Charles McCarry - The Miernik Dossier

“I don’t like their having your picture,” I said.

“No. I wonder where they got it. I’ve never seen it before, and I didn’t notice anyone creeping about the Île Rousseau with a camera while I drank my lemonade. Ilona’s always clicking away, but one wouldn’t think any of these corpses ever knew her.”

“Did she ever photograph you on the Île Rousseau?”

“My dear Paul, she has photographed me everywhere except in bed. A lot of people have taken pictures of me. Total strangers snap me on the streets of Geneva-Germans and Japanese, usually. I find this whole episode very annoying. No sooner am I approached to be a spy by Qasim than a lot of buffoons begin shooting at me. If it weren’t for you I might well be dead.”

“The man to thank is Miernik,” I said. I told him about the firefight on the hillside.

“He’s a peculiar type, Miernik,” Kalash said. “I found him vomiting up his tea a few moments ago, over behind the tents. When I tried to speak to him he muttered something about being a murderer. ‘I have just done murder,’ he said, ‘murder!’ Better to do it than have it done, I should have thought. When he went floundering out of the camp I thought he must be running away. So did Nigel-he very nearly shot him. That’s what British officers do to cowardly privates, you know.”

I tried to leave the girls with the idea that the bandits had been only bandits. Zofia and Ilona seemed to believe that the attackers were interested in the cars (and possibly in white females). Neither Collins nor Miernik made any effort to contradict my theory. Neither of them believes it for a moment.

Kalash decided that we should post guards for the rest of the night. In the morning we will move out, and drive nonstop to El Fasher. It’s about 450 miles. At the rate we’ve been moving over these roads-which get worse from here onward-we should cover the distance in about twenty-four hours. We have four drivers, counting Ilona. (Miernik cannot drive, but we could hardly have a better man riding shotgun.)

I’d like to think about the events of this evening before trying to interpret them. Finding Kalash’s photograph on that body is a serious matter. If I were in charge of this operation, I’d lock him up in his father’s palace with armed men on all the doors. His value as a double agent, leading the ALF to destruction, is now questionable, to put it mildly.

There are so many possible explanations for Miernik’s behavior that I hardly know where to start listing them. Did he kill a couple of his own agents in order to protect his cover? Was his reaction after the shooting revulsion over the betrayal of his own people? Was it genuine horror over having to kill anyone at all? Was he really trying to save my skin-and, more likely, his sister’s?

Everything he does muddies the water. At this point I’m content to let you figure the whole thing out.

1. Message for Qemal’s (i.e., “Firecracker’s”) ears only. Qemal acknowledge with recognition sign.

(Qemal acknowledges.)

2. Message for Qemal follows. Ahmed is suspected enemy agent. Repeat. Ahmed is suspected enemy agent. Take standard action personally. Report results. Message for Qemal ends.

Last night I received a personal message by radio from Dar es Salaam. They informed me that Ahmed is an enemy agent and instructed me to kill him. I carried out the execution personally, using one.45 caliber bullet in the head, about one hour after receiving the above message.

I have searched Ahmed’s body and his personal effects, but I have not found the names of those to be executed. I believe he had memorized the list. I do not know if he has passed on the names to the execution teams. It is possible the list will now be changed, owing to the treason of Ahmed. Any new list would come to me, as I am now in sole command of our headquarters.

I had much difficulty explaining Ahmed’s death to our followers. They do not believe him capable of treason. I explained that a traitor is always clever, and often is able to deceive his friends for a long time. They resent the fact that I killed Ahmed on the order of foreigners, without a trial, etc. My position is difficult. I do not know what hazards lie ahead. If there are any messages, I will leave them in the usual place.

(9 July)

Message for Qemal follows. Standard action in case of suspicion is arrest and interrogation not repeat not summary execution. Most disturbed Ahmed’s death. You should have held Ahmed for Richard. You will explain your action to Richard on his arrival. Meanwhile recall assault teams white, green, yellow, blue. Golgotha suspended. Richard brings you new orders. Message for Qemal ends.

We arrived at the palace of the Amir of Khatar shortly before dawn on 11th July after a twenty-four-hour drive through the desert. It was a nervous journey, but there were no incidents. After the events at Kashgil we kept weapons at hand, and during our one stop (at En Nahud to take on water and petrol) we attracted a certain amount of attention. A small crowd gathered to inspect the bullet holes in the cars and to gaze upon Ilona Bentley and Zofia Miernik in their shorts. We had submachine guns slung round our necks and I expected the local police to make inquiries (after all, there were four dead bodies behind us in that dry wadi). But none was forthcoming. Prince Kalash was recognized by all who passed by, and he spent a good deal of time exchanging blessings in Arabic.

2. The Amir’s palace lies some distance from El Fasher, on a high hill above the Wadi el Ku. It has rained recently in the mountains and the wadi is more or less full of water. I mention this because we had to tow the Cadillac across several brackish streams, using the Land Rover and a cable. The motor got wet and we lost an hour drying off the wiring and the sparking-plugs with bits of cloth. Even though we were stopped in territory controlled by his father, Prince Kalash insisted on working in the dark while Miernik and Christopher stood guard with Sten guns. He has become altogether less careless since the attack. We travelled without headlamps, steering by moonlight. Since the last stage of the journey was made along steep mountainsides on narrow rubble roads, there was a certain amount of risk. I was interested that even this did not rouse Miernik from his torpor. Since the shooting affair he has been very subdued. He sat silently in a corner of the rear seat, fingering his Sten gun and staring into the night; ordinarily he would have been gasping and giving warnings to the driver.

3. The palace is a vast structure; portions of it appear to have been cut from the living rock of the mountainside. We arrived in the gray false light of five o’clock. The cold air stung the bare skin. All round were the outlines of the mountains, like a drawing in ink. Kalash shattered the quiet by pounding on a thick door. A voice issued from a window and Prince Kalash answered with his name. A yellow light was carried past a whole row of windows and the door swung open. In the doorway, with a lamp in his upraised hand, was a very large man down on his knees. I suppose he was a slave. He said something in Arabic in a peculiar singsong voice, and Prince Kalash responded. The big man shuffled away, still on his knees, and came back a few moments later with a veiled woman. She stood upright in Prince Kalash’s presence, but recoiled at her first sight of Ilona and Zofia, whose bare legs shone in the lamplight. To the girls Prince Kalash said, “This woman will show you to your rooms. She’ll bring you food and arrange for a bath before you sleep. I recommend you to put on ordinary clothes before you come down tomorrow. We aren’t used to bare legs in this house. I’m afraid we won’t see a great deal of you. You’ll be expected to remain in your end of the house and to eat with the women, unless of course you want to dine alone. Don’t wander about. I’ll send someone for you tomorrow and perhaps we can see a bit of the country.” Ilona grinned. “Kalash,” she said, “are you locking us up in the harem? Has all this been a plot to lure us into Arab slavery?” Prince Kalash waved her away with no hint of his usual good humour. “My dear Ilona,” he said, “just go with the woman and try to behave yourself. You can keep your pistol if you fear for your virtue.” Ilona removed the pistol from her camera case and handed it to Kalash. She and Zofia, with their faces looking back at us over their shoulders, followed the Sudanese woman into the dark interior of the palace.