It came. I was strolling through the native quarter one night, fascinated as always by the soliciting technique of the women crouching in the doorways. These sluts are called "geese" by the Arabs of Damascus because the noise of passionate whistle-breathing they use to attract patrons sounds like the mating cry of the Syrian water-fowl. If they catch a man’s eye, they raise the skirt of the long, one-piece garment which is all they wear and brazenly twitch their bared wares at him. If he's interested, they'll pull him back in the doorway with them, undo the drawstring of his pants if he's Arab, or unzip his fly if he's European, and make love with him quickly, standing up all the short while, right in plain sight of any passersby. Then they'll collect the few cents they charge and push him out into the street so that they may hiss at the next prospective customer. They deal in quantity, not quality, for a quick turnover is the only way they can survive.
I wasn't buying that night, just looking and making some more notes. Suddenly there came the sound of loud female screaming from a dark alleyway off to my left. Now, in Damascus, the wise man who hears such a sound will run the other way as fast as he can. Would-be heroes are fair fodder for the local cemetery. I knew this and started to act on it, but the growing terror of the screams caught me up short. Cursing myself for a fool, I plunged into the blackness of the alley to investigate.
I couldn't see a hell of a lot, but as I drew closer to the sounds, I managed to make out five or six Arab boys in their teens closing in on a female figure. I ran up to them with some kind of stupid shout like “Hey there! Leave her alone! Stop it!" and they turned to stare at me in amazement. This quickly changed to active animosity. One of them held the girl while the others turned to deal with me.
Arabs never heard of the Marquis of Queensbury. The first thing that came my way was a vicious kick aimed straight for my groin. I sidestepped it and connected with a karate slice to the ankle of the kicker. Behind him, as he half-collapsed from the sudden pain, a knife flashed from the sleeve of a robe. The kicker straightened up. As the blade slashed towards me, I grabbed the kicker and used him as a shield. It worked. He screamed with pain as the knife plunged into his flesh.
Feeling his body go slack in my grip, I used the momentum this gave me to slam the knife-wielder against the wall of the alley. I dropped the kicker and crashed a right uppercut to his buddy’s jaw. I turned then, but it was too late. The rest of them were on me.
I went down under their weight, punching as hard as I could, but knowing the jig was up. There were just too many of them. Another knife flashed and I figured it was curtains.
Then, suddenly, the alley was lousy with cops. The young hoodlums went scampering off and the cops didn't even make a token pretense of trying to nab them. Watching them go, I still found time to wonder how come the gendarmes had showed up at all. They rarely go anywhere near the native quarter of Damascus except to stage a raid aimed at stopping the export of kayf (a particularly potent mixture of hashish and cocaine which is the mainstay of the illegal international drug traffic in this part of the world). And such raids are only staged about once a year; As for the rest of the crime and vice which is part of the daily life in the native quarter, the police merely shrug and ignore it. It seemed an incredible piece of luck that they should have come along when they did.
I started to thank the cop in charge, but he evidently couldn't understand my Arabic, although I usually have no trouble making myself clear. He just shook his head and motioned for me to come along. I tried to explain the situation and tell him that I was an American and that I didn't want to go to the police station, but it was no use. So I fell in between two cops and allowed myself to be marched to the street.
There were two police cars waiting there. The girl was already in one of them, a cop on either side of her. I got into the other one and we started off for the precinct house.
The Chief himself received us almost immediately. He was a tall man, handsome and dark-skinned, with a moustache so long it might almost be described as "handlebar." He spoke English and introduced himself with extreme politeness. From his name, I knew he was Egyptian.
This didn't surprise me. Ever since Nasser had swallowed up Egypt's neighboring Arab countries under the pretext of a United Arab Republic, the officials in those countries had been steadily replaced by loyal Nasser-ites from Cairo. So it was no surprise to find that the police chief of Syria's major city was an Egyptian.
When the introductions were over, I told him what had happened. He expressed sympathy and then launched into a long smooth speech designed to show how much he admired my country and what personal warmth he felt for Americans. I concealed my impatience and listened until he ran down. When he did, I told him I was tired and would like to return to my hotel now.
“Of course, Mr. Victor, I do indeed understand," he told me. “It's just that I must request you to wait a few moments until the representative from your embassy arrives. He is already on his way and your wait should not be a long one."
“The embassy?" I was surprised. "How do they know about this?"
"I informed them."
“But why? It has nothing to do with them. Unless I'm under arrest or something. Am I?”
"Definitely not, Mr. Victor“ It's a mere formality, a matter of protocol. Believe me, you have no cause to worry. Ah, here is your Mr. Preston now. He will tell you."
A horn-rimmed young diplomat type came in, all tact and efficiency. A brisk handshake, a few polite words swapped with the Chief, and we were ready to go. The Chief's last words puzzled me.
“You will see to the matter of the girl?" he asked Preston.
“Of course. She'll go with us. What about your end?"
“I will see to it personally that what must be done is done."
“Thank you." Preston led me out then to a sleek, diplomatic-style car. As we approached it, I could see that the girl was already inside.
“How come she's here?" I asked Preston. “She’s not an American."
“It will all be made clear to you, Mr. Victor. Just be patient."
I shrugged. It really wasn't any of my business. “Well, thanks for your trouble,” I told Preston. “I can walk to my hotel from here."
“I’ve been asked to bring you to the embassy, Mr. Victor."
“But why?"
“You will also find that out in due time."
I was getting pretty annoyed, but when you're in a foreign country, particularly an Arab country, you don’t go around arguing with U. S. embassy officials. So I preceded him into the car and sulked in silence as we drove to the embassy. Here, the girl and I were separated again. I don’t know where they took her, but I was led into a swank, wood-paneled room and left there by my- self.
About ten minutes later, a gray-haired man entered. Despite the gray, he didn't look much like a diplomat. He looked like a waterfront jackroller all dressed up in a rented tuxedo. Even his neatness gave you the impression that it wasn't natural, but only put on to impress his parole officer. He sat down in back of the desk, opened out a large file-folder in front of him and turned his attention to me.
"My name is Charles Putnam, Mr. Victor, at least as far as you're concerned."