O Jerusalem - Laurie R. King [136]
“These things are planned carefully,” Mahmoud noted. “It is the only way to be certain not to offend anyone.”
“And Allenby being who he is, it will run to time.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Do they still expect to be in the Dome at one-thirty-five?”
“Yes.”
“The bomb timer was set for one-forty. Bey will allow perhaps ten minutes before he is certain that something has gone awry. There are a limited number of buildings from which the western side of the Dome can be seen. Therefore we ought to be able to see him as well. If, that is, you can get us four pairs of field glasses, a quantity of dark cloth, a handful of push-pins or small nails, and permission to take over these two small buildings here.” He touched the map.
Mahmoud said, “I will ask for permission. Ali will make the necessary purchases.”
Ali nodded and the two men stood up, but Holmes put out a hand.
“Oh, and Ali? While you’re in the bazaar, some food, tobacco, and another torch. Ours is finished.” Ali scowled at this menial assignment, but he left, with Mahmoud close behind him, through the window into the souk.
A hasty search of what remained of the house turned up nothing more than half a dozen worn baskets caked with soil and the few remains of meals that had not been carried away by rats. The only source of interior water was a puddle in the cellar where the rain from the street had drained—dirty, but still cleaner than our faces and hands. We wet and rinsed our handkerchiefs and scrubbed at our skin, and when that was as clean as we could make it we beat and rubbed our clothing and re-tied our head coverings. When we were through we looked like the poorest of fellahin, but at least we would not frighten the children or, more important, get ourselves evicted from the Haram.
Ali returned, with hot food, a flask of tepid coffee, four army field glasses, and a fresh torch. Holmes smoked a pipe, Ali a cigarette. Holmes cleaned the revolver again. I felt like sleeping for a week. It was 12:50.
Then Mahmoud’s head appeared in the rotting window and we were back into action.
“I shall be repaying favours for twenty years,” he told Holmes. “I hope you know what you are doing.”
“Have you a better idea?” Holmes responded mildly. “Given the time at our disposal?”
Mahmoud shrugged and went down the alley into the souk. Ali followed a minute later; two minutes after that, Holmes and I were strolling towards the Haram. Our orange seller was back, I saw, the urchin with his criminally charming smile set to watch the house.
There was a stir brewing in the Haram, with British soldiers, Moslem guards, and the interested populace preparing for the entrance of the great ones. One at a time we peeled off from the crowd and took up places in two of the small buildings that lay around the great Dome—small mosques, perhaps, or classrooms. The soldiers standing near the buildings’ entrances became blind for a moment, and I reflected that Mahmoud must have appealed to whomever was responsible for managing events within the Haram; to pull off such a slick operation in a scant half hour meant going straight to the top.
Keeping well back from the arched windows, Holmes ripped lengths off the black silk Ali had thrown inside and began to tack them up over the windows. We soon had all the north and west openings covered; there were no high buildings to the south.
Then began our watch. I was aware of the movement of Allenby and his entourage of official persons, growing to the south, approaching, then going off behind us to inspect the bricked-up Golden Gate through which the Messiah is supposed to enter. All the time we searched for sign of Bey. Our conversation went something like this:
“The curtain on the third window to the left of the minaret?”
A lengthy silence.
“A woman.”
Another silence.
“I thought I saw— No. Sorry.