Nile Shadows

own kind. But what is his own kind? That's the point.

On the face of it, there's no way to know.

Strictly his own man though, concluded Ming, and I like that. I'm just not sure how we can appeal to him.

Nor am I, said Big Bill. But I do think our important card, perhaps our only card, is his feeling for this man Stern. The curiosity he may have about Stern, what has happened to Stern and why. It's not that Stern might be secretly working for the Germans when he appears to be working for us. We know Stern deals with everybody, that's his value. And our Hopi medicine man may no longer care about our side and their side, but I think he may care about Stern's dozen sides. Why Stern is doing whatever it is he's really doing. I suspect an unusual bond still exists between the two of them, a unique bond even, despite the years that have passed since they've seen one another. And that might cause him to go, for his own reasons. We'll just have to explore it when we sit down with him. Get him to talk about Stern and see where it leads.

And let's not forget the American woman, added Little Bill. I've found it's best never to overlook the woman in a case.

Big Bill tipped his head.

Is that so?

Little Bill smiled.

Quite. Now let's just peruse the facts. Our man on the Hopi mesa that lies ahead was quite a remarkable revolutionary once, and although the romanticism may have worn a bit thin since then, or become a mite twisted as you call it, we have to consider what the Middle East must have meant to him once. A young Irish lad suddenly cast into the Holy Land and living in mythical places with names like Jericho and Jerusalem? It must have been pure magic for him after growing up on a deathly poor little rainy island in the Atlantic. The sun and the desert and Maud? Love in the Holy City? A son born in Jericho? Dreams come from the likes of that.

Ming, intent on his knitting, glanced sideways at the ice-cold martini perched on his friend's knee, the delicate stem of the glass lightly held between Little Bill's thumb and forefinger.

You're a romantic yourself, he said dryly. With a twist, of course.

Of course, agreed Little Bill, smiling. Then too, there's the fact that our Joe is still in the desert. Or once more in the desert, which should tell us something.

But what? murmured Ming, as much to himself as to anyone else.

So when you put it all together, continued Little Bill, it wouldn't surprise me if our Hopi medicine man turned out to be willing to leave the safety of his kiva for a journey halfway around the world. There's Maud and there's also his mysterious friend, the enigmatic Stern . . . A journey into his own past, perhaps?

He was a mere youth when he gave up on war and revolution, said Ming. That was twenty years ago and it's been almost that long since he's seen the woman. Men change their ways with time.

Or grow in their ways? said Little Bill. Just possibly his romanticism is incurable, despite two decades of this or that. Who's to know what to expect from an Irish-Hopi?

Ming nodded and held up his knitting. The three men stretched the black shawl across the rear seat. Big Bill read the tape measure.

Just right, he said. I'm told the Hopi take ceremonies very seriously.

Ming put his knitting needles away and Little Bill busied himself clipping the loose ends off the shawl with a small pair of scissors. On the horizon ahead several puffs of smoke had appeared. Ming pointed.

The Hopi signal corps announcing our arrival?

He fitted another strong Turkish cigarette into his holder and inhaled deeply three or four times, then crushed the unlit cigarette in the ashtray that was already full.

But this is preposterous, he suddenly roared. An utterly absurd situation. Leaving our three services to dither among themselves while we fly all the way out here for this?

Big Bill laughed.

Mostly it was an excuse to get you away and give you a feeling for the size and scope of our continent, your new ally.

Large, muttered Ming. But all the same, you two should be much too busy for this sort of thing.

We are, replied Big Bill. Still, it seemed only appropriate that the three of us, just once, should have the opportunity to recruit an agent together. Just once, as a matter of ritual.

A unique moment in the history of the great democracies, murmured Little Bill. If the Germans should win, it will all be over, all of it, because there's a streak in man that simply can't abide what freedom requires. So it does seem appropriate for the three of us to mark the moment in our little way. . . . And to hope.

Ming turned and gazed at the two of them.

All of that's true, I daresay, and I'd be the last man to say there's no meaning in rituals. But what could anyone make of this, when you look at it? The chiefs of our three secret intelligence services, at a moment like this in the history of the West, contemplating Hopi smoke signals at sundown? It's a ritual all right, but it's also a piece of secret intelligence I don't intend to report to anyone at home, and certainly not to Winston.

Little Bill smiled.

Then I will, he said at once. He'd love it.

Ming looked out the window and lapsed into silence.

Yes, he murmured after a time, that's true, Winston would love it. And that may be one of the quieter differences between our side and theirs.

***

Darkness was rising from the wastelands by the time the automobile left the road and slowly began to climb a stretch of hard-baked desert, heading now toward a huge lone mesa that soared above them in the twilight, the pink and purple hues of its lower reaches giving way to sheer golden cliffs in the sky. At last the automobile glided to a stop and the driver switched the headlights off and on three times. The three men stepped outside and gazed up at the awesome cliffs of gold.

Sunset and the myth of the Seven Lost Cities of Cibola, murmured Little Bill. The conquistadores must have kept their eyes on the ground. No wonder they were never able to sort out the dreams and realities of the New World.

Big Bill cleared his throat. No more than ten yards away a silent Indian was standing on one leg, his other leg drawn up beneath him in the timeless pose of a watchman in the wilds, his somber presence as immutable as the vast monoliths soaring majestically above the wastes. The Indian showed no sign of recognition, no sign of even being aware of their presence. He seemed to be as alone out there as he had always been, mysteriously rooted to some secret spot of sand and stone assigned to him at the very dawn of creation. He stood like that for some moments and then his eyes abruptly flickered and he raised his head toward the mesa, as if hearing a whisper descending from the massive walls of gold. The three men followed his gaze upward but heard nothing, not even a touch of wind that might have been caressing the towering dream above them.

The Indian turned and walked away. They followed him a short distance and came upon three burros standing behind a boulder, the creatures as immobile in their solitude as the Indian had been before them.

Preposterous, muttered Ming.

The three of them mounted the burros and the ascent began up a path cut into the face of the cliff, led by the Indian on foot. Higher and higher they climbed, the twisting ledge often no more than a few feet wide, the drop to the side falling off hundreds of feet to the desert below. As they worked their way upward the golden sheen of the rocks receded and the dark vistas beneath them spread out with ever greater mystery, until by the time they reached the summit of the mesa the faint glow on the horizon, the last of the dying sun, had left but a shadowy dimness to the air.

They slid to the ground amidst low adobe shapes built one on top of another, in what appeared to be the central courtyard of the pueblo. While they were dusting themselves off and straightening their clothes, their Indian guide drifted away with the burros. There was no sign of life anywhere in the village.

Not exactly what you'd call being piped aboard, whispered Ming. Is it possible we've come several hundred years too late?