Edward Whittemore - Nile Shadows

I see.

Precisely, sir, that's it in a nutshell. This is definitely espionage in the 1940s that we practice here and the old films are definitely out of date, irrelevant to say the least. And then too, we're in the plain old sandy sunny Middle East, not lounging around in a shadowy parlor car on the Orient Express as it goes weaving into Bulgaria, while you and I lunge at our glasses between hoots. The servant problem, sir. Lackeys just aren't what they used to be, neither as nations nor individuals. Take the Balkans, for example.

What?

Exactly, sir, especially the Balkans. They're not at all what they used to be. In fact it would probably be wise to put aside your secret hopes of outwitting some sneaky little Dimitri in the sewers of Sophia, despite his many masks, in order to obtain the truth about the Bulgarian submarine force. This just isn't the place for vague notions about honor and fair play and all that rot. Times change, sir, what?

Joe groaned.

. . can't straighten at all, he muttered.

No? Well don't be discouraged, sir. People pretty much expect a spy to look like Quasimodo loping around in his belfry with a demented leer on his twisted face. The important thing is to keep abreast of the latest technical developments, that's the name of this game. In intelligence, you're modern or you're nothing. Can you just imagine how it would look if the two of us were to skulk around Cairo airport first thing in the morning in trench coats with a cigarette or two dangling out of the corners of our mouths?

Looking over our shoulders to see if Peter Lorre has caught up with us yet? Or possibly even the fat man?

Oh.

Precisely, sir, the locals. They may be no more dark-skinned than they were in the epics of yesteryear, but they're just not as predictable as extras used to be.

As he rambled on, the subaltern was keenly observing Joe. After several painful attempts, Joe managed to straighten. The subaltern grinned, nodding.

Very good, sir. I see we're making a stunning comeback. So the point is, we have this slovenly lot of blithering wogs hanging about with time on their hands, just waiting to catch a glimpse of something they can pass on to Jerry. Such as a suspicious little foreigner arriving at Cairo airport early one morning? A wiry little fellow in some dreadful secondhand suit that's much too big for him? Suspiciously sporting a scruffy growth of whiskers on his face as if he were trying to look like the anonymous spy of tradition?

Could it be that you're growing a beard, sir?

I am.

Very good, sir. Although given the sand in the air around here, most of our fighting men seem to prefer a moustache when it comes to providing that distinguishing touch. When a show of hair is wanted, sir, to emphasize brute masculinity.

Quietly, the subaltern guffawed. He himself wore an enormous walrus moustache, its waxed ends nearly reaching to the tops of his ears.

Hair aside, said Joe, I was told to expect a different reception.

Were you, sir? Could we be referring to the recognition signals, so called, which veteran spies use to spot one another when among the common herds in the trenches?

The subaltern immediately slammed his tennis shoes together, coming to attention. He saluted and narrowed his eyes.

Please assume we are in the airport terminal, sir, and you are having your papers examined by some barely literate enlisted swine. As you dither around, a handsome subaltern sweeps up and shrewdly engages you in amiable conversation, in the course of which he chances to use two key words. Brooklyn and garbage. At that point the subaltern suavely removes a key ring from his pocket and jangles the keys in the air, as if bored.

Still holding his salute, the subaltern reached into his pocket with his left hand and brought out a key ring.

He squinted intently at Joe, rattling the keys in front of his face.

Right, sir, and so far so good. Now stuffed into the left pocket of your shabby jacket is a rolled-up edition of a popular London illustrated weekly. You remove this rag with your right hand, the old cross-draw, and hold it up in the air as if curious about which way the wind is blowing. The formidable subaltern is satisfied as to your credentials and takes it from there. Well, sir, on the mark, are we?

Joe handed him the magazine.

It's a little old. I stole it from a library in London to save money. Chamberlain's on the cover announcing peace in our time.

Excellent, sir, we could all use a little of that. Now then, the trusty clandestine steed is right over here.

The subaltern opened the door of a small old-fashioned delivery van and stood proudly beside it, waiting.

The van was a civilian model, cream-colored and ancient, dented in a number of places. Bright green lettering, obviously new, was splashed across the side of the van.

AHMAD'S

GREASY FISH

&

LEVANTINE CHIPS

The subaltern followed Joe's gaze. He snorted.

Clever, what? Known secretly in undercover circles as the impregnable Ahmadmobile, and out here it's worth a regiment of tanks any day, I can tell you. Confuses the enemy and makes the wogs think we're in the delivery business, which in a way we are. But the fact is, you can never be too careful when you're serving a sentence in the spy trade. Not only a keen lookout at all times, but the keener the lookout the better the times, that's my motto. Are we right then, sir?

***

As soon as they had climbed into the cab of the small van, the subaltern made a show of carefully locking both doors. He then reached over and fumbled around in Joe's lap, groping for Joe's hand, pumping it enthusiastically when he found it.

Vivian's the name, sir, and despite appearances I'm not a regular army man. Actually I'm an archeologist in real life. I don't have to tell you how these intelligence types get carried away by men with unusual backgrounds. Their eyes positively light up. Well I did some digs over here before the war, and that's how I happened to get into this end of the show. Know the underground terrain, so to speak.

Oh. I see, yes.

Right, sir, the pharaohs that be don't miss a trick. Well briefly, it came about like this. When Jerry figured out another generation had gone by and it was time to give it another go, war, damn it, I naturally presented myself to the authorities in London straightaway. Vivian here, I said, and went on to explain that I'd be more than happy to carry a rifle in whatever trench was weak. But they took one look at my digging experience and packed me off to one of those unnumbered rooms you know about near Queen Anne's Gate. See here, old horse, said the unnumbered general in mufti, we can't have you oozing around in the mud of Flanders like some common uneducated lout, you're much too valuable for that. We simply have to have you in the secret show, what those on the outside call intelligence. Now what do you say to that?

Vivian wiggled his eyebrows.

Well needless to say, sir, what I said to that was, Top drawer. Just point me in the general direction of Mata Hari, I said, and I'm off to make do in the gloom. Whereupon the general in mufti gave me a hearty shake of the hand and mumbled, Good show, old fruit. And now that you're officially a secret agent, Viv old horse, Vivvy my boy, old Viv dear fellow, now that you're a mysterious spy like the rest of us, added the general in mufti, the first thing you have to do is trundle yourself out back and see C.

And do what? asked Joe.

Vivian chuckled.

Very good, sir. Well I went out the back door, as instructed, and strolled down the appropriate alley to another unnumbered address, and climbed more stairs to another unnumbered room, and all at once right there in front of me was the very secret chief of the Secret Service, C as we secretly call him, sitting in his very own chair but turned around and facing the wall, keeping his secret identity secret. Well. Here was a devilishly clever fellow, our good old secret C, I knew that from the beginning. So I flashed the old smile at his back and said, Viv here, secret agent of the Empire, ready and willing. Whereupon good old C