“I believe we are to stay up here,” she said to Marshall.
“I agree. They would not know what to do with you in camp.”
“Or you, sir.”
He tried to smile. “Or me. Yes.”
Before the sun set Elsa climbed to the top of the rocks again to see what was happening. There seemed to be at least a hundred men, camels and horses. The well was being continually worked to water so many thirsty mouths. A camp of sorts was set up with the well in the center. No tents were raised, instead bedrolls made from the camel trappings were set about in patterns.
There were no fires but one or two made from dung or what fuel had been brought with them. Elsa saw that eating and resting and drinking were the order of the evening. She scanned the camp for Descartes’ fedora. She found him with Sonnenby around one of the fires and a magnificently dressed Arab in gold and white. Beside her Marshall’s head appeared. “The sharif,” he said.
“I do not know that word,” she told him.
“Like the holy family. As if there were a descendant of Christ.”
“He is a priest?”
“No, a special nobleman.”
She looked at the sharif carefully, taking in the spotless white robes and the glittering belt and dagger sheath he wore. More importantly, she counted his bodyguards. “We should get back to the ledge before they see us.”
She helped him down; glad he had recovered from the ride and was more himself. The sun sank low, and then disappeared. The stars came out with the cool breeze and Elsa found herself dozing.
Just before dawn she awoke with a start. A camel had bellowed its discomfort or anger. She nearly slid down to the sands, but caught herself. Marshall took her arm and steadied her.
“Careful,” he said unnecessarily.
“Oh,” she answered. “I almost lost my briefcase.” She felt for it beside her and pushed it back against the wall behind them.
“It amazes me that you still have that with you.” Marshall leaned on one elbow.
“It is why I am here, Mr. Marshall. To lose it again would be to fail.”
“I can see you are not accustomed to failure.”
“No. I strive against failure every day. It is to be avoided at all costs.”
“Really? All costs?”
Elsa stopped. He was right. Not all costs. “It is a figure of speech, Mr. Marshall.” She lowered her eyes. She knew he was thinking about the war, not her briefcase. “There is a proper time for failure. When it benefits others. When it brings peace.”
“Then it is not failure,” Marshall said. “It is success.”
“I am certain they do not feel that way in Berlin.”
“Success and failure at the same time. Difficult concept.”
She changed the subject. “Will you eat now?”
He opened one hand and she put a round of flatbread in it. “You’ll need more water to get that down,” she said.
“Granted.” He tore a mouth-sized piece off and chewed carefully. She handed him the water skin.
“Mr. Marshall. Please tell me what happened to send Mr. Sinclair to St. Mary’s.”
He swallowed carefully before answering. “Something happened in Cairo. I don’t know what it was. It has been excised from the records.”
“I noticed.”
“I understand that he attacked the general…that would be General Wallace. It was agreed he had to be mad to do such a thing, but I don’t know the specifics. It is the General’s signature on a report that helped commit him. There was no hearing.”
“Was the General hurt?”
“He was terribly aggrieved. Sonnenby had been one of his men and he greatly admired Sonnenby’s command of the language and his insights into the native way of thinking.”
“I mean was he injured.”
“No. He was knocked to the ground, but his attaché had Sonnenby pinioned before he could get his hands on the general’s neck. He was able to break free and lunge again. I believe that is when they shot him.”
She had seen the scar that night on the train. “And the reason for his attack on the General?”
“They told me he was raving, was making no sense. Then he fell into that catatonia with which we are so familiar. He would come out if it raving and violent, then sink back into unconsciousness. Mad, indeed.”
“One does not try to kill one’s commanding officer lightly.”
“Clearly he cracked under the strain of his duties.” Marshall took another bite of the bread and did not answer until he had finished it, then he said, “If you could discover what really happened, Miss Schluss, would that change anything?”
“It would change things for Lord Sonnenby, certainly.”
“I needed you to make him presentable and coherent. I am currently impressed with his ability to function. I would say you have already done a remarkable job. You have succeeded. He has not been this lucid in over a year.” He closed his eyes. “But I wish he had been able to make Mehmet see things differently.”
Elsa knew that any appearance of health was Sonnenby’s own doing. He most likely had not as afflicted from the very beginning as his physicians supposed. He had also hinted to her that he had exaggerated his symptoms to his advantage. She could not lie to herself. “I think he decided he wanted to help you, Mr. Marshall, or he would still be in that straightjacket.”
“He has helped me,” he pointed to his neck, “but not like I had hoped. I have failed in my mission to bring the Ruwallah on board.”
“He knew your message was false. He could not lie to his brother as you wanted him to.”
“It is not a lie, fraulein. We will support the Ruwallah against their enemies in exchange for their acceptance of our use of their land for a product they do not need nor understand. They do understand gold. They do understand guns.”
“They want their own government. The Turks oppressed and abused them for almost five hundred years. But at least that master shared their religion. They will not stand for Christian masters. Do not fool yourself. No amount of gold can buy their souls.”
Marshall looked at the moon and took a drink from the skin. He finally met her eyes and said, “Every man’s soul is for sale.”
