waiting for him—here. First on the frontier. And if he succeeds in passing the frontier, there will be a cordon drawn round the Embassies and the Consulates. Look at this.’
He shuffled amongst the papers on his desk and read out:
‘An Englishman travelling in his car from Persia to Iraq shot dead—supposedly by bandits. A Kurdish merchant travelling down from the hills ambushed and killed. Another Kurd, Abdul Hassan, suspected of being a cigarette smuggler, shot by the police. Body of a man, afterwards identified as an Armenian lorry driver, found on the Rowanduz road. All of them mark you, of roughly the same description. Height, weight, hair, build, it corresponds with a description of Carmichael. They’re taking no chances. They’re out to get him. Once he’s in Iraq the danger will be greater still. A gardener at the Embassy, a servant at the Consulate, an official at the Airport, in the Customs, at the railway stations … all hotels watched … A cordon, stretched tight.’
Crosbie raised his eyebrows.
‘You think it’s as widespread as all that, sir?’
‘I’ve no doubt of it. Even in our show there have been leakages. That’s the worst of all. How am I to be sure that the measures we’re adopting to get Carmichael safely into Baghdad aren’t known already to the other side? It’s one of the elementary moves of the game, as you know, to have someone in the pay of the other camp.’
‘Is there any one you—suspect?’
Slowly Dakin shook his head.
Crosbie sighed.
‘In the meantime,’ he said, ‘we carry on?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about Crofton Lee?’
‘He’s agreed to come to Baghdad.’
‘Everyone’s coming to Baghdad,’ said Crosbie. ‘Even Uncle Joe, according to you, sir. But if anything should happen to the President—while he’s here—the balloon will go up with a vengeance.’
‘Nothing must happen,’ said Dakin. ‘That’s our business. To see it doesn’t.’
When Crosbie had gone Dakin sat bent over his desk. He murmured under his breath:
‘They came to Baghdad …’
On the blotting pad he drew a circle and wrote under it Baghdad—then, dotted round it, he sketched a camel, an aeroplane, a steamer, a small puffing train—all converging on the circle. Then on the corner of the pad he drew a spider’s web. In the middle of the spider’s web he wrote a name:Anna Scheele. Underneath he put a big query mark.
Then he took his hat, and left the office. As he walked along Rashid Street, some man asked another who that was.
‘That? Oh, that’s Dakin. In one of the oil companies. Nice fellow, but never gets on. Too lethargic. They say he drinks. He’ll never get anywhere. You’ve got to have drive to get on in this part of the world.’
‘Have you got the reports on the Krugenhorf property, Miss Scheele?’
‘Yes, Mr Morganthal.’
Miss Scheele, cool and efficient, slipped the papers in front of her employer.
He grunted as he read.
‘Satisfactory, I think.’
‘I certainly think so, Mr Morganthal.’
‘Is Schwartz here?’
‘He’s waiting in the outer office.’
‘Have him sent in right now.’
Miss Scheele pressed a buzzer—one of six.
‘Will you require me, Mr Morganthal?’
‘No, I don’t think so, Miss Scheele.’
Anna Scheele glided noiselessly from the room.
She was a platinum blonde—but not a glamorous blonde. Her pale flaxen hair was pulled straight back from her forehead into a neat roll at the neck. Her pale blue intelligent eyes looked out on the world from behind strong glasses. Her face had neat small features, but was quite expressionless. She had made her way in the world not by her charm but by sheer efficiency. She could memorize anything, however complicated, and produce names, dates and times without having to refer to notes. She could organize the staff of a big office in such a way that it ran as by well-oiled machinery. She was discretion itself and her energy, though controlled and disciplined, never flagged.
Otto Morganthal, head of the firm of Morganthal, Brown and Shipperke, international bankers, was well aware that to Anna Scheele he owed more than mere money could repay. He trusted her completely. Her memory, her experience, her judgement, her cool level head were invaluable. He paid her a large salary and would have made it a larger one had she asked for it.
She knew not only the details of his business but the details of his private life. When he had consulted her in the matter of the second Mrs Morganthal, she had advised divorce and suggested the exact amount of alimony. She had not expressed sympathy or curiosity. She was not, he would have said, that kind of woman. He didn’t think she had any feelings, and it had never occurred to him to wonder what she thought about. He would indeed have been astonished if he had been told that she had any thoughts—other, that is, than thoughts connected with Morganthal, Brown and Shipperke and with the problems of Otto Morganthal.
So it was with complete surprise that he heard her say as she prepared to leave his office:
‘I should like three weeks’ leave of absence if I might have it, Mr Morganthal. Starting from Tuesday next.’
Staring at her, he said uneasily: ‘It will be awkward—very awkward.’
‘I don’t think it will be too difficult, Mr Morganthal. Miss Wygate is fully competent to deal with things. I shall leave her my notes and full instructions. Mr Cornwall can attend to the Ascher Merger.’
Still uneasily he asked:
‘You’re not ill, or anything?’
He couldn’t imagine Miss Scheele being ill. Even germs respected Anna Scheele and kept out of her way.
‘Oh no, Mr Morganthal. I want to go to London to see my sister there.’
‘Your sister?’ He didn’t know she had a sister. He had never conceived of Miss Scheele as having any family or relations. She had never mentioned having any. And here she was, casually referring to a sister in London. She had been over in London with him last fall but she had never mentioned having a sister then.
With a sense of injury he said:
‘I never knew you had a sister in England?’
Miss Scheele smiled very faintly.
‘Oh yes, Mr Morganthal. She is married to an Englishman connected with the British Museum. It is necessary for her to undergo a very serious operation. She wants me to be with her. I should like to go.’
In
