Nile Shadows

another when among the common herds in the trenches?

The subaltern immediately slammed his tennis shoes together, coming to attention. He saluted and narrowed his eyes.

Please assume we are in the airport terminal, sir, and you are having your papers examined by some barely literate enlisted swine. As you dither around, a handsome subaltern sweeps up and shrewdly engages you in amiable conversation, in the course of which he chances to use two key words. Brooklyn and garbage. At that point the subaltern suavely removes a key ring from his pocket and jangles the keys in the air, as if bored.

Still holding his salute, the subaltern reached into his pocket with his left hand and brought out a key ring.

He squinted intently at Joe, rattling the keys in front of his face.

Right, sir, and so far so good. Now stuffed into the left pocket of your shabby jacket is a rolled-up edition of a popular London illustrated weekly. You remove this rag with your right hand, the old cross-draw, and hold it up in the air as if curious about which way the wind is blowing. The formidable subaltern is satisfied as to your credentials and takes it from there. Well, sir, on the mark, are we?

Joe handed him the magazine.

It's a little old. I stole it from a library in London to save money. Chamberlain's on the cover announcing peace in our time.

Excellent, sir, we could all use a little of that. Now then, the trusty clandestine steed is right over here.

The subaltern opened the door of a small old-fashioned delivery van and stood proudly beside it, waiting.

The van was a civilian model, cream-colored and ancient, dented in a number of places. Bright green lettering, obviously new, was splashed across the side of the van.

AHMAD'S

GREASY FISH

&

LEVANTINE CHIPS

The subaltern followed Joe's gaze. He snorted.

Clever, what? Known secretly in undercover circles as the impregnable Ahmadmobile, and out here it's worth a regiment of tanks any day, I can tell you. Confuses the enemy and makes the wogs think we're in the delivery business, which in a way we are. But the fact is, you can never be too careful when you're serving a sentence in the spy trade. Not only a keen lookout at all times, but the keener the lookout the better the times, that's my motto. Are we right then, sir?

***

As soon as they had climbed into the cab of the small van, the subaltern made a show of carefully locking both doors. He then reached over and fumbled around in Joe's lap, groping for Joe's hand, pumping it enthusiastically when he found it.

Vivian's the name, sir, and despite appearances I'm not a regular army man. Actually I'm an archeologist in real life. I don't have to tell you how these intelligence types get carried away by men with unusual backgrounds. Their eyes positively light up. Well I did some digs over here before the war, and that's how I happened to get into this end of the show. Know the underground terrain, so to speak.

Oh. I see, yes.

Right, sir, the pharaohs that be don't miss a trick. Well briefly, it came about like this. When Jerry figured out another generation had gone by and it was time to give it another go, war, damn it, I naturally presented myself to the authorities in London straightaway. Vivian here, I said, and went on to explain that I'd be more than happy to carry a rifle in whatever trench was weak. But they took one look at my digging experience and packed me off to one of those unnumbered rooms you know about near Queen Anne's Gate. See here, old horse, said the unnumbered general in mufti, we can't have you oozing around in the mud of Flanders like some common uneducated lout, you're much too valuable for that. We simply have to have you in the secret show, what those on the outside call intelligence. Now what do you say to that?

Vivian wiggled his eyebrows.

Well needless to say, sir, what I said to that was, Top drawer. Just point me in the general direction of Mata Hari, I said, and I'm off to make do in the gloom. Whereupon the general in mufti gave me a hearty shake of the hand and mumbled, Good show, old fruit. And now that you're officially a secret agent, Viv old horse, Vivvy my boy, old Viv dear fellow, now that you're a mysterious spy like the rest of us, added the general in mufti, the first thing you have to do is trundle yourself out back and see C.

And do what? asked Joe.

Vivian chuckled.

Very good, sir. Well I went out the back door, as instructed, and strolled down the appropriate alley to another unnumbered address, and climbed more stairs to another unnumbered room, and all at once right there in front of me was the very secret chief of the Secret Service, C as we secretly call him, sitting in his very own chair but turned around and facing the wall, keeping his secret identity secret. Well. Here was a devilishly clever fellow, our good old secret C, I knew that from the beginning. So I flashed the old smile at his back and said, Viv here, secret agent of the Empire, ready and willing. Whereupon good old C

said, his back to the world, See here, Viv, C here.

Vivian guffawed.

Or perhaps our secret chief said, C here, Viv, C here. Or he might have said, See here, Viv, see here.

Or in other words, who in God's name has any idea what he said? No doubt a secret C has to be unknowable by nature, a regular Delphic oracle when it comes to garbled meanings and ambiguous messages.

Vivian nodded eagerly.

You're beginning to smile, sir, so it's obvious we agree as to the essentials. Now then, to continue.

Viv? muttered C, addressing the wall, please listen carefully because I can only say this once. The Suez Canal is in danger, the very lifeline of the Empire, and we need a reliable man down there to keep an eye on the locks. So just pick up that black pill on the desk behind me, that thing that looks like a jelly bean, regulation potassium cyanide in case life ever seems as black as all that, and head for the Nile and may the best team win.

And there you have it, sir, and all the time while C had his back to me, he seemed to be knitting.

Knitting? asked Joe.

Vivian chuckled.

Right, sir. The knitting needles of fate, I suppose. Then after that I was given intensive training in silence and exile and cunning, and a quick course in forgery with emphasis on forging the uncreated conscience of the race, and here I am. Vivian of Arabia. . . . Now then.

***

Vivian hummed a music-hall tune and started the engine. A thunderous roar crashed around them. Vivian grinned, shouting to be heard above the deafening noise.

Sorry about that, sir. Hole in the exhaust somewhere, only happened yesterday. Haven't had time to let the maintenance apes get their paws on it.

I see.

What?

It's a nice day, shouted Joe, leaning into Vivian in order to be heard. When Joe sat back again he seemed more at ease. He reached under his jacket, apparently to scratch himself somewhere, but actually to tuck away Vivian's wallet, newly stolen, in an inside pocket.

That's better, shouted Joe. Carry on.

Very good, sir. Off we go then.

There was a fierce grinding noise and the small delivery van went careening away down the runway at full speed, the heavy tread of its soft desert tires screeching wildly. Vivian laughed and swerved back and forth, assuming a racing position. Joe stared. The impressive walrus moustache had come loose in the wind, revealing a cloth backing to it and a thin line of glue above Vivian's upper lip. One end of the waxed moustache had climbed up