The sound of liquid swilling around made him look up. Singh was standing over him holding out his canteen. ‘I can only offer you water, sahib. Most refreshing.’
Lock smiled wearily and closed his eyes. ‘Not really what I had in mind.’
He pictured Amy. She was supping wine. Then she put the glass down and lay back, naked, in front of him. She pulled him towards her, lips parted in anticipation. Then her expression changed and her hands turned to fists and her lips peeled back to reveal snarling teeth. Her eyes, her beautiful emerald eyes, were glowering hatred. ‘Is that how you treat your women?’
‘Of course not. I adore you,’ Lock could hear himself saying.
‘Lies, lies!’ But although it was Amy’s lips moving, it wasn’t her voice he was hearing. It was Wassmuss’s.
‘You cannot protect your women, Herr Lock. Townshend’s daughter, the pretty nurse … Perhaps I will pay her a visit. Amy is her name, ja?’
‘Touch her and I’ll kill you,’ Lock said. ‘Now get out!’
Wassmuss laughed. ‘You will be too late, once again, Herr Lock,’ he said through Amy’s mouth.
‘I said … leave her … alone!’
Lock woke with a start. He was still on the roof of the tower.
‘Sahib?’
Lock rubbed his eyes. ‘What?’
‘Elsworth has returned, sahib,’ Singh said.
Lock pulled himself up and leant over the ramparts. He could see Elsworth and Indar lugging the bulky, cumbersome Vickers gun between them. There was a second sepoy close behind that Lock hadn’t seen before, carrying a couple of boxes of ammunition. All three men were making for the Southern Gate. Lock’s gaze moved back to the Shatt al-Arab.
‘I don’t like the look of that mist,’ Lock said. ‘Stay here. I’m going to set the Vickers up down by the riverbank.’ Lock put his hat back on, thumped Singh’s shoulder, and made his way down the stairwell.
The mist became denser down by the water. It was as thick as fog, damp and clammy, and smelt of rotting vegetables. Lock could hear the river, but he couldn’t see it. He checked over the Vickers gun position. It was nestled behind a crumbling wall at the boundary of the fishing huts, hidden at the point where the reeds met the date palms. He nodded to himself in satisfaction. Indar and the new soldier, Mirchandani, a gaunt, dark-skinned Indian with bulging eyes, were eager and ready.
‘Elsworth, get back to the watchtower and rejoin Singh,’ Lock said. ‘These two can handle the machine gun.’
Elsworth saluted and Lock watched as the young marksman dashed off. Lock then headed off in the direction of the water, his boots squelching in the swampy, muddy ground as he went. He halted. It was eerily quiet now; even the river was still. He fished a cigarette from the crumpled packet in his pocket and turned away from the water to light it. He sat down at the base of a tree and smoked in silence, wondering if Captain Winslade would come marching down the road with a couple of provosts and a warrant for his arrest. Oh, the irony if the provosts were led by Bingham-Smith.
But that wasn’t what was really troubling him. What he couldn’t shake was the feeling that something terrible was going to happen to Amy. Perhaps it was the guilt at how he had behaved, those last harsh words he’d said to her. But he was angry, concerned about her being so close to so much death, about Wassmuss’s shrouded threats. How did the German know so much? Was there a … How did he put it? A rat in White Tabs? A leak? A traitor? Maybe Wassmuss was bluffing; after all, General Townshend would be well known to German and Ottoman intelligence. They would know he had a wife, children. But would they know where they were? That his eldest daughter was a VAD nurse posted to Basra? Surely, if they had knowledge of that, then they would know about Townshend’s wife, Lady Alice, too? Yet Lock knew, knew deep down that it was a personal threat to him about Amy. Wassmuss was a clever man. He was playing with him, trying to get inside his head, to distract him. Well, it won’t work, Lock said to himself. I’m one step ahead of you this time. You’ll have trouble getting across the Shatt without those bellums, my German friend.
Movement to Lock’s left caught his eye. Indar was waving his arm frantically and pointing over in the direction of the water. Lock tossed his cigarette aside and hurried down to the very edge of the river.
