Nile Shadows

judiciously.

Delicious, he murmured, immediately taking a much deeper drink so that none of the martini would spill.

For some minutes the three men sat once more in silence as the automobile sped across the barren wastelands, the stillness inside touched only by the hum of the automobile engine and the rhythmic clicking of Ming's knitting needles. Again it was Ming who interrupted their musings. Briefly he laid aside his handiwork and fitted a Turkish cigarette of strong black tobacco into a cigarette holder. Without lighting the cigarette he sucked vigorously on the mouthpiece of the holder three or four times, then stuffed the still-new cigarette into an ashtray on his armrest. Sitting very erect, he looked out the window to his right and surveyed the empty lunar landscape. They were now not far from the secret destination that had caused so much speculation in their respective capitals, a tiny Indian pueblo, or village, where they would meet the chief medicine man of the Hopi tribe.

What really might make him do it? asked Ming, as much to himself as to anyone else. Surely not patriotism, our cause isn't his. And not these illegalities we have on him, they're not enough of an inducement. Why would a man leave this peace and quiet to go halfway around the world and face the possibility of being killed? The war seems so far away here, it's almost as if it didn't exist.

Adventure? murmured Little Bill, sipping from his glass. From what your people in Cairo imply, he seems to be the kind of man who might be finding life in these deserted parts a bit too quiet by now, a bit too peaceful. After all, it's been about seven years since he came out here.

There's that certainly, agreed Big Bill. As for his illegal status and the dealings he had when he first entered the country, you're right that they amount to nothing, not even an opening card. A man like that could disappear whenever he wanted, just about anyplace he wanted, and no one would be able to trace him. Those are commonplace skills to him. No, if he does agree to go, I think it will be out of curiosity.

But not over Rommel, said Ming. That kind of concern, I suspect, would have no meaning to him at all.

Is the file handy?

Here, said Little Bill, retrieving a folder from the stack of confidential reading material they had brought with them to pass the hours on the flight from Washington. On the tab of the file the real name of the Hopi medicine man was typed in purple letters.

O'SULLIVAN BEARE, J.E.C.K.K.B. (JUNIOR, BUT NEVER so KNOWN)

Little Bill opened the file on his lap. He sipped his martini and peered at the first page.

What was it you wanted to review?

Nothing in particular. Just run through some of the basic facts, if you would.

Little Bill began to read.

Joseph Enda Columbkille Kieran Kevin Brendan O'SULLIVAN BEARE.

Subject was born in the Aran Islands and is commonly known as Joe. No formal education. His Christian names all represent saints who were originally from his island, which is tiny and windswept and rainy and has produced more saints and drunkards, per capita, than any other area in Christendom.

Subject grew up speaking Gaelic and worked as a boy on his father's fishing boat. He is the youngest of a large brood of brothers, only one of whom is ever known to have distinguished himself, the next to the last and the closest in age to the Subject. This brother dropped the appendage Beare and was known simply as Columbkille O'Sullivan, or occasionally as Their Colly in the vulgar press, where he attained a brief notoriety as a loutish drunken layabout during the First Battle of Champagne, the Great War, 1914-1918.

Now there's a name from our salad days, mused Little Bill. Although in my unit, we always called him Our Colly then.

And in mine, added Big Bill. Your archivist, he said to Ming, would seem to have some kind of historical bent.

Ming said nothing, his knitting needles clicking methodically. Little Bill smiled and read on.

Subject joined the Easter Rebellion in 1916, at the age of sixteen, and managed to escape from the Dublin post office when it fell. Went into hiding and fought alone until trapped, when he managed to escape again, this time disguised as a Poor Clare nun on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. In Jerusalem, through a ruse and another disguise, the Subject took up residence in the Home for Crimean War Heroes, a local British charity. There, on behalf of a grateful nation, he was awarded the standard prize of honor for all heroes who survived the Crimean War—a used khaki blanket. The Subject has carried this blanket with him ever since as a kind of memento.

Little Bill smiled.

A kind of memento? he murmured.

Big Bill cleared his throat as Ming's knitting needles clicked quietly. Little Bill sipped from his glass and read on.

Soon after arriving in Jerusalem, the Subject met Stern and went to work for him, running guns into Palestine.

Another initial acquaintance in Jerusalem was an American woman, Maud. The Subject lived with her for some months and a son was bom of the union in Jericho, while the Subject was away on one of his frequent trips for Stern. The American woman subsequently left Palestine with the baby, abandoning the Subject, who broke with Stern thereafter, blaming Stern for what had happened.

The Subject then took part in founding what came to be known as the Great Jerusalem Poker Game, a blasphemous game of chance that lasted for a full twelve years, or until 1933, when President Roosevelt announced a New Deal for the common man in the United States. The Subject then left Jerusalem and the Middle East but not before there was a complete reconciliation with Stern, initiated by Stern and welcomed by the Subject.

Since that time the Subject is known to have kept in touch with Stern, at least on an irregular basis. There is also evidence that he has sent money to Stern over the years, probably an arrangement whereby the Subject could provide funds to the American woman, Maud, without her being aware of their true source.

In 1934, the Subject crossed into the United States from Canada, in disguise once again, using forged papers. After spending a brief period of time in Brooklyn, organizing an illegal business, he traveled west and ended up on the Hopi reservation, where he became chief medicine man of the tribe. When entranced by firelight he is said to mutter in Gaelic, which his untutored parishioners take to be some mysterious tongue of the Great Spirit.

What kind of illegal business in Brooklyn? asked Ming.

Garbage, replied Little Bill. At least that's what it says here, but what's it supposed to mean?

Sometimes, explained Big Bill, the garbage or carting businesses in New York are controlled by mobsters.

Ming looked mystified.

You mean to say there's money in garbage in Brooklyn?

It's possible.

Money in dustbins, mused Ming. How very odd indeed. Even though you Americans are our cousins, it does seem you've been strangely affected by these wild dreams of the promise to be found in the New World.

***

Well that brings us up to date, said Big Bill. What do you think?

Good man to have in a scrape, commented Little Bill. Resourceful, independent, capable of thinking on his feet. And above all, experienced. The disguises and so forth. I like that.

Knows his own mind, added Ming. But with no use for politics, left that behind long ago. Twelve years playing poker in Jerusalem, only to give it all up because Roosevelt happens to announce a New Deal on the other side of the world? A romantic, an idealist. Yet right after that there's this dustbin episode in Brooklyn. Mobsters, you say. So a romantic with a twist, an idealist with a touch of cynicism. There are contradictions here, conflicts in the man's makeup. And then after that we have seven years out in this desert as a recluse, a hermit totally cut off from his