“What folly is this!” The words were rather hissed than spoken. “Are our Si-Fan directives no longer obeyed? My orders were clear: Accept whatever conditions, however harsh are imposed upon you. Lull the enemy into a state of false security. Wait! Wait for my word! Then—but not until then—strike, all my millions together. And at last China, our China, will lie like a choice pearl in my hand!”
Fu Manchu spoke as a man inspired—or possessed. The Sherif Mohammed lowered his head and muttered a Moslem prayer.
“It is true, Excellency. But agents of our enemy are sent amongst them to stir up rebellion, as an excuse for massacre. Here in Egypt I have great difficulty in preventing premature action, also.”
Dr. Fu Manchu clenched long, slender hands and sat down again.
From some spot high above his head, Peko, his pet marmoset, sprang down on to his shoulder, giving his curious cry, which sounded like a short whistle. Fu Manchu reached up and stroked the little creature.
“Ah, Peko! You come to soothe me, my tiny friend.”
“No doubt,” Mohammed murmured, “Excellency will wish to send further orders back to General Huan Tsung Chao?”
Fu Manchu nodded. “Let the messenger wait. The fate of all the world hangs now upon a silk thread. Communism is not ready for war, and has nothing to gain by it. Washington fails to see how one step in the wrong
direction may force the hazard. I have been selected to prevent this catastrophe, since I alone could hope to carry out the plan. Upon my success everything depends. Be good enough, my friend, to ask Dr.
Matsukata to come in.”
The Sherif Mohammed salaamed and went out, leaving Dr. Fu Manchu playfully teasing the marmoset, which sometimes tried to bite him, whistling with fury, and sometimes snuggled up against his silk robe affectionately.
Matsukata came in; bowed ceremoniously. “Excellency wished to see me?”
Fu Manchu fixed his strange gaze upon the Japanese surgeon.
“No later than forty-eight hours from now, Matsukata, we must be on our way. You are ready?”
“I am ready.”
“And your last patient?”
“Is ready also.”
“You are satisfied?”
“He is sleeping. But Excellency might wish to see him.”
Fu Manchu slightly shook his head. “It is unnecessary. He must make the journey.”
Matsukata bowed again. The marmoset sprang across the desk and whistled at him angrily …
*
Brian spent a wretched day. He remained extremely uneasy about Zoe.
Whatever the urgency, he couldn’t understand why she had gone with never a word to him. He had found out from the management that she had left all her luggage behind, and all her expensive dresses!
They had never seen her before and could give him no information about her. They hoped nothing unpleasant had happened. But as the value of her abandoned property was apparently greater than the amount of her unpaid bill, they weren’t so deeply concerned as otherwise they might have been.
It was late in the afternoon when a boy handed him a telegram. It was signed “J. Jansen.” The message was brief, merely stating that Zoe had hurried back to Luxor with the writer and that there were hopes for her aunt’s recovery. She sent her love to Brian and Sir Denis.
Brian gave a great sigh of relief.
He had built up a pyramid of doubts based upon her disappearance.
These included the theory that Mr. Ahmad was a traitor in Sir Denis’s camp; that Sir Denis was losing his grip and didn’t recognize friend from
enemy.
This telegram shattered these delusions, lifting a dreadful load from his mind.
Perhaps he would never see Zoe again, but she had given him many hours of happiness and, after all, he wasn’t in Cairo to enjoy himself!
During the remainder of the evening he wrote a long letter to her, addressed c/o J. Jansen, but never wandered far from the hotel, expecting Nayland Smith to walk in at any moment.
But up to the time that he went in to dinner Sir Denis hadn’t appeared.
He was about to stand up and go out on to the terrace for coffee when he saw him hurrying in his direction and accompanied by another man quite unmistakably English. Both wore evening dress.
“Ah, there you are, Merrick!” Sir Denis snapped. “Want you to meet Sir Nigel Richardson from the Embassy!”
“How do you do, Mr. Merrick!” Sir Nigel shook hands cordially.
“Devil of a game you fellows have taken on! Smith’s been telling me all about it.”
