‘That’s the chap. I expect it’s quite all right. But would you ask one of your cruising cars to park outside his shop. If I’m not out in half an hour, they can come in and look for me.’
Hugo heard Cowcroft chuckle. He said, ‘You’ve been watching too many television plays. All right, I’ll get one of them on the wireless.’
If Moharram had heard, and understood, this conversation he showed no sign of it. He led the way down the stairs and along the pavement towards his shop.
A black Cadillac was parked outside. There was no one in it.
‘Is that your visitor?’ said Hugo.
When Moharram turned to answer, his face looked curiously livid under the overhead neon lights. He said, in a husky parody of his normal speaking voice, ‘That’s him. He’s a great guy. You’ll see.’
Hugo realised, with a cold feeling, that the old man was terrified. The shop, which had been badly lit before, was now in almost total darkness. A light showed at the far end, under the door of the room the old woman had come out of.
Hugo slid his hand inside his coat and touched the grip of the automatic. His heart was beating uncomfortably. Take it easy.
‘You lead on,’ he said.
Moharram looked up at him.
‘I said, you go in front.’
Moharram nodded, and bobbed off down the centre aisle between the tins of fruit and jars of jam and bottles of tomato sauce. An ambush among the crates of oranges and sacks of potatoes at the far end? If it was, it remained unsprung.
Moharram held the door open. Hugo said, again, ‘You first.’
The old man looked surprised, but went in. Hugo followed cautiously.
Behind the small, round, paper-cluttered table which occupied the centre of the room, Dr. Kassim was seated in a wicker chair. He was smoking a cigarette in a long amber cigarette-holder, and he was alone.
Hugo removed his right hand from inside his coat. The movement, though unobtrusive, did not escape Dr. Kassim. He said, ‘You are a cautious man, Mr. Greest. Do you always come armed to an interview?’
‘When I have to meet an unknown person, in a strange place, in the middle of the night, always.’
‘But why? In this instance, if I had meant you any harm, and had brought a friend with me, he could have shot you with a machine pistol as you came through the door, as efficiently—’ Dr. Kassim’s thin mouth closed with a snap— ‘as efficiently as Major Youba shot the unhappy Abdullah.’
‘No doubt. And the noise would have brought in the two policemen, who are sitting outside at this moment in a car. Possibly they too would have been armed with machine pistols.’
‘Excellent,’ said Dr. Kassim. ‘How comforting to meet someone who thoroughly distrusts you. It offers, don’t you think, a firm basis for mutual understanding. Have a cigarette?’
‘Thank you, no. You have some business you wished to discuss?’
‘Business, of course. But to have the pleasure of making your better acquaintance, too. I am a great admirer of your performances, Mr. Greest. One word of criticism. When the Tiger came through that door,
he
would have kicked it open with his foot, and fallen on his face. Then the hail of bullets which awaited him would have gone over his head. Lying on the floor, he would have whipped out his own gun—’ Dr. Kassim suited the action to the word, and a black automatic appeared in his hand— ‘and shot down his opponents, one – two – three.’ As he said this, he pointed it in rapid succession, at Hugo and at two imaginary opponents. ‘It is a rule of the cinema that only villains are hit by bullets. I fear that it is not so in real life.’
The automatic disappeared, as smoothly as it had arrived. Hugo said, in what he hoped was a steady voice, ‘These things are easier to arrange in the studio. Should we get on with our business?’
‘Why not? I am a business man. But I cannot talk business with a dry throat.’ He rapped out something, and Moharram waddled across to a cupboard and produced a full bottle of Haig, two glasses, and a bottle of soda water. Kassim mixed the drinks, and ostentatiously took a long pull out of his own first.
‘In case you should suppose it to be drugged,’ he explained amiably. To business, then. Let me start by clearing away some spiders’ webs of fantasy. Has the Ruler spoken to you about his plans for building an Army of Umran? A modern and well-equipped force to hold the balance of power in the Gulf. Controlling the traffic through the bottle-neck at the entrance of the Gulf. Wooed by all the great powers. Respected by everyone. You realise that such talk is all moonshine? There is not reality in it at all.’
‘I think I had begun to arrive at the same conclusion.’
