“I have much salt,” said Mr Bashir. “I also may know the man you seek.” Holmes pulled open the top of the money purse and took out three silver coins. These he laid casually in a row on the carpet in front of him. He reached back into the purse, took out some more coins, and worked them back and forth between his long fingers while Mr Bashir continued to speak.
“I do not know where the stranger came from, but I agree, not from here. Damascus, or farther north, I do not know. He contacted me a month or more ago. He too was interested in salt. He did not mention horses,” he added, and his eyes crinkled at the subtlety of his joke.
Holmes took one of the coins he held and placed it on the middle coin in the row of three. This one was gold, and it would be difficult to say which gleamed the brighter, the coin or Mr Bashir’s eyes. Holmes said casually, “He was not interested in the salt from the ponds, I think.”
“No,” agreed the smuggler. He was enjoying this.
“He was interested in the other salt, that you take from the ground near Sedom.”
“Yes…”
“Or, shall I say, not the salt itself, but the means of extracting it.”
Mr Bashir did not even look at the pile of coins; this was a pleasure beyond business.
“That is true.” I glanced at my companions to see what they were making of this, and saw a tiny smile cross Mahmoud’s lips. Ali looked stunned.
“Are they perhaps items left over from the war? Perhaps having to do with the work El Aurens did on the Turkish railroads?” I knew instantly what he was working around: Colonel Lawrence was already a legend, famous for his guerrilla raids on the railways of the desert, laying explosives under the tracks and setting them off beneath a passing supply train to tip it neatly into the sand.
The smuggler slapped his thigh in delight. “Do you wish some as well, my friend? I have a plentiful supply, and truth to tell the stuff is no good for mining salt. It is much too dangerous, can be heard halfway to Jaffa, and furthermore it blows the salt all over the countryside.”
“I do not wish any today, but perhaps in the future. Tell me, this firengi, this foreigner, has he already bought from you? Taken his purchases away with him?” Delicately Holmes placed another gold coin on top of the other, tapping it into alignment with his fingernail.
“I regret to say that he has. A week or more ago.”
“Which day might that have been?”
The smuggler hesitated, and Holmes’ fingers hovered over the last coin.
“The night of the new moon.”
“Which way did he go when he left you?”
“In the direction of Hebron. He and two other men, with three horses and five donkeys.”
A third gold round joined the pile. “How much did he buy from you?”
“He wanted everything I had, but I only sold him twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five? These are the one-pound sticks?” Holmes asked, sounding disappointed.
“These were bundles. Ten one-pound sticks bound together. And three detonators, of course.”
“Of course. Two hundred fifty pounds of dynamite,” said Holmes in a light voice. “With that, a man could surely remove a great deal of salt. I thank you, my friend. Would you please receive this, as a payment towards the salt I shall ask you to send me? There will be no hurry about it.”
Mr Bashir hesitated briefly, then took the coins and swiftly tucked them away. More coffee, a couple of rather subdued stories, and he stood up to leave. Ali rose to walk with the smuggler to his horse, but Holmes waved him back, and accompanied the portly little trader.
They stood talking for several minutes on the far side of the horse, then Mr Bashir mounted and rode away, but not before I saw Holmes press another golden coin into the man’s hand. He came back to the fire smiling to himself.
“What did he not wish to tell us all?” I asked him.
“Ah,” said Holmes, dropping to the carpet and beginning to fill his pipe. “It appears that while this stranger, this firengi from the north, was concluding his business with the good Mr Bashir, one of Mr Bashir’s colleagues—I assume a son, as he was so embarrassed about the breach of hospitality—took the opportunity to glance through the man’s bags, and happened to see, among other things, a revolver, a sniper’s rifle with an enviable sight, and a monk’s habit.”
He reached for a coal with the tongs, enjoying the effect of his dropped remark. Ali was much absorbed by the presence of a rifle, although frankly I had assumed the man would have had one. But a monk’s habit?
“Was he certain? About the habit?” I asked.
“Mr Bashir’s people are Christian Arabs. I am satisfied that his son knows what a monk looks like. Mahmoud,” Holmes said, interrupting Ali’s muttered exclamations of revenge, “where would you go, if you wished to find a monk in a habit?”
“There are many monks in the land. Many monasteries.”
“Not as many as there were in times past,” I commented.
“This may be true. Still, there are monasteries in the Sinai, St Catherine’s being the most famous. There are the monasteries of St Gerasimo and St John and St George near Jericho, Mar Elyas and Mar Sabas and St Theodosius; Latrun, St Elijah, and in Jerusalem itself another St Elyas. Also St Mark’s, the Monastery of the Cross, the Abyssinian monastery, the Armenian monastery, the—”
“Enough,” said Holmes. “We are looking for a monastery within one or two days’ journey from here on horse, in a lonely place, preferably in or west of the Ghor. A place a stranger could visit for a day or two without causing comment or disruption. A place…” He paused, tapping his pipe stem against his lower teeth and staring vacantly at the edge of the water a stone’s throw away. “A place with beehives. ”
Ali looked at him dubiously, but Mahmoud simply recited, “Mar Sabas, St George, St Gerasimo, St John, the Mount of Temptation, and Mar Elyas.”
Holmes took his map from his robe and spread it on the ground. “Show me.”
Mar Sabas was to the north-west of us, in the hills between the Dead Sea and Jerusalem. The monastery of St Gerasimo was in the land between Jericho and the northern tip of the sea, with St John on the path worn by pilgrims between Jericho and the river Jordan to the east. St George was in a wadi to the west of Jericho, near the old road leading up to Jerusalem, the Mount of Temptation was to the north of Jericho, and Mar Elyas lay south of Jerusalem, off the Bethlehem road.
“There are of course many others, in the towns or else hermitages that do not permit visitors. These six meet your description. Although,” Mahmoud added with a faint air of apology, “I will say I am not certain that the Mount of Temptation has bees, and none of them would be an easy matter to reach in a day.”
“These will do as a start.” Holmes folded up the map and returned it to his robe. “We start for Mar Sabas tomorrow, then, and after that we shall sge.”
“It is yet early,” suggested Ali. “If we start now we will be at the monastery by nightfall tomorrow.”
“No,” said Holmes, settling back onto the warm, salt-rimed sand. “We are comfortable here, and besides, Russell has yet to swim in the Dead Sea. One cannot come all this way and fail to float in the waters.” With all the appearance of a holiday maker he lay back on the beach, dug his shoulders back and forth in the sand to shape a hollow, and tipped his bearded features to the sun. Ali and Mahmoud looked at him sourly, obviously wondering what hidden purpose the man had in staying on here. Holmes opened one eye.
“Did you say something, Russell?”
“Oh, no. Not at all.”
“Good. You might go and fill the water-skin, then, if you have nothing better to do than sit and snort.” He dropped his head back onto the sand and closed his eyes.