Kingdom Lock

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Kingdom Lock Page 20

by I. D. Roberts


  A gunshot rang out. The running footsteps stopped abruptly.

  ‘Sahib!’

  Lock span round. Indar was standing half in shadow at the end of the street. Lock lowered his Webley.

  ‘Sahib!’ Indar hissed again, and beckoned Lock over.

  Lock glanced behind him once more and darted over to the young sepoy. He was now crouched down facing away from the street towards the east.

  ‘Was that you running, Indar?’ Lock said, kneeling down behind him.

  ‘No, sahib. But there is some activity over there, near to the church.’ He nodded over at an old building bathed in moonlight that was about two hundred yards away across an open courtyard.

  ‘Ram Lal?’ Lock said.

  ‘I have not seen him, sahib.’

  Lock peered over to the church. It was a stone-constructed building, square, with a flat roof. There was an open bell tower in the middle, with two bells, one smaller than the other, and a simple cross on top. On the right of the roof was what looked like a hut with a doorway to one side. Below the bell tower was an arched window and a set of heavy wooden double doors. Two smaller arched windows were situated to the left and right. There was a path leading up to the doors with neat railed gardens either side, planted with well-tended ornamental shrubs. And in the garden on the left was a large palm tree that reached up to and obscured part of the roof.

  A movement beside the bell tower caught Lock’s eye. He saw the tip of a rifle barrel and the crown of a topi briefly appear. ‘One of ours?’ he wondered out loud. ‘Indar. Go back and fetch Lance Naik Singh and the others. Be swift, but be cautious. I saw movement behind me. Maybe it was a local, but I’m not sure …’

  Indar saluted and was gone, running on his toes. He was barely audible.

  Lock pulled out his field glasses and scanned the church roof. The figure was no longer in sight. He adjusted his focus to the front of the building. There was a body lying in the shadow of the railed garden on the right. Lock adjusted the focus again, but in the gloom he couldn’t tell if the corpse was Turk, Arab or British.

  Or an Indian? He strained his eyes to see if the figure was wearing a turban, thinking of Ram Lal and those running footsteps. But it was no good; it was too dark among the bushes to make out.

  A rifle shot rang out and Lock jumped back as part of the wall above him shattered. He looked at his left hand. There was an angry gash below his knuckles. ‘Bugger,’ he hissed through gritted teeth. He pulled Amy’s soiled handkerchief from his trouser pocket, and then bound the injured hand as best he could. ‘Sorry, Amy,’ he said, ‘needs must.’

  He poked his head out and the wall inches above him cracked again, showering him in debris.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Lock dodged back into the cover of the street as the sound of another rifle shot echoed around the courtyard. He cursed again as he smacked the back of his head against the wall and his slouch hat fell to the floor. He briefly thought about retrieving it, but it was in clear sight of the sniper. He turned and looked back up the street. It was empty. He pursed his lips, and then moved off back the way he had come.

  After about fifty yards, Lock came to one of the doorways cut into the wall that he had passed earlier. It was slightly ajar, but he paid the dark gap little attention. He stopped and turned to check back up the street towards the church. No one was following him. Something grabbed his shoulder. He spun around, startled, Webley pointed at the gaping shadow in the doorway.

  ‘Maalesef doluyuz!’ a voice whispered from the darkness.

  Lock reached with his bound hand into the shadows, grabbed hold of the figure that was cowering there, and yanked him out into the moonlight. It was a wild-eyed Arab with a patchy goatee beard and shiny burn scar tissue down the right side of his face. Three fingers were missing from his right hand, which was also scarred and little more than a claw. He was younger than first appeared, too, no more than thirty years old. Lock noticed that the man’s left arm was stained dark with blood.

  ‘Lütfen,’ the Arab croaked.

  Lock’s mind was racing. He was momentarily shocked at the surprise of the man appearing from nowhere, and at his own stupidity for not remembering the figure he saw dart into the very same doorway earlier on. But he was together enough to notice that the Arab was speaking to him in Turkish and not Arabic or English. But it was what he initially said: ‘I’m sorry, we’re full.’ A code? Had he mistaken him for someone else?

  Then he remembered, he’d lost his hat and he was still wearing the sheepskin jerkin. This Arab clearly thought that Lock was a German, or possibly a Turk. There was nothing about Lock’s appearance that said Australian or even British officer at all, save for his Webley, and he doubted whether the frightened, wounded Arab would notice the model of firearm he held.

  ‘Who are you?’ Lock said in Turkish.

  ‘Abdullah Al-Souk, effendim,’ the Arab said. ‘Darf ich ein schluck wasser?’

  Lock remained still. ‘You are Al-Souk?’ he said, ignoring the German and sticking to Turkish.

  Abdullah switched back to the same tongue. ‘Yes, effendim. I have been expecting you … Are you with Herr Doktor Wassmuss?’

  Lock, who was still holding the Arab’s collar, pushed him up against the door frame. ‘I am alone.’

  Abdullah Al-Souk waved his hand weakly. ‘But you are his scout? I was watching you enter the town. There is a British sniper … on the Syrian church around the corner. I saw him … shoot at you. That is when … I knew who you were … effendim … I remembered the code “I’m sorry, we’re full” … I … there are others … Indian soldiers. I … Water …’ he said.

  Lock let go of Abdullah Al-Souk’s collar and gave him his water canteen. The Arab nodded his thanks and drank thirstily, gulping the water down noisily.

  ‘Has everything been arranged?’ Lock said, continuing his bluff.

  Abdullah Al-Souk wiped his mouth and gasped. He handed the canteen back and nodded. ‘Shokran, shokran. Yes, effendim. The bombs set off to the north, near to the docks, caused great confusion at the stroke of midnight. Many of the British men guarding the Southern Gate were called there. My men and I then dealt with those left behind. Except …’

  ‘The church,’ Lock answered for him.

  ‘Yes, effendim, the Syrian church,’ Abdullah Al-Souk nodded. ‘Yes. I am glad you are here. The sniper has killed many of us. I am shot also. My arm.’

  ‘Surely he hasn’t killed you all?’

  ‘They are weak-hearted, effendim. Cowards, no better than worthless women,’ he spat. ‘They have fled back to their homes to cower in the dark and to wait for you.’ He paused. ‘When does the Doktor come, effendim? For I fear the British garrison will send out patrols and reman the Southern Gate once they see they are abandoned.’

  ‘When I give the all-clear. But he is ready, outside of the city walls with a thousand men at his side,’ Lock said.

  Abdullah Al-Souk nodded satisfactorily. ‘Good. Quick!’ He yanked Lock back into the darkened doorway. There were footsteps approaching from the south. ‘It may be a British patrol!’ the Arab said.

  They waited in the darkness, hardly daring to breathe. Lock was close enough to the Arab to taste him. He reeked of fear, of stale sweat, of rotting meat and of blood. But he also reeked of good fortune. Good fortune for Lock. This was one of Wassmuss’s key men in Basra, he was certain of it, and he had stumbled into his hands. Perhaps the game really was in his favour, he smiled to himself; perhaps he really was going to stop the German in his tracks.

  The footsteps came closer and the Arab began to tremble. Lock almost felt sorry for him, but then he saw the faces of all those dead soldiers murdered at their posts and pity was quickly replaced with anger.

  ‘Lock, sahib!’ It was Singh.

  Lock roughly pushed Abdullah Al-Souk out into the street. ‘Here, Lance Naik!’ he called.

  Singh, Indar and the six other sepoys were standing just to the right, rifles raised in surprise as Lock and the Arab tumbled
from the darkened doorway. Lock pressed his Webley into the Arab’s neck. The Arab’s eyes were wide with confusion as he tried to twist out of Lock’s grip.

  ‘Lieutenant Lock, at your service!’ He spoke in English and touched his forelock mockingly. ‘Now move!’ he said, switching to Turkish, and shoving the Arab in the back.

  Abdullah Al-Souk spat and cursed in Arabic, but Lock just smiled.

  ‘I said, move!’ he repeated, this time using Arabic.

  Singh pulled the Arab by the scruff of the neck and shoved him forward. ‘You have been busy I see, sahib,’ the Indian smiled. He glanced down at Lock’s injured hand and frowned. ‘Are you badly hurt, sahib?’

  ‘What?’ Lock asked. ‘Oh, nothing … just a scratch. Any sign of Ram Lal?’