‘Good. Then we start from common ground. Allow me to refill your glass. The Ruler has one object and one object only in acquiring those arms. To defeat his brother. Sheik Hammuz. Not merely to defeat him. To annihilate him. Without modern arms, he cannot do it. Hammuz commands the loyalty of the western tribes. They are the real fighters. The Ruler has a police force, and the nominal allegiance of the townspeople of Mohara. An allegiance which, I can assure you, would be transferred overnight to Hammuz if he won.’
‘You are a supporter of Sheik Hammuz? You find him an attractive character?’
The ghost of a smile twitched at the corners of Dr. Kassim’s mouth. It was hardly a smile. More an involuntary grimace which lifted, for a second, the curtain which experience had taught him to draw over the tortuous workings of his mind. Just so might Torquemada had smiled at a naive question from one of his familiars; or Cesare Borgia at a comment on his choice of wines for dinner.
He said, ‘If you are asking me for my frank opinion of Sheik Hammuz I will give it to you. He is a fat and unpleasant pederast. And I would add, Mr. Greest, that whatever gossip may say, I am not his sleeping companion. I would as soon copulate with a feather mattress. In any event, there are plenty of camel boys available when he feels that way inclined. No – considered as a man I rather prefer the Ruler. He may be stupid, but he is a tolerable person.’
‘In that case, why do you have anything to do with Sheik Hammuz?’
‘Because it is my considered opinion that he will be the winner. And in politics it is the first rule that you must be on the winning side.’
‘Is it so important who wins?’
‘Do not pretend to be more stupid than you are, Mr. Greest. Of course it is important. It is the most important thing in the Middle East today. Whoever wins, controls the mineral concessions. And those concessions will naturally go to the power that supports the winner. The American, Ringbolt, appreciates the position perfectly. You know, of course, that he is in wireless communication with the U.S. cruiser squadron in the Indian Ocean? There is a light cruiser within twenty-four hours’ steaming of Umran at this moment. I do not, myself, think they will interfere. Gunboat diplomacy is too blatant for modern tastes. Although your own country used to indulge in it quite frequently.’
‘We used to,’ said Hugo sadly. ‘No longer. We’re far too polite to hurt anyone’s feelings now.’
Dr. Kassim said, ‘That brings me precisely to my point. We are both realists. It does not matter to us which of these two deplorable desert chieftains wins his private war. What does matter is that we should know, in advance, who the winner is going to be. Then we can anticipate, and share, the rewards of that victory.’
‘I’m not sure that I follow you.’
‘I think you do. But let me state it as a simple proposition. If neither side had modern arms, Hammuz would win. It would be an unspeakable contest. I have some experience of civil war, in Kurdistan. No quarter would be given, or expected. Prisoners would be tortured, before being released to death. Neither sex nor age would offer any hope of clemency. In such a war, ultimately the tribesmen of Sheik Hammuz would prevail. On the other hand, if the Ruler had succeeded in arming his police and his private guard with modern weapons, it is they who would win. The war would be shorter, the casualties as great, but more quickly and efficiently achieved. You follow me?’
‘Yes,’ said Hugo. ‘I follow you.’ He knew, now, what was coming and that foreknowledge allowed him to control his anger.
‘Logically, therefore, the solution is to load the dice so that we know, in advance, on what side it will come down. Let Sheik Hammuz have the modern arms, and there can be no doubt at all who will win. In fact, there will hardly be any fight at all. It will simply be—’
‘A massacre.’
‘One or two people will have to die. But there will be no general slaughter. It is only when one side wins
after
a bitter struggle that these things happen. You are not old enough to remember the Spanish Civil War. Nor am I, of course, but I have read of it. If General Franco had marched straight into Madrid and the war had been over in a week, do you think that a tenth – a hundredth – of the atrocities would have occurred ? Of course not.’
‘What exactly, is your suggestion?’
‘It is very simple. Your arms, I am told, arrive in Beirut on Monday.’
Hugo nearly said, ‘And who told you that?’ But reflected that it was a pointless interjection.
