‘Christ, come on! We can’t let him get away!’ Lock said, and ran after the fleeing Arab. Underhill cursed and followed.
‘Where’s Connolly?’ Lock shouted back.
‘Dead,’ Underhill panted. ‘I went to relieve ’im … found ’im slumped by the ridge … ’is throat ’ad been cut.’
They ran past the point where the pipeline had been blown. Twisted, charred metal was strewn all over the ground. The oil burst into liquid fire as it gushed out of the wrecked pipeline, and the heat from the flames was immense. Lock and Underhill’s shadows danced ahead of them as they ran on, away from the burning oil and after the Arab. But soon the darkness closed in on them again and Lock pulled up. He grabbed Underhill’s arm and dragged him down to a crouching position. Both men waited, breathing, listening to the dark.
It was Lock who broke the silence. ‘The girl?’ he hissed.
‘Search me. She was sleeping when I left you.’
‘Give me your gun.’ Lock held out his hand.
‘My what?’
‘Your Webley. I see you’ve acquired Connolly’s Enfield. So you won’t be needing a sidearm, will you?’
Lock waited, staring at the dark shadow of Underhill’s form. Then he felt the cold metal of a revolver slap into his outstretched palm. Underhill started to complain again, but Lock hushed him. ‘Quiet! Listen!’
A little way ahead of them they could hear movement and then the distinctive jangle of a horse’s bridle, followed by the sudden pound of hooves galloping away. Lock pulled the trigger of the Webley and fired into the gloom. The muzzle flash momentarily lit up the landscape ahead like an eerie photograph. As the crack of his gunshot echoed around him, Lock spotted the tail end of a horse in the distance. But it was pointless to shoot a second time and, as quickly as it was illuminated, the gloom engulfed them once more.
‘Now what?’ Underhill said. ‘We can’t stumble about in the dark chasing that soddin’ Abdul!’
‘I know. But I’ve got a good idea where he’s heading. Shadegan’s about fifteen miles north-east at the edge of the marshland. I saw it on the map earlier today. Connolly mentioned we might get supplies from there to fix the armoured Rolls. The locals are supposedly pro-British.’
‘All the locals are supposedly pro-British,’ Underhill spat. ‘I bet that bugger ridin’ off in the dark with Connolly’s blood on ’is blade is pro-British. We should forget ’im. Get back to the road and wait for the troops.’
‘No,’ Lock said. ‘We’ve got a spy to catch, remember? And I think that’s him!’
Underhill stared into the dark. ‘Our troops’ll only be a few miles back,’ he said, sounding more and more to Lock as if he was pleading. ‘We could go and get some ’orses, some ’elp, and ’ead back ’ere, try and pick up the saboteur’s trail.’
Lock shook his head. ‘It’ll be too late by then.’
Underhill grunted his scepticism, but Lock knew what their best bet would be. Dawn was coming and already a thin strip of light grey was breaking up the dark horizon ahead.
‘We go back to the campfire, grab our haversacks, pick up that detonator box I disconnected on the way back, then head after the saboteur. If it’s not Wassmuss, then I think he’ll lead us right to the German himself. Now move!’
Lock scrambled to his feet and both men ran back in the direction of the burning pipeline.
‘Wait.’ Lock suddenly pulled up. ‘There!’ He pointed to a section of undamaged pipeline where there was a stopcock. ‘Help me close the valve!’
Lock and Underhill gripped the wheel. It was hot to the touch.
‘Jesus!’ Underhill flinched back, shaking his hand.
‘Come on!’ Lock yelled at him and began to put pressure on the wheel. His muscles started to scream and the sweat broke out on his head as he put all his effort into turning the wheel. Underhill gripped the other side and began to push. He swore and cursed and it looked to Lock as if the vein that throbbed on the sergeant major’s forehead would burst. But then, with an ear-piercing squeal of rusty gears, the wheel juddered, and then moved.
Lock and Underhill turned and turned it until it was closed fast, and slowly the flow of oil ceased and the flames died down.
‘Let’s move, Sergeant Major!’ Lock said, and ran down to the campfire.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Well over an hour later, with the sun rapidly rising over the surrounding hillside, Lock and Underhill came upon signs of life. Both men, crouching behind some scrub bushes, stared down into a small settlement nestled in a shallow valley. Despite the early hour, there was a lot of activity down there, and Lock followed the line of a well-traversed dirt road with his naked eye as a team of goods-laden camels were led into the town. ‘Must be market day,’ he said. ‘No sign of our rider. But I think we should take a closer look.’