The bellum that Lock and his platoon had used to punt across only hours previously was still resting half on the muddy bank and half in the water. He crouched down and strained his ears, staring into the haze ahead of him. After a while the pins and needles in his legs made his squatting position uncomfortable and he unsteadily got to his feet to ease the sensation. The mist in front of him swirled and began to clear in patches. A bellum, not a hundred yards out in the water, was heading straight for him. Lock cursed. Either he and Singh must have missed one of the boats, or Wassmuss had managed to repair one.
He dropped back down to his knees and drew his Webley from its holster. He couldn’t be sure if the men in the boat had seen him, but he heard no shouts of alarm before the mist enshrouded them once again. He slowly broke into a smile. Good God, he thought, the gall of the man! He only had a fleeting glimpse of the boat, but the figure standing at the front was undoubtedly Wassmuss, now dressed in the white summer uniform of an erkan, a general, in the Ottoman Army, complete with a grey fur serpuş cap and a sword at his hip.
‘Well, Herr Doctor, I’ve got a little surprise for you,’ Lock muttered to himself and he scrambled to his feet, and darted back over towards the Vickers gun.
‘Indar, have you got that Very pistol?’
The sepoy rummaged in his haversack, and handed the cumbersome flare gun to Lock along with a couple of flare canisters.
‘Wait for my signal,’ Lock said. ‘A shot from this, then open fire directly in front of you, towards the water. Sweep from left to right, but whatever you do, and whatever you hear, don’t fire until you see the flare. Got that?’
Indar bobbed his head enthusiastically and tugged the heavy bolt back on the Vickers gun. Mirchandani, who was holding the ammo chain ready to feed it into the weapon, bobbed too, indicating his readiness. Satisfied, Lock left them to it and made his way back to the bank.
Once there, he crouched down and listened. After a minute he became convinced that he could make out the rhythmic ‘plock’ of punts pushing the bellum along. Lock was certain that a small party was on its way over, more than likely to do a quick raid on the fishing vessels that he had spied earlier. Tightening his grip on the Webley, Lock crept closer to the water. He glanced from left to right and once over his shoulder, then hissed Turkish into the mist.
‘Maalesef doluyuz.’ It was Al-Souk’s code word.
Silence.
Again Lock called, slightly louder this time. ‘Maalesef doluyuz!’ He paused, glancing behind him again, hoping that Indar wouldn’t get an itchy trigger finger. ‘Effendim Doktor?’ he called, louder still, back into the mist. This time he could hear the unmistakable sound of water sploshing. There was no doubt that a boat was heading straight for him.
‘Abdullah Al-Souk?’ came a hissed voice in return.
Lock smiled wryly. His ruse was working. And the voice was unmistakable.
‘Effendim Doktor?’ Lock repeated softly, squinting into the mist. Still he could make nothing out.
‘No, I am Erkan Feyzi of the Imperial Ottoman Army,’ the voice came back. Lock shook his head and smiled at the German’s lie. ‘The Doktor has sent me on ahead. But Allah be praised you are here! The bellums are all scuttled! We must get boats for my men to cross the river!’
Lock raised the Very pistol high and pulled the trigger. ‘Allah can’t help now, you German bastard!’ he said in English, throwing himself to the ground. The flare rose up into the dawn sky and burst. Indar immediately opened fire.
Cries, curses and shouts rang out from the water as the rat-tat-tat of the Vickers boomed into life. All around, the foliage exploded as hundreds of bullets pierced the air. Lock lay as flat as he could, hands over his head, gritting his
teeth. That was stupid, he thought, and laughed. He just hoped that Indar kept his aim high.
Lock dared to raise his head. He could hear the Turks splashing frantically as they tried to get out of the water and reach the bank.
‘Time to move, Kingdom!’ Lock said, and began to crawl as fast as he could down to the water. He dropped into the river just as the bank above him exploded into life, hot lead peppering the mud. Indar had adjusted his aim.
Lock waded upriver, keeping his head down and his Webley up out of the water, pulling himself along by the reeds that lined the bank. The mud was clawing at his boots, but he had to keep dragging himself away from the Turks. A swimming figure loomed out of the fog to his right. Lock turned, aimed and fired his gun in one swift movement. He half expected, half hoped, that it was Wassmuss. But it wasn’t. It was a Turkish soldier. The Mehmetçik gave a gurgling, choking cry as the bullet ripped open his neck, and he sank back into the water. Lock could hear other men splashing towards him and he felt a sudden surge of urgency. He cursed himself for getting into the river in the first place.
