Bell of the Desert by Alan Gold

Author:Alan Gold
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Yucca Publishing
Published: 2013-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

TEN

Baghdad, 1917

She had been anticipating the knock on the door ever since she was told he was in the city. Although only in his mid-20’s, people were already speaking of him as a pioneer in the art of making radio broadcasts as well as magazine photography. The stories he had written about the European front since Woodrow Wilson had gained Congress’ consent to sign the Articles of War on April 6th, had excited the interest and rallied the patriotism of the entire continent of the United States, and when it was known he was coming to the Middle East, the British War Cabinet had given orders that he was to be treated with great consideration.

Of course, Gertrude realized, there could only be one reason why Lowell Thomas was in Baghdad, and that was to report on the Arab Revolt which was now developing a life and a mind of its own. Even Allenby, whom she believed would soon be racing Lawrence and Faisal to Damascus in Syria, was talking of the uprising by the Howeitat and other tribes as being fundamental to ultimate British success.

Certain ambitious officers in Europe, she knew, had acquiesced to all of Lowell Thomas’ requirements for special journalistic consideration, as though he was a headmaster visiting the upper prep. But she had no intention of repeating such fawning and obsequious behaviour. Why should she? After all, she was well enough known in Great Britain, he was only an American, and she was a senior British diplomat. He was merely a reporter of events, while she was a prime mover in the war against the Turks. She would make him wait at least two knocks.

“Come in,” she shouted eventually.

The door slowly opened. In walked a tall young man, fresh-faced and eager, wearing a blindingly white suit, white fedora, and black shirt. His tie was a kaleidoscope of color and patterns which made her wince.

“Miss Bell?” said the young man.

“Mr. Thomas. I’ve been expecting you,” she said, rising to shake his hand. He had a firm grip, and had presumably been a college football player. Wasn’t that what all young Americans used to be before they grew up, she thought.

“You know who I am?”

“I’m Great Britain’s local busybody here in Mesopotamia. I have my finger in every pie.”

“Then you know I’m a journalist, and that—”

“That you’ve recently been in Europe telling the Americans what their lads are doing. Yes, Mr. Thomas, I know who you are and presumably why you’re here.”

He looked at her in surprise. He’d only informed his magazine in New York by cable of his intention the other month. They sat and smiled at each other. She offered him water from a pitcher. It was flavoured with aniseed and as he sipped it he mentioned its unusual and captivating taste.

“My own invention. I’m so fed up with the taste of apple tea and cinnamon and rose water. I wanted something which was different.”

“That’s what they all say about you—that you’re different,” he said. He had a muscular voice, its cadences clear, its measure precise.

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