The Haj - Leon Uris [151]
‘I will not leave until I see my village. I demand to speak with the commanding officer.’
The argument broke into heated words, with only Ibrahim’s audacity keeping him from serious trouble. As the words reverberated through the concrete halls, they drew the attention of the senior British officer, Lieutenant Colonel Chester Bagley.
‘I say, what’s the problem here?’ Bagley asked.
‘This man claims to be the muktar of the village down the road. He wants to see his village from the roof.’
Bagley examined Ibrahim. Rags, these days, were worn by everyone and were not a true indication of a man’s position. Ibrahim’s stature and dignity spelled out that he had once been a man of authority. He perused Ibrahim’s letter at length. ‘Come with me,’ he said and led Ibrahim to his office down the hall.
Ibrahim was offered a seat while Bagley continued to examine the letter and stuff his pipe. ‘Do you have any other papers?’
‘Who has papers these days?’
‘This letter is a forgery,’ Bagley said.
‘Of course it is. Without it, I and my family would have been dead weeks ago.’
Cheeky, Bagley thought. ‘We’ve had two bloody battles for this fort and we are apt to have more. How do I know you won’t go up to the roof and study our emplacements.’
‘You mean I’m a spy?’
‘Well, you don’t really have very much to prove otherwise, do you?’
‘Mister ... Colonel ...’
‘Bagley, Chester Bagley.’
‘Colonel Bagley, I would have to be the world’s most stupid spy, wouldn’t I?’
‘Or the world’s most clever spy.’
‘Aha, what you say has merit, great merit. There are a number of villages within a few minutes’ drive from here. Any of them will verify Haj Ibrahim al Soukori al Wahhabi.’
‘My dear chap, we are in the middle of a war.’
‘Colonel Bagley, with all due respect. I know every trench and gun emplacement around Latrun, as well as the names of your units. I am sure I could tell you within five shells of what arsenal you have. The Jews know the same thing. This is not a case of numbers or secrets. You simply have a force here too great for the Jews to contend with. There is no mystery about Latrun.’
For a moment, Chester Bagley was dumbfounded by the Arab’s refreshing and unprecedented frankness. He lit his pipe as a stall.
‘Colonel, I long to see Tabah with a longing that consumes me. Only Allah knows if I will ever have the chance again. I am not a man to beg, sir, so please do not make me beg.’
‘You’re a little bit mad to come in here like this with this ... ridiculous forgery. You could have easily gotten yourself hung or shot.’
‘Does that not testify to the depths of my longing?’
‘You’re mad,’ Bagley repeated. He handed the letter back to Ibrahim. ‘You’d better hang onto this thing, but for God’s sake don’t show it to anyone who can read. Come with me, Haj Ibrahim.’
Bagley rapped on the adjoining door with the bowl of his pipe, then entered. Behind the commander’s desk sat the Jordanian colonel, Jalud. Ibrahim spotted him immediately as of Bedouin stock, leathered beyond his years from the sun and soldiering so one could hardly tell where his skin ended and the khaki of his uniform began. He had not become a full colonel in the Arab Legion through acts of grace. The arrogance and cruelty of the man were apparent behind a pair of desert-slitted eyes. His pomaded hair glistened and a great moustache served as a warrant to his masculinity. In the scheme of things between the British and the Legion, the Arab generally held the higher rank over his British ‘adviser.’ In reality, the Englishman ran the show. The fact that Latrun had held back two desperate and bloody Jewish assaults seemed to confirm that Lieutenant Colonel Chester Bagley had designed and built the defenses and probably had commanded the actual battles.
Bagley was ever so soft-spoken as he presented Ibrahim’s request.
‘I cannot grant it,’ Jalud snapped. ‘This is not visitor’s day at the Dome of the Rock. Have this man locked up and bring to me those idiots who allowed him into the fort.’
‘It will not augur well to alienate the local population while this crisis is still at