‘They are to come on here by plane. If the plane is to land on the primitive runway here at Mohara, it must be a comparatively light plane. It would be quite natural, therefore, for you and your colleagues in Beirut to arrange that the only convenient and available transport was by planes too large to put down here. The arms would therefore be landed at the nearest airport with a suitable runway, which is Fujaira. They would come on by road, in lorries or under their own power, along the coast, through Ras-al-Khaima, where they would turn inland, and use the good road which runs along the southern part of Umran to Mohara.’
‘That sounds quite a feasible programme,’ agreed Hugo.
‘You will understand me when I say that, at the point where the road turns inland, the convoy will pass within half a mile of the fort and headquarters of Sheik Hammuz. If it should happen to fall into an ambush, could you be blamed for the loss of the arms?’
‘And the escort?’
‘In the face of overwhelming odds, one hopes that they would see the light, and behave discreetly.’
‘And if I agreed to this plan?’
‘As soon as we have your agreement – I have it here in writing – and signed by you, a sum of £25,000 in any currency you care to nominate, will be placed in your credit in a bank in Switzerland. You will be able to confirm its arrival. At the moment when the arms convoy leaves Fujaira, you will receive a similar sum.’
‘And if I refuse?’
‘If you refuse, Mr. Greest, I can promise you one thing. The arms will never leave Beirut. And I doubt – I very much doubt – whether you will ever leave Umran.’
But it wasn’t a question of leaving Umran. It was a question of getting out of that room. Having gone so far, having shown so much of his hand, could Dr. Kassim risk letting him go if he did not agree? It was clear that the doctor was much more expert with firearms than he was. He might, of course, pretend to agree, sign whatever document was produced, and repudiate it afterwards, but such a course, as well as being distasteful, had its own risks.
‘Well – Mr. Greest?’
‘I’ll think it over.’
‘The interval available to you for thought is unhappily very brief.’
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘You follow me perfectly. I saw you debating the matter with yourself a moment ago.’
‘Well—’ said Hugo.
Moharram put his head round the door. Dr. Kassim said, ‘Go away.’
Moharram said, ‘If I do not open the door for them, they will break it down.’
There was a splintering crash of wood and glass, and the sound of running footsteps. Dr. Kassim held himself upright and rigid. It was the rigidity of a steel spring under pressure. For a breathless moment he seemed to be calculating angles and probabilities. Then Hugo saw him relax.
As the police sergeant burst into the room he turned his head, gave him a look which stopped him in his tracks, then turned back again to Hugo. ‘It seems that you will have an interval for deliberation after all,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you will give me your answer tomorrow.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Hugo.
The Ruler said, his face dark with anger, ‘But it is intolerable. The man must be brought to judgment and punished.’
‘You realise that he’ll deny every word of it,’ said Cowcroft.
‘He cannot deny that he came to see Mr. Greest. There are witnesses of that.’
Hugo said, ‘Both policemen saw him. And the storekeeper.’
‘If he was not plotting against me, why should he have come secretly, at night to see Mr. Greest?’
‘If my assessment of his character is right,’ said Cowcroft, ‘he’ll say that Mr. Greest sent for him, and himself proposed a bargain.’
The Ruler said, ‘No one would believe it.’ But there was an edge of uncertainty in his voice.
‘What really interests me,’ said Cowcroft, ‘is that statement he made about the arms shipment. What was it he said? That if you didn’t fall in with his plans, he would see to it that the arms never left Beirut.’
‘Something like that.’
The man’s an Iraqi. No doubt he’s got friends in the Lebanon. I suppose he might be able to pull some strings.’
The Ruler drew himself up to his full height and said, ‘If this man interferes in any way with
my
arms, I will seek him out and destroy him. Even if it means war.’
The streets of Beirut were designed for camel and donkey traffic. The advent of fifty thousand cars, all of them large, and most of them badly driven, has produced a fair imitation of bedlam.
Bob Livingstone, Captain of the S.S.
Lombardia,
relaxed on the back seat of the aged Mercedes taxi and enjoyed it. He was in no hurry. He liked Beirut. He liked the Lebanese, who tried so hard to be sophisticated and were really very simple. He liked the suicidal way they drove their cars, the vigour with which they swore at each other, the warm smile which flashed out when the swearing was over.
The
Lombardia
had docked early that morning. The unloading and the attendant formalities would take two days to complete, after which he would allow himself twenty-four hours of shore leave before he went on to Port Said to pick up the return cargo.