Will sat beglamoured in the company of the conspirators who talked about some Italian armaments that could be bought. Several more arrived, argued and departed before the evening was done, faces hovering in the light of match flames and lighters. Dark hands held his forearms as ideas were elaborated. He listened. It was intelligence, pure intelligence.
22
Back at the villa, Samuels was still awake, sitting in a clean cone of lamplight, his hands spidery with shadows as he stripped and fixed the wiring of their telephone. Humming along to some dance music on the wireless, with tools spread out and litter of Bakelite pieces, Will thought he looked as idiotically happy as a child in a sand pit.
‘Evening.’
Samuels looked up, mouth open, and down again at his task. ‘Out with the rebels again?’ he asked.
‘Something along those lines.’
‘Need a drink, I imagine, after all that boozeless Mohammedan plotting. There’s Scotch in that window seat for some reason. Don’t know whose it is.’
‘Excellent idea. Draycott’s probably. According to Travis he’s now hiding things. Travis found one of the maps under the rug. That’s why when you knock on the door he tells you to hang on and there’s a lot of fuss and thumping about before he lets you come in.’
‘There’s a mug on the table as well.’
‘A mug. Ideal.’
Will poured himself a sincere measure of about three fingers and sat with the mug resting on his belt buckle. He tilted his head back and sighed.
‘Aaah. Hmmm. There’s quite a lot I need to remember, actually. I should make a few notes.’
‘I see. They seducing you to their side?’
‘No. What a fatuous thing to say. I’m not being seduced by anyone. You make it sound …’
‘Oops. Sorry if I hit a nerve.’
‘You haven’t hit anything because you don’t know anything.’
‘I don’t see that that follows logically. Anyway, I’m not wrong. You’re sympathetic to their side.’
‘Samuels, I think you’re straying out of your area of expertise. You don’t know the language here. Your brethren are a little north and east of here, aren’t they, somewhere in Palestine?’
Samuels said nothing, then, ‘They’re in London and on the Continent.’
‘Muttering to yourself like an old woman.’
‘Snippety snip. Somebody’s very tetchy.’
‘No idea what the situation is in this country.’
‘Doing my job. Minding my own bleeding business. Not blessed, you see, your excellency, with your understanding of the great game here. I does what I can in me humble way. For example, this telephone now works. You go on and win the war for us, sir.’
‘Oh, for crying out loud. I’m going to bed.’
23
Sergeant Major Henderson stood with his thick, freckled arms folded high across his pristine shirt, his eyes half closed with sceptical curiosity. ‘So who was that fucker with the sharp stick up his arse?’
Will examined the card the man had given him. Tilting it so that the swirling curlicues of black ink caught the light and shone. ‘He works for the Bey. Says here he’s an adviser, a courtier.’
‘Works for the what’s that?’
‘The Bey. Local royalty. As I understand it, he hasn’t had much to do since the French took over. He lives in a palace and he wants to talk to me. A car will collect me tomorrow evening.’
‘Arab johnny?’
‘Yes.’
‘Probably dressed up like the bleedin’ haberdashery department. Don’t tell him anything, will you.’
‘I’m not planning to tell him anything. I’ll tell him that we’re going to win the war and I’m wondering what he has got to tell me.’
‘We are going to win the war.’
‘I know we are.’
‘And what does he want you for anyway?’
‘His adviser, his courtier, tells me that he wishes to make contact with his British friends.’
‘Wants a nice white arse then. And don’t go stealing anything.’
‘I wasn’t planning to.’
‘I know it’s tempting. Some fat Arab with more money than sense. He’ll have a lot of knick-knacks, I reckon.’
24
The car that collected Will was certainly beautiful but he thought that the tyres needed air. They had a rather glutinous grip on the road, stones pinging under the rubber as the car snaked its way along the coast road and Will slid to and fro across the leather upholstery. He held onto the handle above the window to preserve his dignity and looked out at the lilac sea, the landscape pitted with shadows. He looked at the back of the driver’s slender neck that emerged from a wide starched circle of collar; his uniform looked big on him. On top of his head he wore a dove-grey chauffeur’s cap. His gloved hands rotated and Will gripped the handle as the car turned uphill, inland, through orange orchards towards the palace. Will recognised them as orange orchards despite the absence of fruit. The trees were regularly spaced, the leaves waxy dark green. In the dusk, without fruit or blossom, they were dowdy as cattle. Will regretted that it was the least romantic time of the year to see them.
The car slowed to a squidgy halt and the driver sprang out to open Will’s door. Will stood up, ignoring the man, and walked to the palace gate where a guard stood who looked more at home in his uniform. An enormous African, his skin mauve in the evening light, his chest pressed smooth the dark blue cloth of his jacket, tasselled with gold braid. On his head he wore a red fez. In his right hand he held a bared scimitar, its blade shining blue. He pulled open the gate and waited for Will to pass through, his eyes dead ahead. Behind Will, the car rumblingly withdrew.
Another guard or functionary approached wearing a different uniform, a red sash around his waist, and led Will up through a rose arbour to the palace garden. The building itself appeared, large, its many windows mostly unlit, clean cut against the early stars.
And then the man who Will thought must be the Bey appeared in white, smooth-faced, floating towards him. ‘So good of you to come. Welcome.’ He had a neat, subdued moustache and a beard that ran only along his jawline, framing large, plush, shaven cheeks.
‘Your highness.’ Will bowed very slightly from the waist.
The Bey stood still a moment, examining Will or expecting him to say something further. Either way, he was completely motionless, a mannequin standing there, his hands by his sides. Just as Will was about to say something, he jerked back to life. ‘Come. Come and join me.’
He gestured for Will to walk ahead to a table topped with ceramic tiles with a lamp on it beneath an arch of greenery. Will sat and twisted round in his chair when he heard a dry, flustered noise that turned out to be a bird in a large metalwork cage. The bird bounced from perch to perch. A servant approached and placed on the table before them two cups of mint tea, the gold patterning on the glass shining in the lamplight.
‘So,’ the Bey began. ‘Where did you school?’
Will’s school would have been unknown to the Bey. He pretended to misunderstand him. ‘I was at Oxford.’
‘Ah. How excellent. So was I. At Exeter College. Do you miss it? I do, in my maudlin moments. I miss the climate from time to time, would you believe it. Also here there really is nowhere to play golf.’