Operation Scheherazade
by Sinbad
Chapter 19
The next morning was a sombre affair. Roger phoned in to take the day off work, and shared a big breakfast with the boys. Mohammed fussed around the table, looking from face to face, puzzled by the morose stares he got from them all.
Roger, of course, was feeling the collapse of his romance. Ricky and Chris were feeling the anti-climax after the excitement of the previous day. After breakfast, Roger didn't suggest any family outing or anything, so the boys amused themselves around the house, as they had been in the habit of doing. Out on the balcony which ran along the side of the house and linked Ricky's bedroom with the guest room where Chris was sleeping, the boys sat and talked. Ricky told his friend all the details of the conversation he'd had the previous evening with the Ambassador, including his suggestion about tricking Maureen into helping them find the mysterious K.
They gradually recovered their spirits as they amused themselves proposing schemes to achieve that, each more outlandish than the last until they collapsed in giggles over Chris's suggestion that they should disguise the entire Jordanian police force in women's dresses in order to confuse Maureen into thinking that K was a police spy, and persuade her to betray her that way.
When they calmed down a bit, Chris spoke quietly: “Ricky, I think I may have a real idea.”
“About getting to K? Tell me!”
“Well, the note we found with the initial K. Maybe Maureen knows she's lost it and maybe she doesn't. But she certainly doesn't know we've got it. So what if we invent another note?”
“How would that help? What would we do with it?”
“Well, give me a moment, I need to think this through.” Chris sat on the granite composite floor tiles of the balcony with his back against the wall and his feet against the balcony railings. He closed his eyes and Ricky watched him, watched as Chris's brain worked it all out almost visibly.
“The note would have to be from K, telling Maureen to come to her, promising safety, maybe a route home. The police arrest Maureen and confront her with this second note and demand to know who sent it. They don't reveal how they got hold of it but imply they've searched her accommodation. Presumably Maureen refuses to betray K but she's read the note.
“The police let her go for lack of evidence, and she goes to K, following the instruction in the note, and she's followed and the police get K and Maureen together. What do you think?”
“Genius, mate! I think it'll work, it has to work! Let's tell the Ambassador, see what he says.”
They jumped up and ran indoors. Roger was in the living room just staring into space, which would normally have brought Ricky up short and prompted him to talk to his Dad, to try to cheer him up. But today he was so bound up in his plan that he didn't notice his father's misery. He asked him for permission to use the phone and then in the spacious hallway they dialled Roly's number from the book by the phone.
Roly answered but told them his father was at work. He gave them the Embassy phone number and they tried again. This time they got the receptionist and asked for Mr Fielding. She put them through, but to someone else, who turned out to be a minor embassy official. Ricky told him politely that their business was with Mr Fielding, but it wasn't until he pressed his point that the Ambassador would be pleased to talk to them that he finally got put through. He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard Mr Fielding's voice.
And he explained Chris' plan in every detail. It would need a skilled forger to fake a note with the same handwriting as the original note, and to get the wording right. And it would need a good actor to do the interrogating of Maureen in police custody. The Ambassador listened carefully and just said “Leave it to me.”
So Chris and Ricky were left with nothing to do but wait. Roger took them to the pool for the afternoon but he didn't even take his trunks, he just sat in the shade watching them cavorting in the water. He thought back bitterly to all the afternoons spent there with Maureen, how much he'd enjoyed her company, her attention, and how she had given the impression of enjoying his. What a fool he'd been.
The day ended without any news from the Ambassador and even Ricky and Chris began to feel gloomy. The Taylor household retired to bed early, and nobody slept particularly well.
The next morning, however, everything changed. Greysuit man, Mr Fanshawe, Ricky had to remind himself, was ringing the door bell before any of them were up. Mohammed opened the door to him, but, not recognising him, wouldn't let him in until he had announced the visitor to Mr Taylor. Ricky and Chris were both up, padding along the corridor in pyjama bottoms and bare feet, and shortly afterwards Roger appeared tying a dressing gown around him and shuffling in slippers. He opened the door and let Terry Fanshawe in.
“Thank you, sir. I'm sorry to disturb you this early, but I thought you'd like to hear the news. It's not all good, I'm afraid.”
The boys looked crestfallen and Fanshawe gave them a wan smile. Roger came to the rescue.
“Well, we want to know what's happened anyway. Look, come into the living room and we'll get you some coffee.”
They trooped into the lounge, an incongruous lot, pyjamas, dressing gown and office suit, and Roger poked his head around the kitchen and asked Mohammed for coffee for two and milk for the boys. Fresh cow's milk was an innovation in Amman. It had not been readily available until recently – there was no tradition of dairy cattle herding, which was not easy because of the arid terrain. But a German scientific research station had set up just outside the city, trying new irrigation systems, and they maintained a dairy herd and provided milk for an eager, mostly expatriate, customer base. So the boys could have cow's milk instead of the alternative, goat's.
