The Mule on the Minaret Read online

‘That’s about it.’ He grinned and there was a friendly openness about the grin that confirmed Reid in his sense of guilt. This boy had confided in him in a way that he had not with his family and friends; this openness was to be rewarded with betrayal.

  ‘When will you be back?’

  ‘If I’ve passed, I shall be back in the following week.’

  ‘Then I hope we’ll see you the first week in April.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  * * *

  The Istanbul office was warned by a coded signal that Aziz was on his way. Eve called at the Perapailas Otel daily for his message.

  At last it reached her. She made a date with Aziz for the following evening at five o’clock.

  ‘What should I serve him at that hour?’ she asked Sedgwick.

  ‘Coffee is never wrong, but whisky is more effective.’ He paused. His eyes twinkled. ‘He’s a Turk, remember. Make sure that Kitty arrives at six.’

  At a quarter to five Eve was taut with expectation. This was her first essay at genuine secret service work. Up to now she had done all her work on paper. She had formed her own impression of the characters whose activities she catalogued. Now she was to see a dubious performer off his guard. She only regretted that from every account he must be rather dingy.

  Because she had counted on his being dingy, she was pleasantly surprised. He was taller than she had expected. He was neatly dressed; his linen was clean; he had a tie that was obviously expensive; his shoes were freshly polished. But what struck her most was his air of personal distinction. He seemed somebody.

  He looked round him curiously. It was very possibly the first time that in Turkey he had been alone in a drawing-room with a young woman who was convenable. He noticed the coffee-tray and cakes. He also noticed the decanter and glasses on the sideboard.

  ‘Would you prefer whisky to coffee?’ she inquired.

  He hesitated. She suspected that he would have preferred whisky but that decorum counselled the choice of coffee.

  ‘Perhaps whisky later, then,’ she said. He sat on a low cushion stool, his feet drawn under him; his elbows rested on his knees, the coffee held between his hands. He looked up at her, his eyes bright, his head slightly cocked.

  ‘I expect you are very puzzled about all this,’ she said.

  He inclined his head.

  ‘You have never met this man, Ismail Hilli, who was supposed to deliver a package to your friend Ahmed?’

  ‘No, I have not met him.’

  ‘I know him slightly, but not well. Do you know what was in the package that he was supposed to deliver to your friend?’

  Aziz hesitated. She put him at his ease. ‘You can be outspoken with me,’ she said. ‘I know what was in it. I am employed here by the British Council. You know, of course, what that is.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I can understand why you should feel puzzled that you had to adopt such a secret method to obtain this information for your friend . . . what is his name? Fadhil, isn’t it? The censorship is tiresome these days. They make the conduct of business difficult and there are risks attached. What would a Turkish censor say if he detected secret ink upon a letter? The betting is a thousand to one against. But there is that one chance, as Ismail realized. After all, Ahmed is in the government’s employ. It would ruin his career. So this is what Ismail decided. He knew that you wanted messages and a present given to Ahmed; so he exchanged the package. He kept the handkerchief you had sent to Ahmed, but he flung away the inks. He sent a box of real toilet water instead; and then at the last moment he felt nervous again. Ismail is a good friend of mine but I have to confess that he is very timid. Scarcely a man at all. He felt that he did not want to be mixed up in this business in any way. So he asked me to deliver the package.’

  ‘Which package?’

  ‘The one with the real toilet water.’

  ‘Then Ahmed knows nothing about the scheme at all.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But I wrote to him only a week ago, asking for information about German exports.’

  ‘The questions were in secret ink, of course.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Then that’s all right. Ahmed will never know it. He will think it an ordinary letter, and throw it in the waste-paper basket.’

  ‘I see.’

  There was a puzzled expression on his face. She watched him closely, anxiously. Was this story of hers carrying weight? It had seemed flimsy enough when Sedgwick had set it out for her in the office. It seemed much more flimsy when she was recounting it herself. Why should Ismail have bothered to substitute another package? He could easily have brought round the handkerchief alone. A sudden idea struck her.

