Affair in Araby - Talbot Mundy
"Would you like to send for him now?" suggested Grim.
"I doubt if he would come."
"Well, have him fetched!"
Feisul shook his head.
"If other people break their promises, that is no reason why we should
break ours. If we can defeat the French and force them to make other
terms, then we will expel him from Syria. I leave at midnight,
Jimgrim."
"To defeat the French? You go to your Waterloo! You're in check with
only one move possible, and I'm here to make you realize it. You're a
man after my own heart, Feisul, but you and your Arabs are children at
dealing with these foreign exploiters!
"They can beat you at every game but honesty. And listen: If you did
defeat the French--if you drove them into the sea tomorrow, they'd get
away with all the money in Beirut and you'd still be at the mercy of
foreign capitalists! Instead of an independent Arab kingdom here you'd
have a mixture of peoples and religions all plotting against one another
and you, with capitulations and foreign consuls getting in the way, and
bond-holding bankers sitting on top of it all like the Old Man of the
Sea in the story of Sindbad the Sailor!
"Leave that to the French! Let them have all Syria to stew in! Go to
England where your friends are. Let the politicians alone. Meet real
folk and talk with them. Tell them the truth; for they don't know it!
Talk with the men and women who haven't got political jobs to lose--with
the fellows who did the fighting--with the men and women who have votes.
They'll believe you. They've given up believing politicians, and they're
learning how to twist the politicians' tails. You'll find yourself in
Baghdad within a year or two, with all Mesopotamia to make a garden of
and none but Arabs to deal with. That's your field!"
Feisul smiled with the air of a man who recognizes but is unconvinced.
"There are always things that might have been," he answered. "As it is,
I cannot desert the army."
"We'll save what we can of the army," Grim answered. "Your Syrians will
save their own skins; it's only the Arabs we've got to look out for--a
line of retreat for the Arab regiments, and another for you. It's not
too late, and you know I'm right! Come on; let's get busy and do it!"
Feisul's smile was all affection and approval, but he shook his head.
"If what you say is true, I should only have the same problem in
Mesopotamia--foreign financiers," he answered.
"That's exactly where you're wrong!" Grim retorted triumphantly.
He stood up, and pointed at Jeremy.
"Here's a man who owns a gold-mine. It lies between Mesopotamia and
your father's kingdom of the Hedjaz, and its exact whereabouts is a
secret. He's here tonight to make you a pres ent of the mine! And
here's another man,"--he pointed at me--"a mining expert, who'll tell
you what the thing's worth. It's yours, if you'll agree to abandon
Syria and lay a course for Baghdad!"
CHAPTER XIV
"You'll be a virgin Victim!"
Feisul was interested; he couldn't help being. And he was utterly
convinced of Grim's sincerity. But he wasn't moved from his purpose,
and not even Jeremy's account of the gold-mine, or my professional
opinion of its value, had the least effect toward cancelling the plans
he had in mind. He was deeply affected by the offer, but that was all.
"Good heavens, man!" Grim exploded suddenly. "Surely you won't throw
the whole world into war again! You know what it will mean if the
French kill or imprison you. There isn't a Moslem of all the millions
in Asia who won't swear vengeance against the West--you know that! A
direct descendant of Mohammed, and the first outstanding, conquering
Moslem since Saladin--"
"The Allies should have thought of that before they broke promises,"
said Feisul.
"Never mind them. Damn them!" answered Grim. "It's up to you! The
future of civilization is in your lap this minute! Can't you see that
if you lose you'll be a martyr, and Islam will rise to avenge you?"
"Inshallah," said Feisul, nodding.
"But that if you let pride go by the board, and seem to run away,
there'll be a breathing spell? Asia would wonder for a few months, and
do nothing, until it began to dawn on them that you had acted wisely and
had a better plan in view."
"I am not proud, except of my nation," Feisul answered. "I would not
let pride interfere with policy. But it is too late to talk of this."
"Which is better?" Grin demanded. "A martyr, the very mention of whose
name means war, or a living power for peace under a temporary cloud?"
"I am afraid I am a poor host. Forgive me," Feisul answered. "Dinner
has been waiting all this while, and you have a lady with you. This is
disgraceful."
He rose and led the way into another room, closing the discussion. We
ate an ordinary meal in an ordinary dining room, Feisul presiding and
talking trivialities with Mabel and Hadad. There was an occasional
boisterous interlude by Jeremy, but even he with his tales of unknown
Arabia couldn't lift the load of depression. Grim and I sat silent
through the meal. I experienced the sensation that you get when an
expedition proves a failure and you've got to go home again with nothing
done--all dreary emptiness; but Grim was hatching something, as you
could tell by the far-away expression and the glowering light in his
eyes. He looked about ready for murder.
