Fire In The Desert, Pt. IV
In which we go back to 1945, while Hugo and Jean-Marc continue snooping around.
This is my third short story from the HugoVerse.
Previously: Hugo and Jean-Marc went on an investigation, finding clues in unlikely places, ending in a librarian’s revelation.
Amman. 1945.
That had been a horrible, harrowing journey.
And it finally ended here, in Amman – a strange place. A small, intimate city – more of a large town, really – that has just become a capital of a new country, the Kingdom of Jordan, under King Abdullah I. A city that accepted refugees from all directions: Palestinian Arabs, Circassians, Armenians.
Being another refugee, Jerzy did not stand out that much. Except one thing – he knew where to go. And now, he was heading for a meeting the British had set up for him with a young, talented magician they believed they could trust.
While it wasn’t Cairo, a true nest of spies, which Jerzy new from his work for the British in 1942-43, and where you really had to be careful whom you do trust, Jordan and Amman were still a country – and city – in flux, and it was likely still somewhat infiltrated by the Soviets.
Of course, he was thinking of Ankara and the Polish diplomatic corps there, but it was no longer 1942. The government-in-exile representation there was currently walking a very tightrope there, and seeking help from them in a blatantly anti-Soviet operation was a risky thing.
Thus, Jordan – though not being an obvious choice – was still the safest one. It was relatively removed from the major centers of spy activity, newly independent and rather small and of lesser importance, while trying to maintain good relationships with all the sides.
So here he was, was sitting in one of those old, quaint cafés, reading a book he’d just bought from a bookseller (not just any book), and waiting.
He was listening. The mixture of Arabic and English, along with a few other languages was so typical for the Middle East in the wartime turmoil. Yet, there was a sense of optimism here – the establishment of Jordanian independence, the forming of the new government, a feeling of things changing for the better – it all created that nervous and excited energy which was actually quite pleasant. And such a complete opposite to what was happening in Poland right now.
Jerzy suddenly felt a sting of hopelessness. All those years of fighting – for nothing. For his country to fall under Soviet dominance, and what’s worse – its Eastern parts to be ripped off from its body and being given over to barbarians. A part of family estate was no longer in Poland. He could only expect the worst. Was it even worth coming back?
‘Sir, would you like to buy today’s paper?’ A young boy came up to him.
Of course, not just any newspaper boy.
‘Yes, of course.’ He gave him the money and took the paper. The boy dashed off.
Jerzy began reading the paper casually while finishing his coffee. After a few minutes, he turned to page seven.
It was there, written in hand. The address.
Jerzy folded the paper, lit a cigarette, and closed his eyes. He deserved a few more quiet moments for himself.
*
Malik’s school, Wadi Rum desert. 2005.
‘Al-Khatib?’ said Jean-Marc. ‘It seems Sayida Fatima was right that there was something fishy about that guy.’
‘Who is he? Why would he want those files?’
‘Oh, nobody really knows what his job is in here. Something about finance and administrative stuff.’
‘Let’s go and talk to him. We need more of those sweets, though.’
When they reached the kitchen, Fatima was closing.
‘Sayida Fatima, can we get a few more of your marvelous desserts?’
‘You need to bribe some more people, sayyid Jean-Marc?’ Fatima asked.
‘You always see me through with your perceptive eyes, Your Culinary Highness.’
‘You French are impossible. Let’s see. I’ve just sent some to Mr. Al-Khatib, but my boy returned with them. Nobody answered the door when he knocked. He was probably sleeping.’
Hugo and Jean-Marc looked at each other.
‘Sayida Fatima, thank you for everything. We must dash off now. Have a beautiful evening!’
And they darted off.
‘Crazy boys,’ murmured Fatima, smiling.
‘He must have left the school. He wasn’t sick,’ Hugo said to Jean-Marc.
‘We don’t know that yet, Watson.’
‘Oh spare me that Watson already!’
They stood in front of the door to Mr. Al-Khatib’s room.
‘But what if I’m wrong, and he’s inside? We should have taken those sweets.’
