We went in by the Jaffa Gate – really just a gap torn in the wall by some Turkish slob in the nineteenth century – and about that time, the rain cut off. Just like that.
Ken said: 'Just ten minutes and we could have got here without total baptism.'
Around us, the sun was hatching out taxis, tourists – and a handful of khaki-uniformed coppers. Ken jerked his head. 'Come on."
The Old City's been around a long time, but once you're inside, it doesn't feel particularly old. Not like those tall quiet back streets in Florence or Venice. This is all too quick and busy, and the Holy Sepulchre itself, over Christ's tomb, just beats Southend funfair but only just. King Richard didn't miss much.
But our part of town was the narrow jostling souks and alleys, sometimes covered with vaulted roofs and ventilation holes half blocked with weed so the sunlight comes down in pale green shafts into the blue smoke drifting from the metal-workers' shops. Each shop a tall narrow cave stretching back into what could be primeval rock but is probably the brickwork of Suleiman the Magnificent or even Herod. So maybe the place does feel a bit old, when you stop and think. We weren't stopping.
We weaved through the crowd, banging our heads on baskets and dresses hung overhead, brushing off Arab boys shouting: 'Hey, my friend, I am your guide…' until I was properly lost. As far as you can get lost in a place only half a mile square. Just Ken's way of shaking off any tail.
I found myself getting a close-up of a goatskin jacket hanging over a clothing shop while Ken scouted our back trail. Until then, the air had smelled of spices and coffee and that vegetable smell that rain brings out anywhere. Now the late goat had it all his own way.
'Any bogeymen?' I asked.
'No, I don't think so.'
'So we can move on? – this jacket's getting friendly.'
Tell it you're engaged.' He led the way around one more corner into a souk that was mostly metal and jewellery shops, with crumbling old boys sitting behind counters brazing brass pots with blow-lamps. Ken stopped at a cave lined with spearheads, pots, swords, helmets – most of them so obviously reproduction that the few aged pieces looked pretty good by contrast.
A chirpy Arab boy in jeans and a V-neck sweater came forward to start his sales talk.
Ken said: 'Gadulla's expecting us. Caviti – and my friend.'
The kid gave a smile of recognition and scuttled back into the shop.
We eased in a couple of steps off the street and waited. Opposite was a barber's with a glassed-in front. The Old City supports more barbers than an Army training camp, but everybody still seems covered in hair. Just another economic factor I'll never grasp.
A quiet gritty voice said: 'Ahlan, ahlan…' and we turned round.
Why had I expected an old man? – because the Prof had been? – because of the antiques angle? This one was tall, lean and several years younger than us. Dressed in a slim, coarse gallabiya, jacket and red-and-white check head-dress tied with black silk. A thin triangular face you might have called hawklike if the hawk hadn't flown into high ground some time and bent its beak, the bend exaggerated by the symmetrical little moustache beneath. But the eyes were dark and calm.
He touched Ken on both shoulders in a ceremonial embrace, bowed to me. 'It is a pleasure, Mr Case. Please come through.' He held back an old smoke-stained curtain and we went down the cave and around a rack of modern shelving holding rows of 'antiques' and into a back chamber the size of a cell. I looked quickly at Ken, but perhaps even his dreams had forgotten by now.
'Coffee, perhaps?' Gadulla offered. 'Please sit down.'
Ken took off his jacket and shook it, then shivered. I knew how he felt.
Gadulla said: 'Of course…' and yanked a one-bar electric fire from under the low round table that held a telephone and small spirit stove.
29
A few minutes later we were sitting half-naked on chairs shaped like camel saddles and our clothes were turning the little room into a steam bath. There were no windows – just a couple of doors – and a single lamp in a beaded shade, and when you'd been there a while, the time of day stopped mattering. The room had been built without sun or stars; a place for quiet secrets.
'Is there a back door?' Ken asked.
'Perhaps fifty.' Gadulla gestured at the two doors. 'If you have the keys – and the friends. The whole street is so much connected, above and below.'
'Fine. Is the sword here?'
'It will be. Did you bring the plane with no trouble?'
I nodded. 'No trouble.'
'How good.' He walked to the front of the shop and called something to the boy. I got up and turned my half-toasted trousers around.
From the rough-plastered walls, and Gadulla himself, you couldn't guess whether the man was waiting for the soup kitchen to call or the armed guards to haul out the day's takings. His robe was plain wool cloth, his jacket a grey pin-stripe – old but well-cut – the head-dress clean.
He came back. 'The lad is bringing coffee. But I forgot-' he reached below the table and put up a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label. 'Perhaps you would like some of this?'
Ken glanced at me. 'Maybe a spot – just to balance the wet on the outside.'
Gadulla poured two careful shots into decorated glasses. 'I hope it is good. I was rather strictly raised; I am one of your Coca-Cola Muslims.'
We sipped, and Ken had been right: it just matched that electric fire sizzling my shins.
After the second sip, Ken said: 'It wasn't till I got talking to some Arabs in Beit Oren that I knew strict Muslims don't really disapprove of alcohol – they just won't touch it in this life. In Paradise they're going to sit around all day smashed out of their knickers. Have I got that right?'
Gadulla said inscrutably: 'It is not quite that simple.' He looked at me. 'I believe you first saw Professor Spohr dead?"
'More or less.'
'Did he leave any note? – any letters?'
'Not that I saw. But he rang you, didn't he? – what did he say then?'
He thought about it. While he did, the boy came in with a tray of coffee from the localcafé. Gadulla handed round the tiny cups. 'Later I will make my own, but now, this is quicker,' The boy grinned and went away.
'Bruno – the Professor – said he would send instructions, but I could expect to sell the sword half and half with somebody from elsewhere.' He looked calmly at Ken.
'Beirut?' I suggested.
'He said no names on the telephone.'
Ken asked: 'Did he sound as if he was going to kill himself?'
'A terrible question. Now… now I think yes. That he was saying goodbye.'
There was a long silence. Then Ken got up and eased himself back into his trousers. 'Oooh, lovely. Like wading in hot cheese. I'll tell you one thing Brunodidn't do: make it easy for his loving daughter to inherit that sword.'
The afternoon crawled by. The boy came with more coffee; Gadulla talked to a few customers beyond the curtain. But mostly we just sat and looked at the wall and listened to my stomach. Somewhere down the line, I'd forgotten to have lunch.
The kid could buy you a snack,' Ken suggested.
'Like a couple of sheep's-eyes? I prefer my own judgment."
'Once it gets dark we'll go out and finda café.'
We waited on.
About five, Gadulla pulled down a metal blind over the front of the shop and padlocked it to steel hoops set in the floor. 'Now would you care to see from the roof?'
It made a change. He unlocked one of the doors, led the way up steep, winding stone steps. At one landing there was a short dark corridor with two other doors and no sign of life but a yellow plastic bucket. We went on up. At the top, Gadulla unlocked another door and we walked out on to a small, flat, walled roof garden.