Wassmuss gurgled, but could form no words. Lock stepped over and crouched down beside him. He pulled Wassmuss’s hand away from the neck wound. It was deep and the bullet had nicked the artery. Blood was pulsing out at a steady beat. Lock pressed Wassmuss’s hand back to the wound.
‘Bugger,’ Lock said softly.
A flurry of voices was arguing from out in the corridor. Then came a heavy bang as someone began to try to kick the door in. Lock put two more bullets through the door.
The banging stopped.
Lock knew that he didn’t have long before the men on the other side decided to come round through the garden. He looked down at Wassmuss. The German’s eyes were flickering and the colour was draining from his face.
‘What were you planning with APOC? Why was Shears here? Is he part of your network?’
Wassmuss grimaced up at Lock and shook his head.
‘Tell me one thing before you die,’ Lock said coldly. ‘What does the list mean? The Braut and Bräutigam list …’
There was a flicker of surprise in the blue eyes staring up at him.
‘Is it a death list? People marked for assassination? Is Amy Townshend in danger?’
Wassmuss suddenly convulsed, but Lock couldn’t tell whether the grimace that stretched across the German’s face was in amusement or pain.
‘Are you really even Wassmuss?’ Lock said.
The German’s eyes narrowed. He coughed once. A trickle of blood oozed from his mouth, and then he was still.
Lock grabbed the lapels on Wassmuss’s uniform and pulled the German towards him. ‘Answer me, you bastard,’ he spat, giving the German a shake. ‘What are you planning to do with Amy? Shit!’
Wassmuss’s lifeless eyes just stared back at him. Lock wasn’t going to get any more answers from this man. Ever.
Lock shoved the German back against the fireplace and stood up. He glanced up at the door just as an axe blade came splintering through the top panel, then back down at the still German.
Raising the Beholla, Lock put a bullet between Wassmuss’s eyes. A halo of red bloomed across the wall behind the German’s head.
‘Now I know you’re dead.’
Lock turned and hesitated. Behind the desk, in the wall next to the French window, was an open safe. There was a portrait propped up on the floor just below that of Enver Pasha. The axe splintered the door panel a second time. Lock moved to the safe. Inside were a number of files, a wooden jewellery box stuffed full with drawstring bags of pearls, and a very familiar leather-bound notebook held together with string – Wassmuss’s notebook. Again the axe crashed into the door panel. Lock pulled out the jewellery box, stuffed the notebook in his pocket, turned to the table and pocketed the rest of the drawstring bags of pearls. And then he ran, out through the French windows, past the water fountain, and into the darkness, heart pumping, feet pounding. He ran on across the lawn, through the trees, leaves and branches scratching at his face, and down towards the river. He could hear whistles and shouts of ‘Khafiyeh’ far behind him now. Then a sudden sense of calm washed over him, and he slowed, realising that the two men who had seen him in that office back there were dead, and that the clerk at the desk in the corridor would perhaps not even associate the one-eyed naval officer with the killer. Still, Lock thought, it would be foolish to hang around. There was a weak light up ahead and when he reached the river’s edge, Lock could see that it was a lamp post illuminating a small wooden jetty. Tied at the end of the jetty was a lone motor launch.
‘Thank you for your predictability, Wilhelm,’ Lock smiled to himself. He holstered his Beholla, glancing up and down the high, grassy bank. There were plenty of other tied vessels there, but Lock could see no signs of life, and the river itself was dark and still. He strode purposefully out onto the jetty, unfastened the tie ropes, and climbed aboard.
It was a small wooden motor launch, about twenty-five feet long and fashioned in mahogany. The cockpit was situated behind a curved windscreen, itself above the forward cabin that was accessed through a pair of solid mahogany doors set in the forward bulkhead. Next to this, the wheel and throttle. A Turkish flag hung limply from the mast at the stern. Lock checked the cabin just to be sure. It was empty. He glanced back along the jetty and up the long garden that rose to the building of the Command Headquarters of Nasiriyeh’s garrison. He could just make out the light from Wassmuss’s office through the trees. There were torchlights now, dancing and cutting through the dark. Voices called and shouted to one another. But nobody had run down to the river. Yet.
The petrol engine fired up first time, gently purring as it idled. Lock placed the box of pearls at his feet, engaged the throttle, spun the wheel and puttered away from the jetty, heading east.
‘Bugger it all,’ he cursed. He really was in trouble now. Wassmuss was the one person who could have cleared his name. So now, not only was he still accused of being an assassin by the Turks, but he was a fugitive from the British, too.
Unless …
Lock let the boat putter to a standstill, and glanced back over his shoulder. It was a slim chance. But any chance was better than no chance at all. There was something he could do after all, a possibility of reconciliation, of returning to General Townshend and Major Ross triumphant and vindicated. He glanced at his watch. How long had it been since the briefing had broken up? Since he had killed Wassmuss? Ten minutes? Fifteen? Would he catch them? Sod it, what did he have to lose? He punched the throttle back in and puttered forward, scanning the bank for an access road that would lead back up to the edge of town.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The bank of the river changed after just a few yards, becoming more and more commercial, with stone embankments and steps leading up from the water to the quayside. Lock puttered along trying to estimate how far he needed to travel before he should go ashore. Then it would only be a matter of heading inland and making for the same checkpoint where he and the elderly Arab had first entered Nasiriyeh.
The embankment was surprisingly busy with fishermen preparing their nets, and dockhands loading a low barge with what looked like sacks of grain. Artificial lights burnt brightly from the open doorways of the various stores and warehouses, and from a string of lamp posts that lined the quayside.
Lock slowed the motor launch when he came to a large steamer that was docked along the quay with a lighter attached. A troop of soldiers were mustering, ready for transportation.
Lock carried on a little further and then caught sight of a berth at the foot of some stone steps, in between a lenj fishing boat and a row of dhows. He cut the engine and glided the motor launch in. A dockhand was sat at the quayside edge, feet dangling over the water.
‘Hey, you! Grab this!’ Lock shouted in Arabic, throwing the dockhand a mooring line.
The dockhand scrambled up, caught the rope, and tied it down. Lock leapt off the motor launch and bounded up the steps, the box of pearls tucked safely under his arm. He gave the dockhand a coin and nodded his thanks, then made his way back along the quayside towards the assembled troops. There was a flustered çavuş directing the men towards the barge, but no senior officers that Lock could see. He elbowed his way through the troops, noting that they were all well attired and well equipped. He reached the line of storehouses, all one-storey wooden buildings with latticed shuttered frontages. There were a couple of dock officials sat on wicker armchairs outside one entrance. They were smoking and drinking coffee, oblivious to the insects that danced and flitted above their heads in the veil of light thrown down from a single electric lamp. An Arab messenger cyclist was standing nearby, deep in animated conversation with a scrawny native dressed in a grey, oil-stained suit jacket. There were two bicycles propped up against the side wall to the storehouse. Lock casually strolled by the two men, grabbing one of the bicycles as he passed, and wheeling it along with him. He continued walking in a straight line for a few yards waiting for a shout of protest. But none came, so he picked up speed, threw his leg over the crossbar, a
nd with a shaky, unsteady wobble, pedalled away.
With the box of pearls balanced precariously between his wrists across the handlebars, Lock weaved through the last of the shuffling troops and turned south at the first junction he came to. He bumped and shook and creeked his way up a quiet side street of dark warehouses, eventually coming out onto the road he had walked up a few hours earlier. He recognised the pavement cafe, now closed up, where he had been tempted to stop to take refreshment before the German major had collided into him. The road ran down towards a distant light, the lone street lamp burning near to the sentry hut. There was no sign of a motor vehicle. He glanced over his shoulder. The road was empty in both directions.
‘Bugger,’ he muttered. Was he too late?
Lock cycled on down towards the checkpoint and pulled up. A lone nefer sentry was dozing on his feet, outside of the closed door to the hut. The sentry didn’t stir as Lock climbed off the bicycle and rested it up against the mud-brick wall of the hut. With the box of pearls under his arm again, he approached the door, clearing his throat loudly.
The sentry started, pulling his rifle nervously from his shoulder.
‘Halt!’
The sentry momentarily relaxed on seeing Lock’s uniform, then immediately snapped his heels to attention.
‘Relax, nefer,’ Lock said with a smile. ‘Is the basçavuş muavini in?’
‘Effendim. Yes, effendim. Sorry, effendim.’ The nefer opened the door, and stood aside.
Lock stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
The hut was a barren affair, four plain walls with a hard-earth floor, a single electric bulb dangling down from the flyblown ceiling, and a bare window looking north up the road. The only furniture was a desk and three chairs, and a black pot-bellied stove in one corner. There was a pot of strong-smelling coffee boiling away on top. Sat opposite the stove were two more nefers, and over behind the desk was the young basçavuş muavini. He rose to his feet on seeing Lock enter, and saluted.
‘Korvet Kaptani, good evening.’ He snapped his fingers for the two dozing nefers to get to their feet.
Lock held his hand up. ‘Stay where you are, lads. This isn’t an official visit.’ But the stern look he was projecting to the basçavuş muavini said otherwise.
The two nefers glanced at the basçavuş muavini, and he gave a subtle jerk of his head. The nefers gathered up their rifles and shuffled outside.
‘Can I get you some coffee, Korvet Kaptani?’ the basçavuş muavini said, moving out from behind the desk.
‘That would be most welcome.’ Lock said, removing his fez. He put the jewellery box inside, and placed the fez on one of the chairs.
‘Cigarette?’ The basçavuş muavini held out a packet of Fatimas.
Lock took one. The basçavuş muavini struck a match for him, and then went to the stove and poured out a cup of coffee.
‘Tell me, Basçavuş Muavini, has an automobile passed through this evening?’
The basçavuş muavini paused for a moment, thinking, then he shook his head.
‘No, Korvet Kaptani.’ He handed the cup of steaming coffee to Lock. ‘May I ask why?’
Lock took a sip of the coffee and pulled his lips away sharply. It was scalding. He blew on the dark-brown liquid.
‘We have reason to believe that one of the chauffeurs for the officers who attended the briefing at Command Headquarters this evening is a spy. I would ask that you are meticulous in checking all travel documents, particularly those of the drivers.’
‘I assure you, effendim, I am always meticulous,’ the basçavuş muavini said, a touch of annoyance in his voice.
Lock nodded. ‘I do not doubt it, Basçavuş Muavini. I have been most impressed with your attitude, thus far. As has Binbaşi Feyzi. That is to say, Miralay Feyzi.’
The basçavuş muavini puffed out his chest a little in pride. ‘But no automobiles have passed this way all night, effendim.’
Lock rubbed his chin. ‘Well, then let’s hope none do. This is excellent coffee, Basçavuş Muavini, excellent,’ he lied, taking another sip, and resisting the temptation to wince. It was truly foul.
The basçavuş muavini smiled sadly. ‘I regret to say that we have plenty of time on our hands to make good coffee, effendim.’
A light suddenly shone through the window, and Lock and the basçavuş muavini turned to see a flaring set of headlights approaching.
‘Perhaps this is your man, effendim?’ the bascavus muavini said, taking his kabalak from a coat hook on the wall. ‘If you would excuse me a moment?’
Lock nodded and pulled hard on the cigarette, trying to rid his mouth of the taste of the rank coffee. The basçavuş muavini stepped outside, closing the door behind him. Lock heard the squeal of the automobile’s breaks and then a brief, muffled exchange of words. A car door opened and closed, and then the basçavuş muavini came back into the hut, closely followed by a flustered-looking Persian chauffeur. Lock glanced out of the open hut door. He could clearly see the rear passenger door of the automobile, decorated with the palm tree emblem he’d seen earlier.
‘… it is merely routine, you understand?’ the basçavuş muavini was saying as he moved behind the desk. He had the chauffeur’s travel papers in his hand and was frowning down at them. ‘Please sit.’
Lock put the coffee mug down, picked up his fez and the jewellery box, and casually made his way out of the hut, cigarette dangling from his lips, hand in pocket.
The automobile, the same Crossley 20/25 touring car with the raised roof that Lock had seen parked outside of the Command Headquarters, was idling softly. There was a trail of blue tobacco smoke seeping out from the open sides, and Lock could just make out the lower torsos of two men sat in the back. They were chatting quietly, but the voices were unmistakably those of Grössburger and Shears.
‘… do not trouble yourself, Günther,’ Shears was saying. ‘The quota of pearls you have distributed more than compensates for the stutter in oil production. For the moment. But we are back on track. And with this next push, the British government will be forced to consider their options.’
‘I hope you are right. But I do not like the way that these Ottomans are handling the situation on the Tigris,’ Grössburger grumbled. ‘It has be—’
Lock sauntered on, heading the few yards up towards the barrier where the three nefers were huddled together, smoking and talking in low tones. One turned on hearing Lock’s footfall, shielding his eyes against the bright headlights of the Crossley. He nodded, and Lock gave a nonchalant wave of his hand in return. Just before the beam from the headlights would reach his face, Lock stopped and turned back. He continued strolling and smoking his cigarette, making his way casually over to the driver’s side of the Crossley. That side of the motor car was in complete shadow. Lock walked slowly by, kicking his feet in the dust, head down.
‘… the British are getting worryingly close to Baghdad, I am thinking,’ Grössburger was saying.
‘Nonsense, Günther. Nonsense,’ Shears said. ‘You must have faith. And faith, my dear fellow is a very powerful weapon, particular in this part of the world. One that we will continue to use and corrupt.’ He gave a soft chuckle, before continuing. ‘Besides, the British have a surprise in store, mark my words. And our Russian friends will be adding to their worries soon. No, things have been … difficult, but …’
Lock glanced across the roof of the car, through the open door of the office. The basçavuş muavini was still interrogating the chauffeur.
It was now or never.
Lock tossed his cigarette aside, and quickly pulled open the driver’s door and slid in behind the wheel. He was sat in total shadow.
‘Everything in order?’ Shears asked from the back seat.
‘Yes, sayyid,’ Lock replied, giving his voice a heavy Persian accent.
‘Then let’s be going.’
Lock tossed the jewellery box onto the seat next to him. He shoved the car into gear, released the brake, and stamped his foot down o
n the accelerator. With a scrunch of dust, the Crossley shot forward, skidded and sprayed the wall of the sentry hut with gravel, making a sound like machine gun fire. The three nefers had a split second to dive out of the way, blinded by the beams of the headlights looming up on them. There was a terrific crack of splintering wood, and of breaking glass, as the Crossley smashed through the barrier. Lock wrestled with the wheel as the Crossley swerved and skidded away. He glanced in the wing mirror to see the basçavuş muavini and the chauffeur running out of the sentry hut and the three nefers picking themselves up.
‘What do you …?’ Shears gasped from the back seat.
There was a ping of a bullet ricocheting off the Crossley’s wing, but Lock just pressed his foot down as far as it would go, sending the car chasing after its own headlight beam that stretched out into the darkness ahead. Lock remained tense, his shoulders hunched, until the light of the checkpoint behind him was but a speck in the wing mirror.
‘Farrokh!’ Shears shouted.
‘Was ist …?’ Grössburger blustered, but the car was swinging and bumping and crashing so violently that the two men in the back seat couldn’t string a sentence together, let alone attempt to grab a hold of Lock.
Every now and again a hand would manage to snatch at his shoulder, but Lock just wrenched the wheel to the left or right, and the oilmen would be thrown back again in a spit of curses.
‘Halt! Halt!’ Grössburger shouted.
‘Just what in God’s name has gotten into you, Farrokh?’ Shears growled.
Lock pushed the accelerator down harder still, until the oilmen’s protests were drowned out by the wind that whistled in past the windscreen and through the open sides of the Crossley. On and on Lock drove, until the large Ziggurat mounds of Ur loomed up ahead and he realised that he had reached the same stretch of track that Captain Petre had landed on some eight hours earlier.
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