Kingdom Lock

by I. D. Roberts

  Lock rose to his feet, but Underhill pulled him back by the arm. ‘And what makes you think ’e’ll give ’im up?’ he hissed, voice low.

  Lock shrugged the sergeant major off. ‘Because I’ll tell him that there’s an army of British troops marching this way. He won’t be that stupid.’

  ‘What if ’e is? You know nothin’ about ’em!’

  ‘I know what Ross told me.’

  ‘Bah! You can’t trust these Buddoos, other than to slit yer throat as soon as look at yer. I keep tellin’ you that. Too risky. What if it’s a trap? Let’s scarper,’ Underhill said, as he glared at the proprietor hovering a few feet away.

  ‘Isn’t this what White Tabs do, though, Sergeant Major? Take risks?’

  Underhill shifted his gaze back to Lock’s.

  ‘Well?’ Lock said.

  Underhill narrowed his eyes. ‘Aye. Sah. But I don’t like it.’

  ‘It’s not about whether you like it. Now, sit still and keep that rifle ready. We may need to make a hasty retreat.’

  Underhill glared back for a moment, then nodded reluctantly.

  ‘If I call, raise up the saddlebag for all to see.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just do it! And save some of those eggs for me,’ Lock said before turning and making his way over to the rear of the cafe.

  A low murmur started up amongst the clientele as they eyed the proprietor leading Lock to the table at the back.

  There were seven men sat there; four Persians, all of a similar age, around sixty, all quietly watching as Lock approached, the two Bedouins and the khan. But Lock was not intimidated and immediately fell into the correct etiquette. He knew no Farsi, but greeted each man in the common Arabic, shaking him by the right hand in turn, starting with the most senior and ending with the youngest.

  ‘As-salaam alaykum.’

  When Lock had finished, he turned back to the elder, white-bearded Qashqai whom the proprietor had been conferring with earlier, and bowed his head slightly. ‘You do me a great honour, ya ostaaz sayyid Ahmad, inviting me to your humble table.’

  Ahmad Omid Esfahani held Lock’s gaze for a second more than was comfortable. ‘Wa-alaykum as-salaam. Khosh amadid. Sit.’ His voice was croaky and rattled with phlegm. He clapped his hands and ordered coffee.

  The proprietor, who had been shifting around the edge of the group in a mist of nervous sweat, bowed and quickly scuttled off.

  There was silence again after Lock sat himself down opposite Ahmad Omid Esfahani. He was older and frailer than the other men, perhaps closer to eighty than sixty, but his grey eyes were bright and his face lined with decades of wisdom. The shisha was passed slowly around the table and it eventually made its way to Lock. He smiled politely to the Qashqai elder to his right, and then began to puff away at the sweet-scented apple tobacco. The proprietor arrived carrying a tray laden with a large terracotta coffee pot and eight small clay cups. He placed one cup in front of each of the men, then poured the thick black coffee. Lock passed the shisha on, then took up his cup and sipped at the coffee. It was hot, sweet and strong.

  ‘I like your motor car,’ Lock said.

  Ahmad Omid Esfahani puffed contentedly on the shisha. ‘What is it you desire?’ he asked, ignoring Lock’s obvious probe about the car.

  ‘Esteemed ya ostaaz Ahmad,’ Lock began, clearing his throat. ‘I am here at the behest of my leaders, Major General Townshend and Major Ross of His Majesty’s Most Britannic 6th Poona Division. I have travelled many miles in search of a man who is determined to taint the friendship of our great countries with the poison of hate and intolerance.’ He paused, wondering if the Qashqai leaders would believe his flowery waffle. But no one interrupted or laughed or scoffed.

  ‘I am on the trail of a German spy who is known to be at work in this area,’ Lock continued, ‘stirring up unrest and inciting young men to rise up and not only to attack your British friends, but to attack the very oil pipeline that brings wealth and prosperity to your people. I was led to believe such a man was held captive here.’

  The men at the table remained silent when Lock finished, and all eyes were on the Qashqai chieftain.

  In the time Lock followed the proprietor to Ahmad Omid Esfahani’s table, greeted the elders, sat down and shared their shisha, took coffee and then told the tribesmen why he was there, he had subtly unclipped his holster, removed his Webley and placed it on his lap under the table. No one had mentioned it, no one had made a move for him, and Lock was sure no one had noticed.

