Operation Scheherazade
by Sinbad
Chapter 14
The next two days passed in an agony of expectation. As before he spent the mornings alone at home and the afternoons at the big hotel swimming pool. But his mind was elsewhere, spinning and racing on his predicament. It was less than a week until the camel races and he didn't know whether it was safe, or even desirable, to try to contact the King. And everywhere, especially on car journeys, he kept imagining he saw a man in a suit following him.
On the third morning a telegram arrived and it made Ricky's heart soar. His father showed it to him over the breakfast table – Ricky had got used to getting up a little earlier in order to share the first meal of the day with his Dad and to see him off to work. It said: “Dad says I can visit you for rest of hols. Can I come? If so, meet BOAC plane from Heathrow tomorrow 1pm your time.” It was signed Chris Sutton.
Ricky's excitement got the better of him and he ran around the breakfast table waving the telegram and yelling “Whoopee!” and came to a halt by cannoning into his father who was seated quietly trying to eat a boiled egg. He wrapped his Dad in a bear hug and cried: “Please say he can come, Dad!? Dad?”
“Of course he can come, silly. We've loads of room here and he'll be company for you. I'll send a reply from the office in half an hour, as soon as I get there.”
“Oh, thank you Dad, this is going to be so great!”
Ricky thought Chris would be more than just company – in the circumstances he would be a life-saver.
The next twenty-four hours passed at a snail's pace and Ricky got frustrated with the wait. He paced. He paced around the house all morning and he paced around the swimming pool all afternoon. Maureen took exception and suggested he sit down and talk to her but he was having none of that. He dived into the pool and swam angrily until he tired and then he got out of the pool and paced again.
The next morning Roger told Ricky he would come out of work to collect Chris and that if he wanted to go with him to the airport he'd have to come with him to work because he would go straight from there. So Ricky found himself in the Council offices with nothing to do all morning. One of the features of the British Council service in Jordan was the library, a repository of British and English language literature and information, made available to students for study purposes. So Ricky wandered up and down the rows of shelves looking for something to engage his interest until it would be time to go. Mostly it was dull as ditch-water but he found some light novels about an elderly curmudgeon who took delight in using ancient by-laws still on the statute books to run rings around local councils and to get his own way. Misleading Cases, by A P Herbert. He spent an hour enjoying reading some of the collection of short stories.
And eventually it was time to go. He booked A P Herbert's book out of the library so he could finish reading it in his own time, and followed his father out to the car park.
The commercial airport runway had been repaired after the war, so was back to being fully operational. They parked and made their way into the arrivals area and up onto the observation balcony, from where they could watch the planes arrive and with any luck watch Chris walking from his plane across the tarmac. It was searingly hot up there at midday, and they found a table with a parasol to sit under, and Roger went to buy Pepsi for them both. While he was away a solitary man in a grey suit appeared on the balcony and went and sat at the opposite end from Ricky. He saw him and became frightened. He willed his father to return quickly. The man didn't approach or make any threatening move, but Ricky was nevertheless relieved when his father returned.
“You okay, son?”
“Yes, Dad, just impatient. The plane's late!”
“So it is, but only a couple of minutes. They can't time such long flights precisely, the journey time depends on a lot of things, including the wind direction and speed. Anyway, isn't that it arriving now?”
Sure enough, a Vickers-Armstrong VC-10 tail-engined jet, sleek and narrow, began its landing sequence, and shortly they saw it speed past them with its air brakes fully extended, its engines roaring in reverse and its wheels throwing up dust and smoke as the heavy metal cylinder struggled to scrub off speed and stop before the end of the runway.
And some minutes later it re-appeared, taxiing back to the terminal where it came to rest a hundred yards out from the building. The doors opened, steps were wheeled up to the plane, and passengers began to appear, looking dazed. Ricky could picture their emotions. He always felt the Jordanian climate hit him like a sledgehammer until he got used to it. At the distance, and without access to binoculars, neither of them could tell which alighting passenger was Chris, but as the straggly line made its way towards them Ricky recognised his friend and pointed him out to Roger. They waved but it wasn't until Chris was quite a bit nearer that he spotted them leaning over the balcony rail.
Once Chris was in the building, they went back down to arrivals and waited by the customs desk to collect him. And after they'd watched maybe forty passengers pass them, Chris appeared pushing a trolley with his one suitcase and Ricky swung him around in a big hug, both boys with uncontrollable grins on their faces.
In the Land Rover, both boys on the back seat and Chris's luggage in the boot space behind the back seat, Chris stage-whispered to Ricky: “I have a message from Mr Farquharson!”
“You have? How come?”
“That man Mr Danvers, you know, Uncle Charlie? He came and found me and gave it to me. I'll show you when we get to your house.”
“Wow.”
They fell silent, but not for long. There was too much that Ricky wanted to tell his friend, about the Hill Climb, about greysuit man, about the Ambassador. The end of the journey arrived and they were so deep in conversation they had to be prompted to get out of the car.