Narayan Singh's face all through the meal was a picture--delight and
pride at dining with a king, amazement at his karma that had brought a
sepoy of the line to hear such confidences first hand, chagrin over
Grim's apparent failure and desire to be inconspicuous controlled his
expression in turn. Once or twice he tried to make conversation with
me, but I was in no mood for it, being a grouchy old bear on occasion
without decent manners.
Feisul excused himself the minute the meal was over, saying he had a
conference to attend, and we all went back into the sitting-room, where
Grim took the chair he occupied before and marshalled us into a row on
the seat in front of him. He was back again in form--electric--and
self-controlled.
"Have you folk got the hang of this?" he asked. "Do you realize what it
means if Feisul goes out and gets scuppered?"
We thought we did, even if we didn't. I don't suppose anyone except the
few who, like Grim, have made a life-study of the problem of Islam in
all its bearings could quite have grasped it. Mabel had a viewpoint that
served Grim's purpose as well as any at the moment.
"That man's too good, and much too good-looking to be wasted!" she said
emphatically. "D'you suppose that if Colonel Lawrence were really here--"
"Half a minute," said Grim, "and I'll come to that. How about you,
Hadad? How far would you go to save Feisul from this Waterloo?"
"I would go a long way," he answered cautiously. "What do you intend?"
"To appear near the firing-line, for one thing, with somebody who looks
like Colonel Lawrence, and somebody else who looks enough like Feisul in
one of Feisul's cars, and give the French a run for it in one direction
while Feisul escapes in the other."
"Wallahi! But what if Feisul won't go?"
"He'll get helped! Did you ever hear what they did to Napoleon at
Waterloo? Seized his bridle and galloped away with him."
"You mean I'm to act Lawrence again?" asked Mabel, looking deathly
white.
Grim nodded.
"Who's cast for Feisul?" Jeremy inquired.
"You are. You're the only trained stage-actor in the bunch. You're his
height--not unlike his figure--"
"I resemble him as much as a kangaroo looks like an ostrich!" laughed
Jeremy. "You're talking wild, Jim. What have you had to drink?"
"How about you, Ramsden? Will you see this through?"
Jeremy shook his head at me. I believe he thought for the moment that
Grim had gone mad. He hadn't the experience of Grim that I had, and
consequently not the same confidence in Grim's ability to dream, catch
the essence of the dream, pin it down and make a fact of it.
"I'll go the limit," said I.
"Well, I'll be damned" laughed Jeremy. "All right; same here. I stake
a gold-mine and Rammy raises me. Fetch your crown and sceptre and I'll
play king to Jim's ace in a royal straight flush. Mabel's queen.
Hadad's a knave. He looks it! Keep smiling, Hadad, old top, and I'll
let you forgive me. Rammy's the ten-spot--tentative--tenacious--ten
aces up his sleeve--and packs a ten-ton wallop when you get him going.
What's Narayan Singh? The deuce?"
"The joker," answered Grim. "Are you in on this?"
"Sahib, there was no need to ask. What your honor finds good enough--
your honor's order--"
"Orders have nothing to do with it. We're not in British territory.
This in unofficial. I've no right to give you orders," said Grim.
"You're free to refuse. I'm likely to lose my job over this and so are
you if you take part in it."
Narayan Singh grinned hugely.
"Hah! A sepoy's position is a smaller stake than a major's commission
or a gold-mine, but I likewise have a life to lose, and I play too!"
Grim nodded curtly. It was no time for returning compliments.
"How about you, Mabel? We can manage this without you, and you've a
husband to think of--"
"If he were here he'd hate it, but he'd give permission."
"All right. Now, Hadad. What about it?"
"Am I to obey you absolutely, not knowing what the--"
Grim interrupted him:
"The proposal's fair. Either you withdraw now and hold your tongue, or
come in with us. If you're in I'll tell the details; if not, there's no
need."
"Wallahi! What a sword-blade you are, Jimgrim! If I say 'yes,' I risk
my future on your backgammon board; if I say 'no,' my life is worth a
millieme, for you will tell that Sikh you call the 'joker' to attend to
me!"
"Not so," Grim answered. "If you don't like the plan, I'll trust you to
fall out and keep the secret."
