City of Gold

by Len Deighton

  ‘And there was no hint of this from your Egyptian army informant?’ persisted Marker.

  ‘No, it’s something of a mystery.’

  ‘How did the brigadier take it?’ said Marker.

  ‘He was very decent. He admitted that the stakeout was all his idea, so for the time being there’s no heat on us. But Spaulding has persuaded him to keep that MP detachment out there.’

  Ponsonby closed the filing cabinet drawer and said, ‘Don’t you worry, sir. Someone will turn up all right. Guns have a fatal fascination for some quirky people, I’ve noticed that.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Marker. ‘They call those quirky people soldiers.’

  ‘That’s a very good joke, sir,’ said Ponsonby solemnly. ‘Now what about a nice hot cup of tea?’

  ‘I hate your bloody tea, Sergeant Ponsonby. You put all that filthy condensed milk in it.’

  ‘Sergeant major’s tea, that is, sir. The British army was weaned on tea like that. The brigadier always asks for one of my specials when he comes here.’

  ‘But he doesn’t drink it,’ said Marker. ‘Have you ever noticed that? He leaves it on my desk, and I throw it down the sink.’

  ‘The major keeps him too busy chatting, sir.’

  ‘But I’ll have one just the same.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ve got it all ready for you. And for you too, major.’

  Ross looked at Marker. Marker sighed. No one ever got the best of Sergeant Ponsonby.

  19

  ‘It will soon be time to move on,’ Solomon told his partner, Yigal. He had chosen to impart this news as a casual aside, while driving across Cairo for an evening meeting wih old Mahmoud.

  ‘Why?’ said Yigal. He wondered whether the decision had come out of restlessness, necessity, or as orders from Tel Aviv.

  ‘The reason does not concern you.’

  Solomon had become a different man over the six months that Yigal Arad had been with him in Cairo. Despite all his energy and inventiveness, despite the stories he liked to invent and embroider about his father and the big house in Cairo, Solomon’s moods of ever-deepening despair were becoming more and more evident.

  Despite Solomon’s obsessive secretiveness, Yigal was coming to know him very well. It was impossible to live in such close proximity, and share the secret work they did, without learning a great deal about each other. He knew Solomon’s moods, and sudden unexpected enthusiasms. He had even learned to recognise the terrible fits of anger that Solomon could hide from most other people. Today Solomon’s wrath was evident in the way he was driving the car. Sometimes he could be a careful driver, who double-declutched and treated the gears with care bordering on reverence. This evening he was spiteful and careless with the car. Spiteful and careless, too, in the way he treated the pedestrians, hooting and driving straight at them to make them run.

  Something had deeply upset Solomon today. Yigal did not know exactly what, but a messenger had arrived in the early afternoon. It was a young Arab speaking with the harsh accent of the Hatay, a small coastal region of Syria. Yigal guessed it was a message from Tel Aviv. It was a spoken message, and that was further confirmation, for the men in Tel Aviv did not commit important commands to writing. Crossing the border, and the roadside checks that the British military police inflicted on all road users, made carrying any sort of contraband too risky.

  But Yigal had no evidence to support the idea that a move was anything but Solomon’s whim. Among his closer friends and acquaintances, Solomon was famous for his intuition. Yigal wondered if this was another example of that nervous art.

  ‘The houseboats have become too damned conspicuous,’ Solomon said. ‘Drunken parties and black-market people. There are always cops hanging around. We’ll hold on to that boat for the time being – at least until the end of the month – but we must have somewhere else … just in case.’

  ‘Somewhere in the city?’ said Yigal.

  He knew that Solomon’s highly regarded intuition was often based upon intelligence that he had picked up in his normal course of duties. It was Yigal who did so much of the legwork, moving across the city to pick up the reports and pay the men who kept Solomon and, through him, Tel Aviv well informed about what Cairo was thinking and doing. But Yigal did not get to read the reports. Yigal was number two. Solomon had got to his present position by keeping his subordinates in their place. And he’d stayed alive so long by confiding only as much as he thought he must. But Yigal had noted the words: just in case.

  ‘In case of what?’

  ‘Rent somewhere,’ said Solomon. ‘You know the sort of place we need. Two or three rooms over a shop. Exit back and front. Doors not too easy to kick down. You know.’

  ‘What are you expecting?’

  ‘I don’t know. Nothing.’

  ‘It’s that bastard Wallingford, isn’t it? He knows too much about us.’

  ‘He’s a deserter. He won’t spill anything,’ said Solomon. ‘He won’t help the English.’

  ‘He is English. Rich English. I know them. Deserter or not, if he has to choose which way to jump he will jump the way his school friends jump.’

  ‘I’ve done business with him before,’ said Solomon. He wanted to allay Yigal’s fears. Yigal detested Wallingford. Yigal had the utopian dream that the Jewish homeland could be built without dealing with any kind of crooks, deserters or anti-Semites.

  ‘I know you have.’

  ‘You’ve got to bend with the wind, Yigal. Rommel is preparing his big offensive. He’ll probably start before the hot weather comes. This time he will get all the way to Cairo.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘What is there to stop him? You get around more than I do. You’ve been out into the desert. The soldiers are demoralised, the officers are unreliable and the British equipment is not good enough to stop the Germans. You said that. I’m not making it up; you said it.’

  ‘You seriously think the Germans could do it?’

  ‘Take Cairo? Sure.’

  ‘And British power collapse right through the Middle East?’

  ‘Right.’

  Yigal thought about the consequences. ‘They’d lose their oil. They lose their routes to India, Burma, Singapore and Australia. They’d lose their naval presence in the Mediterranean. If the Germans followed it up with an invasion of England, it would mean the end of the war.’

  ‘Now you’re getting the idea,’ said Solomon.

  ‘I haven’t seen you as low as this before, Solly. Where would our people go? How would they survive?’

  ‘Don’t ask me, Yigal.’

  ‘Does Tel Aviv think Rommel will take Cairo?’

  ‘What do they know? They rely on my reports to them.’

  Yigal said nothing. Tel Aviv had a thousand other sources of intelligence, but Yigal had no wish to be needlessly provocative.

  To break the silence, Solomon conceded a fraction. ‘I’m not in the business of making prophecies; in battle there is always an element of luck. But the British will need a hell of a lot of luck to beat Rommel once he starts moving.’

  ‘And that’s when we leave?’

  Solomon scowled. ‘No, my friend, Yigal, that’s when our work really begins. I am setting up a line of contact with Tel Aviv that we’ll still be able to use when the Germans are here. Additionally, they are sending a powerful radio transmitter. The place you must find is where we will be living when the Germans arrive. We will have new identities, new papers, new everything. Oh yes, and get a top floor. We can get out onto the roof if we have to run, and it will be needed for the radio antenna too.’

  ‘Now I understand, Solly.’ Every time Yigal was ready to dismiss his superior as an overrated has-been, something came along to prove that he had lost none of his skill. ‘We’ll disappear.’

  ‘No, we won’t exactly disappear. Men who disappear excite too much attention. Search parties and tracker dogs are sent out for men who disappear. Our departure for Palestine will be witnessed and documented. Everyone will know where
we have gone.’

  ‘Have you decided to abandon Wallingford’s guns?’ He was hoping they’d never deal with Wallingford again.

  ‘The Berettas? No, our people need them. That’s what is delaying us. Tel Aviv has found a dealer in Transjordan with another million rounds of Italian ammunition that would fit them. No, the Berettas are number-one priority. That’s why I’ve hung on to the houseboat all this time.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘For transhipment.’

  Solomon slowed and leaned out of the window to see where they were. Satisfied, he turned into a narrow lane, negotiating the deep potholes with care. When he again spoke to Yigal, his voice was quiet but he gave great emphasis to his words.

  ‘I saw Wallingford last week. We had dinner at Cleo’s Club. He wanted us to collect the guns. He offered to adjust the price by ten per cent if we went out to Siwa Oasis and got them. Cash and carry, he called it. He said he had other urgent business to do and he is short of transport.’

  ‘Ten per cent? I don’t like the sound of that; he’s giving away too much.’

  ‘You should have seen him the other night, spilling over with charm and consideration. That wonderful English courtesy, and sense of humour. French champagne and rare Burgundy. There were even two girls at the bar waiting for his invitation to join us. We both got very drunk. Oh, yes, Yigal, I was given the full Wallingford treatment. After the war, Wallingford will be a successful capitalist businessman.’

  ‘He’s a schnorrer,’ said Yigal.

  ‘A gonif,’ said Solomon. He got a certain perverse pleasure from provoking Yigal into angry comments about Wallingford. ‘When he was very drunk he fell down in the urinal. I helped him to his feet and he started shouting that he knew all about Rommel’s spy – this one they say is feeding priceless intelligence to Tripoli.’

  ‘It’s him,’ said Yigal.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The spy. Rommel’s spy. It must be Wallingford. He moves around all the time out there in the desert. He’s always wining and dining with officers here in the city. He seems to know everyone.’ Yigal was excited as he thought about his theory. ‘It all fits together, doesn’t it? Wallingford is a spy for the Germans. They probably finance him. That fellow Percy – his sidekick, aide and ever-present assistant – is probably a trained German agent. Percy is his master.’

  ‘Don’t get carried away, Yigal. Wallingford isn’t Rommel’s spy.’

  Yigal was miffed. He was sure he was right. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Don’t shout at me, goddammit! I say it because I know I’m right. He’s a thief – a gonif – like I said. He’s not a spy. I’ve been in the business; I know who might be a spy and who could not be. Wallingford is not a spy.’

  ‘Percy is not a South African,’ said Yigal petulantly.

  ‘Okay: Percy is a German. But that doesn’t make Wallingford a spy, and it sure doesn’t make him this superspy who is helping Rommel with his battle plans.’

  For a long time Yigal was silent. It was always like this. Solomon always treated him as if he were a small and stupid child. ‘Did you agree? About the Berettas. Did you agree to collect them?’

  ‘Wallingford has disappeared into the blue. There’s no telling when he’ll be back. We have little choice.’

  ‘When will we go?’ said Yigal.

  ‘We’re going nowhere. It’s far too risky. The following morning I went and did a deal with Mahmoud. He sent his people out to Siwa. It was easier for his men. Arabs can sink into the sand and disappear out there.’

  ‘And you paid him for that?’ said Yigal.

  ‘Eight per cent. Perhaps I am getting old, and old men become suspicious. I saw it happen to my poor father. Tel Aviv are saying I’m too cautious. They constantly complain about the money I’m spending. This time it’s true. I may have been extravagant, but it is better always to be cautious.’

  ‘Mahmoud collected the guns?’

  ‘Yes. It was all as Wallingford said, but I still don’t trust him. Our boat will be loaded before daybreak. Then we can breathe again.’

  ‘What boat? Have you got a boat ready?’ It was exasperating that Solomon did not keep him informed.

  ‘A felucca is coming up from the south. Mahmoud’s men will do the loading.’ Solomon stopped the car at an imposing old archway. Set into a high wall there was an ancient door studded with metal stars and supported on ornate hinges. At their approach, an Arab squatting by the door jumped to his feet and pulled at the bellrope.

  ‘I wish we didn’t have to do business with these Arab crooks,’ said Yigal as he looked at the Arab guard and at the doorway.

  ‘Our people in Tel Aviv like it this way,’ said Solomon.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Tel Aviv can’t spare any more gold or US dollars or Swiss francs. They say the gold for the Berettas is the last they have. They say I must bargain. They won’t understand that things have changed. Smart thieves don’t want British pounds sterling, or Egyptian notes any more. They are all getting their money out of the country and clearing out before Rommel comes.’

  ‘And Mahmoud will take anything?’

  ‘He owns a bank. He does deals with the top people: Egyptians and British too. Don’t make any mistake, old Mahmoud is a mighty big man in this town. We’ll pay him his markup because we’re paying in Egyptian notes, but he’ll have that changed into anything he fancies within an hour or so.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Discounts to British army pay corps cashiers who put the balance in their pockets.’