“The devil certainly thinks so,” she quipped.
Marshall took another drink. “I have sold mine. Sonnenby refuses to sell his. The trade in men’s souls is the business of war, Miss Schluss. There is profit and loss.”
She wanted to argue further, but a group of men came around the edge of the rocks toward their position. When they stopped and looked up at Elsa and Marshall on their ledge she saw that it was Sonnenby and two Bedouin. Sonnenby glanced over his shoulder at his escorts, then began to climb. The other two men made no attempt to come up but assumed the poses of men accustomed to waiting.
Sonnenby’s hand grasped a rock by her knee and when his shoulders came up, she put her hand under his arm and helped him with the last push to get on their ledge. He rested a moment, breathing hard. She offered him the water skin and he took it. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand and said, “Elsa.”
“What is happening?” Marshall moved his legs to give Sonnenby more space.
Elsa took the water skin from Sonnenby’s hands. “What?”
He had deep circles under his eyes and the dust and wind had cut deeper the wrinkles at their corners. He shook his head, waving the edges of the keffiyah he wore. “I have failed. These men are some of the Ruwallah Mehmet has rallied. They are on their way to Deir El Zor.” He lowered his eyes. “They insist I accompany them. Descartes too.”
“Oh, no,” she whispered.
Marshall asked in a low voice, “Are you a hostage?”
Sonnenby nodded without raising his head. “They say I must show I am with them and not with the English. It is a win for them either way. If I am the enemy, I am a hostage. If I am a friend, they have the advantage of tricking the English into a delayed reaction for my sake. They only lose if they let me go.” He gla
nced up at Marshall. “They ride to meet the British planes and guns at Deir El Zor. They think they can do it again and win this time because Mehmet has artillery. He has captured a German field cannon and a Vickers”
“They will not,” Marshall said.
“No.”
“Then you shouldn’t go.” Elsa knew she sounded petulant.
Both men made the same noise in their throats. Sonnenby put a hand on her arm and looked at her. “I have no choice. This is not about a debate or making a decision. I am telling you what is going to happen today. Thank God Mehmet told them you are my wife. They will leave you alone. Archie, however…” he paused and shook his head. “They want you as hostage as well, though I have explained you are injured and cannot travel. Since now they want you alive they are content to leave you here, but under guard.” He tipped his head toward the men below the rocks.
“Elsa,” he turned to her again. “I am miserable knowing I am the cause of all this for you. You were supposed to be on a train back to Vienna, not crouched on a rock in the Syrian desert.”
“I chose to be here. The responsibility is mine,” she told him, chin high. “No one tells me what to do.”
He smiled briefly. “I have noticed.” Then he sobered. “Except that if I am killed in El Zor, these men will take you and give you to Mehmet. After that it will be up to him to release you or take you deeper into the wilds.”
“And if he is killed?” She tried to sound like she was making alternate travel plans.
His face twisted now and he rubbed it with his hand so she couldn’t see his eyes. “These men will take you.”
“Take me where?” She asked.
“I have asked that they take you to Baghdad and give you to Gertrude Bell. She will help you get back to Vienna.” He put his hand down. “But that doesn’t mean they will do that. I am so sorry you are involved.”
Marshall murmured agreement, but no one spoke anymore. Sonnenby would not look at her. Elsa went wild. “I did not come all this way to end up on my back with my feet in the air in some Bedouin tent. Zum Teufel mit der Wuste! Verdammt noch mal!”
Marshall raised an eyebrow. “Indeed?”
Sonnenby squeezed her arm. “I pity the Arab who ends up with you, Schatze. God help him. ”
Elsa was in high temper now. She shook off his arm and stood up, towering over both men on the ledge and causing the two Ruwallah below to stop their conversation and look up at her in surprise.
“I will not permit it!”
There was a long pause as if they were waiting for her to say more, then Marshall said to Sonnenby, “It is best if you leave now. Good luck, old man.”
“You are in good hands, Arch. Better than I will be.”
She watched him climb down and walk away. The two guards watched him go, then looked up at the ledge. One of them called something up to them. Marshall shrugged. “I will guess he told us to stay here.”
Elsa was still so angry she couldn’t move. As the adrenaline drained away she realized she wasn’t angry. She was frightened. She sank down to the ledge again and pulled her knees up to her chest and hugged them to her. This was difficult to do in the blue damask, but defying the constriction of the dress at least made her feel like she was defying something. It was important not to feel helpless. She held that thought while she listened to the camp get ready to leave the rocks and the well for Deir El Zor.
She listened to the camels bellow and the horses neigh. She listened to the rattle and rustle of saddles and leather and the voices of men calling to one another. There was a pause, a battle cry, and then the sound of galloping hooves and the padded feet of many camels that soon faded. Then the sun rose and she and Marshall pressed themselves into the shade until it nearly disappeared at noon. She was still frightened.
