In the Middle East.
Ah yes, I’ve heard of it. Said to be as dry as here but better-known to history. Where in the Middle East, I wonder?
Cairo.
Ah yes, I’ve heard of that too. It’s in the ancient land of the pharaohs, said to be a place for pyramids and mummies and lost secrets in general. Known far and wide for its great river of life, and also for those steamy fleshpots that always seem to pop up along any river of life. But I don’t know Cairo at all. I’ve never even been there. And that has to mean you need an outsider to poke around and look for something, either in the fleshpots or in a pyramid or two. But look for what, I wonder? A lost secret perhaps? A wandering pharaoh? A mummy who refuses to take you to his leader? … Just what might it be you want me to find, directly?
A person. A man.
Joe reached under his blanket and scratched. His face was thoughtful.
The one of you is American, another British, and the third speaks somewhere in between. Canadian?
Yes.
Then it’s pretty much of a high-level international delegation I’m facing, which isn’t my level at all, and that means one of two things. Either I know this man and you don’t, or you know him and I don’t. Which is it?
You know him. We’re only acquainted with him through the files, and through others.
Joe stroked his chin.
I could grow a beard again. Indians don’t do with beards and it hurts to pluck out your whiskers one at a time. But there’s another angle. Did any of you know that Hopi means peace? Well it does, and although there aren’t many of us left, that’s what we are, the People of Peace. Our religion forbids us to harm anyone, to molest anyone, to kill anyone. We just can’t do it and that’s the shape of our sky, and also why we’re so few. The Navajo are fierce and all around us and they’ve been plucking us off for years. So what do you say to that?
We wouldn’t ask you to do anything that’s against your beliefs, said one of the men.
I know it, no one ever does. It’s just that others have a way of shifting your beliefs around a bit to make themselves more comfortable with them.
Joe pushed a forefinger into the earth at his feet.
Well I think it’s time we had a name here. Who is it you’re looking for?
Stern.
Joe’s face grew serious. For several long minutes he gazed at his finger in the earth and said nothing. When he finally looked up there was a deep sadness in his eyes.
I knew that would be it. The moment those men arrived here a couple of weeks ago, all secrecy and mystery, I knew it was the beginning of something that would lead to Stern. All they said was that I was going to have some important government visitors, but I knew. He’s not missing, though, is he? That isn’t what you meant by finding him?
No.
No, I didn’t think so. Your problem is that Stern knows a thing or two, and you’re not sure what.
Something like that.
Well what exactly? He’s working for you, I’d imagine, and he’s also working for the other side. But you always thought he was really working for you in the end, and now all at once you’re not so sure. Is that it?
Yes.
And naturally it’s important that you know. How important?
Very. It’s crucial.
Crucial? Stern? You’re not exaggerating?
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About the Author
Edward Whittemore (1933–1995) graduated from Yale University in 1955 and went on to serve as a Marine officer in Japan and spend ten years as a CIA operative in the Far East, Europe, and the Middle East. In addition to writing fiction, he managed a newspaper in Greece, was employed by a shoe company in Italy, and worked in New York City’s narcotics control office during the administration of Mayor John V. Lindsay. He wrote the Jerusalem Quartet while dividing his time between New York and Jerusalem.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1978 by Edward Whittemore
Copyright renewed © 2002 by Edward Whittemore Estate
Foreword copyright © 2002 by Tom Wallace
Introduction copyright © 2002 by Lesley Hazleton
“An Editorial Relationship” copyright © 2002 by Judy Karasik
Photo of author copyright © 2002 by Helen Bar-Lev
Acknowledgements
The essay, “An Editorial Relationship” also appeared in AGNI 55, Spring 2002
Cover design by Mimi Bark
978-1-4804-3410-3
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