From Fitzroy's Private Diary (Extract 21)
Since my childhood I have never felt the desire to rely on anyone but myself. During the brief time I spent at University I was on nodding terms with my fellow students on the same stair, but no more. I joined the shooting club and also took up Bartitsu at this time, but I did not find another student who interested me enough to engage in more than polite conversation. Of course, I did get to know the daughter of one of my tutors, but that is an entirely different circumstance.
When I was summoned to a meeting at my father’s club, to face an inquisition by an aged gentleman who wanted me to look into something over the long vac, I believe I had no actual friends. This made me all the more attractive as a potential agent for the service.
The particular incident he sent me to observe is documented at some length elsewhere, and so imprinted on my psyche that I have no desire to reflect on it any further. Suffice it to say, if I thought I was a loner before, I returned an even more self-sufficient young man.
Of course, this is only half of the basic necessity for an agent. The other is the ability to think on one’s feet. I’m not entirely sure ‘think’ is the right word. In such cases there is no lengthy pondering, but only the briefest of moments to determine an action that may well save one’s life. The importance of this can’t be stated enough, for on the most interesting missions, one rarely has any form of back-up or support.
I recall a time when I was being chased through a souk by two very angry men brandishing koummya, daggers with a long, curved blades. While traditionally carried as a mark of social standing, I suspected their owners had a rather more visceral use in mind. I could have been no more than twenty at the time, and fresh in the service of the crown.
Souks are unforgettable places. To call them marketplaces does them no justice, once inside they stretch on forever. All serious negotiations take place over strong sweet coffee, or fearsomely dark mint tea. No prices are fixed; indeed, the bargaining is an art in itself. Should anyone be foolish enough to accept an opening price, then the merchant will often raise it as he has been denied the pleasure of bargaining.
The heat, dust and aroma of teas combine with voices raised in friendly barter, the sizzle of frying food that smells both unfamiliar and inviting, while everywhere the smell of spices permeate the air and prickle the inside of your nose. Boys, in brightly striped robes, run hither and thither attempting to draw people to their master’s stall. Hung from the poles that support the tented structures are textiles of every kind, from rugs and carpets to far more delicate wares like silks. It is forbidden for those who follow the religion of Islam to depict the forms of men or animals, but there is no stricture against colour, and so everywhere bright colours combine in intricate patterns. It is all a barrage on the senses, but in the most glorious of ways.
This is less of a pleasure when being chased. The haphazard nature of the souk means that while the locals may know how it is laid out, there is no internal logic for the visitor to understand. The vibrant colours confuse the darting eye and materials hung from every available point become obstacles to be dodged around.
As I hurried from my would-be attackers, I tried to pull goods down behind me, but these merchants are clever folk, most of their wares are firmly attached. I managed to free one medium sized rug, but this gained me little more than a few moments and the merchant’s ire. Things were getting desperate. At this stage in my career I knew the chances of my surviving against such men was remote. I was lost in the heart of the souk and they were gaining on me. I could have stopped and offered money to a merchant to hide me, but my instincts told me that, unknown and foreign to them, they were likely to take my money and then take more from my pursuers to expose me.
On and on I ran, hot, thirsty, hatless and panting for breath. I turned a corner and saw an open spice market before me. I had run past a few stands of spices, but this was the real thing. Huge, open containers of spices, every colour of the rainbow, spreading out across the courtyard. If I ran into here the open-air nature of this part of the souk would completely expose me to the men chasing me. It was wide enough that there would be no place to hide. Running in rows as these stalls also did, it would give the two men the opportunity to flank me. It would be suicide to go out there, yet, inside the souk I knew I couldn’t evade them for much longer.
I sprinted out, dashing across in such a way that they could flank me. I had a something in mind, but I could only do it once, so I needed both of them near me and I needed both hands free.
As they closed in gleefully, daggers raised, I scooped up two handfuls of vibrant red, ground chilli powder and threw it in each of their faces. The result was all that I desired. Blinded, coughing and sneezing as they were, I disappeared back into the souk and quickly lost them.
I survived, not by superior fighting ability, but by thinking quickly. Thinking on my feet and acting on instinct have frequently been my saviour. Every plan fails at some point. It is how quickly and how well you deal with disaster, when you have no help to hand, that determines the length of your career as a spy.