The Sergeant had got out and was sniffing at the tracks like a gun dog on a fresh spoor. He said, ‘Army truck. Four-wheel drive.’
‘It can’t have gone far.’
‘Gone and come back again.’ The Sergeant was on his knees, unravelling the marks. Ten, twelve hours ago.’
‘We’ll go on foot. Avoid messing up the signs.’ He looked out of the corner of his eye at Hugo and said, ‘You can come if you like.’
‘I’d rather come with you than sit here,’ said Hugo. The heat in the little amphitheatre was ferocious. He plodded after them up the re-entrant. They kept well to one side, to avoid messing up the wheel tracks which were clearly visible, coming and going. At the second bend Cowcroft raised his hand to stop Hugo and the Sergeant went forward alone. He shouted something, and they followed him.
The body was tumbled among the bushes in a cleft in the rocks. No particular attempt had been made to conceal it. The Sergeant was on his knees beside it. He touched the head gently and it rolled round. The throat had been cut so savagely that the head had almost been severed from the body.
‘It is Mahmoud,’ said the Sergeant.
The man was dressed in peasant clothes. His feet were bare. The swarm of flies which had been at work buzzed resentfully at the interruption.
Cowcroft was staring down abstractedly at the body. He said to Hugo, ‘Mahmoud was one of our men. He was working as a kitchen hand in Sheik Hammuz’s Palace,’ and to the Sergeant, ‘They tortured him before they killed him.’
The Sergeant said, ‘They broke up his feet.’
Hugo could see, now, the splintered ends of bone sticking out through the skin.
‘He would not talk,’ said Cowcroft. ‘Whatever they did to him, he would say nothing.’
Hugo tried to visualise what it would feel like to have your feet smashed up with a hammer, and quite suddenly the whole thing became too much for him. The blackened blood, the greedy flies, the heat, the smell and his own imaginings came on him together, the earth and the sky changed places, and he was on his back, propped up against a rock in the shade, with Cowcroft forcing some brandy down his throat from a hip flask.
He put it aside, and climbed shakily to his feet. He was angry, and his anger cleared his head quicker than brandy.
He said, ‘A bloody fine show, I’m meant to be your military adviser, and I pass out at the sight of blood.’
‘I expect it was the heat,’ said Cowcroft. ‘Let’s get back to the car. I’ll leave the Sergeant here to see that no one disturbs things until we can get a party out.’
Back at the Land Rover he switched on the wireless and spoke into it at length. Then he got behind the wheel and they drove back towards the Palace.
Hugo said, ‘I think you’d better put me in the picture about one or two things. You mentioned Sheik Hammuz. He’s the Ruler’s brother, isn’t he?’
‘His younger brother, by eleven months.’
‘And you had a man planted to spy on him. Why?’
The Land Rover had travelled some distance before Cowcroft answered. Then he said, ‘It sounds a bit odd when you put it that way. But there are two factions in this country, and always have been. The eastern seaboard is the progressive side. It’s got Mohara, which is the only town worth dignifying with the name. And the main dhow harbour and the boat jetty, and the best roads, and now it’s got the air-strip too. The other side’s primitive. Jungly, we should have called it in India. There’s a bit of farming along the coast. Most of the farmers dabble in smuggling as well. The rest of them live in the desert or up in the djebel. The hill men are a pretty wild lot. When a light plane belonging to one of the local oil companies made a forced landing there last year they rescued the four men in it all right. Then they sold them back to the company, for eight thousand pounds. A thousand pounds a leg was the way they put it.’
‘And the company paid up?’
‘Certainly. They didn’t want a first instalment of legs delivered. They paid up and kept quiet about it.’
‘And Sheik Hammuz, the Ruler’s brother, is a Westerner.’
‘He’s their tribal chief. Chief Smuggler, principal brigand, and – by God, here he is.’
They had swung round the last corner, and were turning into the Palace entrance. Just inside the double gate an enormous six-seated Cadillac was parked. It was painted dark red and was flying a blue and yellow flag on its bonnet.
Cowcroft parked his dusty Land Rover beside it. It was like a tramp steamer mooring alongside a battleship.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘Let’s go in and see what the bugger’s up to now.’
