It was a statement, not a question. The Counterintelligence man was in plain clothes but clearly an officer.
“Yes, bey .”
“Papers.”
Martin rummaged through the pockets of his dish-dash and produced his ID card and the soiled and crumpled letter originally issued to him by First Secretary Kulikov. The officer studied the card, glanced up to compare the faces, and looked at the letter.
The Israeli forgers had done their work well. The simple, stubbled face of Mahmoud Al-Khouri stared through the grubby plastic.
“Search him,” said the officer.
The other plainclothesman ran his hands over the body under the dish-dash , then shook his head. No weapons.
“Pockets.”
The pockets revealed some dinar notes, some coins, a penknife, different colored pieces of chalk, and a plastic bag. The officer held up the last piece.
“What is this?”
“The infidel threw it away. I use it for my tobacco.”
“There is no tobacco in it.”
“No, bey, I have run out. I was hoping to buy some in the market.”
“And don’t call me bey . That went out with the Turks. Where do you come from, anyway?”
Martin described the small village far in the north. “It is well known thereabouts for its melons,” he added helpfully.
“Be quiet about your thrice-damned melons!” snapped the officer, who had the impression his soldiers were trying not to smile.
A large limousine cruised into the far end of the street and stopped, two hundred yards away.
The junior officer nudged his superior and nodded. The senior man turned, looked, and told Martin,
“Wait here.”
He walked back to the large car and stooped to address someone through the rear window.
“Who have you got?” asked Hassan Rahmani.
“Gardener-handyman, sir. Works there. Does the roses and the gravel, shops for the cook.”
“Smart?”
“No, sir, practically simpleminded. A peasant from up-country, comes from some melon patch in the north.”
Rahmani thought it over. If he detained the fool, the Russians would wonder why their man had not come back. That would alert them. He hoped that if the Russian peace initiative failed, he would get his permission to raid the place. If he let the man complete his errands and return, he might alert his Soviet employers. In Rahmani’s experience there was one language every poor Iraqi spoke and spoke well. He produced a wallet and peeled out a hundred dinars.
“Give him this. Tell him to complete his shopping and return. Then he is to keep his eyes open for someone with a big, silver umbrella. If he keeps silent about us and reports tomorrow on what he has seen, he will be well rewarded. If he tells the Russians, I will hand him over to the AMAM.”
“Yes, Brigadier.”
The officer took the money, walked back, and instructed the gardener as to what he had to do. The man looked puzzled.
“An umbrella, sayidi ?”
“Yes, a big silver one, or maybe black, pointing at the sky. Have you ever seen one?”