‘I don’t think that this will be of any interest to us, Artran.’
Yunanian had been afraid of that. He had spent several minutes trying to get a price for the information fixed before he revealed it. He had even gone so far as to suggest that it was something that the French, the Americans, the Italians, even, would give a fortune to hear, if he were just to drop in on their embassies, no distance away. Lowther wasn’t buying that, and Yunanian had had to tell him all.
‘Now look here,’ continued Lowther, when he had heard the story, ‘it is of no concern to Whitehall if the King has found gold, or if this gold is treasure, or if this treasure belongs – or belonged – to a man called Ahmad Shah, who sounds like some kind of a Persian. But he might be an Indian, Pakistani or Afghan. They all come under the South Asian Department. We’re responsible to the Middle East Department.’
‘Respected Mr Lowther! Everyone knows that your great White Hall can use information. Who am I, a poor chemist, to know more about such matters? But I do know, Mr Lowther, that I have brought you important news in the past, and you have thanked me for it. And anything that the King is doing is always interesting to everyone in embassies. We both know that. And, after all, I am a poor man, Mr Lowther, I have so many small children …’
‘I thought you only had one child?’
‘Well, yes, but you know what I mean, Mr Lowther. Now, you will get promotion, and the White Hall will be pleased with you. And there isn’t much else that you can tell them, because nothing ever happens in Hadiqa City. I will throw in some information about the North Koreans, who have a big plot to undermine this country, Mr Lowther, and also something about the cement contract, that I have learned from my brother-in-law, which might go to a British company. All I need is a small amount.’
‘Like what?’
‘Let us not talk about money, Mr Lowther. But, if you insist, let us say a thousand dinars …’
‘I’ll give you twenty dinars; take it or leave it. Not for information, you understand. Ex gratia, distress allowance. Now, Mr Yunanian, I have a lot of work to do.’
‘Make it twenty-five.’
‘Done.’ Lowther scribbled a chit. ‘Here you are. And forget about the North Koreans. You sold me that story last week. London doesn’t believe a word of it. Take the chit to Mr Halabi.’
‘I know where to take it. Thank you, honourable Mr Lowther. I hope that it gets you promotion, and you are soon made ambassador. In Paris.’ Yunanian was out of the office like a shot. After all, he had a lot of embassies to visit before they closed for the day. Gold and kings were of interest to everyone. He might sell the story three, four, perhaps even five times that day.
Sir Leicester Browne was depressed. Her Britannic Majesty’s Ambassador to the Court of Narabia sat in his study, reading The Heraldic News. Narabia was, in the Foreign and Colonial Office classification, a ‘hardship nation’. That meant extra money and better leave. True, there was no hardship here as ordinarily understood: indeed the Ambassador, lacking private means, had seldom lived so well. But there were some things one missed: certain interesting amenities of London’s Shepherd Market and Soho for instance.
Now what was on the agenda for today? The First Secretary brought him a sheaf of papers. ‘London decrypt of the overnight telegrams, Your Excellency.’ Tiresome fellow, Hoskins. He loved words like ‘decrypt’. What was wrong with ‘Here are the telegrams which the Cypher Room has decoded?’
‘Yes, Hoskins?’
‘And sir, the Russian tanks.’
The Ambassador sat bolt upright. ‘Russian tanks? What are you talking about, man? The Russians aren’t here yet, are they?’ It was just possible, of course. The FCO message had said ‘Experts agree world oil and natural gas may last no more than forty years but USSR’s only twenty years. Russians are long-range planners so may try to capture mideast oil sooner and Narabia vital …’
Hoskins gulped as the Ambassador stared fixedly at him. ‘No, sir. The Russians are not here yet. But you will recall that the Narabians bought some old Soviet military hardware from Egypt after the Russians were kicked out by Sadat, and the Americans wouldn’t supply Narabia in case they used US arms against Israel. Well, a British firm is repairing the Russian tanks, and supplying spare parts …’
Yes, of course. It all came back to Sir Leicester in a rush. ‘Just a little joke, Hoskins, sense of humour and all that. Quite a useful sideline for British engineering in these hard times, isn’t it? Us and the Chinese, supplying most of the Third World with spares for Russian armaments.’