Brian felt quite confused. “Will you join me for coffee?”
“Came to fetch you,” Sir Nigel explained. “You’re coming back to the Embassy for your coffee and so forth. Business to be done! Lots of work.
Very little time.”
Brian found an Embassy car waiting outside, and a few minutes later found himself in Sir Nigel Richardson’s study. Coffee was passed around and an assortment of liqueurs offered by a butler who would have delighted P.G. Wodehouse;
also excellent cigars. A young attache, Captain Arkwright, joined the party and made notes from time to time. He was earnest, efficient, and highly excited.
“Please give my regards to your father, Mr. Merrick.” Sir Nigel raised his glass to Brian. “He was with the American Legation in Madrid some years ago when I also was posted to Spain. We were much younger!” He smiled, glanced at Nayland Smith, “You were a policeman in Burma in those days, Smith!”
“Where I first crossed the path of Dr. Fu Manchu!” Sir Denis stood up, and began to move about restlessly, filling his pipe, which he rarely forgot to bring along, as Brian recalled. “And he’s a bigger menace today than he was then.”
Sir Nigel Richardson frowned thoughtfully, drawing together his heavy eyebrows, black in contrast with his silvered hair.
“Your sudden appearance, Smith, has set me thinking. Rumours of this man’s doings, nothing further, have come my way in spots as far apart as Teheran and Paris. What should you guess his age to have been the first
time you saw him?”
“I should have taken him for seventy—well preserved, but seventy.”
Sir Nigel stared, watching Nayland Smith light his pipe.
“Then, for heaven’s sake, if he’s really still alive——”
“I know!” Smith snapped. “He’s over a hundred! I have believed for a long time that he has mastered the secret of prolonged life. He’s a scientific genius. But unless he’s also a Chinese edition of the Wandering Jew I’ll finish him one day!”
“He has certainly proved hard to finish,” Sir Nigel commented dryly.
And as Nayland Smith grinned in rather a grim way, Brian noted a faint mark like a wrinkle appear on the bridge of his nose and realized for the first time that the plaster had been removed.
“If I fail to get him this time, Richardson, it’ll be because he’s finished me! And now, to the job … As you know, my passport, as well as everything else I had with me, is lost——”
“A new diplomatic passport is ready, Smith.” He glanced at the attache. “You have it there, Arkwright?”
“Here, sir.” The passport was laid on a coffee-table.
“Transport?” Sir Denis snapped.
“A plane manned by Royal Air Force personnel will be at your disposal.”
“And Mr. Merrick?”
“I have made an appointment for him to meet Mr. Lyman Bostock, my United States opposite-number, at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Take your own passport along, Mr. Merrick. It will be exchanged for one giving you diplomatic privilege.”
Brian’s head began to swim. He didn’t know if this was due to Sir Nigel’s old Napoleon brandy or to the miraculous speed with which Nayland Smith got things done.
“And the third passenger?”
Sir Nigel lighted another cigar. “That matter, Smith, I had to pass to Bostock. He has promised me that a passport with a suitable visa will be issued by the U
nited States Consulate and ready for Mr. Merrick to pick up in the morning when he calls for his own… .”
When the Embassy car took them back, Nayland Smith got out at the hotel entrance and dismissed the chauffeur.
“To take that official chariot through the Muski tonight, Merrick, would be calculated to start a riot! The bar’s still open. I’m thirsty. So let’s have a drink and then I’ll get a cab.”
Brian thought, as they sat down at a corner table, that Sir Denis looked oddly drawn and very tired. “I’d say you’d had one hell of a time,”
he told him, sympathetically.
“Why?” came with almost a fierce snap. “Do I look chewed up?”
“Not at all, Sir Denis! In fact, though I don’t know the details, I consider you have made an amazing come-back.”
Nayland Smith smiled. But even now it wasn’t the happy smile which Brian seemed to remember. Undoubtedly, he had suffered more than he cared to admit.
“I suppose I look as well as I can expect to look.” He took a long drink.
“By the way, Merrick, have you had any news from Luxor?”
