For Kingdom and Country

by I. D. Roberts

  But Lock held his tongue. He took the notebook from Ross’s grip and opened it up at the page with his name written on, and held it under Grössburger’s bloodied nose.

  ‘Why is this name here? Why is my name here?’

  Grössburger groaned and shook his head. ‘You are Lock? Lieutenant Kingdom Lock?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. But I am a captain now.’

  Grössburger chuckled, or at least that’s what Lock presumed he was doing. It could just as easily have been an involuntary spasm.

  ‘So the British do reward murderers.’

  ‘I’m a soldier, Herr Grössburger.’

  The fat man shook his head again. ‘Nein, Sie sind Auftragsmörder … You are killer … a paid assassin.’

  ‘All soldiers are killers, it goes with the job.’

  ‘Pah! Your excuses are feeble. We know what you did, what you are.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘You said “we”. That means you are part of something … bigger. A network? Wassmuss’s network?’

  Grössburger blinked up at Lock, but said nothing more.

  Ross leant close to Lock and whispered, ‘Very good, laddie.’

  ‘Are you a smuggler?’ Lock said, ignoring the major.

  Grössburger snorted. ‘Of course I am not. But I do deal in the pearls. There is a big market in this country with many soldiers wanting … How do you say? Trinkets? … Ja, trinkets for their sweethearts. What do you think they are?’ He jerked his double chins at the table.

  ‘The earrings?’

  ‘Ja, the earrings. That … pig,’ he flicked a limp wrist at Underhill, ‘he contacted me through my source …’

  ‘Source? Who?’

  ‘The Indian cook.’

  Lock glanced questioningly at Underhill, although he knew the answer.

  ‘Bombegy. ’E means Bombegy,’ the sergeant major said.

  Lock’s mind turned over momentarily, wondering just how deep his cook was involved in this mess. ‘Carry on,’ he said to Grössburger.

  ‘The sergeant major wanted something expensive and delicate for a friend. I met with him and he purchased the earrings. That is all.’

  ‘The sergeant major,’ Ross said, stepping forward, ‘was working at exposing the German spy network that is being funded with pearls. Pearls you supply.’

  Grössburger shook his head. ‘Nein, nein, nein.’

  ‘Then why,’ Ross said, ‘did you meet secretly in a cafe back room?’

  ‘Thieves, Herr Major, they are everywhere.’

  It was Ross’s turn to give a shake of the head. ‘No, no, no.’

  Grössburger smiled thinly up at him. ‘How ironic then, Herr Major, if what you say is true, that British money is funding your own destruction.’

  The room fell silent.

  ‘Did you arrange the attempt on my life?’ Lock said, after a moment.

  Grössburger turned his gaze back to Lock. His eyes were bloodshot and watery, but they burnt with arrogance. It was a look he had seen before, in Wassmuss. For a moment the hairs on the back of Lock’s neck bristled. Was this man Wassmuss in another elaborate disguise? Impossible. No, his eyes, they were different. But still, it was a haunting thought that took a while to fade.

  ‘Assassinate the assassin?’ Grössburger said. ‘No, Herr Lock. But there is a price on your head.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Lock said.

  Grössburger chuckled again. ‘You, Lieutenant—’

  ‘Captain.’

  ‘Ja, ja, Capitan Kingdom Lock of the A.I.F. who, contrary to the Hague Convention of 1907, shot and killed in cold blood Kaymakam Süleyman Askerî Bey of the Ottoman Empire. There is a price on your head. An eye for an eye.’

  Lock was stunned. He had no idea what the fat man was talking about.

  ‘What? When? When was I supposed to have done this … murder?’

  ‘Three weeks ago.’

  Lock shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘I presume the attempt on your life,’ Grössburger said, ‘was an act by one seeking the reward.’

  ‘Who, who says I assassinated this … Süleyman Askerî?’

  ‘The witness. Binbaşi Feyzi.’

  ‘Never heard of him,’ Lock said.

  Grössburger shrugged.

  ‘This is ridiculous.’ Lock turned away from the Swiss. ‘What does it mean, sir?’ he said to Ross.

  The major was pulling at his moustache, his brow furrowed, a puzzled look across his face as he studied Grössburger.

  ‘Outside. All of you.’

  Sergeant Major Underhill rolled down his shirtsleeves, rapped twice on the cell door and, when the sentry on the other side unlocked it, he pulled it open and waited for Betty to step out first. She caught Lock’s eye on her way out, but Lock could read nothing in her expression. Did she think he was an assassin? Lock followed Underhill out, and the major came after.

  ‘Corporal, keep an eye on our guest,’ Ross said.

  ‘Sir.’ The provost sentry stepped into the cell.

  ‘I demand to see the Swiss cons—’ Grössburger shouted.

  Ross cut the protest short by slamming the cell door shut.

  ‘Well, that at least sheds some light on your shooting, laddie.’

  Lock shook his head. He didn’t believe it, he couldn’t believe it. It made no sense.

  ‘Did you kill him?’ Ross said, as he began to lead the way back down the corridor.

  ‘I’ve never even heard of Feyzi or Süleyman Askerî.’

  Ross looked doubtful, and glanced at Betty and Underhill.

  ‘Come on, sir,’ Lock said. ‘I’ve either been drunk or laid up in hospital since the Battle of Barjisiyah Woods. You all know that. How the hell can I have killed him? By magic?’

  Ross nodded his head. ‘I know, I know.’ He gave a heavy sigh and passed a hand through his hair. ‘Well, it must be Wassmuss up to his tricks again. A rat in the White Tabs, Bombegy working for the enemy, and now this. Oh, he’s a proper little spider, our slippery German friend, isn’t he? The more I think about it, more’s the pity that your bullet missed him at the quay.’

  ‘What about the fat man? He must know more than he’s letting on,’ Lock said, jerking his head back towards the cell door.

  ‘I doubt we’ll get anything else out of Grössburger,’ Ross said. ‘Perhaps we’ll have better luck with Bombegy.’

  ‘I can’t believe Bombegy’s involved, sir.’

  ‘Up to ’is scrawny brown neck, sah, ’e is,’ Underhill said, with a certain amount of glee.

  The group paused as they came back out into the vast hall.

  ‘All right, everybody, go get some rest,’ Ross said. ‘We’ll assess the situation in the morning.’

  ‘It is morning, sir,’ Betty said. She smiled at Lock, then turned and slipped her way past the lone provost sergeant still sat at the desk and on towards the main entrance.

  Underhill stiffly saluted. ‘Sahs,’ he said, then marched after Betty, the clump of his hobnailed boots echoing loudly.

  Lock walked with Ross in silence for a moment, his mind a mass of inexplicable questions and theories. He stopped short.

  ‘And Bingham-Smith?’

  ‘What about him?’ Ross said.

  ‘We should interrogate him, too, sir. He’s hiding something. I can feel it.’

  Ross shook his head. ‘He’s been released. They all have, those delightful young officer chums of his. Seems somebody paid off Jalal Al-bin Bahar rather handsomely and he’s dropped all charges. Gracious of him, don’t you think, considering?’

  ‘Bugger,’ Lock said. He so wanted to see Bingham-Smith sweat some more. But perhaps the major was right. Perhaps it was Wassmuss behind the attempt on his life. ‘Do you think it was Grössburger?’ he said. ‘That organised the shooting?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Ross put his hand on Lock’s shoulder and guided him on through the hall. ‘However, if what Grössburger says is true, about a price being on your head, and I don’
t doubt it, my boy, I don’t doubt it, then we need to get you out of the firing line. You were lucky, very lucky last time. But the next assassin’s bullet might be true, and we can’t have that now, can we?’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning that every Tom, Dick and Abdul with a bad debt or an insatiable greed will be looking to take a potshot at your golden goose of a bonnet. Therefore, I think it best we get you well away, and back to the front.’

  ‘Back to the front? Where every Johnny will be taking a potshot at me. How in the hell is that going to help?’ Lock said.

  ‘Aye, the enemy will do that,’ Ross said. ‘But we need to get you out of Basra, until things quieten down, until we can get a clearer picture of this murder accusation. I’ll get Betty onto it first thing.’

  Lock grunted. A fat lot of good that was going to do, he thought.

