Nile Shadows

came to attention no more than a foot away and slammed his foot into the runway, saluting.

Sah, he bellowed. I say, pleasant flight and all that?

A blast of early morning fumes struck Joe full in the face. Unable to speak, he nodded instead.

Right, bawled the subaltern, blasting him anew. Two massive rows of perfect white teeth suddenly flashed in the man's face. Without thinking, Joe ducked.

Right, shrieked the subaltern. Right? Right. But I say, sir, is it true you Yanks are coming over to win the war for us? Hands across the ocean again?

Joe swallowed.

I'm not American, he said.

What's that, sir? Not American? All the way from that barren wasteland, what do you chaps call the place, Arizona? All the way from a bloody colony like that and you're not even American?

Heads turned. Eyes stared. The subaltern was still screaming, blocking the stairs.

Sorry to hear that, sir, rum show actually. Just dropped in out there for a buffalo shoot, did you? Show the flag and let the wogs know who's in charge?

Joe pushed forward to move around the man, a gesture the subaltern misinterpreted as a sign of friendliness.

Or something else altogether, sir? A quiet foray among the little maidens in buckskin? New pelts for the library and a well-earned notch or two for the old blunderbuss?

At last Joe was around the man and heading in the direction of the terminal buildings. The subaltern dropped his salute and fell in briskly beside him.

No offense, sir, screeched the subaltern. About my taking you for a Yank, I mean. Some of my best friends are Yanks. Be glad to give you the name of my tailor here.

Joe walked straight ahead. The man had quick-stepped several times when he fell in beside Joe, trying to adjust his stride, but he didn't seem to be able to get it right and was now doing a permanent dance at Joe's elbow, prancing forward and falling behind a pace, quick-stepping again.

Different drummers, shrieked the subaltern. We're a race of individuals, after all. And please veer to the left, sir, as the Bolshies say. The clandestine war wagon's to the left.

Joe veered to the left without breaking stride. They were moving away from the groups of milling staring men. Joe spoke in a quiet voice.

Will you kindly tell me what the meaning of this is?

The subaltern caught the forceful tone in Joe's voice but apparently without hearing the words. In order to get closer he quick-stepped in, misjudging the distance and crashing into Joe with the power of a body-block. Joe pitched forward and landed on the runway on his hands, the subaltern coming to rest sprawled across his back. The subaltern peered upward, scanning the sky.

Spot something, sir? Jerry up there for an early morning go, is he? Shows good reflexes, that dive of yours.

Jesus Christ almighty, muttered Joe.

Can't spot the blighter, murmured the subaltern into Joe's ear, still scanning the sky intently. Blasted clever, the Hun.

Get off my back, muttered Joe. The subaltern, his face only inches away, peered sideways at Joe.

What's that, sir? You only thought you saw a Stuka coming in out of the sun?

Off my back. Now.

The subaltern grinned nervously and began to untangle himself.

Yes, sir. Sorry about that, sir. It's just that you can never be too careful when the Hun's around. War is hell, after all.

The subaltern climbed off Joe, grinding his knee into Joe's back. Joe struggled to his feet.

Listen, you bastard, you tell me right now what the meaning of that was supposed to be.

Meaning, sir? Meaning? Pardon me, sir, but in a world at war you're actually looking for meaning?

Stop it. That performance you put on back at the plane. And this ridiculous costume you're wearing.

What the hell?

Oh, my uniform. Well you see, sir, since secret intelligence work requires a high degree of initiative, we're encouraged to express our individualism in our dress of the day. And as for the manner in which I hailed you when you debarked, we've found that the direct approach is the best one. When matters are secretly at their murkiest, in other words, we try to keep outward appearances as natural as possible. It's by far the most effective cover.

I wasn't aware, said Joe, that tennis whites and a leopardskin would look natural at Cairo airport in wartime.

Oh yes, sir, if the whites are modified a bit. You may be a little rusty now, been out of touch and that sort of thing, it could happen to any retiree from Arizona attempting a comeback. But the naked truth of the matter today, sir, is that we don't carry on the way they did in the old films.

I see.

Precisely, sir, that's it in a nutshell. This is definitely espionage in the 1940s that we practice here and the old films are definitely out of date, irrelevant to say the least. And then too, we're in the plain old sandy sunny Middle East, not lounging around in a shadowy parlor car on the Orient Express as it goes weaving into Bulgaria, while you and I lunge at our glasses between hoots. The servant problem, sir. Lackeys just aren't what they used to be, neither as nations nor individuals. Take the Balkans, for example.

What?

Exactly, sir, especially the Balkans. They're not at all what they used to be. In fact it would probably be wise to put aside your secret hopes of outwitting some sneaky little Dimitri in the sewers of Sophia, despite his many masks, in order to obtain the truth about the Bulgarian submarine force. This just isn't the place for vague notions about honor and fair play and all that rot. Times change, sir, what?

Joe groaned.

. . . can't straighten at all, he muttered.

No? Well don't be discouraged, sir. People pretty much expect a spy to look like Quasimodo loping around in his belfry with a demented leer on his twisted face. The important thing is to keep abreast of the latest technical developments, that's the name of this game. In intelligence, you're modern or you're nothing. Can you just imagine how it would look if the two of us were to skulk around Cairo airport first thing in the morning in trench coats with a cigarette or two dangling out of the corners of our mouths?

Looking over our shoulders to see if Peter Lorre has caught up with us yet? Or possibly even the fat man?

Oh.

Precisely, sir, the locals. They may be no more dark-skinned than they were in the epics of yesteryear, but they're just not as predictable as extras used to be.

As he rambled on, the subaltern was keenly observing Joe. After several painful attempts, Joe managed to straighten. The subaltern grinned, nodding.

Very good, sir. I see we're making a stunning comeback. So the point is, we have this slovenly lot of blithering wogs hanging about with time on their hands, just waiting to catch a glimpse of something they can pass on to Jerry. Such as a suspicious little foreigner arriving at Cairo airport early one morning? A wiry little fellow in some dreadful secondhand suit that's much too big for him? Suspiciously sporting a scruffy growth of whiskers on his face as if he were trying to look like the anonymous spy of tradition?

Could it be that you're growing a beard, sir?

I am.

Very good, sir. Although given the sand in the air around here, most of our fighting men seem to prefer a moustache when it comes to providing that distinguishing touch. When a show of hair is wanted, sir, to emphasize brute masculinity.

Quietly, the subaltern guffawed. He himself wore an enormous walrus moustache, its waxed ends nearly reaching to the tops of his ears.

Hair aside, said Joe, I was told to expect a different reception.

Were you, sir? Could we be referring to the recognition signals, so called, which veteran spies use to spot one