Chapter Eleven
The Americans give a Party
Sheik Hammuz bin Rashid bin Abdulla was seated next to the Ruler, his brother. He had the thin prow-like nose which was the hall-mark of the Ferini family, but he was clean-shaven. This surprised Hugo, who knew that, among the desert Arabs, for a leader not to wear a beard was a sign of eccentricity, if not of actual effeminacy. He wondered if some glandular trouble might have been at the root of it. It was unfortunate that this lack of hair should have revealed so nakedly the pendulous cheeks, the full lips, and the rounded dimpled chin.
A slight, pretty, young man wearing an incongruously well-cut lounge suit was standing beside Sheik Hammuz. Hugo put him down as a Syrian or Lebanese, but was wrong on both counts. For this was Dr. Kassim, and he was a full-blooded Iraqi.
The Ruler effected the introduction. Sheik Hammuz did not rise, but waved a fat, heavily ringed hand in Hugo’s direction. Kassim said, ‘His Excellency is glad to see you here, Mr. Greest, and hopes that you will be able to work for the good of all.’
‘I hope so, too,’ said Hugo.
‘You have seen the mining camp?’ said the Ruler.
‘We’ve seen something else,’ said Cowcroft abruptly. There’s a dead man in the djebel, five miles north of here.’
‘An accident?’
‘Not unless he cut his own throat, accidentally.’
‘Tell us.’
Cowcroft told them what he had found. When he described the injuries to the man’s feet, Kassim said, ‘That would no doubt be robbers. They would torture him to reveal where he hid his money:’
‘Odd sort of robbers,’ said Cowcroft. They were driving a standard army truck. We traced it back as far as this Palace.’
‘And further?’
‘After this it’s a made-up road. A truck will leave no traces.’
‘A pity,’ said Kassim. ‘For it will make it very difficult to trace the murderer.’
‘Army trucks with these particular tyres aren’t common,’ said Cowcroft.
This produced a moment of silence, but no other reaction.
‘I am sure,’ said the Ruler, ‘that you will do your best to discover the murderers, Commandant. When you discover them they shall be condignly punished.’
They took this as dismissal. When they got outside they found the Sergeant talking to Major Youba.
The Major said, ‘Some of my men heard a truck drive past here just after midnight. They assumed that it was going back to the diggings. It returned about half an hour later. This was curious. It could not have reached the diggings and returned in that time, so what was it doing? They listened to it drive off down the road. They thought that it turned off the road towards Hammuz.’
‘Could they conceivably hear that?’ said Hugo. ‘It’s all of three miles to the turning.’
‘On a very still night.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Hugo. ‘If they heard that truck turn off the road, it turned off somewhere before that road junction.’
‘It is possible,’ said Major Youba. There is a track. It makes a short cut back to the Hammuz road.’
‘Let’s have a look at it,’ said Cowcroft.
The track went off to the right, about a mile from the Palace. The marks of the tyres were quite plain.
‘Bloody impertinence,” said Cowcroft. ‘They didn’t mind what traces they l
eft. All they cared about was getting home to bed. We’ll have a look at the other end. Better go by road, then we shan’t spoil the trail.’
They drove to the road junction, turned right towards Hammuz, and found the exit point of the track. The tyre marks were there, plain as the pugs of a tiger making his insolent way to his cave after a night’s hunting.
As they were examining them, the huge Cadillac came purring up the road behind them, checked, and drove on. Sheik Hammuz and Dr. Kassim were sitting together in the back.
‘Holding hands,’ said Cowcroft. ‘What a sweet pair. We shan’t get anything more out of this. And if we go down to Hammuz and start asking questions we’ll have a riot on our hands. Get into my car. One of my men can take yours. There are several things I’d like to talk about.’
However, they were in the outskirts of Mohara before Cowcroft spoke again. Then he said, ‘In the course of a long life, I’ve met a lot of nasty people. Chinese pirates, Afghan mullahs, African witch-doctors, fakirs and fakers. But I’d give that Kassim three-star rating in any company.’
‘I didn’t much like his looks,’ agreed Hugo. ‘He seems rather young to be a hardened villain.’
