The Golden One (42 page)

And so would hundreds, maybe thousands, of people.

The suk appeared to be as prosperous as ever, with stalls selling everything from handmade lace and the fine black pottery of the region to a variety of mouthwatering fruits and nuts and
vegetables, whose discarded rinds and husks littered the ground. Ramses found a popular café, squatted genteelly, and ordered mint tea. The habitués were an inquisitive lot; they put
him through a merciless but friendly interrogation, not leaving off until they had determined his name, place of origin, business, and ancestry, and had commiserated with him on the condition of
his poor young brother. ‘He has blue eyes,’ said one observant man.

‘His mother was Circassian,’ Ramses explained. ‘My father’s favourite, until she died giving birth to him. My mother . . .’

It did not take long for Ramses to establish his bona fides as a seller of desirable merchandise. The town was full of men in uniform, strutting through the street with the arrogance of
Europeans among natives. The most loquacious of their newfound friends, a middle-aged man with only one eye and a stump where his right hand had been, had a few pungent epithets for the Germans.
‘But,’ he added, ‘they are no worse than the Turks. God curse this war! Whoever wins we will be the losers. If Gaza is defended, our homes and livelihoods will be
destroyed.’

It was a good opening, and Ramses took advantage of it. His questions and comments brought out a spate of information, much of it highly inaccurate, and some more accurate descriptions of
various public figures. Von Kressenstein, the German commander, was feared but respected; the governor was feared and loathed; the Turkish general was a fat pig who did nothing but sit in his fine
house and eat. And so it went, until dusk greyed the sky and the party dispersed.

Ramses and Chetwode spent the night in the picturesque ruins of what was locally known as Samson’s tomb – actually a structure dating from the Middle Ages. Moonlight filtering
through the broken walls and roof made baroque patterns on the ground, and the leaves of the ancient olive trees rustled in the night wind. As they ate the food purchased in the bazaar, Chetwode
enlivened the meal with questions. He hadn’t had a chance to talk all day, and it must be wearing on him.

‘You didn’t ask about Ismail Pasha,’ he said accusingly.

‘One tries to avoid asking direct questions.’ Ramses tossed away a handful of orange peel and stretched out on the ground. ‘In this case it wasn’t necessary. You were
there; didn’t you hear what they said about him?’

‘Everybody was talking too fast,’ Chetwode said sullenly. ‘Anyhow, it’s your job to locate the fellow.’

The hero worship was wearing thin. Ramses couldn’t have said why he was reluctant to share this bit of news; old habit, perhaps, or one of the Secret Service’s basic rules:
Don’t tell anyone more than he needs to know. Maybe Chetwode did need to know this, if only to keep him from doing something impulsive.

‘The holy infidel, as they call him, is going to pray at the mosque of Hashim tomorrow at midday,’ Ramses explained. ‘There will be quite a crowd, I expect. We’ll go
early and find a place where we can get a good long look at him.’

‘And then?’

‘Then we make a quick and, let us hope, unobtrusive exit from Gaza.’

‘After only two days? Without – without doing anything?’

Ramses tried to hold on to his temper. Being responsible for this ingenuous youth was nerve-racking enough without having to deliver lectures on espionage. ‘You hadn’t planned on an
indefinite stay, had you? We have to assume that there are certain people here who keep tabs on newcomers. One of our amiable acquaintances at the coffeeshop could be an agent of the governor or
the military.’

‘Really?’

‘That’s how the Turks operate. They don’t trust anyone, and with good reason. They aren’t well liked in these parts. Sooner or later our presence will be known, and some
bright soul may decide it would be a good idea to question us. Then there are the press gangs. They’re always looking for recruits. One more day is all we can risk.’ He yawned and
wondered why he was bothering. ‘Get some rest.’

‘As soon as I finish this.’

Ramses sat up with a start. Chetwode squatted by the ruined arch of the entrance, scribbling busily by moonlight on what appeared to be a folded piece of paper. ‘What the hell are you
doing?’

‘Making notes. I didn’t recognize all the insignia of the men we saw, but if I describe them, our people can get a good idea which units – ’

‘Eat it.’

‘What?’

‘Get rid of the goddamn paper!’ Chetwode stared blankly at him. He got to his feet. ‘If you were caught and they found that on you, you’d be dead. Or wish you were. What
other incriminating objects are you carrying?’

