Scrambling South

SCRAMBLING SOUTH

BOB HYSLOP

‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings,

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,

The lone and level sands stretch far away’

(Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822))

‘The Jonas Forbes Saga’: Vol. 3

First published in Great Britain 2012

Cuthan Books (http://www.cuthanbooks.co.uk)

Published as Paperback Jan 2018

Copyright Bob Hyslop 2012

The right of Bob Hyslop to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

ISBN: 9780957369405

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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For those who feel they’ve lost their way on the journey called ‘life’

Acknowledgement to the ‘Great American Songbook for Chapter Titles

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1. ‘MR. SANDMAN’

CHAPTER 2 ‘NIGHT AND DAY’

CHAPTER 3 ‘OH LONESOME ME’

CHAPTER 4. ‘YOU’LL NEVER WALK ALONE’

CHAPTER 5 ‘SLEEPY LAGOON’

CHAPTER 6. ‘SOUTH OF THE BORDER’

CHAPTER 7. ‘GETTING TO KNOW YOU’

CHAPTER 8. ‘AT LAST’

AFTERWORD

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PROLOGUE

They were out there. He knew it. A cordon had shut him off from any hope of escape. He knew his work was finished and the end of it all would be only a matter of time.

Bishoy Bayoumi TRIED to look calmly at his situation. He was carrying a cypher key which he had to hide before he fell into their hands. He had to make sure they never knew of its existence – not just because of its value to the cause but also for his own well-being. Just one hint and they would so want it they’d torture him in ways his nightmares couldn’t imagine. This was the last chance to poke it away in the one drop used as a last resort ever since the country of his masters had been formed. It was here, in this junk-yard of idols and mementos of frustrated ambition that had made up so much of Ancient Egypt. The people of his faith had been persecuted for centuries by a hostile religion and that fate had been shared by the Jews of Alexandria. So it had been almost natural for his anger at the regime to turn towards the state of Israel as the only means of undermining that tutelage.

He looked around him, trying to pierce the darkness and give shape to the sounds betraying their presence. He’d been lucky once but, this time, luck was due to run out. He was shrouded deep within that monument to folly called the Hypostyle Hall and so close to that hideaway known to Mossad but, as far as he knew, unknown to their enemies. He must stow the key safely there before they got him, before they could use all their skills in making him talk. If he was lucky he’d die before pain or drugs would open his mouth. If he was lucky... Well he hadn’t been so far.

As a Copt he hadn’t been examined ten years ago when, in the chaotic end of world war, the Jews were struggling to form a land of their own. But he’d been thoroughly tested, especially during the attack by the Arab states on the brand new Israel, had passed that test and shown his value to the enemies of the regime. He could never think of it as ‘his government’ because King Farouk had shown such little understanding of his subjects – Moslem, Copt or Jew – and his overthrow made everything so much worse because the regime of Neguib and Nasser proved more efficient. Even so Mossad flourished in this new climate of oppression for where else could the likes of him find help?

One week ago he’d still been the faithful ‘Reuben’, the key-stone of Mossad’s activities in this part of southern Egypt. Although his ‘nom de guerre’ (for it was a war!) was Jewish he’d been chosen because, as a Copt, he could blend more easily in with the native population. For two years he’d worked diligently and with a modicum of success. Then he’d been betrayed – by a woman! How could he have been so stupid? How could he have thought Fatima would have been true to him? Hadn’t the psalmist said, ‘Your tongue is like a sharp razor’? Hers had certainly cut into him with promises of help and love. Yes, that was the more devastating treachery, her profession of love for him – even as she was betraying him to the Mukhabarat. Why had he believed that any Moslem could fall in love with a Copt? Hadn’t the history of his own family warned him? Then it had been the theft of his uncle’s money. Only money! Not a trusting heart and the lives of good men. His stupidity had betrayed them. That almost hurt him as much as his own ripped-open heart.

