Mecca for Murder Page 12

  “I know all the rituals of the Moslem faith. I know what will be expected of us on the Hajj. I could probably get away with it. If you insist on going, I could probably help you.”

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “You’re a man, Mr. Drum. If I got into trouble out there, I wouldn’t stand a chance alone. I don’t approve of you or your motives, but it would be expedient for both of us if we went together. You see?”

  “You don’t know anything about my motives,” I said. “So let’s put the record straight. It wasn’t my idea to go on any Hajj. Ten days ago if anyone said I’d be in Saudi Arabia today I’d have bet him my bank account he was wrong.”

  “I suppose it wasn’t your idea to start that fight either, Mr. Drum?”

  “That was my idea. He’s going out there to Mecca to kill someone. I wanted to stop him. I’m going to stop him.” I went over to her and put my hands on her shoulders. “Look,” I said. “I don’t really know who you are. Maybe you’re a spy for the police. Maybe it’s their way of doing things. You’re climbing all over my back. I wish you’d get the hell off it.”

  She removed my hands from her shoulders gently. “Don’t mind me,” she said. “I deserve everything you say and anything you think. Look. I don’t only want to go on the Hajj in the interests of mutual religious understanding. There’s another reason. If I can successfully undertake the Hajj I could come up with the most sensational book on the Near East since Cairo to Damascus. There’s that, too.”

  “I won’t tattle on you,” I said.

  “I’m sorry, Drum. That’s why I was down on you. I should have been down on myself, because I guess my own motives aren’t simon-pure. If I apologize, will you take me with you? I can speak Arabic and some of the local dialects.”

  “You don’t have to apologize and you’re probably right. We’d both have a better chance going together. The only thing is, I’m after a fanatic and a would-be murderer. Which adds to the danger.”

  Just then the door opened. It was one of the soldier-slaves with crossed leather straps on his chest. I looked at his face. I was in trouble all right.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was a small room in the rear of the first floor of the Jidda police station. It was like small rooms in police stations all over the world—windowless, lit by a metal-shielded light bulb, the walls whitewashed and bare, the two policemen grim-faced and as indifferent to me as they were to the three sagging wicker chairs and the battered table’ on which rested a nargileh which one of them was smoking.

  They pointed to a chair. I sat down. Terry sat down too, and they weren’t happy about that. She said something in fluent Arabic and one of the gallabiya-clad cops said something back at her.

  “I’m going to be your interpreter,” she told me. “They want to know what you’re doing in Jidda.”

  I licked my lips but they remained dry. “Tell them I’m waiting for my way pass to Mecca. Tell them I’m a converted American Moslem.”

  She said something in Arabic. They replied. They were sharing the nargileh now, alternating puffs on the water-cooled pipe with questions. “They wanted to know why you attacked Izzed-een Shafik, whom they could not detain because he was, as they say, Mecca-bound and blameless.”

  “Got any ideas?” I asked.

  “Why don’t we say he insulted America? Nationalism is something they can understand.”

  “So is personal vendetta.”

  “Yes, but they’d think you might try to set out after this man as soon as they released you.”

  “So what? I’m waiting for my pass to Mecca. They know I’m going to Mecca.”

  “I didn’t tell them that. I told them you were an American businessman selling equipment to the Aramco American school. It’s forbidden to fight on Hajj. Even a converted American Moslem would know that. So, you’re not a Moslem. You’re an American businessman.”

  “Swell,” I said. “But what happens when they ask to see my passport? How do I explain why I don’t have it?”

  “I have already told them you lost your passport in the fight with this man Shafik. I’ve vouched for you, and they know me around here. Any more questions?”

  “Lady, you can tell them what you want. You’re doing fine.”

  They asked more questions. She answered them. She was doing better than fine. She spun a yarn of injured national pride and frayed tempers because of the heat, and it looked as if they were swallowing all of it. In a few moments, we’d be out of here. They might even carry us out on their shoulders.

  And then the man from the American consulate came in. He was a short, stocky fellow with a red face and imploring eyes. He looked at me and clucked his tongue in sympathy. “Had one hell of a time getting here, thanks to the pilgrim mobs,” he said. “Name’s Elander. We’ll get you out of this, Drum.”