  The big wooden door opened. A servant bowed low to them and ushered them inside. The door gave onto a tiny courtyard, its walls lined with lovely old oriental tiles, and green with plants growing from tall decorative pots. They crossed the yard and went through a low door set into a thick wall and then into a long cool whitewashed room.

  Mahmoud and Tahseen were there: the banker fat and grinning alongside the slight, serious figure of his chief cashier. They courteously went through the rituals of ‘Allah be with you’ and ‘May Allah lengthen your days’. Then they all sat down on the array of cushions while servants brought steaming-hot mint tea, and tiny cakes.

  The tea was sweet, but Solomon drank it greedily. The sugar seemed to ease the tension and stress that the prospect of the meeting had brought upon him. First it was a time for small talk and compliments. Solomon dutifully admired the furnishings, and the collection of carved ivory which was arrayed round the room. Ivory was one of Mahmoud’s many interests, and one by one he had his prize examples brought for Solomon to stroke and esteem. The carving techniques had to be explained and the dates and places discussed. Business would come in due course.

  Mahmoud was a more relaxed and elegant figure here, in his home, than he was in the carpet shop in the souk. The noisy extrovert manner he always displayed with Wallingford and his cronies had gone. Here in his home he was a man of culture and breeding. His galabiya was of fine material, his face newly shaved, and his hands manicured. As always he hid his eyes behind dark glasses, so when he spoke it was not always easy to discover his mood.

  Mahmoud sipped his tea and said in a light-hearted manner, ‘Did you think that I would go into the desert and bring back the guns for you personally?’

  Solomon treated it as a joke. ‘Yes, of course. The desert is lovely at this time of year.’

  ‘Too hot for a picnic,’ said Mahmoud.

  Tahseen joined in the questioning. ‘Was it Lieutenant Commander Wallingford who suggested that we collect the guns for you?’

  Solomon sensed danger. ‘No. That was my idea.’ He took a pastry and bit into it, only to find it was filled with date paste. Solomon did not like dates, he’d eaten far too many in his deprived and wretched childhood. He put the uneaten half in an ornate silver ashtray. A servant swooped in and replaced the ashtray with another even more ornate.

  ‘And what about Captain Darymple?’ said Tahseen in his clear and perfect English ac
cented voice. ‘Did he want to involve us?’

  ‘Why? What are you getting at?’ said Solomon.

  ‘Please tell us,’ said Mahmoud. He got up and went round behind where Solomon was seated. There was something threatening about this movement and when he felt a hand pressed upon his shoulder Solomon flinched.

  ‘I believe Darymple arranged some of the paperwork,’ Solomon said. ‘He countersigned something for Wallingford. He brought them to him in Cleo’s last week. But Wallingford is his own man, you know that.’

  Mahmoud adopted a new voice and said, ‘You see, Captain Darymple owes me a large sum of money. Mr Wallingford arranged it. He said he’d buy the debt from me. I think he wanted to have Mr Darymple under his control.’

  ‘That’s nothing to do with me,’ said Solomon. He was beginning to suspect that they wanted him to repay this debt of Darymple’s and find some way of deducting it from his payment to Wallingford. Solomon was determined to resist any such idea.

  Having let the idea sink in, Mahmoud said, ‘It is a time of calling in the debts. All over the city, it is a time when debts must be paid.’

  Solomon looked at him. What did such extravagant talk actually mean? Did the artful pair know that he worked for Tel Aviv? A cold smile on Mahmoud’s face suggested that they might.

  Solomon took the black leather case he’d brought and put it on his knees. He opened it carefully. It was packed with new Egyptian ten-pound notes. ‘I’ve brought what we agreed. I have no margin for bargaining.’

  ‘There is always a margin, Solomon. We have to allow for accidents.’ Solomon knew now that something had changed in his relationship with the old man. Always before they had found common ground in doing business. Until now Solomon had seen no animosity in these men. But tonight it was different. Tonight Solomon was being made aware of the fact that he was a Jew. He was a Jew naked and unprotected in the City of Gold, the ancient and sacred centre of Arab life. For the first time Solomon felt vulnerable.

  ‘Take it or leave it,’ said Solomon bitterly.

  ‘We are in a strong bargaining position,’ said Tahseen sadly, as if he almost regretted it.