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Victoria leaned back against the upholstery and gave herself up to contemplation of possible alternatives. She could, as they were passing through Baghdad, or when they got to the frontier control, make an agitation, scream for help, explain that she was being carried off against her will – in fact, adopt one or other variants of immediate protest.

What would that accomplish? In all probability it would mean the end of Victoria Jones. She had noticed that Sister Thérèse had slipped into her sleeve a small and businesslike automatic pistol. She could be given no chance of talking.

Or she could wait until she got to Damascus? Make her protest there? Possibly the same fate would be meted out, or her statements might be overborne by the evidence of the driver and her fellow nun. They might be able to produce papers saying that she was mentally afflicted.

The best alternative was to go through with things – to acquiesce in the plan. To come to Baghdad as Anna Scheele and to play Anna Scheele’s part. For, after all, if she did so, there would come a moment, at the final climax, when Edward could no longer control her tongue or her actions. If she could continue to convince Edward that she would do anything he told her, then the moment would come when she was standing with her forged documents before the Conference – and Edward would not be there.

And no one could stop her then from saying, ‘I am not Anna Scheele and these papers are forged and untrue.’

She wondered that Edward did not fear her doing just that. But she reflected that vanity was a strangely blinding quality. Vanity was the Achilles heel. And there was also the fact to be considered that Edward and his crowd had more or less got to have an Anna Scheele if their scheme was to succeed. To find a girl who sufficiently resembled Anna Scheele – even to the point of having a scar in the right place – was extremely difficult. In The Lyons Mail, Victoria remembered, Dubosc having a scar above one eyebrow and also of having a distortion, one by birth and one by accident, of the little finger of one hand. These coincidences must be very rare. No, the Supermen needed Victoria Jones, typist – and to that extent Victoria Jones had them in her power – not the other way round.

The car sped across the bridge. Victoria watched the Tigris with a nostalgic longing. Then they were speeding along a wide dusty highway. Victoria let the beads of her Rosary pass through her fingers. Their click was comforting.

‘After all,’ thought Victoria with sudden comfort. ‘I am a Christian. And if you’re a Christian, I suppose it’s a hundred times better to be a Christian Martyr than a King in Babylon – and I must say, there seems to me a great possibility that I am going to be a Martyr. Oh! well, anyway, it won’t be lions. I should have hated lions!’

CHAPTER 23

I

The big Skymaster swooped down from the air and made a perfect landing. It taxied gently along the runway and presently came to a stop at the appointed place. The passengers were invited to descend. Those going on to Basrah were separated from those who were catching a connecting plane to Baghdad.

Of the latter there were four. A prosperous-looking Iraqi business man, a young English doctor and two women. They all passed through the various controls and questioning.

A dark woman with untidy hair imperfectly bound in a scarf and a tired face came first.

‘Mrs Pauncefoot Jones? British. Yes. To join your husband. Your address in Baghdad, please? What money have you…?’

It went on. Then the second woman took the first one’s place.

‘Grete Harden. Yes. Nationality? Danish. From London. Purpose of visit? Masseuse at hospital? Address in Baghdad? What money have you?’

Grete Harden was a thin, fair-haired young woman wearing dark glasses. Some rather blotchily applied cosmetic concealed what might have been a blemish on her upper lip. She wore neat but slightly shabby clothes.

Her French was halting – occasionally she had to have the question repeated.

The four passengers were told that the Baghdad plane took off that afternoon. They would be driven now to the Abbassid Hotel for a rest and lunch.

Grete Harden was sitting on her bed when a tap came on the door. She opened it and found a tall dark young woman wearing BOAC uniform.

‘I’m so sorry, Miss Harden. Would you come with me to the BOAC office? A little difficulty has arisen about your ticket. This way, please.’

Grete Harden followed her guide down the passage. On a door was a large board lettered in gold – BOAC office.

The air hostess opened the door and motioned the other inside. Then, as Grete Harden passed through, she closed the door from outside and quickly unhooked the board.

As Grete Harden came through the door, two men who had been standing behind it passed a cloth over her head. They stuffed a gag into her mouth. One of them rolled her sleeve up, and bringing out a hyperdermic syringe gave her an injection.

In a few minutes her body sagged and went limp.

The young doctor said cheerfully, ‘That ought to take care of her for about six hours, anyway. Now then, you two, get on with it.’

He nodded towards two other occupants of the room. They were nuns who were sitting immobile by the window. The men went out of the room. The elder of the two nuns went to Grete Harden and began to take the clothes off her inert body. The younger nun, trembling a little, started taking off her habit. Presently Grete Harden, dressed in a nun’s habit, lay reposefully on the bed. The younger nun was now dressed in Grete Harden’s clothes.

