The Mule on the Minaret (51 page)

At each plate there was a slip of paper on which a member could write out his order. Jenkins and his fellow member looked over the menu. There was not much choice. A mushroom omelette, it would be made of dehydrated eggs. Jenkins remembered the cook's farm eggs that had come in packets after the last war; they
had been infinitely superior. There was cold meat; that would be spam and salami. There were sausages and mashed potatoes; the suasages would be stuffed with sisal. There was a risotto. That would be mainly rice. There was a joint of beef; the beef would be overcooked so that the meat could be sliced thin. There was macaroni
au gratin.
There were potatoes, cabbage and brussels sprouts. Well enough on paper but it was not surprising that members looked either thin and drawn or pallidly overweight. Nobody looked well. They did not get enough fresh air; they did not get enough daylight in their darkened offices; they did not get enough exercise; they did not get enough wholesome food. They were all overworked. It was not surprising that they were short tempered sometimes. He chose the cold meat. There was no shortage of Worcester sauce; and he ordered a pint of draught beer. The Isthmian, through a link with the directorate of a brewers' company, still managed to obtain quite reasonable beer.

‘What kind of beer are you getting at your local?' his fellow member asked him. ‘I never risk it. I get bottled beer. How much wine does your man give you every month?'

‘A miscellaneous dozen.'

‘The same with me. But I'm in luck. I've several men. I scattered my credit before the war.'

‘You are in luck.'

They discussed for a few minutes the universal problem of ‘how they managed.' Then they talked of the war. They wondered when the second front would be opened. ‘Don't you call Italy a second front?' asked Jenkins.

‘I don't. Do you?'

‘No, I suppose I don't.'

‘I shan't feel happy until those channel ports are in our hands. They're far too close to us. Have you heard any more about Hitler's secret weapon?'

‘I haven't heard anything at all.'

‘You haven't?'

‘How could I in my line of business?'

‘No, of course, how could you?'

Jenkins wondered whether his fellow member had any idea what his line of business was. He did not see any reason to enlighten him. If he were to, his fellow member might pounce with a ‘A lawyer; how very interesting; there's a little legal point that has been
worrying me,' thereby getting free advice. Doctors and lawyers were constantly exposed to that kind of treatment.

‘I must say I hear worrying accounts about it,‘ his fellow member was continuing. ‘I suppose I shouldn't talk about it, but it doesn't matter here, and you're discreet, but the highups are worried. They don't know how long it will be before the new weapon is ready. It can't be long now, they say, and it's going to make that 1940 blitz seem like pantomime.'

Jenkins wondered whether this man really had access to secret information. If he had, he shouldn't be so voluble. Everyone claimed to be ‘in the know.' One thing was certain, of that there was no doubt, there were rumours in plenty in circulation about this secret weapon. But then in the First War there had been rumours of Russians with snow on their boots, and in November ‘40 there had been rumours of the invasion that had been driven off by a flame barrage, on the sea; stories about scorched Germans' bodies being washed up in Normandy. There might be nothing to these rumours; but they made for anxiety all the same. London's morale had been high in 1940. Would it be so high now, after three years of rationing and frustration?

By the time he was back in his office, he had returned to the mood of misanthropical discontent in which he had awaited Rachel. The draft of the letter to Reid lay on his desk. He read it slowly, modified a couple of phrases. He seemed to have touched every aspect. He re-read it, trying to picture its effect on Reid. Would it seem unsympathetic? Would Reid feel that he was being deserted by his friends? If he did feel that, was he justified in feeling that? He had chosen to leave them after all. Rachel had been right there. He had not had to go. He was not in the position of a twenty-two-year-old subaltern. For the third time he read the letter. It still seemed to him all right.

He walked down the passage and handed the draft of the letter to Miss Scudder. ‘Do three copies of this on airgraphs. Post them at intervals of ten days.' One of them should be certain to get through. He went back to his office. It was chilly, but he did not care to light a fire. Coal was a munition of war. Don't waste it. He moved his shoulders inside his coat. Three more hours of interviews, of drafting letters, of concentrating upon other people's problems. It was a Scudderish world all right.

