But it wasn't the first time the Major had been disappointed since coming to the Middle East, and all because, early in life, he had fallen so deeply under the spell of the extraordinary explorers who had roamed the region in the nineteenth century . . . Burton and Doughty, Szondi and Burckhardt, and above all the incomparable Strongbow. The startling images of those romantic adventurers had always been the Major's ideal. Ever since childhood he had been haunted by their unconquerable visions in the strange sun-splashed reaches of distant deserts. So perhaps it wasn't surprising that contemporary life in the bazaars and deserts of the Middle East, for the Major, had never been as romantic as he had always dreamed it would be.
Tinkle.
And so it seemed once again in the case of this unknown Purple Seven. Dreams had proved to be false for the Major and life had never been as exciting as it had been for other men in other eras. Not even here in the lap of the Sphinx, under a full moon, in a perilous wartime meeting with an anonymous secret agent.
Tinkle.
Wistfully the Major sighed behind his raffish white silk mask, behind his dashing racing goggles, beneath his weathered pith helmet tipped at a rakish angle, weighted down with arms as he was in the best tradition of a desert brigand. Sighed and listened to his heavy ammunition clips clinking ever so softly in the stillness, tinkling as merrily as the gay little sounds made by goats' bells wafting through the night to the ears of some illiterate goatherd. Sighed and checked his watch and gazed longingly up at the moon.
A goatherd. Soft breezes. A lunatic setting. . . . But how could anyone pretend for long to be a mysterious masked man in the moonlight, when an Armenian couldn't even be on time?
The Major sighed, vastly disappointed by all of it. Thoroughly glum over his first meeting with a man who carried the fabled designation that was the most secret the Secret Service could bestow. Sighed and groaned.
Where in God's name was this Purple Seven?
***
The first warning that something was out of the ordinary came from the Major's Arabian mare. Abruptly the animal stopped poking around in the sand and raised her head. Was it a sound too distant for human ears? A scent from far away drifting in on the clear night air?
The Major peered, seeing nothing. He gripped his carbine, staring intently, and all at once a booming sinister voice broke over him, a hollow inhuman voice which seemed to come echoing up from the very bowels of the earth.
Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?
The Major whirled. He spun and kept on spinning, turning around once and twice and thrice under the great stone face, his loaded carbine at the ready. But there was nothing new to be seen no matter how hard he stared.
The pyramids in the moonlight.
The calm face of the Sphinx looming up behind him.
And other than that only stars and the empty desert, a full moon and sand rippling distantly.
Again the unearthly voice boomed and echoed briefly, thundering from nowhere and everywhere, hollow and deep and sinister in the night.
Who knows? The Sphinx knows. . .
The hideous voice broke into a cackle, a deluge of mocking laughter which seemed as if it would never end. Only to be followed at once by a clear human voice, a soft Irish voice gently calling out in the moonlight.
Easy with the carbine, Major. Easy does it now, please.
The Major stood rooted to his spot, struck dumb in the moonlight. He listened to his breathing and to the reassuring tinkle of goats' bells, and some minutes seemed to pass before he heard light trotting footsteps alongside the Sphinx behind him, coming from the direction of the mythical beast's hindquarters. And then a strange figure came trotting around the side of the Sphinx and began scrambling up one of its huge stone paws . . . a small man in an old baggy suit.
The Major stared. The small man climbed nimbly up to the top of the stone paw and stood there with his hands in the air. He was smiling. He took a deep breath and nodded pleasantly.
Nice night, Major. Lovely air out here.
The Major recovered at once from his shock and edged forward, his carbine trained on the man's middle.
Don't move, he shouted.
Not a finger, came the answer.
Not a hair, shouted the Major.
That too, certainly.
Hands over your head.
Right you are. In our lowly way, we all try to reach for the stars.
The man nodded, smiling, and the Major suddenly blushed behind his mask. In his excitement he had been screaming. He stopped for a moment to get a grip on himself.
Tinkle.
The small man in the baggy suit looked surprised. Are there goats around here? he asked.
No, replied the Major, managing a normal tone of voice.
Odd, I thought I heard goats, said the man. Didn't you hear the tinkling sound of goats' bells? I wonder where the goatherd is.
My ammunition clips, said the Major.
Oh.
Who are you? screamed the Major. No evasions. Speak up.
Oh. Well the name's Gulbenkian. Gulbenkian, I presume. At least that's what was on my papers the last time I looked at them. They also say I'm a dealer in Coptic artifacts by profession, which may well be true. As for my status in this war zone, that's down as in transit, but I suspect it doesn't tell us much because it's probably the status of most of us in this world. Just passing through, don't you know. They're a first-class forgery though, these papers of mine. So good you could even say Ahmad did them. You know that old Cairo saying, don't you? When in doubt, say Ahmad sent you?
Don't move.
Right, square one.
The Major again made an effort to control his voice.
Slowly now, he commanded, do exactly as I say. Lower your left hand to your jacket collar, slowly, and pull your jacket off. Slowly, now drop it.
Clunk, said the man, why not. Never was anything very grand about it.
Your shoes next. Don't bend over. Kick them off.
Sure. Been doing it that way for years, actually.
Now, left hand only. Undo your belt buckle.
Ah yes, said the man. Life is trouble, only death is not. To be alive is to undo your belt and look for trouble, as that old Greek saying has it. Ever come across that saying yourself, Major?
Same hand, slowly. Unbutton your trousers.
Ah, slow as slow for the sake of anticipation. And if I'm not mistaken, that's exactly what the old Greek saying had in mind. But I'm not so sure it was meant to apply to a cool night in the desert. More of an idea for lovely summer evenings on a deserted beach, maybe.
Drop them. Kick them to the side.
Right, a gentle kick maybe. My anticipation's waning in the general chilliness.
Left hand, slowly. Unbutton your shirt.
I'm getting there, Major, but it's also getting cold out here.
Slowly. Do exactly as I say.