The Mule on the Minaret (30 page)

‘We, on the other hand, are going to do ourselves extremely well. This dinner's on the house,' Diana said.

The hotel where they dined had been the headquarters of the Turkish General Staff during the First War. It had a stolid sober air. ‘And I suppose,' Diana said, ‘that there are still officers on the German roster who dined here then; one or two of them a year ago, when the Free French campaign hung in the balance, must have thought, “Maybe we'll be dining in there again next month.” Perhaps some of them actually did come back here with the Axis Armistice Commission.'

The dining-room was very empty. Aleppo was now a railhead, little more; a junction for the Taurus. Eve felt a little awkward sitting alone with Diana. It was the first time that they had been more than casually together. ‘There should be some real wine here,' Diana said. There was: a Burgundy that was full and warm,
like its own rich colour. Diana lifted her glass between her hands, breathing in its bouquet reverentially.

‘Jane's missing something,' Eve said.

Diana shrugged. ‘Poor Jane. Every time she has an evening free, she gets the way she was last night. She's resolved to stay out of mischief while her husband is behind barbed wire; she wants to be able to say to him at the end of the war, “Darling, nothing happened, nothing.” But he's almost certainly resigned himself to something happening. He has already rehearsed his little speech, his “Darling, let's forget everything that's happened in the last six years and start again where we left off.” Hundreds of husbands all over Europe are preparing to say just that. Jane's an ass not to accept the general pattern.'

They continued to discuss Jane as the level of the wine sank below the label.

‘It's difficult for her,' Diana said. ‘She was crazy about her husband. They'd had a two-weeks' honeymoon, and that was that. A perfect honeymoon. And when you get down to brass tacks, that means she liked love-making; suddenly to be deprived of it, just when you'd started to enjoy it, and not to know when you'd have a chance of it again .. . It's easier for a widow. She may be heartbroken, but she can say to herself, “One day I'll get over this.” There's an interval and life begins again. She can look at a calendar and think, “1942. I should be a new self by then.” Jane can't do that. She's in a vacuum. She does not know when the war will end. It might last ten years. Think of those French officers in Napoleon's time.'

Diana did most of the talking, and Eve, as she listened, wondered as so many men had done, what Diana's own life was. She was so assured, so composed. She had no inhibitions, yet she never talked about herself. You felt that she had come to terms with the problems her life had brought her, her background, her height, her conflict with conformity.

‘And Jane's a man's piece,' she was continuing. ‘She attracts men and they attract her. She likes dancing. She's not a prude. She's only twenty-four. She's tempted, just as we all are, and there's the heat; and the men outnumbering the women twenty-five to one. Healthy, good-looking men who scarcely ever see a woman; ravenous young men. Think of the strain on her. No wonder that she drinks like that.'

‘Is that why she drinks so much?'

‘I've presumed it is: to damp down the fire. It's also a form of self-defence. She encourages the men to drink. When they want to leave a restaurant she'll say, ‘Oh, no, let's stay a little longer. I'd like to see that cabaret again.” That means another brandy; then another; both get a little high. Then she can pull an act, become sentimental and self-pitying: maybe it's not an act. She is self-pitying and sentimental at that point of the evening. A man feels sorry for her and chivalrous; and won't take advantage of the wife of a brother officer who's behind barbed wire. It's all very noble and self-sacrificial, but it's also very silly and self-destructive. She's ruining her health. Soon she'll be ruining her looks. That husband of hers won't be all that grateful when he's met by a plump, bloated spouse; even if she is virtuous. He'd prefer, after five celibate years, to be welcomed by a lively wanton.'

‘How often is she like the way she was last night?'

‘Too often for it to be comfortable. She's careful on the nights before she's taking out an ambulance. But one day she'll get an unexpected summons. That's the danger. Her reactions may not be fast enough. She's all right at the moment, but she's on a slippery slope. I wish to heaven she'd fall in love with someone.'

It was said in the most detached way possible, yet it was said with warmth. There was no note of the cold analyst. Once again Eve found herself wondering about Diana's own life.

‘Does the Prof, know Jane well?'

‘Fairly well. Why?'

‘Mightn't he do for Jane? He's a married man. With someone to forget. They're in the same boat, in their separate ways.'

Diana smiled. “Somehow I can't see the Prof, and Jane in that galley.'

Their glasses were nearly empty. It was getting late. ‘Do you worry much about the future?' Eve asked.

‘It doesn't do much good worrying, does it?'

‘Doesn't it? I find I have to, or rather I can't help it. Before the war one could make decisions for oneself. Now decisions are made for one. One lives from day to day. One can't make any long-term plans. At school I was told that I must discover what I wanted out of life and then try and see if I couldn't get it. One can't do that any longer, can one?'

Once again Diana laughed, a rich ironic laugh. ‘I never could,' she said. ‘I've never known what I wanted out of life. I've only known what I didn't want, and I knew that from the start.'

A few days later Diana received a report from the official analyst. It contained the photostat of a message sent up to Istanbul by Aziz. ‘Strongly pro-German anti-British Armenian called Alexis Belorian visiting Istanbul shortly. Will try inform you E.T.A. Young man, expensive tastes, good family, believe easily bribed.' She shrugged. She filed it, entered the cross-reference in the other appropriate files, then brought it to Reid's office. ‘This is what you were hoping for.'

He read it carefully, then whistled.

‘The captain does hit the nail on the head. He'll be dancing round the office when he sees this.'

‘Is he alone now?' she asked.

‘Yes.'

‘Let's break the good news to him together.'

Rarely had Reid seen a man more overjoyed. Farrar jumped to his feet, and began to stride backwards and forwards like a panther.

‘Wonderful. Wonderful. Better than I dared hope for, and so soon. I felt that we couldn't fail. Yet I couldn't trust myself to hope. We've made it. You know that Arab proverb, “When the camel has got his nose under the flap of the tent, his body will soon follow.” We can't miss. Alexis is the tops . . . all that Cole Porter stuff; the Coolidge dollar, Whistler's Mama. Poor Aziz. He'll get no reward for this. Let's mention him in our wills. Let's have him endowed. Let's open a Trust Fund in Geneva. We're sitting pretty. Man, are we sitting pretty. We'll have Alexis in Istanbul within a month. Not sooner. Give the Germans time to
bait the trap. They are so slow and thorough. They'll have to make inquiries about Alexis. We must see that when he is there he'll be visiting people whom they can trust. We must give him a sound cover story, so that he'll have a water-tight alibi for going up there, and one that will give him an excuse for going up again. It won't be difficult. We must have a steady talk with Alexis. Then he must convince the Germans that he has sound sources of information. We must build him up a team of notional characters.'

‘What are notional characters?'

Farrar stared, pretending to be dumbfounded.

‘You don't know what a notional character is?'

‘How should I?'

‘What did they teach you in Matlock? A notional character is... well, let me explain. This should have been lecture No. 5 in counter-espionage. When you have a double-agent who is working under your control, he has to have sources for his information. And he has to be able to convince his employers of the validity of those sources. For instance, he might say, “I know an Irishman whose father was murdered by the Black and Tans. He hates the British. He drinks heavily. In his cups he is boastful, arrogant and anti-British. In his resentment against the British, he is often indiscreet. He is inclined to say things like ‘Would you believe what these miserable creatures are doing now,' and out comes a piece of secret information.” Now that Irishman doesn't exist. He's a notional character. But he has to exist for the Germans; he has to be a real and convincing character. That is what we have to do for Alexis, build up a cast of notional characters so that he has as many sources of information as possible. He should be able to give naval, military and air force information. He should also be able to give some clues to diplomatic situations. He ought to have a pipe-line on to the Spears Mission.

