Bletchley laughed.
To be honest, there's not an agent up there in the cloisters who wouldn't love to be on nitrous oxide at this very moment. Of course they wouldn't want to be down here, but life's like that, isn't it? Gas is enjoyable, certainly, but we always have to take what goes with it.
Which is Whatley, thought Joe, shivering and staring dully at the apparatus. A tune ran through his head, one of Liffy's, but he couldn't quite remember the words. Tarry in caves but beware of local bats, was that it? Beware of bats, my child?
So the point is, Bletchley was saying, the gas will help you relax and be receptive in these unfamiliar surroundings, even though you're not feeling too well today. And it also serves as a security precaution.
You'll be able to hear everything Whatley says and ask whatever questions you may have, but afterward your impression of Whatley's voice will be just a little distorted. As the chief here, he prefers it that way.
Being distorted? asked Joe. Why?
Now then, murmured Bletchley, just breathe normally through your nose.
Bletchley fitted a small rubber mask over Joe's nose. Joe sat there listening to a rhythmic sigh, growing stronger. After some moments had gone by, a door opened. A man with only one arm, immaculately dressed in starched khakis, was moving around on the edge of Joe's vision. Was that really the notorious Whatley at last, in the flesh?
Ah, said a voice from far away. And this must be our new Purple Seven Armenian who has traveled all the way from a mesa in Arizona to be with us. No please, Joe, don't bother to get up. You look quite comfortable where you are. And I believe you take your tea without sugar, is that right?
Joe nodded. Beware of bats, he thought.
Yes, continued the voice, it's a pleasure to have you with us at last. Now let's not waste any time, let's get right down to the bottom of things immediately. We're here to talk about Stern — the man, the agent, everything. Yes, everything. .
Xx×
Most of Joe's memories of the Monastery were a blur after that. Later, after the briefing in the huge leather chair with the gas mask had ended, he did remember finding himself on a narrow stone terrace.
The terrace must have been quite high up in the Monastery, for there was a beautiful view of the desert.
He and Bletchley were sitting alone there, side by side in canvas deck chairs. A camouflaged canvas awning provided shade and there were potted palms along the walls. The skin of a Bengal tiger was hanging at one end of the terrace. From the color of the sky, Joe guessed it must be almost twilight.
. . and for those reasons, Bletchley was saying, I don't think you should be upset by the violence of Whatley's language when he speaks of Stern. Passions run high in wartime and poor Whatley has never gotten over losing his right arm to the Germans. In fact he told me once he can still feel the fingers on his missing hand twitching late at night. The forefinger especially, his trigger finger. It just never stops twitching, he said.
Nor will it, thought Joe. Not if it's missing.
He had no idea what the conversation was about or where it had started. There was a half-empty glass in his hand and he sniffed it. Quinine water. Bletchley was leaning forward and leisurely adding gin to his own glass, stretching and smiling, relaxing. All at once Joe had the sensation of being on a passenger liner bound for the East, for India. He and Bletchley were chance acquaintances sitting together on deck, chatting and having drinks before sundown, passing the time before they went in to dress for the late sitting
Tarry in open spaces, my child, thought Joe.
At least you must feel better after your nap, said Bletchley.
I do, but I'm still disturbed. Disturbed by Whatley, what?
Well I could see that, but I don't think Whatley was being intentionally evasive. I'm not privy to that much of it, but my impression is he wants you to come in fresh, without preconceptions about Stern and Stern's role in this affair. Strictly from the outside, so to speak.
Stern, muttered Joe, gazing out over the rolling desert. Someone from the outside, you say?
Exactly.
Or someone from the other side perhaps? added Joe. Wouldn't that be another way of putting it? What if the Germans suddenly took a special interest in Stern? What could the Germans come up with? What could they uncover?
I suppose it's something along those lines, said Bletchley. I don't know specifically what the nature of the operation is, but my impression of its general drift is about the same as yours.
That's it, thought Joe. The Monastery's having me play a part similar to a German agent's. Look into Stern's activities from the point of view of the other side, and see what I can come up with. But why?
They've got more than enough to do out here running operations against the Germans. Why go to the trouble of running an operation against Stern, one of their own men? The information he has must be very important. Even crucial, as the three men in white linen suits said back in Arizona.
A thought struck Joe.
And could it be that this information concerns the Monastery? Is that why these Monks are so tight-lipped about everything? Because they're afraid for themselves? Because Stern knows something about this place that nobody else knows? And if the Germans were ever to find out. .?
Bletchley sipped from his glass and began to talk about sunsets at sea. Once more they were on a passenger liner bound for the East, for India.
Changing the subject, thought Joe. Bletchley doesn't want me to become too curious about Stern's specific piece of information. Report back on Stern in general, that's all. Not recognize the nugget when I come across it. If I do.
Joe found himself drifting away again, losing touch.
We'll have to be leaving soon, said Bletchley. I don't like driving at night. It bothers my eye.
You don't like it but you do it, thought Joe, an image flashing through his mind, something Liffy had mentioned in passing. Liffy accompanying Bletchley to meetings with agents at night in an automobile, Bletchley in front acting as merely the driver while Liffy was in disguise in back with the agent, debriefing the man according to Bletchley's instructions. The agent concentrating on Liffy, giving Bletchley the opportunity to listen and to observe the agent through the rearview mirror. A simple trick and an old one, but effective.
Well the game's elaborate all right, thought Joe, but at least we know now why we're sitting up here on the captain's bridge with our hunting trophies and our potted palms. Bletchley's the real skipper out here and he's the one who's in charge of this operation and in charge of the Monastery for that matter, and Whatley's just someone on his staff, his deputy probably. . But why is the game so elaborate? These Monks have a war to worry about and Rommel's out there with his panzers churning closer all the time, so what's going on? Why are they so deathly afraid of Stern at a time like this?. . One man after all, no more.
Have you ever heard of the Sisters? asked Bletchley.
Joe tried to think.
The Weird Sisters, you mean? That old expression for the Fates?
Bletchley laughed.
No, this has nothing to do with folklore. I was referring to two women who used to be the reigning queens of Cairo society a while back. They're twins and rather reclusive now. They live in a houseboat on the Nile, I'm told.
Oh. No I haven't heard of them, said Joe.
But surely the name Menelik Ziwar means something to you, doesn't it? That Egyptologist Stern used to know? He was also quite a society figure once. . in his way.