They Came to Baghdad by Agatha Christie Read Free Book Online

knew that the critical moment of his mission had come. Sooner or later he had got to reenter the civilized zone. Though Baghdad was his ultimate destination, he had judgedit wise not to approach it direct. In every town in Iraq facilities were awaiting him, carefully discussed and arranged many months beforehand. It had had to be left to his own judgement where he should, so to speak, make his landing ground. He had sent no word to his superiors, even through the indirect channels where he could have done so. It was safer thus. The easy plan—the aeroplane waiting at the appointed rendezvous—had failed, as he had suspected it would fail. That rendezvous had been known to his enemies. Leakage! Always that deadly, that incomprehensible, leakage.
    And so it was that his apprehensions of danger were heightened. Here in Basrah, in sight of safety, he felt instinctively sure that the danger would be greater than during the wild hazards of his journey. And to fail at the last lap—that would hardly bear thinking about.
    Rhythmically pulling at his oars, the old Arab murmured without turning his head.
    â€œThe moment approaches, my son. May Allah prosper you.”
    â€œDo not tarry long in the city, my father. Return to the marshes. I would not have harm befall you.”
    â€œThat is as Allah decrees. It is in his hands.”
    â€œInshallah,” the other repeated.
    For a moment he longed intensely to be a man of Eastern and not of Western blood. Not to worry over the chances of success or of failure, not to calculate again and again the hazards, repeatedly asking himself if he had planned wisely and with forethought. To throw responsibility on the All Merciful, the All Wise. Inshallah, I shall succeed!
    Even saying the words over to himself he felt the calmness and the fatalism of the country overwhelming him and he welcomed it.Now, in a few moments, he must step from the haven of the boat, walk the streets of the city, run the gauntlet of keen eyes. Only by feeling as well as looking like an Arab could he succeed.
    The boat turned gently into the waterway that ran at right angles to the river. Here all kinds of river craft were tied up and other boats were coming in before and after them. It was a lovely, almost Venetian scene; the boats with their high scrolled prows and the soft faded colours of their paintwork. There were hundreds of them tied up close alongside each other.
    The old man asked softly:
    â€œThe moment has come. There are preparations made for you?”
    â€œYes, indeed my plans are set. The hour has come for me to leave.”
    â€œMay God make your path straight, and may He lengthen the years of your life.”
    Carmichael gathered his striped skirts about him and went up the slippery stone steps to the wharf above.
    All about him were the usual waterside figures. Small boys, orange sellers squatting down by their trays of merchandise. Sticky squares of cakes and sweetmeats, trays of bootlaces and cheap combs and pieces of elastic. Contemplative strollers, spitting raucously from time to time, wandering along with their beads clicking in their hands. On the opposite side of the street where the shops were and the banks, busy young effendis walked briskly in European suits of a slightly purplish tinge. There were Europeans, too, English and foreigners. And nowhere was there interest shown, or curiosity, because one amongst fifty or so Arabs had just climbed onto the wharf from a boat.
    Carmichael strolled along very quietly, his eyes taking in the scene with just the right touch of childlike pleasure in his surroundings. Every now and then he hawked and spat, not too violently, just to be in the picture. Twice he blew his nose with his fingers.
    And so, the stranger come to town, he reached the bridge at the top of the canal, and turned over it and passed into the souk.
    Here all was noise and movement. Energetic tribesmen strode along pushing others out of their way—laden