Up above him, the machine gun kept up a relentless, deafening spray of death upon the bank and the water. Lock waited for its arc to pass before popping his head above the reeds. There was a native hut about a hundred yards away. He hauled himself out of the water and ran. Indar must have spotted Lock’s movement, as bullets suddenly danced at his ankles. But he made it to the cover of the hut uninjured and threw himself through the open doorway. Gasping to catch his breath, he stayed low as the machine-gun fire rattled back towards the river. Then he remembered the Very pistol. He pulled it out of his tunic, shook and blew the water from the chamber, and loaded another flare. He pointed the pistol out of the doorway and fired up into the air.
A moment later the machine gun stopped, leaving nothing but the smell of cordite, freshly cut wood, and newly churned earth. The wails of the Turkish wounded sliced through the eerie silence.
Lock gathered himself up and poked his head gingerly out of the hut. All seemed clear. He remained low, and darted from the building back along the edge of the palms towards the Vickers gun post.
‘Who goes there?’ came a faint cry from up ahead.
Lock peered out from behind a palm tree. ‘Lieutenant Lock,’ he called out. ‘Hold your fire, Indar! I’m coming in.’ He holstered his pistol, stepped out from the tree, and headed back to the machine-gun post.
The two sepoys saluted as Lock approached.
‘Jolly well done, sahib,’ Indar said.
‘No, jolly well done to you!’ Lock patted the Indian’s arm. ‘Proper shooting, although it was a close thing; you nearly got me! Any sign of Lance Naik Singh and the others?’
Indar shook his head.
Lock couldn’t understand it. Surely they heard the shooting?
‘Sahib!’ Mirchandani cried out, snatching up his rifle.
Lock and Indar spun round just in time to see a white-uniformed figure sprinting for the fishing huts. It was the same uniform Lock had glimpsed through the mist, the one that the Turkish officer at the head of the bellum was wearing. Only it was no Turkish officer – Lock knew that it was Wassmuss.
Mirchandani got off a shot. It seemed to hit the runner, knocking him off balance, but not stopping him. He kept on going, and disappeared from sight.
‘Indar, stay with the Vickers. Mirchandani, come with me!’ Lock pulled his Webley from its holster and scampered back over to the fishing huts, in the direction the figure had fled.
As they neared the first hut, the same hut Lock had sheltered in only minutes before from the spray of Indar’s bullets, Lock held up his hand. Mirchandani stopped dead still. Lock indicated for the sepoy to check the inside, and motioned that he would check the blind side. Lock held three fingers up and lowered each one in sequence, then both men sprang forward, Mirchandani into the hut, Lock around the corner.
The scraggy ground yawned back at him.
Mirchandani appeared at Lock’s shoulder and gave a shake of his head. The hut was empty, too.
‘Where are you, you bastard?’ Lock said under his breath. He stepped forward, then stopped.
At his feet the ground was scuffed and disturbed, as if something heavy had fallen there. He dropped to his knees. There was blood on some of the grass. He put his fingers to it. It was fresh. So Mirchandani did hit him after all. Good. Wassmuss may well still be alive, but he was wounded and trapped on the wrong side of the river.
Lock moved slowly forward concentrating on the ground at his feet. There were more spots of blood heading off in the direction of the city wall. He turned back to Mirchandani.
‘Go back to Indar. Stay by the Vickers and keep a sharp eye out. I’m heading for the city gate. I’ll send reinforcements.’
Mirchandani gave a sharp salute and dashed off back to the machine-gun post.
Lock followed the spots of blood on through the fishing huts, as still and as empty as they were when he first arrived. The trail began to head east, away from the Southern Gate, and Lock paused at the edge of the huts. There was the same path of open ground leading right up to the city wall where, looming high above it, stood the Babylonian tower. Lock slowly scanned the area. There was no sign of the German anywhere.
Then a sudden grating of metal and a dull clang made Lock snap his focus back to the wall. He moved to his right and spotted a dark doorway at the foot of the tower. He checked his left and right, then made a dash across the open ground, and slammed into the wall. He raised the Webley up, took a breath, then jumped out, gun pointing at the doorway.
