The Chessboard Spies, page 12
part #3 of Stephen Fletcher Series
‘What about Young?’
‘They are still making enquiries.’
So Young still had a question mark over him, Fletcher thought, and with Marlow off the list there was no one else.
‘Are you tired?’ Maxwell asked.
‘What did you have in mind?’
‘A chat and a drink.’
‘I’m not that tired,’ Fletcher smiled.
‘Good. I’ll be back soon, but if anything goes wrong and I’m not back by dawn, contact Major Ahmad yourself. Tell him everything. He knows what to do.’
Maxwell slipped out of the shop, and the Turk took Fletcher to the room upstairs. It was sparsely furnished with a mattress, table, and two chairs. The Turk gave him some tough meat and black bread. Fletcher ate his fill and lay on the mattress. Was it really out of his hands now? he wondered. Was Kaddir now the responsibility of the Turks? And Lipman, Young, Marlow and Marsh the concern of Maxwell. Or were there further complications ahead?
It was a while before Maxwell returned. Fletcher was becoming anxious.
‘What kept you?’ Fletcher asked when the man entered the room.
‘These,’ Maxwell beamed, and placed a bottle of American Rye and two paper cups on to the table. From his hip pocket he produced a flask. ‘Water,’ he explained. ‘I went back to the base.’
‘And the Turks?’ Fletcher asked.
Maxwell poured out two liberal measures from the bottle.
‘Everything is under control,’ he said. ‘The ball is in their court. Either they stop the shipment, or the balloon goes up.’
Fletcher allowed himself to relax.
‘So we are finished?’ he asked.
Maxwell handed him his cup. ‘You are, perhaps,’ he said, ‘but not me. I’m going through to Zamdi in the morning to follow it up. There is a convoy of supplies for the base to collect, so I can kill two birds with one stone.’
‘Supplies?’ Fletcher asked. ‘Is this the normal route?’
‘It’s not the best route, but it’s the nearest to the base, and quickest. They fly them into Baghdad and Lipman ships them around. Medical and agricultural stuff, mainly. The convoy is due first thing, but the Turks won’t let it through until they get a signature. I’ll go through in the morning with a crew from the base. At the same time I can see what progress Colonel Sheriff is making. Care to come?’
‘Sure,’ Fletcher said eagerly. ‘So long as I am no target for Kaddir.’
‘We’ll have to watch it,’ Maxwell said seriously. ‘We don’t want any harm to come to you now. You’ve done your stuff.’
Maxwell sank his drink, poured another, and started to laugh to himself. He didn’t explain his amusement and Fletcher didn’t ask. He was also feeling elated.
‘Man, we find ourselves in some funny places,’ Maxwell said suddenly, throwing out his arms. ‘Look at this dump. Bare boards, stone walls, no ceiling, and a poky, filthy window, which hasn’t been washed since it was first glazed. God! It’s a hell of a life.’ He recharged both cups. ‘How did we ever get into this sordid business, Stephen?’
Fletcher gave a wry smile. It was a sordid business, he agreed. There was no code of rules. The only maxim which was accepted was that the ends justified the means. It was dog eat dog, and dangerous — highly dangerous. But he had known no other existence, it was part of him. There was no mystery about how he had got into it. He had been born into it! It was a family tradition. The British spy system existed on such traditions. Men devoted their life to its service. Men like Fletcher’s father who had moved throughout the Balkans and Middle East, from Embassy to Embassy, Consulate to Consulate, and who had systematically trained and prepared his son to become part of the tradition. The die had been cast at birth, there had never been any alternative.
Fletcher looked wistfully into his cup as he thought of his parents and upbringing. They had been happy days.
He pulled himself up sharply and looked to see if Maxwell was waiting for him to give an answer. But Maxwell wasn’t really interested in Fletcher’s background, his thoughts were of his own.
‘Thirty years ago,’ Maxwell drawled, ‘I was pounding the beat in a Chicago precinct. A nice steady sort of job. The hours weren’t bad and the pay was reasonable.’ He took a long drink and laughed. ‘You know what?’ he asked, ‘I would have still been on that beat if the Station Sergeant hadn’t encouraged me to study for my promotion exams. Yeah!’ he laughed again. ‘I would still be there. Probably would have got married and had kids.’ He looked at Fletcher. ‘You married?’ Fletcher shook his head. ‘No, it’s not for us,’ Maxwell grumbled. ‘Study, the Sergeant said. Get on. Get off the beat. So I studied and look where it’s got me.’
‘A long way from Chicago,’ Fletcher agreed.
Maxwell sighed heavily. ‘Yeah! a long way. I suppose I can’t blame the Sergeant. He meant well. How the hell was he to know there was going to be a war.’
So that was his background, Fletcher thought. From police work to Army Intelligence and then to the C.I.A.
‘How long have you been out here?’ Fletcher asked.
‘Too damned long,’ Maxwell grunted, and added less aggressively, ‘Just under twenty years.’
Maxwell poured himself another drink. Fletcher watched him closely. There was something biting him, something on his mind. He had never seen Maxwell like this before.
‘You know something?’ Fletcher asked quietly, but seriously.
Maxwell turned to him, but just stared. Fletcher repeated the question. It got through to Maxwell.
‘Maybe,’ Maxwell frowned. ‘I hope I’m damned well wrong.’
He had been back to the base for the liquor, Fletcher thought. He must have checked up on the trips into Kaddir’s territory.
‘Who?’ Fletcher asked, but Maxwell wasn’t telling.
‘Too early,’ he said. ‘I should know more in the morning. I’ll let you know then. I promise you.’
Fletcher let it drop. He could wait a further twenty-four hours.
The two men finished off the bottle and talked freely, but their discussions didn’t return to either the nature of their work or to their present predicament. When Maxwell finally got up to leave, he was as sober as when he had arrived.
‘There is a lane at the rear of the block,’ he said to Fletcher before he left, ‘which runs down to the river. Don’t leave this room before ten-thirty, then go to the end of the lane. I will be waiting for you in a vehicle. O.K.?’
Fletcher nodded his head. ‘Yes, ten-thirty it is.’
Maxwell gave a friendly smile.
‘Let’s hope tomorrow lives up to its expectations,’ he said, and left the room.
Fletcher lay on the mattress, determined to analyse Maxwell’s attitude, but fell into a deep sleep instead.
Chapter Eight
The following morning, Fletcher was awakened by the cobbler hammering on his last. The sunlight was streaming through the small window on to the bare boards. Fletcher got up from the mattress and looked out of the window. The narrow lane had become transformed into a busy shopping centre. Baskets of goods stood outside the narrow entrance doors to the shops, and a mixed crowd of Turkish peasants and Kurdish tribespeople went silently about their business. The Kurds were dressed in the flat cap attire imposed upon them by the Turks, not in the style Kaddir had favoured, but their womenfolk were wearing their colourful dresses. When one of them happened to glance in his direction, Fletcher quickly retreated from the window. He hadn’t forgotten that Kaddir might be looking for him.
The hammering in the room below stopped, and a few minutes later the Turk entered the room, bringing a pot of coffee and some fresh fruit.
‘It is ten o’clock,’ he said.
Fletcher thanked him and asked if he could have a bucket of water and the necessary kit to rid himself of his two-day growth. The Turk scowled, but returned soon after with the things Fletcher had requested. Quickly Fletcher got rid of his beard and ate his fill. When the Turk reappeared again and told him it was time to leave, Fletcher was physically, and mentally, prepared for anything.
From the small back room of the shop, used by the Turk as his living quarters, Fletcher came to the narrow lane which barely separated the two rows of dirty, yellow buildings. He cast a quick glance about him, saw that no one was watching, and ran and joined Maxwell who was sitting in a jeep, waiting for him. Maxwell greeted him with a silent wave and immediately drove off along the track which followed the river. When they left the town and joined the road for Zamdi, Maxwell became more communicative.
‘This is some information I got from the exec. officer at the base,’ he said, handing Fletcher two typed sheets. ‘It lists the various expeditions which have taken place in the past twelve months, and the names of the people who went on them. I have marked the visits to Kaddir’s settlement.’
Fletcher examined the sheets. There had been three visits to Kaddir’s settlement. The first two had taken place close to each other, about nine months ago. About the time Serif Kahn had made his request for help, Fletcher thought. The last visit had been recent. There were also other expeditions listed, but Fletcher didn’t recognize the place names. He eagerly turned to the second sheet which listed the people who had taken part on the various expeditions. Each expedition had about twelve names alongside it. Marlow, Young and Carol Marsh had all been on the three expeditions to Kaddir’s settlement. Lipman had also been on the last visit. But one name on the second and last visit to the settlement took Fletcher by surprise. It was Dr Bradshaw himself! Fletcher wondered. Bradshaw was a man of prominence. A man who could well be considered to have influence with his Government. A man to whom Serif Kahn could have well looked to for help.
‘Dr Bradshaw,’ he muttered.
‘Yeah,’ Maxwell grunted like a bear with a sore head. ‘Dr Bradshaw!’
Fletcher handed the sheets back to Maxwell.
‘What do you think?’ he asked.
‘He’s a big fish,’ Maxwell growled, ‘and they are often overlooked.’
‘Anything else on him?’
‘Only that he was the one who laid on the second visit to Kaddir’s settlement, and it was a quick follow up on the first.’
After he had read the reports of the first expedition, Fletcher thought.
‘And he went on the last visit,’ Maxwell continued.
‘So I see.’
Maxwell turned to him.
‘Also, my friend, he is due to arrive at the base this evening.’
It was a chain of unfortunate coincidents, Fletcher thought.
‘How is he placed in the Embassy?’ he asked.
‘Very highly,’ Maxwell drawled and gripped the steering wheel. ‘Hell, let’s not jump to conclusions.’
No, Fletcher thought, let’s not, but he knew Maxwell was. That’s what had unsettled him the previous evening. He had got a whiff of the suspicions when he had been at the base to collect the liquor. That’s what was making him now act like a bear with a sore head. Bradshaw was one of Maxwell’s responsibilities, but he was so big that he had probably been left alone. Maxwell was going to have his work cut out.
‘I see Lipman has been in the field,’ Fletcher said changing the subject.
‘They all have a spell in the field,’ Maxwell replied. ‘Lipman has been here several times.’
‘You been with them?’
‘Twice,’ Maxwell said with a smile. ‘Went out with Carol Marsh. On the last trip we got lost in the mountains and the Embassy cut up rough.’
‘Pity you hadn’t gone with Bradshaw?’
‘Yeah,’ Maxwell agreed ruefully.
‘How long will it take us to get to Zamdi?’
‘About three hours.’
‘And then what?’
‘See Colonel Sheriff, and bring the convoy back.’
‘Anybody else meeting the convoy?’
‘Yes. Young left earlier with some drivers.’
‘Where are Marlow and Dr Marsh?’
‘Marlow is visiting a new irrigation scheme, and Carol Marsh is at the base preparing to go into those mountains.’ He waved his hand at the mountains to the East.
‘A big practice,’ Fletcher muttered more to himself.
‘She works hard at it.’
Fletcher looked at the formidable barrier of mountains. If things didn’t turn out as they hoped, she could well have more patients on her hands than she bargained for, he thought.
They drifted into silence. Maxwell sat gripping the steering wheel with a deep frown on his face. Fletcher turned his attentions to the mountain scenery and looked for a possible route into Kaddir’s territory. He admired the cascading waterfalls, and studied the deep gorges which ran like stumpy fingers into the hillside. But the only accessible pass was the one through which he had travelled the previous evening with Reba. There was no other way except over the tops of the mountains.
He also kept a close watch on the small tribes that they passed, and had a few anxious moments when they were held up by sheep straying on to the track. Each delay made Maxwell more irritable and impatient, but Fletcher was concerned for his own safety. He was an easy target for any marksman hidden in the mountains, and he felt sure Kaddir would not let him off scot-free.
It was with a feeling of relief that they eventually saw Zamdi in the distance.
Maxwell stopped the jeep at the top of a hill, overlooking the post. A broad valley lay beneath them, with a group of buildings clustered around a bend in the river, and an old stone fort which towered over them. A blue haze hung over the buildings, and as far as the eye could see, small flocks of sheep were attacking the short, yellow grass, around tented encampments.
