The Mule on the Minaret Read online

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  Frank Cartwright was on the brink of fifty. He was of medium-height, thin, grey-haired, clean shaven. He had the drawn look of a dedicated man. He received the new arrivals in a room that was no larger than Colonel Weston’s but that looked larger because it was furnished in the style appropriate to the reception of local dignitaries. There was a carpet on the floor; there were comfortable arm chairs; there was a long settee. The posters of the King and Churchill had been framed. Cartwright was neatly but unobtrusively dressed in a dark grey suit.

  ‘I welcome you on behalf of General Spears,’ he said. ‘He wanted me to assure you how happy he is that you are here. He is very sorry not to be able to welcome you in person; he had a great deal to settle up in London; he does not expect to get back till February. He is confident that when he does, he will find each and every one of you happily and usefully employed. The Middle East is an expanding area.’

  For a couple of minutes Cartwright enlarged on what Colonel Weston had already said. His manner was friendly, but diplomatically remote. Reid sensed in him the man who had had, all his life, to weigh his words; to strike a balance between what he himself believed, what his hearer wanted to hear, and what authority in the background required of him, so that he could best persuade his hearer, who often was an adversary, that the interests of that hearer and of the authority in the background were in the last analysis identical. Walking a tight-rope, he had remained an honest man.

  He echoed and amplified Colonel Weston, then he changed his appeal. ‘I imagine,’ he said, ‘that you are all familiar with the general background, with the T. E. Lawrence legend. In the First War the Arabs were roused against the Turks; they were promised their independence, but at the Peace Conference the Arab World was divided up into spheres of interest; France getting one chunk, Britain getting another; while a national home for the Jews was set up in Palestine. There are very many mixed opinions on the wisdom of those treaties. You’ll form your own opinions. Nearly everyone who comes out here becomes a violent partisan on one side or another. That doesn’t concern us at the moment. We can’t go back to first causes. We have to consider the present situation in terms of wartime needs.’

  He explained the genesis of those needs. Britain had promised independence to the countries over which she had been given a protectorate, and she had kept her promises. Iraq was independent by 1931, though it had remained a sphere of influence with British technical advisers in the ministries and with Britain retaining naval, military and air force bases. France on the other hand, though it had granted independence to the Lebanon, had not implemented its guarantee. That had been the position in September 1939, with the French maintaining a large body of troops in the Levant, just as the British were in Egypt.

  ‘The eastern flank of the Mediterranean was,’ Cartwright explained, ‘well protected, of course, but the situation changed completely in June 1940 after the Armistice, with Syria and the Lebanon under the control of the Vichy Government. Our lines to India were threatened; so was our conduct of the whole war in the Western Desert. The Germans had designs upon Iraq. There is a very strong pro-German element in Iraq, just as there was an anti-British element in Beirut. We had to move first, and fast. I think history will show that we forced the war in Iraq, before the pro-Germans and anti-royalists in Baghdad were ready, while here in a joint action with the Free French we attacked the Vichy Levant.

  ‘We won the campaign, but we put ourselves in a very awkward situation diplomatically. In the first place the French have always been touchy about our position in the Middle East. They consider that they were here first. Perhaps they were. You remember their song, “Partant pour la Syrie.” The French are resentful because the entire campaign in the First War in Mesopotamia was organized and fought by us. They’ve put up a statue to themselves along the waterfront, but they did in fact very little fighting. They’ve always believed that we had designs on Lebanon, and on Damascus. Read a novel like Pierre Benoit’s Châtelaine du Liban; and they have this argument in their favour. Feisal, who was our protégé, laid claim to Damascus. Anyway they are convinced that now we’re here, we’re going to stay here. We have to convince them that that is not our game at all. And it isn’t, I’m convinced on that point. Sometimes in the diplomatic world one has to give answers that aren’t wholly true. This isn’t one of them. But the French distrust us. You’ve got to remember that.’

  He paused; he looked round him with an easy smile. He had delivered a lecture but it had not sounded like a lecture. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘I’m going to add something that you are at liberty to ignore. It’s my particular hobby-horse. But you must remember that I have been living in this area all my adult life. I came here in Allenby’s army in 1917. My roots are here. I tend to see issues through Arab eyes. I want you to remember this. We are in Arab territory, not our own. The Arabs are for the most part our friends, though they have deep reason to distrust us. They are very different from us; in culture, in religion. Many of them think of us as infidels. Our war is not their war. We, as English, have only one concern, to defeat the Axis powers. But for the Arabs, the defeat of the Axis is incidental. It is a part of their long history. In 1914 they had no concern with European politics. We, because we were at war with Turkey, fomented and aided the simmering Arab revolt against the Turks; we made the Arabs certain promises which we did not keep. They feel, many of them, that they were tricked. This time they are on their guard. They do not care whether European democracy survives, apart from its effect upon the Arab World. One of our first duties is to persuade them that an Allied victory is to their advantage; but there is a further, in my opinion, very important point. The problem of Anglo-Arab, perhaps I should say Arab-European relations, will not end with the defeat of Hitler. You see that notice over the mantelpiece, “Think, plan, act in terms of March 1942”. That is very sound advice. Take a short view in wartime. But remember that in terms of Anglo-Arab relations what we are doing today will have its repercussions in 1965. Take a long view there.

  ‘That’s all I have to say,’ he finished. ‘I expect you’d like to have a look round the place. I’m handing you over for the evening to one of our officers in the economic section. He’ll show you the ropes. Tomorrow’s free, of course. If you’ll come round on Monday around ten, we’ll see what news we have for you. Reid, if you’d stay behind a minute . . .’

  The moment the room was empty he drew up a chair behind his desk. ‘Now this is a pleasure,’ he began. ‘I’ve always hoped that we should meet one day. I was delighted when I heard that you were coming out here, but tell me, when they posted you out here from London, do you know what exactly you were posted to? I mean, what did they think that you were coming here to do?’

  ‘They talked about the publicity and propaganda section. They thought that as a historian philosopher I’d be able to understand the Arab point of view.’

  ‘That certainly makes sense, but in point of fact we don’t have a propaganda section; we have on paper, as part of the establishment, but that section is mainly occupied with making digests out of local papers and B.B.C. reports and looking after the security of the building. We aren’t issuing any propaganda, at the moment, though that may come later. I don’t think that that section is at all your tea. We’ve got to find exactly the right thing for you. After all, you’re in a different category from these other chaps.’

  Reid’s heart sank. Here it was again: the same old story. A special person for a special job: with a special job that nobody could find.

  ‘I’ve arranged,’ the Chargé d’ Affaires went on, ‘that for the first few weeks you should work in the political section, which is my special pigeon. One of our chief jobs is to prepare a bi-weekly summary of political events, which is sent out on a limited, high level distribution list. This summary is a digest of the reports that are sent in weekly by our political officers all round the country. It is a job that needs doing carefully. It isn’t a dogsbody’s job, far from it; at the s
ame time it isn’t a whole time job. It’ll give you plenty of spare time and I’d suggest that you read up some of our back files and also one or two of the specialized histories that may have missed your notice. In that way you could put in a couple of months, very profitably, until the General returns. He’s bound to have a number of new ideas. Till then we’re in the position of a caretaker administration. We can’t undertake anything drastic or decisive. I know he’ll be very pleased to find you here: as I am; and one day next week I’d like you to come up to dinner at my house. We might fix the day now. Let’s make it Wednesday. In the meantime there’s a chap here who wants to meet you. Nigel Farrar. He knows friends of yours. I’ll take you to his office.’

  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.’

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sp; ‘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.