  ‘Look, sir. I’m part of your White Tab network. You recruited me to catch Wassmuss, to help smash his network and put a stop to the threat to the oilfields. How is removing me from the picture going to help? It makes no sense.’

  ‘But, my dear Kingdom, it makes perfect sense. Who do you think the commanding officer at the Tigris front is? For the Ottoman Forces, I mean?’

  Lock looked blankly back at the major.

  ‘Why, a certain Major Feyzi, that’s who.’ He paused and rubbed at his moustache. ‘That is, if our sources in the area are correct. Still, I can think of no one better than you to go and find out.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Lock tried again, this time a little louder and a little harder.

  He was on the landing outside Amy and Mary’s apartment on the top floor of the house on the Street of Allah’s Tears. He knew the girls still lived here as their surnames were staring back at him, written in pencil, from the card attached to the door. He was taking a risk coming here, but he had to see Amy before he headed off for Qurna, the new front about thirty miles north up the Tigris River. Singh and Lance Corporal Elsworth, the young sharpshooter Lock had adopted from the 104th shortly before the Battle of Barjisiyah Woods, and whom he had duly promoted for his sterling efforts and eagle eye, were waiting and keeping watch downstairs. Lock didn’t need the escort, but Singh had insisted. He hoped the big Indian was being overcautious, but a part of him said that the sooner he left Basra the better. And not just for him, but for Amy, too.

  He knocked again, just to be sure, and held the back of his hand up for a moment longer contemplating the half-moon white scar that ran from the knuckle at the foot of his index finger to the base of his thumb. Yes, Elsworth was a damned good shot, he smiled to himself, remembering how he had got the scar.

  A burst of staccato chatter broke out from the floor below. Lock peered over the banister to see the Arab mother who lived in the apartment downstairs shouting at two children, boys of about seven or eight. Both, from what Lock could gather, had just returned from playing outside, and both were somehow soaked in muddy water. There was a waft of cooking meat as the woman ushered the children inside their home and slammed the door behind them. Lock could still hear her scolding voice as he smiled and turned back to Amy’s door. The electric light went out.

  Lock pressed the push-button switch on the wall, and again he was bathed in the dim yellow light of the naked bulb hanging down from the flyblown ceiling. There was a buzz and a faint rustle as a large moth was disturbed once more by the sudden luminescence. Lock raised his fist, and as he went to knock for a third time, the door sprang open.

  Amy stood at the threshold, emerald eyes ablaze with anger.

  ‘What?’ she snapped.

  She looked dishevelled, auburn hair all tangled and loose down to her shoulders, a robe pulled tightly about her small frame.

  ‘Did I wake you?’ Lock said. ‘Sorry.’

  They stood staring at one another for a moment listening to the muffled scolding of the woman downstairs.

  The light in the hall clicked out again.

  Amy opened the door to her apartment wider, and turned and walked back inside. Lock followed her, closing the door softly behind him.

  The apartment hadn’t changed since he was last there. The square hallway was as cramped as before, with coats, hats and jackets hanging haphazardly on one side, whilst the other was wall-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books and neglected pot plants. In a tiled room opposite, through a door that was slightly ajar, Lock could see part of a tin bath. The second door off to the right led into the living quarters. The room was square like the hallway, crammed with furniture, more books and more choking pot plants. An elaborately carved screen separated the room in two, living quarters on one side with an old leather armchair and a rickety wardrobe, and sleeping on the other. Here was a large, unkempt, wooden bed that Amy and Mary shared. Despite being dominated by a large pair of French windows, which opened up onto a latticed-shuttered balcony overhanging the street, the room was stuffy, musty and damp. Clothes, shoes and old newspapers covered just about every surface that Lock’s eye fell upon.

  ‘Still as tidy as ever, I see,’ Lock said, standing on the threshold.

  His gaze moved left to the kitchen area. This was decorated with criss-crossed washing lines from which limp, drying clothes hung down over a table piled high with dirty dishes.

  ‘Hard to find help, what with the servants all away at the front,’ Lock added.

  ‘What do you want, Kingdom?’ Amy sighed. ‘I’ve only just finished a twelve-hour shift.’ She emerged from the bathroom behind him with a steaming kettle in her hand. ‘I was about to take a bath.’