‘We’re never gonna find that bleedin’ saboteur down there!’ Underhill said.
‘Maybe not, but this is where those tracks have led us,’ Lock said. ‘And I say we go and take a closer look.’
Underhill grabbed Lock’s arm. ‘I say we ’ead back, pick up our troops. They can’t be far off.’
Lock glared at Underhill. The sergeant major let go of his arm.
‘I’m giving the orders here, Sergeant Major, and you’d do well to remember that. And if you can’t do that, then remember Major Ross’s orders.’
It was a challenge to Underhill’s military conditioning, and Lock knew that the sergeant major would find it hard to go against that. No matter how belligerent and stubborn he was, Lock had no doubt about the unquestioning respect Underhill held for a superior officer, and that it was something he prided himself on upholding. The problem was, though, that Lock doubted the sergeant major regarded him as a ‘superior’ officer.
Underhill hacked and spat into the sand. But he didn’t say anything else.
‘Glad that’s settled,’ Lock said. ‘Leave yours and Connolly’s haversacks here, and just take the saddlebag with the detonator.’
‘What the ’ell for? Ain’t this place Daurabat?’
‘Daurat,’ Lock corrected, hauling his haversack onto his back.
‘Who bloody cares how you say it? What I mean is, ain’t this the pro-British place?’
‘Yes, but as you said yesterday, what the hell does that mean anyway, out here, in the middle of the Persian desert? So do as I say and bring the detonator as insurance.’
Lock could see more and more traders arriving as he and Underhill scrambled their way down towards the town. There were old men with staffs herding goats and sheep, donkeys laden with rich and deeply colourful rugs and jangling brass pots, and more tribespeople with horses, camels and ox-drawn carts, mostly loaded up with caged chickens.
Lock, with his holster unclipped, and Underhill, with Connolly’s rifle slung low and the saddlebag over his shoulder, joined the procession and marched on into the town, passing the watchful, suspicious eyes of two guards stationed at the town’s entrance. They, like most of the other men, Lock had noticed, wore a distinctive felt hat of a neutral colour. It had stiff flaps raised over the top which, he guessed, could be pulled down over the ears during blizzards or sandstorms. Their clothes were the usual combination of Pirahan, Shalvar and Jameh, but the wide kamarband belt was replaced on the guards by a hefty cartridge belt. They weren’t challenged as they passed, and the traders paid them little heed either. But Lock knew that news of their arrival would spread like wildfire.
As they walked on into the settlement, Lock and Underhill found themselves on the edge of a sea of crudely constructed, open-sided tents, made up of rough canvas sheeting, animal hides and blankets thrown over basic pole frames. The air was alive with human shouts of conversation and sales pitches mixed with plaintive animal cries and snorts. Lock led the way, passing foul-smelling animal pens already beginning to fill up with livestock.
Traders had set up their stalls of fresh dates, figs and vegetables. The smell of tea, coffee, herbs and spices wafted across th
e square, and the early morning sun dazzled on the trinkets of brass and tin. One man was attempting to sell a number of books that gave the impression of having been recently unearthed from some damp cellar, so mouldy, dusty and dog-eared were they. A circle of old men stood smoking in silence, studying goats in a pen. Tribeswomen dressed in colourful robes stood with pots balanced on their heads, while children stopped their games and stared as Lock and Underhill passed by. More women were bent over a flat rock preparing food and kneading dough, while others were scraping animal hides. There was a large, sweaty Arab standing in front of a stall bursting with rugs, hundreds of them, in all sizes and colours: vibrant blues, deep reds, golds and greens. Next to him were two more women, again adorned in colourful flowing robes. Both had long black hair topped by a headscarf. They were spinning wool. A mangy dog, ribcage protruding, was snuffling around. It growled at Lock and Underhill as they approached.
‘Even the soddin’ mutts ’ate us,’ Underhill said. ‘I tell you, we’ll get no ’elp ’ere!’
‘This way!’ Lock said, leading off to the far side of the market. Mud-brick buildings edged the square, in the middle of which was an open-fronted pavement cafe already buzzing with customers.
