City of Gold

by Len Deighton

  ‘Who the hell is that fellow?’ said Darymple, and the urgency and indignation in his voice startled Piggy.

  ‘Who? Where?’

  ‘That bastard!’ He pointed.

  ‘Oh, he’s some major from Cairo who came up here to powwow with Andy. Hush-hush, Andy said.’

  ‘I know that swine,’ said Darymple. ‘He’s a bloody corporal. I know him.’

  ‘Steady on, Robbie, old boy.’

  ‘I tell you I know him. He’s a bloody little corporal. He’s running around with a gorgeous girl who lives in the same hotel as I did.’

  ‘I say, what a nerve,’ said Piggy, without displaying much emotion.

  ‘Well, what are you going to do about it? He’s gone into the officers’ mess.’

  ‘It’s almost time for lunch.’

  ‘Don’t be a bloody fool, Piggy. He can’t eat with us. You’ll have to get some police and put him under arrest. He’s impersonating an officer. On active service and all that. He’s probably adrift, a deserter. False papers and so on.’ To himself, Darymple added softly but fervently, ‘I knew it. I knew it all the time. What a crook!’

  Piggy looked at Darymple, trying to decide if this was another of Darymple’s jokes. At school he’d been quite a joker; he’d been beaten before the lower school for sending the house master one of the school kitchen’s indigestible meat pies through the post. He’d written the address, and stuck postage stamps on the pie crust, and it had arrived still intact!

  But this was evidently not one of his friend’s jokes. Neither was there much sign of Darymple’s excitement abating. And since Darymple was a captain he had to be obeyed. ‘Whatever you say, old boy. Here! Corporal!’ He shouted to a passing NCO. ‘Go and tell the orderly room sergeant that we’ve identified a deserter and that he’s to come here and bring an armed escort.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the corporal. He smiled. This was certainly something to liven up the day’s proceedings.

  ‘At the double!’ called Darymple.

  ‘Yes sir,’ called the corporal over his shoulder as he started to run.

  The arrest of the visiting police major was remembered vividly by those who were witness to it. There were four officers in the mess tent at the time. The visitor, wearing cloth major’s crowns on khaki drill, was standing drinking a whisky. Three lieutenants – one an elderly ordnance officer – were seated at the table wolfing an early lunch before getting back to work.

  With Darymple there was Lieutenant ‘Piggy’ Copeland, a sergeant assigned to orderly room duties, and Sergeant Butcher of the Royal Corps of Military Police, a man the orderly sergeant had chosen to bring on account of his physical strength and unyielding dedication to King’s Regulations and the army’s way of doing things.

  It was Darymple who made the running. ‘You!’ he shouted to Ross. ‘What do you think you’re up to, man?’

  Ross had already spotted Darymple but was hoping to avoid him. Now as he came into the mess tent yelling, Ross was unable to still a deep feeling of anxiety.

  ‘Cutler, or whatever your bloody name is, come here at the double.’ When Ross did not obey this command, Darymple turned to the sergeant and said, ‘There’s your man.’

  Military Police Sergeant Butcher hitched up his webbing belt and revolver which he’d put on hurriedly without adjusting the shoulder strap properly. Then he pulled the peak of his red-topped cap low over his eyes and approached Ross. As he stood confronting him, his stance reflected a certain measure of uncertainty.

  Ross smiled. It was a nervous reaction but it didn’t seem like one. It further incensed Darymple and prompted Sergeant Butcher to ask Cutler for his identification papers.

  Ross handed these over with what Darymple thought an impudent flourish. This, and the fact that his adrenalin was flowing, caused Darymple to snatch the papers – ‘Forgeries, forgeries; one glance is enough to show anyone that’ – and stuff them into his pocket. ‘That will be important evidence. Arrest him, sergeant. I want him handcuffed.’ To Ross he said, ‘You’ll not give me the slip this time,’ which gave onlookers the impression that he’d had the same man arrested on some previous occasion.

  ‘Pull yourself together, Captain Darymple,’ said Ross. His heart was beating furiously but he kept telling himself that this didn’t have to be the end. He had only to keep calm. Ross knew his identification pass was authentic: he must make them look at it. ‘Look at my SIB pass. I’m a major. I’m here to talk with Colonel Anderson.’

