The Key to Rebecca - Ken Follett [75]
He thought: I’ve been here before—wandering the city, tired and hunted, with nowhere to go.
This time he would have to fall back on Abdullah.
He had been heading for the Old City, knowing all along, in the back of his mind, that Abdullah was all he had left; and now he found himself a few steps from the old thief’s house. He ducked,under an arch, went along a short dark passage and climbed a stone spiral staircase to Abdullah’s home.
Abdullah was sitting on the floor with another man. A nargileh stood between them, and the air was full of the herbal smell of hashish. Abdullah looked up at Wolff and gave a slow, sleepy smile. He spoke in Arabic. “Here is my friend Achmed, also called Alex. Welcome, Achmed-Alex.”
Wolff sat on the floor with them and greeted them in Arabic.
Abdullah said: “My brother Yasef here would like to ask you a riddle, something that has been puzzling him and me for some hours now, ever since we started the hubble-bubble, speaking of which ...” He passed the pipe across, and Wolff took a lungful.
Yasef said: “Achmed-Alex, friend of my brother, welcome. Tell me this: Why do the British call us wogs?”
Yasef and Abdullah collapsed into giggles. Wolff realized they were heavily under the influence of hashish: they must have been smoking all evening. He drew on the pipe again, and pushed it over to Yasef. It was strong stuff. Abdullah always had the best. Wolff said: “As it happens, I know the answer. Egyptian men working on the Suez Canal were issued with special shirts, to show that they had the right to be on British property. They were Working On Government Service, so on the backs of their shirts were printed the letters W.O.G.S.”
Yasef and Abdullah giggled all over again. Abdullah said: “My friend Achmed-Alex is clever. He is as clever as an Arab, almost, because he is almost an Arab. He is the only European who has ever got the better of me, Abdullah.”
“I believe this to be untrue,” Wolff said slipping into their stoned style of speech. “I would never try to outwit my friend Abdullah, for who can cheat the devil?”
Yasef smiled and nodded his appreciation of this witticism.
Abdullah said: “Listen, my brother, and I will tell you.” He frowned, collecting his doped thoughts. “Achmed-Alex asked me to steal something for him. That way I would take the risk and he would get the reward. Of course, he did not outwit me so simply. I stole the thing—it was a case—and of course my intention was to take its contents for myself, since the thief is entitled to the proceeds of his crime, according to the laws of God. Therefore I should have outwitted him, should I not?”
“Indeed,” said Yasef, “although I do not recall the passage of Holy Scripture which says that a thief is entitled to the proceeds of his crime. However ...”
“Perhaps not,” said Abdullah. “Of what was I speaking?”
Wolff, who was still more or less compos mentis, told him: “You should have outwitted me, because you opened the case yourself.”
“Indeed! But wait. There was nothing of value in the case, so Achmed-Alex had outwitted me. But wait! I made him pay me for rendering this service; therefore I got one hundred pounds and he got nothing.”
Yasef frowned. “You, then, got the better of him.”
“No.” Abdullah shook his head sadly. “He paid me in forged banknotes.”
Yasef stared at Abdullah. Abdullah stared back. They both burst out laughing. They slapped each other’s shoulders, stamped their feet on the floor and rolled around on the cushions, laughing until the tears came to their eyes.
Wolff forced a smile. It was just the kind of funny story that appealed to Arab businessmen, with its chain of double crosses. Abdullah would be telling it for years. But it sent a chill through Wolff. So Abdullah, too, knew about the counterfeit notes. How many others did? Wolff felt as if the hunting