Mr Fanshawe didn't wait for the coffee to arrive. As soon as they were all seated he began.
“First of all I want to thank Richard and Christopher for their excellent plan, which worked perfectly.
“The Jordanian Special Branch arrested Maureen at the school where she works. They took her to Police Headquarters and at the same time another team searched her accommodation. As you will know, she's been living with a family who live near the school while she's here. The wife was naturally surprised and upset to have a team of uniformed policemen on her doorstep in the middle of the morning. They checked her room thoroughly but they didn't find anything.
“At Headquarters, Maureen was taken to an interview room and asked about the fake note. She was clearly very shocked but maintained her innocence throughout. The plan was to let her think we had no other evidence against her, so after making sure she had had plenty of opportunity to remember what the fake note said, they let her go.
“The note just said: 'You are suspected. Essential you come to me immediately, I am arranging to get you out of the country and home safe. Don't delay. K.' We thought short and terse would be best.
“When she left Police HQ, she had two trained plain clothes policemen tailing her. She went back to her lodgings, and her host family will have told her that her room had been searched, even if there weren't signs of it all over the place, which there probably were. And that will have rattled her more if the note hadn't already achieved the desired effect. She seems to have packed a small bag and left again within an hour. She took a taxi across town to Djebel Asherafiyah and a house that was supposed to be unoccupied. But in the few minutes before the police raid arrived, hoping to arrest Maureen in company with Camel, they somehow managed to disappear. Our report says there was evidence that somebody had been living in the building, and had left in a hurry, leaving some items of female clothing. So, likely, Maureen met Camel and they fled together.
“It was a very bad mistake to lose them like that but it's happened and we have to work with what we have. So now we're looking for two Western women who could be almost anywhere in Jordan. It doesn't look good. I'm sorry.”
The reactions to this around the room were varied. The boys were excited to hear how their plan had been executed, and then disappointed that the 'targets' had escaped. Roger on the other hand had to deal with this final confirmation of his erstwhile girlfriend's complicity in terrorism. And that wasn't easy for him.
So Terry Fanshawe found a rather silent audience when he drew his tale to an end.
“This may not be the end of the story. We don't think they can get out of the country, the airport authorities have been warned to look out for them. So they may lie low, and we may get wind of them. Don't despair just yet!”
He waited for some spoken response from one or other of them, but when none came, he gave up and stood up to go.
“I'll leave you now, then, thank you for your hospitality Mr Taylor. We'll be in touch as soon as there's some news. In the meantime, try to enjoy your holiday boys!”
And he walked off towards the door. Roger shook himself out of his stupor and followed him, so that by the time he reached the front door, Roger was there to say goodbye and shake him by the hand. He apologised for his absent-mindedness, explaining that he was shaken by the news. Fanshawe brushed it off and left, leaving Roger in the doorway to wave to him as he drove off.
After Mr Fanshawe had gone, everyone felt deflated. Still in pyjamas, there seemed to be no point in hurrying to dress. It felt as though their whole lives were on hold. Roger asked Mohammed for breakfast, and they sat in the living room until he called them through to the dining table. Sensitive to the mood in the household, Mohammed had cooked a full fried bacon and egg meal, with fried bread, mushrooms, beans and without tomatoes. Just the way Roger liked it. So Mohammed had every right to be disappointed that the meal did not seem to have lightened the mood at all. What, he wondered, can be the matter? Roger saw his distress and took pity on him. After the meal he found Mohammed in the kitchen and told him about Maureen and that the police were hunting for her.
As Mohammed cleared away the breakfast things he pondered what Roger had told him. He knew that before Ricky arrived for the school holiday, Maureen had stayed overnight several times, and that she had shared Roger's bed on those occasions. He would not have dreamed of allowing his views to be known, but such behaviour was very wrong to a man who was a devout Muslim and who took his moral principles seriously. So he was tempted to think that Maureen's fall from grace was the just desserts of an immoral life. He hoped Mr Taylor would learn from the lesson.
Mohammed was the patriarch of a large family of Palestinian refugees, who had fled to Jordan after the state of Israel was formed and they became foreigners and outcasts in their own home. The family had to abandon their orange groves and their farming business. There was charity money made available to build basic breeze block houses, and a vast sprawling refugee village sprang up on the outskirts of Amman. The Shemalti family settled there, swelling the population by forty-five. Although the Taylors called their cook Mohammed, it wasn't his name. He was Hajj – a title he earned by a pilgrimage to Mecca – Ahmed, his given name, Abu Mohammed, the father of his firstborn son Mohammed, and Shemalti, his family name. Hajj Ahmed Abu Mohammed Shemalti. He didn't ever complain that the Taylors abused his name, he was proud to be known by the name of his firstborn.
