About two months earlier than the first day of the summer term at Meadowbank, certain events had taken place which were to have unexpected repercussions in that celebrated girls’ school.
In the Palace of Ramat, two young men sat smoking and considering the immediate future. One young man was dark, with a smooth olive face and large melancholy eyes. He was Prince Ali Yusuf, Hereditary Sheikh of Ramat, which, though small, was one of the richest states in the Middle East. The other young man was sandy haired and freckled and more or less penniless, except for the handsome salary he drew as private pilot to His Highness Prince Ali Yusuf. In spite of this difference in status, they were on terms of perfect equality. They had been at the same public school and had been friends then and ever since.
“They shot at us, Bob,” said Prince Ali almost incredulously.
“They shot at us all right,” said Bob Rawlinson.
“And they meant it. They meant to bring us down.”
“The bastards meant it all right,” said Bob grimly.
Ali considered for a moment.
“It would hardly be worthwhile trying again?”
“We mightn’t be so lucky this time. The truth is, Ali, we’ve left things too late. You should have got out two weeks ago. I told you so.”
“One doesn’t like to run away,” said the ruler of Ramat.
“I see your point. But remember what Shakespeare or one of these poetical fellows said about those who run away living to fight another day.”
“To think,” said the young Prince with feeling, “of the money that has gone into making this a Welfare State. Hospitals, schools, a Health Service—”
Bob Rawlinson interrupted the catalogue.
“Couldn’t the Embassy do something?”
Ali Yusuf flushed angrily.
“Take refuge in your Embassy? That, never. The extremists would probably storm the place—they wouldn’t respect diplomatic immunity. Besides, if I did that, it really would be the end! Already the chief accusation against me is of being pro-Western.” He sighed. “It is so difficult to understand.” He sounded wistful, younger than his twenty-five years. “My grandfather was a cruel man, a real tyrant. He had hundreds of slaves and treated them ruthlessly. In his tribal wars, he killed his enemies unmercifully and executed them horribly. The mere whisper of his name made everyone turn pale. And yet—he is a legend still! Admired! Respected! The great Achmed Abdullah! And I? What have I done? Built hospitals and schools, welfare, housing … all the things people are said to want. Don’t they want them? Would they prefer a reign of terror like my grandfather’s?”
“I expect so,” said Bob Rawlinson. “Seems a bit unfair, but there it is.”
“But why, Bob? Why?”
Bob Rawlinson sighed, wriggled and endeavoured to explain what he felt. He had to struggle with his own inarticulateness.
“Well,” he said. “He put up a show—I suppose that’s it really. He was—sort of—dramatic, if you know what I mean.”
He looked at his friend who was definitely not dramatic. A nice quiet decent chap, sincere and perplexed, that was what Ali was, and Bob liked him for it. He was neither picturesque nor violent, but whilst in England people who are picturesque and violent cause embarrassment and are not much liked, in the Middle East, Bob was fairly sure, it was different.
“But democracy—” began Ali.
“Oh, democracy—” Bob waved his pipe. “That’s a word that means different things everywhere. One thing’s certain. It never means what the Greeks originally meant by it. I bet you anything you like that if they boot you out of here, some spouting hot air merchant will take over, yelling his own praises, building himself up into God Almighty, and stringing up, or cutting off the heads of anyone who dares to disagree with him in any way. And, mark you, he’ll say it’s a Democratic Government—of the people and for the people. I expect the people will like it too. Exciting for them. Lots of bloodshed.”
“But we are not savages! We are civilized nowadays.”
“There are different kinds of civilization … ” said Bob vaguely. “Besides—I rather think we’ve all got a bit of savage in us—if we can think up a good excuse for letting it rip.”
“Perhaps you are right,” said Ali sombrely.
“The thing people don’t seem to want anywhere, nowadays,” said Bob, “is anyone who’s got a bit of common sense. I’ve never been a brainy chap—well, you know that well enough, Ali—but I often think that that’s what the world really needs—just a bit of common sense.” He laid aside his pipe and sat in his chair. “But never mind all that. The thing is how we’re going to get you out of here. Is there anybody in the Army you can really trust?”
Slowly, Prince Ali Yusuf shook his head.
“A fortnight ago, I should have said ‘Yes.’ But now, I do not know … cannot be sure—”
Bob nodded. “That’s the hell of it. As for this palace of yours, it gives me the creeps.”
Ali acquiesced without emotion.
“Yes, there are spies everywhere in palaces … They hear everything—they—know everything.”
