O Jerusalem - Laurie R. King [99]
Holmes nodded absently at this news. “You trust this clerk Ellison?”
“With my life, more than once.”
“There may be more at stake here than your life, before this ends. We may also need an expert in explosives, if we find something that wants disarming.”
“Ali and I can do that.”
Holmes eyed him, saw only quiet confidence, and nodded briefly. “Now,” he said, “I believe we have given you all that we know. I shall take up my place in the bazaar, imbibing many pints of coffee and smoking far too many cigarettes, while you two search out the precise details of Allenby’s schedule and listen for words of strangers asking about those same details.”
“Do you know nothing solid about this Turkish opponent of ours that you have created in your mind?” Ali asked, careful this time not actually to sneer. “You say he likes to hurt people, he has several men working for him, including an Englishman in the government, he stole a monk’s robe and an ikon, and he has a motorcar and some horses. He could be anyone.”
“He thinks he is omnipotent. He is not, but he is clever and sly and completely cold-blooded when it comes to disposing of life. He knows the land intimately enough to be invisible and he has, as you say, resources, both men and equipment. He knows enough about explosives to work a bomb into his plan. All of which fits a hundred men between Cairo and Damascus,” Holmes agreed, before Ali could repeat his objection. “I should tend to agree with Abbot Mattias’ assessment of the man, that he has worked with the Turks, and that his area of expertise was probably interrogations.” Holmes added the last without expression.
I thought it might be helpful to add other, more concrete details. “Holmes thought his accent was not that of a native of Palestine, although he speaks Arabic flawlessly, and he was educated in Turkey and Germany. According to the abbot, the man is perhaps forty, only slightly shorter than Holmes although heavier and with darker skin. He has black hair, dark eyes, a mole on his throat beneath his beard and a scar next to his—” I had reached up to lay a finger of my right hand next to my eye, a duplication of the gesture Abbot Mattias had used, when the words strangled in my throat.
“Wallah!” Ali exclaimed, jerking back from me as if he had been shot. His hand clapped onto his knife and his eyes flew around the room, from Mahmoud back and forth between the two doors, as if he expected the enemy to burst in then and there. Mahmoud, on the other hand, moved only his hand—his left hand, mirroring my own as he unconsciously reached up to finger the long scar that ran down the side of his face. He looked pale, his cheeks gone suddenly gaunt, and there was on his face an expression I had never imagined I might see there: I saw fear.
“You know him,” Holmes said, somewhat unnecessarily.
“That devil!” Ali cursed, and spat on the floor. “He was reported to be dead. We thought he was dead. If I had known that he was in that house where we found you…”
“Who is he?”
“Karim Bey was the name he called himself.” Mahmoud’s voice was without inflection. “He was here in Jerusalem during the war. Most of the city had no idea what he was, just another Turkish officer. He was known to be friendly with children. When he was not helping with the orphanage, however, he was the special interrogator first for the Turkish police, and then during the war with the army. Bey was brought in when others failed. He did not often fail.”
“I see,” said Holmes. An uncomfortable silence fell for a moment. “Was he then clean-shaven?”
“Clean, yes,” Ali answered, nearly spitting the words. “His face, his nice clothes, his hands, always clean.”
“He has a beard now, and is certain to have disguised himself in other ways as well, particularly if, as you say, he spent some years here. He may wear spectacles, darken his skin, change