Sir Nigel raised his black brows. “Really, my dear fellow! Do you want Murdoch pinched as well?”
“Meaning that Ali will have to walk here from the Muski?”
“Ali’s methods of transport are his own secret.”
They fell into silence, each thinking his own thoughts. A faint breeze arose, rustling the palm fronds outside and making a noise like the crackling of stiff paper. A faint perfume from some night-scented flower in the garden was wafted into the study. A large bat flew past the window.
So they sat when, unheralded by any sound, a small dark figure materialized on the balcony, glided into the room and performed humble salaam.
Mr. Bostock nearly dropped a cone of cigar ash on the carpet, but recovered himself in the nick of time. Sir Nigel, though equally startled, hailed the apparition in Arabic.
“Good evening, Ali Yahya.”
“Good evening, Richardson Pasha.”
“What have you to report, Ali?”
“It is true—what I was told. Someone is there!”
Mr. Bostock sprang up. “You say someone is there?”
But in his excitement he used English instead of Arabic, a language which he understood better than he spoke. Ali Yahya stared blankly. He had discarded his cloak and presented a queer figure in that sedately appointed room in his black loin-cloth and turban. Mr. Bostock corrected himself hastily, and Ali said again:
“Someone is there, effendi.”
Bostock glanced at Sir Nigel. “We must get the exact facts, Richardson. You ask the questions. You’re more fluent than I. Let him sit down. The man must be tired.”
Ali accepted the invitation and dropped down, cross-legged, on the carpet. Then, speaking impassively in simple words, he described what he had found in the Sherif’s cellar.
“You didn’t see the face of this man?” Sir Nigel asked.
“No. He slept, it seems, like a desert fox, with one eye open. I obeyed my orders and came away quickly.”
“That was wise, Ali. You did well. You relocked all doors?”
“And replaced the keys where I found them.”
“No one saw you leave?”
“No one ever sees me, Richardson Pasha, when I do not wish to be seen.”
From the drawer of a coffee-table Sir Nigel took out a wad of notes fastened with an elastic band and tossed it across to Ali, who caught it deftly.
Ali Yahya salaamed so deeply that his forehead touched the carpet. “0, well of Justice!”
He tried to thrust the bundle of money into his loin-cloth, but had some difficulty in doing so. The “well of justice” was watching him.
“There must be many treasures in the house of the Sherif Mohammed, Ali?”
“It is true. The Seyyid Mohammed is very wealthy, Richardson Pasha.”
“So I believe. Tell me, 0 Ali, what is that you have concealed?” Ali Yahya produced a flash-lamp. “No, no! Something more bulky.”
Ali hesitated for one tremendous moment, his bright eyes flashing sideways to the balcony, then back again to meet the inflexible stare of Sir Nigel.
“I feared you might misjudge my motive, Richardson Pasha. For this reason I said nothing. But it seemed to me, 0 wise one, that in case a window which I was unable to close properly might arouse suspicion, it would be provident to leave evidence to show that a common sneak-thief had entered the house.”
“I see. Show us the evidence.”
With great reluctance Ali the Lizard drew out from his loincloth an object wrapped in a piece of faded silk. He opened the wrapping and held up a small mibkharah, or incense-burner, most delicately chiselled in pure gold, a relic of some sultan’s harem, a museum piece, for which collectors would pay a fabulous price!
“Good heavens, Richardson!” Mr. Bostock gasped. “We can’t stand for this! He must hand it over!”
Ali Yahya was rewrapping the treasure. Sir Nigel tried to hide a grin.
“Do you prefer it to be found in Ali’s possession, or in the United States Embassy?”
Mr. Bostock dropped back in his chair with a groan. Ali, obeying a silent signal from Sir Nigel, faded away, disappearing silently over the wall of the balcony. A whispered farewell came out of the darkness.
“May your night be a glad one, 0 Fountain of Wisdom . . .”
“We know what we wanted to know,” Mr. Bostock admitted. “But what a price to pay!”
“Forget that, Bostock. Our problem is: What are we going to do now?”
Chapter
11
“Well, my boy!” Senator Merrick held Brian at arms’ length, sizing him up with shrewd hazel eyes. “You look righting fit. If official despatches from Cairo and the word of Sir Denis are to be credited, you have helped to pull off something that may well prove to be a turning point in military history.”
Brian felt his cheeks flush. “I had next to nothing to do with it, Father. All the credit belongs to Sir Denis.”
“So you say, Junior. And I like you none the less for it. But Sir Denis Nayland Smith is a brilliant man, and he wouldn’t have wanted you if he hadn’t had use for you. Dr. Hessian arrives at the psychological moment. If he can prove what he claims, it may be a means of stopping the President, my very good friend, from plunging us into war.”
“Just what does that mean, Father?”
“Well, it is a top secret—but there’s an order to the Chief of Staff, already drawn up, which only requires his signature. His military advisers favour it. I don’t, and I’m not alone in my opposition. This country, Brian, is dangerously open to air attack with modern missiles. We should step warily.”
Nayland Smith was talking to General Rawlins and another Air Force official, and at this moment he brought them across. Brian had already met both that morning.
“I’m getting into hot water!” Sir Denis declared. “These fighting men tell me they expect orders by this week-end which seem to me to mean a shooting war.”
“And to me,” Senator Merrick agreed. “But nothing’s signed yet.”
“It will be signed not later than three days from now.” General Rawlins spoke with calm confidence. “For my part, I doubt the claims of this German scientist, in spite of all we’ve heard—and that’s not much. In the first place, I don’t expect open hostilities to start. In the second place, if they do, the Air Force hasn’t been asleep.”
“The trouble about democracy,” Brian Merrick Senior growled, “is that it speaks with too many voices all at the same time.”
“It’s no good flying off the handle, General,” Nayland Smith snapped, “because Dr. Hessian refuses to see you until his plans are complete. I warned you of this before you left Washington, so don’t blame me. He’s a genius, and he’s been through hell. He doesn’t give a damn for you or anybody else. He cursed me in German when I told him you were coming. Fortunately, I don’t know much German.”
“But when,” General Rawlins demanded, “will these plans of his be complete?”
“So far as I can make out, in the next two days.”
“When he’ll graciously consent to see us?”
“His proposal is this: As soon as he’s ready to give a demonstration, he will receive a committee of responsible Service officers, scientists and policy makers, to be selected by Senator Merrick as acting for the President. To me this seems fair and reasonable.”
“And the President will agree with you,” Senator Merrick declared. “World tension is reaching a peak; and I can assure you of the President’s keen interest.... Have I your permission, Sir Denis, to take my son to lunch at my club?”
* * *
Out of darkness complete except for one point of green light which might have been the eye of some nocturnal animal, Fu Manchu’s voice spoke: