Страница 45 из 69
He looked flabbergasted. “Is this Churchill’s idea? I don’t care if it is—I won’t take a chance on exposing you to that kind of danger.”
“But I was invited!”
I meant to repeat Karl’s logic: that Lawrence wouldn’t have asked me to come along if there were any serious danger. It seemed, however, that I was merely the latest in a series of infuriating events in Thompson’s morning. Before I could say anything further, the sergeant gripped my elbow with one large hand and steered me off to the side of the platform.
“Do you see that man over there?” he asked, though it was more of a command. “That is Russell Pasha, the chief of police here in Cairo. The man next to him is Sir Herbert Samuel. He runs Palestine. Do they look relaxed, miss? Do they look like we’re off on a holiday excursion?” I opened my mouth, but Thompson continued: “No! They don’t, and why? Because we have reason to believe there will be a serious attempt on Churchill’s life in Gaza. Despite what anyone else says, I am responsible for security on this trip, and if you think I am going to let a lady like you get on that train, you are—”
“My guest, and welcome,” said a low, quick voice just behind us.
I turned and almost dropped my handbag in my surprise. It was Colonel Lawrence, but he was not wrenlike this morning. The trilby hat and the badly cut brown suit were gone, replaced by a rich brocade burnoose and heavy white robes. These were cinched at his waist with a tooled and gilded leather belt that held a breathtaking gold dagger in a silver-gilt sheath. The effect was dazzling and, as I took it all in, I expected a self-deprecating giggle from him, or some wry remark about playing dress-up. Instead my eyes met an unwavering blue gaze.
“Different people to impress?” I asked.
“Dressed to kill,” he said, and he meant exactly that. Lawrence noted my tiny shiver. “Thompson’s not overstating the situation, but he’s done his work well,” the colonel said then, inclining his head toward the big man. Thompson crossed massive arms over a broad chest and glowered at the compliment. “Russell Pasha has vetted the driving, signaling, and coupling crews,” Lawrence continued. “We’re sending a pilot train ahead, and there are police details deployed wherever the trains must slow enough to be boarded by unauthorized perso
“Unauthorized perso
“I shall be,” said Lawrence. And with that he produced one of his glorious beaming smiles, which were so benign and reassuring it seemed silly to have any qualms at all. When he beckoned, I followed, and the attention of the poor harassed detective was immediately redirected toward some other crisis. Leading me through knots of British officials, Lawrence said, “Thompson’s paid to worry, but I have matters in hand.”
Was that remark bravado? Genuine confidence? A drive to display mastery amid all these diplomats and generals, after weeks of blandishment and coaxing? Though Lawrence gave no sign of it, I suspected that he felt a secret thrill of satisfaction as imposing men in Savile suits and tailored uniforms took note of his approach and, murmuring, gave way. They were on his ground now, dependent on his judgment of the situation. Their lives were in the hands of that small Englishman in outlandish Arab dress. He knew it. So did they.
Inside the train, we headed for a compartment at the trailing end of the third carriage. “If we detonate a mine,” Lawrence said with cheery schoolboy relish, “it’ll take out the engine and coal tender, but you’ll be fine down here. Most likely.”
He was gri
We arrived at the Churchills’ compartment, and Lawrence slid the door open. Winston looked up from sheaves of paper. Clementine, in a chic gray cloche with a black grosgrain ribbon, laid her book down on her lap. Neither seemed surprised to see me in Lawrence’s company. Winston happily inquired about Rosie. Clementine invited me in and introduced me to the uniformed gentleman sitting across from them.
“Lord Trenchard,” I said, offering my hand to the chief of the Royal Air Force, who would soon be counted upon to bomb the new Iraq into existence. “I’ve been hearing your name all week.”
This person acknowledged my existence with a look of puzzlement followed by a funereal smile that consisted of a slight tightening of his cheek muscles. Not a word escaped the man Thompson had called a “good match for the Sphinx,” but he did move slightly away from the window, which I gathered was his way of offering me a seat.
Lawrence left. Clementine, fa
The Israelites fleeing Pharaoh required forty years for that which our train accomplished in a matter of hours. This difference in travel time, I believe, is partly responsible for the distinct dismay so many travelers have felt upon crossing into the Holy Land from Egypt. If one had spent weary decades wandering through sterile wadis and scalding plains of baking sand and gravel, then the eastern shore of the Mediterranean Sea might have seemed an oasis of milk and honey by comparison. But to the modern traveler, especially one accustomed to the rain-swollen streams and the rolling, fertile farmland of Ohio? Palestine was a dreadful letdown.
“It is a hopeless, dreary, heartbroken land,” wrote Mr. Mark Twain—the real one, not Madame Sophie’s gentleman friend back in Cleveland. Its valleys were unsightly, with feeble vegetation. Outlines were harsh with no lavender shadow of clouds, no dreamy blue mist to soften the perspective. The lumpish naked hills, Twain reported, appeared to have committed some terrible sin for which they had been stoned to death.
Fifty-some years later, I saw nothing to amend that dismal assessment. Not even Winston could discern a scene worth painting, and we were there in spring, when the countryside was said to be at its best.
For thirty centuries, “Cut down all the trees!” was every general’s order at the begi
The barre