Edward Whittemore - Nile Shadows

The multitude of tall staves carried by the pilgrims was particularly striking to Joe. Gently the staves waved to and fro as stalks of grain might toss in the wind, protected and enclosed, touched only by the mildest breezes.

It must be about time for the refectory to open for early tea, whispered Bletchley. Otherwise you'd never see such a large idle gathering of agents milling around out here.

Abruptly Bletchley seized a startled pilgrim at random, grabbing the man by the arm, spinning him around.

The pilgrim looked so frightened he was ready to deny anything.

What's for tea? demanded Bletchley.

Three kinds of sand. . sand. . sandwiches, stammered the man. Including cucumber. They said we could choose the kind we like, so long as we don't all choose the same one.

And which are you going to choose? demanded Bletchley.

I was hoping for cucumber, whispered the pilgrim, but I'll gladly eat anything.

Bletchley released the nervous man, who immediately faded back into the milling crowd. From somewhere high above, the opening chords of Bach's Mass in B Minor came booming down over the courtyard.

That man seemed afraid of you, said Joe. Why is that?

Bletchley smiled.

We'll just step this way, he whispered.

Bletchley unlocked another door and Joe followed him down one dimly lit corridor after another. All the chambers in the Monastery seemed to be kept in perpetual near-darkness, which was cool and soothing after the strong sunlight outside. As they padded along, the distant strains of organ music faded and lapsed, only to surge anew from some unexpected quarter. They descended stairs and more stairs and finally entered a small cell lit by a single candle. There was a folding camp table with a huge swivel chair behind it, sumptuously padded in dark leather. Bletchley pointed at the comfortable leather chair.

Just sit down and make yourself at home, he said. I'll let Whatley's aides know we've arrived.

Joe collapsed in the swivel chair and swung slowly back and forth. In a corner stood an apparatus on wheels which he knew he should be able to recognize, but in his fever he couldn't quite place it. The apparatus consisted of several tank cylinders and various hoses and gauges. Bletchley, meanwhile, turned the crank of a military telephone and whispered into the mouthpiece.

Whatley's on his way down, he announced. Now then. .

Bletchley wheeled the apparatus over to a position behind the huge leather chair. He leaned down and studied it, testing a valve or two. Joe had swung around to face him.

What is it? asked Joe.

Nitrous oxide. Laughing gas.

What's it for?

For your interview with Whatley.

Bletchley went on tinkering with valves. There was a long low hiss and he smiled.

Nothing to be alarmed about, he murmured, spinning dials. It's just laughing gas. Dentists use it all the time.

I know they do, but what's the point of using it on me?

Standard Monastery procedure, that's all.

But why?

Wartime, murmured Bletchley. Ours not to reason why and so forth. But look at it another way.

Wouldn't you rather face what's coming with a comforting cloud of nitrous oxide inside you? Wouldn't any man at war? Just to make matters seem a little more reasonable? Not quite so idiotic as they actually are?

Bletchley laughed.

To be honest, there's not an agent up there in the cloisters who wouldn't love to be on nitrous oxide at this very moment. Of course they wouldn't want to be down here, but life's like that, isn't it? Gas is enjoyable, certainly, but we always have to take what goes with it.

Which is Whatley, thought Joe, shivering and staring dully at the apparatus. A tune ran through his head, one of Liffy's, but he couldn't quite remember the words. Tarry in caves but beware of local bats, was that it? Beware of bats, my child?

So the point is, Bletchley was saying, the gas will help you relax and be receptive in these unfamiliar surroundings, even though you're not feeling too well today. And it also serves as a security precaution.

You'll be able to hear everything Whatley says and ask whatever questions you may have, but afterward your impression of Whatley's voice will be just a little distorted. As the chief here, he prefers it that way.

Being distorted? asked Joe. Why?

Now then, murmured Bletchley, just breathe normally through your nose.

Bletchley fitted a small rubber mask over Joe's nose. Joe sat there listening to a rhythmic sigh, growing stronger. After some moments had gone by, a door opened. A man with only one arm, immaculately dressed in starched khakis, was moving around on the edge of Joe's vision. Was that really the notorious Whatley at last, in the flesh?

Ah, said a voice from far away. And this must be our new Purple Seven Armenian who has traveled all the way from a mesa in Arizona to be with us. No please, Joe, don't bother to get up. You look quite comfortable where you are. And I believe you take your tea without sugar, is that right?

Joe nodded. Beware of bats, he thought.

Yes, continued the voice, it's a pleasure to have you with us at last. Now let's not waste any time, let's get right down to the bottom of things immediately. We're here to talk about Stern — the man, the agent, everything. Yes, everything. .

Xx×

Most of Joe's memories of the Monastery were a blur after that. Later, after the briefing in the huge leather chair with the gas mask had ended, he did remember finding himself on a narrow stone terrace.

The terrace must have been quite high up in the Monastery, for there was a beautiful view of the desert.

He and Bletchley were sitting alone there, side by side in canvas deck chairs. A camouflaged canvas awning provided shade and there were potted palms along the walls. The skin of a Bengal tiger was hanging at one end of the terrace. From the color of the sky, Joe guessed it must be almost twilight.

. . and for those reasons, Bletchley was saying, I don't think you should be upset by the violence of Whatley's language when he speaks of Stern. Passions run high in wartime and poor Whatley has never gotten over losing his right arm to the Germans. In fact he told me once he can still feel the fingers on his missing hand twitching late at night. The forefinger especially, his trigger finger. It just never stops twitching, he said.

Nor will it, thought Joe. Not if it's missing.

He had no idea what the conversation was about or where it had started. There was a half-empty glass in his hand and he sniffed it. Quinine water. Bletchley was leaning forward and leisurely adding gin to his own glass, stretching and smiling, relaxing. All at once Joe had the sensation of being on a passenger liner bound for the East, for India. He and Bletchley were chance acquaintances sitting together on deck, chatting and having drinks before sundown, passing the time before they went in to dress for the late sitting

Tarry in open spaces, my child, thought Joe.

At least you must feel better after your nap, said Bletchley.

I do, but I'm still disturbed. Disturbed by Whatley, what?

Well I could see that, but I don't think Whatley was being intentionally evasive. I'm not privy to that much of it, but my impression is he wants you to come in fresh, without preconceptions about Stern and Stern's role in this affair. Strictly from the outside, so to speak.

Stern, muttered Joe, gazing out over the rolling desert. Someone from the outside, you say?

Exactly.

Or someone from the other side perhaps? added Joe. Wouldn't that be another way of putting it? What if the Germans suddenly took a special interest in Stern? What could the Germans come up with? What could they uncover?