The Cotton Spies
CHAPTER 6
The door opened and a swarthy Armenian man of not more than four feet eleven inches came into the room. Edrich had inherited Corcorian as an agent from his predecessor, Major Curtis. Corcorian sat facing Edrich panting vigorously yet somehow silently. Edrich waited whilst the other regained his breath then once he had done so Edrich offered the man a cigarette, which was accepted with alacrity.
Edrich lit the man’s cigarette with the home-made cartridge case lighter that his batman, Johnson, had made. Johnson had slipped the lighter into Edrich’s pocket as the latter was being hoisted, wounded, onto a stretcher in July 1917. Looking at the lighter he recalled how clever Johnson had been in making things from the debris scattered about the trenches. Edrich started to smile as he thought about the long shell casing the man had fashioned as a potty which protected, using Johnson’s euphemistic words, “a man’s fishing tackle” from the cold, as he urinated. The smile faded as he remembered that Johnson had been killed whilst Edrich was recovering from his wound back in England.
Looking at the lighter and thinking about Johnson also reminded Edrich that he was lucky, on recovery from his wound that he had not been sent back to fight on the Western or, any other Front. Unbelievably it had taken the army three years to realise that Indian Army officers, like him, were better suited and of more value to the British Empire if they were posted to places like India and Persia. In India and Persia they could use their expert knowledge and practical experience of those countries to good effect rather than act as mere cannon fodder in a flooded trench outside Ypres, or the Somme. He smiled to himself - dry and warm he might be but he was still facing death from his country’s enemies.
Corcorian, as he always did, studied the lighter with interest. Edrich would have liked to give the lighter to him but both men knew that such a gift would be dangerous if some of the anti-British locals found Corcorian carrying it. Corcorian put the lighter back on the table and Edrich left it there. Corcorian became a British agent because as an Armenian he hated the Turks, a hatred intensified by the 1915 Armenian massacres that included members of his family. Corcorian knew that keeping a pro-British Government in Teheran was one way to defeat the Turks. Corcorian was also aware of the anti-British political elements in the country’s capital and he was gimlet eyed in finding any communications sent to or, received from such people in Shushtar.
Like all British agents Corcorian had a code, MT 35, by which he was both known and addressed. Talking to MT 35 gave Edrich the chance to speak in English. Meetings between the two men had to be as brief as possible otherwise people might ask why the deliverer of telegrams to the British Residence stayed so long.
‘Major Edrich, what news from Palestine? The reports I have seen say that a big battle has started and that the Turks are retreating?’ Corcorian never ever asked about the war in Europe.
Edrich poured a cup of tea and gave it to Corcorian, ‘Yes, MT 35, Johnny Turk is in full retreat and we have taken many prisoners. Soon we will be in Jericho and then on to Damascus.’
‘Were there many Turks killed? I hope there were. I’m sorry that you took prisoners. Perhaps you will kill them later?’ Corcorian asked hopefully.
Same old comments every time thought Edrich. ‘No. I’ve told you before we don’t kill our prisoners. We have rules on how we must treat our prisoners.’
‘Rules! Tell that to the Turk! There are never any rules between Armenian and Turks when we fight.’ The Armenian thrust his cigarette end into the ashtray on Bill’s desk and ground it out viciously. Corcorian looked as if he was about to spit but a glance at Edrich reminded him where he was, so the Armenian refrained. Corcorian lit another cigarette using the cartridge case lighter and asked, ‘what about across the river in Mesopotamia?’
‘The Turks are beginning to fall back towards Baghdad. It is a race to see whether the British army in Palestine gets to Baghdad first, or whether our army in Mesopotamia gets to Damascus first.’
‘No Kut-al-Amara this time?’
‘No, I think we learned our lesson about over extending our forces and allowing ourselves to get besieged and starved into defeat like we were then. Meanwhile in northern Persia we have soldiers moving to Enzeli and as we still have Cossacks supporting us, contrary to what has been said by these Bolos, we’ll keep driving the Turks back into Turkey. If, or when, the Russians go home to fight in their civil war we will replace them with British soldiers. The Jangali tribe are obstructing our forces advance to the Caspian, possibly with their government in Tehran’s connivance, but we’ll soon solve that problem and get to Baku.’