Brian told him about the message from Mr. Jansen.
“That’s good.” Nayland Smith glanced at his watch. “Time I was moving. Don’t waste regrets on Zoe, Merrick. She’s a charming girl, but her mother was an Arab. These people are unpredictable, you know. Like snow upon the desert and so forth … Don’t be late in the morning.” He jumped up. “We must be ready to leave at any hour tomorrow.”
Brian stood up, too. “But where are we going?”
“New York … Good night, Merrick!”
*
Mr. Lyman Bostock turned out to be another friend of Senator Merrick, as Brian discovered when he presented himself in that gentleman’s office at ten o’clock.
“You might be your father as I remember him at Harvard!” Mr.
Bostock declared. “I suppose he got you this appointment as aide to Sir Denis Nayland Smith?”
“Not at all, sir. I got it myself—-just by accident!”
“Is that so?” Mr. Bostock, with his smooth white hair and fresh complexion, his soft, Southern voice, had a gentle manner which made Brian wonder what he was doing in such a smouldering volcano as Cairo.
“I naturally supposed, as Sir Denis is acting for Washington, by arrangement with London, that your father had proposed you. You will find your duties exciting.”
“I have found them exciting already!” Brian laid his passport on the desk.
“This is your new passport.” Mr. Bostock passed it across. “When your present employment ends you may be asked to return it: when you will receive your old one—which I am sending to Washington. And now”—he opened an envelope— “here are Dr. Hessian’s papers.” He looked up. His mild, blue eyes twinkled. “Rather irregularly, I confess, he is being admitted to the United States under the quota system! And here is Dr.
Hessian’s passport… .”
When Brian, back in his room, had put the neat little diplomatic passport in an inside pocket and locked the other documents in a suit-case, he went downstairs and out into the garden.
And he was still lingering over it, wondering how soon they were to start for New York, when a boy came up with a radiogram. Brian tore it open—and felt his heart give a queer little jump.
It was from Lola!
*
Brian, I wonder if you realize that you left no address. I have only just found out through Thomas Cook agency where you are. Please reply how long staying in Cairo. Love. Lola.
Brian felt suddenly on top of the rainbow. What a multiple idiot he had been! Waiting, day after day, for a word from Lola—and except that he had told her he was flying to Cairo, leaving her no means of reaching him! But she had found a way. He seemed to be looking again into those grey eyes with their hint of hidden laughter, to hear her voice. And he knew, in this moment, that Zoe had been a distraction; no more. He hoped, as Nayland Smith had encouraged him to believe, that Zoe felt the same way about it.
He suddenly decided to make a dash to the Muski and order five hundred Aziza cigarettes to be sent by air to Lola in London. He knew that she liked Egyptian cigarettes.
Without allowing himself time to change his mind, he went out, jumped in a cab and told the driver to take him to the shop ofAchmed es-Salah in the Khan Khalib. He had good reason to distrust Achmed, but he sold excellent cigarettes. This done, he would at least have time to send a radiogram to Lola before he left Cairo.
And so presently he found himself again passing through those crowded, colourful, dusty streets, listening to cries musical and discordant, the vehicle sometimes nearly running over a tiny donkey and always meeting with some sort of obstruction. Brian found the scene entirely fascinating;
ignored frowning faces, returning their frowns with smiles. He wished he could have made these people understand that he was a friend, that he regretted having to leave so soon a city which he had longed to see… .
Achmed sat smoking in the entrance to his cavernous shop.
Brian looked hard into the shadows beyond. But, today, he found no amber eyes watching him.
“Ah, my gentleman!” Achmed greeted him. “You come for my cigarettes. Is it so?”
“It is so. You can mail some to London?”
“Of course. I send many to England, and also to America.”
Brian ordered five hundred Azizas to be sent to Lola, writing the address on a little card which Achmed gave him. He paid the price demanded (which he knew was exorbitant), and a small sum for postage; hurried away. He had kept the cab.