"Oh, in that case," answered Hadad, hesitating. "Since you put it that
way... well, it is lose all or perhaps win something--half-measures are
no good--the alternative is ruin of the Arab cause--it is a forlorn
hope--well, one throw of the dice, eh?--and all our fortunes on the
table!--one little mistake and helas--finish! Never mind. Yes, I will
play too. I will play this to the end with you."
"So we're all set," remarked Grim with a sigh of relief. Instantly he
threw his shoulders back and began to set his pieces for the game. And
you know, there's a world of difference between the captain of a side
who doesn't worry until the game begins and Grim's sort, who do their
worrying beforehand and then play, and make the whole side play for
every ounce that's in them.
"Mabel, you're Lawrence. Keep silent, be shy, avoid encounters--act
like a man who's not supposed to be here, but who came to help Feisul
contrary to express commands laid on him by the Foreign Office. Get
that? Lawrence is a shy man, anyway--hates publicity, rank, anything
that calls attention to himself. The more shy you are, the easier
you'll get away with it. Feisul must help pretend you're Lawrence. The
presence of Lawrence would add to his prestige incalculably, and I think
he'll see that, but if not, never mind, we'll manage. Any questions?
Quick!"
You can't ask questions when you're given that sort of opportunity. The
right ones don't occur to you and the others seem absurd. Grim knew
that, of course, but when you're dealing with a woman there's just one
chance in a hundred that she may think of something vital that hasn't
occurred to anybody else. Most women aren't practical; but it's the
impractical things that happen.
"Suppose we're captured by the French?" she suggested. "That's what's
going to happen," he answered. "When they've got you, then you're Mrs.
Mabel Ticknor, who never saw Lawrence and wouldn't recognize him if you
did."
"They'll ask why I'm wearing man's clothes, and masquerading as an
Arab."
"Well, you're a woman, aren't you? You answer with another question--
ask them just how safe a woman would be! They may claim that their
Algerians are baby-lambs, but they can't blame you for not believing it!
Anything else?"
She shook her head, and he turned on Hadad.
"Hadad, lose no opportunity of whispering that Lawrence is with Feisul.
Add that Lawrence doesn't want his presence known. Hunt out two or
three loyal Arabs on the staff and tell them the plan is to kidnap
Feisul and carry him to safety across the border; but don't do it too
soon; wait until the debacle begins, and then persuade a few of them--
old Ali, for instance, and Osman--choose the old guard--you and they
bolt with him to Haifa. The Syrians have been thoroughly undermined by
propaganda; gas will do the rest, and as soon as the Arabs see the
Syrians run they'll listen to reason. They know you, and know you're on
the level. Do you understand? Will you do that?"
"I will try. I see many a chance of spilling before this cup comes to
the drinking, Jimgrim!"
"Then carry it carefully!" Grim answered. "Ramsden, take that car you
came in. Find that banker. He's the boy who has bought Feisul's staff,
or I'm much mistaken. Bring him here." "Suppose he won't come?"
"Bring him. Take Jeremy with you. Try diplomacy first. Tell him that
a plot to kidnap Feisul has been discovered at the last minute, but give
him to understand that no suspicion rests on him. Get him, if you can,
to send a message to the French General Staff, warning them to watch for
Feisul and two civilians and Lawrence in an auto. After that bring him
if you have to put him in a sack."
"What's his name, and where does he live?"
"Adolphe Rene. Everybody knows his house. Jeremy, look as unlike
Feisul as you can until the time comes, but study the part and be ready
to jump into his clothes. Narayan Singh, stay with me. You and I will
do the dirty work. Get busy, Ramsden."
Circumstances work clock-fashion, wheel fitting into wheel, when those
tides that Shakespeare spoke of are at flood. Disregarding all the
theory and argument about human will as opposed to cosmic law I say
this, without any care at all who contradicts me:
That whoever is near the hub of happenings is the agent of Universal
Law, and can no more help himself than can the watch that tells the
hour. The men who believe that they make history should really make a
thoughtful fellow laugh. "The moving finger writes, and having writ
moves on"; the old tentmaker Omar knew the truth of it. You could
almost hear the balance-wheel of Progress click as the door opened
before Grim had finished speaking, and a staff officer appeared to
invite him to be present at Feisul's conference.
