The Golden One: A Novel of Suspense (25 page)

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

Ramses hadn’t told her the part that worried him most. He shared that information with his father, as they tried to find him something to wear. “I met Chetwode in Rafah, as we had arranged. He’s not awfully good at this sort of thing; his jaw dropped down to his chest when a filthy ‘Gyppie’ edged up to him and gave him the word we’d agreed upon.” “Curse it,” said Emerson. “Can’t you go off on your own — leave him behind?” “They’d stop me before I got out of Khan Yunus. You haven’t heard the worst of it. General Chetwode, the commander of the Desert Column, is our lad’s uncle. I was dragged off to his office, where I was required to report to him and his chief of field intelligence.” “Hell and damnation! Who else knows about your ‘secret’ mission?”

“God knows.” Ramses picked up a shirt, grinned, and put it aside. “Mother would say He does. If the word has come down the chain of command, Chetwode’s superior Dobell must also have been informed. There’s nothing here I can use, Father.” “What about that parcel you asked me to bring along?” “I’ll take it with me, but I don’t want to wear those things in Khan Yunus. Selim must have a change of clothing he’ll lend me.” “You mean to let him in on this?” Emerson asked. “How much does he know?” “Only that we are obviously bent on mischief of some sort. Selim doesn’t ask questions.” “He deserves to be told — some of it, at any rate. It’s a poor return for his friendship and loyalty to be treated as if he were not completely trustworthy. Especially,” Ramses added bitterly, “when every idiot and his bloody uncle knows. I think Selim may have spotted me when I arrived; he gave me a very fishy look when I was arguing with the doorman.” Selim had spotted him, but not, as he was careful to explain, because of any inadequacy in Ramses’s disguise. “Who else could it be, though?” he demanded. “I do not ask questions of the Father of Curses, but I expected you would join the others sooner or later.” “You must have wondered what this is all about, though.” The clothes Selim had given him would suit well enough; Arab garments were not designed to be form-fitting. Selim folded his arms and said stiffly, “It is not my place to wonder.” Ramses grinned and slapped him on the back. “You sound exactly like your father. I and another man are going into Gaza, Selim. There have been rumors about a certain Ismail Pasha — that he’s a British agent who has gone over to the enemy. Since I am, er, acquainted with the gentleman in question, they are sending me to get a look at Ismail and find out whether the rumors are true.” “Acquainted,” Selim repeated. “Ah. Is it possible, Ramses, that I am also, er, acquainted with him?” “You can’t go with me,” Ramses said. He hadn’t answered the question. Selim accepted this with a shrug and a nod, and Ramses went on, “Thank you for the clothes. I’ll try to return them in good condition.” “Tonight’s the night, then,” Emerson said. “Yes. Chetwode — our Chetwode — and I are meeting after nightfall in an abandoned house in Dir el Balah, just north of here. I hope to God he can find it. It will take me a while to get there by roundabout ways, since I don’t want to be recruited by some lad looking for laborers. I had better go. Do you want to send me on my way with a few curses and kicks, Selim?” Selim did not return his smile. “If you say I should. Be careful. Do not take foolish chances.” “As your father would have said. I’ll try not to. Watch over them, Selim.”

Chetwode was late. He stood squinting into the darkness of the half-ruined building, his form outlined against the starry sky. Ramses waited only long enough to make sure the other man was alone before he moved out of the shadows. “Didn’t they teach you not to make a target of yourself in an open doorway?” he asked caustically. “Since it was you —” “You hoped it was me. Get out of that uniform and put these on.” He made certain he had covered Chetwode’s face, neck, hands, and forearms with the dark dye, and got all his hair concealed under the turban. There wasn’t anything he could do about the blue eyes that looked trustingly into his, but when the boy grinned, cheerful as a hound pup, the expanse of healthy white teeth was another reason to remind him to keep his mouth shut. Patiently Ramses went over it again. “If anybody speaks to you, drool and babble and bob your head. Idiots are under the protection of God. Stick close to me . . .” He hesitated, gripped by one of those illogical premonitions — or maybe it wasn’t so illogical, under the circumstances. “Stick close unless I tell you otherwise. If I tell you to run, do it, without arguing and without looking back. That’s an order. If you disobey I’ll see that you face a court-martial.” “But if we’re separated —” “I’ll find you if I can. If I can’t, you’ll have to make your own way back to our lines. Don’t wait for me or go looking for me.” Chetwode’s face was as easy to read as a page of print. Some of the sentences read: “One doesn’t abandon a comrade.” “You can count on me, old chap, to the death.” Or something equally trite. Ramses sighed and offered another cliché. “One of us has to get back with the information we’ve collected. We know we’re laying our lives on the line; that is part of the job.” Chetwode’s tight lips