Judas Country

29

A few minutes later we were sitting half-naked on chairs shaped like camel saddles and our clothes were turning the little room into a steam bath. There were no windows – just a couple of doors – and a single lamp in a beaded shade, and when you'd been there a while, the time of day stopped mattering. The room had been built without sun or stars; a place for quiet secrets.

'Is there a back door?' Ken asked.

'Perhaps fifty.' Gadulla gestured at the two doors. 'If you have the keys – and the friends. The whole street is so much connected, above and below.'

'Fine. Is the sword here?'

'It will be. Did you bring the plane with no trouble?'

I nodded. 'No trouble.'

'How good.' He walked to the front of the shop and called something to the boy. I got up and turned my half-toasted trousers around.

From the rough-plastered walls, and Gadulla himself, you couldn't guess whether the man was waiting for the soup kitchen to call or the armed guards to haul out the day's takings. His robe was plain wool cloth, his jacket a grey pin-stripe – old but well-cut – the head-dress clean.

He came back. 'The lad is bringing coffee. But I forgot-' he reached below the table and put up a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label. 'Perhaps you would like some of this?'

Ken glanced at me. 'Maybe a spot – just to balance the wet on the outside.'

Gadulla poured two careful shots into decorated glasses. 'I hope it is good. I was rather strictly raised; I am one of your Coca-Cola Muslims.'

We sipped, and Ken had been right: it just matched that electric fire sizzling my shins.

After the second sip, Ken said: 'It wasn't till I got talking to some Arabs in Beit Oren that I knew strict Muslims don't really disapprove of alcohol – they just won't touch it in this life. In Paradise they're going to sit around all day smashed out of their knickers. Have I got that right?'

Gadulla said inscrutably: 'It is not quite that simple.' He looked at me. 'I believe you first saw Professor Spohr dead?"

'More or less.'

'Did he leave any note? – any letters?'

'Not that I saw. But he rang you, didn't he? – what did he say then?'

He thought about it. While he did, the boy came in with a tray of coffee from the localcafé. Gadulla handed round the tiny cups. 'Later I will make my own, but now, this is quicker,' The boy grinned and went away.

'Bruno – the Professor – said he would send instructions, but I could expect to sell the sword half and half with somebody from elsewhere.' He looked calmly at Ken.

'Beirut?' I suggested.

'He said no names on the telephone.'

Ken asked: 'Did he sound as if he was going to kill himself?'

'A terrible question. Now… now I think yes. That he was saying goodbye.'

There was a long silence. Then Ken got up and eased himself back into his trousers. 'Oooh, lovely. Like wading in hot cheese. I'll tell you one thing Brunodidn't do: make it easy for his loving daughter to inherit that sword.'

The afternoon crawled by. The boy came with more coffee; Gadulla talked to a few customers beyond the curtain. But mostly we just sat and looked at the wall and listened to my stomach. Somewhere down the line, I'd forgotten to have lunch.

The kid could buy you a snack,' Ken suggested.

'Like a couple of sheep's-eyes? I prefer my own judgment."

'Once it gets dark we'll go out and finda café.'

We waited on.

About five, Gadulla pulled down a metal blind over the front of the shop and padlocked it to steel hoops set in the floor. 'Now would you care to see from the roof?'

It made a change. He unlocked one of the doors, led the way up steep, winding stone steps. At one landing there was a short dark corridor with two other doors and no sign of life but a yellow plastic bucket. We went on up. At the top, Gadulla unlocked another door and we walked out on to a small, flat, walled roof garden.

Over behind the YMCA the sun was sliding down among a few scattered clouds trailing after the front. And away east, you could just see the distant ramparts of the storm, calm and white and incredibly detailed. Somewhere well over into Jordan.

Gadulla clucked sympathetically at his rain-beaten potted plants, then waved a hand over the edge of the wall. 'You see? This is just one more way out.'

A maze of other flat roofs, all at different levels, rambled away on both sides. A little bit of athleticism and you could be a dozen houses away in a couple of minutes.

'D'you live here?' Ken asked.

'Not usually. I have a house-' he waved northwards '-with my workshops.'

'Made any good antiques lately?' I asked politely.

He grinned his lopsided grin. 'Is it fair that only one person should own something that is unique? I just help the spread of knowledge. But before I knew about the plane, I had an idea for taking the sword from the country. I would make a mould from it, then cast perhaps another forty – in metal with the same weight – and put a glass for the jewel and something for the crest and sell them to tourists. Very cheap, so I sold them quickly and they all left Israel in one or two weeks and the airport searchers got used to them. But the forty-first…" He grinned again. He'd obviously have liked to do it just for the hell of it.

Ken smiled back, but not so widely. As we walked back down the stairs, he muttered: 'I think we'd better have Eleanor and Mitzi over for an expert opinion. I'm not sure I'd recognise a moulding.'

I'd been thinking the same thing.

By six it was dark enough. Gadulla led us out through one of his back doors: up one flight of steps, unlock a door, down a stone corridor, around a couple of corners, another door and we were at the head of some outside steps leading down into a narrow cul-de-sac of an alley.

He showed us a bell-push beside the door. 'An hour, perhaps? I will be here then.'

By night, most of the Old City seems empty but not dead, only lurking. A fewcafés are open, near the gates, and you get an occasional glint of light from a shuttered window, a whisper of music from TV or radio, the echo of somebody else's footsteps around a corner. You find yourself walking quietly and listening hard.

After a few turns we came out on to David Steps and up towards the brighter lights near the Jaffa Gate. We went into the first restaurant we saw, not too close to the gate.

