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Catherine went on:

‘Always I have hated you from that first morning you came in and demanded to see Dr Rathbone with such rudeness.’

Searching about for an irritant, Victoria said:

‘At any rate I’m much more indispensable than you are. Anybody could do your hospital nurse act. But the whole thing depends on me doing mine.’

Catherine said with prim smugness:

‘Nobody is indispensable. We are taught that.’

‘Well I am. For goodness’ sake order up a substantial meal. If I don’t get something to eat, how do you expect me to give a good performance of an American banker’s secretary when the time comes?’

‘I suppose you might as well eat while you can,’ said Catherine grudgingly.

Victoria took no notice of the sinister implication.

V

Captain Crosbie said:

‘I understand you’ve got a Miss Harden just arrived.’

The suave gentleman in the office of the Babylonian Palace inclined his head.

‘Yes, sir. From England.’

‘She’s a friend of my sister’s. Will you take my card up to her.’

He pencilled a few words on the card and sent it up in an envelope.

Presently the boy who had taken it returned.

‘The lady is not well, sir. Very bad throat. Doctor coming soon. She has hospital nurse with her.’

Crosbie turned away. He went along to the Tio where he was accosted by Marcus.

‘Ah, my dear, let us have a drink. This evening my hotel is quite full. It is for the Conference. But what a pity, Dr Pauncefoot Jones went back to his Expedition the day before yesterday and now here is his wife who arrives and expects that he will be here to meet her. And she is not pleased, no! She says she told him she was coming on this plane. But you know what he is like, that one. Every date, every time – he always gets it wrong. But he is a very nice man,’ finished Marcus with his usual charity. ‘And I have had to squeeze her in somehow – I turn out a very important man from UNO –’

‘Baghdad seems quite mad.’

‘All the police they have drafted in – they are taking great precautions – they say – have you heard? – there is a Communist plot to assassinate the President. They have arrested sixty-five students! Have you seen the Russian policemen? They are very suspicious of everybody. But all this is very good for trade – very good indeed.’

VI

The telephone bell rang and was promptly answered.

‘American Embassy.’

‘This is the Babylonian Palace Hotel. Miss Anna Scheele is staying here.’

Anna Scheele? Presently one of the Attachés was speaking. Could Miss Scheele come to the phone?

‘Miss Scheele is ill in bed with laryngitis. This is Dr Smallbrook. I am attending Miss Scheele. She has some important papers with her and would like some responsible person from the Embassy to come and fetch them. Immediately? Thank you. I will be waiting for you.’

VII

Victoria turned from the mirror. She was wearing a well-cut tailored suit. Every blonde hair was in place. She felt nervous but exhilarated.

As she turned, she caught the exultant gleam in Catherine’s eyes and was suddenly on her guard. Why was Catherine exultant?

What was going on?

‘What are you so pleased about?’ she asked.

‘Soon you will see.’

The malice was quite unconcealed now.

‘You think you are so clever,’ said Catherine scornfully. ‘You think everything depends on you. Pah, you are just a fool.’

With a bound Victoria was upon her! She caught her by the shoulder and dug her fingers in.

‘Tell me what you mean, you horrible girl.’

‘Ach – you hurt me.’

‘Tell me –’

A knock came on the door. A knock twice repeated and then after a pause, a single one.

‘Now you will see!’ cried Catherine.

The door opened and a man slipped in. He was a tall man, dressed in the uniform of the International Police. He locked the door behind him and removed the key. Then he advanced to Catherine.

‘Quickly,’ he said.

He took a length of thin cord from his pocket and, with Catherine’s full co-operation, bound her swiftly to a chair. Then he produced a scarf and tied it over her mouth. He stood back and nodded appreciatively.

‘So – that will do nicely.’

Then he turned towards Victoria. She saw the heavy truncheon he was brandishing and in a moment it flashed across her brain what the real plan was. They had never intended that she should play the part of Anna Scheele at the Conference. How could they risk such a thing? Victoria was too well known in Baghdad? No, the plan was, had always been, that Anna Scheele should be attacked and killed at the last moment – killed in such a way that her features would not be recognizable…Only the papers she had brought with her – those carefully forged papers – would remain.

Victoria turned away to the window – she screamed. And with a smile the man came at her.

Then several things happened – there was a crash of broken glass – a heavy hand sent her headlong down – she saw stars – and blackness…Then out of the blackness a voice spoke, a reassuring English voice.

‘Are you all right, Miss?’ it asked.

Victoria murmured something.

‘What did she say?’ asked a second voice.