  ‘Don’t let me stop you,’ Lock said, stepping aside to let her pass. ‘I could scrub your back.’

  Amy ignored him and moved over to the pot-bellied stove at the end of the kitchen area, placing the kettle on the hotplate.

  ‘Would you like some tea? There’s enough water here.’

  Lock removed his hat and tossed it onto the armchair. ‘No tea,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, yes, I forgot,’ Amy said, rubbing her eyes.

  ‘You look like you just got out of bed.’

  ‘I did. I was asleep when you knocked. Repeatedly.’

  ‘I thought you were having a bath?’

  ‘I …’ She glared back at him. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Time we talked.’

  ‘I have nothing to say.’

  ‘Well, I have.’

  Amy started to move away, but Lock reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling her close. He stared down into her eyes, captivated by the fire that burnt there defiantly.

  ‘Why, Amy? Why are you being like this?’

  She tried to shrug him off, but Lock held firm.

  ‘Let me go you … salaud!’

  Lock shook his head. ‘Not until you tell me just what the hell has gotten into you.’

  Amy turned her gaze away. ‘Rien.’

  Lock gently pulled her face back again. There were tears welling up in her eyes now.

  ‘Please, Amy. Talk to me.’

  She looked back at him, eyes darting from one to the other. Her lips parted.

  ‘Je—’

  Lock pressed his mouth to hers and kissed her hard. She didn’t struggle and as their tongues met she gave a little moan, but whether it was of pleasure or despair Lock neither knew nor cared. He pulled her body to him, holding her tighter, his desire rising. He could feel her body through the robe, knew she was naked underneath, could feel the crush of her breasts against his chest. His hands wandered down her back to the firm roundness of her behind.

  Amy pulled sharply away and slapped Lock hard across the cheek, the crack of her palm stinging the air.

  ‘Non!’

  Lock was momentarily stunned. He put his hand to his stinging cheek and glared back at her, anger and annoyance welling up in his chest.

  ‘We can’t,’ Amy said, voice husky, her breathing rapid. ‘I’m getting married.’

  ‘Bollocks.’ Lock made to grab her, and she took a step back, raising her fist.

 
; ‘Arrêtez!’

  ‘Why? What the hell are you playing at now?’

  ‘I’m … pregnant.’

  Lock froze.

  His vision seemed to swim before his eyes as his mind exploded with a hundred thoughts. What did she say? Pregnant? How? Fool! What do you mean how? Christ, was this the reason? The reason why she avoided him? Why she was so cruel and hard? Why she was so determined to marry Bingham-Smith? Because she was carrying the odious prick’s child. No, it couldn’t be.

  And then everything fell into place. He knew, knew the truth. He felt his jaw go slack.

  ‘It’s mine, isn’t it?’ Lock’s voice was very quiet, very calm.

  Amy gave a little cry, her hands shooting up to her mouth, and turned away.

  Lock pulled one of the hard wooden chairs out from under the table and slumped down heavily. He passed his hands over his tightly cropped hair and gave a mournful sigh.

  Amy stood where she was not saying a word, just watching and waiting for Lock to speak. The sounds of the street wafted in on the light, hot breeze and along with it came the putrid smell of the stagnant creeks that flowed nearby. The woman below was still haranguing her children, but her voice was little more than a muffled drone now.

  ‘Why, Amy? Why didn’t you tell me?’ Lock looked up at her accusingly.

  She couldn’t meet his gaze, keeping her eyes glued to the kettle steaming away on the stove top.

  ‘How long have you known?’

  Amy remained silent.

  ‘Amy!’ Lock smashed his fist down on the table.

  She started and her eyes snapped angrily round.

  ‘A month,’ she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

  Lock slowly shook his head. ‘Does he know?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Who do you think? Bingham bloody Smith. Have you told him?’

  Amy took a pace towards Lock. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He can’t, he mustn’t. Please, Kingdom.’

  ‘Please what?’

  ‘Don’t tell … anyone. You and maman …’

  Lock smiled cruelly. ‘I see. Well, that explains it.’

  ‘Explains what?’

  ‘Your mother. Why she gave me the sudden cold shoulder.’