Fortunately, he’d been arrested in Cairo, where ignorance had quickly secured his liberty. But he knew it was just a matter of time before they’d come for him again. So he’d fled south, back to what had become his home territory. There he’d got through to Abu-Bakr, told him where he was going, told him what he would hide where only Mossad would know. That had been enough.

Within hours he’d spotted them, crossed over to the West Bank and managed to lose them in that confusion of peasants, tourists, vendors and rascals making up the neighbourhood of the ferry. He’d watched his watchers head up into the hills beyond Medinet Habu. Then he’d simply caught the ferry back to the East Bank. It had been so easy he’d thought it must be a trap. Certainly he’d gained but an hour as he’d soon discovered – but God had given him that precious hour so all need not be lost. If he had the strength.

Now he was in Karnak and it was dark and they were outside and he was frightened. But a better place there couldn’t be in Luxor, in Egypt, perhaps even in the world, to hide what he had. He’d stuff it away and then try to slip through the cordon.

&&&

Bishoy awoke to a blinding light, even worse than the aching head reminding him of what must have been his capture. ‘Reminding him’ because soon after he’d cached the key he’d lost consciousness in the blackness enveloping the Temple of Montu.

Good of you to return to us, Bishoy. The soft voice made no attempt to be friendly or persuasive; it was filled with the sneer of malice. You are someone we’ve wanted to talk to for some time.

Bishoy closed his eyes to shut out the bright light and said nothing.

So you don’t like our bright lights, whispered somebody so close to his left ear that he could feel their breath on the words. Was that a man or a woman? Light can help open up the darkest places. It was a woman! A woman here among these devils? Somehow Bishoy was surprised. Hadn’t he come to understand women – SOME women? Then Bishoy remembered Fatima and he could well believe anything was possible.

It is easy to ensure your eyes cannot escape the light. It was the first voice again. Come now, tell us what we want to know and life will become so much easier.

"What? ...What?"

Don’t waste time, traitor. We know you’ve betrayed us to the Jews. You’ve been betraying your motherland for years... Thinking no one knew...Fool of fools...We’ve been watching, waiting for your hands to hold something far more precious than your miserable life... something we want... which now you have.

"I haven’t – AIIIIEEHH!!!’ Was that himself screaming? He couldn’t say. Suddenly pain had sliced into his brain and whatever made up his body. Somehow body and mind had become entangled. Body sensed PAIN: mind felt PAIN. Pain made up all creation!

The second voice realised his confusion. That WAS your voice, Bishoy... Haven’t you ever heard yourself scream before? There was almost a chuckle in the tone. Moan perhaps when you were rutting with a daughter of Egypt... But scream?... Such a delicious sound for those that listen... So riveting to he who screams... Help us or that sound will rip your body awake and haunt your dreams."

Every time you lie! snapped the first voice which favoured the more direct approach. Now I’ll say again, ‘Tell us what we want to know!’

What– Then from somewhere that scream came again – but louder, much louder.

&&&

CHAPTER 1 ‘MR. SANDMAN’

So they’ve fucked it up again!

Vanessa Clarke coloured slightly at the sound of her boss, Sir Jeremy Smith, using expletives. She deigned to glance up to assess the cause. After all, the Foreign Office expected its senior personnel to exercise moderation in language, manner but not, crueller minds might add, intelligence.

Sir Jeremy turned and just caught his secretary staring with what clearly was not unquestioning approval. In some ways she’d never been the same since that Portsmouth business in April and that bounder, Forbes.

He checked himself. ‘’Bounder’ was a term used for fellows with some saving graces educated in the nation’s proudest establishments and Forbes... The mandarin’s mind slipped into a side alley and exasperation metamorphosed into what, in others, would have been styled ‘malevolence’. In Sir Jeremy it never shifted much above ‘pique’.

Some fool had hidden away in darkest Egypt an important document. His superiors wanted it recovered but whoever picked the short straw for the job was going to be up a gum-tree or rather a creek without a paddle. And suddenly a spark of ‘genius’ flickered in what passed for a mandarin’s brain. That excruciating fate and Jonas Forbes were made for each other.