As Jenkins settled down in London to his afternoon routine, Reid was waiting on the platform of Mosul station for the arrival of the Taurus. It was six o'clock in Iraq and the train was due. On that train, if the plans held, Chessman would be travelling with the wireless set. Or rather would be travelling without the wireless set which he had deposited in the reserved compartment. The platforms and the waiting-rooms were, as always, crowded. To welcome and to see the Taurus off was part of the Maslawi pattern. Very few of the group there would be travelling on the train. It was no use for Reid to scrutinize them, even had he wanted to, which he did not. It was his role to appear unconcerned. There had been no need for him to come down to Mosul. But the temptation to be a part of the operation had been too great. He had made an excuse of a conference with his Mosul representative. And it was high time, at that, that he did see his representative.

From far down the line he heard the long high whistle of the train. Another minute and it would be here. He slung his bedding roll on to his shoulder. He had not reserved a sleeper. He would lie out along the seat of a first-class carriage, as he had done twenty years ago on the Riviera Express, booking himself second class but moving into a first-class carriage at Dijon for the sake of four clear hours' sleep between there and Avignon. In those days of second-class European travel, he had always tried to prolong his visit to the dining-car where he could sit in luxury, but he was not this evening going to put himself to the expense of a railway dinner. He had brought sandwiches.

A British Major, a G.2 in Administration whom Reid knew slightly, came down the platform. ‘Travelling alone, Prof.?'

‘Yes.'

‘Shall we share a carriage, then?'

‘Of course.'

He would have preferred to be alone, but it was not necessary. He did not want to appear standoffish, besides the other, his junior in years, would be more agile and adroit in getting an empty carriage.

The train had a fifteen minute wait in Mosul. It was the third time that Reid had caught this train. There was no difference in this departure from the other two; there was the same mixed group of Arabs and Europeans; the same vendors of brightly coloured soft drinks and cakes and rolls; the same chatter, the same pushing and shoving. He wondered how often he had been on a train in Paris or in England when, for three or four fellow passengers, that trip so ordinary to him had been a high adventure. He might have brushed shoulders with that adventure; he might, as this young staff officer had done, have forced his company upon an acquaintance who had wanted to be alone.

The whistle shrieked and a flag waved. The train drew slowly from the station. Reid sat back in his corner, opened his haversack and took out a book. He did not want to make conversation for very long. He felt restless and on edge and he did not want to appear restless and on edge. He did not want to have this officer saying in his mess tomorrow: ‘I travelled up from Mosul with the Prof. He was like a cat on hot bricks. I wonder what mischief he was cooking up.' At the same time he did not want to appear unsociable. He had a flask of Canadian whisky. He offered it to his companion.

‘That's very nice of you, Prof. That's very nice of you, indeed. But I don't want to rob you of your ration.'

‘Don't worry about that. In our racket we have our own sources of supply.'

‘I bet you do. You don't have a bad time, you cloak-and-dagger boys. You can go about in mufti, can't you?'

‘When we're on duty.'

‘And that's an elastic term, I'll bet.'

‘It can be made so.'

‘I bet you make it so.'

‘Wouldn't you, if you were in our position?'

‘I'll say I would. I often wonder what you cloak-and-dagger boys really do.'

‘That's what we ask ourselves sometimes.'

The other laughed at that. ‘I'll say one thing about you chaps. You've got a sense of humour. You can laugh at yourselves. Well, here's cheers and thank you, Prof.'