  “We’re doing fine right now, Mr. Elander,” I said.

  He grunted. “Shouldn’t have converted, you know. Can’t understand you people.” His imploring eyes implored. “Sure you won’t change your mind? Man who is born a Christian ought to remain a Christian, seems to me.”

  One of the police said something. Terry and Elander both answered him in Arabic. The expression on Terry’s face said she wished Elander had not come here. One of the Arab cops raised his voice. Elander raised his voice. Terry gave a little groan.

  “He’s ruining everything,” she whispered fiercely.

  “Say, what the hell is this?” Elander asked me. “Are you a Moslem convert or aren’t you? Mahmoud says you are. Cops here say you’re not. You trying to make a fool of me, Drum?”

  I showed Terry the palms of my hands. “Got any ideas, teacher?”

  The two cops were watching us now. They seemed happily angry, as if violence and deceit were to be expected, as if incendiary wrath were the normal state of the world and their calm interrogation had been an unexpected and frustrating interlude. They shouted at Terry. They shouted at Elander.

  The man from the consulate said, “What’s the matter with you, Drum? You’re in deep. Liable to get your hands chopped off. So you have to go and lie to top it all. Getting Dr. Maddox in hot water, too. She translated your lies for them. So they think she’s a liar too. Think of the reputation of the Aramco American School, why don’t you?”

  I didn’t answer.

  He said, “Well, get this straight. You’re not going to lose your hands. If you cooperate.”

  “Cooperate how?”

  “Let them deport you. It’s a stink and it gets in the papers, but I take it on the chin, not you.”

  “I can’t let them deport me.”

  Terry said, “Oh shut up, Drum, and let me talk to you a minute.” We huddled in a corner of the room. The two Arabs watched us warily. Terry said, “Agree to deportation. They’ll keep you in the consulate until they find your passport. Al Hajj has it now, is that right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And your wakil is?”

  “Anwar Sidki. Mahmoud knows him. Mahmoud’s related to him.”

  “All right. Listen. If Sidki is the usual wakil, he can pass along backsheesh better than you think. I’ll contact him through Mahmoud. We’ll pay him to get you a way pass even if the consulate calls in your passport. Sidki will spread the money where it must be spread. You’ll get your pass. I’m going to get one for myself in the same way.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. We’re in this together. The only payment I want for trying to get you out of this mess is your company on the Hajj. Isn’t that fair enough? So I’ll get your way pass from Anwar Sidki,” Terry went on before I could make up my mind whether I was going to object or not. “I’ll send Mahmoud to the consulate to let you know. Then I’ll meet you at the Gate of the Prophet with Sidki’s pilgrim party. How does that sound?”

  Elander came over. He looked worried now. “You don’t agree to deportation, they’ll probably want your hands,” he said. “Agree to deportation, Drum. The best thing; give y
ou a chance to reconsider this crazy conversion, anyway. What do you say?”

  Terry was watching me. So were the Arabs, but not impatiently. They had plenty of time. In their own way they were enjoying themselves. The Arab world eschews time tables. Seconds and minutes mean nothing to it.

  “Okay, Mr. Elander,” I said. “I’ll go with you.”

  Elander addressed the Arab cops. He did not speak their language as fluently as Terry. He did his thinking in English and translated mentally as he went along. They tossed it back and forth for a few minutes. It was very hot in there. Elander mopped his wet brow with a damp wad of tissues he carried in his pocket. The Arabs were angry and enjoyed being angry.

  Finally, Elander beamed on me. “You come along to the consulate, Mr. Drum,” he said. “We’ll take care of you there. We’ll get your passport from Al Hajj.”

  “Just for the records,” I said, “am I a prisoner at the consulate?”

  “Prisoner?” His eyes were imploring again. Understand me, Mr. Drum, they said. Please try to understand me. “We don’t keep prisoners. Protective custody is something else. For your own good. The situation is unpleasant. You see? But a prisoner? Never.”

