Stern. A wizard of languages and Levantine ways. A brilliant agent who had used his vast knowledge of the Middle East to come and go unsuspected for years. A solitary man who had ingeniously used his role as a minor gunrunner to conceal his espionage activities, who had managed through this sordid cover to escape important notice throughout his life.
And lastly, the mysterious Purple Seven. An experienced agent from the outside, identity unknown, history and previous involvements unknown. Evidently a European but referred to by the Colonel as the Armenian, because the false papers of his Purple Seven cover carried an Armenian name and an Armenian background.
When the Major thought about it, it wasn't difficult for him to understand why the Colonel's questions took the form they did. The Colonel had spent most of his life in the Middle East and despite his ordinary army manner, he was a scholarly expert in the cultures of the region who couldn't help but be intrigued by the contradictions of Stern's obscure past.
Then too, in Stern's case, it wasn't just a matter of facts and straightforward information. From the way the Colonel and others spoke of Stern, it was apparent Stern had been the kind of man who had invariably had a powerful effect on anyone who knew him. Almost an hypnotic effect, it seemed, as if in the process of uncovering the truth about Stern it was possible to discover a much larger truth. Almost as if some secret meaning lay hidden in Stern's lifelong journey in search of his arcane goals.
It was only a vague notion to the Major, but he knew that was because he had never met Stern and been exposed to his influence. From the way the Colonel spoke of Stern, even from certain references in the files, it was easy enough to imagine the aura that had surrounded Stern, the peculiar mixture of strangeness and recognition men had felt in his presence, a sense of wonder and familiarity and of profound fear as well.
An age-old tragedy, then, Stern's life. A tale of idealism and disaster on the shores of the Aegean that would always be unresolvable in its depths of darkness and light, a fated play of mystery and suffering in the stony deserts where certain men had always wandered. In its yearnings and its abject failures, a tale on the nature of things, its rhythms spun from the soft roll of ancient seas and the hard tides of ancient deserts. And yet a tale so simple it was known to the poorest of beggars and had been for thousands of years. . its stark cycle always secretly felt in the heart, always secretly passed from heart to heart through the millennia.
***
Although the Major could appreciate the profound fascination felt by the Colonel for Stern's enigmatic life and death, his own imagination was more deeply provoked by the unidentified figure in the case. The man who had been brought in to uncover the truth about Stern, the elusive Purple Seven agent known as the Armenian.
Nor was it difficult for the Major to understand his own particular fascination with this other figure. For the man's Purple Seven identity had been used only once before, and that was by the professional agent who had designed the identity for himself in the 1930s and used it so successfully in Palestine and Ethiopia, the same man who had been the hero of the Major's youth during the First World War, Columbkille O'Sullivan or Our Colly of Champagne, the legendary little sergeant who had survived a bullet through the heart in 1914 and been awarded two Victoria Crosses, an impossible feat.
All his life the Major had wondered about Our Colly. What kind of man could he have been and how could anyone be expected to follow in his footsteps? Why would anyone, in fact, even dare to presume such a thing?
And yet Bletchley had done just that. Bletchley had gone out of his way to assign Our Colly's Purple Seven identity to this unknown agent who had been tracking Stern for months or years and had even been with Stern, finally, at the moment of his death.
So the circle was complete and the Major was brought back to the puzzle of the unknown Armenian, sketchily described as a small dark man with a deeply lined face and watchful eyes, wearing a torn collarless shirt and an old dark suit that was too big for him, that looked as if it might be secondhand, not even his to begin with. An apparent dealer in Coptic artifacts. An unknown man in transit, as Our Colly once had been.
***
The Major kept a clean desk. When he returned from the Colonel's office that evening the only thing on it was his pith helmet, which the Major raised to see if any messages had been left for him underneath it.
There was one, a note saying some calls had come in on his private telephone while he was in back with the Colonel. Three rings each time, the note said, the calls repeated every fifteen minutes on the quarter-hour. Since it was his private telephone, no one had taken the calls.
The Major looked at his watch, feeling a sudden rush of excitement. He paced impatiently behind his desk, waiting, and the next call came exactly on time on the quarter-hour. The Major picked up the phone and said hello, and that was all he said. He listened to the voice speaking to him, then when the call ended he hurried back to the Colonel's office, where the Colonel was locking up his files, preparing to leave for the night. The Colonel looked up, surprised.
Well well, what's this? I thought you'd already left.
I just had a telephone call, the Major blurted out. A very curious piece of business.
Oh? What was it?
The Major explained the repeated calls on his private phone and the one he had just taken. The code words used by the caller belonged to Liffy, including the code word dove, which was Liffy's mechanism for requesting an emergency meeting, something he had never done before.
But not at any of the places where we usually meet, added the Major. He wants the emergency meeting to be at the Sphinx.
The Colonel looked up again, smiling.
How's that? Liffy at the Sphinx?
But I don't think it was him, said the Major. I think it was somebody else.
Couldn't you tell from his voice?
No, not really. Liffy always disguises his voice on the phone with me. It's a game he plays.
Well whom did he sound like this time?
The voice had an Irish accent.
Child's play for Liffy, said the Colonel.
But I'm quite sure it wasn't him. There's no conceivable reason why he should need an emergency meeting. He's not in that end of things.
Then perhaps he's just lonely and wants you to hold his hand, said the Colonel. It happens.
The Major frowned, an expression of disagreement he had picked up from the Colonel.
At two o'clock in the morning in front of the Sphinx? Tonight? And only calling now to set it up?
Normally he couldn't even expect to find me in the office this late in the evening. He knows that.
The Colonel continued to sort through his papers, putting them away in his file cabinet.
He's been drinking a bit, do you suppose?
No, Liffy never gets out of hand that way.
Well who else knows his code words?
No one. Just the two of us.
Then he must have made an exception and gotten drunk, said the Colonel. Probably thinks he's playing a practical joke, mentioning the Sphinx. If I were you I'd get ahold of him in the morning and let him have it.
Inexcusable, really, at a time like this.
The Major said nothing, waiting. He understood the reasons for the Colonel's reluctant reaction to the phone call, but he was still determined to get some resolution to the matter. The Colonel, meanwhile, put his last folder in the file cabinet and locked it. He checked the file drawers and walked stiffly on his false leg to the door. He reached for the door, hesitated, spoke in a casual tone of voice.