  ‘He substituted the package because he thought it should be a more substantial present, since he wasn’t delivering it himself. Would it have been worth my while to run that errand simply for a handkerchief? I think that was rather nice of him, don’t you?’ she finished lamely. Was that a sufficient explanation? Was it convincing? Perhaps she would have done better not to attempt an elaboration. The parable of the purloined letter. Present the whole issue in the most straightforward way. Wasn’t that one of the first tenets in intelligence. Don’t make your alibis too water-tight? They had made that mistake with an agent whom they had sent into Bulgaria with so many cards and permits, each one genuine, that the Gestapo had been suspicious. How could any one man have acquired so many cards? It had settled that agent’s score.

  She waited for Aziz to speak. He was still looking puzzled. There was something very touching and youthful about his expression. He was really very handsome. She felt protective, and possessive. In a sense he was her victim. He was hers. ‘I’ve led him into this,’ she thought.

  ‘So that’s how it is, you see,’ and her voice softened.

  He nodded. ‘Yes, I see.’ His puzzled expression changed to one of thoughtfulness. ‘This means I can’t give Fadhil the information he needs.’

  ‘I’m afraid it does, unless . . .’ She checked. She was going beyond her commission. ‘Unless what?’ he asked.

  She had been going to suggest that she might correspond with him; but what was the point in that, and very likely his letters were exposed to the Turkish censorship.

  ‘Unless,’ she said, ‘you were to ask me what you need to know. I’m in the British Council. I very likely could find out. If we did it by conversation, that’s to say, not through the mail; the mail’s too risky. What did you ask for in that letter that you sent to Ahmed?’

  ‘What Turkey was importing from Germany.’

  ‘I daresay I could find out that for you. How long will you be up here?’

  ‘Two and a half weeks.’

  ‘Then why don’t you come and see me before you leave?’

  He nodded pensively. He’s believing this, she thought. It seems incredible, but he really is. Sedgwick was right. The more obvious the better.

  ‘What about that whisky now?’ she said.

  ‘I would like that, please.’

  She put the ice in first so that he could not tell how heavy a shot of whisky she put on to it.

  ‘There,’ she said. ‘And now what about a little music? Would you like to see my records?’

  She had a high pile on the lowest bookshelf. He ransacked them eagerly. ‘Could we have this?’ he said. She watched him closely as he listened. He was utterly absorbed; his expression changed; it seemed as though his whole face had been smoothed over. She had never seen a corpse, but she had read that a few hours after death the face assumed an ethereal beauty with the lines and stains of life removed: a recovery of lost innocence, a discovery of peace. Music had the same effect on Aziz. He was almost beautiful. He had a rarefied spiritual look. Once again she had that protective feeling towards him, mingled now with a sense of guilt and of foreboding. He was in a trap and did not know it, a trap that she had baited. How long would he be able to retain the utter peace of spirit that now enveloped him? ‘I must try to make amends,�
� she thought.

  They were still playing records when a key clicked in the lock.

  Kitty’s return dispelled the mood. So soon, Eve thought. The record was nearly finished. Eve did not put on another one. Kitty only enjoyed dance tunes and songs from musicals. Kitty fixed herself a drink and embarked on a narration of the day’s events. Her conversation was directed exclusively at Aziz. She was a different person when there was a man in the room. Aziz listened with an air of interest, but he too had become a different person. That rapt poetic absorption had disappeared, and he soon rose to take his leave.

  ‘You’ll come again, won’t you, before you leave?’ Eve said.

  ‘You can be sure of that.’

  Kitty looked at her inquiringly as the door closed.

  ‘No case of repelling boarders this afternoon, I gather.’

  ‘Clearly not.’

  ‘Anyhow, he does not look the type.’

  ‘You didn’t think he was attractive?’

  Kitty shrugged. ‘Gaunt, morose, self-centred. Maybe all right in the middle thirties, but he’s got a long way to travel.’

