Blue Damask Read online

  “Is that what they say?” She allowed him to see her genuine surprise at hearing this. “I assure you, the only thing I know about railways is that the trains are always late and one’s baggage tends to get misplaced.”

  “What are you doing with Lord Sonnenby?”

  This question she had an answer for. “I am his moll.” She gave him a naughty smile this time. Thompson was taken aback at the use of the word, but was torn between the logic of her answer and her display of intellect. She enjoyed his confusion and turned away to hide her smile and to appear demure. She took a step and then another as though she might pace the room. She looked over her shoulder as she moved. She wanted to watch him watch her.

  Again, his eyes were for her hands, not for her breasts or her hips. She dropped a hip as she walked to make her backside sway and swing the beaded fringe on the blue damask stretched over her rounded bottom, but his eyes were not diverted. She raised a hand to move a lock of her hair from her face and his eyes followed the motion. She turned to him. “I am good company,” she insisted, and twisted her shoulders to make her breasts bounce.

  “Indeed,” he said, but not with the thickening of voice she was so familiar with when dealing with men who looked at her as though her tailored suits were transparent. His voice registered an intense curiosity and yet no trace of lust at all. She moved her hands. He liked her hands. She would work with them instead.

  “What is it you want to know?” She asked. Sometimes being straightforward shook up a man who was used to subterfuge.

  He responded immediately. “You shouldn’t be here, yet you are. We want to know why. Simple enough.”

  “I told you. I am here with Lord Sonnenby, Nothing more, nothing less.” It was perfectly true. He could see the honesty in her eyes and it confused him.

  “He is a lucky man,” he said graciously, watching her.

  Elsa touched her hair again, and again his eyes followed her hands. They softened when he looked at them. She quickly went through everything she could remember about the English. Thompson was a small man, and rather frail looking, the opposite of Sonnenby. But they had both gone to the same kind of upper class schools, judging by their identical dialects.

  She smiled pleasantly so as not to give away the direction of her thoughts. Small men tended to overcompensate. Being small was not necessarily something that led to sexual deviancy, but in the context of the highly competitive environment of school…she narrowed her eyes as she considered the effects of bullying on little men.

  She did not think he was a homosexual. A homosexual would not be looking at her with sexual interest at all. This man found something about her hands irresistible. This man was devouring her hands with his eyes. What else could it be? Elsa was excellent at mathematics and suddenly two and two added up fairly quickly. She turned and raised her hand high above shoulder level and moved with sinewy grace in Thompson’s direction. She hardened her eyes, and pressed her lips together in a firm and disapproving line.

  He was intrigued. She watched his eyes follow her hand. She paused with her hand in the air near her ear for a few seconds, and then brought it down quickly, with a whip snap against her thigh, making a loud smack that echoed in the little room. He gasped and his blue eyes dilated and contracted. Elsa pretended she was having a little temper tantrum.

  “Gott im Himmel!” she cried, “Mr. Thompson, are you going to charge me with a crime?”

  He was visibly disconcerted. His mouth opened and closed a few times soundlessly, and then, “Miss Schluss, please calm yourself.”

  “You must tell me now!” she raised her voice and emphasized the German pronunciation of the consonants.

  Thompson began to breathe a little faster, obviously unused to women and even more unused to tall German women having tantrums. She pressed her advantage. “Vell?” she insisted with exaggerated German fricatives and a heavy rolling ‘r’, “Put me in prrrison, Mr. Thompson! Put me in chains, Mr. Thompson! Beat me! Let me go or charge me mit a crime, or else I vill take a hand to you!” She raised her hand high as though to slap his face and shimmied her shoulders just enough to make her breasts bob. “I vill beat your backside until you scream!” She took a step toward him.

  She glanced down below his waist to see that his trousers now appeared to be uncomfortably tight. A heavy blush rushed up his neck and colored his face as he followed her eyes. He turned on his heel and left her there, shutting the door behind him with a solid thump. She relaxed and smoothed her hair and smiled to herself. She had his number.

