“So these are suicide fighters?” Robert asked with a change of tone. Plainly, he still thought little of the English. But he turned and gave Michael an appreciative look. “I know a man who spent time in Cairo. He told me there are private clubs where….”
“Indeed, there are such!” the old man cut in with evident relief at the change of subject. “I was last in Baghdad just before our own Christmas—and the new Caliph, I can assure you, is a man of very broad vision. For a modest outlay, one can behold acts of the most varied, and always willing, self-immolation.” Before Jessup had finished, Radleigh was speaking in a bored voice. He finished with a sour look and lit another tube. “Oh, don’t worry about Basil!” the old man said. “I will tell him later of our new plan, to take direct action against the Government. But, dearest Robert, can I tempt you—as a mark of my personal esteem, and as a token of what can be done when a man places no value of his own life—to a private demonstration of the loyalty that I command?”
What the old man went on to say Michael didn’t hear in Latin. Jessup had abruptly stopped interpreting, and was into some plainly contrived coughing fit. It didn’t matter. Robert already had his sword out, and was holding it up, hilt pressed into his waist. “Ibrahim, my glorious young flower,” the old man said, back into his rather modern, but still comprehensible, Arabic. “Ibrahim, the time has come for you to do as you promised in your freely-given oath to the Caliph.”
Michael kept his face turned down. “What would My Lord have of me?” he asked, trying not to let his voice shake.
“Do you see that western barbarian’s sword?” the old man answered in a mild and slightly sorrowful voice that didn’t fit with the anticipatory gloat on his face. Michael said nothing, but tried to think what to do next. “Well, Ibrahim, it is to propagate the Faith that I command you to impale yourself upon it. Do it slowly, and with a joyous smile. Perhaps you could recite that lovely poem about blue stones in the desert.”
Chapter Thirty Four
Whether or not he knew Arabic, Jessup had got the burden of the old man’s command. He said something low but sharp to Radleigh, who tried to frown him into silence. He spoke again. Outraged, the old man seemed to tell him to mind his own business. Radleigh was beginning to look confused. Jessup may have said he’d be no party to murder. The old man laughed. Michael fought against the panic rising from his stomach. While three pairs of eyes focussed on him, he wondered if he could reach the door without being cut down by Robert.
“Oh, but Ibrahim!” the old man suddenly cried, tapping his forehead in an admission of how thoughtless he’d been. “How can I possibly ask you to spoil such fine, ceremonial clothes as you are wearing tonight?” For a moment, Michael thought he’d be sent away to change into something that wouldn’t soak up the blood. But the old man spoke a few words to Radleigh, whose own face still showed something between boredom and distaste. The old man turned back. “Take off all your clothes, O beauteous vision of boyhood. You must die as naked as you were born.” He called something over to Radleigh, but his voice was hoarse with excitement, and he seemed to trail off without coming to any main point. Radleigh looked at the clock on his wrist and lit another tube.
There was a curtained window to Michael’s right. Since it must be sixty feet up from the ground, there could be no getting though that. His face shining with the joy of an approaching death, Robert twisted in his chair and held his drawn sword at the ready. The old man called something that was supposed to be encouraging, about the seventy two virgins who must be growing impatient. Michael slowly undid his turban and wondered if he could throw his main robe over Robert before making his dash from the room.
“Not very dark for a Saracen—is he?” Robert observed once Michael’s face could be clearly seen. “Decidedly pale, I’d say.”
Jessup had given up on interpreting, and was looking at the wine jug—Michael had already given up on this as a weapon. But the old man got up to help with the robe. “You are young Ibrahim?” he asked uncertainly. Before Michael could grab hold of it, he took the robe and hurried over to the other side of the room, to place it carefully over the back of an unoccupied chair. “You are very light for one of the Faith,” he said from behind the chair.
“I have turned pale in the bathing water of the Infidels,” Michael said with a sinking heart.
“And why are you wearing the ridiculous underclothes of an Infidel boy?” the old man asked. Michael’s answer was something vague about the northern weather. “Oh, never mind that!” the old man laughed. “Just take everything off, and come into the light, so we can all see the last moments of such pride and beauty. Do this, young Ibrhaim—then press yourself slowly into the barbarian’s sword. Let it go in just above your navel.” He repressed the more obvious signs of excitement, and came forward again to stand beside Robert, who was sucking hard on the last inch of his tube and filling the room with more acrid smoke.
Michael took his shirt off. Whatever doubts the colour of his skin might have raised, he’d never be taken as a Moslem once his shorts were off. Perhaps he could leave them on and try for one of the dances he’d seen those boys perform in Baghdad. Yes—these men wanted a show. He’d stretch this one out until he could get close by the door. But, as he raised his arms over his head, and went into a squatting move, Robert barked out a laugh and got up. He stepped towards Michael, his sword arm pulled back for a stabbing motion.
With a sudden flickering of the candle, the door flew open. “Get over here, Michael!” Jennifer shouted. Whatever was going on, she could see she’d got here just in time. She looked about to see if anyone had more than a sword. If Robert had brought his pistol with him, it must still be buttoned into its holster.
“But Little Bear!” Robert cried, his face twisting into one of his charming smiles. “What a delightful surprise!” Still keeping his sword ready, he turned and bowed to her. The nasty old man in the tweed jacket shouted something at Michael in what she guessed was Arabic. Not moving, Radleigh sat in his chair. He was breathing out a lungful of smoke and looking at Michael with dawning realisation.
“Get over here!” she shouted again at Michael. Robert was within eighteen inches of her, when she let off the fire extinguisher into his face. She’d found this at the top of the staircase. Getting it free from its housing had taken her the whole time that had passed after the explaining of the plot. Now, she fired off a jet of compressed and nearly freezing foam. It knocked Robert straight over onto his back. His sword landed with a clatter on the boards. Ignoring him, she turned on the old man, who hadn’t yet thought to switch his squeals from Arabic into English. Unlike Robert, he didn’t go over, but did get an inch of foam into his eyes and mouth.
“Not him!” Michael said as she turned the red cylinder towards the other old man in the room. He darted over to get his big robe. But this was wet through from a stray jet of foam. He gave up on it and went for the sword. Robert was getting up with a roar of outrage. With one hand, he rubbed at his eyes. The other was already feeling inside his tunic. Jennifer gave him another blast of foam that also put the candle out.