Maxwell handed Fletcher a pair of binoculars and indicated a group of huts adjacent to the fort.
‘The army camp,’ he said. ‘The fort is only used as a stores depot.’
Fletcher picked out the camp and saw several armoured scout cars.
‘A tough mob,’ Maxwell muttered. ‘Kaddir will have his hands full with them.’
Fletcher turned his attention to the mountain range in the East. It towered into snow-packed peaks.
‘Those scout cars will be no good in there,’ he said.
‘True,’ Maxwell agreed, ‘but Colonel Sheriff also has cavalry and foot soldiers in the valley ready to move in.’ He pointed to a dark patch of mountains in the distance. ‘That is one route into Kaddir’s territory, the other is well out of view.’
‘Where is the border?’
‘On the far side of the town. You can see a row of vehicles waiting to pass through. Zamdi is in Turkish territory, but the valley to the South belongs to Iraq. So do the mountains to the West. Those to the East belong to Turkey.’
Fletcher picked out a row of army-type trucks, but the actual border post was hidden by a nearby building.
‘Is there any other way Kaddir can get his supplies,’ he asked.
Maxwell frowned. ‘Only one,’ he said, ‘but it would take time.’
‘How?’
‘Smuggling them in in small doses. The Kurds operate a thriving business smuggling their produce into Iraq and Syria without much interference. Oh! the Turks know it is going on, but they turn a blind eye to it. Occasionally they will make a search, but it is only to exercise their rights. All those tribes you can see in the valley move back and forward freely. What is to stop the supply train camping way down the valley and letting the supplies filter through slowly?’
‘Only Kaddir’s impatience,’ Fletcher said.
‘He has waited long enough. Another few months wouldn’t do any harm.’
‘What about the Russians?’ Fletcher asked. ‘They have to make their move soon, to restore their prestige with the Arab world. They don’t want delays. Something could go wrong.’
‘Perhaps,’ Maxwell agreed. ‘It was just a thought.’ He replaced the binoculars in his case. ‘We’ll see what Colonel Sheriff has to say for himself.’
They drove into the valley, and the heat, dust, and smell of the small town, came up to greet them. It wasn’t as big as Kiran, but it had a more eastern flavour about it. The narrow, single street, was an open bazaar with a mixed gathering of dark faces in varying garbs.
The army camp was set back from the town on the opposite side of the river. Maxwell drove up to the entrance and was stopped by a sentry. He showed his identity pass and was directed to the Colonel’s office. Outside the block Maxwell looked thoughtfully at Fletcher.
‘It might be as well if you remain here,’ he said. ‘There is no need to tell the Colonel all our secrets.’
Fletcher didn’t argue. The less people who knew his occupation, the better. As Maxwell climbed the wooden steps up to the entrance to the building, Fletcher glanced casually at the office window. He saw the broad, white-jacketed back of a man move away from the window. He watched the window for a while, but the figure didn’t reappear. He shrugged. He had thought the back had looked vaguely familiar.
He turned his attention to the border control point which was visible across the river. A wooden rail marked the border between Turkey and Iraq. On the Iraqui side were two wooden huts which housed their officials. It was a ridiculous-looking control, he thought. On both sides of the road, the sheep and goats freely crossed the imaginary line, and in the mountains, also, the Kurds moved without hindrance. It was only vehicles which were subject to controls.
The convoy of American trucks were parked in line ahead, on the Iraqui side of the border, waiting to cross into Turkey. There were eight vehicles, and on the Turkish side Fletcher saw a small group of khaki-clad civilians talking to the Turkish soldiers.
A tribe of Kurds moved slowly through the valley, the menfolk riding small, scraggy ponies, whilst the women, in their colourful dresses, walked dutifully behind, carrying bundles of clothing and utensils. Did they really want the independence that Kaddir was offering them? Fletcher wondered. Or were they, unwittingly, being made a tool of the Communists? He watched them pass into Iraq and recalled what Maxwell had said about smuggling the arms into Kaddir’s territory. Perhaps, he thought, he had been too quick to refute the suggestion.