“Even down in the hangars—” Bob broke off. “Old Achmed’s all right. He’s got a kind of sixth sense. Found one of the mechanics trying to tamper with the plane—one of the men we’d have sworn was absolutely trustworthy. Look here, Ali, if we’re going to have a shot at getting you away, it will have to be soon.”
“I know—I know. I think—I am quite certain now—that if I stay I shall be killed.”
He spoke without emotion, or any kind of panic: with a mild detached interest.
“We’ll stand a good chance of being killed anyway,” Bob warned him. “We’ll have to fly out north, you know. They can’t intercept us that way. But it means going over the mountains—and at this time of year—”
He shrugged his shoulders. “You’ve got to understand. It’s damned risky.”
Ali Yusuf looked distressed.
“If anything happened to you, Bob—”
“Don’t worry about me, Ali. That’s not what I meant. I’m not important. And anyway, I’m the sort of chap that’s sure to get killed sooner or later. I’m always doing crazy things. No—it’s you—I don’t want to persuade you one way or the other. If a portion of the Army is loyal—”
“I don’t like the idea of running away,” said Ali simply. “But I do not in the least want to be a martyr, and be cut to pieces by a mob.”
He was silent for a moment or two.
“Very well then,” he said at last with a sigh. “We will make the attempt. When?”
Bob shrugged his shoulders.
“Sooner the better. We’ve got to get you to the airstrip in some natural way … How about saying you’re going to inspect the new road construction out at Al Jasar? Sudden whim. Go this afternoon. Then, as your car passes the airstrip, stop there—I’ll have the bus all ready and tuned up. The idea will be to go up to inspect the road construction from the air, see? We take off and go! We can’t take any baggage, of course. It’s got to be all quite impromptu.”
“There is nothing I wish to take with me—except one thing—”
He smiled, and suddenly the smile altered his face and made a different person of him. He was no longer the modern conscientious Westernized young man—the smile held all the racial guile and craft which had enabled a long line of his ancestors to survive.
“You are my friend, Bob, you shall see.”
His hand went inside his shirt and fumbled. Then he held out a little chamois leather bag.
“This?” Bob frowned and looked puzzled.
Ali took it from him, untied the neck, and poured the contents on the table.
Bob held his breath for a moment and then expelled it in a soft whistle.
“Good lord. Are they real?”
Ali looked amused.
“Of course they are real. Most of them belonged to my father. He acquired new ones every year. I, too. They have come from many places, bought for our family by men we can trust—from London, from Calcutta, from South Africa. It is a tradition of our family. To have these in case of need.” He added in a matter-of-fact voice: “They are worth, at today’s prices, about three-quarters of a million.”
“Three-quarters of a million pounds.” Bob let out a whistle, picked up the stones, let them run through his fingers. “It’s fantastic. Like a fairy tale. It does things to you.”
“Yes.” The dark young man nodded. Again that age-long weary look was on his face. “Men are not the same when it comes to jewels. There is always a trail of violence to follow such things. Deaths, bloodshed, murder. And women are the worst. For with women it will not only be the value. It is something to do with the jewels themselves. Beautiful jewels drive women mad. They want to own them. To wear them round their throats, on their bosoms. I would not trust any woman with these. But I shall trust you.”
“Me?” Bob stared.
“Yes. I do not want these stones to fall into the hands of my enemies. I do not know when the rising against me will take place. It may be planned for today. I may not live to reach the airstrip this afternoon. Take the stones and do the best you can.”
“But look here—I don’t understand. What am I to do with them?”
“Arrange somehow to get them out of the country.”
Ali stared placidly at his perturbed friend.
“You mean, you want me to carry them instead of you?”
“You can put it that way. But I think, really, you will be able to think of some better plan to get them to Europe.”
“But look here, Ali, I haven’t the first idea how to set about such a thing.”
Ali leaned back in his chair. He was smiling in a quietly amused manner.
“You have common sense. And you are honest. And I remember, from the days when you were my fag, that you could always think up some ingenious idea … I will give you the name and address of a man who deals with such matters for me—that is—in case I should not survive. Do not look so worried, Bob. Do the best you can. That is all I ask. I shall not blame you if you fail. It is as Allah wills. For me, it is simple. I do not want those stones taken from my dead body. For the rest—” he shrugged his shoulders. “It is as I have said. All will go as Allah wills.”
“You’re nuts!”
“No. I am a fatalist, that is all.”
“But look here, Ali. You said just now I was honest. But three-quarters of a million … Don’t you think that might sap any man’s honesty?”
Ali Yusuf looked at his friend with affection.
“Strangely enough,” he said, “I have no doubt on that score.”
[Cat Among the Pigeons -Agatha Christie] One Revolution in Ramat