  I went along with Elander. On the hot, dusty street, Terry shook my hand as if this were good-by. We made it a solemn leavetaking ceremony. The pilgrims thronged by dustily, noisily, colorfully because they hadn’t yet discarded the garments of a dozen lands for the white shroud of the Hajj.

  The afternoon was long and hot, and they gave me a few old magazines to read at the consulate. I read about the strategic and industrial importance of the Levant in Aramco’s house organ. I read about the strategic and industrial importance of the Levant in a foreign edition of the Reader’s Digest.

  I couldn’t concentrate. It was the not knowing that was so bad. Fawzia was in Mecca now; she didn’t have a chance. Sooner or later, before she returned to Jidda, Izzed-een would overtake her. Her death would be nothing. One among thousands in the chaotic cauldron out there.

  Somewhere in the consulate building, a bell rang. The typing in the next room stopped suddenly and footsteps came toward me. The woman wore a skirt and blouse of one of those washable fabrics they grow in laboratories. She smiled at me with her teeth. She was a middle-aged New England librarian who had been transplanted to Saudi Arabia by the promise of romance in a government job. Romance was someplace else now, possibly back in New England. She said, “Mr. Elander will see you now,” in a librarian’s tone. As I walked by through Elander’s waiting room, I winked at her. She winked back without otherwise altering her expression and blocked my way slightly so I would have to touch her as I walked by. The synthetic fabric rustled. She winked at me again. I opened the door to Elander’s office and threw away my notions about New England librarians.

  Elander nodded, smiled, and tossed a billfold across his desk. I knew what it was without picking it up. I picked it up to satisfy Elander. It was my passport, all right. I dropped it on the desk and Elander retrieved it. He put it in a drawer and shut the drawer. He locked it with a key and put the key in his pocket.

  “Just wanted you to see it,” he said. “The Al Hajj cooperated, of course. You can leave tomorrow morning on an Aramco plane for Beirut. Good enough?”

  I nodded. It was like something hitting you between the eyes. They had my passport. My passport had been returned. I could forget all about Anwar Sidki and my way pass. Because unless the Al Hajj had my passport, they would issue me no way pass. Unless I wanted to hit the pilgrim road without a way pass, which was the same as jumping from an airplane without a parachute, I could forget all about Mecca.

  “… understand,” Elander was saying, “this is the best you could expect under the circumstances. Hell’s bells, man, they could have decorated the neighborhood with your hands. I’ve seen it done. You ought to thank your lucky stars.”

  I said I knew it. We talked for a while longer, but Elander’s heart wasn’t in it. There was nothing to implore about. Except for the details of departure, he had already closed his file on Chester Drum. After about half an hour, he said his secretary would write me a pass allowing me to eat in the consulate cafeteria. We shook hands and then the winking secretary scribbled a meal pass for me, placed it in my hand with pressure from her dry fingers, and looked, at me hopefully. A clock on her desk said it was five-thirty. Half an hour to dinner.

  “How,” I said, “does it feel to be a jailer?”

  “A jailer? I don’t understand, Mr. Drum.”

  “Well, I’m not supposed to leave here. You’re watching me, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, no. Oh, dear me, no.” She seemed alarmed at the prospect. “The American military police at the doors have simply been told not to let you outside without written word from Mr. Elander. But I shouldn’t have told you. Should I?”

  “You were very wicked, Miss …”

  “Lang. Oveta Lang. You may call me Oveta.”

  “You may call me Chester. Tell me, Oveta, do you usually take your meals here at the consulate?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do. Would you believe it, the native food still doesn’t agree with me?”

  “Anything on for supper?”

  “Anything on what?”

  “I mean, are you engaged for supper?”

  “Oh, I see. Thank you. I’d love to eat supper with you, Chester. Shall we say ten to six? At ten to six you can still get one of the smaller, more private tables. If you know what I mean.”

  “Hell,” I said, “I’ll go down there right now and get us a table.”

  “I’ll clean up,” Oveta said, and winked.

  I was the first one in the cafeteria after the help. I reserved a table for myself by sitting there with the first cup of coffee drawn from the big urn and nursing it until Oveta appeared. She had done something unfortunate to her hair, releasing it from the confines of the tight bun and letting it hang free. From the hairline up she looked like a Skye terrier. She had painted her lips with a pale shade of lipstick and rouged her cheeks. The synthetic fabric still rustled. She carried a tray in her hands and said, “I’ll pick for both of us, if you don’t mind.”