  ‘Colonel Anderson?’ said Darymple loudly. For one brief moment, the news about Anderson’s colonelcy, crowded everything else from his mind. ‘Colonel Anderson?’

  ‘Yes, Captain Darymple. I came here to talk with Colonel Anderson.’

  ‘What about?’ said Sergeant Butcher gruffly. He’d seen many military impostors; they all seemed to want to dress up as majors. It was a good rank: most military police were nervous about challenging it, while it was not high enough to attract the wrong sort of attention.

  ‘Security,’ said Ross and realised immediately that in answering Butcher so civilly, he’d confirmed that man’s suspicions. Ross had met dozens of men like him during his time in the ranks. Butcher was the sort of man who used his own rank to bully people and could not easily envisage others not using their rank in the same way.

  ‘You’re under arrest,’ said Butcher. He was a big man and he twisted Ross’s arm to snap a handcuff onto the wrist. He quickly pulled the other arm round to the back, and completed the handcuffing, so that both of Ross’s hands were pinioned behind him.

  ‘Look at my identification.’ His first terrible fears had been replaced by indignation, as he realised that this confrontation was simply caused by Darymple’s mistake. Ross began to feel a fool as more officers came into the tent for lunch and stood around enjoying this bizarre scene.

  ‘Just explain to me why you were dressed as a corporal. Explain that,’ said Darymple triumphantly.

  ‘I don’t have to explain anything to you, Captain Darymple.’

  ‘Now, now, laddie. Don’t make a fuss. We’ll sort it out,’ said Butcher. He’d learned how to quell arrested men with soft words and extravagant promises. He grabbed Ross by the arm and began to move him from the tent.

  ‘Get your field security people here immediately,’ Ross told Butcher. ‘And take these handcuffs off at once. Look at my papers. I’m permitted to wear any uniform I choose. And any rank.’

  ‘Calm down, laddie,’ said Butcher. ‘They all say that sort of thing.’

  ‘You are a bloody fool, Darymple! If you don’t order this idiot to release me at once I will see you court-martialled for impeding an SIB officer in the execution of his duty.’

  Partly in order to reassure himself, Butcher said, ‘If you were really an SIB man you’d carry a card saying you are permitted to wear any uniform you wish.’

  ‘But I’m dressed in the uniform of the rank I hold,’ said Ross. ‘I’m not here in any sort of disguise. You have my identification, and you have refused to look at it.’

  It was at this moment that Colonel Anderson came into the hut. Leading him was the orderly sergeant who, seeing how the row was brewing up, had decided to play safe by bringing the CO.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ Anderson said loudly in his broad Yorkshire accent. When no one answered, he said, ‘What’s happening, Major Cutler?’

  ‘Mr Darymple has instructed the MP sergeant to arrest me,’ said Ross apologetically.

  Anderson looked at Darymple for a moment. The bottled-up resentment he felt about the way Darymple had treated him in the past overcame his restraint. Pausing between each word he said, ‘You are a stupid prick, Darymple. You are an idiotic, officious, pretentious halfwit. Major Cutler is my guest, as well as being here on official duties. Get your arse out of the mess before I forget myself and punch you in the head.’

  ‘But I know this soldier,’ insisted Darymple, but his resolution was flagging.

  Anderson looked at him, as if wo
ndering what to do next. ‘Didn’t you look at his identification papers?’

  ‘I thought they were forgeries,’ said Darymple, handing them to Anderson. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ He looked at Cutler and tried to say, ‘I’m sorry, Major Cutler,’ but the words came out as a croak.

  ‘Take your meals somewhere else until I tell you you can come back and eat in the mess. I hate the sight of your stupid face.’

  By this time, Sergeant Butcher had released his captive from the handcuffs and was standing rigidly at attention. His face had gone bright red. Butcher realised he was in trouble.

