urgent. And Carmichael had appealed to his old school friend for help, and had managed to pass this seemingly innocent document into his possession. It must, therefore, be very important, and if Carmichaelâs enemies caught up with him, and found that he no longer possessed this document, they would doubtless put two and two together and look for any person or persons to whom Carmichael might conceivably have passed it on.
What then was Richard Baker to do with it?
He could pass it on to Clayton, as His Britannic Majestyâs representative.
Or he could keep it in his own possession until such time as Carmichael claimed it?
After a few minutesâ reflection he decided to do the latter.
But first he took certain precautions.
Tearing a blank half sheet of paper off an old letter, he sat down to compose a reference for a lorry driver in much the same terms, but using different wordingâif this message was a code that took care of thatâthough it was possible, of course, that there was a message written in some kind of invisible ink.
Then he smeared his own composition with dust from his shoesârubbed it in his hands, folded and refolded itâuntil it gave a reasonable appearance of age and dirt.
Then he crumpled it up and put it into his pocket. The original he stared at for some time whilst he considered and rejected various possibilities.
Finally, with a slight smile, he folded and refolded it until hehad a small oblong. Taking a stick of plasticine (without which he never travelled) out of his bag, he first wrapped his packet in oilskin cut from his sponge-bag, then encased it in plasticine. This done he rolled and patted out the plasticine till he had a smooth surface. On this he rolled out an impression from a cylinder seal that he had with him.
He studied the result with grim appreciation.
It showed a beautifully carved design of the Sun God Shamash armed with the Sword of Justice.
âLetâs hope thatâs a good omen,â he said to himself.
That evening, when he looked in the pocket of the coat he had worn in the morning, the screwed-up paper had gone.
Seven
L ife, thought Victoria, life at last! Sitting in her seat at Airways Terminal there had come the magic moment when the words âPassengers for Cairo, Baghdad and Tehran, take your places in the bus, please,â had been uttered.
Magic names, magic words. Devoid of glamour to Mrs. Hamilton Clipp who, as far as Victoria could make out, had spent a large portion of her life jumping from boats into aeroplanes and from aeroplanes into trains with brief intervals at expensive hotels in between. But to Victoria they were a marvellous change from the oft-repeated phrases, âTake down, please, Miss Jones.â âThis letterâs full of mistakes. Youâll have to type it again, Miss Jones.â âThe kettleâs boiling, ducks, just make the tea, will you.â âI know where you can get the most marvellous perm.â Trivial boring everyday happenings! And now: Cairo, Baghdad, Tehranâall the romance of the glorious East (and Edward at the end of it)â¦.
Victoria returned to earth to hear her employer, whom shehad already diagnosed as a nonstop talker, concluding a series of remarks by saying:
ââand nothing really clean if you know what I mean. Iâm always very very careful what I eat. The filth of the streets and the bazaars you wouldnât believe. And the unhygienic rags the people wear. And some of the toiletsâwhy, you just couldnât call them toilets at all!â
Victoria listened dutifully to these depressing remarks, but her own sense of glamour remained undimmed. Dirt and germs meant nothing in her young life. They arrived at Heathrow and she assisted Mrs. Clipp to alight from the bus. She was already in charge of passports, tickets, money, etc.
âMy,â said that lady, âit certainly is a comfort to have you with me, Miss Jones. I just
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