Jimgrim - The Spy Thrillers Series. Talbot Mundy

between two other governments—King Hussein’s government of Mecca, and Feisul’s in Syria. But Hussein’s arm is not long enough to reach us from the South, and Feisul’s is not nearly strong enough to interfere from the North. So there is no government, and each man is keeping the peace with his own sword.”

      “You mean; each man on his own account?”

      “Yes. So there is peace. Five—fifteen—thirty throats are cut daily; and if you go down to the Jordan and listen, you will hear the shots being fired from ambush any day.”

      “And you invite me to make the trip with you?”

      “Oh, that is nothing. In the first place, you are American. Nobody will interfere with an American. They are welcome. In the second place, there is a good reason for bringing you; we all want an American school at El-Kerak.”

      “But I am no teacher.”

      “But you will be returning to America? It is enough, then, that you look the situation over, and tell what you know on your return. We will provide a building, a proper salary, and guarantee the teacher’s life. We would prefer a woman, but it would be wisest to send a man.”

      “How so? The woman might not shoot straight? I’ve some of our Western women do tricks with a gun that would—”

      “There would be no need. She would have our word of honour. But every sheikh who has only three wives would want to make her his fourth. A man would be best. Will you come with me?”

      “On your single undertaking to protect me? Are you king of all that countryside?”

      “If you will come, you shall have an escort, every man of whom will die before he would let you be killed. And if they, and you, should all be killed, their sons and grandsons would avenge you to the third generation of your murderers.”

      “That’s undoubtedly handsome, but—”

      “Believe me, effendi,” he urged, “many a soul has been consoled in hell-fire by the knowledge that his adversaries would be cut off in their prime by friends who are true to their given word.”

      Meaning to back out politely, I assured him I would think the offer over.

      “Well and good,” he answered. “You have my promise. Should you decide to come, leave word here with the American Colony. They will get word to me. Then I will send for you, and the escort shall meet you at the Dead Sea.”

      I talked it over with two or three members of the Colony, and they assured me the promise could be depended on. One of them added:

      “Besides, you ought to see El-Kerak. It’s an old crusader city, rather ruined, but more or less the way the crusaders left it. And that craving of theirs for a school is worth doing something about, if you ever have an opportunity. They say they have too much religion already, and no enlightenment at all. A teacher who knew Arabic would have a first-class time, and would be well paid and protected, if he could keep his hands off politics. Why not talk with Major Grim?”

      It was a half-hour’s walk to Grim’s place, but I had the good fortune to catch him in again. He was sitting in the same chair, studying the same book, and this time I saw the title of it— Walter Pater’s Marius the Epicurean—a strange book for a soldier to be reading, and cutting its pages with an inlaid dagger, in a Jerusalem semi-military boarding-house. But he was a man of unexpectedly assorted moods.

      He laughed when I told of ben Nasir. He looked serious when I mooted El-Kerak—serious, then interested, them speculative. From where I sat I could watch the changes in his eyes.

      “What would the escort amount to?” I asked him.

      “Absolute security.”

      “And what’s this bunk about Americans being welcome anywhere?”

      “Perfectly true. All the way from Aleppo down to Beersheba. Men like Dr. Bliss^[2] have made such an impression that an occasional rotter might easily take advantage of it. Americans in this country—so far—stand for altruism without ulterior motive. If we’d accepted the mandate they might have found us out! Meanwhile, an American is safe.”

      “Then I think I’ll go to El-Kerak.”

      Again his eyes grew speculative. I could not tell whether he was considering me or some problem of his own.

      “Speaking unofficially,” he said, “there are two possibilities. You might go without permission—easy enough, provided you don’t talk beforehand. In that case, you’d get there and back; after which, the Administration would label and index you. The remainder of your stay in Palestine would be about as exciting as pushing a perambulator in Prospect Park, Brooklyn. You’d be canned.”

      “I’d rather be killed. What’s the alternative?”

      “Get permission. I shall be at El-Kerak myself within the next few days. I think it can be arranged.”

      “D’you mean I can go with you?” I asked, as eager as a schoolboy for the circus.

      “Not on your life! I don’t go as an American.”

      Recalling the first time I had seen him, I sat still and tried to look like a person who was not thrilled in the least by seeing secrets from the inside.

      “Well,” I said, “I’m in your hands.”

      I think he rather liked that. As I came to know him more intimately later on he revealed an iron delight in being trusted. But he did not say another word for several minutes, as if there were maps in his mind that he was conning before reaching a decision. Then he spoke suddenly.

      “Are you busy?” he asked. “Then come with me.”

      He phoned to some place or other for a staff automobile, and the man was there with it within three minutes. We piled in and drove at totally unholy speed down narrow streets between walls, around blind right-angle turns where Arab policemen stood waving unintelligible signals, and up the Mount of Olives, past the British military grave-yard, to the place they call OETA.^[3] The Kaiser had it built to command every view of the countryside and be seen from everywhere, as a monument to his own greatness—the biggest, lordliest, most expensive hospice that his architects could fashion, with pictures in mosaic on the walls and ceilings of the Kaiser and his ancestors in league with the Almighty. But the British had adopted it as Administration Headquarters.

      All the way up, behind and in front and on either hand, there were views that millions^[4] would give years of their lives to see; and they would get good value for their bargain. Behind us, the sky-line was a panorama of the Holy City, domes, minarets and curved stone roofs rising irregularly above gray battlemented walls. Down on the right was the ghastly valley of Jehoshaphat, treeless, dry, and crowded with white tombs—“dry bones in the valley of death.” To the left were everlasting limestone hills, one of them topped by the ruined reputed tomb of Samuel—all trenched, cross-trenched and war-scarred, but covered now in a Joseph’s coat of flowers, blue, blood-red, yellow and white.

      There were lines of camels sauntering majestically along three hill-tops, making time, and the speed of the car we rode in, seem utterly unreal. And as we topped the hill the Dead Sea lay below us, like a polished turquoise set in the yellow gold of the barren Moab Mountains. That view made you gasp. Even Grim, who was used to it, could not turn his eyes away.

      We whirled past saluting Sikhs at the pompous Kaiserish entrance gate, and got out on to front steps that brought to mind one of those glittering hotels at German cure-resorts—bad art, bad taste, bad amusements and a big bill.

      But inside, in the echoing stone corridors that opened through Gothic windows on a courtyard, in which statues of German super-people stared with blind eyes, there was nothing now but bald military neatness and economy. Hurrying up an uncarpeted stone stairway (Grim seemed to be a speed-demon once his mind was set) we followed a corridor around two sides of the square, past dozens of closed doors bearing department names, to the Administrator’s quarters at the far end. There, on a bare bench in a barren