  After a long, drawn-out pause the old khan put down the shisha pipe. ‘You have entered our great country,’ he said, ‘uninvited and you ask for our help? Help in stopping the rising where my people will push infidels from our land to the south and from our land to the north. You British say you extend the hand of friendship, brotherhood and loyalty, but you take our oil, you poison the soil, and you let our people starve.’

  Ahmad Omid Esfahani paused, but Lock wasn’t certain whether he was expected to respond or not. He glanced around the men at the table. They were all staring at him. He opened his mouth to reply.

  ‘You are no better than Ottomans who rule in west,’ the old Qashqai khan said before Lock could speak, ‘who make our brothers suffer in Mesopotamia, so why you think I will help you? Will your generals and your majors support our call for independence? Will you give equal share of oil production?’ Esfahani stared challengingly into Lock’s eyes. ‘Of course you will not! For you British are as corrupt as rest of empire builders. Where were you British when the Russian troops massacred my people at Tabriz? Old men and children killed, our women raped? Answer me this! You say you want to catch German spy. I know no such man. I know only friends who wish to help our struggle for freedom.’

  Lock felt a chill creep up his spine as the old Qashqai spoke. He had hoped that he would find a friend and an ally, some help in tracking this Wassmuss down, but he had gravely misjudged the attitude of the locals. He now knew that he really had no idea what he was doing. He did not understand the true feelings of these people and no wonder, as he had never given them a second thought up until now. He didn’t even know about them. They just lived here, where the oil happened to be. And the oil belonged to the British Empire, didn’t it? That’s what Ross had said. Lock knew that his life was in danger the longer he stayed where he was.

  In a swift, fluid motion, he pulled his Webley out from under the table. The Qashqai elders made no attempt to move; they didn’t even flinch. The huge Persian guard stepped forward, but Ahmad Omid Esfahani raised his hand. The guard stopped where he was, sword half drawn, eyes boring into Lock’s face.

  ‘I’m sorry to spoil our little chat, gentlemen,’ Lock said, ‘but I know you are just as aware as I am that the German spy Wassmuss is sat at this very table. And I am taking him with me. Dead or alive.’

  Lock’s accusations were met by a stony silence. He moved the gun away from Ahmad Omid Esfahani’s general direction and trained it at the Bedouin who was sat to the Qashqai Khan’s right. He was the Arab wearing the goggles and the well-tailored boots.

  ‘You are under arrest, Herr Wassmuss,’ Lock said.

  The Arab didn’t move at first, his expression didn’t change. But then he sprang up, pushing Ahmad Omid Esfahani away from him, and made to pull his pistol from the holster at his waist. Lock pulled the trigger of his Webley. There was a deafening crack as the hammer slammed into the bullet sending it racing down the chamber and tearing through the Arab’s throat. The Arab made a gurgling, choking noise and slumped back in his seat. He seemed surprised, as if that wasn’t quite what he was expecting to happen to him, and then he crashed face first down onto the table, his head making a terrible smack as it hit the terracotta coffee cup in front of him. Blood was pulsating from the wound in his neck and began to slowly spread out through the broken pieces of pottery and across the tabletop. Lock adjusted his aim but felt a terrific sting of pain as the Qashqai elder next to him smashed the shisha pipe down on his wrist.
The Webley clattered from his grip, and he was seized from behind and wrenched up from his seat.

  ‘Enough! Let him be!’

  The voice came not from Ahmad Omid Esfahani but from the second Bedouin Arab. The entire cafe was deathly silent now and Lock could see Ahmad Omid Esfahani hesitating. Then he nodded at the man who held Lock. The grip was released and Lock glanced over his shoulder to see the huge Persian guard glaring down at him.

  ‘Sit, Lieutenant, gentlemen,’ the Bedouin said, clapping his hands. ‘More coffee. And clear this up!’ He waved in the direction of his dead companion. The proprietor, who had been cowering behind a table, slowly rose to his feet. He bowed unsteadily and rushed back to the kitchen muttering prayers to Allah.

  The chatter started up again and the cafe returned to how it was before. Lock stole a glance to where Underhill was sat, and passed a hand through his hair. He saw the sergeant major briefly nod his head in understanding. Lock turned back to the Bedouin.

  ‘Very clever, Herr Wassmuss.’

