Jimgrim - The Spy Thrillers Series. Talbot Mundy

wasn’t so scared of devils I wouldn’t risk it, but I must have somebody to keep an eye on him when the time comes; that’ll be tomorrow, I think.”

      “Suppose you tell me the object of the game,” I suggested. “I’m sick of only studying the rules.”

      “Well—your part will be to sit over those two tons of TNT and see that nobody explodes them ahead of time. There’s a conspiracy on foot to blow up the Dome of the Rock.”

      “You mean the Mosque of Omar?”

      “The place tourists call the Mosque of Omar. The site of Solomon’s Temple—the Rock of Abraham—the threshing-floor of Araunah the Jebusite. Next after the shrine at Mecca it’s the most sacred spot in the whole Mahommedan world.”

      “Good lord!” I said. “Are the Zionists so reckless?”.

      “No, the Arabs are. Remember what old Scharnhoff said the other day about the new fanaticism?”

      “Is Scharnhoff mixed up in it?”

      “He’s being watched. If the Arabs pull it off, they’ll accuse the Jews of doing it, and set to work to butcher every Jew in the Near East. That will oblige the British to protect the Jews. That in turn will set every Mohammedan in the world—’specially Indians, but Egyptians, too—against the British. Jihad—green banner—holy war—all the East and Northern Africa alight while the French snaffle Syria. Sound good to you?”

      “Sir Louis knows this?”

      “He, is paid to know things.”

      “And he lets you play cat and mouse with it?”

      “Got to be careful. Suppose we draw the net too soon, what then? Most of the conspirators escape. The story leaks out. The Jews get the blame for the attempt, and sooner or later the massacre begins anyhow. What we’ve got to do is bag every last mother’s son of them, and suppress the whole story—return the TNT to store, and swear it was never missing.”

      “The Administrator has his nerve,” I said.

      “You’ll need yours, too, before this game’s played,” Grim answered. “D’you see now why I picked on you for an accomplice?”

      “I do not.”

      “You’re the one man in Jerusalem whom nobody will suspect, or be on the look-out for. The men we’re up against are the shrewdest rats in Palestine. They’ve got a list of British officers, my name included, of course. They’ll know which men are assigned to special duty, and they’ll keep every one of us shadowed.”

      “Won’t that—I mean, how can you work if you’re shadowed?”

      “Me? I shall catch my spur in the carpet, fall downstairs and break a leg at ten-fifteen. At ten-thirty the doctor comes, and finds me too badly hurt to be moved. He sends word of it to Sir Louis by an orderly who can be trusted to talk to any one he meets on the way. I leave by the back way at ten forty-five. However, here’s a chance for you to practise deaf-and-dumb drill. There’s some one coming. Squat down in that corner. Look meek and miserable. That’s the stuff. Answer the door, Suliman.”

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

      “YOU MAY NOW BE UNSAFE AND AN OUTLAW AND ENJOY YOURSELF!”

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      The man who entered was a short, middle-aged Jew of the type that writes political reviews for magazines—black morning coat, straw hat, gold pince-nez—a neatly trimmed dark beard beginning to turn gray from intense mental emotion—nearly bald—a manner of conceding the conventions rather than argue the point, without admitting any necessity for them—a thin-lipped smile that apologized for smiling in a world so serious and bitter. He wore a U.S.A. ten-dollar gold piece on his watch chain, by way of establishing his nationality.

      “Well, Mr. Eisernstein? Trouble again? Sit down and let’s hear the worst,” said Grim.

      Eisernstein remained standing and glanced at me over in the corner.

      “I will wait until you are alone.”

      “Ignore him—deaf and dumb,” Grim answered. “Half a minute, though—have you had breakfast?”

      “Breakfast! This is no time for eating, Mister—I beg your pardon, Major Grim. I have not slept. I shall not break my fast until my duty is done. If it is true that the Emperor Nero fiddled while Rome burned, then I find him no worse than this Administrator!”

      “Has he threatened to crucify you?” Grim asked. “Take a seat, do.”

      “He may crucify me, and I will thank him, if he will only in return for it pay some attention to the business for which he draws a salary! I drove to Headquarters to see him. He was not there. Nobody would tell me where he is. I drove down again from the Mount of Olives and luckily caught sight of his car in the distance. I contrived to intercept him. I told him there is a plot on foot to massacre every individual of my race in the Near East—a veritable pogrom. He was polite. He seems to think politeness is the Christian quality that covers the multitude of sins. He offered me a cigar!

      “I offered him a telegram blank, with which to cable for reenforcements! He said that all rumours in Jerusalem become exaggerated very quickly, and offered me a guard of one soldier to follow me about! I insisted on immediate military precautions on a large scale failing which I will cable the Foreign Office in London at my own expense. I offered to convince him with particulars about this contemplated pogrom but he said he had an urgent appointment and referred me to you, just as Nero might have referred a question regarding the amphitheatre to one of his subordinates!”

      “Pogroms mean nothing in his young life,” Grim answered smiling. “I’m here to do the dirty work. Suppose you spill the news.”

      “You must have heard the news! Yet you ignore it! The Moslems are saying that we Zionists have offered two million pounds, or some such ridiculous sum, for the site of Solomon’s Temple. They are spreading the tale broadcast. Their purpose is to stir up fanaticism against us. The ignorant among them set such value on that rock and the mosque their cut-throat ancestors erected on it that Jews are now openly threatened as they pass through the streets. Yet there is not one word of truth in the story of our having made any such offer.”

      “There are plenty of troops,” said Grim. “Any attempt at violence could be handled instantly.”

      “Then you will do nothing?”

      “What do you suggest ought to be done?”

      “Here is a list. Read it. Those are the names of fifty Arabs who are active in spreading anti-Zionist propaganda.”

      Grim read the list carefully.

      “All talkers,” he said. “Not a really dangerous man among them.”

      “Ah! There you are! I might have expected it!” Eisernstein threw up his hands in a gesture of contempt rather than despair. “Nobody cares what happens to Jews. Nobody cares for our sleepless agony of mind. Nobody cares how or what we suffer until afterward, when there will be polite expressions of regret, which the survivors will assess at a true valuation! It is the same wherever we turn. Last night—at half-past one in the morning—a committee of us, every one American, Called at the American consulate to tell our consul of our danger. The consul was unsympathetic in the last degree. Yet our coreligionists in the States are taxed to pay his salary. He said it was not his business. He referred us to the Administrator. The Administrator refers me to you. To whom do you refer me? To the devil, I suppose!”

      “The best thing you can do,” said. Grim, “is to go ahead and deny that story about the offer to buy the Dome of the Rock. You Zionists have got the most efficient publicity bureau on earth. You can reach the public ear any time you want to. Deny the story, and keep on denying it.”

      “Ah!