Hale laughed. “They do sound like Bedu,” he said, correcting Theodora’s pronunciation.
“ ‘Half-devil and half-child,’ ” said Theodora, quoting Kipling. “Today is Tuesday—you’ll have a day or so to go hiking with the Khan, and he’ll explain the mountains to you, and Ararat in particular. The big picture. Do listen to him. By Thursday your meteor stone should be in place—you certainly did choose a heavy one, didn’t you?—with its explosives attached and an Anderson bomb shelter set up nearby, and then you’ll be helicoptered to the plain below Ararat, where you’ll brief the commandos who’ll be going up with you— demolition experts from the war—good men, hard to surprise.”
“When is the Russian team going to arrive?”
“No sooner than Friday night, it seems. Ankara Station has been keeping track of a train that’s been moving south from Moscow, with clearances south all the way to Erivan on the Turkish border—it’s in Stalingrad now, bound south through Rostov and Tbilisi. Two known Rabkrin directors are aboard, as well as two renegade Catholic priests, ex-Jesuits—and there’s a prominent Marconi radio mast over one of the boxcars that happens to be in the shape of an ankh.”
Hale shivered in the chilly wind. “That does sound like the right lot.”
“You and your commandos will be waiting for them. And when this Russian team arrives on the mountain, and has ‘opened the gates,’ as you put it, of your djinn colony, you will detonate your, your exorcism.” He peered at Hale. “In your proposal, you said you plan to summon them, down to where your meteor is. How do you plan to do that?”
“Blood,” said Hale, trying to speak lightly. “Medical supply blood, a couple of bags of it. The Magians in the Hejaz mountains use fresh blood to call the creatures down for their worship, from out of the sky, and in Berlin the Arab ship was full of freshly dismembered bodies.”
“Lovely,” said Theodora quietly. “Well!—And once that little chore is over, back you’ll go to your Kuwait haunts.”
“Nothing to it,” said Hale.
“I think it’s a good plan,” said Theodora. “If it works, we’ll be able to put paid to Declare, and you can subside wholly into SIS. Face the challenging new postwar world, instead of grubbing about in—” He spread one hand, reluctant as always to refer to the super-natural.
“Devoutly to be wished,” said Hale, nodding—but he was remembering the effort of dragging an ankh through the attention field of a djinn, as if the ankh were a scepter; and he remembered the shudder of awe at the sight of the angels bowing before him, or breaking—Sin by pride, and you sin as the angels!—and he wondered what secrets the king of Wabar might have been able to tell him. What castles in the clouds… !
“But in the meantime!” said Theodora, “there is a SDECE team in a hotel in Dogubayezit, roughly fourteen miles southwest of Ararat. You remember that the French secret service was in Berlin too, three years ago. God knows what their sources are—perhaps some other fugitive like our poor Volkov walked into a French embassy somewhere, and got a better reception—but I assume they too are aware of the imminent Russian expedition on the mountain. One of their team is a woman—”
Hale just nodded, keeping his eyes on the dirt road.
“—probably the Ceniza-Bendiga woman”—Theodora went on, and Hale could peripherally see that the old man was looking at him—“of fond memory. If you should meet her… try to stop the SDECE from interfering on Ararat, delay them at least, and try to find out what they know, what their source is. And tell her—she won’t believe you, I suppose, but just for style—you can tell her the cover story about the fictitious Armenians you’re supposed to be running, tell her just as much as Philby knows. The orders and the names and biographical details of the Armenians are in your room. Learn them, even though you won’t be revealing them. Live your cover, right?”
“I’ll fill out the orders,” Hale said dutifully, “and learn their names and backgrounds…”
Hale was jolted out of his memories by a name that he had just recalled. He blinked around his room in the Normandy Hotel in Beirut—the sea beyond the fluttering white window curtains was indistinguishable from the night sky now, and the spools of the wire recorder were still slowly revolving. Hale gulped some of the soapy arak, and he wondered how many times Mammalian might have refilled the glass while Hale was lost in reminiscences—and how many times he might have changed the wire spools. The night breeze was chilly, and this strange new 1963 seemed like a year from a science fiction story.
Hale frowned across the polished table at Mammalian’s impassive, bearded face in the lamplight. “One of the Armenians,” he faltered, “one of the fictitious Armenians—”
“Was named Jacob Mammalian.”
“Yes.” Hale thought the other man too was shaken by this development. “Hakob, Jacob—did you cross the Turkish–Soviet border, then, in a train?” Hale asked.
Mammalian stood up to look out the window toward the muted roar of the invisible surf, and for a few moments Hale thought he wouldn’t answer. “Yes,” Mammalian said finally, “precisely then, in May of 1948. I had been an illegal Soviet spy working against Turkey, running agents in the military bases around Erzurum, until I was arrested in 1947. I had thought, until now, that it was the Soviet State Security who broke me out of the prison in Diyarbakir, and smuggled me onto the Kars train.” He turned to face Hale, frowning. “And by God it was! When I got across to the other side, I was met in Leninakan by Soviet soldiers! Does your Theodora work for the KGB as well as the British Crown?”
“He certainly could have planted doubles among the Soviets, secretly working for England. But why would he want to free you and repatriate you?”
“He must have wanted the Russians to try their Ararat approach, while you and your meteorite were handily in the area—and the Russians needed me in order to do it. I was their guide on the mountain then, as I am to be again now.” He returned to the table and sat back down in his chair. “When I was twelve, Andrew Hale, the Ottoman Turkish Army invaded the Kars and Van districts of eastern Turkey and drove out all the Armenians they could catch, herded them like cattle south to what’s now the Saudi Arabian desert. More than a million of my people died on that forced march. My family eluded the Turks and fled across the Aras river to Yerevan, on the Russian side; but Armenian fathers had been taking their sons up the mountain for centuries, each generation showing the next the location of Noah’s Ark. I had seen it on several occasions by the time we fled, and as a young man I twice stole across the river, past the border guards, to climb up that gorge again.”