The 92nd Tiger

by Michael Gilbert

  It was whilst he was enjoying his third drink that Birnie came back. He sat down on a chair in front of them, and joined in the conversation. He wasn’t naturally a conversationalist, and the effort was apparent.

  Hugo dragged his eyes away from the attractive curve of Tammy’s neck, and took a quick look around.

  Now Bob had disappeared. The bulk of Birnie was blocking his view on that side, and he hadn’t noticed him go.

  A natural explanation occurred to him.

  He said to Tammy, ‘If you’ll excuse me mentioning it, do you keep in this place what we should call a lavatory, and you, I understand, refer to as a john?’

  ‘Only low-class people call it that. And it’s through that door at the end of the passage. Birnie will show you.’

  ‘I can find it,’ said Hugo. He moved quickly enough to forestall Bill, and was in the passage before they could protest. There were two doors on the right. He opened the first one quietly and looked in.

  The room was a bedroom. There was a packing-case at the foot of the bed, and on it was an apparatus in an odd-shaped container with dials and lights on the front. A month earlier he would not have recognised it, but his knowledge of army equipment had now been considerably enlarged. It was a No. 19 transmitter-receiver wireless set.

  Bob was wearing a head-set and had his back to him.

  Hugo closed the door as quietly as he had opened it.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sheik Hammuz Keeps his Options Open

  Friday, being the Muslim Sunday, was an off day. Hugo woke late, chased away the lingering taste of rye whisky with a cup of coffee, cut himself a packet of sandwiches and put the rest of the milk and coffee into a Thermos flask. Then he got out the Humber, and drove along the water-front, heading south.

  The road started as a metalled highway but deteriorated quickly into a rough but motorable track. About ten miles south of Mohara a concrete post stood sentinel on either side of the track. Hugo gathered, from the inscriptions on them, that they marked the frontier between Umran and Oman. There was nothing else. The formalities of frontier posts and customs had evidently not yet reached this remote corner of the globe.

  A mile further on Hugo found what he wanted.

  The track dipped towards the shore and below it there was a stretch of empty white sand. He left the car on the last piece of hard and walked down on to the beach. There he found a hummock against which he could rest his back, spread a big towel, took off his clothes, and oiled himself all over. Then he lay on his back, roasting gently in the moderate oven of the April sunshine.

  Half an hour of this would be as much as his body could stand. Half an hour of relaxed thought was what he badly needed. The last days had been so busy that he had lived, mentally, from hand to mouth.

  Could it really have been as little as ten days ago when he had stood beside Colonel Rex, in the freezing mist, in London Docks, watching the last of the big crates being opened up, inspected by the two duffel-coated government inspectors, nailed down, tagged, and swung into the hold of the S.S. Lombardia?

  It seemed a life-time ago, in a different world. The briefings with different departments of the Foreign Office. A visit to his dentist. The buying and packing of tropical kit and the despatch into the blue of two heavy trunks which he had a feeling he would never see again. The telephone call from Sam, announcing that he had been offered the lead in the first out-of-London tour of a successful West End thriller. Turning down the offer. A second visit to his dentist.

  Then there had been the very curious visit, after dark, to Queen Anne’s Gate, when he had been admitted to one house and walked, by communicating doors, into the house next to it. There he had been received by a grey-haired, red-faced man with the look of a captain in the Royal Navy, who had given him a string of complicated instructions which had meant nothing to him at all.

  He had never discovered the man’s name.

  Hugo rolled over to expose more of his left-hand side to the sun.

  Even though he had been in Umran for scarcely thirty-six hours, certain facts had become apparent to him. The most important was that no one, in the Foreign Office or the other curious departments which he had visited, had any real idea of what was going on.

  Cowcroft could have told them. Why hadn’t he? On the other hand, why should he? He was not employed by the British Government. He was, like Hugo, a servant of the Ruler.

  ‘All the same,’ said Hugo to a large white bird with a red beak and a knowing yellow eye which was perched on a flat stone near him, ‘I think they ought to know, don’t you?’

