The Rainy Day Man: Contemporary Romance (Suspense and Political Mystery Book 1) by Amnon Jackont Page B

ARRESTED ON 1 AUGUST, TRANSFERRED TO DETENTION CAMP..."
                  Scheckler watched me with narrowed eyes.  "I can help you.  I've got a few ideas about that arrest..."
                  "I don't want to deal with it too much," I concentrated deliberately on what I was writing:  "DETAILS REQUIRED FOR IMPORTANT INTELLIGENCE WORK."
                  "So why are you sending telegrams?"
                  I remembered the oil can in my cupboard.  How long would it take before he found that too?  A ray of sunlight came straight through the window, emphasizing his scraggy figure and mean look as he crossed the distance between our desks with three steps and touched the edge of the form I was holding. 
                  "I can deal with your telegram too..."
                  "I can still do that myself," I said with annoyance. 
                  "I'm going down to HQ in Nabatiya..."
                  The temptation was irresistible.  A direct letter to HQ, bypassing the man who was sending me those terse, laconic telegrams.  I gave him the form. 
                  "I need a reply today.  Can you contact me from there?"
                  "Trust Scheckler!"
                  Despite my feelings about him, there was something encouraging in his intervention. But before I let myself feel good I remembered the detonator I had not yet begun to make.  For a moment I wondered if he might be able to steal past the dogs to the clinic and pick out a phial from the medicine cabinet.  Next, as if to cover the insult I was beginning to feel, I thought of at least three products containing Butyllithium which I could buy even here, in Dura.
                  "If there's anything else I can arrange for you..." Scheckler rattled on.
                  "No," I murmured.  "No."  I gathered my things from the desk and put them in the drawer, which I locked, then hurried outside.  Even before I reached the end of the corridor I could hear the jingling of his keys as he made for my desk.
     
    ***
     
    There were no cars in the petrol station at the top of the road.  A bony donkey stubbornly tugged remnants of grass from between the cracks in the asphalt.  On top of the petrol pumps the mountain breeze spun rusty notices around.  The garage attendant was poking around in the entrails of an old car.  I greeted him and he replied by nodding his head.  I reviewed the shelves behind him: lubricants, gear-oil, coolants, batteries.  He watched me as he continued to screw something deep inside the engine.  On the floor, beneath the shelf of oils, was a roll of tar paper. 
    "One meter," I requested, putting my hand into my pocket to feel the folded bills.  "Actually, two meters."
                  "Ahlan wasahlan, welcome," he said and smiled, revealing two large white teeth.  He continued turning the screwdriver.  I waited politely for him to finish, but he merely bent over and transferred the screwdriver to another screw.
                  "Two meters of tar-paper," I said again.
                  "Ahlan wasahlan."  The willing expression on his face was constant and his hands continued to turn the screwdriver.  "Ahlan wasahlan."
                  A car arrived and hooted noisily.  He put his tools down and went over to the pumps.  I began to leave.  The garage attendant exchanged a few words with the driver of the car in a low voice.  They both watched me.  The donkey escorted me part of the way, leaving a trail of dung in his wake.
                  Beneath the arched gateway of a house I drove a nail between the sole and the upper of my shoe and undid the stitches one by one.  A little further on three women were standing by a shoemaker's stand.  I stood behind him, the shoe in my hand.  They moved aside uncomfortably.  The shoemaker