The Egyptologist - Arthur Phillips [195]
Chinlessly,
Go-go
23 April, 1918
Bev, you asinine anthrophile,
Do try not to be an absurd little girl about what I do and do not include in my letters to you. Do not lecture me on any of your newest virtues, none of which even remotely convince me. I shall continue to write what amuses me and what I believe will amuse you, my dearest friend. My method of conducting counterintelligence operations is as sound as any other I have seen. None of my young native agents have conspired with the Enemy, that is certain; I keep them much too sated, a preventive technique every security service should use. So I shall not censor myself for you, nor shall I protect what you so unconvincingly term your sensibilities. Do you think I write the same stories to little Theo Grahame or any of our other old dinner companions? Of course not. You are my one and only true correspondent. I never asked you to live like a grey Dominican friar on my account (and even they, I think, make a point to enjoy themselves more than you do, relaxing with nuns and half-wit peasant boys and such, threatening them with hellfire if they talk).
But what of Wexler, damn you? You were in such a hurry to complain (and quite indiscreetly) that you neglected to do the very simple thing I asked of you, you rotten man. Now go run across town right now before Wexler finally expires and disintegrates and the charlady sweeps up the resulting grey powder. Tell him these words: “Hugo’s found some p. that seems to confirm Harriman and Vassal and wants to send it to you safely. How?” Be sure to pronounce the question mark, or he’ll likely assume you’re a Red Indian and have you thrown out of his rooms.
As for my other little business, it has taken a turn for the exceedingly droll. As I recall, I left off having engineered a promotion for my matilda and was then waiting for his inevitable request for funds. This never came. I began to hope that we were satisfied with our promotion, that we were most proud to show off our new lance corporal stripes and administer a bit of lance corporal punishment to those who seemed to merit or at least relish it, but no: one morning, I had instead a baffling message from an Aussie sergeant, the jolly mate in charge of his camp’s front-gate guard details. He politely requested that since I was so regularly dispatching our new lance corporal out on counterintelligence missions at all hours of the day and night without, understandably, having time to issue individual passes each time, might I at least fill out some standing order for the rotating guard to have as a reference? Well here was a puzzle. I sent my batman to trek out and rustle up my pet Aussie, and that very evening in trots the colonial. Since our last meeting, explains grinning young Sven, he has adopted the habit of leaving his camp whenever he feels the urge, giving my name as his pass: “Intelligence mission for Captain Marlowe,” he tells the guards, zipping in and out on a ’cycle requisitioned with the same words. “See Captain Marlowe for authorisation documents.” A garish display of cheek, you’ll agree. And what was he doing on his missions? Houris? Brawling? Not a bit of it: he has, on my good name, gone out half a dozen times to . . . wait for it, Bev . . . explore the monuments! He has been at archaeological sites, trying to meet the few excavators still working despite the explosive distractions