‘By the record, he’s twenty-five. And he’s packed in more villainy into that quarter of a century than most people could get through in a lifetime. He’s been an active member of the Ba’ath party since he was a boy. He was twelve years old when he carried the bomb, in a school satchel, that failed to kill King Hussein of Jordan and blew three of his bodyguard to shreds. He was in prison before he was fourteen, and got out by seducing the governor. He disappeared for a bit after that, and was thought to have been in Egypt. He was next heard of in the American University at Beirut where he got a doctorate in zoology, and was sacked for master-minding a riot which ended in the principal’s house being gutted. When the dust had died down, he came back to Iraq and was involved in the unsuccessful July coup. He came out the right side of that and was allowed, as a reward, personally to execute three of the Colonels involved. It’s commonly believed that he copied Himmler’s favourite method, and had them strung up with a butcher’s hook through the point of the jaw.’
‘You seem to know a lot about him.”
‘It’s my job to know these things,’ said Cowcroft. ‘Block ahead. Watch it.’
The street they were in was congested with cars, carts and bicyclists. Something seemed to have happened. Horns were blowing and people were shouting.
The Sergeant swung the car to the right, down a side street between market stalls, then left, into an alley so narrow that they seemed to be scraping the walls on either side, and out into an open dusty space where half a dozen boys were playing football. They crossed the pitch, interrupting a nice solo dribbling effort, bumped along a second alley, and came out into a broad road running west out of the town.
‘Never stop behind a traffic block,’ said Cowcroft. ‘It makes things too easy for the man on the roof with a rifle.’
‘Do you mean it was a put-up job?’
‘Probably not. But it doesn’t pay to find out.’ They were running alongside a high white wall, with occasional barred windows in it and a sprinkling of broken glass along the top. The gateway at the far end had a bar across it, and there were two sentries on duty. One of them saluted. The other raised the bar, and they drove in.
‘I’ve got an office next door to mine. I’d be happy for you to use it. The alternative would be to work from your own flat, but you might find this more convenient.’
‘It’s very kind of you,’ said Hugo. ‘I’d been wondering just how I was going to work. I think this would be a very convenient place.’
Safe, too. High walls, barbed wire and armed sentries had suddenly become important.
‘We’ve got good communications here. Anything important, we wireless it to the oil company in Bahrain on a private wavelength and they very kindly send it on for us. There’s a land line, too. But that’s apt to get blown down, or rooted up. Letters go by airmail. But as we’re not on a scheduled route that’s apt to be uncertain.’
It was a nice room. It had a table, and several chairs and an air-conditioner which worked a good deal better than the one in his bedroom. The table had been thoughtfully furnished with a clean blotter, a quantity of paper and a pen-set marked, ‘With the compliments of B.O.A.C.’ It occurred to Hugo, not for the first time, but now more forcibly than ever, that he had not the faintest idea of what his job was supposed to be.
As though reading his thoughts, Cowcroft said, ‘There’s one priority just at this moment. Get those arms out here. And instructors, if you can. But the arms are more important. These chaps live with rifles. It won’t take them long to learn about machine pistols and mortars.’
Hugo said, ‘It’s Thursday today, April 20th. If the boat’s up to schedule it’s loading the vehicles at Bari now. It’s due in Beirut on the 24th. Colonel Rex is out there now.’
‘He’s your partner?’
Hugo nearly said, ‘Yes’ and then reflected that the word had awkward connotations. He said, ‘He’s the man who’s helping with the buying and transport.’
‘In that case,’ said Cowcroft, ‘I suggest that your first message to him need only consist of one word. Dedigitate.’
Hugo went home to lunch, driving his own car and meeting no traffic blocks. The streets seemed almost deserted. The heat was formidable, but not over-powering. That would come later, in July and August, with the maximum humidity which made the Gulf, in high summer, one of the least tolerable places on God’s earth.
His cook had prepared a meal of stewed chicken, figs and rice which Hugo ate with little appetite. He then turned on the air-conditioner full-belt, until it sounded like a power boat at the climax of an exciting race, took off most of his clothes, pulled a sheet over himself, and slept surprisingly well.
When he woke up, it was dusk. Apart from a dry mouth and a faint after-taste of figs, he felt surprisingly fit. He remembered this phenomenon from his time with Professor Van der Hoetzen. As long as you could actually sleep in the afternoon you could defeat the hot weather. He got up, had a shower, the water coming out tepid from the cold tap, put on a clean shirt, and wondered how he was going to spend the evening.
At this point his door bell rang, and Hugo walked down the small front hall to open the door. In the few seconds which it took him to reach the door, a complete sequence recorded itself in his mind. The Tiger, alone in his apartment in Hawaii (Saigon, Hong Kong, Berlin, Ankara, Mayfair, Bangkok). A ring on the door bell. He goes to open it. The foot pushed into the door. The heavy character outside. This is a gun, see. Make a wrong move and you’re dead, see. So take it easy.
Hugo opened the door. Outside, looking cool, relaxed and happy, was Tammy.
‘Say you’re glad to see me,’ she said.
‘I’m glad to see you,’ said Hugo, took both her outstretched hands in his and, since she seemed to expect it, kissed her gravely, first on the right cheek, then on the left. Tammy growled and said, ‘That’s what you do to all your girls.’
‘It’s in my contract,” said Hugo. ‘At the beginning of the script I kiss them in a fatherly manner. At the end, once, warmly, not passionately, but more in the manner of a brother greeting his sister after a long absence.’
‘Boy, would that be worth waiting for. I’ve come to invite you to a party. A house-warming, sort of. We’ve taken over the next block.’
She led the way downstairs, along the pavement, and up a precisely similar flight of stars next door. The equivalent of what would have been Hugo’s front door stood hospitably open, and he could hear the sound of music. There were two men in the room. Bob Ringbolt switched off the record-player and said, ‘Good to see you, Hugo. Let me introduce you. Bill Birnie, otherwise known as the Bulldog.’ This was a man with an elastic face and the build of a weight-lifter, who grinned amiably. If he’d had a tail, Hugo felt sure he would have wagged it.
‘Let’s have a drink,’ said Ringbolt. �
�We can offer rye, on or off the rocks, gin and tonic, or brandy and ginger ale.’ Hugo said, ‘You’re better equipped than I am. In my flat the choice is orangeade or tea. I’ll have the rye, if I may.’
‘We’ve been here a week, now. And we’re beginning to find out the local form. There’s a character with one eye who has a store opposite the boat jetty. He’s called Moharram – that’s roughly what it sounds like. He’ll get you anything you want from slave girls to pink champagne.”
‘I must look him up,’ said Hugo. ‘Cheers!’
‘To our special relationship,’ said Tammy with an alley-cat grin, and sat down beside him on the sofa.
‘What do you make of the set-up here, Hugo,’ said Bob, ‘or haven’t you had time to size it up?’
‘It’s like a story out of the Arabian Nights,’ said Hugo. The wise and benevolent Ruler, his wicked brother who wants his throne, and nasty Uncle Abanazar, dropping poison into the brother’s ear.’
‘Abanazar? You mean Dr. Kassim.’
‘Is he really a doctor?’ said Tammy.
‘He’s a doctor of zoology of Beirut University and a professional killer.’
‘I must get to know him better,’ said Tammy. ‘I just adore killers.’
Bob said, ‘My guess is that he’s Sheik Hammuz’s boyfriend. I’d wager he’s a raving old queer. When Moharram was talking about him, he called him – I can’t give you the word in Arabic – it means, “half-and-half” and it’s about the most insulting thing you can say about a man.’
‘All the same,’ added Bob. That’s all they’re waiting for. To see who wins.’
You too, perhaps, thought Hugo.
More drinks were brought. He noticed that Birnie seemed to have disappeared. Tammy’s bare arm was pressed lightly against him. He could feel the warmth of it through the sleeve of his shirt. She was saying, ‘It’s a funny thing how people get ideas about each other. When I was a girl—’
‘What are you now?’ said Bob.
‘You can keep out of this. I was talking to Hugo. When I was a girl, I used to think all Englishmen wore stick-up collars and striped pants and talked like they’d got hot potatoes in their mouths. All right, that was silly. But English people are just as silly about us. My kid sister Toni’s at South-Western. An English friends of hers said, “I suppose you do nothing there but take drugs and join in campus riots.” Actually she’s reading theology.’
The 92nd Tiger Page 9