They had no privacy to discuss the message Chris had brought for some time. First he had to be settled into the guest bedroom, then provided with refreshments on the balcony in company with Mr Taylor, and finally Mohammed announced that tea was ready. Only after the meal was eaten could the boys retreat to Chris' room and look at the single sheet of foolscap paper that he unfolded from under the jacket of the book he had brought – The Hobbit by J R R Tolkein. He'd read it before but his mother had wanted him to take a book in case he got bored and he knew he would enjoy reading it again, and it made a good hiding place for Mr Farquharson's message.
Once unfolded, this is what they read:
Richard, please read this carefully, you may share the information with Christopher but otherwise please keep it strictly confidential.
The situation there is much more dangerous than we thought, and we think it better that you drop your plan to pass your original message to King Hussein. It appears that his success in bringing the war to a swift conclusion by brokering a peace with Israel did not meet with the approval of all of his subjects. Some have turned against him and have declared themselves dedicated to overturning his rule. What that means we don't know, but it seems likely that they will try to bring the country to its knees, perhaps by sabotage of some sort, maybe crippling its industry, or its government. In practice there are likely to be acts of terrorism in Jordan. Maybe car bombs, or suicide bombers in public places.
With that in mind, this is our advice. Sit out the remainder of your school holiday, keeping clear of anywhere that might be a target. So, don't go anywhere near the King, for a start. Don't go to the cinema, or any sports event, and don't go near any government building. Once you are back in Britain we are sure you will be safe.
We are sorry, we don't know who the stalker you wrote about is. He could be Jordanian Security, in which case he's just checking you out, making sure you're not a danger to the King. But he could be working for the terrorists. So take care!
Please re-read this letter, and discuss it with Christopher. We wish you good luck, you may need it.
Yours
Beaulieu
The letter was signed just Beaulieu, as befitted the titular owner of that name.
The two boys sat back against the headboard of the bed in Chris' room and stared at the letter. Suddenly everything had changed. No longer did Ricky feel excited by the adventure he was involved in. Instead a cold dread crept through him and he began to feel insecure. Were they safe even at home?
Chris spoke: “I really don't want to give up like this. If it's more dangerous, doesn't that mean that your message is also more important? Isn't there some way we could get it to King Hussein?”
Ricky thought of the Ambassador. He'd spoken about talking to the King, and the King had told him some quite secret things about his bodyguards. It had sounded at the time as though Mr Fielding and King Hussein saw a lot of each other, that they were friends. Could Mr Fielding get the message to the King without anyone knowing?
He discussed this idea with Chris and they agreed to ask the Ambassador. Ricky asked his father for permission to phone Roland, and got it. He phoned Roland's house, but Chris checked that Roger was out of earshot and signalled the all clear to Ricky, so that when the phone was answered by a servant, it was Roland's father that Ricky asked for.
When the Ambassador answered, Ricky began: “I've had a letter from London, and I wonder if I could talk to you about it?”
“Thought you would. Good. How is your aunt's lumbago?”
- which threw Ricky, who had no aunts. There was a long pause which the Ambassador cut short by prattling about the symptoms of lumbago. When Ricky realised what was going on, he just asked:
“Can I come over and play with Roly? Chris Sutton is here, and it would be great if the three of us could get together.”
Mr Fielding was warning him not to say too much over the telephone. He replied:
“Yes of course, Roland will be delighted to see you both. He's bored here on his own. When would suit you? I can come over and pick you up now if you like. Check with your father?”
“I'll do that now. Will you hold on?”
And Ricky ran to his father. “Can we go over to Roly's? His father will come for us!”
“Really? That's odd, he's a busy man. Are you sure he's said he'll come and get you?”
“Yes, he said so. Can we go?”
“Okay but don't come home late for bed. Two hours, no more. You hear?”
“I hear, Dad. We'll be back.”
So the two boys got picked up by the Ambassador himself, this time in his enormous Bentley limousine. They sat in the back on the vast cream leather bench seat and could kick their legs out in front of them without touching the backs of the front seats. The big car moved almost silently and they enjoyed the experience and played with all the gadgets, from the centre armrest with its concealed cigar lighter to the air conditioning controls which allowed different temperatures left and right, and face level and feet level. These toys kept them amused until they arrived at the residence and Roland came bounding down the steps to meet them.
“Chris! Good to see you, I didn't know your family had returned.”
“They haven't, they've settled in England, but I got Dad to let me come out to see Ricky.”
“Come on in, both of you. I've got a film we can watch.”
The boys looked across at each other, eyebrows raised. A film? Did he have his own cinema? But it turned out he had a small cine projector and a screen set up in his room and a collection of silent films from Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton. They watched The Gold Rush and laughed at the little man's pathos and his amazing bread roll dance.
Ricky excused himself to visit the toilet and ran down the corridor to find Mr Fielding's study, knocked on the door and breathed a sigh of relief when he heard “Come in.”
