‘While you try to find Harry’s wife and daughters?’ Tom surmised.
‘That too, if I’m lucky,’ Michael returned the ledger to the box and locked it.
Kut Al Amara, Friday 31st December 1915
Major Warren Crabbe left HQ, turned down the lane that connected number 1 and number 1A alleyways and entered the Officers’ Hospital. Two second lieutenants were in the room designated as an aid station. One was having a shoulder wound dressed by Matthews, the other bathing a graze left by a bullet that had nicked his earlobe.
He knew both men. When they’d arrived to join Force D six months before, he’d called them ‘Eton Wet Bobs’ the ultimate derogatory term applied by seasoned officers to the newly commissioned. After Ctesiphon, they’d lost their round-faced, wide-eyed innocent look. Now both had the lean, uncompromising appearance of battle-hardened men.
‘Stop wearing your officers’ caps and insignia within the sights of the Turkish snipers, or learn to duck,’ Crabbe advised.
‘If we’d ducked any lower we’d be under the worms,’ one of them retorted.
‘Best you know your place. Major Knight around?’ Crabbe asked Matthews.
‘In the main ward, sir.’
Crabbe walked across the corridor and opened the door. David Knight was sitting in the curtained alcove he grandly referred to as his ‘office’ although all it held was a travelling desk, a chair, and a shelf of forms and ledgers. Every one of the beds in the room was occupied. From what he could see of the occupants’ faces, more by fever patients than the wounded.
‘I swear you have a bloodhound’s nose that enables you to sniff out a fresh brew of tea over a mile radius, Crabbe. I’ve just sent Dira to make a pot.’
‘Where’s John?’
‘Checking Cleck-Heaton. We’ve left the bastard in a room next to the operating theatre in case John has to go back in. The shrapnel Cleck-Heaton took did serious damage to the blood vessels supplying his lungs.’
‘Swine doesn’t deserve medical care.’ Crabbe handed Knight one of the envelopes the brigadier had given him.
‘As a doctor I can’t agree with you, as John’s friend and fellow officer I do. What’s this?’
‘Read it and I’ll put some brandy in our tea to celebrate.’ Crabbe took a flask from his top pocket.
Dira brought a tray into the alcove.
‘Can you bring a chair and an extra cup please, Dira, for Major Crabbe? And tell Major Mason tea’s ready.’
‘Yes, sir.
Knight read the letter. ‘How the hell did you manage this, Crabbe?’
‘By asking.’
‘Come on, you must have traded something?’
‘Like what? Everyone knows the brigadier is as straight as a ramrod.’
‘I’m amazed.’
‘What’s amazing?’ John joined them. Skeletally thin as a result of campaigning in the worst of the heat, overwork, and his brandy addiction, John was a shadow of the man Harry had introduced to Crabbe when he’d arrived in Basra to marry Maud in July 1914.
‘See for yourself,’ Crabbe handed him the letter.
John read it. ‘So, I’m not likely to be shot at dawn any sunrise soon.’
‘That has to be good, doesn’t it?’ Crabbe hadn’t been looking for praise for his efforts on John’s behalf, but he’d hoped for a more enthusiastic response.
‘Yes, sorry, that was remiss of me. Thank you, Crabbe. I know how hard you’ve worked for this. I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me, and at no little risk to your own career.’
‘Hardly. I reckon I’ve been promoted just about as high as a ranker can expect.’
‘It’s good news for you, John, the hospital, and me.’ Knight took the flask from Crabbe and poured liberal helpings into all three teacups. ‘This means that I, and the other medics, can get the occasional hour’s sleep. If I was the emotional kind, Crabbe, I’d kiss you.’
‘I’m glad you’re not.’ Crabbe handed John an envelope. ‘The brigadier made three copies. He told me to make sure you carried one with you at all times in case a sycophant of Perry’s or Cleck-Heaton’s questions your right to roam. He’s asking Townshend to countersign the copy he kept and is telegraphing the contents to Nixon in Basra. He ordered me to keep the third copy safe. The brigadier wants to know if you’d like a message sent out on the wireless to tell your family you’re alive.’
