at this very moment.
The colonel raised himself from under the table, glanced at his cards and tapped his riding crop three times to indicate he was tripling the bet.
An hour later the two Russians staggered out the door in each other's arms, weeping noisily. Having squandered not only their funds meant to foster atheism in Jerusalem but sold all their Bolshevik secrets as well, there was nothing left for them to do but return directly to Moscow, sign confessions that they were undercover Trotskyite agents in the pay of Rockefeller and Krupp and Ukrainian nationalism, and be strangled in an OGPU dungeon which had recently been set aside for criminals guilty of that specific offense.
In the alley outside, the black judge in the cobra headpiece had just finished urinating against the wall. He was straightening his robe when the Russians lurched into the alley, tripped, and went crashing down on the cobblestones at his feet, crying on top of one another.
Time, gents?
Ruined, the two Russians blurted out together.
Indeed, I did notice the colonel seemed implacably opposed to you tonight. But then, the Austro-Hungarian army was always concerned about securing its eastern front.
At four-fifteen the spastic Egyptian landowner grabbed the Indian chief's arm with shaking hands.
Can you understand English?
The Indian stopped gnawing on the ear of corn stuck in his mouth and thumped his chest with it.
English bad but since me great chief, understand words from heart. Firewater good, have drink.
Thank you but I'm too dizzy. That black man with the monkey on his back, why did he play so hard against me? Why does he dislike me? He won my cotton crop for the next ten years. I'm finished, it's all over now. Why?
Cotton. Black man think only cotton. You have cotton, he take.
Over, moaned the Egyptian. Somehow he even knew about my falcon and took that.
You old man now, too old for mirrors and hooded falcons. Better retire and watch setting sun over pyramids. How.
What?
Heart. From heart. Sipping Bear knows.
At five-thirty the British brigadier sank forward onto the table, his head in his arms. The colonel nudged him.
What seems to be the trouble, sir?
It's disastrous, I just can't believe it. Do you realize I actually gambled away my regiments on that last hand? That shabby Indian in the loincloth, swilling firewater and wearing an old army blanket, is now in command of the Bombay Lancers.
The colonel thoughtfully stroked his false blond beard.
Disastrous, yes, I see what you mean. Of course I've always known the chief had a reputation for cunning, but even I wouldn't have imagined he'd go so far as to take over an entire English brigade in India.
But what can I do?
Nothing, unless perhaps you can find an Irishman who'll talk the chief into giving you back your regiments. That seems to be the only hope. You'll have to go begging to an Irishman.
An Irishman?
Yes. For some strange reason the chief has always had a weakness for the Irish.
Why, for heaven's sake?
I can't imagine. Maybe it's because he thinks they like firewater as much as he does. After all, his name is Sipping Bear.
At six-twenty the French ikon thief and pederast leapt from the table and began beating his head against the wall. The black judge pulled him away and led him outside.
Steady, boy.
But shit my God, did you see what that seedy savage has done to me while gnawing on his ears of corn?
He's won every ikon I've ever stolen and every one I ever will steal. For the next ten years I have to turn them all over to him and tell him where they came from. Boys too. And in addition to everything else I have to spend time in purgatory.
Where's that?
Someplace here in the Old City. An elderly ecclesiastic known as the baking priest runs it. I'm to come in here tomorrow afternoon and the Irishman who's generally in the game is going to take me there. And every day for as long as the baking priest wants, I'll have to slave in front of a hot oven baking bread in the shape of a cross and saying Hail Marys. This baking priest is going to be my parole officer.
Time in purgatory, mused the black judge, time spent slaving in front of a hot oven. And all because of stolen ikons. It's true the Indian chief seemed to single you out tonight as a special target. Do you think it's possible, despite his primitive brain, that he resented the fact that you traffic in stolen Christian artifacts?
Shit my God, why? He's a savage, I just don't understand it. I wish I'd never come to Jerusalem and gotten mixed up in this poker game.
Yes, said the black judge. There are those who've said that before, and I suspect there'll be others who say it again.
Back in the poker room Chief Sipping Bear was doing a final jig around the table. The black judge came in, picked up the tube to the hookah and sat down beside the colonel of dragoons, who was contentedly crunching garlic cloves. He took a puff on the tube. Only the three of them were still left in the room.
Joker Holy City East, chanted the chief. Day coming night ending, time now make water and rest head, snooze happy dreams in happy hunting ground, happy sleep for Chief Sipping Dancing Chanting Bear, Chief O'Truly O'Sullivan Beare.
With a whoop he went spinning out the door. The black judge removed his cobra headpiece and straightened his white wig.
Going my way, colonel?
The colonel nodded and tucked his riding crop under his arm. Together they strolled down the alley away from Haj Harun's shop. Dawn had come to the city.
A long night, said Munk.
They often are, answered Cairo.
As they turned a corner they came face to face with an English policeman. The man stared in amazement at their wigs and costumes. Munk touched his riding crop to his cap.
As you were, officer, we're quite capable of finding our way. This is the Chief Justice of the Sudan and I'm his aide-de-camp, seconded here by the late Emperor Francis Joseph in accordance with security arrangements for the Holy Land. We're out on an early morning pilgrimage to see some of the sights before the crowds gather.
You know, said Cairo, the night was worth it if for no other reason than to ruin that Frenchman.
A detestable wretch, I've never cared for him. But you mean he's UIA as well?
Yes. He was recruited by Nubar's Dead Sea Control about a month ago. I have a dealer who sells down there and keeps me informed.
Munk nodded.
It must cost Nubar a great deal to be always sending players into the game to lose his money. You'd think he'd be tired of it by now. Rather desperate, that little Albanian.
Mad is more like it, said Cairo. But no matter. We won't have to put up with him forever.
What's he got?
Syphilis, acquired through the anus about ten years ago. And they tell me it's moving into the tertiary stage.
Who tells you that, Cairo?
The UIA people who inform on him to my dealers, in exchange for a discount. Still, that's not his most serious problem. The other thing will probably get him first. Apparently little Nubar Wallenstein is a hopeless mercury