  The bird winked at him, rose with a casual flip of his wings, and glided out to sea.

  In the middle distance shimmering in the heat haze, he could see the line of the islands which were called the Ducks. The northern one, the Mother Duck, was certainly large enough to have some sort of gun-emplacement built on it and a heavy gun mounted. But would this be enough to block the mouth of the Gulf? Hugo doubted it.

  Little though he knew of modern armaments, he did not believe that a gun, even a large gun, mounted on the Mother Duck could seriously inconvenience an oil tanker creeping down the coast of Iran, more than thirty miles away, and hidden, as now, in the haze. The only things which could effectively dominate that outlet were a battleship or a squadron of dive-bombers. A single aircraft carrier could do the job most economically. But the Ruler, wealthy though he now appeared to be, could hardly be in the market for an aircraft carrier.

  He thought he would have a bathe.

  The water was tepid, and he had to walk a long way out before it was up to his shoulders.

  It was six o’clock and the sun was beginning to throw long shadows down the sand before Hugo re-inserted his salted and sun-reddened body into its clothes, made his way to his car and drove slowly back towards Mohara.

  He was in the outskirts of the town when the police car came rocketing out of a side road, spotted him and jerked to a halt with a squeal of badly adjusted brakes.

  Hugo recognised the Sergeant who had been with them on the previous day. He seemed to be excited about something.

  ‘Slowly,’ said Hugo. ‘Speak slowly.’

  The palace. He gathered the word palace.

  ‘I am wanted at the Palace?’

  ‘Quickly,’ said the Sergeant.

  Hugo drove along the northern road as fast as his Humber would go, which was not very fast. The police Land Rover kept up with him easily.

  There was a road-block at the last turning before the Palace, but the Sergeant shouted something and the heavy pole was swung aside They sped on and turned into the gateway.

  Cowcroft was standing in the inner entrance. He said, ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘Bathing.’

  ‘When you go out, do you mind letting someone know where you are? I’ve had half the police force looking for you.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Has something happened?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cowcroft. He turned on his heel and Hugo followed him across the courtyard. There was a raised verandah which flanked the main entrance to the Palace and something was lying on it, covered by a white sheet. For a bad moment, Hugo thought it might be the Ruler, but when the sheet was twitched aside he realised that it was a stranger. A bearded face looked up at him. The lips were drawn back in the grimace of sudden death. The middle of the body was black with blood.

  ‘Who is it?’ said Hugo. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He came this morning with a message for the Ruler. He was admitted, drew a knife and tried to stab him. Major Youba who was already suspicious of the man, was standing beside the Ruler and shot him.’

  ‘He certainly shot him,’ said Hugo.

  ‘He put a dozen bullets into him from a machine pistol. You can’t take any chances with a homicidal maniac.’

  ‘Was he a maniac?’

  ‘Self-induced mania. He was full of bhang. Look at his eyes.’

  The eyes were rimmed with red and there was a crus
t of dried foam round the lips.

  ‘Who sent the man? Who organised it? What does it mean?’

  Cowcroft replaced the sheet and stood up before he spoke. He said, ‘He has been identified. His name is Abdullah bin Zafra. He is related by blood to Raman bin Zafra, who commands one of the contingents in the bodyguard of Sheik Hammuz.’

  ‘Then it’s a declaration of war.’

  ‘Nearly. But not quite. It will be too easy for Hammuz to say, if he wishes, that he knows nothing of the matter and regrets it deeply. It is well known that when men over-use hashish they lose control of their senses.’

  ‘If he wishes.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Cowcroft. ‘He has kept all his options open.’

  Hugo drove home more slowly than he had come.

  When he was shaving next morning he saw the ship arriving. It was flying the Red Ensign on the main and the zebra-striped flag of Umran at the foremast. He watched it being fussed into position, stern first, at the end berth by one of the port tugs. Remembering his experiences when bathing he concluded that there must be a considerable dredged channel to allow in even such a moderate-sized boat.