‘What did you say?’
‘That it would be your decision.’
John thought of his parents, his brother Tom, and sister Lucy. He loved them dearly but he was closest to his mother and brother. Both would have been devastated by the news of his death but he knew them well enough to realise, given time, they’d follow his father’s example and take the news of his demise in typical British fashion – stiff-upper-lipped and stoical. Not because it was expected of them but because it was the way they dealt with every misfortune life threw at them that they were powerless to alter. It would be cruel to give them hope when Kut could be overrun today – tomorrow – next week – and he could be killed or really die of fever. Or, if the brass took it into their heads to countermand the brigadier’s lenience – shot. As for Maud, he didn’t doubt she’d already ensnared another man to dance attendance on her. One who might even believe he was the father of her child.
‘Given the number of casualties we’ve admitted between the ranks, non-coms, and officers’ hospitals today, it might be as well if we keep the news of my miraculous recovery inside Kut. I’d hate to give my family hope only for them to receive a second telegram if I succumb.’
‘Probably as well,’ Crabbe agreed. ‘I’m beginning to think it will come as a surprise to the brass and the outside world if any of us survive this rat trap.’
The quayside, Basra, Friday December 31st 1915
Tom held out his hand. Michael shook it.
‘You’ll take care of yourself?’
‘For the few days it will take me to gather background information before following you upstream.’ Michael looked over at Tom’s shoulder at the hillock Adjabi and Sami had built from his trunk, bags, and packages. ‘Is that everything of mine, Adjabi?’
‘Everything, Sahib,’ Adjabi answered.
‘You’ve left the Fortnum hampers for Captain Mason?’
‘Apart from the one you left for Captain Reid, yes, sir.’
‘You’ll be seeing Sami again very shortly,’ Michael said in amusement as Adjabi embraced Tom’s bearer.
‘Nothing is certain in this world, Sahib.’
‘Sami, find me a comfortable berth on board and a chair with a view of the riverbank,’ Tom ordered. He turned back to Michael. ‘I don’t like the thought of you living in that Arab brothel.’
‘Coffee shop,’ Michael corrected. ‘It was good enough for Harry.’
‘Harry had odd tastes that shouldn’t be taken as a recommendation. If you asked Richard Chalmers I’m sure he’d find you a bed in military quarters.’
‘Old war correspondent adage. The further from the brass you get, the more accurate the rumours.’
‘Then beg a bed from the Butlers at the mission.’
‘No fear, they’ll have me singing hymns every night after supper. I’ll be fine at Abdul’s.’
‘I’m not so sure.’
‘Harry was.’
‘Harry spoke Arabic and passed as a native.’
‘I can learn Arabic.’
‘In a few days?’
The boat engines coughed and wheezed before bursting into life, drowning out hope of further conversation.
Michael shook Tom’s hand again. Sami appeared at the top of the gangplank. Tom left the quay and joined him. The plank was hauled on board. Michael turned his back on the troops lining the lower decks of the paddle steamer and walked over to Adjabi.
‘You stay with the luggage, I’ll find us rooms.’ He crossed the quay and entered the coffee house.
Abdul’s coffee shop, Basra, Friday 31st December 1915
‘No, sir, you cannot have your brother’s room.’ Abdul was obdurate.
‘You said Harry had paid you for the year.’
‘To keep his room for him or his ghost. I have other very good rooms. A big one for you, a small one for your servant, sir. The very best rooms in my house.’
Michael hesitated.
‘I will show them to you. Come. You will find nothing better in the whole of Basra. Not in military quarters or a private hotel. Come, sir.’
Michael followed Abdul up the stairs into a sparsely furnished room almost identical to the one Harry had occupied.
Abdul opened a connecting door. ‘This will be for your servant, sir.’
Michael looked into a cubicle that held a bed and travelling washstand.
‘As you see, sir, two doors. One to the passage outside so your servant need not disturb you with his comings and goings, and one to your room for when you need him.’
‘How much.’
‘A sovereign a week for you, half a sovereign for your servant.’
Michael remained silent. It was a trick he’d learned from Harry.
‘With the services of a girl thrown in.’
‘I don’t need a girl.’
‘You will when you see the ones I have on offer.’
Michael resisted the temptation to argue.
‘All the food you can eat.’
Michael said nothing.
‘All the food your servant can eat.’
Michael returned Abdul’s stare.
‘I see you are as hard at bargaining as Hasan. ‘One sovereign a week for both of you.’
Michael still didn’t say anything.
‘Two sovereigns for both of you for one month.’
Michael finally spoke. ‘I’m unlikely to be here a month.’
‘But you’ll want me to keep your things for you when you go to fight the Turk?’
‘You can put them in Harry’s room.’ Michael slipped his hand into his pocket. ‘Half a sovereign for my servant and myself for one week. We’ll talk again then, if I haven’t left.’
‘Where are you going, sir?’ Abdul asked as Michael walked back towards the stairs.
‘To fetch my bearer and my luggage.’
‘I have people to do that, sir. Stay in your room, rest. I will have fresh fruit and warm water for washing sent up.’
Michael waited until Abdul left before going to the door. He looked down the passageway. Harry’s room was at the opposite end of the corridor with the landing and stairs between them. He wondered if his rooms really were ‘the very best’ or simply the furthest from Harry’s. If that were the case, why would Abdul want him as far away from them as possible?
Abdul went downstairs. He saw one of his barmen, Latif, leaving by a side door. He didn’t need to ask where he was going. He knew. He beckoned to the doorman. ‘Summon my carriage. The closed one. Now.’
Zabba’s house, Basra, Friday 31st December 1915
Zabba didn’t rise when a servant showed Abdul into her private sitting room, but she extended her hand. He kissed her fingers before sitting opposite her and taking the glass of tea her manservant handed him.
‘Two visits in a month, Abdul. People will begin to talk about us,’ Zabba joked. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?’
‘What else, other than business. I need a girl.’
‘You have a coffee house full of them.’
‘I need a clever one who can speak English. You train your girls not only to service the English but to talk to them.’
‘They know how to entertain British officers,’ she acknowledged.
‘I need one now, right away.’
‘Why the urgency.’
‘Hasan’s brother is in Basra.’
Zabba sat upright and leaned as far forward as far as her bulk would allow. ‘A soldier?’
‘No. A writer for newspapers. He will be going upstream soon.’
‘Cox …’
‘Knows he’s here or he will shortly. He pays a man in my employ to give him news.’
‘You allow that?’
‘I take care Cox’s spy only conveys what I want Cox to know.’
‘Do you think Hasan’s brother knows what the British intend for this country?’
‘If he doesn’t, he may soon. The way everyone who knew Hasan looks at him, he will be trusted by many, just as Hasan was trusted. Do you have a girl I can buy?’
‘A girl you want to use as a spy?’
‘Yes.’
‘If she gives you information you will share it with me?’
‘Yes.’
‘You haven’t forgotten how to lie, Abdul.’
‘You know I keep my word, Zabba,’ Abdul protested.
‘You will keep your word, just as you will keep any useful information the girl gives you to yourself until it is so old it is worthless.’
‘Zabba …’
Zabba waved him to silence. ‘This brother of Hasan’s, he is young?’
‘He could be Hasan’s twin.’
Zabba thought for a moment. ‘I will not sell you a girl, Abdul but I will lend you one. You can pay her for her services, but she remains my property.’
‘I would prefer to buy her.’
‘Then go elsewhere. There are many girls for sale in Basra.’
‘Not trained whores who can speak English.’
‘My terms or none, Abdul.’
‘Very well, I agree. She will remain yours but I will pay her for her services.’
Zabba turned to her manservant. ‘Find Kalla and bring her to me.’
Chapter Eleven
Furja’s house, Basra, Friday 31st December 1915
Mitkhal stood in the doorway of Hasan’s bedroom and watched the doctor drip opium into his friend’s mouth. Hasan’s face was flushed with fever and pain as he tossed and turned on the divan. Occasionally he moaned or whimpered. The worst was when he screamed. Nothing intelligible, just sheer agonising cries of absolute terror. When that happened, Mitkhal knew Hasan was transported back to the tent where the Turks had tortured him.