‘Well the Jangalis are like all the Persian tribes they like their independence. And they won’t like the English any better than the Russians as occupiers, will they?’ Corcorian accompanied this question by exhaling a smoke ring that both men watched as it gradually dissipated on its way to the ceiling.
‘No, I grant you that!’ Edrich re-focussed on the Armenian. ‘However, we have the Persian best interests at heart; that is something the Russians never had. Also it is in Persia’s best interests to have a strong government in Teheran to ensure trade through the Caspian ports is not continually interrupted by bandits. So we must help the Persian government regain control of the area and bring the Jangalis to heel. Once our victory over Turkey is completed Britain will withdraw, naturally.’
‘Your presence there has nothing to do with the Germans advancing down towards the Caucuses? Or that Baku as a major oil city is under possible threat?’ Corcorian asked pointedly.
‘Well, MT35,’ said Edrich impressed by the man’s knowledge, ’that might have played a very minor part in the decision. Let me assure you,’ he added more forcefully, ‘that the German is as unpleasant a character as the Turk and more barbarian than the Russian. If they get to the Caucuses mark my word you can forget about Persian neutrality because the Germans will just press on and do what they did to Belgium – invade it.’
‘Thank God for the, British.’ Corcorian saluted with one hand whilst he stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray with the other. Both men watched in silence as the smoke curled up from the cigarette’s embers; abruptly the smoke ceased Edrich stirred himself.
‘What information do you have for me, anything on, Bakir Khan? Has he got any telegrams from Teheran?’
‘No, nothing has arrived in the Telegraph Office. If they were going to send anything important I doubt it would come that way. A message would go to him via a courier.’ Corcorian put his hand inside his shirt and produced some paper that he handed Edrich, ‘the governor got a couple of telegrams, copies for you.’
Edrich would decrypt the telegrams later and then forward the originals to intelligence headquarters down in Basra. ‘Have you heard of any trouble brewing here or on the road?’ Edrich asked knowing that Corcorian used other Armenians, who traded throughout Persia, as information gatherers.
‘I understand that Bakir Khan is behind your intended murder, as you would expect as he is the Lur chief. I get the impression though that the successes you English are having across the border and the fact that British soldiers can be here quicker, because of the new roads, than they could last year are the reasons that stop him from taking any action. I think Bakir knows that if you were to be killed this time he might be hanged rather than some of his men or, alternatively he might be deposed and his brother made chief.’
‘Like most chiefs Bakir would not like that,’ snapped Edrich.
Corcorian took another cigarette and lit it inhaled heavily and exhaled smoke through his nose. ‘No. Also, many of his tribe’s people are working on the oil pipeline and earning more money than they have ever done before. I hear that they don’t want you murdered because they might lose their jobs in a British reaction.’
‘Too much like biting the hands that feed you, eh?’ Edrich asked feeling rather relieved. ‘So, no other rumours or gossip?’
‘No. Perhaps all they are doing, major, with this threat is keep alive the tradition of blood
feud. On the other hand perhaps they are merely biding their time. Who knows?’ Corcorian looked heavenward as he thought out loud, ‘perhaps they’ll wait until they think the Germans are returning.’
‘Well I assure you, that no Germans will be returning to Persia. As for my murder I intend to keep my wits about me. If you hear anything about my intended demise by rumour or by gossip, I will be most grateful to hear about it,’ Edrich smiled, ‘preferably before it happens.’
Corcorian laughed, ground his cigarette in the ashtray and stood. It was time to go. Edrich opened the folder where he had stored the telegrams Corcorian had brought and withdrew a book and an envelope. Edrich opened the book and pointing to a place on the page he handed Corcorian an inked pen. Once Corcorian had signed the book Edrich gave him an envelope. Corcorian, with only a cursory glance, emptied the monetary contents first into his hand then into his trousers’ pocket. The Armenian then lit yet another cigarette caressed the lighter turned, put it back on the desk before he slipped out of the room. Edrich screwed up the envelope and threw at the waste paper basket where it landed with a pleasant thud.