Gavin Lyall - Judas Country

Ken said: 'Case and Cavitt. We fly aeroplanes. We brought the ladies to Beirut and they brought us up here. I hope we're not intruding.'

'Of course not, messieurs, naturally not. All friends of Ma'm-zelle Spohr… You must have a drink…' Another white jacket materialised at his elbow with a tray. 'Champagne or gin and tonic for the ladies. And for the gentlemen…?'

'Scotch,' Ken said. 'I never know where I am with champagne.'

Aziz didn't get it, thank God, but smiled briefly and turned to Mitzi. 'And how is your dear father? Did he send you to see me?'

It wasn't long and it wasn't quiet, but it felt like a long silence to me. Eleanor stiffened, Ken froze, Mitzi's eyes sparkled darkly. She said calmly: 'My father died last night.'

It took a moment to sink into Aziz, and then, oddly, his first reaction was anger. He snapped his head from side to side. 'Why was I not told this? It must have been reported?' Then he recovered and turned back to Mitzi, taking her elbow protectively. 'But my dear, this is most terrible. You must sit down, tell me what happened…' And he led her out through an arched doorway filled with a bead curtain.

Ken sipped and frowned. 'That boy's got class. Of a sort.' He grinned at Eleanor. 'And Miss Travis of the Met, I presume?'

She smiled automatically and rather artificially. 'Yes. If he knows the Met's staff that well… he's no little grave-robber. You can see that anyway.' She nodded at the wall beside us.

It was long and plain white – most Beirut houses go in for more decor – and packed with alcoves, each holding some antiquity: a Greek vase, a curved sword, an amphora on a metalt stand, a green-crusted bronze helmet.

'They mostly aren't mediaeval so I can't tell, but they look pretty valuable pieces. I don't know…' she frowned and her voice trailed off.

The conversation around us had got buzzing again, together with some appraising glances at Eleanor. She might not know it, but her blonde Nordic good looks put her up with the Swissfranc as hard currency in Beirut. I planned on sticking by her; alone, I'd be ignored. Ken seemed to have the same idea.

A couple of minutes later we had a discussion group of a man from a pipeline company, a manager of an Italian bank branch, somebody to do with hotel management and a vulture in blue spectacles who said he was the Minister of this or that.

'I'm afraid I didn't quite gather what our host does,' I said to the hotel management, who was staring past me at Eleanor's chest.

'Some of everything,' he said without shifting his eyes. 'But the main family business is arranging and leasing concessions, you understand?"

'No.'

He glanced at me, a little impatiently since he'd rather be talking to Eleanor's cleavage. 'If you want to make Coca-Cola in the Yemen or build a Hilton in Aden, he will do the arrangements. Hilton know he will pick only good men to finance it, and the financiers know he will get good terms from Hilton. Then he puts in a little Aziz money for good faith and takes out a lot as his fee. Very simple.'

I nodded. 'All you need is to be a big man in a big family with a reputation going back five generations.'

He smiled briefly and maybe sourly. "That is all.'

'I heard they were opening a Castle hotel out here…'

This time his grin was quite genuine and satisfied. 'That is gone; busted. Pierre was not involved in that; he is not a fool. The English end let them down, and my poor friends who put money in do not know what to do. They were buying the name Castle and now it means failure.'

If his poor friends had fallen into the pool of the sacred crocodile he might have been happier, but only might.

I tried to make the next question sound vague and disinterested. 'Was a man called Uthman Jehangir involved in that?'

He looked at me sharply. 'Jehangir? Do you know him?'

'Met him in Cyprus once. He mentioned the Castle.'

He shook his head. 'He is not big enough. He is a sportsman – no, you would say playboy. A gambler. Perhaps they asked him to run the opening night party, to bring a film star. He knows such people. But he would not put money in a long-term affair, even if they let him.'

I nodded and said: 'Uh-huh,' as if that finished Jehangir for me, too. And, nice man that I am, I gave my friend his reward: 'Eleanor, have you met Mr umm errr from the hotel business?'

On the edge of the crowd I found a waiter with a tray and prised another Scotch out of him and then stood there admiring the vast antique chandelier that didn't really fit with the modern teak or white furniture. But in Beirut you have to have one; it's as much a status symbol as a Rolls-Royce is to a pop singer. It was nice to know that even after five generations of success you don't get immune to it.

Ken drifted up beside me…'Met anybody who knows God personally?'

'Not unless He's in the hotel business.'

He jerked his head at the archway. They're taking their time in-' But just then Mitzi and Aziz appeared. She looked pale, big-eyed and serious; Aziz just serious. He saw us, came over, and said in a low voice: 'Messieurs – if you could kindly help us…'

'Eleanor too?' Ken asked.

Aziz looked over to where she was under siege and smiled faintly. 'No, I think she seems busy enough. And – as yet – this does not concern the Met.'

He led the way back through the arch.

The husk of the house may have looked sharp and modern, but inside it had the thick cool walls, the stone floors and heavy doors of the traditional Middle East. We turned left at the end of the corridor and almost immediately through another arched doorway into a smaller, lower-ceilinged room.

If you wanted to pick it apart, it was an odd mixture of east and west: pottery jars turned into shaded lamps, embroidered leather cushions scattered over solid, square-cut Scandinavian furniture, Afghan rugs on the floor, a leather-topped antique French desk in a corner. But there was nothing self-conscious about it; the man himself was this mixture. So is Beirut, but not usually in such good taste.

He waved us to sit down, and I parked my glass on a hammered brass table top. Mitzi sat upright on the edge of her chair and said: 'He won't give me the sword.'

Aziz sighed gently and perched his wide backside on the corner of his desk. 'I have been trying to explain to Ma'mzelle Braunhof -Spohr that, until this evening, I had not heard of this sword. I did not know it existed until I saw this.'

'This' was a small sheet of paper covered in handwriting. Ken got up, took it, read aloud:'Das Schwert das wir in der Gruft…' I looked over his shoulder and saw it was a piece of St George's Hotel paper.

So our Mitzi hadn't taken any chances. She'd copied it out and put the original…? Without the Prof's signature the paper was worthless, but Aziz would recognise the description as real.

Ken handed it back, his face quite calm. 'So?'

Aziz said: 'You were a friend of Professor Spohr?'

'We shared a cell in Beit Oren.'

Aziz smiled. 'Some of the best friendships of this century are formed in prison. However… did he talk to you of this sword?'

Ken shook his head. 'You don't talk about things like that in jail.'

'I understand. So now you are helping Ma'mzelle to track down… her inheritance, one might say.'

Mitzi burst out: 'My father found that sword! It is his… memorial! '

'Unhappily,' Aziz said gently, 'he found it with my money.'

Ken had his head cocked on one side, as if he was trying to identify a distant sound. Or idea, maybe. 'Say again, please. I didn't quite follow.'

Aziz opened a cedarwood box on the desk and took out a long thin cigar, then remembered his manners and gestured the box to us. I shook my head, but dug out a pipe and started filling it. He struck a match, then looked at Mitzi. 'If Ma'mzelle does not mind…?' He lit the cigar.