Grim asked at once for the auto for me (I couldn't have had it
otherwise), and a moment later Jeremy and I were scooting into darkness
through narrow streets and driving rain, with the hubs of the wheels
awash in places and "shipping it green" over the floor when we dipped
and pitched over a cross-street gutter. The Arab driver knew the way,
from which I take it he had a compass in his head as well as a charm
against accidents and a spirit of recklessness that put faith in
worn-out springs. There wasn't room for more than one set of wheels at
a time in most of the streets we tore through, but a camel tried to
share one fairway with us and had the worst of it; he cannoned off into
an alley 'hime end first, and we could hear him bellowing with rage a
block away.
And our manner of stopping was like our progress, prompt. The brake-
bands went on with a shriek and Jeremy and I pitched forward as the car
brought up against the kerb in front of an enormous door, whose brass
knocker shone like gold in the rays of our headlights. We told the Arab
to wait for us and stepped knee-deep into a pool invisible, stumbled and
nearly fell over a great stone set to bridge the flood between street
and door, then proceeded to use the knocker importunately, thunderously,
angrily, as men with wet feet and bruised toes likely will, whatever the
custom of the country.
We went on knocking, taking turns, until the door opened at last and the
banker's servant peered at us with a candle in his hand, demanding to
know in the name of the thousand and one devils whom Solomon boiled in
oil what impudent scavengers were making all that noise. But the banker
himself was in the background, thinking perhaps that the French had come
already, on the lookout over the servant's shoulder for a glimpse of a
kepi. So we put our shoulders to the door, thrust by the servant, and
walked in.
"Take care! I have a pistol in my hand!" said the banker's voice.
"Three shots for a shilling at me then!" retorted Jeremy.
"Who are you?"
"Tell that shivering fool to bring the candle, and you'll see!"
"Oh, you, is it! I told you to come in the morning. I can't see you
now."
"Can't see me, eh? Come in here and peel your eyes, cocky! Sit down
and look at us. There, take a pew. Wonder where I learned such good
English? Well, I used to shine the toenails of the Prince o' Wales, and
you have to pass a Civil Service examination before they give you that
good job. I talk any language except French and Jewish, but this master
of mine turns out to be a Jew who talks French, and not a prizefighter
after all.
"What did I tell you this evening? Said he was a spy for the French,
didn't I? I tell you, I'm a dependable man. What I say you can bet on
till you've lost all your money. Here he is, spying to beat the
promised-landers--just had tea with Feisul and learned all the inside
facts--offered me a pound to come and find you, but I charged him two
and got the money in advance.
"You ought to pay me a commission, too, and then I'll get married if
there's an honest woman left in Damascus. If either of you want my
advice, you won't believe a word the other says, but I expect you're
both too wilful to be guided. Anyhow, you'll have to talk in front of
me, because my master is afraid of being murdered; he isn't afraid of
ghosts or bad smells, but the sight of a long knife turns his heart to
water and sets him to praying so loud that you can't get a word in
edgewise. Go on, both of you--yalla! Talk!"
Does it begin to be obvious why kings used to employ court jesters? The
modern cabinets should have them--men like Jeremy (though they'd be hard
to find) to break the crust of situations. Suspicion weakens in the
presence of incongruity.
"This fellow seems less than half-witted," I said, "but he's shrewd, and
I've found him useful. Unfortunately he has picked up a lot of
information, so we'll have to keep an eye on him. My business is to
communicate with the French General Staff and I'm told you know how to
manage it."
"Huh-huh? Who told you that?"
"Those who gave me my instructions. If you don't know who they are
without my telling you, you're the wrong man and I'll not waste time
with you."
"Let us suppose that I know then. Proceed."
"Your name was given to me as that of a man who can be trusted to take
necessary action in the interests of ... er ... you understand?"
"Uh-huh!"
"The plot for Feisul to be kidnapped by some Syrian members of his staff
has been discovered at the last minute," I said, looking hard at him;
and he winced palpably.
"Mon Dieu! You mean--"
"That it is not too late to save the situation. You have not been
accused of connection with it. I came here in pursuance of a different
plan to kidnap him--a sort of reserve plan, to be employed in case other
means should fail. All arrangements are in working order except the one
item of communicating with the French General Staff. I require you to
accompany me for that purpose, and to send off to them immediately a
message at my dictation."
"Tschaa! Suppose you show me your authority?"
"Certainly!" I answered.
Realizing that he wasn't in immediate danger of life he had returned his
own pistol to his pocket. So I showed him the muzzle of mine, and he
divined without a sermon on the subject that it would go off and shoot
accurately unless he showed discretion. He didn't offer to move when
Jeremy's agile fingers found his pocket and flicked out the mother-of-
pearl-handled, rim-fire thing with which he had previously kept his
courage warm.
"I was told not to trust you too far," I explained. "I was warned in
advance that you might question my credentials. You are said to be
jealous of interference. As a precaution against miscarriage of this
plan through jealousy on your part, I was ordered to oblige you to obey
me."
"And if I refuse?"
"Your widow will then be the individual most concerned. Be good enough
to take pen and paper, and write a letter to my dictation."
Jeremy went to the door, which was partly open, made sure that the
servant was out of earshot, and slammed it tight. Rene the banker went
to his escritoire, took paper, and shook his fountain pen.
"How shall I commence the letter?" he asked me with a dry, sly smile.
He thought he had me there. There are doubtless proper forms of address
that serve to establish the genuineness of letters written by a spy.
"Commence half-way down the page," I answered. "We'll insert the
address afterwards. Write in French:"
"I shall accompany the Emir Feisul and Colonel Lawrence to the front
tonight, former plan having miscarried. When Syrian retreat begins look
out for automobile containing Feisul and Lawrence, which may be
recognized easily as it will also contain myself and another civilian in
plain clothes. At the psychological moment a white flag will be shown
from it, waved perhaps surreptitiously by one of the civilians. In the
event of breakdown of the automobile a horsed vehicle will be used and
the same signal will apply. For the sake of myself and the other
civilian, please instruct all officers to keep a sharp lookout and
protect the party from being fired on."
"There," I said, "sign that and address it."
He hesitated. He couldn't doubt that his own arrangements with traitors
on the staff to kidnap Feisul had gone amiss, else how should I be aware
of them at all--I, who had only arrived that evening in Damascus? But
it puzzled him to know why I should make him write the letter, or, since
his plan must have failed, why I should let him share in the kidnapping.
He smelt the obvious rat. Why didn't I sign the letter myself, and get
all the credit afterward, as any other spy would do?
"You sign it," he said, pushing the letter toward me; and I got one of
those sudden inspirations that there is no explaining--the right idea
for handling fox Rene the banker.
"So you're afraid to sign that, are you? All right; give it here, I'll
sign it; pass me your pen. But you'll come along with me tonight, my
lad, and make your explanations to the French in the morning!"
Looking back, I can see how the accusation worked, although it was an
arrow shot at a venture. His greasy, sly, fox face with its touch of
bold impudence betrayed him for a man who would habitually hedge his
bets. Feisul's safe-conduct had protected him from official
interference, but it had needed more than that to preserve him from
unofficial murder, and beyond a doubt he had betrayed the French in
minor ways whenever that course looked profitable. Now in a crisis he
had small choice but to establish himself as loyal to the stronger side.
He hurriedly wrote a number at the bottom of the letter, and another
followed by three capitals and three more figures at the top.
"Seal it up and send it--quick!" I ordered him.
He obeyed and Jeremy called the servant.
"Summon Francois," said the banker, and the servant disappeared again.
Francois must remain a mystery. He was insoluble. Dressed in a pair of
baggy Turkish pants, with a red sash round his middle, knotted loosely
over a woollen jersey that had wide horizontal black and yellow strips,
with a grey woollen shawl over the lot, and a new tarboosh a size or two
too small for him perched at an angle on his head, he stood shifting
from one bare foot to the other and moved a toothless gap in his lower
face in what was presumably a smile.
He had no nose that you could recognize, although there were two blow-
holes in place of nostrils with a hideous long scar above them. One ear
was missing. He had no eyebrows. But the remaining ear was pointed at
the top like a satyr's, and his little beady eyes were as black as a
bird's and inhumanly bright.
The banker spoke to him in the voice you would use to a rather spoilt
child when obedience was all-important, using Arabic with a few French
words thrown in.
"Ah, here is Francois. Good Francois! Francois, mon brave, here is a
letter, eh? You know where to take it--eh? Ha-ha! Francois knows,
doesn't he! Francois doesn't talk; he tells nobody; he's wise, is
Francois! He runs, eh? He runs through the rain and the night; and he
hides so that nobody can see him; and he delivers the letter; and
somebody gives Francois money and tobacco and a little rum; and
Francois comes running back to the nice little, dark little hole where
he sleeps. Plenty to eat, eh, Francois? Nice soft food that needs no
chewing! Nothing to do but run with a letter now and then, eh? A brave
fellow is Francois--a clever fellow--a trustworthy fellow--a dependable,
willing fellow, always ready to please! Ready to go?