  ‘No, sahib,’ Singh said. ‘But we found many British sentries, all with their throats cut.’

  ‘I hope that bloody Tommy sniper on top of the church hasn’t shot him!’ Lock said to himself. He didn’t react to the news about the sentries. He already knew whose handiwork that was.

  Lock pushed Abdullah Al-Souk forward roughly, making him lead the way back up the street, with Singh and the sepoys close behind. The noise of their boots echoed off the surrounding buildings, and Lock knew that there was no way that the sniper on top of the church could not fail to hear them approaching. He halted his men at the end of the street and waited. He could see that his hat was still lying on the street corner, within clear view of the sniper.

  ‘You on the church!’ Lock bellowed. ‘Hold your fire! This is Lieutenant Lock of the Australian Imperial Force. I have nine men with me, including one Arab prisoner!’ He waited to see if there was any response. ‘Do you hear me?’

  Still there was no reply.

  ‘If you fire on me or my bloody hat again, I’ll come up there and throw you off that bloody roof! Do you understand?’

  Lock glanced back and could see that Singh and the sepoys were amused by his threats. However, Abdullah Al-Souk was petrified, bent low, with his clawed hand held up as a shield.

  ‘We are coming out!’ Lock called again. ‘Abdullah, you lead the way! Right, men. Forward, march!’ With that, he shoved the Arab out into the open. Abdullah Al-Souk gave a yelp and threw himself to the ground. Lock stepped out into the courtyard, halted, and looked up at the church. A small part of him expected a bullet to strike him, but he was met only by silence. He bent down and picked up his hat. He brushed it off, pushed it back into shape, then placed it on his head. Singh and the sepoys followed him out, then stood to attention and waited.

  ‘Soldier!’ Lock shouted once more up at the church roof.

  Very slowly the sniper on the church roof raised his head above the edge. Footsteps suddenly approached from the right of the church and Lock was pleased to see Ram Lal marching across the courtyard, rifle held low across his belly.

  ‘He’s one of mine!’ Lock quickly shouted to the sniper. ‘Good to see you alive and well, Ram Lal.’ But as he got closer, Lock could see that the sepoy’s arm was bleeding. ‘How bad?’

  ‘Just a flesh wound, sahib. The sniper Tommy, a most bloody good shot. I have been pinned down over by that water fountain for a long time!’

  Lock raised his own wounded hand and smiled knowingly as he patted Ram Lal on the shoulder. ‘Not a Blighty one either, alas!’

  The door to the church opened with a loud creak of rusty hinges, and the sniper cautiously stepped outside.

  Lock glanced over to him. ‘Good man!’ he called.

  The sniper saluted tentatively. ‘Sir!’ he shouted back across the courtyard.

  Lock looked round at Singh. ‘Have you that flare gun, the one Captain Hayes-Sadler gave you?’

  ‘Yes, sahib. Here.’

  Lock took the gun and aimed it at Abdullah Al-Souk’s temple. The Arab cowered back, whimpering, and then Lock grinned, pointed the gun skywards and let off a flare to signal for the Espiegle to make its way up to the wharves.

  ‘Right,’ Lock said, passing the flare gun back to Singh, ‘let’s find out where the hell this bloody garrison has got to then.’ He kicked Abdullah Al-Souk to his feet, and led the way over the courtyard to the Syrian church.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘General Barrett was evacuated sick three days ago, Lieutenant. Besides, General Nixon is in overall command,’ the staff captain said, looking Lock up and down from where he sat, and swatting irritably at a moth that danced around the gas lamp on his desk.

  Lock could see the weaselly officer scowling as he reread the letter Ross had provided as a form of identification, the doubt about whether he was telling the truth, or that he was even an officer at all, clearly written all over his face. Lock still wore no officer’s jacket, only the increasingly foul-smelling tunic made of animal hide, and his Billjim slouch hat. In fact, the cross belt and the holstered Webley was the only thing ‘officer’ about his appearance.

  ‘Where exactly did you get this letter?’ the staff captain frowned.

