300
CAIRO TO DAMASCUS
"You are lying. You did not come this way. It was impossible. . . ."
Having made a blunder—though I didn't know just what—
it was too late to retract. I repeated my story. "Come with
me," he said coldly. We went to the doorway. The old woman
was scouring in her kitchen. She came over and took a good
look at me, then spoke excitedly with the words imshi, imshi
thrown in. The Intelligence officer turned to me.
"Exactly how did you come here? Tell the truth, or I will
have you shot!"
"I will take you part of the way if you wish. Follow
me. ..." I pointed out the house with the chicken coop.
"That is enough. I cannot go beyond here," the Arab said.
"What is wrong in what I have said? I would not lie to
you."
"I cannot understand. This area is mined and patrolled
constantly. Captain Zaki's headquarters are a hundred meters
away. You are either a very lucky man, with Allah's blessing,
or you are telling me a great lie. Come. . . ."
We came to a darkened house, the candlelight visible
through the shuttered windows. An Arab soldier challenged
us, then led us to the door, and knocked. We walked in
quickly.
"Captain Zaki, Ismail, it's me, Artour! . . . Where is
Moustafa?"
The silence froze me from further demonstrations. Zaki,
Ismail, and a dozen other Arabs, only one of whom I recognized as an Egyptian, were in the room, each heavily armed.
"Why did you go with the Jews?" Zaki 3sked darkly. His
dislike for me had obviously deepened into hatred. He was a
changed man in other respects. He was now surly—seeking a
scapegoat upon whom the blame could be placed for the disturbance of his comfort.
I told Zaki how I had "escaped" from the Jews. "In more
than a week I have not eaten a full meal," I said earnestly.