O Jerusalem

weakness.

However, Ali and Mahmoud had no intention of staying at the kivutz with us, particularly not as that would also mean a further (and no doubt pointless) delay at the Wadi Qelt monastery. I caught them before they set off for Jericho, and took Mahmoud to one side.

“I wanted to say thank you,” I told him.

“One does not thank a brother,” he said in return, with a twinkle in the corner of his eye.

“Is that a saying?”

“It is the truth.”

“Well, brother or not, I thank you.”

He gave me a sideways shrug to wave it away, but I thought he was pleased nonetheless. Then he pursed his lips for a moment, looking off at the hills.

“Amir,” he said. “Mary Russell. Do not try to protect your Holmes, these next days. It will not help him to heal. This I know.”

“Yes,” I said. “I had already decided that. Fi amaan illah, Mahmoud.” Have a safe journey.

“Insh’allah,” he replied. If it be God’s will.

Holmes spent the rest of that day and all of Monday sitting in the sun, eating, and sleeping. The nights, however, were another matter. Without either of us commenting on it, I left a small lamp burning all night. I had asked for a second bed to be brought in for me, as his arm muscles tended to go into spasms when he relaxed and I needed to be there to force them down and knead them into pliability. Again, neither of us commented on his inability to control his muscles; I just slept in the same room, listening to the sounds he made.

He did not sleep much, not at night. On Saturday night he had twitched and spasmed until in desperation I insisted on another, milder, draught of opiate. Sunday night he sat and smoked and read a book borrowed from one of the kivutz members, and sipped brandy while I drifted in and out of sleep. On Monday night he read and smoked, and then very late I heard him take himself to bed, cursing under his breath all the while. I smiled, and slept, and in the still hours of the night I shot upright, staring at my surroundings.

“Holmes?”

The thin howl, an eerie, unearthly noise like a soul in torment, cut off instantly.

“My God, Holmes, was that you?”

He cleared his throat. “Was what me?” he asked, and I gave myself a hard mental kick. I of all people ought to know the shame of nightmares, and as I woke more fully, I was not even certain that I had actually heard it. I lay back down and pulled my bedclothes over my head.

“Jackals,” I muttered sleepily. “Sorry to wake you.”

Neither of us slept much more that night.

Channah had arranged for the kivutz lorry, a Ford Model T that had been converted to carry sheep and cows, to take us to Jericho. The following morning after I had helped with the morning chores, we climbed in beside the driver and bounced away. It was not a merry ride. Holmes had refused medication, I was tense with anticipation of another crash, and the driver, whose name was Aaron, was not one of the handful of kivutz residents privy to our secret. He was also on the Orthodox side and made no attempt to hide his resentment at being forced to chauffeur a pair of Mohammedans.

The drive went without incident, aside from one punctured tyre and a delay while a large flock of Bedouin fat-tailed sheep drifted from one side of the road to the other. Two hours after we left the kivutz, Aaron stopped on a deserted patch of road just north of Jericho and we let ourselves out. Looking straight ahead, he waited for us to fasten the rope that held the door shut, then drove off. The sound of the engine faded. A crow cleared its throat from a nearby tree, a goat’s bell clattered in the distance, and it suddenly hit me how very alone we were. When I looked at my companion it grew even worse: He looked terribly ill, pale and sweating with dark smudges under his eyes, and he was slumped against a fence post, unable at the moment to stand upright. I began to feel frightened, and yearned for the abrasive presence of Ali and Mahmoud.

“For heaven’s sake, Russell, stop looking like a lost schoolgirl. I’m not about to collapse at your feet.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. I’ve sustained worse injuries than this. I merely need to limber up. Just… lend me your shoulder for a bit.”

I supported his steps for a hundred yards or so, but the exercise did actually seem to do him some good. His back straightened, his limp lessened, and eventually he took his hand from my shoulder and continued, slowly but unaided.

We skirted Jericho to the west of the tell, although I was sorely tempted to call on the mad archaeologist for whatever help she could inflict upon us, or even for an infusion of energy. However, the thought of the subsequent enervation held me back, and we continued through the banana and orange groves to the farm where we had abandoned our mules and our possessions. Ali and Mahmoud had agreed to leave us one of the mules and basic provisions, carrying the rest to Jerusalem before us.

To take both our minds off our troubles, I fell back on a comfortable, long-established ritual: I asked Holmes about the case.

“Holmes, do you have any thoughts about the identity of the man in Western clothing seen speaking to the mullah?”

“Many thoughts, Russell, but no conclusions.”

“It could be anyone.”

“Hardly that,” he said drily.

“Perhaps not anyone. Just any male in the country taller than the average Arab—who comes up to my chin— and wears a hat instead of a headcloth.”

“Russell, Russell,” he chided. ”He must be either English or European, if he impressed Mahmoud’s witness as not being in uniform. Too, it is unlikely that anyone who does not have an ear in the British camp would know enough about Allenby’s business to lay hands on the car transporting the Hazr brothers.”

I glanced over at him, then away. As I had hoped, the colour was back in his face as the working of his mind lessened the discomfort of his body. In addition to which, criticising me always cheered him up.

“How will we find him?” I asked.

“Wait for him to reveal some piece of knowledge unknown to others, perhaps. He will give himself away in the end.”

“The man who… questioned you. Could it be he?”

“That man was by no means British in his manner, although physical disguise is of course a possibility,” he answered, his voice even.

“But he did not know who you actually are?”

“He seemed to believe that he was dealing with a half-literate Arab, but I would not swear to it. I do know that he is a very clever man, when he chooses to exert himself.”

“If he thought you an Arab, that leaves out a number of possibilities as his informant.”

“Such as?”

“Joshua,” I offered hesitantly. Fortunately, he did not laugh at my suggestion. Emboldened, I also said, “Half the men in Haifa.”

“And if for some reason the British traitor did not inform his master, or if the master was clever enough to conceal his knowledge from me, what then?”

“Then it could still be anyone in Haifa. One of the drivers, perhaps—the man who was killed, to cover up his treason? Or anyone privy to communication between Joshua and Allenby, or between Joshua and Mycroft, or —”

“As I said, Russell: many thoughts, no conclusions. We haven’t sufficient data.”

“What, then, do you recommend we do?”

“Keep well out of sight, keep our ears to the ground, and wait for the opportunity to trip him up.”

What we had been attempting to do all along, I reflected, with no great success.