“There are plenty of real smells in Turkey,” I said, “without worrying about the ones that are not there. Why on earth are you wasting my time with these asinine questions? Let’s get to the War Office without any more of this foolery.”
Ihsan laughed, and asked why I wanted to go to the War Office. I leant forward confidentially and told him I had a plan for finishing the war in a week, and once I got to Enver Pasha I’d blow England sky high. I was working at the scheme now, Hill was my engineer and designer—and very soon everything would be completed. I talked on and on about my new aeroplane that would carry 10,000 men, and the coming invasion of England by air.
“Why do you hate the English?” Ihsan asked.
I went into an involved and excited account of my “persecution”—of how Baylay had tried to poison me, and of how my father, mother and wife sent me poisoned food in parcels from England. Ihsan had to interrupt me again.
“Why did you try to commit suicide?” he asked.
“I didn’t,” I said.
“You hanged yourself at Mardeen.”
“That’s a lie!” I roared. “A dirty lie! And I know who told you!”
“Who was it?”
“It was that little swine Moïse,” I said, pointing at the unhappy Interpreter. “He’s been telling everybody. I expect he’s been bribed by the English. Yes! That’s it! Baylay must have paid him money to get me into trouble! He’ll do anything for money. Don’t you believe him! He’s not a Turk—he’s a dirty Jew, and the biggest liar in Asia. I never hanged myself!”