He snatched the paper from Chetwode. Hastily, eyes wide, the boy took a pouch from the breast of his robe. It contained sheets of paper, several pencils, a small pocket torch, and a tiny bottle
containing two white pills.

‘Christ, I should have searched you before we left,’ Ramses muttered, as he shredded the papers and stamped on the neatly sharpened pencils. ‘What’s in the bottle?
Cyanide, no doubt. The Secret Service loves cyanide.’

‘But if we’re caught – ’

‘We had better be able to talk our way out of it, which we could not do if we were carrying British-made writing materials. As for these . . .’ He ground the innocent-looking pills
under his heel. ‘Were you planning to ask the governor’s head torturer to hang on a minute while you fished round in your pouch for the bottle, opened it, and popped the pills into your
mouth?’

Chetwode’s head drooped. ‘It does sound ridiculous, when you put it that way. They told me – ’

‘Yes, all right. Look here, there are a number of ways we could have gone about this, including your uncle’s idiotic suggestion that we wear captured Turkish uniforms and march into
their headquarters demanding information.’

‘I don’t see why – ’

‘Then I’ll tell you why.’ Ramses lost the remains of his temper. ‘It’s a miracle you haven’t already been spotted. If I were picked up and questioned, they
would probably do nothing worse than send me to the trenches, from which I would soon remove myself. If they caught you, it wouldn’t take a trained officer more than ten seconds to identify
you as an Englishman. It’s not just your accent, it’s the way you stand, and sit, and move and . . . everything about you!’

Chetwode bowed his head. ‘I didn’t know I was that bad.’

‘All of you are. It’s not your fault,’ he added, more kindly. ‘To pass convincingly as a native of the area, you have to live there and think in the language for years.
This is the safest way, and I’m trying to minimize the risks. You’ve done fine so far, but you’ll have to follow my orders and keep your notes in your head.’

‘Like you? All that’ – he gestured at the scattered bits of paper – ‘was a waste of time, wasn’t it? You’ve got it memorized.’

He was back to the hero worship. It was almost worse than his brief attempts at independent thinking. But not as dangerous. Ramses shrugged. ‘It’s a matter of practice.’

‘A little late for me to start now, I guess.’ He looked up with a rueful smile. ‘Sorry. I’ll do everything you say from now on.’

‘Then get some sleep.’

Chetwode couldn’t keep quiet even when he slept. He snored. Lying awake, his hands under his head, Ramses was tempted to kick him, but his better nature prevailed. Let the fellow sleep. He
wished he could. The night noises here weren’t the same as the ones at home; his nerves twitched at every rustle in the weeds. Since sleep was impossible, he went over and over the
conversations he had held that day, picking them apart, looking for hints he might have missed.

He got a little sleep, but not much, what with Chetwode’s snores and the need to listen for suspicious sounds. At daybreak he roused his companion. Chetwode was uncharacteristically silent
– sulking or brooding, or maybe fighting an attack of cold feet, for which Ramses wouldn’t have blamed him.

Suddenly Chetwode said, ‘What if something goes wrong?’

‘I told you. Run.’

‘That’s not much of a plan,’ Chetwode said. His mouth twitched. Perhaps he was trying to smile.

Ramses came to a decision. One of the many worries that had prevented him from sleeping was the thought of his anxious family, waiting in Khan Yunus.

‘If you make it out and I’m caught or killed,’ he said, ‘go to the house of Ibn Rafid in Khan Yunus. It’s on the main square, the largest house in town –
anyone can show you which it is. Leave a written message for . . .’ He realized he didn’t know the name Emerson was currently using. ‘For the present master of the house, telling
him what happened to me.’

‘Is he one of us?’ Chetwode asked.

‘No.’ The boy’s curiousity made him wonder if he’d done the right thing. The alternative would have been worse, though – leaving them in ignorance of his fate,
possibly for days. They might even decide to invade Gaza looking for him. None of them was noted for patience; and if the worst happened, certain knowledge was better than false hope.

Chetwode asked no further questions.

After they had finished the bread and fruit left over from the previous night, Ramses led the other man on a circuitous route back towards the centre of town. The mosque was near the Askalon
Gate. Ramses found a coffeeshop – not the one they had visited the previous day – and they settled down to wait.

As the morning wore on, the cafés filled and people began to gather. It lacked half an hour till midday when the procession appeared. It was small but impressive, headed by half a dozen
mounted men wearing baggy trousers and jackets heavy with tarnished gilt, and silken sashes wound round their waists. They were armed with long swords and pistols. The horses were splendid animals,
their bridles and stirrups of silver. Not Turkish regulars; the personal guard of some important official. They cleared the way brutally but effectively, using the flats of their swords. Since he
was a head taller than most of the spectators, Ramses could see reasonably well; there seemed to be another group of guards at the end of the procession. Between the guards were several horsemen:
the governor, flashing with gold, his fleshy face set in a look of conscious piety; and, next to him, flanked by two officers in Turkish uniform . . .

Ramses got only a glimpse of a bearded profile and prominent, hawklike nose, before a gun went off, so close to his ear, it momentarily deafened him. He spun round and struck the weapon out of
Chetwode’s hand. The second shot went wild.

‘You goddamned fool!’

Chetwode’s lips moved. Ramses couldn’t hear what he said; the people around them were screaming and shoving, some of them trying to reach the would-be assassin, others – the
wiser majority – scampering for safety. There was no such thing as an innocent bystander in the eyes of Ottoman officials.

‘Run!’ Ramses yelled, and emphasized the order with a shove. Chetwode gave him a wild-eyed stare and dashed off. Ramses tripped one of the avengers who were closing in, knocked
another one down, ducked under the outstretched arms of a third, and set out at a run towards the mosque.

‘That’s the man! Stop him!’ someone shouted in Turkish. He heard the pound of hoofbeats behind him and threw himself aside in time to avoid being ridden down, but the brief
delay was fatal. When he got to his feet he was surrounded by the gaudily uniformed guard, all heroically brandishing their swords.

‘No weapons,’ the officer ordered. ‘Take him alive.’

Ramses considered his options. He could only think of two, and neither held much appeal. He could cringe and whine and deny guilt, or he could take on six men. It would end the same in either
case, so he decided to give himself the satisfaction of hitting someone.

He had two of them on the ground and a third on his knees, when a missile skimmed the side of his head, hard enough to throw him off balance for a vital moment. Flat on his back, with four of
them pinning his arms and legs, he reconsidered his options. There didn’t seem to be any.

The officer raked his men with a scornful eye. ‘Six against one, and it took a lucky throw from a safe distance to bring him down. Tie his hands, my brave fellows, or he may yet escape
you.’

Not much chance of that, Ramses knew. The blow on the head had left him slightly giddy and there was blood trickling down his face. After they had bound his hands behind him, one of them looped
a rope round his neck and fastened it to the leader’s saddle. Wonderful. One slip, on any of the scraps of rotting fruit that littered the street, and he’d be dragged, choking, until
the officer decided to stop. The only positive feature in an otherwise gloomy situation was that Chetwode was nowhere in sight.

Hot sunlight beat down on the deserted square. No – not quite deserted. The onlookers had fled and the guard must have escorted the dignitaries to safety, but from the opposite side of the
square a rider was coming slowly towards them. Ramses stared, hoping his eyes had deceived him, knowing they hadn’t. He’d believed his situation couldn’t be any worse. He had been
wrong.

The rider had only a single escort, a servant who followed at a respectful distance. His mount was superb – a roan stallion, his tail and mane braided with bright ribbons. He was an
impressive specimen, too, a tall, heavily built man with finely cut features and a neat grey beard. His robes were of silk and on the front of his turban was a jewel of rubies and emeralds,
surmounted by a white egret feather. Even the whip he held had a jewelled, enamelled handle. He pulled up next to Ramses and acknowledged the officer’s respectful salute with a casual
movement of his hand.

‘What is this?’ he asked in Turkish.

‘As you see, Sahin Pasha. We have captured the assassin.’

So now he’s a pasha, Ramses thought. What was the head of the Turkish secret service doing in Gaza? His first and – he had hoped – last encounter with this formidable
individual had ended in the failure of Sahin’s mission; it wouldn’t be surprising if he bore a grudge against the man who had been partially responsible. Ramses could only pray the Turk
wouldn’t recognize him. He was bareheaded, having lost his khafiyeh during the fight, but in his filthy torn robes, bearded and dishevelled, he bore little resemblance to the man Sahin had
last seen – dishevelled, admittedly, but clean-shaven and in European clothing. He cringed and ducked his head.