  Anderson’s scarred puglike face could be frightening when he scowled, and he was scowling as he put his face very close to Butcher’s nose and said, ‘I’m going to find some work for you, Butcher. I’m going to find for you some job that will keep you so busy that you won’t have time to put innocent people under arrest and listen to scandalous rumours, idiotic accusations and unsubstantiated hearsay instead of examining evidence.’ He waved Cutler’s identification in the air before handing it back to its owner.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Butcher.

  ‘Meanwhile you are on a charge.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘For conduct to the prejudice of good order and military discipline in that you invaded the officers’ mess without permission and without proper reason. And take off those stripes before I see you again. Now get your fat arse out of here.’

  Sergeant Butcher blinked and cast a glance round him to see if any lesser ranks had heard what was said. The two mess waiters were standing behind the mess table with broad grins on their faces. There was no doubt that Butcher’s error of judgment, and the dressing down he’d got for it, would be known to every soldier in the vicinity within an hour or so.

  ‘It might be better if we took lunch in my tent,’ said Anderson, watching Butcher and Darymple depart. ‘It’s a shade more private.’ He signalled to a waiter and led Ross outside.

  ‘Bloody Darymple,’ said Colonel Anderson, when they were seated in the commander’s tent. ‘He came crawling back here with some tale about his orders being mislaid.’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on him, colonel. He’d seen me dressed as a corporal. It was probably a shock to see me in this uniform.’

  ‘What’s wrong with being a corporal?’ said Anderson. ‘Can you honestly tell me that if Darymple had joined as a ranker he’d have ever been made up to corporal?’

  Anderson was just testing the ground. Cutler said nothing. There was a deliberate noise of the tent flap being opened, and Anderson’s orderly arrived with a large gin and tonic on a platter. Anderson took it and sipped it. ‘What will you drink, major?’

  ‘A beer would be most welcome, sir.’

  Anderson nodded to the soldier. ‘Well, I’ll shove the bugger back to GHQ if his official orders don’t arrive by the end of the week. Now tell me what you want and I’ll do whatever I can for you.’

  ‘I’m looking for a naval bod named Wallingford,’ said Ross. He took the beer the mess waiter brought. ‘Good health, sir.’

  ‘One of these Independent Desert Team gangsters. Yes, he comes through here now and again. What is it you are after?’ As he said it, the engine of a low-flying plane was heard. Anderson didn’t move a muscle. The roar of the plane grew louder and louder. Anderson’s studied calm was the sort of bravado that front-line soldiers liked to demonstrate to visitors from rear areas.

  Ross had seen action, and his inclination was to dive under the table, and take cover from what might be a strafing run, but he did nothing as the ear-splitting crescendo passed over.

  ‘Our flying friends,’ said Anderson, and smiled bleakly as the sound dwindled away and the RAF fighter pilot continued on his way home. ‘Beating up’ the army was a favoured entertainment of home-bound RAF fliers.

  Ross said, ‘You have probably noticed that the Hun is remarkably well-informed about everything we have, everything we do, and most things we plan.’

  ‘Where’s he getting it from?’

  ‘To be absolutely frank with you, no one knows. But this fellow Wallingford might be able to help us. He is probably a deserter…’

  ‘Is he, by God!’

  ‘Yes. He runs a gang of thieves.’

  ‘One of those,’ said Anderson wearily. The army was being picked to the bone by theft. ‘Yes, he’s been through here. I’ve let him sign chits for food and fuel and stuff. What a fool I am.’

  Ross said, ‘He’s a smooth talker and very convincing. I saw him once.’

  ‘He’s even eaten in the mess with us. Yes. He’s a crony of Darymple. He’s a navy type – a lieutenant commander with the DSO.’

  ‘We’re still running checks on him. It was a bright idea to use navy uniform. Not many RN policemen in the desert. Or even in Cairo, come to that. He stays away from Alex, where the navy lives.’

  ‘Is he the spy you’re after?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Only perhaps?’

  ‘We arrested two men in Cairo. Wallingford was boasting to one of them that he knew who the spy was.’

  ‘Is that enough to go on?’

  ‘The arrested men had had dealings with Wallingford. One of them gave us a statement implicating Wallingford in deals in stolen arms. We also have evidence to show that Wallingford was present when a sergeant major was murdered in El Birkeh last January. I have a bloodstained bank note with what are probably his fingerprints on it. If I can find Wallingford, I’ll hold him on a murder charge and see what I can squeeze out of him.’

