Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “Mabel, you’re Lawrence. Keep silent, be shy, avoid encounters — act like a man who’s not supposed to be here, but who came to help Faisal contrary to express commands laid on him by the Foreign Office. Get that? Lawrence is a shy man, anyway — hates publicity, rank, anything that calls attention to himself. The more shy you are, the easier you’ll get away with it. Faisal must help pretend you’re Lawrence. The presence of Lawrence would add to his prestige incalculably, and I think he’ll see that, but if not, never mind, we’ll manage. Any questions? Quick!”

  You can’t ask questions when you’re given that sort of opportunity. The right ones don’t occur to you and the others seem absurd. Grim knew that, of course, but when you’re dealing with a woman there’s just one chance in a hundred that she may think of something vital that hasn’t occurred to anybody else. Most women aren’t practical; but it’s the impractical things that happen.

  “Suppose we’re captured by the French?” she suggested. “That’s what’s going to happen,” he answered. “When they’ve got you, then you’re Mrs. Mabel Ticknor, who never saw Lawrence and wouldn’t recognize him if you did.”

  “They’ll ask why I’m wearing man’s clothes, and masquerading as an Arab.”

  “Well, you’re a woman, aren’t you? You answer with another question — ask them just how safe a woman would be! They may claim that their Algerians are baby-lambs, but they can’t blame you for not believing it! Anything else?”

  She shook her head, and he turned on Hadad.

  “Hadad, lose no opportunity of whispering that Lawrence is with Faisal. Add that Lawrence doesn’t want his presence known. Hunt out two or three loyal Arabs on the staff and tell them the plan is to kidnap Faisal and carry him to safety across the border; but don’t do it too soon; wait until the debacle begins, and then persuade a few of them — old Ali, for instance, and Osman — choose the old guard — you and they bolt with him to Haifa. The Syrians have been thoroughly undermined by propaganda; gas will do the rest, and as soon as the Arabs see the Syrians run they’ll listen to reason. They know you, and know you’re on the level. Do you understand? Will you do that?”

  “I will try. I see many a chance of spilling before this cup comes to the drinking, Jimgrim!”

  “Then carry it carefully!” Grim answered. “Ramsden, take that car you came in. Find that banker. He’s the boy who has bought Faisal’s staff, or I’m much mistaken. Bring him here.” “Suppose he won’t come?”

  “Bring him. Take Jeremy with you. Try diplomacy first. Tell him that a plot to kidnap Faisal has been discovered at the last minute, but give him to understand that no suspicion rests on him. Get him, if you can, to send a message to the French General Staff, warning them to watch for Faisal and two civilians and Lawrence in an auto. After that bring him if you have to put him in a sack.”

  “What’s his name, and where does he live?”

  “Adolphe René. Everybody knows his house. Jeremy, look as unlike Faisal as you can until the time comes, but study the part and be ready to jump into his clothes. Narayan Singh, stay with me. You and I will do the dirty work. Get busy, Ramsden.”

  Circumstances work clock-fashion, wheel fitting into wheel, when those tides that Shakespeare spoke of are at flood. Disregarding all the theory and argument about human will as opposed to cosmic law I say this, without any care at all who contradicts me:

  That whoever is near the hub of happenings is the agent of Universal Law, and can no more help himself than can the watch that tells the hour. The men who believe that they make history should really make a thoughtful fellow laugh. “The moving finger writes, and having writ moves on;” the old tentmaker Omar knew the truth of it. You could almost hear the balance-wheel of Progress click as the door opened before Grim had finished speaking, and a staff officer appeared to invite him to be present at Faisal’s conference.

  Grim asked at once for the auto for me (I couldn’t have had it otherwise), and a moment later Jeremy and I were scooting into darkness through narrow streets and driving rain, with the hubs of the wheels awash in places and “shipping it green” over the floor when we dipped and pitched over a cross- street gutter. The Arab driver knew the way, from which I take it he had a compass in his head as well as a charm against accidents and a spirit of recklessness that put faith in worn-out springs. There wasn’t room for more than one set of wheels at a time in most of the streets we tore through, but a camel tried to share one fairway with us and had the worst of it; he cannoned off into an alley hind end first, and we could hear him bellowing with rage a block away.

