The Mule on the Minaret (3 page)

He got up from his desk, walked towards the door: then checked.

‘I'd better ring him first. He may have someone with him.' He called the number. ‘Is that you? Cartwright here. I've got Reid with me. Is it all right for me to bring him round? Fine. Right away.'

On the door of Farrar's office was a notice: ‘Economic section.' Farrar was a captain, tall, dark, clean-shaven; with his hair worn short. He had bright eyes, and the air of an alert rodent. His uniform was new, neat and well-cut, yet he did not have a military look. He appeared to be in the early thirties. He welcomed Reid briskly.

‘It's fine you're here. I've been looking forward to this ever since I heard you were on the way. Thank you very much, sir.'

‘Then I'll leave you to gossip over mutual friends.'

‘Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.'

Farrar had a quick but easy way of talking. He gave the impression of being in a hurry, but also of being on his way to something he expected to enjoy. Reid felt that he would like him.

‘Who are the friends we have in common?' he inquired.

‘As far as I know, we haven't any. Though we must have mutual acquaintances. Everybody knows everyone in England.'

‘But you told Cartwright you knew friends of mine.'

‘I know: it's my security training. I never tell the truth when a lie will do as well.'

‘Doesn't that get you into muddles?'

‘Less and less often; and it's very good for one's memory. Keeps one's mind alert: I know a lot about you. I thought it would be fun to know you. But I didn't want to put it to the boss like that. I'm sure that by the time the evening's over we'll have established contacts. We might have dinner together if that's agreeable. In the meantime let's go up to my flat and have a drink. I hate talking in offices.'

The flat was a five minutes' taxi-drive away, up-hill. Reid looked from one side to the other. It was a curving road with tramlines
running down its centre. On one side it sloped steeply to the sea; the other side was flanked with modern buildings.

‘You don't seem to bother about the blackout here,' he said.

‘How could we, in an Arab city? If the streets weren't lit they'd be unsafe to walk in: robbery with violence along every block. They do issue instructions about not having naked lights facing the sea, but no one bothers much, even though there are submarines.'

Farrar's flat was on the second floor of a walk-up block of flats. There was no hallway and no porter. It had two entrances: ‘Very convenient,' Farrar said.

It was a four-roomed flat: it was sparsely furnished. There were no pictures. There was an immense desk, and a steel filing cabinet. But there was only one small wardrobe: and the second bedroom contained nothing but a military camp-bed.

‘I've only just moved in,' said Farrar. ‘I'm not settled yet, as you observe.'

Reid looked round him, puzzled. He had heard that some of the Mission officers lived in flats; but he had presumed that they either shared them—what was the word they used in the Far East, ‘Chummeries'—or else lived in a pension. The rent and furnishing of a flat of this size must be considerable.

‘Do many of you have flats of this size?' he inquired.

‘Not very many.'

‘I suppose I shouldn't ask you questions, or perhaps I shouldn't ask you questions at all, because you'll give me devious answers.'

Farrar laughed. ‘I'm going to like you. I'll make you a promise. I won't tell you a lie unless it's absolutely necessary. That reverses my usual practice of never telling the truth when a lie will do just as well.'

‘That's very civil of you.'

‘Not at all. The Austin Reed service: excuse the pun. Now, what'll you drink? I've almost everything. Have you tried Arak yet? It'll save you a lot of money if you can learn to like it. It's rather like Pernod, white and it clouds when you pour water on it. A taste of aniseed. They serve side dishes with it,
messe.
It's something you sip, not quaff, and you have to keep nibbling when you're sipping or you'll find the room spinning round you; but a couple of mouthfuls will put you straight. It's very strong. The troops aren't allowed it. The Arabs sell what they call spiked oranges into which Arak has been injected. Arak leaves a lining to your stomach and if you've drunk a lot at night and start the day with a glass of water,
the water will mix with that lining and be the equivalent of raw spirits on an empty stomach. One glass before a meal is fine; try it, I've got some cheese here.'