  After breakfast he walked down the jetty to have a closer look at her. She was the S.S. Lyme Bay. The hatches were already off and a gang was busy slinging crates ashore. One had broken open. It seemed to have held tinned peaches.

  A man who was leaning on the rail of the foredeck smoking a pipe spotted him and waved him to come aboard.

  Hugo climbed the gangplank and introduced himself. The man with the pipe turned out to be the captain. He invited Hugo into the tiny stateroom and offered him a glass of the gin which sailors seem to drink at all hours of the day and night. Hugo settled for a lime juice. He judged from the man’s accent that he came from the same county as Charlie Wandyke.

  ‘Certainly, I know Charlie,’ said the skipper. ‘We went to the same kids’ school. You might say it’s because of Charlie I’m here. Or put it another way, if it wasn’t for him, I certainly wouldn’t be here. The freight on those few cases of tinned fruit wouldn’t pay the passage out. As soon as they’ve unloaded, the real cargo will be coming down.’

  ‘Smitherite.’

  ‘Is that the fancy name they have for it? I can tell you one thing about it. If it was gold dust they couldn’t treat it more carefully. It comes down in sealed sacks, each weighed to the last ounce. You saw that crate of tinned stuff they dropped, accidental on purpose, on the quay. That’s winked at. They always drop one case. The gang look on it as their perks. But if they spilt a single pinch of what’s in those bags, the foreman would have their hides off them.’

  ‘How much have you taken off so far?’

  This is my second trip. The Morecambe Bay – that’s our sister ship – has taken one. That’s three loads at a hundred tons a time.

  They bring it down in lorries. Thirty to forty lorry-loads.’ He looked out of the porthole. ‘Here’s the first of them arriving now. That’s Charlie in the driving cab. Sit tight, I’ll bring him aboard.’

  Charlie Wandyke came in looking dusty and worried, said, ‘Yes’ to the gin, and perched on the table.

  He said, ‘Looks as though you had some trouble at the Palace. I noticed they’d doubled the guards and had road-blocks out. What happened?’

  When Hugo had told him about it he looked even more worried. He said, ‘We’re out on a limb at the diggings, you realise that? We’re going to have to do something about it.’

  ‘You’ve got a contingent of armed police.’

  ‘Six armed policemen aren’t much use against a hundred tribesmen. Mind you, they mayn’t bother us at all. There’s nothing much to loot. No. What I want is a motor launch, big enough to take all of us. When trouble starts, I’ll shut down the diggings, put every man jack of us aboard, and go across to Iran until it’s blown over.’

  ‘You’re sure it is coming, then.’

  ‘It’s almost here. Can’t you feel a sort of prickling under your skin? Like when a bad storm’s blowing up. You can feel it for days before.’ He drank some of his gin and said, ‘Why do you suppose Albert here stays on board instead of sampling the pleasures of the town.’

  ‘Last time I came here,’ said the skipper, ‘I did make a round of the town. Indian sex films, bath tub liquor and pox. It’s not an experience I’d care to repeat.’

  Wandyke said, ‘I take it that’s why you’re moored stern first, with only two light ropes ? And why you’re keeping your crew on board?’

  ‘I’m a naturally cautious man,’ said the skipper. ‘You always did look on the dark side, Charlie. I remember at school you wore a belt and braces.’

  ‘It’s because I’m cautious,’ said Wandyke, ‘that I’m alive and healthy today. I was digging for Wolframite in Kenya when the Mau-Mau trouble started. It was my first job actually. I used to laugh at my chief, because he kept an army jeep, fully tanked up, under his back porch, with his bull terrier sleeping in it. We got away in it with two minutes to spare and beat it for Nairobi.

  Some of the other teams weren’t so lucky. The Maus jumped them that night. They cut off the hands and feet and heads of any white men they caught and threw the bits down the mine. We found them when we re-opened the diggings.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ said the skipper. ‘Have another drink and cheer up.’