The older nun turned her attention to her companion’s flaxen hair. Looking at a photograph which she propped up against the mirror, she combed and dressed the hair, bringing it back from the forehead and coiling it low on the neck.

She stepped back and said in French:

‘Astonishing how it changes you. Put on the dark spectacles. Your eyes are too deep a blue. Yes – that is admirable.’

There was a slight tap on the door and the two men came in again. They were grinning.

‘Grete Harden is Anna Scheele all right,’ one said. ‘She’d got the papers in her luggage, carefully camouflaged between the leaves of a Danish publication on “Hospital Massage”. Now then, Miss Harden,’ he bowed with mock ceremony to Victoria, ‘you will do me the honour to have lunch with me.’

Victoria followed him out of the room and along to the hall. The other woman passenger was trying to send off a telegram at the desk.

‘No,’ she was saying, ‘P A U N C E foot. Dr Pauncefoot Jones. Arriving today Tio Hotel, Good journey.’

Victoria looked at her with sudden interest. This must be Dr Pauncefoot Jones’ wife, coming out to join him. That she was a week earlier than expected did not seem to Victoria at all extraordinary since Dr Pauncefoot Jones had several times lamented that he had lost her letter giving the date of arrival but that he was almost certain it was the 26th!

If only she could somehow or other send a message through Mrs Pauncefoot Jones to Richard Baker…

Almost as though he read her thoughts, the man accompanying her steered her by the elbow away from the desk.

‘No conversation with fellow travellers, Miss Harden,’ he said. ‘We don’t want that good woman to notice that you’re a different person from the one she came out from England with.’

He took her out of the hotel to a restaurant for lunch. As they came back, Mrs Pauncefoot Jones was coming down the steps of the hotel. She nodded without suspicion at Victoria.

‘Been sight-seeing?’ she called. ‘I’m just going to the bazaars.’

‘If I could slip something into her luggage…’ thought Victoria.

But she was not left alone for a moment.

The Baghdad plane left at three o’clock.

Mrs Pauncefoot Jones’ seat was right up in front. Victoria’s was in the tail, near the door, and across the aisle sat the fair young man who was her gaoler. Victoria had no chance of reaching the other woman or of introducing a message into any of her belongings.

The flight was not a long one. For the second time, Victoria looked down from the air and saw the city outlined below her, the Tigris dividing it like a streak of gold.

So she had seen it less than a month ago. How much had happened since then.

In two days’ time the men who represented the two predominant ideologies of the world would meet here to discuss the future.

And she, Victoria Jones, would have a part to play.

II

‘You know,’ said Richard Baker, ‘I’m worried about that girl.’

Dr Pauncefoot Jones said vaguely:

‘What girl?’

‘Victoria.’

‘Victoria?’ Dr Pauncefoot Jones peered about. ‘Where is – why, God bless me, we came back without her yesterday.’

‘I wondered if you’d noticed it,’ said Richard.

‘Very remiss of me. I was so interested by that report of the Excavations at Tell Bamdar. Completely unsound stratification. Didn’t she know where to find the lorry?’

‘There was no question of her coming back here,’ said Richard. ‘As a matter of fact, she isn’t Venetia Savile.’

‘Not Venetia Savile? How very odd. But I thought you said her Christian name was Victoria.’

‘It is. But she’s not an anthropologist. And she doesn’t know Emerson. As a matter of fact, the whole thing has been a – well – a misunderstanding.’

‘Dear me. That seems very odd.’ Dr Pauncefoot Jones reflected for some moments. ‘Very odd. I do hope – am I to blame? I know I am somewhat absent-minded. The wrong letter, perhaps?’

‘I can’t understand it,’ said Richard Baker, frowning and paying no attention to Dr Pauncefoot Jones’ speculations. ‘She went off in a car with a young man, it seems, and she didn’t come back. What’s more, her baggage was there and she hadn’t bothered to open it. That seems to me very strange – considering the mess she was in. I’d have thought she’d be sure to doll herself up. And we agreed to meet here for lunch…No, I can’t understand it. I hope nothing’s happened to her.’

‘Oh, I shouldn’t think so for a moment,’ said Dr Pauncefoot Jones comfortably. ‘I shall start going down in H. tomorrow. From the general plan I should say that would be the best chance of getting a record office. That fragment of tablet was very promising.’

‘They’ve kidnapped her once,’ said Richard. ‘What’s to prevent their having kidnapped her again?’

‘Very improbable – very improbable,’ said Dr Pauncefoot Jones. ‘The country’s really very settled nowadays. You said so yourself.’

‘If only I could remember the name of that man in some oil company. Was it Deacon? Deacon, Dakin? Something like that.’

‘Never heard of him,’ said Dr Pauncefoot Jones. ‘I think I shall change over Mustafa and his gang to the north-east corner. Then we might extend Trench J –’

‘Would you mind awfully, sir, if I went into Baghdad again tomorrow?’

Dr Pauncefoot Jones, suddenly giving his colleague his full attention, stared at him.

‘Tomorrow? But we were there yesterday.’

‘I’m worried about that girl. I really am.’

‘Dear me, Richard, I had no idea there was anything of that kind.’

‘What kind?’

‘That you’d formed an attachment. That’s the worst of having women on a Dig – especially good-looking ones. I really did think we were safe with Sybil Muirfield the year before last, a really distressingly plain girl – and see what came of it! I ought to have listened to Claude in London – these Frenchmen always hit the nail on the head. He commented on her legs at the time – most enthusiastic about them. Of course this girl, Victoria Venetia, whatever her name is –most attractive and such a nice little thing. You’ve got good taste, Richard, I will admit that. Funny thing, she’s the first girl I’ve ever known you take any interest in.’

‘There’s nothing of that kind,’ said Richard, blushing and looking even more supercilious than usual. ‘I’m just – er – worried about her. I must go back to Baghdad.’

‘Well, if you are going tomorrow,’ said Dr Pauncefoot Jones, ‘you might bring back those extra picks. That fool of a driver forgot them.’

III

Richard started into Baghdad at early dawn and went straight to the Tio Hotel. Here he learnt that Victoria had not returned.

‘And it was all arranged that she was to have special dinner with me,’ said Marcus. ‘And I kept her a very nice room. It is odd, is it not?’

‘Have you been to the Police?’

‘Ah no, my dear, it would not be nice, that. She might not like it. And I certainly would not like it.’

After a little inquiry, Richard tracked down Mr Dakin and called upon him in his office.

His memory of the man had not played him false. He looked at the stooping figure, the indecisive face and the slight tremor of the hands. This man was no good! He apologized to Mr Dakin if he was wasting his time but had he seen Miss Victoria Jones.

‘She called on me the day before yesterday.’

‘Can you give me her present address?’

‘She’s at the Tio Hotel, I believe.’

‘Her luggage is there, but she isn’t.’

Mr Dakin raised his eyebrows slightly.

‘She has been working with us on the Excavations at Tell Aswad,’ explained Richard.

‘Oh I see. Well – I’m afraid I don’t know anything that can help you. She has several friends in Baghdad, I believe – but I don’t know her well enough to say who they are.’

‘Would she be at this Olive Branch?’

‘I don’t think so. You could ask.’

Richard said: ‘Look here. I’m not leaving Baghdad until I find her.’

He frowned at Mr Dakin and strode out of the room.

Mr Dakin, as the door closed behind Richard, smiled and shook his head.

‘Oh Victoria,’ he murmured reproachfully.

Fuming into the Tio Hotel, Richard was met by a beaming Marcus.

‘She’s come back,’ cried Richard eagerly.

‘No, no, it’s Mrs Pauncefoot Jones. She arrives by plane today I have just heard. Dr Pauncefoot Jones, he told me she was coming next week.’

‘He always gets dates wrong. What about Victoria Jones?’

Marcus’s face went grave again.

‘No, I have heard nothing of her. And I do not like it, Mr Baker. It is not nice. She is so young a girl. And so pretty. And so gay and charming.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Richard, flinching. ‘I’d better wait over and greet Mrs Pauncefoot Jones, I suppose.’

What on earth he wondered could have happened to Victoria.

IV

‘You!’ said Victoria with undisguised hostility.

Ushered up to her room in the Babylonian Palace Hotel, the first person she saw was Catherine.

Catherine nodded her head with equal venom.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is I. And now please go to bed. The doctor will soon arrive.’

Catherine was dressed as a hospital nurse and she took her duties seriously, being obviously quite determined never to leave Victoria’s side. Victoria, lying disconsolately in bed, murmured:

‘If I could get hold of Edward –’

‘Edward – Edward!’ said Catherine scornfully. ‘Edward has never cared for you, you stupid English girl. It is me whom Edward loves!’

Victoria looked at Catherine’s stubborn fanatical face without enthusiasm.