&&&

Jonas Forbes was resting on his laurels, his office possessing nothing of equal comfort, gained by foiling the coup against Khrushchev and Bulganin in April. Although it hadn’t brought more than a couple of new contracts it ... Suddenly he remembered Natasha and the laurels cushion was pricked out of sight.

The phone rang and cut short Melancholy just as it was about to swallow him up for the umpteenth time in the last six months. The voice was familiar – and welcome.

Is that Jonas? An ill-defined grunt confirmed the identity. This is Vanessa–

Lovely to hear from you, smiled Jonas. It seems ages since –

And we need you again – if you’re free. That ending betrayed desperation. Anybody knowing Jonas would have known that most of his life was free – and empty. The ‘we’ must have included the ‘Nameless One’ and that shrieked desperation.

"What’s up?’ Jonas reached for a pen but then couldn’t find any paper. He needed an assistant. Why? To have a face to stare or glare at during those long hours of nothing? But then paper wasn’t needed anyway.

Sir Jeremy would like to see you this morning, if possible.

She was being kind to him and he resented it. She KNEW he was sitting in his office with nothing to do but twiddle with anything worth twiddling.

I can be there by 11:00 if that suits your boss. There was a long pause as Vanessa put the suggestion to Sir Jeremy who gave a curt nod and then the appointment was confirmed.

&&&

It is quite simple, Forbes... Nothing beyond your capabilities I’m sure. The mandarin allowed the link between ‘simple... beyond your capabilities’ to dig itself in. ... Just a simple job of picking up something that’s been left ... behind.

Jonas couldn’t resist echoing the late Commander ‘Buster’ Crabbe when Jonas had offered him that diving job in Portsmouth Harbour last April. Spying is it?

No it certainly is not! Jonas was rewarded by the ‘Nameless One’ being affronted. We wouldn’t be entrusting you with such a delicate matter as– Sir Jeremy stopped as he realised that wasn’t the best way to secure compliance. It’s a simple job of picking up a file but, unfortunately, it’s not in an easy place for the retrieval.

Jonas offered one of his most irritating smiles and was rewarded by the pinkish tinge surmounting Sir Jeremy’s stiff collar growing in intensity. Where exactly would this item be?

Egypt was so quietly said that Sir Jeremy immediately felt the need to supply a louder version. Egypt.

So it WAS tied up with spying. Jonas knew it was merely a week since the British and French forces had withdrawn their forces from the Suez Canal area with, if not exactly their tails between their legs, certainly a high degree of embarrassment flooding along the ‘corridors of power’. Nevertheless, Jonas chose to give no reaction to the location. He merely asked, What’s the item?

Sir Jeremy gave an ugly chuckle which, from his wife in her suburban fortress to the tea-lady in her basement, showed he was about to skirt around the borders of truth. It’s a single file – just like one of these, He reached over and flourished a manila example, available at all good stationers anywhere.

Containing indiscreet comments that’d toss somebody out of the frying pan?

Not for you to know, Forbes. You know the rules – or you should do after the debacle in April. Again Sir Jeremy stopped. He wanted – NEEDED – to encourage this ruffian to undertake a mission which might lead to a very unpleasant experience, to say the least. Also, although it had been messy, Forbes had stopped young whatwashisname blowing up the top Commies in UK waters, saving several people (not least himself) from facing a lot of questions.

Yes, I know the rules – and I know when not to stick my head into a hornet’s nest. The voice was cold, almost icy. So I’d like to know where this folder will be in Egypt, how I’d recognise it and who would I have to watch my back.

He sat and waited for an answer and the clock ticked its way into Sir Jeremy’s rock of uncertainty. Should he lie to Forbes? COULD he lie to Forbes and get away with it? If anything went wrong somebody would be wanting blood – unless ...

Firstly the folder is hidden in the temple of Karnak–

Never heard of it.

‘No I suppose an oick like you wouldn’t have’, thought Sir Jeremy, forgetting HE hadn’t heard of Karnak before last week. He looked at his notes to check. Karnak is perhaps the largest religious structure in the world – you could fit several of our major cathedrals into it...You’ll recognise the folder because it’ll have a particular symbol on its cover and it will be sealed.