‘Yes sir, exactly. Well, you have to see the engineer-in-charge, Ramsbottom he’s called …’
‘He would be. Yes, I remember him: Lowther calls him “the Yobbo”.’
‘… and get the specifications from him. He’s doing a reverse engineering job.’
‘And what might that be?’
‘Reverse engineering means taking existing machinery and making blueprints from it, so that our people can see the state of the Russians’ art …’
‘Art, Hoskins?’
‘Technology, sir.’
‘Well?’
‘Well, Your Excellency, these are confidential documents. You have to take possession of them personally.’
‘In case the Russians see them?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘So, you think that they don’t already know how they designed and built their own tanks?’
‘Those are the orders, sir.’
‘I see, Hoskins. All right. London must have its reasons. Send this fellow Plushbottom in.’
Another of those days.
Then Lowther came rushing in. ‘Ambassador. I have something to discuss, from the Palace.’
The Palace? Perhaps it was a sounding about Sir Leicester’s KCMG: Knight Commander. He only had an ordinary knighthood at the moment.
‘Do come in, my dear fellow. Buckingham Palace, eh?’
‘Hadiqa Palace, sir.’
‘Oh, all right, then, hurry up, will you? I’ve a lot of things to do before the Diplomatic Golf Tournament.’
Lowther told him, nasal from his swollen sinus.
‘Can’t make head nor tail of it, meself.’ The mention of the Palace had unsettled the Ambassador. He sat with half-closed eyes, trying to think about the problem of the Persian gold. Instead, a picture of Hobgoblin Pursuivant, an official of the College or Court of Arms, or Heralds, or whatever it was, swam before him.
Lowther was speaking. ‘So I think we’d better turn it over to Mosaic, sir.’
‘Mosaic? You mean a pattern of small tiles? Why should you? Are there any around here?’
‘Not that kind, sir. “Mosaic” is the code-word for what we usually call “Jigsaw”.’
‘Stop playing games and get on with your work, like me, Lowther. I’ve got to, er, play golf …’
‘Not the game, sir. “Jigsaw” is the man who puts things together. Intelligence information. If we have something perplexing, something that we think might be important, we can telex it straight to Jigsaw in London, and he marries it with other inflow and makes a picture for the Secretary of State.’
Marries it with inflow: a picture for the Secretary of State. Where did London find these idiots?
‘If that’s the procedure, Lowther, why don’t you get on with it, man? Why all this fluttering about with games and tiling?’
‘I need your permission, sir. FCO instructions clearly state that Mosaic can only be contacted direct with an upthrust.’
‘Which means?’ Inflow and upthrust. Things were getting worse since that circular about ‘Use Standard Terminology Only’. To be referred to as ‘USTO’, of course.
‘Upthrust is the code-word for “authorization by the Head of Mission”, sir.’
‘I authorize it, then. Will that be all, Lowther? Don’t just stand there snuffling.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll get on to it right away.’
‘Don’t get on to it – get on with it!’
> The fool was scampering off now. Thank goodness. Upthrust and inflow. What was telexing called? Almost certainly ‘outflow’.
‘Right.’ The Ambassador pressed the button on his intercom. ‘Miss Triptych, let me know when Mr Ramsbottom arrives. I am reading the London decrypts – I mean telegrams.’
‘Yes, Your Excellency.’
He picked up the first printout. ‘London to all Stations …’ Sounded like a railway announcement.
Still, there might be something in this Afghanistan business. Two tours of duty ago, Sir Leicester had been HBM’s Ambassador in Kabul, so he knew – and liked – the Afghan people.
They’d give the Russians a run for their money, just as Mrs Thatcher had reminded people their warriors had done in the case of the British. Although she could have put it more diplomatically.
