Blue Damask (31 page)

     “We must get you indoors,” he was moving quickly and Elsa did her best to keep pace.  At least the soft leather ankle boots Farmadi had given her were holding up.  She was sweating and panting when they finally arrived at his friend’s house on the quiet street.  He pushed her through the door and said, “Go inside.  I will get what we need.”

     Elsa sat gratefully on the brick bench in the cool darkness of the small room.  Descartes returned after only a few minutes with three more men, all heavily laden.  The door closed Descartes and Elsa were alone with a half barrel of water, some soap in paper wrappers a tray of food and three pitchers.

     “Where is Sonnenby?” she asked him again.

     “They still have him,
cherie
.”  He unwrapped one of the soap packages and held it up like it was a treasure.  “You must bathe and dress before we can go anywhere else.  Let me help you.”  He led her to the tub and worked on the hooks that fastened the dress behind her back.

     She realized what she must look like.  She had been wearing this dress for nearly four days, across miles of desert on a camel, perched on a rock, in the sand, on a camel again.  She looked down as the beaded bodice loosened.  Her breasts were tanned above the dress line, white below.  The blue silk had faded in some places and not in others.  Her hair was coming loose from the long braid she had plaited days ago. Descartes was pulling at the back.

     “Those buttons don’t come undone,” she told him.  “Here, I have it.  Let me do the rest.”

     “For your hair,” he said and produced a comb.

     “Turn around,
s'il vous plait
,” she said and he did.  Elsa climbed into the little tub.  The water had not been heated, but that was not important. It felt cool and refreshing.  She was able to sit on the bottom with her knees bent.  The water came up half way over her body and floated her breasts.

     Descartes sat on the brick bench and leaned back against the wall with a great sigh.

     “
Merde
,” he breathed.  “Mr. Thompson could not sign that paper fast enough to get you out.  He did not have your finger marks on his neck,
cherie
, but whatever you did was very effective.  He was shaking like a leaf. 
Mon Dieu
, it is over.”

     She worked up a lather with the block of coarse soap and rubbed her arms.  “It is not over,” she argued.  “We must get Lord Sonnenby out.”

     “How?  He is English.  The English have him.  They have a great many guns,
fraulein
. It is the Army Depot. I was able to get you out, but they would not give him to me.”

     “How did you get me out?”  She used one of the pitchers to pour water over her head and began to work the soap into her hair.

     “I am of no interest to them.  I was able to produce my passport and yours.  They made a telephone call to Damascus and spoke to my
superviseur.
  I vouched for you and it was enough for Mr. Thompson.  You were dressed as a
prostituée, Cherie.
It was easy.  I said you were our whore.”

     She laughed softly.  “I am a wife for the locals and a whore for the Europeans.”

     “I will say what I think they already believe.  It is easier that way.”

     “You would make a good psychologist.”  She poured the cool water over her head. “You found the passports?”

     “
Oui
.”

     “Good.”  She rinsed her hair and rubbed her face with a cloth that Descartes had placed on the edge of the barrel. She rubbed her ears; it seemed she could not get all the sand out.  “But I am not leaving without my patient.”

     Descartes did not answer her with a word, but with a groan.  She finished bathing and made to stand before she realized there was nothing to wear.

     “Here, I have a dress for you,” Descartes stood and brought her some soft cloth, dark, almost black.

     She put it on and tied it around her waist with a sash he handed her.  It was a simple smock, high at the neck and low around her bare feet.  The sleeves were long and covered her hands.

     Descartes stepped back to look at it.  “It is a man’s robe,” he told her.  “The women’s clothing in the bazaar was too small for you,
cherie
.  But I will say, it does not look manly on you at all.”  He bent to pick up a dark veil.  “You can cover your hair with this when you go out, but for now this outfit should do.  I could not find proper European fashions for you in the time I had.”  He sounded apologetic.

     Elsa took his hands and squeezed them.  “
Merci
, you have done well.  Thank you.”

     “I must wash, now.  Turn around,
cheri
.”

     Elsa smiled at him and moved to the tray, picking at the dates and olives.  She lifted a piece of bread and dipped it in the hummus.  There was also bowl of yogurt and some chopped mint and cucumber.  She tried to eat slowly.  Behind her she heard soft splashing as Descartes rinsed himself in the tub.

     She said to him, “They are keeping him in that building? They are not moving him?”

     “I am not in their confidence.  They would not have told me, but I saw no signs of any preparation to move him.”

     “Good.  Then he will be there when I go back.”

     The splashing stopped.  “You cannot go back.”

     “I will.”  She peeled back a date with her teeth and lifted the sharp pit out with her fingers and laid it on the tray next to the others.  “They will not have him.  I have power of attorney.  I can get him out.”  Her imagination had already tortured her with visions of him in a straightjacket again, or in restraints.  In a cell.  She turned around and asked him, “They beat him, didn’t they?”

     “They did,
cherie,”
he said sadly.  “But he struck at them, first.  He went into a frenzy when they tried to handcuff him.  I could hear them beat him.”

     She ground her teeth.  She made a fist and began pacing the small room, aware that Descartes had stopped bathing and was watching her with alarm.

     “I admit I have tried to understand men,” she breathed, “ever since I stopped one of my brothers from poking a toad with a stick when I was four years old.”  She brought her fist down onto her open palm.  “But now I am beginning to understand them,” she seethed.  “I am finally beginning to understand.”

    She heard the sound of water again and the sound of him getting out of the tub.  He wrapped the cloth around his waist and reached for fresh khakis he had folded next to the tub.  She turned away and rubbed her face with both hands.

