Always you joke,’ she said. ‘I think that you are now entitled to an explanation. The reason why everyone wants those maps? Or that one map, rather.’
Bartlett savoured the moment. He was deeply fond of her; nevertheless he had been looking forward to this. ‘I know why everyone wants it,’ he said. He watched her face in the mellowing light; it was rewarding.
‘You know?’
‘I told you once that I thought I had an idea.’
‘But I didn’t believe you. In fact I don’t know that I believe you now. What is the reason?’
‘Oil,’ he said.
‘Ah.’ She thought about it, a little puzzled, a little awed. ‘How long have you known that?’
‘Not all that long. In fact I’ve been pretty slow. But you see there was no reason in the first place why it should occur to me. People trying to kill me, people trying to steal my briefcase. I suppose you think the answer should have been obvious then. But there was a lot more in that briefcase than just maps. They could have been after anything.’
‘But you don’t know the whole story.’
‘I’m sure I don’t,’ he said.
‘You just know it’s oil?’
‘That’s all I know. I don’t understand the in-fighting.’ He had a pretty good idea but he wanted the full explanation from her.
‘Those maps,’ she said. ‘When were they made?’
‘Some go back to 1869. There was an Ordnance Survey of part of the Sinai then.’
‘And the others?’
‘All different times. But I suppose the map you’re interested in is the one drawn up in the surveys immediately after the First World War.’
She moved her head in the dust in confirmation. ‘I believe a German was put in charge of a team whose sole task was to find likely sites for oil in the Sinai.’
‘You’re absolutely right,’ Bartlett said. Th
e pain was coming much less frequently now. He wished they were sitting up because talking on the floor made the words sound incongruous. ‘The whole team perished when their truck broke down near Bir Hasane.’ He tried to move his hands behind his back but they were bound very tightly. ‘Is this the time for this discussion? I rather feel that we should be working out methods of escaping.’
‘We can’t do anything until dark,’ she said.
‘And then what can we do?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘That’s great,’ he said. ‘Absolutely marvellous.
‘We might as well talk,’ she said. ‘It keeps our minds occupied. There is nothing else we can do except hope that an Israeli patrol finds us.’
‘And there’s not much chance of that,’ he said.
The ‘receptionist’ picked up the Uzi and examined it with interest as if he hadn’t used one before.
Raquel said: ‘I know about the German and his men. They had two trucks. One broke down and the Arabs drove away in the other.’
‘Correct.’ Bartlett tasted plaster and smelled the sour odour of death. There was probably a body in a cellar. He said: ‘I found the bones of the German and the others when I came to the Sinai years later. Although I suppose you know that.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I suppose you know how I found out.’
He said with a weariness that had nothing to do with their plight: ‘Through my wife, I suppose. Although there was no secret about it.’
‘You also told her about the map. The sketch map that the German made while he was dying. It was the only map in existence that gave the sites where there might be oil inland from the Gulf of Suez. Why, Thomas, did you have to tell your wife about the existence of such a map just before you were coming to Israel?’
‘Quite frankly it didn’t seem to matter. The Egyptians have never bothered very much about the oil potential of the Sinai in the past.’
‘They have on the Gulf,’ she said. ‘Ras Abu Rudeis, for instance, south of the manganese mines. But they haven’t done much about it farther inland.’ She paused. ‘Do you love me, Thomas?’
He wanted to kiss her dry cracked lips. He nodded.
‘Say it then.’
The Twisted Wire Page 16
