The Rainy Day Man: Contemporary Romance (Suspense and Political Mystery Book 1) (5 page)

             
I got up and strode over to the fence.  The man approached too, walking along the row of pink tongues.  I allowed myself to smile.  Not really, not openly, just a miniscule relaxation of the face muscles.  His face remained impassive.

             
That could be expected, too. The relations between an agent and his operator are so delicate and problematic as to be nearly as fragile as those between homosexual lovers.  And just as in a partnership of that kind each can identify the other man's love beyond his distress, the agent and his operator have a sixth sense for one another which is nourished by the secret they share.  I bent a few barbs in the fence, the rusty wire breaking between my fingers.  The man's face bore a worried look although his hands continued doling out the pills at the usual rate.  I drew back.  He also retreated along the row of children.

             
From past experience I could imagine a note left in the dead of night in the guard's hut at the entrance; a phrase whispered in my ear as I walked along the street or an innocent messenger, perhaps a child, who would stand in the doorway of my room.  All further thought gave the incident additional dimensions of logic.  Something in the glances we had exchanged was proof of a connection, and ranging the children in a row near the fence had been intended to provide an opportunity.

             
I went back into the building.  From the kitchen came the smells of dinner.  In the dining room Scheckler waved to me from a table close to the kitchen.  The way he gestured to the chair beside him hinted, like everything he said or did, at a possible profit.

             
"This is the new Intelligence man," he announced.  A few of the people sitting with him nodded while continuing to chew. 

             
The garage supervisor, a man with gray hair and a faded face, smiled and said, "Nice to meet you."

             
In the middle of the table, in a space clear of plates, some telexes were piled.  Scheckler read through them as he spooned up his soup.  His eyes flickered rapidly from the paper to the face of the garage head and back.  He spat out details about spare parts that had been removed from stock and vehicles due to arrive for repairs.  For a moment I envied him for the simple, accessible materials of which his life consisted.

             
"Here," he said, as if reading my mind.  "One for you."

             
I smoothed the edge of the paper with two fingers, wondering how the details of the mission had been concealed and whether they had left me enough time to prepare the explosive before I had to act.  But the cable was not even coded and merely instructed me openly and drily to trace someone by the name of Anton Khamis who lived in the area and transfer him immediately to a detention camp.

             
It was a mistake, a foul-up.  Nowhere had it been said that I would serve as village policeman.  I read the cable again.  I identified the code of the unit which had sent it and the counter-code of the man who had replaced me in the mail room.  Scheckler's eyes were fixed on me in curiosity. 

             
"Something wrong?"

             
"Do you know him?" I showed him the piece of paper.

             
"He's a doctor or something like that.  Lives up there, on the mountain."  Before I could say anything he got up.  "We'll soon deal with it," he said and disappeared somewhere off in the building.  When he returned his undershirt was covered by a shirt bearing the insignia of a staff sergeant.  "I need eight guys," he called into the mechanics' recreation room, "from the midday shift."

             
"Will eight be enough?" I asked apprehensively.

             
"He's a quiet man."

             
"In that case," I assayed, "maybe you could deal with it yourself?"

             
His willingness disappeared suddenly.  There was a sour look on his lips. 

             
"I don't want you to get the wrong idea about me.  If I help here and there and I'm prepared to lend a hand, that doesn't mean you can dump all the dirty work on me..."

             
He waited, annoyed, while I extricated myself from the narrow gap between the bench and the table.  Then he followed me, keeping very close, along the corridors.  Outside, for some reason, only six soldiers were waiting, in addition to the driver.  They were dressed sloppily, like a gang setting out to go hunting or rob a store.  When they got in behind us, on the two benches which ran along the open command car, their faces evinced displeasure; the shady awnings of the garage were a better place to spend the hot afternoon hours.

             
Beyond the chain at the entrance, bare roads led to the edge of the village, from where a rocky road climbed the mountain.  We passed rusty signs pointing back where we came from:  "Villa Athenaeum.  Spacious rooms.  Restaurant."  We stopped for a flock of sheep and a battered green Morris in which a tall man was sitting stiffly, his head touching the roof. 

             
"That's the priest," Scheckler said as if he were a tourist-guide. 

             
"Maniac!" our driver yelled and pulled over to the side.  We crossed a wide intersection, bounced over a steel bridge, rapidly passed a long row of trees and rolled into a sandy square to the barking of a dozen dogs.

             
The driver switched the engine off.  The dogs, dirty and mangy, surrounded us in a circle, baring their teeth.  The soldiers teased them, shouting, yodeling and chirruping at them. 

             
"What do we do now?"  Scheckler asked.  One did not need to be overburdened with sensitivity to feel the tension in him.  He was testing me.

             
"We'll wait," I said.

             
"By all means.  Only get a move on.  These people," he gestured towards the back of the vehicle, "are working men.  We have vehicles to fix."

             
At the other end of the sandy square two figures were standing at the entrance to a low building, the left one of three, on the wall of which was written, "Clinic" in Arabic.  The central building was apparently used for accommodation:  a checkered curtain fluttered at a window and a bougainvillea shrub climbed the wall.  From the last building, obviously a garage, I could see the enormous rear of a yellow car sticking out.  A broad sycamore tree shaded the entire area.