     “How is your leg?” she asked.

     “Beautiful,
cherie
.  There is little pain, and no infection.”

     “Good.”  Elsa picked up another piece of bread and tore it with her teeth.  “I will get him out,” she said.

     “Tell me how, my darling, and I will help.  But I do not see how we can take him out of the English Army Headquarters in Baghdad.  Your power of attorney is contingent on Marshall’s death.  They do not have his death certificate.  They would want to confirm his death before honoring your rights.  Besides, if they claim Sonnenby as a traitor to the crown, that little piece of paper is meaningless.”

     She thought.  “He is still considered legally insane.  They cannot prosecute him for treason.  But you are right that Marshall’s paper will not get him out.   But
Mr.
Marshall
could.”  She put her fingers to her temples and paced the room.

     Every man had a weakness, some had many.  The key was to identify that weak area and exploit it.  A warrior or soldier would quickly find the physical weakness in his opponent.  She would find the mental one.  First step was to discover their private fears.

     “What do the English fear the most?” she asked Descartes.

     “A properly seared steak,” he answered as he pulled on his boot.

     She laughed, then sobered.  “What else,” she murmured to herself.  She had very little experience with Englishmen in person.  She had learned English so she could read their literature in the original language.  She had treated a few English prisoners, but had no conversations with them.  They would not speak to her despite her many attempts.

      She had been assigned to them because of her English skills, but they would say little besides “water”.  It was their duty to remain silent and not speak to the Germans.  She tapped her chin.  These were military men, not lawyers.  Army men.  Men following orders.

     She narrowed her eyes.  Orders.  They must obey their orders.  Here was a real weakness.  The military did not train their common soldiers to think.  Quite the contrary.  They trained them only to obey.  English soldiers especially.  A slow smile spread across her face.

     She turned to Descartes, “You have Mr. Marshall’s passport?”

     “
Oui
.”

     “His gold tie tack and cuff links?”

     “Yes, they are here in your briefcase.  What are you thinking,
cherie
?”

     “I want you to go to the bazaar and buy me an Englishman.”

     Descartes had finished dressing and was using the comb across his head.  He stopped.  “Say again?  My English is functional…but…”

     “You heard me.  I want you to go to the bazaar or the
kasbah
and get me an Englishman.”  She went to her briefcase and withdrew Marshall’s passport and flipped to the photograph.  “Good.  The photograph is just as plain and simple as we need it to be.”

     “What are you thinking?”

     “You get me an Englishman.  Baghdad is thick with them.  Get me one from London, not one of the country dialects.  Definitely not Welsh or Irish.  He must have dark hair.”  She held up the passport and touched Marshall’s photograph.  “And very important, he must
sound
like Marshall.  That’s how you will know you have a good one.”

     She saw her plan start to dawn on Descartes’ face.  “And this purchased Englishman will do this for us, why?”

     “Because we have at least a hundred grams of gold here.  The tack alone is fifty grams,” she smiled again.  “I am sure you can find a man with gambling debts or an alcohol habit who would spend half a day to earn a half year’s wages.  I have discovered that men in the desert are extremely mercenary.”

     “You are clever,
Mademoiselle
Schluss,” he rubbed his chin, “But will it work?”

     “You tell him he will not be paid until Lord Sonnenby has passed through this doorway.”  She pointed at the door.  “Show him the tacks, buy him a suit.  Give him the passport.”

     “And the army?  They will make a phone call,
cherie
.”

     “We are the only people who know that Mr. Marshall is dead.  Let them make the phone call.  I am betting heavily that they have already made many phone calls and have been told that Lord Sonnenby is in Archibald Marshall’s custody.  We only have to
produce
Field Agent Marshall.”

     “And if they ask to put Marshall on the line?”

     “Really, how clear is the line?  Any London man can say, ‘Yes, I am here and I am collecting Lord Sonnenby.’”

     “What if someone inside knows him?”  Descartes was going through his satchel.

     “Mr. Marshall is not a military man, and Lord Sonnenby has been long discharged from the Army.  Neither man is under the authority of this office,
monsieur
.  It is unlikely they move in the same circles.  If they have orders to release Lord Sonnenby to the Foreign Office, and we have Marshall’s passport and papers, they will.  I imagine they will be glad to be rid of him.  I will need some good paper to compose the orders.  Can you get me some?”

     “I have some here,” he handed her some blank paper tied in a folded rectangle.  “It is for my maps and my reports.”

     “A pen?  Ink?”

     He gave them to her.

     Elsa took a deep breath.  “Go buy me an Englishman,
Monsieur
Descartes.  I will do the rest.”

Descartes brought him in as dawn lightened the street outside.  Elsa rose from the bench where she had been dozing to look him over.  He was roughly the same size as Mr. Marshall and had dark hair as she had required.

     He was swaying a bit as was Descartes.  The two men seemed to be holding each other up.

     “Gentlemen,” she said.  “Good morning.”

     “Egad, Frenchy.  Who is this vision of loveliness?”

     “This is your new boss, Mr. Sloane.” Descartes slurred.  “May I present
Fraulein
Elsa Schluss.”  He had trouble with the ‘s’ sounds.

     Elsa sighed with relief.  Mr. Sloane’s dialect was not as refined as Marshall’s, but it would pass if he didn’t talk too much.

     She peered at his face.  A shave and a haircut.  She would have to recreate the tiny mustache.  It could be done.  It didn’t look like Mr. Sloane had shaved in a week. She would have plenty of beard to work with. But he smelled strongly of drink.