The driver had gone no more than a few hundred yards when he was held up. He had upset and narrowly avoided running over, a very large man riding a very small donkey. The language of the fallen rider, which Brian didn’t understand, was evidently so ornamental, even for an Arab, that a laughing crowd gathered around him. They ignored the driver’s warnings and encouraged the furious victim to further abuse.
A car going in the opposite direction, its Nubian chauffeur tooting remorselessly, forced a way through the outskirts of the audience and passed on. Brian had a glimpse of the solitary passenger.
It was Mr. Ahmad!
Those suspicions concerning this man, never far from his mind, awoke again. Was Ahmad going to the shop which he, himself, had just left?
Even so, he might be going only to buy cigarettes. But Brian reviewed the chain of events which linked old Achmed with the girl who had followed him, and joined up with that ragged beggarman who had undoubtedly been waiting for him outside the building which accommodated the Aziza Cigarette Company.
He wondered if he should speak to Nayland Smith about it, but he hesitated for fear of giving Sir Denis the impression that he was inclined to form wild theories which lacked any basis in proven fact.
A time was to come when he would regain confidence in his instincts.
But that time was not yet… .
*
The call came just after two o’clock. Brian had dispatched a radiogram to Lola and was crossing the lobby when Nayland Smith burst in.
“Baggage down, Merrick? Got the passports and entry papers? Good.
Everything will be settled up here. We’re off!”
Sir Nigel Richardson’s chauffeur was standing outside to dispose of Brian’s luggage in the big Embassy car. Four motorcycle police were lined alongside and a number of spectators had gathered, curious to get a glimpse of the distinguished visitor. They probably expected to see a Hollywood celebrity, and were plainly disappointed when Brian and Sir Denis came out and got into the car. Brian found another passenger inside, a tall, stooping man wearing a wide-brimmed hat and dark sun-glasses, his chin buried in the upturned collar of his light topcoat.
As the car swept smoothly away with its escort:
“Oh, Merrick,” Nayland Smith said in his jerky fashion. “I want you to meet our fellow traveller, Dr. Otto Hessian. This is Mr. Brian Merrick, Junior, Doctor.”
&n
bsp; The doctor acknowledged this introduction by nodding slightly.
During the drive out to the airport, Dr. Hessian never spoke a word, and rarely moved. Sir Denis, in a low voice, explained the situation to Brian:
“Dr. Hessian has been under medical care since I smuggled him into Cairo. He was in even worse shape than I was. But he went ahead with his work. We had to leave all his apparatus behind of course. Smashed it. But the man has a majestic brain. Memorized every detail. The whole thing is ready again, in blueprint, for setting up directly we reach New York.”
“That’s a wonderful job, Sir Denis.”
“He’s a wonderful man. Hasn’t much English, but loads of science.
We’re not sure if the enemy has traced him here. Hence the precautions.
Once we’re airborne our troubles are over. Detailed instructions have been sent ahead in code. Hessian expects to find all the necessary equipment on hand when we get there.”
And so for the second time Brian found himself speeding along the tree-lined road to the airport—and this time leaving Cairo behind.
He would dearly have loved to stay longer, for he had seen little more of the ancient Oriental city than is seen by a cruise passenger. He wondered if he would have a chance to return one day—and he wondered if he had treated Zoe badly… .
A surprise awaited him when they came to the airport.
Sir Nigel Richardson and Captain Arkwright were waiting to see them off… and they were talking to Mr. Ahmad!
Mr. Bostock came up while Dr. Hessian was being presented. He shook hands with the doctor and made some complimentary remarks in German. Dr. Hessian nodded and hurried aboard the plane. He was clearly a man so completely wrapped up in his studies that he had neither time nor inclination for the social amenities. Nayland Smith drew Brian aside with Ahmad.
“I thought, Merrick, there might be some last-minute com missions to carry out. Mr. Ahmad is at your service. He will see to it that any correspondence which may arrive for you after we leave will be airmailed to New York.”
“Thanks a lot.” Brian found himself forced once more to reconsider his views of Mr. Ahmad. “Although I don’t expect anything. And I can think of nothing else.”
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