parted. “Oh. Yes, that’s right. You can count on me, old chap —” “Good. One more thing. Hand over that pistol.” Ramses had every intention of searching him if he denied carrying a weapon, but the young fool didn’t even try to bluster it out. His hand flew to his waist. “What if we have to shoot it out?” he demanded. “If it comes to that, we’ll have a hundred men shooting back at us. Hand it over, or I’ll leave you behind.” Chetwode looked from his stern face to his clenched fist and got the point. Slowly and reluctantly he unbuckled the belt fastened round his waist under his shirt and gave it and the holster to Ramses. Ramses removed the shells and added the empty gun to the pile of abandoned clothing, which he covered with a few loose stones. “Now shut up and watch where you’re going.” The boy wouldn’t shut up. He’d memorized the directions that Ramses had ignored, since he didn’t need them, and kept up a breathless, whispered monologue: “Keep to the north until the mosque bears 132; bearing 266 till we come to the edge of a bog . . . is this . . . Oh, hell.” Ramses hauled him out. “One more word and I’ll sink you back into the muck. We’re within a hundred feet of the Turkish trenches. Don’t open your mouth again until I tell you you may.” “Sorry.” He closed his mouth and nodded vigorously. The starlight reflected in his eyes. Ramses turned and led them along the edge of the bog. The boy followed so close he kept treading on Ramses’s heels. I shouldn’t have allowed this, Ramses thought in silent fury. Goddamn Murray and Cartright and the rest of them; the kid’s doing his best, but I would spot him a mile away, even if he were standing still with his face hidden. It was that “Lords of Creation” look, shoulders stiff and jaw squared — drilled into them from childhood, and almost impossible to eradicate. The Turks had ringed the city round with trenches and breastworks. An intricate network of cactus hedges provided an additional defense. The series of ridges that ran from Gaza eastward to Beersheba were also fortified, but they had no trouble getting through. The defenders knew no attack was imminent; reconnaissance planes would have warned them of such preparations, even if they had not had busy little spies reporting back to Turkish HQ. The area between Gaza and Khan Yunus was peaceful. People came and went, tilling the fields, carrying produce to the British encampments, engaging in all the mercantile activities that spring up when new customers are available. It would have been impossible to keep tabs on all of them. Once over the ridge, Ramses led his companion in a wide circle that brought them to a guard post just as the sun was rising. Chetwode had protested; he wanted to crawl romantically through the barbed wire and the cactus hedges. “It’s too hard on one’s clothes,” Ramses said shortly. He had learned from experience — and from that master thief, his uncle — that the best way of getting into a place where you weren’t supposed to be was to walk boldly up and demand entrance. He had supplied himself with a convincing story — a sick, aged mother awaiting him, enough money to arouse cupidity without arousing suspicion, and a few bags of a substance he expected would serve better than money. Hashish wasn’t hard to come by in Turkish areas, but the best varieties were expensive. The noncommissioned officer in charge of the post didn’t believe the pathetic story about the dying mother. Ramses had not expected he would; they then proceeded to the next stage of negotiation, which left him without a certain percentage of his money and his merchandise. It wasn’t an outrageously high percentage; the NCO knew that if his victim started howling protests, it would have brought an officer to investigate — and demand his share. Ramses had been in Gaza only once, in the summer of 1912, but he knew the place fairly well; he’d spent several days wandering around, enjoying the amenities of the suk and admiring the fine old mosques and making a brief, informal survey of the ancient remains, since he knew his father would expect one. There weren’t many. For almost four thousand years the area between the Sinai and the Euphrates had been fought over, conquered and reconquered, destroyed and rebuilt. Egyptians, Assyrians, Phoenicians, Greeks, Romans, Saracens, and Crusaders had occupied Gaza in turn. It had been one of the five cities of the Philistines, the site of the great temple of Dagon, pulled down by Samson in his last and mightiest feat. (He’d got that information from his mother; his father didn’t give much credence to anything in Scripture unless it could be confirmed by archaeological sources.) The most recent conquest had been by the Ottoman Sultan, Selim the First, in the sixteenth century; in revenge for the city’s stubborn resistance he had let his troops sack and destroy a large part of it. However, by 1912 Gaza had become a prosperous town with almost forty thousand inhabitants. The population had spilled out beyond the walls, to north and south and east; the central city, raised on the accumulated debris of various levels of destruction, contained the administrative and commercial buildings, as well as the homes of wealthier citizens. On the hill that rose from the center of the upper town stood the Great Mosque, formerly a Christian church built in the twelfth century. He had spent an enjoyable afternoon admiring the carvings and the magnificent gray marble columns. It was now being used as a powder magazine. So much for the Great Mosque, Ramses thought. So much for the other architectural treasures of Gaza — the little church of St. Porphyry, an exquisite example of early Christian architecture, the beautiful ancient mosque of Hashim, even the remains of the old walls and their seven gates. Modern weapons were much more efficient than the older variety. One well-placed shell and the Great Mosque, with its delicate octagonal minaret, would be gone. And so would hundreds, maybe thousands, of people. The suk appeared to be as prosperous as ever, with stalls selling everything from handmade lace and the fine black pottery of the region to a variety of mouthwatering fruits and nuts and vegetables, whose discarded rinds and husks littered the ground. Ramses found a popular café, squatted genteelly, and ordered mint tea. The habitués were an inquisitive lot; they put him through a merciless but friendly interrogation, not leaving off until they had determined his name, place of origin, business, and ancestry, and had commiserated with him on the condition of his poor young brother. “He has blue eyes,” said one observant man. “His mother was Circassian,” Ramses explained. “My father’s favorite, until she died giving birth to him. My mother . . .” It did not take long for Ramses to establish his bona fides as a seller of desirable merchandise. The town was full of men in uniform, strutting through the street with the arrogance of Europeans among natives. The most loquacious of their newfound friends, a middle-aged man with only one eye and a stump where his right hand had been, had a few pungent epithets for the Germans. “But,” he added, “they are no worse than the Turks. God curse this war! Whoever wins we will be the losers. If Gaza is defended, our homes and livelihoods will be destroyed.” It was a good opening, and Ramses took advantage of it. His questions and comments brought out a spate of information, much of it highly inaccurate, and some more accurate descriptions of various public figures. Von Kressenstein, the German commander, was feared but respected; the governor was feared and loathed; the Turkish general was a fat pig who did nothing but sit in his fine house and eat. And so it went, until dusk grayed the sky and the party dispersed. Ramses and Chetwode spent the night in the picturesque ruins of what was locally known as Samson’s tomb — actually a structure dating from the Middle Ages. Moonlight filtering through the broken walls and roof made baroque patterns on the ground, and the leaves of the ancient olive trees rustled in the night wind. As they ate the food purchased in the bazaar, Chetwode enlivened the meal with questions. He hadn’t had a chance to talk all day, and it must be wearing on him. “You didn’t ask about Ismail Pasha,” he said accusingly. “One tries to avoid asking direct questions.” Ramses tossed away a handful of orange peel and stretched out on the ground. “In this case it wasn’t necessary. You were there; didn’t you hear what they said about him?” “Everybody was talking too fast,” Chetwode said sullenly. “Anyhow, it’s your job to locate the fellow.” The hero worship was wearing thin. Ramses couldn’t have said why he was reluctant to share this bit of news; old habit, perhaps, or one of the Secret Service’s basic rules: Don’t tell anyone more than he needs to know. Maybe Chetwode did need to know this, if only to keep him from doing something impulsive. “The holy infidel, as they call him, is going to pray at the mosque of Hashim tomorrow at midday,” Ramses explained. “There will be quite a crowd, I expect. We’ll go early and find a place where we can get a good long look at him.” “And then?” “Then we make a quick and, let us hope, unobtrusive exit from Gaza.” “After only two days? Without — without doing anything?” Ramses tried to hold on to his temper. Being responsible for this ingenuous youth was nerve-racking enough without having to deliver lectures on espionage. “You hadn’t planned on an indefinite stay, had you? We have to assume that there are certain people here who keep tabs on newcomers. One of our amiable acquaintances at the coffeeshop could be an agent of the governor or the military.” “Really?” “That’s how the Turks operate. They don’t trust anyone, and with good reason. They aren’t well liked in these parts. Sooner or later our presence will be known, and some bright soul may decide it would be a good idea to question us. Then there are the press gangs. They’re always looking for recruits. One more day is all we can risk.” He yawned and wondered why he was bothering. “Get some rest.” “As soon as I finish this.” Ramses sat up with a start. Chetwode squatted by the ruined arch of the entrance, scribbling busily by moonlight on what appeared to be a folded piece of paper. “What the hell are you doing?” “Making notes. I didn’t recognize all the insignia of the men we saw, but if I describe them, our people can get a good idea which units —” “Eat it.” “What?” “Get rid of the goddamn paper!” Chetwode stared blankly at him. He got to his feet. “If you were caught and they found that on you, you’d be dead. Or wish you were. What other incriminating objects are you carrying?” He snatched the paper from Chetwode. Hastily, eyes wide, the boy took a pouch from the breast of his robe. It contained sheets of paper, several pencils, a small pocket torch, and a tiny bottle containing two white pills. “Christ, I should have searched you before we left,” Ramses muttered, as he shredded the papers and stamped on the neatly sharpened pencils. “What’s in the bottle? Cyanide, no doubt. The Secret Service loves cyanide.” “But if we’re caught —” “We had better be able to talk our way out of it, which we could not do if we were carrying British-made writing materials. As for these . . .” He ground the innocent-looking pills under his heel. “Were you planning to ask the governor’s head torturer to hang on a minute while you fished round in your pouch for the bottle, opened it, and popped the pills into your mouth?” Chetwode’s head drooped. “It does sound ridiculous, when you put it that way. They told me —” “Yes, all right. Look here, there are a number of ways we could have gone about this, including your uncle’s idiotic suggestion that we wear captured Turkish uniforms and march into their headquarters demanding information.” “I don’t see why —” “Then I’ll tell you why.” Ramses lost the remains of his temper. “It’s a miracle you haven’t already been spotted. If I were picked up and questioned, they would probably do nothing worse than send me to the trenches, from which I would soon remove myself. If they caught you, it wouldn’t take a trained officer more than ten seconds to identify you as an Englishman. It’s not just your accent, it’s the way you stand, and sit, and move and . . . everything about you!” Chetwode bowed his head. “I didn’t know I was that bad.” “All of you are. It’s not your fault,” he added, more kindly. “To pass convincingly as a native of the area, you have to live there and think in the language for years. This is the safest way, and I’m trying to minimize the risks. You’ve done fine so far, but you’ll have to follow my orders and keep your notes in your head.” “Like
you? All that” — he gestured at the scattered bits of paper — “was a waste of time, wasn’t it? You’ve got it memorized.” He was back to the hero worship. It was almost worse than his brief attempts at independent thinking. But not as dangerous. Ramses shrugged. “It’s a matter of practice.” “A little late for me to start now, I guess.” He looked up with a rueful smile. “Sorry. I’ll do everything you say from now on.” “Then get some sleep.” Chetwode couldn’t keep quiet even when he slept. He snored. Lying awake, his hands under his head, Ramses was tempted to kick him, but his better nature prevailed. Let the fellow sleep. He wished he could. The night noises here weren’t the same as the ones at home; his nerves twitched at every rustle in the weeds. Since sleep was impossible, he went over and over the conversations he had held that day, picking them apart, looking for hints he might have missed. He got a little sleep, but not much, what with Chetwode’s snores and the need to listen for suspicious sounds. At daybreak he roused his companion. Chetwode was uncharacteristically silent — sulking or brooding, or maybe fighting an attack of cold feet, for which Ramses wouldn’t have blamed him. Suddenly Chetwode said, “What if something goes wrong?” “I told you. Run.” “That’s not much of a plan,” Chetwode said. His mouth twitched. Perhaps he was trying to smile. Ramses came to a decision. One of the many worries that had prevented him from sleeping was the thought of his anxious family, waiting in Khan Yunus. “If you make it out and I’m caught or killed,” he said, “go to the house of Ibn Rafid in Khan Yunus. It’s on the main square, the largest house in town — anyone can show you which it is. Leave a written message for . . .” He realized he didn’t know the name Emerson was currently using. “For the present master of the house, telling him what happened to me.” “Is he one of us?” Chetwode asked. “No.” The boy’s curiosity made him wonder if he’d done the right thing. The alternative would have been worse, though — leaving them in ignorance of his fate, possibly for days. They might even decide to invade Gaza looking for him. None of them was noted for patience; and if the worst happened, certain knowledge was better than false hope. Chetwode asked no further questions. After they had finished the bread and fruit left over from the previous night, Ramses led the other man on a circuitous route back toward the center of town. The mosque was near the Askalon Gate. Ramses found a coffeeshop — not the one they had visited the previous day — and they settled down to wait. As the morning wore on, the cafés filled and people began to gather. It lacked half an hour till midday when the procession appeared. It was small but impressive, headed by half a dozen mounted men wearing baggy trousers and jackets heavy with tarnished gilt, and silken sashes wound round their waists. They were armed with long swords and pistols. The horses were splendid animals, their bridles and stirrups of silver. Not Turkish regulars; the personal guard of some important official. They cleared the way brutally but effectively, using the flats of their swords. Since he was a head taller than most of the spectators, Ramses could see reasonably well; there seemed to be another group of guards at the end of the procession. Between the guards were several horsemen: the governor, flashing with gold, his