  ‘What is, Lieutenant? Having my assistant dress how you would expect me to dress? In goggles and a pair of expensive riding boots? Why, Lieutenant, I find that … insulting.’ He smiled and held his hand out. ‘Sit, please.’

  Lock looked around the table at the other Qashqai men who were all focusing on Ahmad Omid Esfahani for guidance. And when their khan finally sat, they too sat. The proprietor arrived with fresh coffee and three young men. Two dragged the body of the Arab Lock had killed away, whilst the third set about wiping down the table of all evidence of the man’s demise.

  Lock took his seat again and felt the presence of the large Persian guard looming over him. For the moment he would see how this played out. He glanced down at his gun still lying where it had fallen.

  Wassmuss followed Lock’s gaze and smiled. He leant forward, picked up the Webley and levelled it at Lock. ‘Bang!’ he shouted and laughed. Lock didn’t even react. Wassmuss tut-tutted his disappointment, quickly emptied the shells from the Webley, then tossed the gun back to Lock.

  ‘Put it back in your holster, Lieutenant,’ he said, pocketing the bullets, ‘I have plenty of superior weapons of my own.’

  Lock caught the gun and did as he was told, stuffing it back in his holster. What the hell was Wassmuss playing at? he thought, studying the man properly for the first time. His disguise was remarkable, in that he looked totally unremarkable. His clothes, a mixture of Persian and Bedouin Arab attire, were brown and black in colour, and ragged and dusty. He wore a kufiya wrapped around his head and a cartridge belt across his shoulder. But it was his face that Lock really saw for the first time. There was a thick blond-brown beard hiding fleshy lips below a straight, flared nose. He was rather thickset – stocky, really – and shorter than Lock by a good four inches. It was hard to tell his age as the angular face was grimy, tanned and weathered, but Lock reckoned he would be in his early-to-mid thirties judging by the way he held himself, just the confident side of arrogance. But what was really remarkable about him, Lock thought, was his piercing eyes. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t noted them before, as they weren’t the ubiquitous brown of the Middle East, but were the sharp, piercing blue of Northern Europe. And his voice. Authoritative, yet gentle, and with barely a hint of an accent.

  Wassmuss chuckled, as if reading Lock’s mind and noting his surprise. ‘I imagine, Lieutenant, that your eyes attract a similar interest to my own.’

  Lock didn’t respond.

  ‘Oh, come, Herr Lock, no need for the silent response. We are all good friends here!’ Wassmuss said, extending his arms at the Qashqai seated around.

  ‘To German gold,’ Lock said.

  Wassmuss tut-tutted again, then took a sip of his coffee. ‘That reminds me, Lieutenant, you have some items that belong to me. May I have them, please?’

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’

  ‘You sleep very soundly, Lieutenant. You must have been exhausted last night,’ Wassmuss said.

  Lock tried not to look surprised. He knew he had failed for there was a spark of triumph in the German’s eyes. He had thought it was the girl who had taken his gun, the gold and the papers from the saddlebag. The notebook and the two incriminating letters with the broken Ottoman wax seals would still be where he put them himself, inside the pockets of the jacket she wore. But now he had a horrifying feeling that this German bastard had emptied the saddlebag. He imagined that after Wassmuss had slit Connolly’s throat, set the charges on the pipeline, and sneaked down to their campsite, somehow eluding Underhill, he had stood over him. Maybe he even put a knife to his throat, before he had taken back his documents and his German gold. But why had the German not killed him?

  And then Lock cursed himself. It was all a bluff. None of it was true. All right, you bastard, he thought, I’ll let you keep thinking that I believe everything you say.

  ‘So any questions?’ Wassmuss said.

  ‘What did you do with the girl?’

  ‘Pretty little thing,’ Wassmuss smiled. ‘Found her at the foot of the Zagros with her brother, tending sheep. Lur nomads. They made a good disguise to get through the British patrols north of Ahwaz. They served their purpose, until the boy tried to run. So, alas …’ Wassmuss shrugged. ‘A bit of a bloodbath. My men were bored. The girl … a necessary distraction. But as to her whereabouts now, I do not know. I do not have her. I wish I did. Why, Lieutenant, did you take to her? Like you took to … Now, what was her name? The Chinese girl? Although she was more of a woman than a child.’

  Lock was stunned into silence. What had Wassmuss just said? The Chinese woman? How on earth could he know about …?