  And our manner of stopping was like our progress, prompt. The brake-bands went on with a shriek and Jeremy and I pitched forward as the car brought up against the kerb in front of an enormous door, whose brass knocker shone like gold in the rays of our headlights. We told the Arab to wait for us and stepped knee-deep into a pool invisible, stumbled and nearly fell over a great stone set to bridge the flood between street and door, then proceeded to use the knocker importunately, thunderously, angrily, as men with wet feet and bruised toes likely will, whatever the custom of the country.

  We went on knocking, taking turns, until the door opened at last and the banker’s servant peered at us with a candle in his hand, demanding to know in the name of the thousand and one devils whom Solomon boiled in oil what impudent scavengers were making all that noise. But the banker himself was in the background, thinking perhaps that the French had come already, on the lookout over the servant’s shoulder for a glimpse of a kepi. So we put our shoulders to the door, thrust by the servant, and walked in.

  “Take care! I have a pistol in my hand!” said the banker’s voice.

  “Three shots for a shilling at me then!” retorted Jeremy.

  “Who are you?”

  “Tell that shivering fool to bring the candle, and you’ll see!”

  “Oh, you, is it! I told you to come in the morning. I can’t see you now.”

  “Can’t see me, eh? Come in here and peel your eyes, cocky! Sit down and look at us. There, take a pew. Wonder where I learned such good English? Well, I used to shine the toenails of the Prince o’ Wales, and you have to pass a Civil Service examination before they give you that good job. I talk any language except French and Jewish, but this master of mine turns out to be a Jew who talks French, and not a prizefighter after all.

  “What did I tell you this evening? Said he was a spy for the French, didn’t I? I tell you, I’m a dependable man. What I say you can bet on till you’ve lost all your money. Here he is, spying to beat the promised-landers — just had tea with Faisal and learned all the inside facts — offered me a pound to come and find you, but I charged him two and got the money in advance.

  “You ought to pay me a commission, too, and then I’ll get married if there’s an honest woman left in Damascus. If either of you want my advice, you won’t believe a word the other says, but I expect you’re both too willful to be guided. Anyhow, you’ll have to talk in front of me, because my master is afraid of being murdered; he isn’t afraid of ghosts or bad smells, but the sight of a long knife turns his heart to water and sets him to praying so loud that you can’t get a word in edgewise. Go on, both of you — yalla! Talk!”

  Does it begin to be obvious why kings used to employ court jesters? The modern cabinets should have them — men like Jeremy (though they’d be hard to find) to break the crust of situations. Suspicion weakens in the presence of incongruity.

  “This fellow seems less than half-witted,” I said, “but he’s shrewd, and I’ve found him useful. Unfortunately he has picked up a lot of information, so we’ll have to keep an eye on him. My business is to communicate with the French General Staff and I’m told you know how to manage it.”

  “Huh-huh? Who told you that?”

  “Those who gave me my instructions. If you don’t know who they are without my telling you, you’re the wrong man and I’ll not waste time with you.”

  “Let us suppose that I know then.
Proceed.”

  “Your name was given to me as that of a man who can be trusted to take necessary action in the interests of ... er ... you understand?”

  “Uh-huh!”

  “The plot for Faisal to be kidnapped by some Syrian members of his staff has been discovered at the last minute,” I said, looking hard at him; and he winced palpably.

  “Mon Dieu! You mean—”

  “That it is not too late to save the situation. You have not been accused of connection with it. I came here in pursuance of a different plan to kidnap him — a sort of reserve plan, to be employed in case other means should fail. All arrangements are in working order except the one item of communicating with the French General Staff. I require you to accompany me for that purpose, and to send off to them immediately a message at my dictation.”

  “Tschaa! Suppose you show me your authority?”

