The God of the Labyrinth

  As he said this, I experienced a momentary feeling of dizziness, as if something had blurred in my brain. In some way I cannot explain, it was the sound of St Leger’s voice saying ‘Esmond Donelly’ that did it. I have said that during the past week I had frequently felt as if Esmond and myself were inhabiting the same brain. But we were like strangers, and his memory was not avail­able to me. And now, it was as if everything became clear, like a microscope suddenly becoming focused; as if Esmond’s mind and mine clicked together and blended. I knew that this could have happened a week ago; but the final adjustment was wanting. Now there were no more questions; Esmond’s memory and mine had intermingled. And now, when Angela asked St Leger how he knew it was true, I found myself saying:

  ‘I can tell you that.’

  St Leger said: ‘You can’t possibly know.’

  I said: ‘Glenney’s great mistake was to name names. In the original version of Letters from a Mountain he names Abdallah Yahya as the Grand Master, and mentions that Hendrik van Griss was the domino of Holland. Esmond persuaded him to change the names in the printed version, but it still caused an upheaval in the movement. Van Griss wanted to have Esmond assassinated; Yahya refused. In 1791, van Griss poisoned Yahya. From then on, Esmond knew he might be killed any time. He woke up one morning in Paris, and found a dagger driven into his pillow. This was one of their favourite tricks—to demoralise a man with fear before they killed him. It was used by the original Assassins—the Ismailis—by way of a threat. They once made Saladin raise a siege of the Assassin Grand Master by leaving a dagger stuck in his pillow. Esmond took the warning, and went to Russia, then to Greece. When he got back, he dis­covered that Glenney had committed the ultimate folly: he’d published his pamphlet denouncing the Sect, and naming van Griss as the new Grand Master. That was the last straw as far as van Griss was concerned. He had a little French assassin who’d trained in Turkey—a man called Jacques Crevea—and he sent him after Esmond. It was Crevea who killed Horace Glenney—in Esmond’s bed.’

  ‘But what was Glenney doing in Esmond’s bed?’

  ‘He’d told Esmond some silly story about seeing a ghost in his own room. Esmond agreed to sleep in it for a week—he didn’t believe in ghosts. Of course, Glenney didn’t really believe he was in danger—the room was seventy feet above the ground, and he kept the door locked. He didn’t know that Crevea was known as The Fly.’

  St Leger was looking astounded. He said:

  ‘All this could be true, but I doubt it. No one knows the details. It became one of the most closely guarded secrets of the Sect. There is probably only one person in the world at the moment who knows the details.’

  Angela waited for him to go on; then, when he was silent, asked:

  ‘Who is that?’

  I said: ‘The present Grand Master.’

  She said: ‘Then it does still exist?’ She looked at St Leger. ‘And he wasn’t joking?’

  St Leger turned around angrily.

  ‘My dear young lady, my advice to you is to ask as few questions as possible. I am extremely sorry that you returned when you did, and even more sorry that Mr Sorme has been so indiscreet.’

  I was beginning to feel angry with St Leger; the pompous manner was getting on my nerves. I now understood a great deal about him. He had the basic requirement for a domino of the Sect: the sexual obsession. It was present in his manner towards Angela; she was potential bed-fodder; he was already imagining her spread underneath him, her eyes closed. He was an attractive man, sexually and personally. And he was a long way from being a fool. But he was an actor. It showed in the way he had walked across the room before his announcement about Glenney’s assas­sination. And I represented a serious threat to him; this explained why his manner towards me was so edgy. I felt disappointed that my first contact with the Sect should be through a man like this. I heard a car draw up outside. St Leger said:

  ‘And now, I think I must leave you.’

  I went over and stood beside him. It was a London Airport taxi. He was already moving to the door. I said:

  ‘I don’t think there’s any point in leaving. Since you were expecting him, we may as well see him.’

  He said quietly: ‘Will you excuse me.’ He turned to Angela. ‘I hope we shall meet again.’

  I slipped past him, and went to the door. He came after me, saying angrily: ‘Really, Mr Sorme, this is . . .’

  A man had got out of the taxi, and was looking at the numbers of the houses. He was very big, and his face was brown and scarred. His eyes met mine; then he saw St Leger behind me, and smiled. St Leger said, with sudden authority: ‘I would be grateful if you would wait here a moment.’ He went past me and down the steps. I saw no point in pushing him further, so I went back into the house. Angela was standing by the window.

  ‘What on earth’s happening? Who’s that man?’

  ‘I assume he’s something to do with the Sect of the Phoenix. Beyond that, I don’t know.’

  From behind the curtains, I watched St Leger talking to the dark man. I said:

  ‘He’s worried about you being here.’

  ‘Would you like me to go out?’

  ‘It might be the simplest solution.’

  The two men now came towards the house. I went out to meet them.

  ‘The young lady is going out now, if you’d like to come in.’ The big man stared at me inscrutably. I thought he was going to ignore me. Then St Leger said: ‘This is Mr Sorme. Mr Xalide Nuri.’ At this, he held out his hand, and said how do you do. His silence, I realised, had been Eastern punctiliousness. Then Nuri said:

  ‘I think there is no need to trouble your friend. Mr St Leger has a car. He could take us to my home.’

  ‘I’d be happy to.’ St Leger was showing his nervousness. It was not his day.

  I said: ‘Would you excuse me a moment?’ I went back into the house and told Angela I was going with them. Then I asked her if she’d ever heard of a man called Xalide Nuri. She looked startled. ‘Of course.’ ‘Who is he?’ ‘Some sort of millionaire—oil, I think. His name’s always being mentioned with Onassis and Paul Getty. You must have seen it.’ I explained that the world of high finance was the least of my interests.

  ‘Watch him. He’s the sort of person who has real power.’

  I went out again, closing the door behind me. A grey, chauffeur-driven Daimler had moved in front of the house. The chauffeur opened the door for us. As we sat down, Nuri said disapprovingly: ‘Too conspicuous.’

  St Leger reddened. ‘I always use it.’

  I saw Angela’s shape behind the lace curtain as we pulled away. She was probably wondering whether the Sect still main­tained a staff of assassins.

  Neither of them spoke until we were turning down Park Lane. Then St Leger said: ‘It was kind of you to come so far.’ Nuri acknowledged it with a bow of his head, as if it were a compli­ment. Then he said:

  ‘It may, as you say, be important.’ There was no rebuke in his tone, but St Leger reddened again.

  My sense of Esmond’s presence had vanished. These events were too unusual not to create a tension in me, and tension made my own personality too dominant. I relaxed by thinking about Anna Dunkelman. It had been a satisfying experience—and one of which I would have been incapable without Esmond. His personality had a confidence, a forward-drive, that I found liberating.

  We had stopped in front of a house in Brook Street. Nuri said: ‘We are here.’ Then he looked at St Leger. ‘Thank you for driving us here.’ His meaning was clear. St Leger said: ‘It’s a pleasure . . .’, and opened the door for us. I stood there, blinking in the bright sunlight, looking at the gay summer dresses of women in Grosvenor Square, feeling that what was happening was somehow irrelevant.

  Before we reached the front door, it opened. I somehow expected an Eastern manservant, but it was an ordinary English butler who let us in. Without St
Leger, Nuri seemed more relaxed. He said:

  ‘I do not live here, but I keep this place for my weekends in London. It is convenient.’

  It was a typical rich man’s house; comfortable, discreetly fur­nished. Only the balustrade of the stairs suggested the East; it was of a fine, wrought ironwork that might have come from a sultan’s harem.

  We went up the stairs, through a drawing room with a grand piano and Matisses on the wall, into a library. He waved me to a deep armchair.

  ‘Can I offer you a drink? Tea or coffee, perhaps? I drink coffee all the time.’ He pressed a bell.

  Now I looked more closely at Nuri, I seemed to recognise him. Perhaps I had seen pictures of him. He was over six feet tall, and the face and bearing were somehow those of a soldier. He wore a light, double-breasted grey suit. His hair was short-cropped and going grey. The face was scarred, but handsome with the cold attraction of a bird of prey. His movements were economical, brief, as if he felt grace to be effeminate.

  He sat down opposite me and offered me a cigarette; I refused. He took out a black and gold Russian cigarette and tapped it against the case.

  ‘I have come from Paris to see you, Mr Sorme. Because if half of what St Leger tells me is true, we have much to say to one another. Do you know who I am?’

  ‘Yes. You’re the present Grand Master.’

  ‘You guessed that, of course.’

  ‘It was a fair inference. You’re not a domino, or St Leger wouldn’t have been so nervous of you.’

  He laughed, showing excellent white teeth.

  ‘That man is a fool. He should not be a domino.’

  ‘Then why is he? You have the authority to remove him.’

  ‘Alas, no longer. Our organisation is more democratic than in the days of Esmond Donelly.’

  The butler came in, pushing a trolley, and left immediately. As he poured coffee, Nuri said:

  ‘We must not waste time, Mr Sorme. We have much to say, and I have to be back in Paris tonight. There is much about you that puzzles me. You seem to have access to a great deal of information. That means either that someone has been indiscreet, or that you have found documents of whose existence we were unaware.’ I said nothing. He went on: ‘So far, you might be anyone. But now I discover that you are something of a prodigy. Our friend Körner tells me you have undone two years of patient work with what sounds like an impossible feat. I presume he was not exaggerating?’ I said nothing. ‘I take your silence to mean he was not.’ He placed the small cup of Turkish coffee in front of me. ‘Who are you? Where do you come from? How do you know so much?’

  ‘My name is Gerard Sorme, and I’m a writer. As to how I know so much, the answer is that I don’t.’

  Nuri offered me a plate of small, round biscuits with the coffee. They were flavoured with cinnamon, and I found the taste agreeable. He said:

  ‘That is a strange statement. I wonder if you would mind if I investigate it?’

  I did not understand what he meant, but I said no, of course not. He reached out and pressed a button. Neither of us spoke for the next few minutes. It was a comfortable feeling, sitting in silence; there was something in Nuri’s personality that made it seem natural. The door opened very quietly, and a man came into the room. I had to look carefully to decide that it was a man. The tow-coloured hair was fluffy and long, and the face looked as if someone had drained every drop of blood from his body, allowing the veins to collapse. His eyes were so pale that they seemed colourless. Although he was wearing Arab dress—a dirty yellowish robe—he was unmistakably a Westerner. Nuri paid no attention to him. He sat down on a low stool, roughly between the two of us. I saw that his toes were long and knobbly, like something out of a horror film, and the nails were yellow, grainy and curved.

  Nuri said: ‘This is Boris Kahn.’ The man ignored us, staring into space. ‘He used to make a living as a mind reader in the theatre. Then his powers developed to an extent that frightened him, and he became an addict of heroin. I found him crawling one night in the gutter with a broken neck—he had fallen from a second-floor window. Now he travels with me when I have important business. He is completely mindless, but he knows when people are telling the truth.’ He took another cigarette out of the case, then said: ‘Did St Leger tell you I was the Grand Master?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I didn’t think so. But I wanted to be sure.’

  I was looking at ‘Boris’ curiously. He was eyeing the cinna­mon cakes in my lap with avidity.

  ‘How does he indicate if someone isn’t telling the truth?’

  ‘It would be easy enough to arrange a demonstration.’ He pointed towards the window, and snapped his fingers. Boris quickly hurried across to the window, bent almost double, like a frightened dog, and slipped behind a heavy velvet curtain. Nuri pressed another button on the table. About thirty seconds later, there was a sound of feet pattering across the carpet of the room next door. The door opened, and a girl ran in. She stopped at the door, glanced at me in an odd, suspicious way, then ran across to Nuri and flung her arms round his neck, making absurd chirruping noises. She was wearing long Arabic trousers and a blouse, but they were so transparent that she might as well have been naked. I would have judged her to be about sixteen. Her figure was well developed, her hair long and dark. She was kiss­ing Nuri repeatedly, like a small child welcoming a favourite uncle. He smiled indulgently, and let her continue for a moment. Then he said to me:

  ‘This is Kristy, the baby of our household.’ He sat her on his knee. ‘And how is our baby?’ His hand slipped inside the transparent trousers. She obediently opened her legs, and his hand slipped between them and felt her crotch. ‘Has she been good?’ The girl nodded her head enthusiastically, her face as vacant as a doll’s. It struck me that Nuri had a taste for mind­less people. ‘Has she had any lovers since I was here last?’ She looked virtuous, and shook her head emphatically. From behind the curtain there came an odd noise, a kind of ‘chuk-chuk-chuk’, like an animal coughing. The girl rushed over to the curtain, tore it aside, and dragged out Boris by his hair. She screamed: ‘Liar.’ He lay quiescent on the floor, his cheek against the carpet, his buttocks raised in the air. When she drew back her slippered foot and kicked him in the ribs, he did not even move. She rushed back to Nuri and flung her arms round him. ‘Baby’s not a liar. He’s a liar.’

  Nuri caressed her back affectionately. ‘How many?’

  ‘None.’ The completely virtuous expression came back and she shook her head. The odd chuk-ing noise came from Boris’s throat. She was about to leap up and rush across to him again, but Nuri held her by the wrist, and repeated: ‘How many?’ She pouted.

  ‘Three.’

  The chuk-ing noise sounded again. She screamed at Boris: ‘I’ll kill you.’

  Nuri said indulgently: ‘Baby’s a bad little nymphomaniac, isn’t she?’

  ‘Not,’ said the girl, looking like a Quakeress.

  ‘Baby deserves a spanking, doesn’t she?’

  ‘No.’ She was pleading. ‘He’s a liar.’

  ‘How many?’

  She scowled across at Boris. ‘Seven.’

  No sound came from him. Nuri said: ‘Men, or times?’

  ‘Men.’

  ‘Seven smacks, then.’

  She stood up, pushed down the trousers to her knees, and then lay across his knees. He took a leather slipper from under the chair, raised it, and gave the round, pink bottom a resounding smack. She yowled half-heartedly. The howls became louder and more genuine as he smacked her six more times. At the seventh smack, she leapt off his knee. He shook his head, and said:

  ‘One more.’

  She bent over, and Nuri gave her one more hard smack. Then he said. ‘Now run along.’

  When she had gone, Nuri said:

  ‘Now, Mr Sorme, you say that you know nothing about the Sect of the Phoenix?’


  ‘I didn’t say that. I know far less than you suppose.’

  ‘I don’t see how that can be true.’ He looked across at Boris. I also looked at Boris, who was now sitting on the carpet, hugging his knees. Boris was looking puzzled.

  Nuri was looking at Boris. He said: ‘What does he mean, Boris?’

  Boris stared at him blankly out of his pale eyes, as if trying to avoid the question by pretending not to understand; but as Nuri’s hard stare remained fixed, he said in a slow, stuttering voice:

  ‘He . . . he . . . he . . . mm-m-means he . . . he’s . . . m-m-more than one p-p-person . . .’

  Nuri said: ‘Is that what you mean, Mr Sorme?’

  I said: ‘I’m afraid it would be pointless to try to explain. You’d doubt my sanity.’

  Nuri looked at Boris, and said like a whip-crack:

  ‘What does he mean?’

  Boris, startled, said in his weak, throaty voice:

  ‘He’s someone called Esmond.’

  Nuri’s eyes swept on to me; I could see that his face could be very menacing.

  ‘You are not Gerard Sorme?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who is Esmond?’

  ‘You know. Esmond Donelly.’

  He stared very hard at me, as if wondering if he had under­stood correctly. Then, to my surprise, the blood drained from his face, and the stare became fixed. He said: ‘That is impos­sible’, but his voice was suddenly thick.

  And then Esmond was looking at him with my eyes, peering hard into his eyes. Nuri’s face changed. I would have liked to look into a mirror to see what he saw. Whatever it was, it con­vinced him. It took him several seconds to control himself. His lips had gone white, and the red scars stood out on his grey face. He said:

  ‘You were right, then. You learned how to come back.’

  Esmond only nodded. Boris was staring at Nuri in a frightened manner, like an animal which cannot understand what is wrong with its master. Nuri stood up, and crossed to the sideboard. He picked up a decanter, and his hand shook as he poured into the tumbler. Then he gulped it down. Whatever it was—it was clear, like arrack—it made his eyes water, and constricted his breathing for a moment. He wiped the sweat from his face, then came and sat down, glancing up at Esmond as if hoping it had all been a mistake. He said: