Ross put the notebook aside, fished out his pipe and tobacco pouch, and began the familiar ritual of filling it. ‘What?’
‘While I was in Daurat I saw a motor car.’ Lock paused.
‘And?’ Ross didn’t look up from his pipe.
‘It just seemed so out of place.’
‘Lots of these local chieftains have elaborate motor cars. We are in the land of black gold, after all.’
‘Yes, but something wasn’t right …’ Lock fell silent, struggling to find the right words to express his concerns about the car.
‘What make was it?’
‘A white Rolls-Royce.’
Ross looked up from his pipe with renewed interest.
‘Tell me, was it a Silver Ghost model?’
‘I believe so, yes.’
Ross popped his pipe in his mouth. He struck a match, and puffed away in silence, frowning.
‘So, now what, sir?’
‘Well, we need to get some transport. We have to get to Basra and warn the garrison there, warn them to watch the east!’ He scooped up the notebook and stuffed it, along with the letters, in his pocket.
There was a knock on the outside of the tent.
‘Come,’ Lock said.
A messenger entered and saluted stiffly. ‘Major Ross, urgent signal.’
Ross took the paper and tore it open. ‘Thank you, Private,’ he said to the messenger, dismissing him with a salute.
When the soldier had left the tent, Ross turned to Lock. ‘You best come with me into town, Lock. Seems we shall all be needing to get out of here sooner than we thought.’
‘Sir?’
‘Ahwaz has fallen,’ Ross said, handing the signal to Lock. ‘That Ottoman army my informants told about, the same army we’ve just been discussing …’
Lock looked up from the message. ‘Wassmuss!’
Ross nodded. ‘Aye, lad. It’s on the march.’
‘Jesus,’ Lock said. ‘How long?’
‘A few days. Robinson’s been forced back.’ The major shook his head. ‘We’re on the run, Lock, the British … We’re on the run.’
CHAPTER TEN
Mohammerah was in a state of organised panic as the town busily prepared itself for a possible siege. Everywhere Lock looked, soldiers were piling sandbags in doorways and in front of windows. Instructions were shouted as barricades went up on street entrances, and Lock wondered how the watching native population felt about their liberties slowly disappearing behind a wall of barbed wire and wood. Lock had to step out of the way three times when the sandbags started to be piled up by the entrance to Military Command HQ where he was waiting for Ross. The major was inside somewhere and had been so for some time.
Lock rubbed his forehead. There was a stabbing pain behind his eyes, but he tried to ignore it, putting it down to the fact that he hadn’t eaten properly or slept for more than an hour or so for some time now. Perhaps his irritability showed, for passers-by were giving him a wide berth.
‘There’s a courtyard out back, sir. Looks over the river. Lot quieter there,’ one of the English soldiers constructing the barricade said, throwing down another heavy sandbag with a grunt.
Lock stamped his cigarette out. ‘Good idea, Private.’
‘I’ll tell the major where you are, sir,’ the sentry on guard duty added.
Lock thanked the sentry, turned and made his way along the building to the end of the street where it met the river. He rounded the corner and found a wrought-iron gate, beyond which a path ran the length of the military building along the riverbank. The gate opened with a teeth-jarring squeal. Lock closed it behind him and lit his fourth cigarette of the hour. He gazed out at the river and the docks a little further up the bank, watching as still more troopships, filled to capacity with Brigadier General Robinson’s men, local civilians and oil workers, arrived at the port from Ahwaz. The retreat was in full swing.
Lock tossed his match away and continued along the path until it came to an open cobbled courtyard. It was cool and quiet here, just as the private had said it would be. Dark windows stared down disapprovingly from the surrounding walls, but Lock could see no sign of life behind any of them. There was a rear entrance to the building here, at the top of three stone steps, with another bored-looking British private on guard duty. The sentry nodded his head stiffly in response to Lock’s nonchalant wave.
At the far side of the courtyard was an open gateway with a barrier across. Two more sentries, sepoys this time, were on duty there. But what struck Lock the most was the pristine white automobile parked on its own over on the far side of the courtyard. It was strangely familiar. There was a dozing figure in the driver’s seat. Lock couldn’t see his face, though, as it was obscured by a chauffeur’s cap and driving goggles.