He opened the door and was surprised to find the Ambassador and another man, a man in a grey suit. He looked hard and as recognition dawned he looked horrified at the Ambassador and very nearly ran away. But Mr Fielding reached out to him and said “It's all right, this is Terry Fanshawe. He's our Embassy sleuth and he's been keeping an eye on you for me.”
“Greysuit man? He works for you?” Ricky felt his knees weakening, the man in the grey suit stepped forward and grabbed Ricky's arm just below the shoulder, pulled a chair up to him and sat him down on it. “Okay?” he asked. “You've had a bit of a shock. Sorry, that's my fault. Breathe steady, you'll soon feel better.” Looking up at the Ambassador, he asked “Do you think you could get him some of your cook's excellent lemonade, the sugar would do him good I think.”
And in no time a tray arrived with a jug of lemonade and three glasses. Greysuit man, or Mr Fanshawe as Ricky had to get used to calling him, poured him a glass and gave it to him. “Drink this, it'll help you feel better.”
“Thank you” said Ricky and drank it down.
“That's better, a bit more colour in your cheeks. My you're quite a character, young man. You made quite a fool of me in Jerash, I seem to recall!”
Ricky remembered turning and waving at the man in the grey suit when he was clearly following him and trying not to be seen doing it.
“Sorry, I just couldn't resist. I did worry about it after, if you'd been dangerous I might have put myself in danger.”
“Yes you certainly would have. Anyway, what makes you think I'm not dangerous?”
Ricky relaxed. The tone of conversation had lifted for the first time. “Was it you at Ajlun as well?”
“Ajlun? No I haven't been to Ajlun. Why, what happened there?”
Ricky told him. And afterwards Mr Fanshawe looked thoughtful, but didn't say anything.
The Ambassador spoke. “Now, Richard, what did you want with me? I assume it was me you wanted to see, that you didn't come here just to play with Roland?”
“Yes, that's right sir. It's this message. Chris brought it from the Foreign Office.”
He handed Mr Farquharson's letter to Mr Fielding who read it quietly.
“We could have told you this. Things are very tense here since the war. What was the message you were supposed to get to the King?”
“It's here, sir. I don't know what it says.”
Ricky handed Mr Fielding the dinar note with the writing on it, and he looked carefully at it, turning it around in his hands as he did so.
“I can't read Arabic script so I'll have to get someone to read it, which will be difficult without revealing the secret but I'll try.”
“I wondered, sir, can you get that dinar to the King? And tell him it comes from me?”
“Well, Richard, that's easier said than done. I don't see the King every day, you know. There are some things Ambassadors are not supposed to do, and meddling in internal affairs is one of them. This message could be construed that way. If only we knew what it said!”
Mr Fielding peered at the handwriting along the top edge of the banknote. “There's a lot of numbers, it's a mixture of numbers and letters. I don't think it's a sentence at all – look!”
Ricky could read Arabic numbers. You needed to, so you could read the price of things in shops. He took the note that the Ambassador was holding out to him. And he read:
۲۱.۳MHz ۲۱.۳۰GMT ۲۲.۱۲.۶۷
He read out: “21.3 – and then some letters. In Arabic, numbers are read left to right like in English, but letters are read right to left. But I think these are not Arabic letters at all – it's M, H, and I think z or it could be a 2. So probably they should be read left to right. Then more numbers starting the same as before with a nought on the end – 21.30. More letters, G, M and T and then 22.12.67. That's funny – it looks like a date, ... and it's today's date!”
Mr Fielding had written on a pad on his desk:
21.3MHz 21.30GMT 22.12.67
“My goodness! He's a Radio Ham! Of course!”
Ricky looked at him for an explanation but he didn't get it. The Ambassador picked up the telephone on the desk and began dialling.
The call was answered. “This is John Fielding, British Ambassador, and I have an urgent communication for His Majesty the King in person.”
Seconds passed. Then he spoke again. “I'm sorry, No. This message must be delivered to the King in person. Is he in residence? I think he will be prepared to speak to me if you ask.”
Ricky was beginning to worry. If this message was so secret, reading it to the King over an ordinary telephone line might not be the best idea – the operator might be listening, anybody might be listening. He needn't have worried.
Mr Fielding began to speak again, this time in a different tone of voice. “Your Majesty, thank you so much for coming to the phone. ... No, everything's fine. I have a guest here and I would like to show him around. Richard Taylor. ... Yes, I think you know him. May I have your permission to take a walk with Richard through your grounds? We will leave here on foot now, and walk as far as that viewpoint that you showed me, and we'll look at the view there for a while before returning here. I'd be very grateful if you would permit me to show that to Richard. ... Yes I suppose I could have asked your staff, but I thought it a courtesy to speak to you in person. I'm sorry if I've disturbed you unnecessarily. Thank you, sir. Goodbye!” - and he put the phone down.
Grinning, he turned to Ricky and said “Are you game for a walk across the hill?”