  Eve was relieved that Kitty had not been impressed by Aziz. It proved to her that Aziz was someone special.

  Early next morning Eve was summoned into Sedgwick’s office. ‘How did it go?’

  She told him.

  ‘And you really believe that he accepted your explanation?’

  ‘He seemed to.’

  ‘Time for the next move.’

  ‘What is the next move?’

  ‘To put Chessman on to him. We have to work fast. Only two and a half weeks to play with.’

  Two mornings later, Aziz was called to the telephone soon after his father had left for the office and while his mother was still in bed. A quiet masculine voice came over the line. ‘You do not know who I am. But I shall be sitting at a corner table of the Café Brazil this afternoon at twenty minutes to four. I shall be wearing a dark overcoat, and a grey felt hat. I am a man in his middle forties. I have a small dark moustache. I shall be alone. I shall be reading a German paper. Do not recognize me. Sit in another part of the café. Keep an eye on my table. After seven minutes I shall get up and leave. Stay at your table for another six minutes, then leave the café. A grey four-seater Chevrolet will be drawn against the kerb. Get into it. I strongly advise you to do this. If you do not, the results for you will be unfortunate. We are in a position to make things most unpleasant. I use the name Ahmed. That is all the explanation I need give.’ The voice was quiet, almost gentle, but it was very firm.

  It was a dark day. It was raining. The blinds of the Chevrolet were drawn. The car kept turning. Aziz had no idea where he was being taken. The drive lasted about twenty minutes. Suddenly, the car stopped. ‘You can get out here,’ said the man beside him.

  Aziz stepped out into a long ill-lighted street lined by apartment buildings; the homes of artisans and minor office workers. The hallway was bare. There was no porter. There was no lift. ‘On the second floor,’ he was told. ‘Number 17.’ It was a small, rectangular flat. Two rooms, a kitchenette, a bathroom. It was warm and comfortably furnished. There was a low table set with a coffee-pot and coffee-cups.

  ‘You can take off your coat,’ said the man. ‘You will be here a little time. I hope that it will prove a cordial meeting. We will start with a cup of coffee.’

  Aziz sat on the low settee. He had not spoken a word since he had stepped into the car. It was strong, very sweet, thick coffee. ‘Now,’ said the man. From his pocket he took two sheets of paper. He handed them to Aziz. ‘You will recognize these.’ One was a photostat of the second letter that Aziz had written to Ahmed. The second was a photostat of the same letter under a V.I. lamp showing the writing in secret ink. ‘I will not tell you my name. There is no need for you to know. I am a member of the police force though I have another job. I have a friend in the censor’s office. He brought me this letter unofficially. No public report has been made yet of this letter. I want to ask you a number of questions before deciding what to do with it. Now I presume that Ahmed has the necessary acid to develop this secret writing?’

  Aziz shook his head. He explained what had transpired. ‘I see,’ said Chessman. ‘Then Ahmed has no knowledge of this operation?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘All he knows is that he received an unexpected present from you?’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘Now this man Fadhil from Beirut: what do you know about him?’

  Aziz explained how he had come to meet him.

  ‘The Koumayans? Who are they?’

  Aziz explained that they were an Armenian family whom his parents knew. ‘They have no contact with this case.’

  ‘It is simply, then, an issue between you and Fadhil. Ahmed does not enter. This man Ismail Hilli, now: what about him?’

  ‘I have never met him.’

  ‘You know nothing about him?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘There may, of course, be no such person. This English girl, now, who told you what had happened: Eve. What was her surname? Parish, yes, Parish. What about her?’

  ‘She is in the British Council. She shares a flat with another girl, Kitty something or other.

  ‘If you go there again—and I think you should go there again—you should find out what this Kitty’s name is and all you can about her. Now then, I think we have the position clear. Let us review it. . .’