He raised his glass. ‘Here's to your first drink in Beirut. Now about myself. I'll put my cards on the table, in terms of our gentleman's agreement. That notice on the door you may have noticed, “Economic section”, doesn't mean a thing. I'm not in the Mission. The Mission is my cover and I don't think I'll be allowed to keep it for much longer. The Mission will be a Legation soon, and “the cloak and dagger boys”—that's what I am—will have to find other roosts.

‘This is the way it came about. I'm in oil: or was until a year ago. I was at Stowe and New College; so you see how I know who you are. I got a second in mods, and a third in greats. That wasn't enough for the Home Civil. But oil was prepared to find a place for someone with an honours degree, who could bowl “Chinamen”; I was a “Tic” and can sport a Vincent's tie . . . Anyhow, I came out here; with the I.P.C. in 1934. Men in oil are, as you know, a reserved occupation. When the war started I was told it was my duty to stay put. That seemed fine to me, when nothing was happening anywhere. It didn't seem so fine in the summer of 1940 when the whole fabric slipped. I'm not a death-or-glory boy, but I like to be a part of what is happening. I nosed around, I felt I'd like to be in khaki, and just when I was thinking that, a fellow turned up here who could do just that for me. “You won't get the V.C.,” he said. “You won't charge a redoubt at Omdurman, but the right man in the right place is worth a division in the wrong.” Have you heard of an organization based on Pelham Street? You haven't. I'm delighted. That means that our security is good. I won't say what we do. Perhaps we're not a quarter as important as we think we are. But if we're a tenth as important as we think we are, there's no need to worry about dodging your share of the war effort. If you think I've a chip on my shoulder or a sense of guilt because better and older men than I are shivering in foxholes, it's the “don't give it another thought” department. In every deal someone has to pick up the good hand and I'm the lucky guy this time. Probably in 1955 the boot will be on the other foot. The wretch of today will be happy tomorrow! For the moment all's fine with Ferdinand, and listen now, this is where you come in.'

He checked. He looked thoughtfully at Reid.

‘I hadn't meant to bring this up right away. But why waste time?
You're O.K. I can see that. The point is this. How would you like to share this flat with me? It won't cost you much. Not nearly as much as the St. Georges. It has to cost you something: because of Whitehall redtape book-keeping. I've an accountant here: he'll work out a round sum: including a certain amount of food and a reasonable amount to drink. You'd be on your own. There's that
“entrée indépendante”.
You can bringyour friends here. It would be much more comfortable than an hotel.'

‘Of course it would. It's very generous of you. But why are you asking me? Why not someone in your own outfit?'

‘That's the precise point. I don't want to be associated publicly with my outfit. They won't let me stay much longer with the Mission but it was very useful for me to have had this link with it, and if you came to stay here—you, a professor in civilian life and a member of the Mission—it would continue in the public eye my association with the Mission. The kind of cover that I need. The moment I heard you were coming, I thought: “My man.” '

‘I don't suppose that there'd be any point in my asking you for what kinds of activity you need a cover?'

‘Scarcely, and the less you know the better. My organization has a dozen different names. If ever you see anything called “I.S.” for Inter-Services something or other, you can be pretty sure that it's some “cloak-and-dagger” racket. Half the time I don't know what I'm doing myself. By that I mean I don't know whether the boys up top are giving me the right reasons for what I'm doing. In this game one is only told as much as is necessary to do one's job. I take things as they come. It's a cosy job, in a place like this, or shall I say as long as Beirut stays a place like this. Did you see that notice on the Mission walls: “Think, plan and act in terms of March 1942”? You read that, I guess, as an admonition against being idle in the winter months. I read it another way. “Nigel,” I said to myself. “In a few months' time the whole of this seaboard may blow up, with Germans pouring in from every side. Make the most of the good times while they're around. “The long night cometh, starless, void of sun.” I think you'll like it in this flat, and you'll meet a number of agreeable people. But don't decide right away. Case the joint for a day or two. Now let's go and see the town. It isn't raining so let's walk.'

The sky was clear now, and a waxing moon glistened and glittered on the water. It was strange once again to be looking down on the Mediterranean: so much was familiar, so much was new.

At the foot of the road ran a street, lined on one side by shops and restaurants.

