“And briefing,” called Mammalian over the wind. “Synchronizing our watches, girding up our loins for battle, revelations of secrets not to be divulged down in the lowlands. Come in here.”
Philby sighed a gust of steam and plodded back across the wavy snow, planting his boots in the same holes they had made when he had walked away from the tents; and the sky was too overcast for him to throw much of a shadow. Perhaps he was not really walking back to the tent at all.
Oddly, and he smiled wryly at it, he was feeling an extra bit of guilt here-Hale and I didn’t finish that poker game in 1948, he thought, but I took the whole pot anyway: I had Señorita Ceniza-Bendiga the next day in Dogubayezit, and I kept Maly’s amomon instructions too.
Andrew Hale looked up from his cup of tepid tea when Philby came stamping back into the tent.
Hakob Mammalian was right behind him, followed by the surlier of the two Turks, Fuad.
“Sit,” said Mammalian as he ponderously lowered himself into a cross-legged position on the rubberized canvas floor, scattering floury snow from his boots. Philby and Fuad sat down, and the Turk by the little paraffin stove began handing disks of flat bread to Hale, who passed them to Mammalian. Hale was just wearing his tan wool liner gloves, and he could feel that the bread was hot.
“When we were here in ’48,” Mammalian said, his breath steaming in the razory cold air, “we did not come this high. We did not presume to knock at their door, but called them down to the gorge. We were cautious because of some old stories-St. Hippolytus wrote in the third century that climbers who tried to ascend Ararat were thrown down to the valley floor by demons; and in the fourth century, Faustus of Byzantium recorded the story of an Armenian bishop, Jacob-”
Fuad snorted around a mouthful of the bread. “An Armenian named Jacob!” he said in English. “Was he a saint?”
“He was,” said Mammalian imperturbably. “And he climbed partway up the mountain, hoping to see the Ark. Where he slept, a spring burst out of the rocks; we passed that spring in the gorge yesterday, by the cairn of rocks that marks his grave, though the shrine that used to stand there was destroyed in the 1840 earthquake. He too found himself abruptly at the foot of the mountain-but he had been carried there by an angel, who gave him a piece of wood from the Ark and told him that it was God’s will that he not attempt to climb the mountain. That piece of wood is today in the Armenian Orthodox monastery in Echmiadzen, in Soviet Armenia. The angel was a Christian one, and knew that Jacob might be killed if he climbed higher. With my own eyes as a boy I saw a demon face staring angrily from the Ark. Perhaps we Armenians are in a privileged position; my father and I were not molested.”
“The mountain does not belong to Armenia,” said Fuad. “It is in Turkey. Why do you Armenians have it on your coat-of-arms?”
“Does the moon belong to Turkey?” asked Mammalian. “It is on your flag.” He gave Fuad a dismissive wave. “But”-he shrugged-“in fact men of many nationalities have ascended to the Ark and survived; and in this century the djinn have been more quiescent, possibly because one of their number is abroad now, in Russia. In 1948 our group on the north side of the gorge was not attacked, but our covering party below the southern cliffs, as well as a British and a French group that tried to sabotage our operation from that side, were nearly all killed-many men were lifted away into the sky, doubtless to be thrown down onto the plain, as Hippolytus described.”
Hale passed the last piece of bread, not taking any for himself-the thought of eating nauseated him, and he almost gagged at the thought that the bread smelled like khaki-and he touched the lump in his pocket that was the special derringer he had bought a week ago in Allenby Street in Beirut. He made himself stare back at Mammalian with no expression.
“But,” Mammalian went on, steepling his fingers in front of his beard and glancing from Hale to Philby and back, “the djinn did speak, that night. They said, in Arabic, ‘Answer whom? The brothers are divided.’”
A moaning gust of wind from the peak bellied the tent wall behind Mammalian and snapped the outer flap like a flag; Hale’s nostrils constricted at a cold whiff of metallic oil over the bread-and-rubber smell of the tent.
Mammalian shucked the leather mitten off of his right hand and began unsnapping his parka. “Wear your drogues outside your clothing!” he barked.
Hale hooked a finger into the leather thong at his neck and drew out the flat rectangular stone Mammalian had given him yesterday, at the camp by the trucks on the plain. The stone was the size of a thick playing card, with a protruding ring at the top, and a cross had been grooved across its matte face.
Each of the five men in the tent was clutching one of the stones now; and over the long course of ten seconds the keening wind outside diminished away to silence. Hale was braced for the ground-tremors of an earthquake, but none came.
His pounding heartbeat didn’t slow down. He didn’t think it had slowed to less than a hundred beats per minute in the last forty-eight hours, and in his sleeping bag on this rubber floor last night he had not got more than two hours’ restless sleep.
Mammalian tapped his drogue stone. “These are better than your Egyptian ankhs,” he said to Hale. “When Gilgamesh tried to take a boat to where the immortal Upanishtim could give him eternal life, do you recall that he nearly made the voyage impossible when he broke the ‘things of stone’ with which the boat was equipped? They were stone anchors in this shape, but more than just the kind of anchor that keeps a boat from being swept away. These fix the attention of the djinn, and thus impede new intentions.”
“What brothers?” rasped Philby. Hale looked at him-the man’s face in the parka hood was pasty and he was staring at the ridged rubber floor. “What brothers were divided?”
“The two sons,” said Mammalian, “of Harry St. John Philby. They are yourself and Andrew Hale. This is the truth.”
Philby stared at Hale then, and Hale almost looked away-Philby’s wet eyes were wide with hurt, and something like loss, and even sorrow. “I d-did know it, suspect it,” Philby said thickly. “I-d-damn me!-I s-s-some-t-times thought I s-saw-him-in y-you.”
Hale had to take a breath to speak. “And treated me accordingly?” The words came out with more bitterness than he had intended to show, and he glanced down at his boots to hide any tears that might well up in his own eyes. The lost father I used to daydream about, he thought. Have I seen him in you, Kim? I wouldn’t have known.
“You h-had n-no-right,” Philby choked.
“Nor say,” said Hale shortly.
“Together,” said Mammalian in a loud voice, “you will approach their castle, today. Together you will be the one person who was consecrated to them in 1912, in Amballa.”
Ten years before I was even born, thought Hale tensely. Mother, why in the name of Heaven did you-
He glanced again at Philby, and thought he caught a flicker of wild, fearful hope there. No, Kim, Hale thought in sudden specific alarm-I will not serve as your fox; your father was willing, but I will not consent to sharing the ordeal of the djinn sacrament with you. Aloud, he said to him, trying not to speak quickly, “Did you ever go through the espionage-paramilitary course at Fort Monkton?”
Philby blinked. “Y-Yes, in ’49.”
“I did it in ’46. You remember the litany? ‘Would you kill your brother?’” It hurt Hale’s jaw to speak so much. “We both answered yes to that. Don’t expect a lot of brotherly love, right?”
He hoped that was innocuous enough not to rouse suspicion in Mammalian, and at the same time a clear enough message to Philby-If you tell them about me, about this Declare infiltration and sabotage, you will go through with the djinn sacrament, as the Rabkrin has planned-alone; and you will live ever after as a pampered imbecile in Moscow, never again able to read, or think.