  He paused. He looked at Aziz quizzically. He raised his left eyebrow. There was friendliness in his smile. ‘Don’t be frightened,’ he said. ‘I do not want to bully you. But I do want you to realize that you have put yourself in a very difficult position. You are a Turkish citizen, studying in the Lebanon, which was once a part of Turkey. You have tried to evade censorship regulations in order to provide a Lebanese subject with commercial information that he could not obtain through ordinary channels. That is a serious offence. You have also attempted to persuade a Turkish citizen, who is a loyal servant of the state, to provide you with this information. For him this would be a very serious offence. For you it is no less serious, to attempt to seduce a servant of the government. In wartime it might even be a capital offence. I do not want to threaten you, but I do want you to realize that I can do you a very great deal of harm.’ He paused. His look was still quizzical, but friendly. ‘Luckily, for you,’ he said, ‘you are in a position to be of use to me, so that there is no need for us to reach extremes.’ He paused again. ‘I told you that I had another job. I have two other jobs. The one about which everybody knows; the third about which very few know. I provide the German Embassy with various types of information. In the last war, as you know, we were the allies of Germany. My family and I have still the warmest feelings for the German people and their ideals. It was a great misfortune to us and to the whole world that through American intervention, Germany lost the war. This time Germany has Japan on her side, so she cannot lose it. This time, luckily for us, in Turkey, we are now neutrals; but we need not neglect our former friends. I presume that you have no particularly friendly feeling for the British or the French?’

  ‘Why should I have?’

  ‘Indeed, why should you have? Your father fought the British in the First War. Your uncle was killed by them. They dismembered the Ottoman Empire. But for them you would be the heir to a rich estate. The sooner they lose this war, and they will lose it, the better for us all. You would welcome, wouldn’t you, an opportunity to help hasten the ending of the war?’

  ‘I would welcome it.’

  ‘It is a relief to have you say that. Then I do not have to threaten you. And I could threaten you. You realize that, don’t you? If I were to hand over this letter to the police you would be arrested within an hour. And who would believe your story about a member of the secret police who is working for the Germans? You do not know my name. You do not know my address. You do not know my occupation. They would laugh at you. Even if they half believed your story, how could they do anything to m
e? How could they find me? I am invulnerable. But luckily I do not have to threaten you. You are happy to collaborate; and it will prove profitable for you. The Germans are rich and generous. Did this tradesman pay you any money?’

  ‘He gave me some gramophone records.’

  ‘The Germans can do better than that. They will give you money with which to buy gramophone records. How many records did this man Fadhil give you?’

  ‘He has given me four so far.’

  ‘We can do better than that. But the Germans pay by results. You must remember that. Money will arrive when you deliver your first instalment; and with that money will be this photostat. Is that quite clear?’

  ‘It’s clear.’

  ‘You are prepared to meet my friend at the German Embassy?’

  ‘I am prepared.’

  ‘Then we will meet three days from now. At the same time, but at the Café Florian.’

  Next morning Eve took down in shorthand Chessman’s account of the interview. As she transcribed the notes she experienced the same mounting excitement that she had earlier at her flat; an excitement compounded of the same conflicting ingredients; the basic espionage drama of the operation, the sense of protective pity, a curious possessive thrill, the thought, ‘this is my victim.’ She could picture Aziz sitting there while Chessman wound his ropes slowly round him; her finger held the knot while he brought the ends together; yet mingled with a gloating that was near to cruelty was the consoling tenderness, the knowledge that she could make amends, assuaging the wounds she had inflicted. And in three days’ time she would be taking down Chessman’s account of the interview with the German. What a tightening of knots I

  The meeting took place with the same smoothness. Again there was only one man, the same man in the Chevrolet. ‘Our friend is meeting us at my apartment,’ he explained. ‘He will be wearing civilian clothes, but he is a soldier. Address him as Herr Kapitän.’

  The Captain was tall and spare, clean-shaven, with light coloured hair that he wore long. He did not look particularly German. He did not look particularly anything. He leapt to his feet as Aziz and Chessman entered, clicked his heels, stretched out his right arm and barked, ‘Heil Hitler!’ Aziz and Chessman followed suit.