City of Gold

‘Porter,’ called Marker to a native with a trolley. ‘Bring these bags.’ He kicked them with his toe. ‘Follow us.’ To his superior he explained, ‘You must always get one with a metal badge and remember his number.’ He politely took Cutler’s leather briefcase. ‘It’s not worth bringing a car here,’ explained Marker. ‘We’re in the Bab-el-Hadid barracks. It’s just across the midan.’

Marker kept walking, out through the ticket barrier, across the crowded concourse and the station forecourt. The porter followed. Once outside the station, there was all the bustle of a big city. It was the sort of day that Europeans relished. It was winter, the air was silky, and the sun was going down in a hazy blue sky.

So this was Cairo. Ross was looking around for a way of escape but Marker was determined to play the perfect subordinate. ‘You’ll find you’ve got a pretty good team,’ said Marker. ‘And what a brief! Go anywhere, interrogate anyone and arrest almost anyone. “You’re a sort of British Gestapo,” the brigadier told us the other day. The brigadier’s a decent old cove too; you’ll like him. He’ll support you to the end. All you have to worry about is catching Rommel’s spy.’

Ross grunted his affirmation.

Marker froze. Suddenly he realised that this probably wasn’t the way the army treated a newly arrived superior. And not the way to describe a brigadier. Marker had been the junior partner in a law office before volunteering for the army. It was the way he treated his colleagues back home, but perhaps this fellow Cutler was expecting something more formal and more military.

They walked on in silence, brushing aside hordes of people. All of them seemed to be selling something. They brandished trays upon which were arrayed shoelaces, flyswatters, sweet cakes, pencils and guidebooks. The great open space before the station was alive with peddlars. And there was Englishness too: little trees, neat little patches of flowers, and even green grass.

‘That’s the barracks,’ said Marker. ‘Not far now.’

In the distance, Ross saw a grim-looking crusader castle of ochre-coloured stone. The low rays of the sun caught the sandstone tower so that it too gleamed like gold.

Ross looked around. He didn’t want to go into the barracks; he wanted to get away. There were too many policemen in evidence for him to run. Half a dozen men of the Cairo force came riding past, mounted on well-groomed horses. The British army’s policemen were not to be seen on horses. With their red-topped peaked caps they stood in pairs, feet lightly apart and hands loosely clasped behind their backs. They were everywhere, and all of them were armed.

Back at the train compartment, the two MPs were waiting for the doctor to arrive. The elder of the two men assumed seniority. He wore First World War ribbons on his chest. He’d leaned into the compartment and spoken to the dead man a couple of times and got no response. Now he said, ‘Dead.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Stone cold. In France I saw more dead men than you could count.’

‘What will we do?’

‘Do? Nothing. The officer says he’s sick; he’s sick. Let the doctor decide he’s dead. That’s what he’s paid for, ain’t it?’

He got down from the compartment, and they both stood alongside the open train door and waited.

The younger red cap did not relish the prospect of moving the body. He changed the subject and said to his companion, ‘I reckon that’s the one they’ve sent to take over from that major with the big walrus moustache.’

‘Well, that bastard lost a pip and was booted out to Aden or somewhere.’

They watched a civilian coming through the crowd. They hoped it might be the doctor, but when he stopped for a moment at the sight of the snake-charmers they knew it couldn’t be. Only tourists and newcomers stopped to see the magicians and snake charmers and acrobats. ‘I heard the new bloke was coming today. Some sort of detective from Blighty, according to what the rumours say.’

‘Well, that one won’t last long,’ said the elder man. ‘He obviously doesn’t know Cairo from a hole in the ground. How’s he going to start finding a bloody spy here?’

‘Nice disguise though.’

‘The corporal’s uniform?’

‘Yes, the corporal stunt.’

‘You get the idea, don’t you?’ said the elder man bitterly. ‘If that Captain Marker hadn’t brought us over here to sort him out, that bastard would have ambled over to the barracks, and if he’d got through improperly dressed, and no one asking him for his leave pass, we’d all be for the high jump for dereliction of duty and suchlike.’

‘I suppose. Where’s that bloody doctor?’ said the young one. He’d phoned. ‘They said straightaway. We’re back on duty tonight again, aren’t we?’

‘Too right. It’s El Birkeh tonight, my old pal. I hope you’re feeling up to it.’

‘I dread that rotten poxy place. It stinks. I’ve asked to go back on traffic duties. I’m sick of patrolling whorehouses.’

Ross had been completely accepted in his corporal’s uniform. Marker showed no suspicion at all. But there just seemed to be no way of escaping his amiable friendliness.

When they got to the gate of Bab-el-Hadid barracks there was an armed sentry there. The porter dumped the bags and Marker paid him off. Ross offered him his identity card but the sentry gave it no attention. His eyes were staring straight ahead as he gave the two men a punctilious salute.

‘The staff all know you are coming,’ explained Marker. He flipped open the special card issued by SIB Middle East, so that his superior saw it. ‘Your pass is no use to you here. We don’t let people in and out of here with the ordinary passes and so forth, not even SIB people. We have our own identity cards. I think we should get you photographed today, sir, if you can spare the time. It’s difficult to keep the sentries on their toes unless we set an example.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Ross.

‘And then you will have your new pass and identity document tomorrow.’ He led the way up the stone steps.

‘Very efficient,’ said Ross. His voice echoed. This place was just like an ancient castle, but no doubt the coolness of the stone would be welcome when summer came.

Marker didn’t respond to the compliment. ‘The routine is to close all the Cairo offices between one PM and five PM. I’ve asked your staff to be at their desks early. I thought you might like to meet them. Then you could cut away and see your quarters.’

‘I’ll take your advice, Marker.’

‘Unless you want to go through the files, sir. I have told your clerk – if you decide to keep the same clerk as your predecessor – to have all the current files ready for you to examine. Or I can take you through them verbally.’

‘Are you always like this, Marker?’

‘Like what, sir?’

‘Super bloody efficient.’

Marker looked at him trying to decide if he was being sarcastic. He couldn’t tell. This new man knew how to keep an inscrutable face. ‘In civvy street I worked for myself, sir.’

‘You’re beginning to give me an inferiority complex, Marker. Do you know that?’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’ How far was Major Cutler joking? It was hard to know. They were walking along the open balcony overlooking the parade ground. A dozen red caps were being paraded and inspected before going off on their patrols through the streets of the town.

‘This way, sir. This is your office.’

The department that Cutler had been assigned to take over had its offices on this floor. This part of the building was only one room deep. The offices that were reached from the balcony overlooked the midan and the railway station beyond it.

They were all lined up waiting for him: privates, corporals and a sergeant plus four radio-room staff and their corporal in charge. There was even a cunning-looking old soldier who was assigned to be his clerk.

‘Organise a photographer right away,’ said Marker to one of the clerks. ‘Identity photo for the major, double quick.’

‘We’ll get to know each other soon enough,’ said Ross trying to remember other clichés he’d come across during his duties in the orderly room. Marker introduced each of them and described their duties, their accomplishments and, where applicable, their previously held civilian jobs. None of them were ex-policemen. Poor old Cutler had guessed right about that.

‘Is that everyone?’

Marker hesitated.

‘Well, is it?’ said Ross.

‘There is only one member of your staff not here yet,’ said Marker. ‘It’s a female clerk: Alice Stanhope. I’m sure she’ll be here any minute.’