‘We must take that risk. Something tells me, though, that he’s somewhere else,’ retorted Jean-Marc.
And he knocked.
No answer. He knocked again. Nothing.
‘Shall we go in?’ Jean-Marc proposed.
‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘This man is a suspect. Do you want to solve the mystery of your grandfather?’
‘How are you so sure it’s about my grandfather?’
‘The wind of the desert told me so.’
‘You cannot be serious.’
‘Oh but I am. Step back. Time for some air magic. Cover for me.’
Jean-Marc placed a hand over the lock. Made a few movements while putting his ear close to the handle. After a while, something clicked. Jean-Marc went in.
Hugo looked around, and then followed him.
*
Amman, 1945.
Jerzy sensed he was being watched. Discreetly, but still. The energy current was unmistakable. When he opened his eyes, he noticed a woman in the other corner of the café. She wasn’t looking at him – just preparing to leave, but he was sure it was her.
He had to be wary of using magic, even if it was its passive, cognitive, reconnaissance kind. No need to draw attention to oneself. Although if this woman was a Soviet spy, she probably had been briefed extensively about him and she knew he came from a lineage of Poland’s most respected magical families.
And yet, it was highly likely she wasn’t a magician herself. The Soviets didn’t have many of them – a lot of magical lineage descendants either left Russia in 1917 or had been killed in many various purges. They didn’t have time to rebuild their magical resources yet. This was his advantage. It was highly unlikely they sent a magician after him – they were too rare and precious to be deployed for lesser missions.
Unless for some reason they were obsessed with the object. But that was highly unlikely.
He’d better be wary though.
The woman left without looking at him even once.
Maybe I’m becoming paranoid.
He paid for the coffee, folded the newspaper and left.
*
‘We need another person. Two magicians won’t be enough.’
That wasn’t what Jerzy wanted to hear. It was risky enough to ask a local stranger, but Malik al-Jamri had been vouched for by the British.
‘I’d rather avoid it.’
‘Impossible. We need someone equally versed in desert magic. We need to ask spirits of the desert for protection. Otherwise they might maliciously steer winds to uncover the thing, or do many other sorts of things.’
‘You can’t do it?’
‘I could, but I can’t do two things at once. There are many other spells I’m the only one familiar with, and I need support with all the rest. And will all respect, you’re an outsider, your magic is useless in the desert. Your job is to create sufficiently strong protection aura around the thing. This will be exhausting enough,’ Malik explained.
‘This is a highly sensitive mission. Are you sure you can find someone we can trust?’
‘I promise you I’ll find you a trustworthy person.’
‘Good. We don’t have much time.’
‘Of course. I’ll bring someone tomorrow morning. If you accept this person, with can leave for the desert in the afternoon. We will need a car.’
‘I can procure one from the British. By the way, be vigilant. Pay attention to what’s around. Check if you’re not being watched. The Soviets might be here.’
‘Of course.’
‘See you in the morning then.’
*
Malik’s school, Wadi Rum desert. 2005.
This was a very ordinary room – or rather, apartment. The first piece was basically an office with a desk and a sofa, with the bedroom behind the door in another room. Spacious, but simple.
And a bit impersonal. Everything was neatly hidden in the desk, the cabinets, and the wardrobe.
Hugo and Jean-Marc began to look around. But at first, nothing really drew their attention.
‘They say the desk says the most about a man. Let’s go there,’ Jean-Marc proposed.
Not much there either. A pad, a pen, reading glasses, a few books, some old family photo.
‘Boring. We probably need to search through the file cabinet,’ Jean-Marc said. ‘By the way, what a curious scent. Can you smell it?’
‘Not really. Some kind of perfume?’
‘An original lingering oriental note.’
But Hugo wasn’t listening. The photo on the desk immediately drew his attention.
‘Wait a moment. What is it?’ Hugo asked.
There was something strange about the photo. It was a very old photograph of three men. No ordinary family photo.
‘What the fuck?!’ Hugo almost exclaimed.
‘Be quiet, do you want anybody to hear us? What is it?’
‘That’s my grandfather.’
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