City of Gold

by Len Deighton

  ‘Damn!’ she said. ‘Sayed will surely see us now.’

  But there was no sign that the occupants of the Bedford had noticed anything unusual. Because Alice was going too slowly, the traffic cop became impatient. He directed her back into the line of parked vehicles while three oncoming trucks came through. Alice sighed. From being anxious about being too close to Sayed’s truck she now fretted that she would lose him. Only when the oncoming traffic had passed was Alice able to pull out and continue driving.

  Up ahead the cause of the holdup could be seen. There was another army convoy coming up the other way. Its trucks were drawn up and facing them. Alongside their vehicles, dozens of men were sitting by the roadside brewing tea over sand-filled cans aflame with petrol.

  It was a relief to get clear of the convoy and put her foot down on the open road. Sayed perhaps felt the same way. By the time she got clear of the traffic holdup, there was no sign of the Bedford on the road ahead. The only traffic in sight was a file of camels labouring under blocks of limestone and goaded by a dozen small boys with sticks.

  ‘Could he have turned off?’ said Peggy.

  ‘I don’t think so. These rough little side tracks don’t go anywhere; they lead just to single villages and wells.’

  ‘There they are!’ said Peggy seeing the Bedford far ahead. The driver was slowing to find an intersection.

  ‘And they are turning off the road! They’ll see us if we follow them, Peggy. What shall I do now?’

  An irrigation ditch, marked by tall reeds followed the road. On the other side was a footpath, some dusty vegetation and every now and then a few trees. They could see the Bedford as it bumped along a narrow side track that followed another irrigation ditch. It was heading towards a cluster of trees and mud huts. Beyond that the land sloped away gently, and then there were distant hillocks.

  The sort of visibility the landscape provided would make it impossible to follow the Bedford without the Tilly being spotted. ‘What shall I do?’ asked Alice again as they got closer to the intersection. When Peggy didn’t reply, Alice said, ‘I’ll park at the turnoff, where the trees are. You stay in the car, Peggy. I’ll go up the track on foot and see what’s up there.’

  ‘You can’t go alone.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, of course I can.’ Alice slowed. The path Sayed had taken was just an unmarked camel track: loose gravel strewn with rocks. Alice drove past the turnoff to get to a nearby group of stunted palm trees. She found a shady patch of sand in which to park.

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ said Peggy bravely. She didn’t fancy intruding into an Arab village, and Alice could hear that in her voice.

  ‘Better you stay with the Tilly,’ said Alice. ‘You know how Arabs always appear out of nowhere. They’ll have the wheels off it and strip it clean in five minutes, if we leave it unattended.’

  ‘I suppose you are right, but do be careful. Do you have a gun?’

  ‘A gun?’ Alice laughed. ‘What would I be doing with a gun?’

  ‘What would you be doing following Sayed in a British army vehicle you’ve borrowed?’ said Peggy.

  Alice looked at Peggy. She wondered how much Peggy guessed, but this wasn’t the time to ask her. Alice smiled and looked again along the track that Sayed had taken. There was some sort of village there. She couldn’t see the Bedford.

  Alice got out. Here, where she’d parked, had once been some sort of roadside army structure. There was a sign in Arabic and some metal drums. A splintered wooden stub embedded in a concrete-filled drum was all that was left of some military signpost.

  ‘If anyone wants to know what you’re doing here, tell them we’ve broken down. Tell them we’re waiting for a mechanic to fix it.’

  ‘Don’t be long, Alice. I don’t like being here on my own.’

  ‘No one’s going to harm you, Peggy. There is a big spanner under the seat. If anyone pokes their head inside, you can bounce it off their skull.’

  Peggy smiled grimly. She hadn’t counted on the drive into the desert becoming this sort of escapade. Work in the operating theatres had become nonstop over the last week or so. She needed a rest, not an adventure. ‘I’ll be all right,’ she said.

  ‘Of course you will.’ From her large leather bag Alice brought out an army forage cap. She positioned it carefully on her head and fixed it with bobby pins. She took a quick look at herself in the car mirror and then turned and smiled at Peggy. ‘It’s a good thing I brought my flat-heel shoes. Won’t be long.’