‘I wonder …’ Lock muttered. But as he was about to investigate, the sentry at the entrance snapped his heels in attention and Lord Shears came out of the door. He hesitated on seeing Lock, then smiled thinly, and taking his cigarette case from his pocket, lit up and made his way down the steps.
Lock tossed his own cigarette aside and crossed the courtyard, his boot heels echoing loudly against the walls. ‘Hello, sir. I presumed you would have left by now.’
‘I will be, Lieutenant,’ Shears responded flatly, blowing smoke from his nostrils. ‘But I have a few loose ends to tie up here. Tell me, is Major Ross with you?’
‘Yes, sir. He’s inside trying to rustle up some transport to get us to Basra.’
‘Oh? I would have thought that you would be staying here to help fend off the Turkish hordes,’ Shears said.
‘No, sir, it appears not.’
Shears gazed out at the river. ‘The retreat from Ahwaz is still in full flow, I see.’
‘A strategic withdrawal, sir,’ Lock said with a smile. ‘At least, that’s what Major Ross told me. There was a danger that Ahwaz could be cut off and surrounded. Supplies were low and there weren’t proper facilities to treat the wounded at the oil-pumping station.’ Lock shrugged. ‘Best to abandon the position and make for here.’
‘I suppose you are right, Lieutenant. But it will have to be a last stand, will it not, if the Turks push further south? Very troubling.’
Both men fell silent. Lock tried to read Shears’ face, but his eyes were, as usual, hidden by light reflecting off his spectacles.
‘Do you like my limousine, Lieutenant?’ Shears said, nodding at the white motor car.
‘I … yes, sir,’ Lock said, thrown by the innocuous question.
‘It’s a Rolls-Royce,’ Shears said, guiding Lock over to the automobile. ‘A 1909 40/50 Silver Ghost. Not actually mine, sadly. Belongs to the Sheikh of Mohammerah. I would offer to take you for a drive but you have pressing matters of your own.’ The smile across his lips appeared forced.
‘Yes, I’m afraid so, sir,’ Lock said. ‘Still, it’s very gracious of the Sheikh to loan you his car.’
‘Oh, it’s not his only one, Lieutenant. He has a fleet. All the same colour, all the same model.’
Lock studied the car closely. Could it be the same as the one he’d seen in the market at Daurat?
‘Been driving around long, sir?’
‘Oh, not really. But it’s good business from the Sheikh’s point of view.’ Shears lowered his voice in mock conspiracy. ‘He thinks it will reflect well when Churchill hears about his generosity.’ He chuckled as if it was some great joke.
Lock didn’t understand, but, then again, he was certain that he wasn’t supposed to. More Admiralty business to do with the oil rights to Persia, no doubt.
Shears took a final puff on his cigarette, and dropped it to the floor. ‘Well, Lieutenant, I wish you a safe journey.’
Lock took Shears’ limp hand in his. ‘Thank you, sir. And to you.’
Shears turned and waited as the Arab chauffeur stepped out from the front of the vehicle and opened the passenger door. Shears climbed in and the chauffeur closed the door behind him and got back into the driver’s seat. Shears leant forward.<
br />
‘By the way, Lieutenant, I am reporting now to the Sheikh about the situation at Ahwaz. The pipeline … Tell me, this German spy, Wassmann, that the major told me ab—’
‘Wassmuss, sir,’ Lock said.
‘Ah, yes, Wassmuss. He is stirring up a lot of trouble in these parts and the Sheikh and I are deeply concerned about pipeline secur—’
‘Don’t worry about him, sir,’ Lock said. ‘The net is closing in on our German friend.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, sir. We had a stroke of luck a while back,’ Lock said, lowering his voice. ‘A valuable piece of information came into our possession.’
‘How very fascinating, Lieutenant. Well, until we meet again.’ Shears tapped on the driver’s shoulder, signalling for him to move on. The engine coughed into life with a clatter of metal that echoed deafeningly around the courtyard, startling a group of brooding pigeons into flight. The engine settled down to a gentle purr and, with a crunch of gears, the motor car glided off.
Lock rubbed the leather of his holster and watched the Rolls manoeuvre out of the courtyard and onto the main thoroughfare. The sound of approaching footsteps made him glance back towards the building. Ross was making his way across the courtyard.