  No one else came to question her. She paced the room again, thinking of Sonnenby and Descartes. In her worry, she picked at the loose beads that were falling from her gown like little glass grains of sand. She sat in the metal chairs, then on the desk, then paced some more. No more howls had come down the corridor. After an hour a man in uniform appeared at the door and told her to follow him. She did. He led her to the front door, stepped aside and bowed slightly from the waist as a doorman might do.

  “Where is Lord Sonnenby?” she demanded. “Where is Monsieur Descartes?” She insisted. Elsa was not going to be put out like a cat.

  “You wished to be charged or released, fraulein. You are now released.” Elsa would not leave. It would be a terrible idea to walk about Baghdad in the blue damask, now nearly in tatters, without a veil. She had no money and her briefcase was not in her hand.

  But a familiar voice from outside called to her. “Come, cherie. Come.”

  Elsa flew out the door and down the three steps to the street. Descartes took her elbow before she could step into the traffic and steered her to the left and along the road under the telegraph wires. “Vite, vite, vous devez vous dépêcher, hurry, hurry,” he urged.

  She stumbled on the hem of the dress. He steadied her, almost dragging her until they passed a narrow alley. He pushed her in between the tall walls among the rubbish between the buildings.

  “What a scene you make in the streets of Baghdad,” he gasped.

  Elsa looked over his shoulder at the street behind him. There was quite a bit of traffic. People, trucks, donkeys, mules, automobiles. It was busy. But there was no scene. She looked up at him, puzzled.

  “What happened? Where is Lord Sonnenby?”

  “One thing at a time, fraulein.” He was still panting. He took off the fedora and slapped it against his knee and put it back on. “Our things are still at my friend’s modest house. We go there.”

  “No! Isn’t he the one to turned us in? We can’t go back.”

  “He did not. His neighbors did. The British always pay for information and the locals are eager for their coin. You can understand that. But we go back. You want your things? Yes?”

  She agreed with a nod and Descartes took her elbow again and steered her through the alley and out onto a much smaller street. It was less busy, but curious eyes followed her and she understood now what he meant. She was nearly naked in the blue damask, the silk had shredded from the knees down and some of the beads were hanging from strings like the fringe. Her arms and shoulders were exposed without a veil and the sun beat down upon her hair and her face.

  “We must get you indoors,” he was moving quickly and Elsa did her best to keep pace. At least the soft leather ankle boots Farmadi had given her were holding up. She was sweating and panting when they finally arrived at his friend’s house on the quiet street. He pushed her through the door and said, “Go inside. I will get what we need.”

  Elsa sat gratefully on the brick bench in the cool darkness of the small room. Descartes returned after only a few minutes with three more men, all heavily laden. The door closed Descartes and Elsa were alone with a half barrel of water, some soap in paper wrappers a tray of food and three pitchers.

  “Where is Sonnenby?” she asked him again.

  “They still have him, cherie.” He unwrapped one of the soap packages and held it up like it was a treasure. “You must bathe and dress before we can go anywhere else. Let me help you.” He led
her to the tub and worked on the hooks that fastened the dress behind her back.

  She realized what she must look like. She had been wearing this dress for nearly four days, across miles of desert on a camel, perched on a rock, in the sand, on a camel again. She looked down as the beaded bodice loosened. Her breasts were tanned above the dress line, white below. The blue silk had faded in some places and not in others. Her hair was coming loose from the long braid she had plaited days ago. Descartes was pulling at the back.

  “Those buttons don’t come undone,” she told him. “Here, I have it. Let me do the rest.”

  “For your hair,” he said and produced a comb.

  “Turn around, s'il vous plait,” she said and he did. Elsa climbed into the little tub. The water had not been heated, but that was not important. It felt cool and refreshing. She was able to sit on the bottom with her knees bent. The water came up half way over her body and floated her breasts.

