Bletchley's face of concern, Joe reminded himself. . . . Bletchley's face of sympathy.
Another man would have shown his feelings by softening his expression then, but Bletchley could never do that. Not in his shattered ruin of a face with its severed muscles and missing bones. In Bletchley's half-dead face everything always came out looking wrong. Concern appeared as a grin of contempt, sympathy took on a smirk of disgust.
No wonder little children ran away from him on the street, thought Joe. No wonder strangers turned their eyes away in horror. Bletchley's shattered face couldn't speak the truth and he couldn't go around shouting it out every day of his life. So he smiled at the world, or tried to smile, and his humiliation never ended.
He was gazing at Joe's bandaged ear.
You weren't able to get a look at them?
No, said Joe. Common thieves in the night, I suppose. I don't even know whether there were two or three of them, or only one for that matter.
Bletchley sighed.
Well please don't go taking yourself down deserted alleys again at night. If you have to go out for a walk stay in an area where there's some life, where the patrols come by. There's no sense getting banged up like this.
Bletchley was using a handkerchief to clean the skin around his black eye patch. Sometimes when he did that he reminded Joe of a battered old tomcat trying to clean himself, ripped and torn and scarred from his battles but still trying to keep himself presentable. Of course Bletchley wasn't old. He just gave that impression because of his half-dead face that no one had ever been able to fix.
I would have taken more care, said Joe, but I didn't think I was looking all that prosperous these days.
Bletchley peeked over the top of his handkerchief and saw that Joe was smiling, mocking himself. He laughed, a snorting sound accompanied by an idiotic lopsided grin.
Well you don't look that prosperous, for a European. But prosperity is relative, isn't it? Anyway, you're beginning to look more like the rest of us now. Like the rest of us, that's it.
Bletchley went on snorting noisily. Joe smiled.
I am? How's that?
Your ear, said Bletchley. It looks as if it might be missing under that bandage, as if you'd just lost it at the front. Perhaps you don't remember your interview with Whatley too clearly, but Whatley only has one arm.
Oh. No, I don't remember that too clearly. A one-armed Whatley, you say, once the fastest gun in the west but it's only a memory now? Sounds like one of Liffy's songs.
Bletchley snorted.
It is odd when you think of it, but all the Monks do seem to be missing a part or a limb. Crippled, that's it.
Joe heard a ringing in his ear.
True? Do you suppose that means there's some sort of secret law that you have to be a cripple to be in intelligence?
Bletchley snorted.
To be intelligent, you mean? Well you may be right, I never thought of it that way before.
Bletchley finished dabbing around his eye patch and put away his handkerchief. The look of contempt came back into his face. Concern, Joe reminded himself.
Don't you think we ought to have a doctor look at it?
No need to bother, said Joe. Nothing to it really, and Ahmad seems to have a sure touch with bandages.
Yes, a man of unsuspected talents. He did some volunteer nursing work in the last war, as I recall. Drove an ambulance mostly. Men of a literary bent used to like to do that, apparently.
Sounds more like the Spanish Civil War, said Joe. Were you ever in Spain then?
Bletchley looked uncomfortable.
No. I was having some operations done.
It itches, said Joe, grimacing, pointing to his ear.
As usual, they were sitting in the small cellar room on the far side of the courtyard behind the Hotel Babylon. A single naked light bulb hung from the low ceiling, a cord leading down to the electric ring on the table where the kettle was steaming. There was also the chipped teapot and the two dented metal cups between them. As always, a newspaper lay at Bletchley's elbow and the meeting was being held at night, the customary time for dealings with the Monks, as Liffy had said.
What's new that's not in the papers? asked Joe.
Nothing good, said Bletchley. Nothing but one disaster after another. Bir Hacheim has been wiped out with its Free French and its Jewish Brigade, and now it looks like Rommel's going to be able to isolate Tobruk. We'll have to try to hold the line at El Alamein.
Can Tobruk take a siege?
It did last year for seven months. It's not as strong now, but Rommel shouldn't know that.
Bletchley looked down at the table.
Of course there are other things he shouldn't know, this Desert Fox who has become such a hero to the Egyptians.
And the El Alamein line? asked Joe.
It depends on several factors, supplies for one. Ours and theirs. If Rommel has the fuel to keep pushing, well, we'll flood the delta and lose the Canal and take what we can to Palestine and Iraq. The implications are unthinkable and that's what we're thinking about now.
I see.
Joe glanced at the newspaper.
What about the personal columns? Any better news there?
Bletchley's face twisted into a kind of blank stare, his eye widening. An expression of sorrow, Joe knew.
This isn't being reported yet, so don't say anything about it. All right?
Yes.
Bletchley hesitated.
We had a large-scale operation under way behind their lines, paramilitary units, special strike forces, that kind of thing. We were trying to get at some of the more important bases they've been using to raid Malta, to stop our supplies from getting through. Well it was an absolute failure from beginning to end.
They were waiting for us. . . . Waiting for us, that's it.
Bletchley stared blankly at his metal cup and the two of them sat in silence for a time. Joe had made his report, such as it was, not mentioning the Cohens and not really going into any detail about Ahmad.
Bletchley had listened in only a half-attentive way, and his questions had appeared to be more concerned with Joe's impressions of Old Cairo, rather than with Stern. It seemed peculiar to Joe, but then, he always found Bletchley's manner peculiar. Something to do with Bletchley's mask, a face that never reflected what the man was feeling or thinking.
Bletchley was moving his metal cup around, nudging it a few inches to one side, a few inches to the other.
The scraping noise made by the cup was the only sound in the room.
Night, thought Joe. Everything happens under cover of darkness when you're dealing with the Monks.
You shouldn't be so hard on yourself, Bletchley said finally. After all, you've only been in Egypt a little over two weeks, which is nothing for an assignment as complicated as yours. No one expects results right away and two weeks is barely enough time to learn your way around.
Joe nodded.
I know, but somehow it seems much longer than that. Probably because of where I'm staying. . . .
Bletchley scowled. Thoughtful, Joe reminded himself.
It is an odd old structure, Bletchley murmured in a noncommittal way.
He looked up from his cup.
Does your ear still itch?
Yes.
Isn't that supposed to mean someone's talking about you?
I hope not, said Joe. I'm supposed to be an unknown visitor here, just A. O. Gulbenkian in transit.