A strange country, though, full of all sorts of communities, different from one another, but all fanatical Afghans. The Ambassador remembered explaining this as best he could to an open-mouthed Minister of State on tour:
‘There’re many communities here, you see, Minister, all with their own land, flocks, customs and histories. In United Kingdom terms you might almost say that the Tajiks are their Saxons, the Pashtuns resemble the Scots, the Turks are sort of Vikings and the Arabs are the Norman conquerors. The Nuristanis, of course, up there in the wild mountains – they’re the Irish.’
Quite a neat summary, he had thought. But the visitor, primarily a politician, of course, had only refilled his glass with port from the decanter and said, lamely, ‘Of course that’s a great simplification, I suppose?’
‘Yes, indeed, quite a simplification.’
The Minister had been more interested, the Ambassador remembered, in the size and scale of the huge British Embassy at Karte Parwan: the most imposing in Asia. It was built by order of Lord Curzon, to impress upon the locals – and the Russians – that the Empire was something to reckon with, that the British were the champions of The Great Game, the struggle for Central Asia.
4 Thank you, Dr Anddrews
Oxford
England
JUNE 20
Prince Jamal flew to London by Narabian International Airlines; featured on the passenger list as Mr Kazim bin-Abdallah, also the name on his brand new passport. Narabian-Int was discreet. There was no point in attracting attention to himself by using his private jet, he thought. Perhaps he had little native Bedouin caution left, but he did have some idea of what four hundred billion dollars meant.
He spent the night at the Savoy: like so many of its patrons, he could not resist the exclusively English cooking of its Grill Room, where nothing so ordinary as French cuisine – nouvelle or ancienne – was permitted. The following morning he went by rail from Paddington to Oxford. It was Monday, and the Intercity train was full of university dons, returning from London where so many of them maintained useful contacts with the media, with government departments and with the other attractions of the capital.
He had no appointment, but took a taxi straight from the station, looking like an advertisement for plastic food, straight to St Saviour’s College, where his old tutor, C. E. G. B. Anddrews, was sure to be found. The porter at the lodge recognized him at once.
‘Prince Jamal, sir! What a pleasure to have you back with us.’ He’d bought a cottage out of the tips which he had got from Jamal alone, so he would hardly forget him.
‘Great to be back, Mr Williamson. Lovely weather, isn’t it? Have you seen Dr Anddrews today at all?’
‘Yes, sir. He’s in his rooms. You know the way, don’t you?’
‘I know it all right. All those essays and tea and crumpets.’ He wrinkled his nose and the beefy Williamson laughed, as if at a joke.
‘Right-ho, sir.’
Jamal climbed the stairs, worn by centuries of undergraduates, which led to the tutor’s rooms. It had hardly changed. Slightly run-down, the walls scuffed, the smell of wet raincoats and something which might be liniment: St Saviour’s was noted for its Rugby men. He knocked. ‘Come.’ Yes, that was old Andie’s voice all right.
‘Please forgive the intrusion, sir.’ The short, thin form of the ageing scholar was hunched, as always, over a mass of papers at the table in the corner. Probably writing a review, a hatchet job, for the Times Literary Supplement, Jamal thought.
‘My dear Jamal. This is a welcome pleasure!’ Anddrews stood up, dwarfed by his visitor, and clawed his distance glasses from his cardigan pocket. ‘You look fine! How is life in Narabia?’
‘Everything’s great, doctor. Things seem to be just the same here.’
‘Yes, not very different.’
Jamal decided to plunge straight into his story.
‘It’s luck for us that you are a specialist in Middle Eastern history, because we need your help. We have to have some information, on a matter of the greatest confidence.’
‘Anything I can do …’
‘I need information about King Ahmad Shah.’
That evening a routine-looking message pulsed out from the radio room at the Royal Narabian Embassy in Kensington Palace Gardens, London.
It was sandwiched between two long commercial signals, and it was in clear: too short to need the economy achieved by using Narabia’s usual five-digit commercial cypher.
The listeners at GCHQ, Government Communications Headquarters near Cheltenham, looked at the intercept. Nothing special here. The reference prefix was, routinely, put through the computer which interpreted Arabic word-roots, and the watcher peered at the screen. Prefix KHJL, KHaJaLa, in Arabic, he noted, might mean ‘tangled’ (plant); ‘luxuriant’ (valley); ‘full’ (garment). It could also mean ‘timidity’, ‘bashfulness’ … No, nothing there. Not an Arabic word. Just a reference to earlier correspondence. He filed the message.