  Descartes sat on the brick bench and leaned back against the wall with a great sigh.

  “Merde,” he breathed. “Mr. Thompson could not sign that paper fast enough to get you out. He did not have your finger marks on his neck, cherie, but whatever you did was very effective. He was shaking like a leaf. Mon Dieu, it is over.”

  She worked up a lather with the block of coarse soap and rubbed her arms. “It is not over,” she argued. “We must get Lord Sonnenby out.”

  “How? He is English. The English have him. They have a great many guns, fraulein. It is the Army Depot. I was able to get you out, but they would not give him to me.”

  “How did you get me out?” She used one of the pitchers to pour water over her head and began to work the soap into her hair.

  “I am of no interest to them. I was able to produce my passport and yours. They made a telephone call to Damascus and spoke to my superviseur. I vouched for you and it was enough for Mr. Thompson. You were dressed as a prostituée, Cherie. It was easy. I said you were our whore.”

  She laughed softly. “I am a wife for the locals and a whore for the Europeans.”

  “I will say what I think they already believe. It is easier that way.”

  “You would make a good psychologist.” She poured the cool water over her head. “You found the passports?”

  “Oui.”

  “Good.” She rinsed her hair and rubbed her face with a cloth that Descartes had placed on the edge of the barrel. She rubbed her ears; it seemed she could not get all the sand out. “But I am not leaving without my patient.”

  Descartes did not answer her with a word, but with a groan. She finished bathing and made to stand before she realized there was nothing to wear.

  “Here, I have a dress for you,” Descartes stood and brought her some soft cloth, dark, almost black.

  She put it on and tied it around her waist with a sash he handed her. It was a simple smock, high at the neck and low around her bare feet. The sleeves were long and covered her hands.

  Descartes stepped back to look at it. “It is a man’s robe,” he told her. “The women’s clothing in the bazaar was too small for you, cherie. But I will say, it does not look manly on you at all.” He bent to pick up a dark veil. “You can cover your hair with this when you go out, but for now this outfit should do. I could not find proper European fashions for you in the time I had.” He sounded apologetic.

  Elsa took his hands and squeezed them. “Merci, you have done well. Thank you.”

  “I must wash, now. Turn around, cheri.”

  Elsa smiled at him and moved to the tray, picking at the dates and olives. She lifted a piece of bread and dipped it in the hummus. There was also bowl of yogurt and some chopped mint and cucumber. She tried to eat slowly. Behind her she heard soft splashing as Descartes rinsed himself in the tub.

  She said to him, “They are keeping him in that building? They are not moving him?”

  “I am not in their confidence. They would not have told me, but I saw no signs of any preparation to move him.”

  “Good. Then he will be there when I go back.”

  The splashing stopped. “You cannot go back.”

  “I will.” She peeled back a date with her teeth and lifted the sharp pit out with her fingers and laid it on the tray next to the others. “They will not have him. I have power of attorney. I can get him out.” Her imagination had already tortured her with visions of him in a straightjacket again, or in restraints. In a cell. She turned around and asked him, “They beat him, didn’t they?”

  “They did, cherie,” he said sadly. “But he struck at them, first. He went into a frenzy when they tried to handcuff him. I could hear them beat him.”

  She ground her teeth. She made a fist and began pacing the small room, aware that Descartes had stopped bathing and was watching her with alarm.

  “I admit I have tried to understand men,” she breathed, “ever since I stopped one of my brothers from poking a toad with a stick when I was four years old.” She brought her fist down onto her open palm. “But now I am beginning to understand them,” she seethed. “I am finally beginning to understand.”

  She heard the sound of water again and the sound of him getting out of the tub. He wrapped the cloth around his waist and reached for fresh khakis he had folded next to the tub. She turned away and rubbed her face with both hands.

  “How is your leg?” she asked.

  “Beautiful, cherie. There is little pain, and no infection.”

  “Good.” Elsa picked up another piece of bread and tore it with her teeth. “I will get him out,” she said.