‘This is the student quarter,' Farrar said. ‘That's the American University—the A.U.B.—across the way. I use its library quite a lot; and I sit around in the student cafés. Most of them are jabbering in Arabic. My Arabic is shaky; I don't get half of what they are saying, but I learn something just by looking at them. Often when I'm reading secret reports, the characters in my file become puppets in a game; they cease to be real people. Looking at them across a café, seeing how they move their hands when they talk, makes them real again.'

The road turned to the right as they descended. Most of the houses were modern; solid cement structures; but now and again there was a house built on the Turkish pattern, in dark yellowish brick, with high arched windows; some of them with coloured glass.

‘They're delightful inside,' Farrar said. ‘A large central hall, usually with a fountain playing: low divans round the walls, piles of rugs and carpets, small rooms opening off. Typifies a whole way of life. That's a fine example.'

He pointed to a house that stood at the head of the road which housed the Mission building. It had an exotic, ecclesiastical flavour. ‘A big shot in local politics lives there. I can't remember his name. Names are a great problem. They aren't pronounced the way they are spelt, or rather the Arabs have a different alphabet. One doesn't always know which is the important name, so that in an office they get filed incorrectly. That's why bad boys slip through our hands so often. We won't go past the Mission. I'll take you down a back-street. Careful how you tread.'

It was a needed warning. There were deep gutters beside the sidewalk: the paving-stones were often broken. The streets were dimly lighted. There were few pedestrians: ‘Everyone's in the night-club quarter,' Farrar said.

The night-club quarter, or at least the European section of the night-club quarter, ran along the waterfront: it was barely two hundred yards long: restaurants, hotels, shops, bars, dance clubs jostled close against each other. Then the street became a promenade along the water, with larger hotels and shops facing it.

‘This is typical of Lebanon,' said Farrar, ‘—of the mixture that is Lebanon. There's the “Kit Cat” which is an international hot-spot with a floor show and reasonable food. Next to it is an open
Arab kitchen where you can get meat off a skewer; or rissoles containing heaven knows what and all kinds of sour vegetables. Then across the way there's a café without a licence where you get those sweet cakes that look so indigestible and aren't; and note the different kinds of clothing: the Moslems with their baggy trousers and red tarbooshes. Look at the Lebanese girls with their black hair loose upon their shoulders; they may be just as good Moslems as those veiled shuffling figures.'

He paused on the pavement opposite the ‘Kit Cat' Club. A quartet of Australian soldiers with big-brimmed hats were looking at the advertisements of the floor-show: a group of little boys were clustered round them, holding out their hands with cries of, ‘Hullo, George, give five piastre.' There were flower stalls; and an air of bustle.

‘Beirut's enjoying a boom,' said Farrar. ‘Eight months ago it was dead. The French were in mourning, after their defeat. There was a Petainist killjoy atmosphere.
Famille, travail, patrie
... no goods, no tourists, empty shop-windows, nothing. Now it's all changed. British and Australian troops on leave with their pockets full; goods coming in from Egypt and from India. Offices opening up. Employment at the Docks; a railroad being built, a need for all kinds of services, and the prices haven't gone up yet, still based on the Vichy franc. It won't last long. Let's make the most of it. Think, act and plan in terms of March 1942. There are still good Bordeaux wines at the French Officers' Club. That's where I'd suggest we go.'

The French Officers' Club was along the waterfront, half-way between the night-club section and the St. Georges. It was a large barrack type building, with, on the first floor, a library and sitting-rooms that were, so Farrar informed Reid, rarely used. ‘Heaven knows what happens on the top floors,' he said. ‘I've never had the good luck to find out.'

The dining-room was large and high; over half of the tables were occupied. There were more British uniforms than French.

‘And the dinner's on me,' said Farrar. ‘I can charge you up once against the firm. After that it's Dutch. When did you drink champagne last? Not since you left England? Good, there's still some left. This place is run by the man who owns the Lucullus Restaurant, which is about the tops; he knows what's what. And I'll tell you another place here where you can get good wine; the Egyptian wagon lit. They've a stock and they're not hoarding it, they're working through it at a reasonable profit. There'll never
be another Krug ‘28. Let's have a fling with it. And really it's about time you said something now. I've talked my head off.'