They came to Baghdad - Agatha Christie [1]
‘Any news, sir?’ asked Crosbie.
‘Yes.’ Dakin sighed. He had before him a paper which he had just been busy decoding. He dotted down two more letters and said:
‘It’s to be held in Baghdad.’
Then he struck a match, set light to the paper and watched it burn. When it had smouldered to ashes, he blew gently. The ashes flew up and scattered.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘They’ve settled on Baghdad. Twentieth of next month. We’re to “preserve all secrecy”.’
‘They’ve been talking about it in the souk – for three days,’ said Crosbie drily.
The tall man smiled his weary smile.
‘Top secret! No top secrets in the East, are there, Crosbie?’
‘No, sir. If you ask me, there aren’t any top secrets anywhere. During the war I often noticed a barber in London knew more than the High Command.’
‘It doesn’t matter much in this case. If the meeting is arranged for Baghdad it will soon have to be made public. And then the fun – our particular fun – starts.’
‘Do you think it will ever take place, sir?’ asked Crosbie sceptically. ‘Does Uncle Joe’ – thus disrespectfully did Captain Crosbie refer to the head of a Great European Power – ‘really mean to come?’
‘I think he does this time, Crosbie,’ said Dakin thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I think so. And if the meeting comes off – comes off without a hitch – well, it might be the saving of – everything. If some kind of understanding could only be reached –’ he broke off.
Crosbie still looked slightly sceptical. ‘Is – forgive me, sir – is understanding of any kind possible?’
‘In the sense you mean, Crosbie, probably not! If it were just a bringing together of two men representing totally different ideologies probably the whole thing would end as usual – in increased suspicion and misunderstanding. But there’s the third element. If that fantastic story of Carmichael’s is true –’
He broke off.
‘But surely, sir, it can’t be true. It’s too fantastic!’
The other was silent for a few moments. He was seeing, very vividly, an earnest troubled face, hearing a quiet nondescript voice saying fantastic and unbelievable things. He was saying to himself, as he had said then, ‘Either my best, my most reliable man has gone mad: or else – this thing is true…’
He said in the same thin melancholy voice:
‘Carmichael believed it. Everything he could find out confirmed his hypothesis. He wanted to go there to find out more – to get proof. Whether I was wise to let him or not, I don’t know. If he doesn’t get back, it’s only my story of what Carmichael told me, which again is a story of what someone told him. Is that enough? I don’t think so. It is, as you say, such a fantastic story…But if the man himself is here, in Baghdad, on the twentieth, to tell his own story, the story of an eyewitness, and to produce proof –’
‘Proof ?’ said Crosbie sharply.
The other nodded.
‘Yes, he’s got proof.’
‘How do you know?’
‘The agreed formula. The message came through Salah Hassan.’ He quoted carefully: ‘A white camel with a load of oats is coming over the Pass.’
He paused and then went on:
‘So Carmichael has got what he went to get, but he didn’t get away unsuspected. They’re on his trail. Whatever route he takes will be watched, and what is far more dangerous, they’ll be waiting for him – here. First on the frontier. And if he succeeds in passing the frontier, there will be a cordon drawn round the Embassies and the Consulates. Look at this.’
He shuffled amongst the papers on his desk and read out:
‘An Englishman travelling in his car from Persia to Iraq shot dead – supposedly by bandits. A Kurdish merchant travelling down from the hills ambushed and killed. Another Kurd, Abdul Hassan, suspected of being a cigarette smuggler, shot by the police. Body of a man, afterwards identified as an Armenian lorry driver, found on the Rowanduz road. All of them mark you, of roughly the same description. Height, weight, hair, build, it corresponds with a description of Carmichael. They’re taking no chances. They’re out to get him. Once he’s in Iraq the danger will be greater still. A gardener