They gossiped over their drink, indulging in the kinds of gossip that two men share who share nothing beyond the fact that they are stationed together in wartime in a foreign city. By the time their glasses were empty, they had come to feel very much in tune. There was a disparity of fifteen years between them; they had not a mutual friend in England; they had not a common interest. If they were to meet in London after the war, they would have nothing to say to one another beyond ‘Do you see anything of the old crowd now?'. ‘I wonder what became of Gerald.' In five minutes they would have exhausted one another, but here, cut off from their ‘real lives', they had momentarily and on the surface more in common with one another than they would have had with their oldest friends. That was one of the pleasant things about a war. You were conscious of an instantaneous fellowship with any one of your own race and rank. Reid dropped into a vernacular he would never have used in peacetime. ‘You'll have the other half,' he said.

‘If you will.'

‘I'm certainly going to.'

‘Well, cheers again, then, Prof. Bit of luck my meeting you. You must come round to my mess and have the return match one day.'

‘I'd love to.'

‘It isn't as grand a mess as yours. But it's all right. We've got some pretty decent fellows there. I expect you know some of them.'

‘I expect I do. Who have you?'

But as a matter of fact, he did not know very many. Through the nature of their work, I.S.L.O, officers lived apart from the main traffic of G.H.Q. life. They saw a number of civilians, and of Iraqis. They also had their own representatives in the city who did not wear uniform. But he had met one or two members of the A. mess on the golf course and at the Alwiyah Club. The length of a drink occupied them in personalities. There was still some whisky in his glass, but two highballs were enough for Reid.

‘Now for my sandwiches,' he said.

‘Aren't you going to the diner?'

Reid shook his head. ‘That's one of the things that I can't charge against the house.'

‘I'm so tired of eating in a mess that I can use a change.'

‘I'll see you later, then.'

Which suited Reid's plans well. His companion would be away at least an hour. And he had warned the F.S. Sergeant that he would not be going to the diner.

The F.S. Sergeant was a brisk, lively Cypriot; dark and neat with a sense of mischief. He had a lengthy name which no one attempted to pronounce. He was known as Frisky, because part of his job on the Taurus consisted in the ‘frisking' of the passengers. It was held that he particularly enjoyed his work when he had to deal with female passengers. A diplomat's wife had complained of the thoroughness of his attentions. But no one had questioned his efficiency.

Reid was munching his last sandwich when Sergeant Frisky tapped upon the door. ‘Coast clear?' he asked.

‘Coast clear with you?'

‘All fine and dandy, sir, everything under control. Can I sit down?'

‘Of course, and leave the door open. Keep it above-board. He's on the train?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘And have you seen him?'

‘No, not yet.'

‘Are you going to?'

‘In a routine way. No search of course. It's passengers from across the frontier that we question.'

‘Has Chessman seen him?'

‘To check his ticket, yes.'

‘What does he report?'

‘A man of about forty. An Iraqi. A stranger to him.'

‘How was he dressed?'

‘As a European. The clothes that Iraqis wear; dark, the kind you wouldn't notice.'

‘Have you got his name?'

‘I've got the name he uses.'

‘I see.' Reid paused. ‘There really isn't any problem, is there?'

‘There shouldn't be.'

The plan was very simple. Frisky would move into the next coach a minute or two before the train reached Baghdad. He would get out of the train, as it was stopping. He was to stand outside the agent's carriage long enough for the detective who was waiting in the crowd to recognize the carriage. Then he would move quickly away without looking round. The detective in the crowd would follow the agent and see where he lived. The plan was cut and dried. It should work smoothly. ‘When are you going to see the chap?' Reid asked.

‘I thought I'd go right away, before he turns in for the night.'

‘You might come back and see me when you have.'

‘Right, sir, certainly.'

‘But if I'm not alone, don't come.'

‘Right, sir. Right.'

Frisky was back within ten minutes. Reid was still alone. ‘Well?' Reid asked.

‘Just as Chessman said, sir. The kind of guy you wouldn't notice in a crowd.'

‘Would you recognize him in a line-up?'

‘I doubt it.'

‘Do you think our man at the station will?'

‘Well enough to track him to his house, and anyhow that's his job. He knows how to pick out a distinctive trait.'

‘Fine, thank you, Sergeant; now you can concentrate on the side of your work you really can enjoy.'