The cafe was rustic, but deceptively large inside. A rough wooden bar ran along one wall, with a number of tables scattered about beyond it. There was a beaded curtain covering a doorway at the back, which Lock presumed hid the horrors of the kitchen. A couple of flyblown oil lamps hung from the greasy walls. Outside, under a ragged awning that ran the length of the open frontage, were more tables. Lock headed to an empty one on the far right. It offered a good view of both the cafe interior and the market square beyond.
A portly Persian, whom Lock guessed could be anywhere between thirty and fifty, bowed as they approached.
‘Sabaah al-khayr,’ he said, greeting them in Arabic. His fleshy, round face was moist with sweat. ‘Eftaar?’
‘He means “breakfast”,’ Lock translated.
‘Ah, Engleezee,’ the proprietor beamed. ‘I speak leetle Engleezee. Hallo! Seet!’ He lifted the felt hat from his oily football of a head in salute, before pulling out a couple of chairs and beckoning for Lock and Underhill to take their places at the table.
‘We ’aven’t time for this,’ Underhill said. ‘We’ll never find that bleedin’ saboteur amongst this lot. Let’s get back to the troops while we can.’
‘Just take a seat, Sergeant Major. I’m told Persian cafe owners are like priests; they know everything.’ Lock sat down, dumped his haversack at his feet, removed his hat, and smiled up at the proprietor. ‘Baydah maslooqah, khobz, qahwah saadah, law samaht.’
The proprietor bowed his head, and with a waft of his flowing robe, disappeared into his cafe and through the beaded curtain at the back.
‘What the ’ell you ask for in that jibbajabba lingo?’
‘Boiled eggs, bread and coffee.’
‘Coffee?’ Underhill eyed Lock thoughtfully. ‘What’s “sweet” then?’
‘Sukkar zeyaadah.’
Underhill leant back in his chair and shouted after the proprietor. ‘Oi, Abdul! Sooker zayadu! Compree?’
The proprietor popped his head through the curtain and waved his understanding with one chubby hand, before disappearing again.
At the table next to them an ancient old man with a face as lined and cracked as the desert floor was sat playing Alquerques. He glanced up from his game, but hurriedly averted his watery gaze when Lock caught his eye.
Lock turned to Underhill. ‘You’re an ignorant bastard, aren’t you?’
Underhill grinned back at him, showing his newly broken tooth. ‘These rag’eads are the ignorant ones. Sah.’
‘He’s wearing a felt hat.’
‘Looks like a bleedin’ tea cosy to me.’
Lock shook his head.
Underhill just smirked, lifted the saddlebag onto his lap, and opened it up. ‘Right, now let’s see what we ’ave ’ere …’
Lock leant forward. The sergeant major was studying the detonator box they had taken from the pipeline. ‘Recognise it?’ Lock said.
‘Give me a chance …’
Lock moved his attention to the market. A group of young boys caught his eye. They were swarming around a shiny white motor car parked about fifty yards away, just inside an open-sided barn. The children reminded him of the boys who buzzed around the traders at the Saddar Bazaar back in Karachi. The way they weaved in and out of the stalls, laughing and pushing one another. A good ruse to distract traders while one of their number quickly helped themselves to a piece of fruit or a trinket they could sell. His mind snapped back to the moment. A shiny white motor car! It was too far away for him to make out the model, but it was very much out of place. He nudged Underhill. ‘Over there!’
‘Huh?’ Underhill said, looking up from the saddlebag, frowning. Then he too spotted the car. ‘What the ’ell’s that doing ’ere?’
‘My thinking exactly. The local khan’s perhaps?’ Lock said.
‘I thought they preferred ’orses? I’d wager that’s a white man’s car,’ Underhill said, returning his attention to the detonator box.
