‘Well, Greenmantle is the prophet of this great simplicity. He speaks straight to the heart of Islam, and it’s an honourable message. But for our sins it’s been twisted into part of that damned German propaganda. His unworldliness has been used for a cunning political move, and his creed of space and simplicity for the furtherance of the last word in human degeneracy. My God, Dick, it’s like seeing St Francis run by Messalina.’
‘The woman has been here tonight,’ I said. ‘She asked me what I stood for, and I invented some infernal nonsense which she approved of. But I can see one thing. She and her prophet may run for different stakes, but it’s the same course.’
Sandy started. ‘She has been here!’ he cried. ‘Tell me, Dick, what do you think of her?’
‘I thought she was about two parts mad, but the third part was uncommon like inspiration.’
‘That’s about right,’ he said. ‘I was wrong in comparing her to Messalina. She’s something a dashed sight more complicated. She runs the prophet just because she shares his belief. Only what in him is sane and fine, in her is mad and horrible. You see, Germany also wants to simplify life.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I told her that an hour ago, when I talked more rot to the second than any normal man ever achieved. It will come between me and my sleep for the rest of my days.’
‘Germany’s simplicity is that of the neurotic, not the primitive. It is megalomania and egotism and the pride of the man in the Bible that waxed fat and kicked. But the results are the same. She wants to destroy and simplify; but it isn’t the simplicity of the ascetic, which is of the spirit, but the simplicity of the madman that grinds down all the contrivances of civilization to a featureless monotony. The prophet wants to save the souls of his people; Germany wants to rule the inanimate corpse of the world. But you can get the same language to cover both. And so you have the partnership of St Francis and Messalina. Dick, did you ever hear of a thing called the Superman?’
‘There was a time when the papers were full of nothing else,’ I answered. ‘I gather it was invented by a sportsman called Nietzsche.’
‘Maybe,’ said Sandy. ‘Old Nietzsche has been blamed for a great deal of rubbish he would have died rather than acknowledge. But it’s a craze of the new, fatted Germany. It’s a fancy type which could never really exist, any more than the Economic Man of the politicians. Mankind has a sense of humour which stops short of the final absurdity. There never has been, and there never could be a real Superman … But there might be a Superwoman.’
‘You’ll get into trouble, my lad, if you talk like that,’ I said.
‘It’s true all the same. Women have got a perilous logic which we never have, and some of the best of them don’t see the joke of life like the ordinary man. They can be far greater than men, for they can go straight to the heart of things. There never was a man so near the divine as Joan of Arc. But I think, too, they can be more entirely damnable than anything that ever was breeched, for they don’t stop still now and then and laugh at themselves … There is no Superman. The poor old donkeys that fancy themselves in the part are either crackbrained professors who couldn’t rule a Sunday-school class, or bristling soldiers with pint-pot heads who imagine that the shooting of a Duc d’Enghien made a Napoleon. But there is a Superwoman, and her name’s Hilda von Einem.’
‘I thought our job was nearly over,’ I groaned, ‘and now it looks as if it hadn’t well started. Bullivant said that all we had to do was to find out the truth.’ ‘Bullivant didn’t know. No man knows except you and me. I tell you, the woman has immense power. The Germans have trusted her with their trump card, and she’s going to play it for all she is worth. There’s no crime that will stand in her way. She has set the ball rolling, and if need be she’ll cut all her prophets’ throats and run the show herself … I don’t know about your job, for honestly I can’t quite see what you and Blenkiron are going to do. But I’m very clear about my own duty. She’s let me into the business, and I’m going to stick to it in the hope that I’ll find a chance of wrecking it … We’re moving eastward tomorrow - with a new prophet if the old one is dead.’
‘Where are you going?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know. But I gather it’s a long journey, judging by the preparations. And it must be to a cold country, judging by the clothes provided.’
‘Well, wherever it is, we’re going with you. You haven’t heard the end of our yarn. Blenkiron and I have been moving in the best circles as skilled American engineers who are going to play Old Harry with the British on the Tigris. I’m a pal of Enver’s now, and he has offered me his protection. The lamented Rasta brought our passports for the journey to Mesopotamia tomorrow, but an hour ago your lady tore them up and put them in the fire. We are going with her, and she vouchsafed the information that it was towards the great hills.’
Sandy whistled long and low. ‘I wonder what the deuce she wants with you? This thing is getting dashed complicated, Dick … Where, more by token, is Blenkiron? He’s the fellow to know about high politics.’
The missing Blenkiron, as Sandy spoke, entered the room with his slow, quiet step. I could see by his carriage that for once he had no dyspepsia, and by his eyes that he was excited.
‘Say, boys,’ he said, ‘I’ve got something pretty considerable in the way of noos. There’s been big fighting on the Eastern border, and the Buzzards have taken a bad knock.’
His hands were full of papers, from which he selected a map and spread it on the table.
‘They keep mum about this thing in the capital, but I’ve been piecing the story together these last days and I think I’ve got it straight. A fortnight ago old man Nicholas descended from his mountains and scuppered his enemies there - at Kuprikeui, where the main road eastwards crosses the Araxes. That was only the beginning of the stunt, for he pressed on on a broad front, and the gentleman called Kiamil, who commands in those parts, was not up to the job of holding him. The Buzzards were shepherded in from north and east and south, and now the Muscovite is sitting down outside the forts of Erzerum. I can tell you they’re pretty miserable about the situation in the highest quarters … Enver is sweating blood to get fresh divisions to Erzerum from Gally-poly, but it’s a long road and it looks as if they would be too late for the fair … You and I, Major, start for Mesopotamy tomorrow, and that’s about the meanest bit of bad luck that ever happened to John S. We’re missing the chance of seeing the goriest fight of this campaign.’
I picked up the map and pocketed it. Maps were my business, and I had been looking for one.
‘We’re not going to Mesopotamia,’ I said. ‘Our orders have been cancelled.’