  ‘How in the world could I know about Mei Ling? you are asking yourself,’ Wassmuss sneered. ‘We’ve met before, Lieutenant. Although, I doubt you will remember. No? It was last year, in Tsingtao.’

  Lock studied Wassmuss’s face as he racked his memory, but he couldn’t place the man. Yes, then that part of China was full of German officers, soldiers and merchants, but … Besides, he doubted whether Wassmuss wore Arab garb at the time, if he was truly there.

  ‘Perhaps, if you took that ridiculous get-up off, I may be able to place you,’ Lock said.

  ‘And you think you look less ridiculous in that sheepskin and that slouch hat you wore when you came in?’ Wassmuss scoffed, glaring back at him. ‘It is of no matter. But remember this, Lieutenant, I know a lot more about you, your White Tabs, and your Major Ross than you do about me.’ His voice had gone up a pitch, the German accent more profound now, and his eyes ablaze with irritation. ‘Now, where is … mein notebook?’ He slammed his hand down on the table, making some of the listening Qashqai elders start.

  Lock smiled ruefully. A chink in the armour; this German was touchy. He shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’ It was true, although he knew who did. He needed to find that girl again, and quickly, before she ran into more trouble.

  ‘Perhaps our friend there,’ Wassmuss said, indicating to the large Persian guard behind Lock, ‘can prick your memory? Ja? Shall we ask him?’

  ‘I think not, Herr Wassmuss,’ Lock said, rising to his feet. He immediately felt a powerful hand on his shoulder. But as quickly as it landed there, Lock snatched it away, twisting it and bending the fingers back against their joints. The guard yelped in pain, but Lock kept forcing the hand up and back. There was a snap like a twig breaking, and the guard dropped to his knees. Lock brought his own knee up to meet the hefty Persian’s jaw. There was a terrific crack and the guard slumped to the floor like a sack of potatoes. He was out cold. Lock turned back to face the table and was staring down the barrel of Wassmuss’s pistol. The cafe was again deathly silent as the clientele watched the khan’s table with captivated awe.

  ‘Are you as stupid as you look, Lieutenant? You are going nowhere!’ Wassmuss hissed, the spittle spraying across his beard.

  ‘My, we are tetchy,’ Lock scoffed. ‘Sergeant Major!’ he called.

  Underhill sprang to his feet at the far e
nd of the cafe, and raised the saddlebag so that Wassmuss and the others could see it.

  ‘A little insurance, Herr Wassmuss,’ Lock said. ‘One of your detonators, primed and ready. It won’t be a huge explosion, but it’ll be big enough to take out this cafe and everyone in it.’

  ‘You would not dare,’ Wassmuss sneered.

  Lock raised an eyebrow. ‘A challenge? My mission is to stop you. Yours, to carry on. I would say this is a … stalemate. Check, if you like?’ Wassmuss glared back at Lock, keeping his gun level. Lock watched as the German’s facial expressions changed. He was clearly mulling the options over, trying to size up what Lock would actually do.

  ‘Sergeant Major Underhill is a bastard,’ Lock said. ‘He hates me as much as he hates Persians, Germans, other human beings in general, really. If you know me as well as you claim, Herr Wassmuss, then you’ll know that he won’t hesitate to throw that bomb just on the off chance of killing me. Now, he’s not the most patient of men either …’ Lock shrugged.

  Wassmuss glanced over in Underhill’s direction, then back at Lock. He glared at him a moment longer, then his face broke into a smile and he lowered his pistol.

  ‘I mean to get my notebook back, Lieutenant. And I shall.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Lock said, and turned to Ahmad Omid Esfahani. ‘Your Excellency, thank you for your hospitality.’

  The Qashqai elder looked up at him with a stony expression. ‘Go, young man. Your safety is no guarantee if dwell here,’ Ahmad Omid Esfahani said with a dismissive wave of his bony hand.

  As Lock left the table, he noticed that four Qashqai tribesmen, all holding long-barrelled rifles, were standing near to the tables under the awning, watching him with cold, black eyes. Lock caught Underhill’s gaze and the sergeant major instantly understood the danger and slowly got to his feet, rifle at the ready and swinging the saddlebag over his shoulder.

  Lock bowed his head. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said in English, ‘I bid you good day.’ He moved away from the table, pushing past the frightened-looking proprietor and swiftly made his way over to Underhill.