‘What we have to do—and I'd say that this is the kind of thing you'd do far better than I—is to imagine the kinds of person that a chap like Alexis would know. He's only twenty-three. We mustn't have him moving in too exalted circles. The thing has to be convincing; and his cast can grow. He must be devious. He must try to find the kinds of person who can help him. It won't be too easy for us to create that cast, but let's remember this: the men who are going to read these messages are completely in the dark. Any news is welcome. I'll work on a character or two. You do the same. Then we'll compare notes and make a composite picture out of the two.
There's no desperate hurry. He can't be expected to send back messages right away. He hasn't got his team lined up yet. Besides, he doesn't know yet what they want to know; or rather we don't know yet what they want to know from him.

‘Do you remember that golfing cartoon of Reynolds', of the man in plus-fours sitting in his study, and his wife admonishing their children, “Sh, darlings, don't go in there. Daddy's gone round in par and he wants to think about it.” That's how I feel; I want to sit and brood. The heavens are opening and I see new worlds. No one can tell where this day's work will end.'

A soft reminiscent smile came into Eve's eyes as she opened the envelope that brought Beirut's report on the Armenian operation. It transported her to that halcyon fortnight. There had been times since her return when she had wondered if it had ever happened. Istanbul looked the same, her office looked the same, her flat looked the same. So did Kitty. So did Sedgwick, so did everyone in the office. The talk was just the same. And she supposed that to all of them she must have seemed the same. Sedgwick had invited her to his flat for an evening drink. ‘Now tell me everything about it,' he said. ‘Who is doing what, and when, with whom and how?'

He had asked her about Farrar, about the Prof. Had she seen General Spears? How were relations between Spears and Catroux. She answered as best she could, but she fancied he would have learnt more from a monthly intelligence summary. It was surprising how little she had to tell him. In Beirut, as in Istanbul, they were all leading their day-to-day life, caught up with their day-today problems that in two years would have been shelved or solved, and all of it was superficial because none of it had any root in the real life of the men and women who were conducting it. Their real lives were in England, waiting to be resumed when the war was over. She had nothing to tell him about the real life of the Lebanon. She could only talk about its restaurants and night-clubs, the skiing at the Cedars, the bathing at the Bain Militaire and the cost of whisky, just as she had talked to Nigel Farrar about the hot-spots of Istanbul; and whereas Farrar had said, ‘Pray God I'm never posted there,' Sedgwick had said, ‘Clearly that's the place to go for leave.'

Everything was the same and nobody noticed any difference in her. Kitty had been in a dither because two beaux had planned to
arrive simultaneously for a leave; she did not want to lose either but neither was more than what she called a
passade
; ‘all right for when one's in the mood for them, but not worth having a nerve storm over.' Kitty had been so full of her own problems that she had scarcely bothered to ask Eve about her leave. Had any of it really happened?

And then here was this report to remind her that it had. There was the report of Aziz's meeting with Alexis at the Koumayan tea party, presumably the Prof.'s, since she had been interviewed by the Prof, on the following day. She could hear her own words coming back to her, she could hear that bumptious young Armenian exerting his obvious charm, and she remembered the way Aziz's eyes had flashed. He had resented the Armenian's arrogance, his sexual confidence. It was a male's instinctive hostility towards a rival. She had relished that. And now the two rivals were locked together on paper, in a file.

The telephone rang. She gave it the official answer: ‘Inter-services Liaison Office.'

There was a laugh at the other end. ‘How very formal that does sound.'

For a moment she was puzzled. Then she recognized the voice. ‘Martin, what a surprise.'

‘Surely not. I want to hear all about your leave. When can I hear it?'

His voice had its habitual tone; his perpetual facade of courtship. Usually it managed to annoy her. It was so very much a manner; the diplomat in an hour of relaxation. But this time it rather pleased her.

‘I'd love to, any time,' she answered. ‘I'm not very busy.'

‘What about Tuesday then, next week?'

Tuesday was five days off. This was unlike him. Normally he would ask her out for that same evening, or at the most the following day because of some change of plans. To be asked five days ahead was a genuine date.

‘Tuesday would be fine,' she said.

‘Then I'll call for you at half past eight. No special clothes; a quiet evening.'