The first man scratched his head.

‘Said it was better to serve in Heaven than reign in Hell,’ he said doubtfully.

‘That’s a quotation,’ said the other. ‘But she’s got it wrong,’ he added.

‘No, I haven’t,’ said Victoria and fainted.

VIII

The telephone rang and Dakin picked up the receiver. A voice said:

‘Operation Victoria successfully concluded.’

‘Good,’ said Dakin.

‘We’ve got Catherine Serakis and the medico. The other fellow threw himself off the balcony. He’s fatally injured.’

‘The girl’s not hurt?’

‘She fainted – but she’s OK.’

‘No news still of the real A. S.?’

‘No news whatever.’

Dakin laid down the receiver.

At any rate Victoria was all right – Anna herself, he thought, must be dead…She had insisted on playing a lone hand, had reiterated that she would be in Baghdad without fail on the 19th. Today was the 19th and there was no Anna Scheele. Perhaps she had been right not to trust the official set-up – he didn’t know. Certainly there had been leakages – betrayals. But apparently her own native wits had served her no better…

And without Anna Scheele, the evidence was incomplete.

A messenger came in with a piece of paper on which was written Mr Richard Baker and Mrs Pauncefoot Jones.

‘I can’t see anybody now,’ said Dakin. ‘Tell them I am very sorry. I am engaged.’

The messenger withdrew, but presently he returned. He handed Dakin a note.

Dakin tore open the envelope and read:

‘I want to see you about Henry Carmichael. R. B.’

‘Show him in,’ said Dakin.

Presently Richard Baker and Mrs Pauncefoot Jones came in. Richard Baker said:

‘I don’t want to take up your time, but I was at school with a man called Henry Carmichael. We lost sight of each other for many years, but when I was at Basrah a few weeks ago I encountered him in the Consulate waiting-room. He was dressed as an Arab, and without giving any overt sign of recognition, he managed to communicate with me. Does this interest you?’

‘It interests me very much,’ said Dakin.

‘I formed the idea that Carmichael believed himself to be in danger. This was very soon verified. He was attacked by a man with a revolver which I managed to knock up. Carmichael took to his heels but before he went, he slipped something into my pocket which I found later – it didn’t appear to be important – it seems to be just a “chit” – a reference for one Ahmed Mohammed. But I acted on the assumption that to Carmichael it was important.’

‘Since he gave me no instructions, I kept it carefully, believing that he would one day reclaim it. The other day I learnt from Victoria Jones that he was dead. From other things she told me, I have come to the conclusion that the right person to deliver this object to is you.’

He got up and placed a dirty sheet of paper with writing on it on Dakin’s desk.

‘Does this mean anything to you?’

Dakin drew a deep sigh.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It means more than you can possibly imagine.’

He got up.

‘I’m deeply obliged to you, Baker,’ he said. ‘Forgive my cutting this interview short, but there is a lot that I have to see to without wasting a minute.’ He shook hands with Mrs Pauncefoot Jones, saying, ‘I suppose you are joining your husband on his Dig. I hope you have a good season.’

‘It’s a good thing Pauncefoot Jones didn’t come into Baghdad with me this morning,’ said Richard. ‘Dear old John Pauncefoot Jones doesn’t notice much that goes on, but he’d probably notice the different between his wife and his wife’s sister.’

Dakin looked with slight surprise at Mrs Pauncefoot Jones. She said in a low pleasant voice.

‘My sister Elsie is still in England. I dyed my hair black and came out on her passport. My sister’s maiden name was Elsie Scheele. My name, Mr Dakin, is Anna Scheele.’

CHAPTER 24

Baghdad was transformed. Police lined the streets – police drafted in from outside, the International Police. American and Russian Police stood side by side with impassive faces.

Rumours were spreading the whole time – neither of the Great Ones was coming! Twice the Russian plane, duly escorted, landed – and proved to contain only a young Russian pilot!

But at last the news went round that all was well. The President of the United States and the Russian Dictator were here, in Baghdad. They were in the Regent’s Palace.

At last the historic Conference had begun.

In a small ante-room certain events were taking place which might well alter the course of history. Like most momentous happenings, the proceedings were not at all dramatic.

Doctor Alan Breck of the Harwell Atomic Institute contributed his quota of information in a small precise voice.

Certain specimens had been left with him for analysis by the late Sir Rupert Crofton Lee. They had been acquired in the course of one of Sir Rupert’s journeys through China and Turkestan through Kurdistan to Iraq. Dr Breck’s evidence then became severely technical. Metallic ores…high uranium content…Source of deposit not known exactly, since Sir Rupert’s notes and diaries had been destroyed during the war by enemy action.

