O Jerusalem - Laurie R. King [98]
“A veritable gathering of the gods,” Holmes said weakly. “The only figures missing will be Feisal and Lawrence.”
“It was suggested that the two fly in from the Paris talks for this occasion, although I do not think it will prove possible.”
Holmes had gone pale beneath his skin dye; Mahmoud’s face was thoughtful, and his fingers slowed on the prayer beads; I felt distinctly queasy at the thought of the entire hierarchy of Palestine moving about the city with two hundred fifty pounds of high explosive unaccounted for. Ali stared at Holmes defiantly, refusing to acknowledge any cause for concern.
“You do not care for my theory,” said Holmes, “because it is mine.”
“I do not care for it because it is wrong. You have constructed a plot against Allenby out of air. I need to see solid objects.”
“And if your brother Mahmoud had discovered this plot, would you believe him?”
Ali darkened in anger. “You are not my brother, and you have no sense for this land and its ways. I have no reason to listen to you.”
Holmes fixed him with a look from those grey eyes that soon had the younger man shifting his eyes despite his anger. “A dog on his dunghill, a cock on his fence, and a peacock on the hat of an unclean woman,” Holmes said quietly. Like most insults in Arabic it does not translate without its cultural context, but it acted on Ali like a slap across the face: he went rigid, and pale, then the blood rushed back and his right arm moved.
“Akhuyi,” Mahmoud murmured: My brother. Ali’s hand froze on the hilt of his knife. Mahmoud spoke again, in the language I had heard them speak back in the mud hut in Jaffa; for thirty seconds he spoke, and at the end of it Ali, who had not taken his eyes from Holmes, seemed slightly to relax.
“My brother,” Holmes said, a deliberate echo of Mahmoud’s Arabic word, “Mycroft, would not be happy were I to allow General Allenby to be killed and another war to find its roots here. I would not wish to displease my brother.”
Ali sat for a long moment, and then, to my astonishment, his lips twitched. His gaze slid sideways to where Mahmoud sat, then back at Holmes, and then he removed his hand from his knife, reached out to clap Holmes on the shoulder, and began to laugh. He picked up his cup and drained it, the gap in his teeth leering out from his swarthy bearded face.
Never, never will I understand men.
* * *
NINETEEN
غ
Language is the expression by a speaker of his intentions. Its origin is in the desire to convey meaning, and it must become a habit on the portion of the body that produces it: that is, the tongue.
—THE Muqaddimah OF IBN KHALDÛN
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Three days until Allenby’s little party,” Holmes said thoughtfully. “I require information. The Palestine News is out-of-date before it reaches the printer, and at that it seems to be primarily home news, recipes, and advertisements. Is there any way of obtaining fresher news, in detail?”
“There are dispatches, of course. What kind of news do you wish?”
“Everything. Anything. A stabbing, a burglary, Major Thing’s dalliances and the Cairo shopping trip of Sheikh Hakim’s second wife and the odd disappearance of Mrs Abdullah’s son.”
Mahmoud gave that odd sideways shrug of the East, and said, “When there is a thing I wish to know, I attend a barber shop, and there is a professional beggar I know. And there is always the bazaar.”
“The bazaar,” said Holmes with a wry smile. “Of course. I am getting old, and no doubt stupid as well. Still, I should like to see any of the official communications you might lay your hands on. Who is Joshua’s man in the city?”
“A clerk by the name of Ellison, at Government House. He has a house, and a woman, in the Russian Colony. He tells me, by the way, that Joshua has traced all