I ordered while Ken borrowed the phone. The place was a simple tourist joint making a 60-watt attempt to look like a nightclub. The cheery Arab mine host was the only staff on view, and at that time no more was needed. Just a family group at another table and a couple of soldiers drinking pop at the bar, Uzi sub-machine guns on the counter between them. I think there's some regulation about youmust go armed in Jerusalem.

Ken came back. 'I got Mitzi. Eleanor's got there but she's out at the moment. What did you order?'

'Lamb and chips.' The menu was basically tourist, with a few simple Arab dishes for those who wanted to boast they'd tasted real atmosphere.

'Steak tomorrow.' He sat down. 'Mitzi should be able to tell if it's real antique and it matches the description. That's all we need: he hasn't had time to cobble up a fake from genuine old parts.'

'He's had over a year.'

'Until a few days ago he thought he was dealing with Bruno. He wouldn't bother to try that on him.'

It figured.

'Mitzi knows the address?'

'Yes, but she's meetinguà near here. Ten to seven.' He glanced at his watch, but there was half an hour to go.

Then our lamb arrived. Not at all bad, though lamb's one of the safest things to order in Israel. And a bottle of Negev wine. I sipped and chomped for a while.

Ken suddenly put his knife and fork down. 'Mint sauce. I knew there was something missing. It'll be worth getting back to England just for that.'

'And they say travel broadens the mind. Mint sauce kept us out of the Common Market for ten years.'

'Worth every minute.'

After another while, I asked: 'What's Gadulla getting out of this deal?'

'Mitzi agreed to twenty per cent'

I chewed. 'Nice of him to accept, seeing the Prof'told him he could expect half.'

'You think the letter said that?'

I tried to write the missing letter in my head. Dear Mohamed- it would be in English -Dear Mohamed, I'm sending documentation on the sword to a man in Beirut, Pierre Aziz. Get in touch with him and split the profit. But what had stopped Gadulla selling the sword already? It was worth something, even without the description. The letter must have said something else: Dear Mohamed…

I woke up. 'Just Dear Mohamed. A handwritten letter wouldn't say "Gadulla" or his address. That's what Ben Iver was torturing Papa for: Gadulla's full name! '

Ken took a bit of meat from his mouth and looked at it curiously, put it down. 'What about the envelope?'

'Papa wouldn't keep it. With uncancelled stamps, it's proof he was robbing the mail train.'

He nodded thoughtfully. 'It works… How would Ben Iver expect to find who"Mohamed" is, then?'

'Find one of us and follow.'

He looked quickly sideways, but the place was as empty as before. The family had gone, another couple had arrived. The two soldiers still at the bar.

The proprietor stood up and grinned helpfully, but I shook my head.

Ken said softly: 'No way he can be behind us two. But when Mitzi gets here, I'll lead her around the houses, you tail us to make sure nobody else is.'

'Wilco.' I chewed on. Maybe mint sauce, now I was thinking of it, would have helped. 'How's anybody going to pay Gadulla anyhow? The Met won't fork out for weeks at least.'

Ken looked at his watch again, then waved to the proprietor. 'Getting near time. Gadulla's prepared to trust us, that's all.'

'The word of a white man, huh? Balls. He's got some scheme of his own running.'

Ken shrugged. The bill arrived and he paid it. 'Maybe he's just honest.'

'Ken, nobody in this is honest, starting from you and me.'

'Two minutes.' He stared at the table. 'Well, all right – we're finally getting rid of that champagne.'

The room went cold and quiet. 'To Gadulla? You Want him to havethat stuff?'

'Why not?' he whispered fiercely. T knew it would come in useful. Capital always does – and that's all it is, just like all the other boxes we've carried. Only this time we got lucky and we own it. And now we can cash it in for a share of that sword.'

'New lamps for old, hey? Ken – Gadulla was probably born a Palestinian. You know what he'll do with nine boxes of guns in Jerusalem. He'll give-'

'Not him. He'll sell them.'

'To the same people. I see why you wanted the aeroplane up here. You couldn't have unloaded at Ben Gurion. This airfield's not so well guarded. I suppose his boys were going in at midnight and-'

He stood up. 'Time. Theyare going in around midnight.'

They weren't, but he didn't know why. I followed him to the door, and the proprietor rushed to open it, wish us a good night and come back soon.

'Ken-' but Mitzi was already strolling – as much as her rather nervous walk could become a stroll – past. Ken closed up and took her arm.

1 gave them seven seconds start, then strolled after, though the whole thing was pointless by now. When Gadulla the Bold found there weren't any nine boxes of untraceable small arms in the deal, then his interest in twenty per cent of a vague promise was going to reach nil. I still did the covering well enough, stopping to listen behind me, skittering ahead cat-footed to keep Ken and Mitzi in sight.

Going back, the City was even quieter and emptier than it had been. Once we'd turned off David Street, the alleys were just dark echoing links between sparks of light from little lamps on occasional walls.

After ten minutes, when we'd passed the front of Gadulla's shop twice and were just reaching the back steps, I caught them up. 'Nobody's behind. Ken, before we see Gadulla-'

But he went on up the steps and pressed the bell. Mitzi followed, then halfway up she stumbled and dropped her handbag. It hit the stone below with a sharp glassy pop.

'Scheisse!'

Ipicked it up. 'What the hell have you got in there?'

'It was just a little pot I had bought. I thought to ask Herr Gadulla if it was real.'

'I hope it wasn't.' I took it up the steps. The door creaked open and dim light filtered out. A pot goespopi I opened the handbag and shook out the ruins of a light bulb.

Or signal gun.

A soldier ran into the alley behind us, pointing an Uzi.

'Please do not move,' said the voice of Mihail Ben Iver.