Then Mr Dakin took up the tale. In a gentle tired voice he told the saga of Henry Carmichael, of his belief in certain rumours and wild tales of vast installations and underground laboratories functioning in a remote valley beyond the bounds of civilization. Of his search – and of the success of his search. Of how that great traveller, Sir Rupert Crofton Lee, the man who had believed Carmichael because of his own knowledge of those regions, had agreed to come to Baghdad, and of how he had died. And of how Carmichael had met his own death at the hands of Sir Rupert’s impersonator.

‘Sir Rupert is dead, and Henry Carmichael is dead. But there is a third witness who is alive and who is here today. I will call upon Miss Anna Scheele to give us her testimony.’

Anna Scheele, as calm and composed as if she were in Mr Morganthal’s office, gave lists of names and figures. From the depths of that remarkable financial brain of hers, she outlined the vast financial network that had drained money from circulation, and poured it into the financing of activities that should tend to split the civilized world into two opposing factions. It was no mere assertion. She produced facts and figures to support her contention. To those who listened she carried a conviction that was not as yet fully accorded to Carmichael’s wild tale.

Dakin spoke again:

‘Henry Carmichael is dead,’ he said. ‘But he brought back with him from that hazardous journey tangible and definite proofs. He did not dare to keep those proofs on him – his enemies were too close on his track. But he was a man of many friends. By the hands of two of those friends, he sent the proofs to the safe keeping of another friend – a man whom all Iraq reveres and respects. He has courteously consented to come here to-day. I refer to Sheikh Hussein el Ziyara of Kerbela.’

Sheikh Hussein el Ziyara was renowned, as Dakin had said, throughout the Moslem world, both as a Holy Man and a poet of renown. He was considered by many to be a Saint. He stood up now, an imposing figure with his deep brown hennaed beard. His grey jacket edged with gold braid was covered by a flowing brown cloak of gossamer fineness. Round his head he wore a green cloth head-dress which was bound with many strands of heavy gold agal and which gave him a patriarchal appearance. He spoke in a deep sonorous voice.

‘Henry Carmichael was my friend,’ he said. ‘I knew him as a boy and he studied with me the verses of our great poets. Two men came to Kerbela, men who travel the country with a picture show. They are simple men, but good followers of the Prophet. They brought me a packet which they said they had been told to deliver into my hands from my friend the Englishman Carmichael. I was to keep this in secrecy and security and to deliver it only to Carmichael himself, or to a messenger who would repeat certain words. If in truth you are the messenger, speak, my son.’

Dakin said, ‘Sayyid, the Arabic poet Mutanabbi, “the Pretender to prophecy”, who lived just one thousand years ago, wrote an Ode to Prince Sayfu ’l-Dawla at Aleppo in which those words occur: Zid hashshi bashshi tafaddal adni surra sili.’

With a smile Sheikh Hussein el Ziyara held out a packet to Dakin.

‘I say as Prince Sayfu ’l-Dawla said: “You shall have your desire…”’

‘Gentlemen,’ said Dakin. ‘These are the microfilms brought back by Henry Carmichael in proof of his story…’

One more witness spoke – a tragic broken figure: an old man with a fine domed head who had once been universally admired and respected.

He spoke with a tragic dignity.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I shall shortly be arraigned as a common swindler. But there are some things that even I cannot countenance. There is a band of men, mostly young men, so evil in their hearts and aims that the truth would hardly be believed.’

He lifted up his head and roared out:

‘Antichrist! I say this thing must be stopped! We have got to have peace – peace to lick our wounds and make a new world – and to do that we must to try to understand each other. I started a racket to make money – but, by God, I’ve ended in believing in what I preach – though I don’t advocate the methods I’ve used. For God’s sake, gentlemen, let’s start again and try to pull together…’

There was a moment’s silence, and then a thin official voice, with the bloodless impersonality of bureaucracy said:

‘These facts will be put forthwith before the President of the United States of America and the Premier of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics…’

CHAPTER 25

I

‘What bothers me,’ said Victoria, ‘is that poor Danish woman who got killed by mistake in Damascus.’

‘Oh! she’s all right,’ said Mr Dakin cheerfully. ‘As soon as your plane had taken off, we arrested the French woman and took Grete Harden to hospital. She came round all right. They were going to keep her drugged for a bit until they were sure the Baghdad business went off all right. She was one of our people of course.’