His father had died some years before but his mother was still alive and dependent on him. His wife had born him twelve sons and all but one of them had married and begun producing children themselves. Five of his sons lived with him and he built extra breeze block rooms onto the side of his house to accommodate them. One son was living and working in Germany and sending money home to help support the family. His wife in the meantime was dependent on Hajj Ahmed, and constantly complaining that she had no children and her husband never came home to her. Ahmed suspected that his boy had no intention of returning home to this harpy, but it left him with the harpy to deal with.
At the end of the day's work Mohammed caught the bus home and in the cool of the evening he sat out under the vine trellis that he had erected to cover the courtyard of his little house. His wife brought him fresh squeezed orange juice and some of the family gathered around him, and he told them some of the odd things that had happened to him that day.
He rose each day at dawn, early enough to get to 'Beit Taylor' – the home of the Taylors – before the family were awake. This particular morning he was off kilter. He was not riding the bus as usual, but sitting in the front passenger seat of a solid Mercedes diesel taxi, driven by an acquaintance of his son Khalil's. And the reason for this break from routine, well, he would have to explain it all to Mr Taylor when he got there.
The taxi driver, one Ali Akhbar, sat glumly on a wooden chair in the corner of the kitchen while Hajj Ahmed busied himself with the morning's tasks. He was not very happy about being there; he'd been persuaded to come by Khalil and had only agreed when it had been suggested that the Effendis – masters - tipped generously.
Eventually Hajj Ahmed waddled back into the kitchen after having served breakfast to the family. “Come on, and be respectful. These people are my bread and butter so I don't want them insulted. Okay?”
Ali jerked his head back very slightly in the Middle Eastern equivalent of the western nod – meaning Yes. And Hajj Ahmed led the way through to the dining room.
“This man is a taxi driver that my son knows. He may have some useful information.”
Roger Taylor reached out from his seat to shake the hand of the bashful young Palestinian. “Mar'hhaba” - hello.
“Mar'hhab'tein Effendi.” - hello to you sir.
The formalities over, everyone expected someone else to begin speaking. Eventually Mohammed spoke in Arabic: “Tell him about the fare you took!”
“I don't know if I can do it in English. You tell him.”
Mohammed turned to Mr Taylor. “I'm sorry, Effendi, his English is not very good. But he took two western women from a taxi rank on Djebel Asherafiya yesterday all the way to Petra.”
It took Roger a little while to take this in. The boys on the other hand were full of enthusiasm. They knew better than to speak just yet, though. Nevertheless Roger could see the excitement on their faces and he felt he must burst their bubble quickly, after all this must be a silly mistake.
“Mohammed, thank you for bringing this man. But Petra is one of the world's greatest tourist attractions. Hardly any visitor to Jordan leaves without seeing Petra. Two western women taking a trip to Petra is nothing special and it couldn't possibly be our two – why ever would they visit Petra? It would be such a waste of their time, they must be trying to flee the country, if they haven't already managed it.”
“Effendi, this man is sure it must be them. He says tourists never take a taxi all that way, it's too expensive. They go on guided tour buses from their hotels. And these women argued and shouted at each other the whole journey.
“Can he describe them? What they looked like?”
Mohammed and Ali spoke in Arabic together. Then Mohammed turned to Roger. “One was tall and blond, long hair, sturdy. The other smaller, more rounded, curvaceous I think, dark hair to her neck.”
This, Roger realised, could be Maureen, with a taller blond woman with long hair.
“The description matches but it could be anyone. Lots of westerners might have hired him.”
He says they only went one way – they didn't come back.”
“They didn't come back? Whatever could they be doing in Petra? How odd.”
“Yes, sir. It is so unusual that it's being talked about all over the refugee village. Ali here earned as much money from that one trip as he usually does in a whole week.”
Roger thought about it. It really did seem that this pair of women must have been Maureen and Camel, but he couldn't see that it made any sense. What could they want in Petra? And how would they get back? And what should he do about it? The last question was not difficult to answer – he should report this to the Ambassador and let him deal with it.
“Okay, Mohammed, we're going to take this seriously. I have to go and talk to the ambassador. Can you ask Ali to stay here in case he's needed again? Here, give him this and tell him I'm retaining his services for the day. Will that be okay?”
“Effendi, you don't need to pay him, he's a good-for-nothing boy, he should be grateful to you. I'll make sure he stays here or his mother will know about it!”
“Nevertheless give him the money. I'm going to take the boys with me, we may not be back for lunch but we'll be back for tea unless I phone. And we'll need a meal then.”
“Yes Effendi, sir!” - and Mohammed made one of his theatrical salutes, learned during his periods working for the British military, and never un-learned.
He had learned a lot working for the British Army, and most of it Shirley Taylor had taken great pains to get him to un-learn. His use of English in particular could be very coarse, fit to embarrass her in front of guests. So he had gradually learned a more refined use of the language.