  ‘Take care, Alice.’ Peggy could not see that wearing an army hat would be any sort of protection, but Alice clearly thought it would be. Peggy smiled back at her and then looked round anxiously. In that miraculous way in which people seemingly appear out of nowhere, a handful of Arabs were now squatting at the place where the irrigation ditch entered a culvert. The men were looking at the utility van and at the two women. Their faces wore that blank expression that Arabs so often adopted in the presence of their occupying armies.

  Alice slammed the car door and didn’t look at the men. She put the strap of her bag over her shoulder and walked past them with a purposeful stride, following the rough rocky path towards the village where the Bedford had disappeared. She kicked the earth, making as much noise as possible as she walked. The banks of such irrigation canals usually abound with snakes, and her low-cut walking shoes would provide her with little protection against bites. She halted for a moment to catch her breath; there was still a long way to go. There was a rustle in the weeds but she persuaded herself it could not be a snake: a frog or a toad, perhaps. She kept walking.

  The cluster of mud huts proved farther away from the road than she had estimated, and the sun was high by now. She looked back, but the utility van was hidden from view behind the scrubby trees. There was no traffic on the main road; the convoys had stopped as they always did about midday. She wiped her sweaty face with her handkerchief. From the fields on each side of her wafted the acrid smell of dung. Clouds of flies buzzed round her with an amazing persistence. As she waved her hand to discourage them she felt them strike against her palm. She looked around. Here and there she could now see a few people. They were bent low, attending some sort of stunted crop, its dusty brown leaves making it almost indistinguishable from the sandy earth in which it grew.

  She started plodding forward again, slower this time, and was breathless with exertion by the time she reached the mud huts. Her mouth was dry and her heart was beating fast. Her shirt was damp with perspiration. When she got to the village she went down a narrow street to find the square that was the centre of most such places. At the corner, before stepping out into the sunlight, she paused to look round. The huts were built around an open space. Men were loading heavy sacks on to a bullock cart. Other men squatted nearby, watching them. Two black-garbed women were crouched on the ground sorting through a pile of beans. Alice saw no sign of the Bedford truck.

  She began to wish she’d let Peggy come with her and risked what happened to the van. The people had seen her, but they did not look at her directly. They studied her with furtive and unfriendly glances. Summoning up her courage, she walked across the central space. The sun was hot, and hotter still as it rebounded from the dusty ground. She greeted the men loading the cart. ‘Assalamu aleikum!’ Peace be upon you.

  The men pretended not to hear her. They continued carrying their sacks from one of the huts and did not look in her direction. It was as if she did not exist.

  She walked away from them and followed the high mud-coloured wall that ran along the edge of the row of huts. Where the wall ended there were some palms, some animals and a group of women with buckets of water. Here was the well, the true centre of the village and the reason for its very existence. Here too there was the mastabah, the low seat where the village elders met.

  Unless the big Bedford truck had disappeared completely, it had to be behind the high wall. Alice walked to the well, to see how far the high wall stretched. The women stopped chattering as she
got closer to them. She turned the corner and saw that the wall continued for a hundred yards or more.

  She was not surprised, she’d lived in this part of the world long enough to know that such large properties were often hidden in dirty little villages. Set into this side of the walled enclosure were large wooden doors guarded by two somnolent Arabs, who scrambled to their feet as they caught sight of her. Alice stopped.

  ‘Please keep walking, madam,’ said a voice from behind her.

  She whipped around and found a pale-skinned man with a square-ended moustache and dark frizzed hair greying at the temples. He was dressed in western style; in fact, dressed in the same sort of anonymous combination of khaki shirt and pants that she herself wore. She recognised him as the man who’d been driving Sayed’s truck.

  He smiled. ‘You are looking for my master?’ The gesture he made was welcoming, but there was a coldness in his manner and tone. He indicated the doors with his outstretched arm. ‘Please be welcome.’