  “Certainly!” I answered.

  Realizing that he wasn’t in immediate danger of life he had returned his own pistol to his pocket. So I showed him the muzzle of mine, and he divined without a sermon on the subject that it would go off and shoot accurately unless he showed discretion. He didn’t offer to move when Jeremy’s agile fingers found his pocket and flicked out the mother-of-pearl-handled, rim-fire thing with which he had previously kept his courage warm.

  “I was told not to trust you too far,” I explained. “I was warned in advance that you might question my credentials. You are said to be jealous of interference. As a precaution against miscarriage of this plan through jealousy on your part, I was ordered to oblige you to obey me.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Your widow will then be the individual most concerned. Be good enough to take pen and paper, and write a letter to my dictation.”

  Jeremy went to the door, which was partly open, made sure that the servant was out of earshot, and slammed it tight. René the banker went to his escritoire, took paper, and shook his fountain pen.

  “How shall I commence the letter?” he asked me with a dry, sly smile.

  He thought he had me there. There are doubtless proper forms of address that serve to establish the genuineness of letters written by a spy.

  “Commence half-way down the page,” I answered. “We’ll insert the address afterwards. Write in French:”

  “I shall accompany the Emir Faisal and Colonel Lawrence to the front tonight, former plan having miscarried. When Syrian retreat begins look out for automobile containing Faisal and Lawrence, which may be recognized easily as it will also contain myself and another civilian in plain clothes. At the psychological moment a white flag will be shown from it, waved perhaps surreptitiously by one of the civilians. In the event of breakdown of the automobile a horsed vehicle will be used and the same signal will apply. For the sake of myself and the other civilian, please instruct all officers to keep a sharp lookout and protect the party from being fired on.”

  “There,” I said, “sign that and address it.”

  He hesitated. He couldn’t doubt that his own arrangements with traitors on the staff to kidnap Faisal had gone amiss, else how should I be aware of them at all — I, who had only arrived that evening in Damascus? But it puzzled him to know why I should make him write the letter, or, since his plan must have failed, why I should let him share in the kidnapping. He smelt the obvious rat. Why didn’t I sign the letter myself, and get all the credit afterward, as any other spy would do?

  “You sign it,” he said, pushing the letter toward me; and I got one of those sudden inspirations that there is no explaining — the right idea for handling fox René the banker.

  “So you’re afraid to sign that, are you? All right; give it here, I’ll sign it; pass me your pen. But you’ll come along with me tonight, my lad, and make your explanations to the French in the morning!”

  Looking back, I can see how the accusation worked, although it was an arrow shot at a venture. His greasy, sly, fox face with its touch of bold impudence betrayed him for a man who would habitually hedge his bets. Faisal’s safe-conduct had protected him from official interference, but it had needed more than that to preserve him from unofficial murder, and beyond a doubt he had betrayed the French in minor ways whenever that course looked profitable. Now in a crisis he had small choice but to establish himself as loyal to the stronger side. He hurriedly wrote a number at the bottom of the letter, and another followed by three capitals and three more figures at the top.

  “Seal it up and send it — quick!” I ordered him.

  He obeyed and Jeremy called the servant.

  “Summon François,” said the banker, and the servant disappeared again.

  François must remain a mystery. He was insoluble. Dressed in a pair of baggy Turkish pants, with a red sash round his middle, knotted loosely over a woolen jersey that had wide horizontal black and yellow strips, with a grey woolen shawl over the lot, and a new tarbush a size or two too small for him perched at an angle on his head, he stood shifting from one bare foot to the other and moved a toothless gap in his lower face in what was presumably a smile.

  He had no nose that you could recognize, although there were two blow- holes in place of nostrils with a hideous long scar above them. One ear was missing. He had no eyebrows. But the remaining ear was pointed at the top like a satyr’s, and his little beady eyes were as black as a bird’s and inhumanly bright.

  The banker spoke to him in the voice you would use to a rather spoilt child when obedience was all-important, using Arabic with a few French words thrown in.