‘A penny for them,’ he called.
‘Do you remember the white Rolls-Royce I told you about? The one I saw parked in Daurat?’
‘What of it?’ Ross came to a halt beside Lock.
‘The Sheikh has a fleet of them.’
‘Yes?’
‘And Lord Shears has been driving around in one for the past few days.’
‘Has he, indeed? Interesting.’ Ross frowned.
‘Any news, sir?’ Lock said, changing the subject.
‘Yes, bad … and good. This army of Wassmuss’s … it’s been spotted by a routine patrol, encamped to the west of here. It’s a smaller force than the one Robinson engaged to the north of Ahwaz, but it includes nearly five hundred cavalry. Yet, for some reason, the main body of Turkish troops have halted outside of Ahwaz. They haven’t moved and show no sign of doing so. Damned curious.’ Ross’s expression turned grave. ‘And the brigadier general’s injured. Took a bullet during the retreat. Means the chap in there is in overall command of the troops here. But I used my White Tab influence and secured a gunship to get us to Basra.’
‘Did you raise Basra and warn them?’
‘The telegraph lines are cut. I fear the natives sense a turn of the tide.’ Ross pulled out his pipe and began to fill the bowl.
‘What about here in town?’
‘Oh, they’ll behave, as long as we show calm and strength.’ Ross finished filling his pipe and rummaged in his pockets for a light. ‘Have you a—?’
Lock handed Ross a box before he could finish his question. ‘So when do we leave?’
Ross lit his pipe and puffed away until it began to smoke. He put the box of matches away in his own pocket. ‘The gunboat will be ready at dusk. So we have some time to kill.’
The two men started to walk back across the courtyard towards the main thoroughfare.
‘How do you know Lord Shears has been driving around in one of the Sheikh’s motor cars?’ Ross asked, as if he had only just heard what Lock had told him a moment ago.
‘He was here,’ Lock said.
‘Hmm?’ Ross still seemed distracted.
‘Yes. He was off to meet the Sheikh before leaving town.’ Lock paused to see if Ross had anything to say. ‘He was concerned about Wassmuss.’
‘We are all concerned about Wassmuss, my boy.’
‘Yes, but it was something he said …’ Lock trailed off.
Ross glanced at him. ‘You look tired. And why in God’s name are you still wearing that bloody winter tunic? Didn’t you have any of your own in your trunk?’
‘Only a mess jacket, sir. Didn’t have much time in Karachi to get a full set of uniforms.’
Ross shook his head. ‘Come on, let’s find a place in the shade to have a drink where you can sit in your shirtsleeves. I’m parched after all that negotiating, I can tell you!’
Lock smiled. It was, he thought, the best suggestion Ross had come up with since they’d set foot in Persia.
The garrison commander had been true to his word. When Lock and Ross arrived at the dock, not only was there a boat ready and waiting, but what appeared to be a large amount of ammunition and supplies were being loaded on board, too.
‘When do we sail?’ Lock said.
‘Not sail, Lock, steam!’ Ross said.
Lock could see a funnel amidships, belching smoke into the late afternoon air, but the three sail masts pointing proudly to the heavens puzzled him.
‘Ah,’ Ross said, ‘I see your confusion. But despite the rigging, she was never fitted with sails.’
‘Looks pretty smart for a gunboat.’
The captain, a tall, broad man in his mid thirties, with a red complexion so familiar on men who had spent years at sea, and an even redder set of whiskers, was standing at the end of the gangplank. He was puffing contentedly on a pipe as Lock and Ross made their way on board.
‘She’s actually an old sloop, gentlemen, one of the Cadmus class. But rest assured I can handle all 1070 tons of her like a pleasure yacht. Hayes-Sadler. Welcome aboard the HMS Espiegle, Major.’
‘Thank you, Captain. Are the men on board?’ Ross said, stepping on deck.
‘They are. All settled down. And that’s the last of our supplies being loaded now. I’m afraid I can only offer you a shared cabin with the first officer. I was going to give you mine, but we have an unexpected dignitary as an extra passenger.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. Lord Shears. Came aboard about half an hour ago, with a bloody Arab manservant, too. Fellow was even dressed in a uniform.’
Ross glanced at Lock and pursed his lips.