Chapter Seventeen
On the third day she and Marshall climbed down from the rocks. Their guards waved their arms and said something in Arabic but Elsa ignored them. She trudged wearily toward the well, her scarf politely wrapped around her head and shoulders, the water skin over one arm. When the Bedouin saw what she was doing one of them spoke sharply and snatched the skin from her. She let him have it. He took it to the well and filled it for her. Perhaps he thought she would fall in. She watched him with tired eyes and an even more tired spirit. Marshall stood beside her, weak and dejected.
The guards did not think two days was too long to wait, but Elsa was feeling as if she would like to just start walking toward Baghdad. If she dropped, desiccated, before she arrived, so be it. An arrow in her back? A javelin through her liver? Great. She had never had so much sun on her in her life. It dried up everything. Even her resolve.
The Bedouin dropped the skin on the ground and said something. She moved to pick it up and he moved out of her way. She rolled her eyes with the last bit of disgust she could summon. “Zum Teufel,” she said under her breath.
“You have sent them all to the devil many times, Miss Schluss.” Marshall’s voice was dispirited as well. “But the bastards are still here.”
She handed him the bag. “Have some water, Mr. Marshall.”
“Danke,” he said.
She twisted her mouth into a grimace, but he couldn’t see her through the veil. “I cannot bear this one minute longer.”
“There is always the Luminal,” he said.
“For us or for them?” She considered this for the first time. “There are two of them and only one hypodermic.”
He laughed as he tied the edge of the bag with the thong. “We get the other one with something else.”
“Yes,” she mumbled. “I could wander off and that would cause one to come after me. You could stab the other with the Luminal.”
“And then? Your Arab comes back with you and finds his friend either unconscious or raving about how the jinn are coming to eat him alive.”
“Let me think about it.”
“You are crazy, Nurse Schluss.”
She nodded, agreeing with him. “I can figure this out.”
He sat down in the spear of shade of one of the boulders and set the bag of water near his leg. “No you cannot. Both of us are easy to kill. And you have no experience in battle. You have never killed a man.”
“Neither have you, Mr. Marshall.”
He blew air out through his lips in agreement. “Sit down. You are making them nervous pacing about like that.”
She sat next to him with a ripping sound that told them both the blue damask was suffering as much as they were from the climate and terrain. “We have what we need to free ourselves,” she told him. “We are both educated at University. We are literate. We know things they do not know, about things like hypodermics and barbiturates.”
“And opiates. Don’t forget the laudanum.”
“That won’t take them down.”
“Will it make them sleepy?”
She turned to look at him. He gave her a little half smile and tapped the water skin.
“What if they make us drink it instead?”
“Unlikely.”
“What if they only drink from their own water skin?”
She tapped her chin with a forefinger. “Even drowsy they are stronger and the laudanum would be too dilute.”
“Stronger, but easier to confuse. These Arabs are superstitious. And cemented in their culture. I am thinking if we drug them enough, then you can appear before them like Lady Godiva. Raise your arms above your head and give them a great mighty Wagnerian battle cry.” He tilted his head toward her and gave her a knowing look. “They will piss themselves. They will be shocked long enough for me to stab them in the back with their own daggers. They won’t even know I am there.” He gave a little chuckle. He wasn’t serious and she laughed in spite of herself.
“I can actually sing that part of act three,” she told him. “I learned it as a girl in school for a play.”
“Good, then. We have a plan.”
“No, we don’t. Don’t be silly. I am not going to stand n
aked in this sun, even for one minute. I will ruin my complexion.”
“Are you content to wait here another week? What if the battle ended in defeat? What if no one comes back? Are you willing to be a prisoner?”
Elsa sobered. “No. Not willing. But without knowing what is happening in Deir El Zor…” She turned to him, serious. “If we are successful, and kill both our guards take their camels and begin the long ride to Baghdad, what happens when the returning army finds our Arabs dead? Stabbed in the back? And us gone? We will be hunted down. We will get lost.” She pointed to wide expanse of desert and steppe. “Do you have a compass? Do you know where Baghdad is?”
“I begin to feel that death at the hand of God is better than death at the hand of a Bedouin.” He touched the bandage on his neck.
“You may be ransomed. I will not,” she reminded him. “I am worth more sold to God knows where, or to whom.”
“Listen to us, choosing our manner of death.” He unwrapped the water skin and took another drink.
She shrugged. “It is the best we can hope for.”
“No it is not. We can hope that Sonnenby returns with camels.”
Elsa wagged her head. “True. If the Arabs win, Lord Sonnenby returns with camels. If the English win, Lord Sonnenby returns with camels.” Then she turned to Marshall. “But if he dies, we die. Tell me the odds.”
Marshall spread his hands. “Two years ago the Arabs attacked El Zor, burning the barracks, tearing down the store room, stealing rifles and blowing up what they could. They captured a barge and sunk it in the Euphrates. They did all this before the English came in with air support, strafing them and dropping bombs. Then the machine guns arrived. The Bedouin remember this, they know what waits for them. I would put odds in favor of us. But even so, Sonnenby may be struck down. Any man could be. Now we must figure the odds for the dead on either side. Since he is on both sides, odds are double against him.”
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