  ‘You think he’ll talk?’

  ‘I’ll make him talk.’

  ‘With a murder charge over his head, isn’t he likely to remain silent and yell for a court-martial?’

  ‘I’d do what I could for him, of course.’

  ‘For a deserter … a crook?’

  ‘Colonel, this spy is a real threat to us. I’d give evidence on behalf of Adolf Hitler if it meant nailing the one who’s sending our secrets to Rommel.’

  ‘Well, of course I’ll do anything I can to help you.’

  ‘He’s probably heading this way. He sticks to the same route as a rule; we think he has contacts. We’ve alerted military police units. The navy rank badges make him a bit easier to spot, but he wears khaki and will no doubt change uniform and disappear if he hears we’re after him. I got a plane ride so that I could get here ahead of him. I’d like to sniff around and ask a few questions.’ He looked at Anderson. Seeking the commanding officer’s permission was only a formality, and both men knew it.

  Anderson looked at him for a moment without answering. He did not welcome the idea of mysterious SIB men coming up here and ‘sniffing around’ his officers, but there was no alternative. ‘Yes, of course. Let me know what you need.’

  ‘Thank you, colonel. If Wallingford arrives with his gang, I will need your help.’

  21

  ‘This is my favourite time of year,’ said Wallingford suddenly, and for no apparent reason. Wallingford was driving the big Matador truck. It bumped over some slabs of rock and down to a great lake of sand as white, flat and unwrinkled as a freshly starched tablecloth.

  Percy, jolted out of the seat alongside him by the bumps, grunted. Percy was not easily fooled. He suspected that Wallingford was not enjoying anything. Wallingford had had too much of the desert. Eventually the euphoria that comes with the clarity of the air and the magical nights of star-filled skies is replaced by a feeling of lassitude, a weariness brought about by the absence of any visual stimulus. These featureless vistas – without buildings, trees, roads or grass – eventually dulled the mind, and made a man retreat into himself in the way that Wallingford was doing more and more often.

  ‘You take unnecessary risks,’ said Percy. There was no admiration in his voice.

  ‘Just one more trip,’ said Wallingford with forced cheerfulness. ‘Think of those cameras.’

  ‘I don’t want to think of them.’ Percy was hot and sweaty and thinking only of how much
he’d like a cold beer.

  ‘Then think of the money,’ said Wallingford angrily. ‘Think of getting rich.’

  ‘I try to,’ said Percy. ‘But I keep thinking of getting shot or getting arrested.’

  ‘Not you, Percy. You’re like me; you’re a survivor and as hard as nails.’

  ‘Taking unnecessary risks is stupid. These front-line areas are more dangerous for people like us than Cairo could ever be.’

  ‘Why?’ said Wallingford mildly. He always regarded any arguments against the way he did things as the product of weak nerves and inferior courage. It was Wallingford’s powerful personality that held his gang together. He tried to keep them all cheerful and optimistic, but sometimes that was difficult.

  ‘They shoot deserters in the front-line areas.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, old boy. The British don’t shoot deserters; they just lock them up.’

  ‘You’re a fool,’ said Percy.

  ‘How are we doing?’ They were passing one of the cement-filled barrels that had been positioned throughout this part of the desert. Percy looked down at the map on his knees and compared the number and map reference with the markings on the barrel.

  ‘It is okay.’ They were on course.

  Soon they spotted an armoured car. It was stationary, positioned hull down behind a mound. They kept to the well-marked track and approached the car with respectful care. The enemy often employed captured tanks, trucks and cars; identification was no guarantee of safety. They continued along the well-marked trail. They saw two more cars and recognised the markings. This was the regimental B echelon leaguer of an armoured outfit. These trucks went back for supplies and ran them up to the units at the front. They worked by night. Nearby there were the tents of the supply echelon personnel, together with regimental fitters, ambulances and a couple of mobile workshops. They’d start work again when the sun went down. It was afternoon and a time when most of the soldiers were sleeping. Here and there men were to be seen doing their laundry, and others were writing letters home.