beggars and murderers.
Swerji Hamad’s tea shop in the Gijhandra Bazaar was well known to K Section’s headquarters at No. 20 Annapolis Street in Washington. The fat man was not trusted. His only interest in peddling information was the money he was paid for what he knew. He was known to have passed military data to the Indian government, told the Pakistanis of Afghan plans, reported Chinese troop movements in Tibet. He was useful to every side, since his information was always correct, and hence he remained alive.
Durell had been here once, years ago, but he had no doubt that Swerji Hamad would recognize him again. The fat man never forgot a face, it was said. And he always had information—for a price. Durell was in the market and he had the five thousand dollars he had signed for in Henry Kallinger’s office in Istanbul.
He went in and found a table among the babbling press of customers who smelled of everything under the sun, and each of whom displayed his unique racial traits. Aside from a few curious glances, he attracted little attention. He ordered tea from a Punjabi waiter in dirty shalwars, watched a mullah go by, chanting to himself, wearing the dark green turban that indicated he had made the holy Hadj to Mecca. He waited.
It did not take long.
A small dark-skinned Arab boy with over-long hair and the face and eyes of a girl came to his table and spoke in Urdu. “Isquital sahib wishes the honor of a word with you, sir.”
“Where?”
“In his office, sir. Please follow me.”
Swerji Hamad sat in a heavily cushioned Victorian rocking chair behind a roll-top desk of equal vintage. A half-empty bottle of Coca-Cola served as a paperweight for the papers on the desk being stirred in the draft of a slow-turning, whining electric fan. His round brown face beamed at Durell. Swerji did not speak English. He spoke French, several Pathan dialects, and Urdu. He preferred French. “Ah, M’sieu Durell! Please be at home, yes?”
“It is a pleasure to accept your hospitality, Swerji. You are well?”
“As fat as ever. I suffer from asthma now. And I have a new wife.”
“And your children?”
“They eat me alive. One cannot earn enough money to raise a family decently these days. It is good to see you in our city again, m’sieu. It is good of you to patronize my teashop.”
“I thought I might buy something, being in town,” Durell said.
“Of course.”
“That is, if you have anything to sell.”
“Swerji Hamad has all sorts of merchandise for sale. Of course, some of it is expensive.”
“The price should depend on the quality,” Durell said.
“Ah, but your country is so very rich!” The fat man’s brown eyes were naive, hurt. “Everyone knows that America gives money away so freely, everywhere, to friend and foe alike.”
“And which are you, Swerji Hamad?”
The fat man laughed softly, his belly shaking; he sucked at his bottle of Coke. “I am a friend—of Isquital, yes? I have been expecting you—or one of your distinguished associates. I am quite prepared to offer something quite important, I believe.”
“I want some facts about Herr Ernst Bergmann, the geologist, who disappeared here in Rawalpindi about a month ago,” Durell said.
“Naturally. One expected this, too.” Swerji giggled, then stopped and said solemnly, “And you wish to know nothing about Red Oboe?”
Durell waited just a moment too long to reach for a cigarette and light it. His lean face was impassive. But he swore softly against the shrewdness of Swerji Hamad, knowing that the fat man had not missed the jolt of surprise his words had caused him.
“I’d like whatever you have on Red Oboe, naturally,” he said quietly.
“Ah, you are a man to do business with! You know of this man, then?”
“I have heard of him. Is he in ’Pindi?”
“So it is said.”
“By whom?”
“Rumor-mongers, whores, beggars, respected merchants.” Red Oboe. Durell thought, was only a name in the classification
Swerji Hamad’s tea shop in the Gijhandra Bazaar was well known to K Section’s headquarters at No. 20 Annapolis Street in Washington. The fat man was not trusted. His only interest in peddling information was the money he was paid for what he knew. He was known to have passed military data to the Indian government, told the Pakistanis of Afghan plans, reported Chinese troop movements in Tibet. He was useful to every side, since his information was always correct, and hence he remained alive.
Durell had been here once, years ago, but he had no doubt that Swerji Hamad would recognize him again. The fat man never forgot a face, it was said. And he always had information—for a price. Durell was in the market and he had the five thousand dollars he had signed for in Henry Kallinger’s office in Istanbul.
He went in and found a table among the babbling press of customers who smelled of everything under the sun, and each of whom displayed his unique racial traits. Aside from a few curious glances, he attracted little attention. He ordered tea from a Punjabi waiter in dirty shalwars, watched a mullah go by, chanting to himself, wearing the dark green turban that indicated he had made the holy Hadj to Mecca. He waited.
It did not take long.
A small dark-skinned Arab boy with over-long hair and the face and eyes of a girl came to his table and spoke in Urdu. “Isquital sahib wishes the honor of a word with you, sir.”
“Where?”
“In his office, sir. Please follow me.”
Swerji Hamad sat in a heavily cushioned Victorian rocking chair behind a roll-top desk of equal vintage. A half-empty bottle of Coca-Cola served as a paperweight for the papers on the desk being stirred in the draft of a slow-turning, whining electric fan. His round brown face beamed at Durell. Swerji did not speak English. He spoke French, several Pathan dialects, and Urdu. He preferred French. “Ah, M’sieu Durell! Please be at home, yes?”
“It is a pleasure to accept your hospitality, Swerji. You are well?”
“As fat as ever. I suffer from asthma now. And I have a new wife.”
“And your children?”
“They eat me alive. One cannot earn enough money to raise a family decently these days. It is good to see you in our city again, m’sieu. It is good of you to patronize my teashop.”
“I thought I might buy something, being in town,” Durell said.
“Of course.”
“That is, if you have anything to sell.”
“Swerji Hamad has all sorts of merchandise for sale. Of course, some of it is expensive.”
“The price should depend on the quality,” Durell said.
“Ah, but your country is so very rich!” The fat man’s brown eyes were naive, hurt. “Everyone knows that America gives money away so freely, everywhere, to friend and foe alike.”
“And which are you, Swerji Hamad?”
The fat man laughed softly, his belly shaking; he sucked at his bottle of Coke. “I am a friend—of Isquital, yes? I have been expecting you—or one of your distinguished associates. I am quite prepared to offer something quite important, I believe.”
“I want some facts about Herr Ernst Bergmann, the geologist, who disappeared here in Rawalpindi about a month ago,” Durell said.
“Naturally. One expected this, too.” Swerji giggled, then stopped and said solemnly, “And you wish to know nothing about Red Oboe?”
Durell waited just a moment too long to reach for a cigarette and light it. His lean face was impassive. But he swore softly against the shrewdness of Swerji Hamad, knowing that the fat man had not missed the jolt of surprise his words had caused him.
“I’d like whatever you have on Red Oboe, naturally,” he said quietly.
“Ah, you are a man to do business with! You know of this man, then?”
“I have heard of him. Is he in ’Pindi?”
“So it is said.”
“By whom?”
“Rumor-mongers, whores, beggars, respected merchants.” Red Oboe. Durell thought, was only a name in the classification
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