A rusted gate overgrown with weeds barred the way to a dark tunnel that ran as far as he could see under the tower. It smelt of damp soil and rot. He rattled the gate, but it was solid. He listened for any movement, but there was only the sound of dripping water. He considered shooting the lock away, but the bolts were embedded in the rock of the wall both top and bottom.
Lock cursed and was met by a ripple of laughter coming from the darkness beyond.
‘You’re beaten, Wassmuss. Do you hear me?’ Lock shouted, pulling at the bars.
The laughter continued, then quickly faded away.
‘Bastard!’ Lock said, and ran back, following the line of the wall, towards the Southern Gate.
But as he got closer and closer to the entrance he knew that something was wrong. There was no sign of his men, that was until he rounded the corner and approached the city side of the Babylonian tower.
Singh, Elsworth, Ram Lal and the rest of the sepoys were all sitting, looking decidedly dejected, to one side. There were two British corporals Lock hadn’t seen before standing over them, pistols drawn. They wore SD caps with red tops and black cloth armbands bearing the letters ‘MP’ in red. Bloody provosts! And it looked as if they were holding his platoon under arrest.
‘What the hell?’ Lock said, as he marched towards them. He could see Sergeant Major Underhill to the left, standing talking to an officer. And then Lock realised who the officer was. Despite the fact that he had his back to Lock, he recognised his spiteful form immediately. It was Bingham-Smith, the man Lock had last seen nursing a smashed nose on the deck of the Lucknow.
Underhill nodded, just as Bingham-Smith turned to face him. His mouth dropped open in surprise, but Lock wasn’t going to stop.
The sergeant major had his usual smirk written across his face and Lock knew that he had been stirring up trouble for him. Not that he could make matters worse. He knew why his men were being held and why Bingham-Smith was there. The man’s uniform was evidence enough, pristine khaki drill with the same red cap, the same MP armband, but with badges of rank and the powers of arrest. Lock had been told to report to the Western Gate and then to the front, and he’d disobeyed the order. He regarded stopping Wassmuss as a priority. And, if he didn’t hurry, the German would slip through his fingers again.
‘Lieutenant Lock! Stop right there!’ Bingham-Smith shouted, putting his hand up as if trying to halt traffic. But Lock ign
ored him and hurried on determinedly.
‘Lieutenant Lock! You are under arrest for dereliction of duty. It is in—’ Bingham-Smith made to grab Lock’s arm.
‘Bugger off, Casper,’ Lock said, shoving Bingham-Smith aside and storming past, on towards the tower.
‘Halt! Halt!’ Bingham-Smith screamed, firing his weapon in the air. The gunshot echoed loudly around the walls.
Lock stopped and slowly turned his head, and glared back at Bingham-Smith.
‘You’re a bloody fool, Casper.’
Bingham-Smith’s face was crimson red. But it still bore the scars from the glassing Lock had inflicted upon him. He was no longer a pretty young officer.
‘And you, Lieutenant, will address me as “sir”. I am the assistant provost marshal, the same rank as captain, and therefore your superior officer!’ Spittle sprayed from his mouth as he spoke. ‘You and your men will be taken to the Western Gate where you will report for duty on the front lines!’
‘Tell me, Casper,’ Lock said, stepping closer to Bingham-Smith. ‘Why is the sergeant major not under arrest? He’s one of my men.’
Bingham-Smith’s mouth dropped open and snapped shut again. He looked to Underhill for help, but the sergeant major was just staring back at Lock, with the same look of gleeful hatred across his face.
‘You really are a first-class bloody idiot, Casper. Assistant provost marshal? Where’s your superior? I’ll listen to him, not to you! There’s a whole army of Turks the other side of that wall and they need to be stopped!’ Lock said. ‘So let my men go, you dungheap, so they can do their duty!’
‘Captain Winslade has taken command of the situation and reinforcements are on the way,’ Bingham-Smith said, voice trembling with doubt.
‘Winslade? That fool! Where? Where is he?’ Lock said.
‘In the tower, but—’
Lock turned away. ‘Right, we’ll see what he has to say!’
‘I won’t warn you again, Lock!’ Bingham-Smith said shrilly, and Lock heard the hammer of his Webley being cocked.
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