Lock began to scan the crowds as if they held the answer to the mysterious presence of the motor vehicle. His eyes fixed onto two Bedouin Arabs dressed in abas and kufiyas, wandering over to the cafe. Nothing unusual in that, as there was a number of Arab traders in the marketplace already. These two were deep in animated conversation, but fell silent once they reached the entrance. One of them stole a quick look at Lock, before both men stepped inside. The proprietor emerged from behind the beaded curtain and they greeted him with hearty ‘salaam’s’. After a brief, whispered conversation, the two Bedouins made their way further into the cafe to an already busy table where they appeared to be greeted as brothers. The two Bedouins seemed innocent enough, but one of them caught Lock’s attention. He wasn’t particularly remarkable, yet his attire was markedly different in two aspects. The first was that he wore a pair of tinted goggles. Not that unusual, perhaps, a good device to own if riding in a sandstorm. But the second pricked Lock’s suspicions. He wore a pair of leather riding boots. But not just any old pair of riding boots, but what looked to Lock as extremely well-crafted and expensive riding boots. More than that, was the mud they were caked in. The same mud that was splattered up the side of Lock’s and Underhill’s boots; oil-soaked mud. A very distinctive colour and sheen. Lock wasn’t a betting man, but he’d wager all he owned, not much admittedly but he’d do so, on that Bedouin being their saboteur.
Lock opened his mouth to make the same point to Underhill, but as he turned his gaze away, the proprietor approached carrying a wooden tray laden with food. Underhill quickly closed the saddlebag and lowered it to his feet. The proprietor grinned and nodded, and set about placing a plate of freshly baked flatbreads, half a dozen boiled eggs in a basket, and coffee on the table in front of them. He bowed. ‘Bel-hanaa’ wash-shefaa’. Enjoy meal.’
But before he could move away again, Lock reached out and took hold of his arm. ‘We’re seeking a man.’
The proprietor frowned. ‘Ma afham,’ he shrugged.
‘You understand perfectly,’ Lock said. ‘He came riding through here ahead of us. A stranger, perhaps.’
The proprietor shook his head and waved his hand at the traders’ camp beyond. ‘Many riders come, as-sayed. Many strangers.’ He smiled and glanced nervously back into the cafe, before lowering his voice. ‘But, as-sayed, all riders head to the camp of Khan Jenaab Ahmad Omid Esfahani.’
Lock tried to see who the proprietor had looked back at. But his view was obscured by the man’s bulk as he leant in closer, close enough for Lock to smell his stale breath.
‘He is local khan, as-sayed. Very powerful Qashqai.’
‘Qashqai?’
The proprietor bobbed and grinned again, patting his chest proudly. ‘We Qashqai peoples, as-sayed.’
‘Is that the khan’s motor car?’ Lock asked, pointing at th
e parked vehicle.
The proprietor lowered his eyes. ‘I know not about such things, as-sayed.’
‘I’d like to speak with this Ahmad Omid Esfahani.’ Lock removed his hand from the proprietor’s arm and placed a gold coin on the table. It glistened in the morning sunlight.
The proprietor didn’t even pause to think as he snatched up the coin. ‘You are indeed fortunate, as-sayed. Jenaab Ahmad Omid Esfahani is honoured customer today.’ He bowed and moved quickly away.
Lock watched the proprietor weave his way toward the back of the cafe where the two Bedouin had gone to join a group of older Qashqai. The men were sat in a haze of tobacco smoke. A larger, bearded Persian loomed up, stepping in front of the proprietor. He was obviously a bodyguard, judging by his build and the way he stood, arms folded, like a formidable statue, blocking the way to the table. The proprietor began gesticulating wildly and, after a moment, the bodyguard let him pass.
‘I thought you’d lost that gold?’ Underhill said, as he began to peel an egg.
‘Not all.’ Lock had wisely hidden the gold Ross gave him elsewhere about his person than in his haversack.
Lock could see that the proprietor was bent down, talking rapidly to a white-bearded Persian. The man was staring directly across, and as the proprietor talked, he too kept glancing back over to Lock. The white-bearded Persian gave the faintest nod of his head and the proprietor stood, bowed, then waddled quickly back over to Lock.
‘The most esteemed Jenaab Ahmad Omid Esfahani would welcome you to his table. You would perhaps wish to share his shisha?’ His voice was trembling and he was sweating profusely.
Lock nodded. ‘Shokran. Sergeant Major, you wait here!’
Underhill stuttered a protest through a mouthful of egg. ‘Where you goin’?’
‘To meet our saboteur.’
‘But this fat Abdul don’t know anything,’ Underhill said, wiping his mouth and jabbing a thumb at the proprietor.
‘Perhaps not. But I’ll wager the Qashqai Khan does.’
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