32
CAIRO TO DAMASCUS
Bey, save for his mustache, looked more like me than I did.
Suddenly it flashed through my mind that if I were to raise a
mustache and acquire a deep tan, I should have no difficulty
passing for an Arab. I looked at Shawa Bey. How many British
mercenaries was he hiring? And on what conditions? When
were they to enter Palestine? By what route? It was too risky
to ask.
"Cigarettes?" I offered him my pack of Luckies.
"I prefer mine to your American brands. I never change."
His English was perfect. For a full minute Shawa Bey studied
me without a word. "What's your nationality, your background?" he snapped.
"American, partly of French ancestry."
"What are you, a journalist?" He gave me a withering look.
I laid my calling-card on the desk. "I'm a salesman