Lovely. And isn't it a beautiful morning here in the land of the Nile?
Ahmad looked confused.
You keep saying that but what are you referring to? The weather?
Yes.
But the weather's always the same here. It never changes.
And that may well be, but I'm not always the same.
And what does that mean?
Just that I like the desert and I like the sun, said Joe. And I think I'm going to like the Coptic Quarter, also known as Old Cairo. And probably this seedy place you call the Hotel Babylon, and probably Vivian too. Not Bletchley, I wouldn't imagine. But then, everything can't be perfect.
Ahmad stirred, gazing at Joe.
I know Bletchley of course, but who's Vivian?
Joe described him. Ahmad shook his head.
I've never seen anyone like that around here.
You haven't?
No. And I've never heard of anyone called Vivian, either.
I see. Well is this the only Hotel Babylon in the neighborhood?
Fortunately for all of us, it's the only one in Egypt.
And your name is Ahmad, isn't it?
Ahmad smiled. There's no doubting that, he said. I live with it and I know.
Well there. That's a start at least and more than enough for now by way of facts, I'd say. Too many facts at one time can only be confusing. So then. Beautiful morning, and good-night now.
Joe laughed and made for the stairs with the bottle of whiskey in his hand.
Breakfast? Ahmad called out.
Whenever it gets here. Two knocks, I'm waiting.
Joe went whistling up the stairs. Ahmad watched him until he was out of sight, then got down on his hands and knees again behind the counter, where he had been when Joe had come bursting into the lobby the second time. He didn't think Joe had noticed him down there, but all the same he decided he would have to be more careful now that there was a guest, at last, staying in the Hotel Babylon.
A mysterious smile played on Ahmad's face as he silently opened the secret panel in the wall behind the counter.
***
High in the ancient fortresslike structure in the desert known as the Monastery, an orderly climbed the last steep steps of a spiraling tunnel stairway and knocked on the wooden door at the top. He waited, slowly counting to twelve, then pressed down on the thick iron handle to the door.
The tower room he had entered might have served once as a lookout for the ancient place, for it was small and round with tall narrow slits cut through the thick masonry at regular intervals, giving a view or the desert in every direction. Tiny shafts of brilliant sunshine pierced the heavy shadows of the little room, which was still gloomy at that early hour despite the blinding light outside.
A man with only one arm, immaculately dressed in starched khakis, stood close to one of the slits in the far wall. His back was turned but he appeared to be studying the desert to the west, the direction of the advancing Germans. The man held himself rigidly erect at parade rest, his one hand tucked stiffly into the small of his back. The orderly waited. After a moment a dim strain of organ music rose from somewhere below in the ancient fortress. The man with one arm swung around to face the orderly.
Oh it's you. What is it?
The orderly held out a sheet of paper to his superior, who read the message at a glance and turned to gaze out again at the desert.
Well well, he murmured. So our new Purple Seven is finally in place and ready to begin. . . .
He smiled, his face hidden from the orderly.
Who met the Armenian at the airport?
The actor, sir. The man called Liffy. He knows nothing. He met the plane and took the Armenian directly to the Hotel Babylon.
The man with one arm laughed.
For the Armenian, a bizarre introduction to Cairo, no doubt. And also perhaps a trifle misleading. . . .
Well he has much to learn but not much time to do it in. Are the maps laid out for the briefing?
Yes, sir.
I'll be down in ten minutes. Have the shutters closed and everything ready.
Yes, sir.
That's all.
Yes, sir.
The orderly clicked his heels and left, quietly closing the door behind him. From the depths of the Monastery the organ music soared and swelled more loudly, filling the small tower room with its booming echoes.
Stern, muttered the man with one arm, his face hard. And now we'll finally be done with this traitor and Rommel won't know our every move before we make it. . . . But we must be meticulous, without a mistake.
Without a mistake, he repeated, his eyes narrow as he sensuously stroked the thick medieval masonry protecting him from the merciless glare of the desert sun.
-5-
Liffy
Several nights later Joe was sitting alone in his tiny hotel room, perched on the windowsill gazing out at the darkness, when all at once a light rapping fell on the door, so soft he almost didn't hear it.
Two knocks for food and three for drink, although he hadn't asked Ahmad for anything. With one hand in his pocket, Joe crossed to the door and opened it.
A slight man faced him from the middle of the corridor, a nondescript figure neither young nor old, his nationality impossible to place. The man's eyes darted back and forth and he kept moving his lips, a twitch here and a nibble there, his face abruptly smiling and somber and uneasy by turns.
Joe stared in wonder.
Most amazing mouth I've ever seen, he thought. Just never stops at all.
A wild gleam suddenly flashed in the stranger's eyes, an eerie play of colors and lusters and depths. He shuffled his feet and shifted his weight, his height shooting up and down as he did so. Then his gaze cast about in panic and he retreated even farther away down the corridor, never once looking at Joe, staring down at the floor in defeat.
Bundle of nerves all right, thought Joe.
The stranger sputtered and grinned, shaking his head as if some overwhelming doubt had seized him.
Even his size seemed to expand and contract as Joe watched him moving back and forth in the corridor, now large and looming as he worked his elbows and thrust his head forward, then small and shrinking as he subsided back into himself, not a part of him ever still, his entire presence constantly changing.
To and fro, thought Joe, like a wee boat tossing on the shadowy nighttides of the Nile. But what's it supposed to mean and who is he anyway?
The stranger's arms were heaped with shopping bags, which he was having trouble holding together. He took a step forward and attempted what might have been meant as a smile, but the smile abruptly faded and a gargling sound rose in his throat, an effort to speak gone wrong.
Arghh?
Graaa. . . .
Joe was reminded of a shy lion cub fitfully rolling its head and muttering to itself.
Can I help you? asked Joe, reaching for the bags before they fell. He scooped up several and carried them back inside the room. The stranger still stood in the hallway, nervously shifting his weight back and forth.
Don't you want to come in?
Two if for food and three if for drink, muttered the stranger. Paul Revere said that.
The stranger reluctantly shuffled forward, avoiding Joe's eyes. There was a wistful sadness in his voice.
The hell with Paul Revere, who cares about him. You don't recognize me, do you?
I don't think so, said Joe. Should I?
I suppose not. I suppose there's no reason why anybody should ever recognize me. That's my problem.
Excuse me?
Being recognized as myself, when I'm myself. Nobody ever does. Wouldn't you find that a problem too?
Joe had to resist an urge to wrap his arms around the stranger, so forlorn did he seem. Instead he eased the last paper bag out of the man's arms and put it safely down on the table.