             
One of the figures, a woman, called something to us. 

             
"Come here," I shouted in rusty Arabic.  "Come here."             

             
The dogs burst out with a flurry of barking.  She said something to the other figure, a tall youngster who was leaning against the door-post, wiping his hands on a rag.  After that she started walking, taking small, careful steps.  Her head, which was crowned with a mane of reddish-brown hair, was bent to the ground. 

             
"Make her look up," someone shouted from behind us.  "Let's see her face."

             
"Shut them up," I told Scheckler.

             
"Quiet," he shouted, half serious, half mocking.

             
The woman gave the dogs a command and they surrounded her obediently as she stood in front of the command car.  "What do you want?"  Her voice was low and slightly husky.

             
"To see..." I studied the cable, "Anton Khamis."

             
Her face clouded.  "He's not here."

             
"When will he come?"

             
"I don't know."

             
"We'll have to wait for him," I said.

             
She shrugged her shoulders.

             
"Calm the dogs down."  I swung my leg over Scheckler's skinny knees, jumped down and began walking across the sand towards the building.  Behind me I heard the sound of another six pairs of boots landing on the ground.  The driver remained in his seat.

             
"There's a car here," Scheckler said.  "Maybe he's hiding."

             
The woman retreated, silencing the dogs with a gesture.  The soldiers overtook her and ran towards the clinic and the garage. 

             
"Wait," I shouted, before they got out of control.  "Three of you guard the front, three go to the back."  The uneasiness I was feeling increased when I noticed the youth slip into the garage.  How many people lived here?  If there were a lot we'd have to come back another day. 

             
"We'll have to search," Scheckler said eagerly.  I waited for the woman, who was walking behind us. 

             
"May we see the clinic?" I asked politely.

             
Silently she changed direction.  The sound her feet made in the sand was uneven, unmatched.  Her light panting indicated that she was making an effort.  We followed her into the treatment room, which was empty, and from there into the doctor's surgery.  A tall glass cabinet with rows of jars stood next to the bookcase.  Scheckler glanced over them rapidly.  I lingered.  I read the labels one by one.  In my imagination I saw the iodine solution turn into crystals and the phosphorus in the germicidal cream melted down together with the sulpha into a fast-acting incendiary material.  The woman stood behind me and waited, her reflection in the glass of the door; her mouth was taut with exertion, her face contorted in the grimace of someone who thinks he is not being observed.  She tried to straighten her posture by throwing out her hand, and then I noticed that one of her legs was lame.

             
Outside, on the way to the second building, I walked slowly, to make it easier for her.  She did not show any gratitude.  On the contrary, at the entrance to the house I could feel her disapproval burning the back of my neck.  I peeped in through the window at a room that was untidy but full of warmth.  The table was set for three.  Something was cooking, giving out a delicious aroma, quite unlike the stewed fat smell of soup at the Athenaeum.  Scheckler pulled at the door-handle with the joy of a child at the entrance to a toy shop.  I dragged him away from there to the third building, with the yellow car.  It was an old Rolls-Royce Corniche convertible.  Cracked layers of black lacquer shone beneath the amateurish yellow paint.  The teenager was waiting for us, leaning over the open engine.  He surveyed us with an angry expression, tossing his head to shake his blonde forelock off his forehead.

             
This was the end of the tour.  I called the three soldiers guarding the front to come inside.  I could see the soldiers at the back through the garage window.  The woman and the boy leaned against the Rolls.  Scheckler went out to call the driver, who had parked the command car behind the sycamore.  When he came back he stood inside the doorway.

"What now?" he asked.

              "We wait," I said.

             
One has to know how to wait.  I relaxed my muscles, half-closed my eyes and breathed rhythmically.  The air in the garage was hot and mingled with the smell of petrol.  The soldiers stood along the walls then crouched down.  The woman's face glistened. 

             
"When will he come?" I asked again.

             
"I told you, I don't know."  Her voice indicated otherwise.  "What do you want of him?" she asked.

             
I did not answer.  There was no point.  Our appearance was enough to remove the true, innocent meaning from the simplest words.  Scheckler smiled and glanced at his watch.  The woman gave him a pained look. 

             
"You're wasting your time," she said. 

             
Scheckler asked, "What's she saying?"  The driver translated.  Scheckler added, "I think she's right.  Who knows how much longer we'll roast here."

             
"He'll be here soon," I said calmly.             

             
"What makes you say that?"

             
"Experience..."

             
He looked at me doubtfully.

             
"...and the three plates on the table."

             
His mouth widened into an admiring smile.

             
Then, with a timing which made my heart turn sour at the paucity of the audience witnessing my achievement, the sound of an engine could be heard from the road.  The soldiers stood up.  The youngster's body stiffened.  His long, muscular arms were frozen dangerously near the toolbox.

             
The green Morris, the one we had met on the way, stopped at the edge of the sandy square.  The man who climbed out was known to the dogs, judging by the noisy, adulatory welcome they gave him.  Scheckler shifted uneasily in the doorway, the submachine gun in his hand pointing to the outside.