Roger phoned to the Residence to check the Ambassador was home, and then bundled the boys into the Land Rover and set off.
Roly saw them approaching up the long driveway and ran helter-skelter down the stairs and out onto the gravel as they pulled up outside.
“I never knew you were coming! This is topping, come on in? Have you got your swimming things?”
Rick and Chris looked at each other as they got out of the car. How to respond to Roly? Neither of them would have used a word like 'topping' and that should have set them off giggling, but today it seemed unimportant. Ricky remembered that Roly was mostly in the dark about the whole adventure. He deserved to know what was happening, surely.
“Roly, something's come up. Come with us and listen to what my Dad tells your Dad. It may explain things.”
And they followed Roger into the house. Mr Fielding came out of his office and welcomed them, gesturing them into the room with him. Roly skipped in before his father closed the door, and although he glared at him, he didn't say anything. So Roly took that as permission to stay.
Roger Taylor hardly waited for the door to close before beginning with: “Fielding, old man, the strangest thing happened this morning at the breakfast table.” And he told the story of Ali the taxi driver and his claim to have driven the two women to Petra and left them there.
When he finished, the Ambassador took a moment before replying. “What a story! But, I'm sorry Taylor, but it's quite unbelievable. If I used my position to pressurise the Jordanians to send a specialist team all the way down to Petra on a wild goose chase it would cause an international incident and I would be sent home with my tail between my legs. So, no can do, I'm afraid.”
Roger tried persuasion. “Look, it may be a long shot but what's the alternative? We don't have any other clue! If they're not at Petra where are they? It would be different if there were more likely places where they might be, but there aren't, are there? Send the flying squad, or whatever they're called, to Petra and then we can at least eliminate the place!”
“No. Sorry. I won't do it. I have my career to think of and it would be the end of it if if misused my position that way. Petra, for goodness' sake – it's the tourists' favourite site but it's in the middle of the desert and there's nothing to attract a terrorist. Why ever do you think a sophisticated intelligent monster like Camel would hole herself up in Petra? It's ludicrous. No. I won't do it.”
“That's your final word?”
“It is. I'm sorry, old man, but it's impossible. Really it is. Forget about it. Go home. Give these two a proper holiday before they have to go back to school.”
The conversation over, they trooped out of the office and back out to the car in the driveway. Depondency reigned. Nobody, least of all Roger, wanted to give up like this.
Mr Fielding stood on the step to see them go. Roly went down to the car and gripped Ricky's shoulder as he climbed in. “I'm sorry, mate. I wish my Dad had said Yes.”
Roger was fumbling for the starter keyhole when he suddenly realised that he was a free agent. He suddenly realised that it didn't matter whether the police sent a team to arrest the two women if they could be found in Petra. He was a private individual and could do as he wished. And if he took a fancy to take a trip down to one of the most famous tourist destinations in the world, he could do so, Fielding or no Fielding. He turned to Chris and Ricky in the back seat and said “How would you like to see Petra?”
The change was palpable – the boys brightened like someone had installed new batteries. “Wow, yes, of course!” cried Ricky, and at the same time Chris was whooping and calling “Yes please!”
What they hadn't anticipated was Roly jumping into the car and calling “Me too!”. The Ambassador clearly hadn't anticipated it either, and he came down the steps and put his head through the open window.#
“What do you think you're doing, young man? You're not going anywhere. Come on out!”
“Er, Fielding,” began Roger, “Look, don't take this badly, but I understand that you're in an official position and there are a lot of things you can't do. But I'm a private individual. So I can do what I want without attracting undue attention. So I've decided to take your advice. I'm going to give the boys a good holiday in what's left of their time. We're going for a trip, and I'm happy to take your Roly too, if you give your permission.”
The ambassador looked long and closely at Roger Taylor. Unspoken communication passed between them, and Mr Fielding gave a slight nod of his head and stood back a little. “Okay Taylor. But if you have my boy with you I expect you to take full responsibility for him and don't let him or the other two get into any danger. Any danger at all. Do I make myself clear?”
“My dear chap, what danger could we possibly be in. We're just going to be tourists. We'll take in some of the sights of Jordan. You know?”
“Yes, I'm very much afraid I do know. I repeat: be careful, and don't put the boys in danger! For the same reason I can't call out the cops, I can't bail you out if you bungle it. So be careful!”
“I will. Thanks old man!” And the two men shook hands. Mr Fielding looked into the back of the big vehicle and spoke sternly to his son. “I don't know what I'm going to say to your mother. I shall expect you to be sensible and adult about this, not taking risks and remember it's not a game. You're being treated as an adult. This goes for all three of you. You're being treated as adults, you'll have to show you can behave as adults. Good luck, I've a feeling you'll need it!”
And he stood back and waved as the car pulled away and off down the long driveway.