The Golden One Page 32

  “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 c
urrently 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.

  10

  FROM MANUSCRIPT H (CONTINUED)

  It was a very pleasant dream. The surface on which he lay was soft and faintly perfumed. Above him arched a golden canopy – yellow silk, gilded by sunlight streaming through the gathered folds. He could hear birdsong and the crystalline tinkle of water.

  The only discordant note was a headache of stupendous proportions. He raised his hand to his temple, and a familiar voice said, “Try this. I do not indulge, of course, but I keep it for certain of my guests.”

  It wasn’t a dream. Ramses sat up. A few feet away, cross-legged on a pile of tasseled cushions, Sahin held out a glass half-filled with an amber liquid.

  Ramses started to shake his head and thought better of it. “No, thank you,” he mumbled in Turkish – the same language the other man had used.

  “It is not drugged. But, as you like.” His host placed the glass on a brass tray and reached for the mouthpiece of his water pipe. He smoked contentedly for a time, for all the world like a courteous host waiting for his guest to get his wits back.

  It took a while. When the Turk’s blow had landed, sinking him into unconsciousness, R
amses expected he would wake up in a dark, verminous cell, with various people holding various sharp, heavy, or red-hot implements. This room was airy and bright, probably the mandarah, the principal chamber where guests were received. The central part of the room was several inches lower than the rest, tiled in tasteful patterns of red and black and white, with a small fountain at one end. The alcove in which he was now sitting was draped with silk and floored with cushions. He was wearing only a shirt and drawers; they had removed his stained robe and dirty sandals, and cleaned the worst of the muck off his body. One wouldn’t want those satin cushions smeared with rotten fruit and donkey dung.

  “I regret the necessity of that,” Sahin said, as Ramses explored the lump on his head with cautious fingers. “I knew you would not come willingly, and resistance might have caused you serious injury.”

  “How can I ever thank you?” Ramses inquired, slipping into English. The Turk laughed aloud.

  “It is a pleasure to match wits with you again, my young friend. I was delighted to hear that against all my expectations you had survived that interesting affair outside Cairo, but I am uncertain as to the details. How did you manage it?”

  Ramses considered the question. It was loaded with potential pitfalls, and the genial conversational tone, the comfortable surroundings, were designed to lower his guard. A new interrogation technique? He preferred it to the methods the Turks usually employed, but he would have to be careful.

  “My affectionate family came to the rescue,” he said, feeling certain that this information must have reached Sahin’s ears. “You know my father.”

  “By reputation only. It is a formidable reputation. I hope one day to have the honor of meeting him. So he heard of your – er – dilemma – from your friend, whom I did not succeed in killing after all? I might have done, had you not spoiled my aim.”