Addressed to the Ministry of Commerce, Hadiqa City, Narabia, the message caused a flurry as soon as it arrived. The cypher officer knew what KHJL meant: it was a contraction of the phrase ‘KHususi – JaLalat al-malik. Special: King’s Majesty’. A despatch rider, siren wailing, was at the palace with it, within minutes.
Rising from his evening prayers, King Zaid looked at the printout:
MINCOMMERCE HADIQA REFERENCE KHJL UNIT PRICE TWENTYEIGHT POUNDS SEVENTYSIX PENCE SECOND COMMODITY SIXTYONE AND THIRTEEN PENCE NARABEMB LONDRA.
Jamal, reporting from London. The figures would be in the Mas-haf cypher. The Mas-haf, of course, was one of the names used for the Koran. Every Koran in existence had an identical text: none varied by as much as a dot, so the chapters and verses were always constant. King Zaid reached for his copy and looked up chapter twenty-eight, verse seventy-six: ‘Such were the treasures we had bestowed on him that their very keys would have been a burden to a body of strong men.’
Good, Jamal meant that the immense treasure’s existence was confirmed.
Now for the second extract. That should tell what he thought of the outlook. See chapter sixty-one, verse thirteen: ‘… help from Allah and a speedy victory; so give glad tidings to the Believers.’
Support the Muhjahidin. Thank you, Jamal. I shall proceed with the transaction. Now, how did one go about putting an advertisement in a Pakistani newspaper? Better send for Court Minister Hafiz, he would get it done …
BOOK 5
A Mirza in a Mulberry Tree
PARTIZANS – (Guerrillas). National volunteers, who fight against occupation forces on territory usurped by the enemy, and who rely upon extensive support from the local population.
The Soviet Dictionary of Basic
Military Terms, Moscow
1 Hang the Bandit Scum!
Kabul and Panjsher Valley
Afghanistan
JUNE 9
‘Comrade General, this Afghan assignment is the most interesting experience of my life; there’s much of detailed value to us, here. Far more, even, than I saw in Egypt.’ Major Bakunin’s eyes gleamed behind his spectacles. Here, interest and policy, reality and ambition, blended: he was able to tell the t
ruth and at the same time to remind the general of their long association. He had been waiting far too long for his colonelcy, and this might be his chance at last. Perhaps his final chance.
The major had been with the weapons evaluation team which carried out an assessment in Cairo following the Six-Day War. The general was his chief, then, and the Russians had learned a great deal from this field-testing, in real war, of some of their arms. They had, in spite of the disaster to Nasser’s arms, also managed to acquire from Cairo a few examples of new Western military hardware, and technical lessons had been learnt from those, as well. Major Bakunin had been commended, by both President Podgorny and Marshal Zakharov, when they went to Cairo and agreed to replace up to eighty per cent of Colonel Nasser’s lost equipment. In fact, it was Bakunin himself who had done most of the research work, and the general had got all the credit. And he could be useful to General Boris Kishniyev, Inspector-General of Ordnance, again. The opportunity of promotion had made him forget his rancour.
‘Of course, Major Bakunin, this is a very different kind of war, more like the one carried out by the Americans in Vietnam.’ The general had only been in Kabul for two days. He obviously did not know very much about the Afghan operation, which put Bakunin, as the expert weapons man on the spot, in a strong position. He had been studying the campaign against the guerrillas.
‘In a sense, Comrade General, you are indeed right. But I would like to suggest that this is far more a war of small ordnance, and that flame-throwers, mortars and light and heavy machine-guns plus auxiliary equipment will be the decisive factor.’
This interested General Kishniyev, as Bakunin had known it would. He said, ‘But everyone in Moscow claims that it is the helicopter gunships which will do the job, as we learned from their tactical use by the Americans, against the Vietcong.’