  I said I didn’t mind.

  I smoked a cigarette with what was left of the coffee. Oveta returned with a laden tray. Dinner was salmon cakes, green beans, rice, tomato juice and stewed peaches. As we ate, Oveta conspicuously left her little mound of rice untouched. I swapped private-eye stories for foreign-service stories. At six-thirty Oveta said “Well” and patted her lips daintily with a napkin. I took the tray and stood on line for two tall glasses of iced coffee.

  I returned with them and said, “You know, it’s a shame. Here I am in Saudi Arabia and I’ve hardly had a chance to see the place. What am I going to tell all the girls back home?”

  “Are there a lot of girls back home, Chester?”

  “Yeah. But how many of them have been in the foreign service? I’ll bet you really know your way around Jidda, Oveta.”

  “Oh, I do. I certainly do. It’s a wicked city, Chester.”

  “Say, how would you like to do something wicked?”

  “Chester—really!”

  “I’ll bet you could get me by the MP guards. Couldn’t you?”

  “Why, I suppose so. But—really. I couldn’t.”

  “Then you could show me around Jidda, and—”

  “But Mr. Elander trusts me. Please, Chester. I wish you’d change the subject.”

  “This is different. A lark. Mr. Elander wouldn’t hold that against you, would he? A girl’s got to have some fun, doesn’t she?”

  “Well …”

  “Besides, it wouldn’t take very long. Just so I’d have something to tell the girls back home about the girl over here. What do you say, Oveta?”

  She stood up. She was making up her mind with the speed of a hamster learning an intricate maze. “You’re very lucky,” she said finally, heavily impish. “I’m in a wicked mood. I’ll do it, Chester.”

  I stood up and smiled. “I
could kiss you,” I said.

  She sucked in her breath sharply. She looked around and leaned across the table towards me. “Yes, of course,” she said, her face white. “Later.”

  We got out of there. We went out the back way. The MP on duty said say aren’t you Mr. Drum and I said yes I was Mr. Drum but Oveta said oh it’s all right Sergeant Foller and Sergeant Foller said if you say so Miss Lang then it sure is all right I guess.

  “I feel so utterly wicked,” Oveta said as we made our way through the narrow streets toward the bazaar. It was dark in there, the streets of the bazaar roofed over with corrugated tin. It felt damp and it smelled damp.

  “This is a genuine native bazaar,” Oveta said, showing me the sights. “Not like the kind one sees in Istanbul, for example, because tourists from Europe are rare here. Isn’t it delightfully wicked?”

  She was on a wicked kick. I wasn’t exactly feeling like Gawain or Roland myself, because I was going to have to ditch Oveta and although I didn’t like it there was no help for it. I hoped everything would turn out all right for her in the morning. I bought her a pair of hammered copper earrings on the street of copperworkers in the Jidda bazaar and she tried them on immediately while the hawker scolded me in Arabic for dragging the price down from the lofty heights he had envisioned. He had a high, whining voice and went on scolding me while Oveta turned around to adjust the earring catches so she could whirl with what would be a wicked smile and show me them in place. I didn’t wait. I let the Arab scold Oveta’s back and slipped through a dim alley to the street of tinworkers. From here, the scolding Arab sounded like a claxon.

  Oveta’s cry of surprise and dismay was even louder.

  I walked swiftly up from the waterfront to the al-Taysir Hotel. The man at the desk, who spoke a few words of halting English, told me that Azaayim Bey had already checked out. Had his party left for Mecca? I asked. They would leave tonight. Many of the pilgrims set out across the forty-five miles of rocky desert between Jidda and Mecca during the night hours, to avoid the searing Hejaz sun. Did the effendi wish anything? The effendi wished to know where he might find the bey. A shrug was the only answer. What about Anwar Sidki? I asked. The wakil? The wakil. It was suggested that among the many hasheesh dens of Jidda I might find Anwar Sidki. He was, in terms new to the Hejaz, a user. I sighed.