‘Hope that’ll suffice?’ Hayes-Sadler frowned.
Ross turned back and smiled. ‘Of course, Captain. As long as I’m not on deck, I don’t mind where I sleep.’
‘Your … companion,’ Hayes-Sadler said, raising an eyebrow at Lock’s sheepskin jerkin and slouch hat. Lock had conveniently left the SD jacket behind at the bar he and Ross had spent the afternoon refreshing themselves in.
‘Lieutenant Lock,’ Ross said.
‘The lieutenant will have to kip on deck.’ Hayes-Sadler gave a quick smile.
‘That will be fine,’ Ross said before Lock could comment.
Hayes-Sadler nodded. ‘Shouldn’t be a bad trip, about ten hours in all. The Shatt’s an easy waterway and we may get up to a top speed of thirteen knots. Should reach Basra well before dawn tomorrow.’ He stuffed his pipe back in his mouth and waved down to the dockhands on the quayside to cast off.
‘Splendid.’ Ross gave a cheery salute, and he and Lock strolled over to the stern.
‘What the hell is Shears doing here, sir?’ Lock whispered. ‘I thought he was on his way back to Karachi.’
‘So did I.’
Ross fell silent, and Lock peered out over the guard rail to watch the sun slowly setting over Mohammerah. He was taken by how peaceful Arabistan, and beyond it, Persia, looked; no gunfire, no shells, no thick clouds of black smoke. Not yet, anyhow.
Footsteps approached and both men turned to see Lord Shears.
‘Gentlemen. Good evening,’ Shears nodded curtly.
‘Lord Shears.’ Ross bowed his head slightly in greeting. ‘Forgive me for being so blunt, sir, but where we are going could be extremely dangerous for you.’
Lock could detect a touch of annoyance in the major’s voice. Shears stood by the guard rail and fished out his cigarette case. He carefully pulled out a cigarette and waited expectantly.
‘Oh,’ Lock said, patting his pockets, realising what Shears wanted. He tutted softly as Ross politely struck a match for Shears.
‘Thank you. I am well aware of the dangers, Major. Besides, do you think Mohammerah will be any safer? I was originally on my way to Basra, if you recall.
But I must get there now. Mohammerah is cut off and there are no ships leaving for India. This is the only vessel going anywhere.’
‘Why must you get to Basra, if I may ask?’ Ross said.
Shears drew heavily on his cigarette, then exhaled long and drawn out, keeping his gaze fixed out on Mohammerah. ‘Well, Major. After my brief chat with Lieutenant Lock this morning, I realised that it was pointless my returning to Karachi. I’m needed on the front line, to advise and secure our oil interests. That’s what Churchill appointed me to do, after all. I’m sure that you could use my support and influence once we arrive.’
Ross narrowed his eyes. ‘You were appointed by the First Lord of the Admiralty? Personally?’
‘Official oil business, Major,’ Shears said, tapping the side of his nose. ‘That is all I can say.’
There followed a moment of awkward silence, then Shears gave them an insincere smile. ‘Would you care for a game of cards in my cabin after supper, Major? And you, Lieutenant? Quinto or Le Truc perhaps?’
Lock looked to Ross for a response. He was keen to do so. But was the major? It would be a good chance to study Shears up close, that’s for sure.
‘We’d be delighted, Lord Shears,’ Ross said.
Little happened over the next few hours. Lock strolled the deck, keeping the stiffness from his knee. It had begun to ache of late. He put it down to the amount of riding he’d been doing, but he couldn’t help but worry that it was to do with his old wound from the Hindu Kush. Then he smiled. For the first time in ages he felt his mind was free to think of Amy. He wondered how she was faring as a nurse in the hospital in Basra. Was she safe, or fearing for her life each day? No, she would never be so selfish. Lock had no idea what kind of situation the city was in. Still, he would be able to see for himself in less than twelve hours. But how easy would it be to see her? Would she even want to see him? Surely the incident with Bingham-Smith was forgotten, forgiven? Bingham-Smith. Now there was a man he was happy never to see again. Lock laughed to himself. It was ridiculous, but whenever he thought of Amy, bloody Bingham-Smith popped into his mind, too. Bollocks to the man, bollocks to his pompous, cursed arse.
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