fleshy face set in a look of conscious piety; and, next to him, flanked by two officers in Turkish uniform . . . Ramses got only a glimpse of a bearded profile and prominent, hawklike nose, before a gun went off, so close to his ear, it momentarily deafened him. He spun round and struck the weapon out of Chetwode’s hand. The second shot went wild. “You goddamned fool!” Chetwode’s lips moved. Ramses couldn’t hear what he said; the people around them were screaming and shoving, some of them trying to reach the would-be assassin, others — the wiser majority — scampering for safety. There was no such thing as an innocent bystander in the eyes of Ottoman officials. “Run!” Ramses yelled, and emphasized the order with a shove. Chetwode gave him a wild-eyed stare and dashed off. Ramses tripped one of the avengers who were closing in, knocked another one down, ducked under the outstretched arms of a third, and set out at a run toward the mosque. “That’s the man! Stop him!” someone shouted in Turkish. He heard the pound of hoofbeats behind him and threw himself aside in time to avoid being ridden down, but the brief delay was fatal. When he got to his feet he was surrounded by the gaudily uniformed guard, all heroically brandishing their swords. “No weapons,” the officer ordered. “Take him alive.” Ramses considered his options. He could only think of two, and neither held much appeal. He could cringe and whine and deny guilt, or he could take on six men. It would end the same in either case, so he decided to give himself the satisfaction of hitting someone. He had two of them on the ground and a third on his knees, when a missile skimmed the side of his head, hard enough to throw him off balance for a vital moment. Flat on his back, with four of them pinning his arms and legs, he reconsidered his options. There didn’t seem to be any. The officer raked his men with a scornful eye. “Six against one, and it took a lucky throw from a safe distance to bring him down. Tie his hands, my brave fellows, or he may yet escape you.” Not much chance of that, Ramses knew. The blow on the head had left him slightly giddy and there was blood trickling down his face. After they had bound his hands behind him, one of them looped a rope round his neck and fastened it to the leader’s saddle. Wonderful. One slip, on any of the scraps of rotting fruit that littered the street, and he’d be dragged, choking, until the officer decided to stop. The only positive feature in an otherwise gloomy situation was that Chetwode was nowhere in sight. Hot sunlight beat down on the deserted square. No — not quite deserted. The onlookers had fled and the guard must have escorted the dignitaries to safety, but from the opposite side of the square a rider was coming slowly toward them. Ramses stared, hoping his eyes had deceived him, knowing they hadn’t. He’d believed his situation couldn’t be any worse. He had been wrong. The rider had only a single escort, a servant who followed at a respectful distance. His mount was superb — a roan stallion, his tail and mane braided with bright ribbons. He was an impressive specimen, too, a tall, heavily built man with finely cut features and a neat gray beard. His robes were of silk and on the front of his turban was a jewel of rubies and emeralds, surmounted by a white egret feather. Even the whip he held had a jeweled, enameled handle. He pulled up next to Ramses and acknowledged the officer’s respectful salute with a casual movement of his hand. “What is this?” he asked in Turkish. “As you see, Sahin Pasha. We have captured the assassin.” So now he’s a pasha, Ramses thought. What was the head of the Turkish secret service doing in Gaza? His first and — he had hoped — last encounter with this formidable individual had ended in the failure of Sahin’s mission; it wouldn’t be surprising if he bore a grudge against the man who had been partially responsible. Ramses could only pray the Turk wouldn’t recognize him. He was bareheaded, having lost his khafiyeh during the fight, but in his filthy torn robes, bearded and disheveled, he bore little resemblance to the man Sahin had last seen — disheveled, admittedly, but clean-shaven and in European clothing. He cringed and ducked his head. “We are taking him to His Excellency the Kaimakam,” the officer went on. “The governor? Why?” “Because — because — why, because he is an assassin! One of those fanatics who would rebel against our benevolent rule, who —” “No,” Sahin said. The handle of the whip caught Ramses under the chin and forced his head up. The Turk studied him thoughtfully for a few seconds. Then he leaned down and with a powerful jerk pulled the beard off, taking several square inches of skin with it. Ramses straightened and met the Turk’s inquiring gaze. He was in for it now. “Ah,” Sahin Pasha said, and smiled. “I relieve you of your prisoner, Bimbashi.” “But, Your Excellency — “He is an English spy. Espionage is my department, Bimbashi. Do you question my authority?” He beckoned his servant, who dismounted and untied the rope from the officer’s saddle. The officer didn’t like what was happening. A direct refusal was more than he dared risk, but he ventured to protest. “You will need an escort, Excellency. He fights like a demon. It took six of my men —” “No need for that,” Sahin said affably. He raised his arm and brought the whip handle down.