  “Ah, here is François. Good François! François, mon brave, here is a letter, eh? You know where to take it — eh? Ha-ha! François knows, doesn’t he! François doesn’t talk; he tells nobody; he’s wise, is François! He runs, eh? He runs through the rain and the night; and he hides so that nobody can see him; and he delivers the letter; and somebody gives François money and tobacco and a little rum; and François comes running back to the nice little, dark little hole where he sleeps. Plenty to eat, eh, François? Nice soft food that needs no chewing! Nothing to do but run with a letter now and then, eh? A brave fellow is François — a clever fellow — a trustworthy fellow — a dependable, willing fellow, always ready to please! Ready to go?

  “Well, there’s the letter; be careful with it, and run-run-run like a good boy! A whole bottle of rum when you come back — think of it! A whole bottle of nice brown rum to yourself in that nice little room where your bed is! There, goodbye!”

  The creature addressed as François vanished, with a snort and a sort of squeal that may have been meant for speech. “That is the best messenger in Syria,” said René. “He is priceless — incorruptible, silent, and as sure as Destiny! The French General Staff will have that letter before dawn. Now — what next?”

  “You come with me,” I answered.

  He felt better now that the message was on its way; second thought convinced him of my connection with the French. There is no more profitless delusion than to suppose that a country’s secret agents are always its own nationals. They are almost always not.

  If the French used only Frenchmen, Germany used none but Germans, Great Britain only Englishmen, and so on, it might be prettier and easier for the police, but intelligence departments would starve. So there was nothing about an obvious American doing spy-work for the French that should stick in his craw; and that being so, the more cheerfully he aided me the better it would likely be for him.

  So he called for the servant again, and proved himself a good campaigner by superintending the packing of a big basket with provisions — bread and butter, cold chicken, wine, olives, and hot coffee in a thermos bottle.

  “The French will be in Damascus by noon tomorrow,” he said. “Ha-ha! Those French and their hungry Algerians! We do well to take a good provision with us — enough for two days at least. We shall enter with them, I suppose, or at least behind them, and of course my house here will receive consideration; but — ha-ha! — how many chickens do you believe will be pur
chasable in Damascus one hour after the first Algerians get here? Eh? Put in another chicken, Hassan, mon brave. Eh bien, oui — pack the basket full; put in more of everything!”

  At last he got into an overcoat lined with fox-pelt, for the night air was chilly and an overcoat is less trouble than blankets if you expect to spend a night on the move. We hove the huge basket into the waiting auto, slammed the front door of the house behind us, piled into the back seat and were off.

  “I shall be glad when this business is over,” said René, with a sigh of satisfaction. “I am a banker by profession. For me the ebb and flow of trade, with its certainties and its discretions. But what would you? Trade must be prepared for; doors that will not open must be forced; those who stand in the way must be thrust aside. This Faisal is an impossible fellow. He is a hypocrite, I tell you — one of those praters about righteousness who won’t understand that the church and the mosque are the places for that sort of thing. Eh? You follow me? But tell me, what has been done to Daulch, Hattin and Aubek? Were they backed against a wall and shot? Who betrayed them? Too bad that such a plan should fail, for it was perfect.”

  “Far from perfect,” I answered; for that one piece of strategy I have by heart — the way to make a man tell all he knows is to pretend to superior knowledge.

  “Heh? How could you improve on it? Three members of the staff to order sauve-qui-peut unexpectedly, seize Faisal, and deliver him dead or alive? What is better than that? But what has been done to the three?”

  “Nothing,” I answered.

  “Just like him! just like him! I tell you, that man Faisal would rather be a martyr than succeed at his proper business.” We reached the palace just as Faisal was leaving it. Several members of his staff were hard on his heels in the porch and our party was behind them again, with Mabel last of all. There was a line of waiting autos nearly long enough to fill the drive, but an utter absence of military fuss, and no shouting or hurry. It looked in the dark more like a funeral than the departure of a king to join his army at the front.