  Hugo had been doing some sums. He said, ‘If you’ve only actually got out two ship-loads of a hundred tons each so far, where’s the Ruler’s money coming from?’

  ‘You don’t buy minerals by the pound like sugar. You sell production. When our first samples had been assayed in London, the Ruler started selling forward on the London Metal Exchange. This stuff goes at around £1,000 a ton. That’s nearly 5op for every pound of it.’

  ‘No wonder you’re careful with it,’ said the skipper.

  ‘It’s a sizeable lode. We’re only beginning to scratch the edges of it. Sooner or later one of the big metallurgical outfits from America or Germany is going to take it over and open it up properly. They’ll build a dock alongside the diggings, big enough to take bigger boats than Albert’s tub, and they’ll put up a ropeway and run the stuff straight on board. That way they could bring out five thousand tons a month.’

  Hugo did some more mental arithmetic and said, ‘That’s sixty million pounds a year.’

  ‘Right. And say a quarter, or maybe a third, goes away in expenses and freight. That leaves forty million, split equally between the Company and the Ruler. It puts him straight into the big league. Above Abu Dhabi, and not so far below Kuwait. As long as the ore lasts.’

  ‘And as long as he lasts,’ said the skipper. ‘We’d better see how they’re getting along with this lot.’

  Hugo took this as a hint that the party was over. As he walked down the jetty he looked with interest at the cargo which was coming on board. It was in stout plastic bags, each one folded over at the top and fastened with wire. The end of the wire had a metal seal on it. Each bag was being weighed before it was lifted on board, and the weight was being recorded by two men; one would be from the mine and the other would represent the Shipping Company. At £50 a hundredweight you couldn’t blame them for being careful.

  As he was leaving the jetty he remembered that he had some shopping to do. He was planning a return party for his American colleagues. The first requisite would be rye whisky and the second some cans of beer.

  The one-eyed Moharram greeted him warmly. There were no dancing girls or champagne on view, but there seemed to be pretty nearly everything else, in that vast dim emporium, from gin to lavatory paper. When Hugo had chosen what he wanted, adding, as an afterthought, a tin of peaches which looked suspiciously like one of the ones he had seen on the quayside that morning, Moharram clapped his hands and a very old woman, dressed from head to toe in black hobbled out of a back room, added up the score on a scrap of paper, accepted the pound notes which Hugo offered her, did a further sum, and gave him his change in Umrani riyals.

  Moharr
am said, ‘She’s my mother. She calculates good.’

  ‘And where did you learn to speak English?’

  Moharram grinned, exposing a fearful row of yellow teeth.

  ‘No English. I speak American. Four years in America. In Brooklyn, New York. Fine people the Americans. Lots of money. Very generous.’

  Very generous, agreed Hugo. If it had not been for American generosity he would not have been there at that moment.

  He dropped his purchases at his flat and drove out to the police fort. Cowcroft was waiting for him with a message. He said, ‘It seems to be in some sort of code. I imagine it means something to you.’

  Hugo remembered that Colonel Rex had given him a code book with instructions as to its use, which he had understood only vaguely. He took it out of his brief-case and set to work. Half an hour of sorting out, with a dash of guesswork, produced ‘Apples and oranges arriving Billingsgate on schedule twenty-fourth morning, Rex.’

  ‘That’s the day after tomorrow,’ said Cowcroft. ‘If they airfreight them straight out the first lot should be here by Monday evening. That should be all right. Things are a bit quieter now. I’ve got a feeling that attempt at the Palace was premature. Anyway, a brotherly note of condolence and congratulation on his escape was delivered by hand this morning.’

  ‘You mean that Sheik Hammuz wasn’t behind it?’

  ‘I don’t mean anything of the sort. I mean that it was bad timing. He must have intended the assassination to be a signal for general revolt. It went off too soon. Do you carry a gun? ‘

  ‘No. Ought I to?’

  ‘Up to you. Have you ever used one?’

  ‘I’ve never actually fired one.’

  ‘I think it’s time you started.’