The dour-faced security staff completed their check and radioed in. ‘A Dr Ashe for Desk. Right. Wait a second, Dr Ashe.’
The blast-proof door eased open. Behind it stood a sharp-eyed Iraqi woman.
‘I am Mrs Aziz, Mr Crayke’s assistant. Do come in.’
Crayke’s windowless office was divided into two. Electric fans operated from the ceiling and from every corner, but failed to dissipate the body odour.
Ashe heard a voice from behind the door into the inner sanctum of the SIS desk head, Baghdad.
‘Enter now, Dr Ashe.’ Mrs Aziz smiled and opened the connecting door.
Attired in a short-sleeved cotton shirt and khaki shorts, Crayke sat in a wicker armchair in a corner behind the door. His grey hair, what remained of it, was cut regimentally short about the exaggerated, bony dome of his head. His voice was deep, but slightly thin and gravelly – a result of throat-cancer surgery and a continued penchant for the occasional cheroot or pipe.
‘Good, Ashe. Come in. Welcome to the Armpit. Nice to meet you at last.’
‘At last?’
‘I’ve had my eye on you for quite some time.’ As if reading his mind, Crayke added. ‘And I am not referring to our friends Colquitt and Bagot.’
‘That’s a relief.’
‘And that is the sole relief you are likely to get here. No matter. You write interesting books, Ashe. Not all of them, of course. But one in particular struck me some years ago. It was about magical signs, cryptography and the origins of modern science. Some of it very good indeed.’
‘The Golden Thread. It didn’t sell.’
‘Too deep for the herd, I dare say. Such books may not sell, but we should be poorer without them. Nevertheless, I was not altogether convinced by some of your arguments. You’ll find understanding the esoteric a great deal easier if you first banish from your mind the concepts of God and spirits.’
‘Rather defeats the object, doesn’t it?’
‘Better, I think, than being defeated by the object.’
Ashe was in the presence of a mind: one with voltage. Baghdad suddenly looked a brighter place. Crayke pulled himself out of the creaking wicker chair and offered his long, leathery hand. ‘Ranald Crayke. But do call me “sir”. I don’t want you to get into the habit of using my name.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’ll call you Ashe, because I can’t get used to all this first name nonsense. God knows, even my wife calls me Crayke. Right. Sit down.’
Crayke seated himself behind his packed desk and spread his bat-like hands across its red leather top. ‘Seeing as I’m known to the security staff here as “Desk”, I thought I’d better have a pretty good one. Comes from Saddam’s palace, not far from here. Used to belong to the Ottoman governor of Baghdad back in the old days. Good to be in touch with history. Gives a man perspective.’
‘I feel the same, sir.’
‘I know you do. I knew your friend, the late archdeacon, very well. I am so sorry we have lost him. Gives me a certain personal interest in your current activities.’
‘Revenge, sir?’
‘Justice. It’s a politer word. Richmond tells me you need a source handler.’ Crayke lit a fat Burmese cheroot. ‘Smoke?’
‘No thanks, sir. Gave up years ago.’
Crayke puffed a deep brown-and-grey cloud into the room.
‘Good man, Major Richmond. Still, the DIA have got him for the time being.’
He inhaled his cheroot. ‘You want to find out what’s happened to these Turkish chaps.’
‘Kurdish actually.’
‘Citizens of Turkey. Resit Yazar and Ali Yildiz.’
‘Yes, sir. Find them. Talk to them. If necessary, bring them in.’
‘You’re not a cowboy, Ashe! You sound like President Bush!’
‘Excuse me, sir.’
‘Look, I have studied your preliminary request for official assistance. As far as I can see, your sole basis for linking terrorism in Istanbul to the Tower atrocity is a contact you enjoy with Turkish security forces – which you won’t name, for “operational reasons”.’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘I can tell you, Ashe, that it was only my personal intervention that secured approval of your request for resources. Predictably, objections were raised that your plans were an indulgence, a private holiday.’
‘I can think of better destinations, sir.’
Crayke laughed amid a geyser of rising phlegm. ‘Care to let me in on your little secret? Who is your Turkish contact?’
‘Colonel Mahmut Aslan, sir.’
Crayke stubbed out his cheroot. A smile emerged on his face and his eyes widened, as if gaining inspiration from a higher sphere. ‘Right. Zappa’s your man. Of course, he’s also the US Defense Intelligence Agency’s man. You’ll have to tolerate some interference from them. I can’t spare you one of my own.’
‘I’m not sure I’d like to share this with the Americans at this stage, sir.’
‘This is Baghdad, Ashe. Here we share everything – even our underwear if needs be. Mutual trust is vital in conflict zones. Do you have any objective reason why DIA involvement might prejudice your investigation? Think carefully, Ashe.’
‘Do you expect to?’
‘Too early to say, sir.’
‘I’m afraid that’s insufficient. If you want a source handler, Zappa’s the only available man with the requisite knowledge. The DIA will be prepared to keep this from the Turks, if I request it.’
‘Can you trust them to keep it from the Turks, sir? It’s most important to this operation that they know nothing. Nothing at all.’
‘I shall make that clear. By the way, Ashe, forgive me for asking, but is there an esoteric angle to your enquiries?’
‘Not that I’m aware of, sir.’
‘Hmm…’ Crayke lit another cheroot, inhaled deeply and exhaled a pillar of foul-smelling smoke.
‘When we are deeply engaged in something, Ashe, the cloud we create about us bears all the signs of the inner man. There must be something in this investigation that has made you willing to risk your life here in Iraq.’
‘I was nearly killed in England, sir.’
‘I doubt if that’s your reason. Esoteric concepts are an eternal key to thought, a persistent dimension. But they bear the imprint of the knowledge of the times in which they are expressed.’
‘Could that be, sir, why genuine traditions were not meant to be written down?’
‘All writing is, in a sense, a betrayal, Ashe. Try and remember this as you proceed.’
The door opened abruptly. Mrs Aziz stood in the doorway with a cup of strong coffee for Crayke.
‘Thank you, Mrs Aziz. Do call Major Richmond. If you can reach him before five, Mr Ashe will have a bed for the night. I’m sure he needs one. Right, Mr Ashe?’