I didn’t expect it to have the label ‘TOP SECRET’ on the cover – and I should imagine there are loads of places useful for stuffing away objects in such a place.

You’ll be given precise directions after you’ve accepted the assignment and during your training.

I’m not having a crash course in hieroglyphics, am I? If anyone had been surprised at Jonas Forbes even knowing such a word, they should have known his expertise was limited to films such as ‘The Mummy’s Curse’.

Perhaps, was the response and Sir Jeremy’s rare exercise in humour was rewarded by Jonas betraying a momentary look of horror. Certainly enough to help you find your way around the place... By the way, how’s your Arabic?

That got another spasm of alarm. Why ... I mean I don’t -

Pity, said the mandarin crocodile trying conjure up a tone of sympathy which was way beyond his repertoire. I’m sure you’d find it useful.

And how do I get out of there?

Head south ... Make your way to Wadi Haifa...Once you’re across the Sudanese border there’ll be plenty of help.

And while I’m in Egypt?

I’m afraid Nasser’s Security boys have been trampling quite successfully on any sympathisers we might have had – and I wouldn’t trust Mossad.

‘Wouldn’t you just’, thought Jonas, remembering how, during his recent adventure featuring B & K some of his best help had come from the GRU. But that reminded him of Natasha and he didn’t want to go there.

From somewhere out there he heard the question, Will you do it? and from somewhere in here he heard his own voice say, Ok. And the deed was done.

&&&

Matthew Spriggs was one of those rare Egyptologists realising not many of the general public shared his fascination. So he got on well with Jonas because he covered just the bare minimum required.

The item has been left in the Temple of Karnak which lies just north of the town of Luxor. Just walk along the road, beside the Nile, and you can’t miss it. At this point he handed Jonas two maps – one of the location of Karnak and the other of Karnak itself. You’ve been told it’s very big. It is and you can soon get lost. So ... Use the official entrance... That’s just a row of sphinxes (little fellows that look a bit like lions) ... You pass into the Great Court of Amun... Facing you are the remains of a temple built by Taharqa ... Go past that and when you reach the far wall, leading to the Hypostyle Hall, turn right and walk to an exit called the Bubastite Portal ... looking left, you’ll be facing the wall of Hypostyle Hall, one of the big treats for those interested in such things... and you’ll see lots of pictures - a big guy, Pharaoh Sheshonk, and a large number of little fellows representing the towns he’d conquered... That’s where you’ll find the item.

Jonas looked bewildered and Matthew Spriggs laughed. Here we come to where a Mossad agent apparently lapsed into revealing a sense of humour. One of those towns is Megiddo where, years later, the Egyptians smashed the Hebrews. As the Israelis have just smashed the Egyptians, near that picture is where our boy hid what we want. The mention of Mossad rang alarm bells inside Jonas’s head. He was all too aware that Mossad had proved itself one of the most successful ‘security’ organisations in the world, with a hard core of agents (katsas) backed by a large group of volunteers (sayanim).

However, Jonas’s abstraction was ignored by Matthew Spriggs for several minutes. Finally, he stopped, coughed loudly to drag Jonas back into the real world, and then repeated what he’d just said. He went on to describe exactly where to look. Sheshonk has his left-hand at waist-height. It’s in a crack just above that hand. He handed over a photo of the whole inscription (with an arrow indicating the cache), to go along with maps of Karnak, Luxor and of the whole area. Then he provided a short description of Ancient Egypt. Finally, he wished Jonas good luck and said he was handing him over to a ‘spook’.

Timothy Ripley was not what Jonas would have expected from either MI5 or MI6 – he certainly wouldn’t have passed muster as a colleague of James Bond. He was 5’ 8" tall, with receding ginger hair, a double-chin and spectacles. Not a man of action but he was there to equip Jonas for entry into a hostile land.

Of course, you can’t be British so we’ll find you an Australian passport. He paused. "Don’t try