  “Tell me how, my darling, and I will help. But I do not see how we can take him out of the English Army Headquarters in Baghdad. Your power of attorney is contingent on Marshall’s death. They do not have his death certificate. They would want to confirm his death before honoring your rights. Besides, if they claim Sonnenby as a traitor to the crown, that little piece of paper is meaningless.”

  She thought. “He is still considered legally insane. They cannot prosecute him for treason. But you are right that Marshall’s paper will not get him out. But Mr. Marshall could.” She put her fingers to her temples and paced the room.

  Every man had a weakness, some had many. The key was to identify that weak area and exploit it. A warrior or soldier would quickly find the physical weakness in his opponent. She would find the mental one. First step was to discover their private fears.

  “What do the English fear the most?” she asked Descartes.

  “A properly seared steak,” he answered as he pulled on his boot.

  She laughed, then sobered. “What else,” she murmured to herself. She had very little experience with Englishmen in person. She had learned English so she could read their literature in the original language. She had treated a few English prisoners, but had no conversations with them. They would not speak to her despite her many attempts.

  She had been assigned to them because of her English skills, but they would say little besides “water”. It was their duty to remain silent and not speak to the Germans. She tapped her chin. These were military men, not lawyers. Army men. Men following orders.

  She narrowed her eyes. Orders. They must obey their orders. Here was a real weakness. The military did not train their common soldiers to think. Quite the contrary. They trained them only to obey. English soldiers especially. A slow smile spread across her face.

  She turned to Descartes, “You have Mr. Marshall’s passport?”

  “Oui.”

  “His gold tie tack and cuff links?”

  “Yes, they are here in your briefcase. What are you thinking, cherie?”

  “I want you to go to the bazaar and buy me an Englishman.”

  Descartes had finished dressing and was using the comb across his head. He stopped. “Say again? My English is functional…but…”

  “You heard me. I want you to go to the bazaar or the kasbah and get me an Englishman.” She went to her briefcase and withdrew Marshall’s passport and flipped to the pho
tograph. “Good. The photograph is just as plain and simple as we need it to be.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “You get me an Englishman. Baghdad is thick with them. Get me one from London, not one of the country dialects. Definitely not Welsh or Irish. He must have dark hair.” She held up the passport and touched Marshall’s photograph. “And very important, he must sound like Marshall. That’s how you will know you have a good one.”

  She saw her plan start to dawn on Descartes’ face. “And this purchased Englishman will do this for us, why?”

  “Because we have at least a hundred grams of gold here. The tack alone is fifty grams,” she smiled again. “I am sure you can find a man with gambling debts or an alcohol habit who would spend half a day to earn a half year’s wages. I have discovered that men in the desert are extremely mercenary.”

  “You are clever, Mademoiselle Schluss,” he rubbed his chin, “But will it work?”

  “You tell him he will not be paid until Lord Sonnenby has passed through this doorway.” She pointed at the door. “Show him the tacks, buy him a suit. Give him the passport.”

  “And the army? They will make a phone call, cherie.”

  “We are the only people who know that Mr. Marshall is dead. Let them make the phone call. I am betting heavily that they have already made many phone calls and have been told that Lord Sonnenby is in Archibald Marshall’s custody. We only have to produce Field Agent Marshall.”

  “And if they ask to put Marshall on the line?”

  “Really, how clear is the line? Any London man can say, ‘Yes, I am here and I am collecting Lord Sonnenby.’”

  “What if someone inside knows him?” Descartes was going through his satchel.

  “Mr. Marshall is not a military man, and Lord Sonnenby has been long discharged from the Army. Neither man is under the authority of this office, monsieur. It is unlikely they move in the same circles. If they have orders to release Lord Sonnenby to the Foreign Office, and we have Marshall’s passport and papers, they will. I imagine they will be glad to be rid of him. I will need some good paper to compose the orders. Can you get me some?”