  ‘I told you, sir, Major—’

  ‘Yes, this Major Ross … a fellow you claim to have seen or heard not so much as a dickie bird of since leaving the … Espiegle …’

  Lock squeezed his wounded hand. It was sore, throbbing, and the makeshift bandage Singh had made for him was already soaked with blood, blood that now dripped onto the highly polished floor. ‘What about General Townshend? Has he arrived yet?’

  ‘No—’

  ‘Then let me see General Nixon!’ Lock was getting increasingly impatient, and all the tact that Ross implored him to use when engaging with higher ranks, particularly those with red tabs, had well and truly been forgotten. He didn’t have the time or the patience for niceties or, as Ross would have put it, the proper protocol. He felt like drawing his Webley and giving the bastard a fright, but there was the staff sergeant and the sepoys outside the office door to take into account. He wouldn’t be able to do anything locked up in the guardhouse.

  ‘Out of the question, Lieutenant. The general is not to be disturbed until morning.’

  ‘But he will be disturbed, and very soon!’ Lock said.

  ‘Calm yourself, Lieutenant. Remember where you are!’ the staff captain said, rising to his feet, face red. ‘Now, sit down and report to me!’

  Lock glared at him for a moment, but he knew that he would get nowhere if he continued to argue like this. ‘I prefer to stand, sir.’

  The staff captain glowered at him, but said nothing and sat back down again.

  The silence between the men stretched out, and Lock found himself listening to the sounds of distant artillery fire as the Turkish guns kept up their shelling of the British positions at Shaiba, nine miles away. According to the church rooftop shooter who had pinned Lock down on his entry to Basra, the shelling had been going on continuously since the previous morning.

  The sniper was called Alfred Elsworth, a young private, it turned out, from the 104th Wellesley’s Rifles. He said he was eighteen, but Lock suspected that he was younger. However, he was a fine shot, and Lock told him to come along with them. Elsworth was more than happy to do so, having seen his squad wiped out by one of Al-Souk’s bombs.

  ‘Major Ross and I left Brigadier General Robinson’s force at Mohammerah and raced here,’ Lock said, returning to the matter at hand. ‘My orders are to warn the commanding officer here of the second Turkish force that has circled down from Persia.’

  ‘Yes … this force you never saw …’ the staff captain said.

  Lock ignored the remark. ‘There was word before we left that the lines were cut and that Ahwaz was overrun. It was my job to get that information to Basra as quickly as possible, and that is what I’m trying to do—’

  ‘Hmm. And this Buddoo you brought in with you?’

  ‘As I have already explained … a saboteur we captured on our way in. You have spoken to the men on patrol in the south-east of the city? You know of the explosions and the skirmishes there?’

  ‘Yes, Lieutenant. It is all being
looked into as we speak. Only, you see,’ Winslade laughed nervously, ‘we know Abdullah Al-Souk. He’s a hospital orderly. Well known as an informer for the provosts. So, Lock, you are clearly mistaken about the Arab’s guilt.’

  Lock shook his head. This man was a fool.

  ‘And the boats we discovered? Enough for an army to cross the Shatt—’

  ‘Yes, yes … Now you say you were part of a special reconnaissance team under the command of Major Ross … but we have no record of a Major Ross here, on the list of personnel newly arrived from Karachi,’ the staff captain said, leafing through his papers. ‘And no record of Australian personnel either, for that matter.’

  ‘Then I must be a figment of your imagination, sir,’ Lock said.

  The staff captain glared up at him briefly, then returned his attention to his list. ‘Ah! Here’s mention of a detachment of the Australian Flying Corps,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’re here … Is Ross an Australian, too?’

  Lock was becoming more and more frustrated. This was getting him nowhere and all the time he wasted here was time for the Turks to breach the poorly defended south of the city which, it turned out, was actually the port area known as Ashar. Old Basra city itself was a mile south-west of the Shatt al-Arab. However, he had managed to rally together a few stragglers from various units, the stunned remnants of the patrols who’d been guarding the section of the wall when Al-Souk’s men struck. But they were only a handful. They needed more soldiers, artillery too, and to send patrols out to the east bank of the Shatt al-Arab to raise the alarm when Wassmuss’s Turks arrived en masse.

  ‘Captain?’ Lock said.

  ‘Hmm?’ the staff captain muttered, continuing to leaf through his papers.

 

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