‘He will live through this, Mitkhal.’ Furja materialised like a ghost at his elbow. ‘I cannot believe Allah would allow you to bring him back to us only for us to lose him to death.’
‘Dorset. Here! Dorset!’
The doctor looked up. ‘Do you know what he’s saying?’
‘He’s calling for his horse.’ Mitkhal didn’t explain to the doctor that Hasan’s words had been clear – and in English.
Furja met Mitkhal’s steady gaze. ‘Hasan’s delirious. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.
‘Or what language he’s speaking?’ Mitkhal murmured too low for the doctor to hear. He stepped outside the room. ‘I’ll get his horses.’
‘Mitkhal …’
‘Forgive me, Furja, but I can’t stay idle in this house and watch Hasan suffer. If he sees Dorset …’
‘A horse won’t heal him,’ Furja remonstrated.
‘Maybe not, but he’s asking for the mare and the only thing I can do for him right now is find her.’ Mitkhal left the room, went into his own quarters and picked up his empty saddlebags. He took them out into the courtyard and set them on a stone bench.
Gutne joined him and handed him a package wrapped in palm leaves. ‘Bread flaps and dates.’
Unable to meet her look, which he knew would be full of reproach; he unbuckled one of the bags and tucked it inside. ‘Thank you.’
Furja joined them ‘Hasan’s flask. I’ve filled it with Turkish brandy. Hasan says French is better …’
‘But Bedawi should be grateful for what they’re given. Thank you, Furja.’ Mitkhal thrust it into a hidden pocket inside his abba before fastening his coat.
‘Mitkhal, I wish you’d stay.’
‘You know what Hasan thinks of those horses.’
‘No horse is worth a man’s life.’ Furja sat on the bench.
‘Harry …’
‘Hasan,’ Furja swiftly corre
cted Mitkhal. ‘If he heard you …’
‘I’m sorry, Furja, but he spoke English.’
‘He was raving and we agreed we’d do everything we could to help him forget his previous life.’
‘I’ll try not to let it happen again.’
They started nervously at a knock on the iron-reinforced wooden door that separated Furja’s house from Zabba’s. It was the only door that connected to the outside world. The first thing Furja had done after moving in was hire a trustworthy builder Zabba had recommended to brick up all the other doors that connected with the street or Zabba’s house, including the ones in the garden walls.
‘Farik.’ Mitkhal called to the gatekeeper who was in the kitchen.
He came and opened the small eye-level grill. ‘Zabba.’
‘Let her in, Farik,’ Furja ordered.
Zabba waddled in slowly and embraced Furja and Gutne.
‘Welcome, Zabba.’ Furja indicated the sitting room that opened off the courtyard. ‘Farik, bring refreshments and tell the doctor where I’ll be if there’s any change in Hasan’s condition. Mitkhal, Gutne, please join us. Bantu can look after the children. They’ll not wake for an hour yet.’
‘Someone is going somewhere?’ Zabba noticed the saddlebags as she passed the bench.
‘I am.’ Mitkhal went ahead and pulled out a comfortable chair for Zabba.
Zabba lowered herself into it. ‘I know I usually visit first thing in the morning before my household is awake, Mitkhal, but there is no need to look suspicious. I was careful leaving my quarters. No one will miss me or come looking for me. I usually sleep for an hour or two before the evening begins.’
‘But something is wrong. You wouldn’t have come here otherwise.’
‘Not something bad, but something you should know. Hasan’s brother is in Basra. According to Abdul the resemblance between them is remarkable.’ She told them why Abdul had visited her and the little Abdul had gleaned about Michael Downe. ‘He’s looking for you, Furja, and you, Mitkhal. He’s been asking everyone he meets if they know where you are.’
‘Just as well Abdul doesn’t know,’ Furja said.
‘Abdul wouldn’t tell anyone, even if he did know,’ Mitkhal countered.
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