O Jerusalem - Laurie R. King [15]
“Do you think they’re trying to get rid of us?”
He did not answer directly but with another lesson in cultural identity. “In the desert, Russell, your brother’s abilities are all that stand between you and a burial in the sand. It is why the Bedouin’s sense of loyalty is so absolute: he must have complete faith in the man who watches his back. These two don’t yet know us.”
It seemed to me that Holmes was demonstrating a good deal more forbearance towards these Arabs than he would have had they been, say, from Scotland Yard. I said as much, and he only smiled.
“Patience is a virtue much valued in the Arab world, my dear Russell.”
“Patience, loyalty, and eating with the right hand,” I said crossly. His smile only deepened.
“Wait, Russell, and watch. But for now, how much of the foregoing can you put into Arabic?”
The fire burned low and my brain cells began quivering with fatigue, and at long last our two companions emerged from the night. Ali immediately seized a pan, stirred up the fire, and set about making a meal. Mahmoud stood looking down at the flames, his fingers travelling through his beard and over his scar. Not a word had been spoken. I stretched, and went over to fetch the drawings I had left lying on the ground. I dusted them off and handed them to Mahmoud, and because I was watching for it, I saw the brief twitch of astonishment as he looked through the pages, and something else as well—a dim gleam of chagrin? or amusement?—but he had himself well in control before he looked up, and merely gave me a brief nod of acceptance. He put them away—with care—in an inner pocket of his robe, and bent to warm his hands over the fire. When he spoke, it was in Arabic, the trickier parts of which Holmes translated for me, murmuring in my ear.
“The mullah who spoke in Jaffa is a wandering preacher, well known as a speaker of sedition and unrest.”
“Against—?” asked Holmes.
“The Jews. The British. The foreigner in general.”
“Against the Turk as well?”
Mahmoud grimaced. “The Turk has held this land for four hundred years. The fez is no longer considered a foreign garment.”
“Where is this mullah now?”
“He has a villa near Gaza.”
I narrowed my eyes at his tone of voice. “You sound as if you disapprove.”
Mahmoud drew a breath and blew it out through his nose thoughtfully. “There is a saying: ‘A full heart or a full purse.’ A mullah is a man of God. Men of God seldom gather wealth to themselves. A man with a villa on the top of a hill is not a poor man.”
Holmes, being a man who assumed the worst about anyone, a man who would not have shown surprise had the Pope been accused of forgery, grew impatient with this discussion of ethics and morals. “What of the men who were with the mullah in Jaffa?” he demanded.
“Ah,” said Mahmoud, brightening a little. “That is interesting.” It was so interesting that he had to drop to the ground and make himself comfortable, taking out his embroidered leather tobacco pouch. “The mullah travels with two servants, a secretary and a bodyguard.”
“It was not they who committed the murders,” Holmes said flatly.
“You think not?”
“Your friend Yitzak said ‘not his’ before he died. They were either the servants of some other man or not servants at all.”
Mahmoud did not argue with Holmes: neither did he agree; he just continued to assemble his cigarette with close deliberation, and went on. “There was another man, a tall, clean-shaven man in European clothing, not a uniform, who stood back and listened. watching the other listeners. Afterwards he was seen speaking with the mullah. The two did not appear to be strangers.”
“Ah! That is our man.”
“You think so?”
“Don’t you?
Mahmoud reached for the long-handled fire tongs and did not answer, not directly. “In any case, he is gone, and no-one knows who he was.”
“Didn’t you—” Holmes stopped. Mahmoud paused with the coal halfway to his cigarette and eyed Holmes. Ali bristled. I held my breath; but in the end Holmes did not voice his criticism, merely waved it