  With much clatter, the guards opened up the tall wooden doors to reveal an extensive yard. Dominating it was a grand house with shuttered windows and imposing entrance. The yard was not bare. Everywhere enormous decorated pots overflowed with roses and carnations. Six tall palms sliced across the façade of the house, and in the yard’s centre there was an ancient well decorated with brightly patterned tiles. There were vehicles there too: not only the Bedford but also a Lancia saloon and a big Canadian Buick.

  ‘Do not be afraid,’ said the khaki-clad man. ‘My master is expecting you.’

  ‘Is he?’

  Suddenly two figures appeared at the entrance to the house as if ready to welcome her. She went up the steps. One of the welcomers was some sort of majordomo. He bowed. ‘Allah yaateeki el-sihha. Meet ahlan wa sahlan.’ May Allah grant you good health. Welcome a hundred times.

  ‘Moutta shakkera. Allah yebarek feek,’ said Alice uncertainly. Thank you. May Allah bless you.

  In the shadows, Sayed el-Shazli watched the exchange with pleasure. As she pronounced her careful Arabic, he smiled, as a music teacher might smile at a favoured pupil playing the piano. ‘Miss Stanhope,’ he said stepping into the light and bowing formally to her. ‘Welcome.’

  It was gloomy inside the large ante-room. Rays of sunlight picked out patterns on the richly coloured carpets that covered the floor. Waiting patiently inside, she saw a short, thickset, bearded man. He was wearing a white western-style suit and red tarboosh. His nose was large and he wore gold-rimmed spectacles. Upon his hands glinted gold rings with large shiny gems, and round his neck there hung a heavy gold chain.

  Alice was trying to decide how to account for being here, but Sayed did not accuse her of following him. She was a guest and the Arab culture does not permit criticism of a guest. Perhaps that would come later.

  ‘Ahmed Pasha, our host, invites you to drink tea,’ said Sayed.

  The old man named Ahmed readily accepted the title of Pasha, which signifies a man of wealth and social status. He waved a hand languidly to indicate a bench carved with leaves and roses. The bench was almost hidden under richly embroidered cushions inset with pieces of shiny metal that reflected the light from the door.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. To refuse food is an insult in this part of the world. She was grateful at this formality, grateful for any chance to defer her explanations.

  She sat down with them. Through the opening in the curtained doorway she could see sunlight biting hard into the dusty brown yard, the bedraggled palms, and the sleekly polished cars. Overhead a piece of fabric, its rope tugged by some unseen hand, swung steadily backwards and forwards but produced little movement of air. A black servant entered silently. He put down a brass tray set with tiny cups. The bearded man reached out, opened the pot’s lid, and stirred the tea. There arose a steamy mist that filled the air with the smell of mint.

  She took the tea and sipped it slowly. Her throat was parched and the sweet aromatic tea soothed her and refreshed her. She smiled her thanks. ‘You wonder why I am here,’ she offered.

  ‘You are here because Allah guided your steps,’ said Sayed. ‘Everything is predestined; it is our belief. Allah led you here. Allah, master of the world, I place my fate in your hands. We are creatures of your will.’

  Their host nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘This is the village where my father, and his father too, was born,’ said Sayed. ‘I come here to consult Ahmed Pasha whenever I need guidance.’

  Alice nodded.

  ‘You may remain,’ Ahmed told her. Sayed bowed to indicate his happy compliance with this decision. ‘Let us begin.’

  Ahmed clapped his hands and servants appeared. One had a brass pot that he placed at the old man’s feet. Another servant brought a mangal, a pan of burning charcoal. He placed it on a wrought-iron stand in front of his master. Alongside it he placed a tray arrayed with a selection of spices, leaves, pods and small pieces of wood. Some children came in carrying small drums. They settled down in a far corner and played soft complicated rhythms.

  Without hurry, Ahmed fed the fire so that sudden puffs of sweet-smelling smoke arose. He used a plaited leaf to fan the fire so that flames lit up the gloomy interior of the room. Bending low, as if about to blow upon the embers, he murmured some sort of incantation.

  Alice glanced at Sayed and thought she saw on his face a look of extreme anxiety. And yet he seemed totally oblivious to her presence. Now she knew for sure that the old man was a wizard, and that she was being allowed to see Sayed consult his magic powers. Hearing the soft reedy notes of a flute, she looked around for a flute player but there wasn’t one in sight.

  The three of them sat for uncounted minutes while the fire burned so that perfumed smoke filled the room. The scorching heat of the day and the smoke that parched her throat made her suddenly feel faint. The old man turned to her and said something in rapid Arabic. She could not understand him. She looked at Sayed; the room wobbled.

  ‘Give him your hand,’ said Sayed solemnly.

  She extended her hand and the old man held her fingertips and looked at her palm. Then in a movement that she could not follow, he dabbed the fingers of his other hand into the brass pot and then tapped her palm very gently. She looked down to see that he was making marks on her hand with reddish-brown pigment from the pot.

  ‘It is written,’ said the old man.

  The music seemed louder and more insistent. She closed her eyes. Waves of nausea swept over her so strongly that she felt she was going to vomit. Only with difficulty did she retain her balance and try to remain outwardly calm.

  When she half-opened her eyes, the rings on the old man’s fingers flashed in the light. He touched her hand again. Then he bent low to look more closely at the marks on her palm, reading, muttering and murmuring his findings.

  ‘The moon will bring a propitious day for your hopes and aspirations,’ said the old man solemnly. ‘You will follow the stars westward and find the outcome you desire.’

  ‘Where?’ said Sayed his strangled voice revealing his concern. ‘Where?’

  ‘The moon,’ said the old man.

  For a moment Alice had believed she was feeling better, but the faintness and nausea returned so that she felt she must rest her head. She tried to draw her hand back from the grip of the old man, but he would not release it. ‘I must …’ Her throat was parched. She turned to get more tea from the big brass tray, but as she reached for it she began to lose her balance. The room went out of focus. As if in slow motion she toppled until, unable to save herself, she crashed upon the tray, sending the dishes and cups and pot flying in all directions. The tea was no longer hot enough to scald her. It was tepid and sweet, and she smelled the sickly perfume of mint as warm tea splashed upon her outstretched arms and her face. All she could think of was her embarrassment. She wanted to apologise for making such a mess over the lovely carpet. She was still trying to think of some way of telling them how ashamed she was as the room grew smaller and dim. She realised th
at she was losing consciousness, and she was determined to resist it. The music had not faltered: it continued its curious dissonant patterns. She tried to shout but no sound came. Slowly, she sank down into darkness.

  She recovered consciousness with a jolt. Peggy West was holding a bottle of smelling salts under her nose. It was a powerful acrid smell, and Alice pushed it away.

  She was sitting in the passenger seat of the utility van. For a moment she thought the whole thing had been a dream. Then she saw that the van was now parked near the well in the courtyard of the big house. The shiny Buick and Sayed’s Bedford army truck were there too. So was the Lancia.

  As she adjusted her eyes to the glaring light she saw Sayed and the old man, Ahmed. They were standing by the well. A British military policeman was talking with them. Was he, she wondered, arresting the two Egyptians? Had Peggy West arrived just in time? Even as she was trying to figure out the answers, the MP stepped back and gave Sayed a smart salute.

  ‘I had to come here,’ Peggy said apologetically.

  ‘I don’t know what happened to me,’ said Alice.

  ‘You walked in the sun. It’s never wise to do that at midday, even in winter.’

  ‘You brought the policeman?’ Alice was bewildered.

  ‘He nearly arrested me,’ said Peggy. ‘I had no papers for the van. He simply wouldn’t believe that you had walked up here to the village in the heat of midday. Why didn’t she drive? he asked. What could I say?’

  The MP gave the two women a perfunctory wave and then got on to his motorcycle. He sat astraddle it for a moment, adjusting the chin strap of his helmet. Then he pulled his goggles down over his eyes and kick-started his bike.

  The big wooden doors in the high surrounding wall opened as if by magic, and the motorcyclist accelerated, swung round in a tight circle, and disappeared in a cloud of dust.

  The Arab sentinels at the gate watched the motorcyclist with great interest. When he’d gone they chattered excitedly.