by Saul David
'In that case,' he said, pulling her towards him, 'I'm sure you won't object to this, in case I don't come back.'
He kissed her full on the mouth, and she responded by moaning softly and pressing her body hard against him. After a few seconds they parted, and George turned away to collect his carbine from where he had left it leaning against the wall. He hid it under his long kurta and, without looking back, walked out into the lane and began stumbling up it, shouting a few incoherent oaths.
'Who's there?' roared the guard.
George ignored him, and continued to stagger along the lane, swearing as he went.
'A wastrel!' exclaimed the guard, his voice tinged with disgust. 'Hold your tongue, you dog! If you wake my master you'll pay with your life.'
'Go to the devil!' replied George.
'Why, you . . .' The guard drew his pistol and advanced from his post in front of the wicket-gate, his teeth bared in a snarl.
Suddenly George feared that Ilderim wouldn't react in time. He was about to pull out his carbine to defend himself but he needn't have worried. At that moment a dark figure ran up behind the man, clamped a huge hand on his mouth and stabbed him in the neck. The guard twitched for a second or two, and was still. Ilderim lowered him gently to the ground and began to remove his turban and clothes. Once he had put them on he beckoned George to follow him.
The wicket-gate was open and they peered through it. Fifty yards to the right lay the guardhouse and beyond that the door to the inner courtyard; about the same distance to the left, on the far side of the compound, was the small mosque. Outside it stood the second guard, his face turned towards them. 'Abdul! Who was shouting?'
'Just a wastrel, brother,' replied Ilderim, his hand muffling his voice, 'who'll wake up with a headache.'
The guard grunted. 'I hope you didn't hit him too hard, or we'll have to get rid of the body.'
'Now you have me worried, brother. I'll check his pulse.' Ilderim waited for a few seconds, then shouted, 'He's not breathing!'
The guard uttered an oath and strode across the compound towards the wicket-gate. But something aroused his suspicion, possibly the sight of Ilderim's huge frame, and he retraced his steps. 'Abdul! Come out where I can see you properly.'
'What's wrong, brother?' asked Ilderim.
'Nothing. I just want to see that you're all right. For all I know you might have a knife to your throat.'
'What? Let a wastrel overpower me? Never. Now come and help me revive this fool.'
'First you must show yourself. You have five seconds, and then I'll raise the alarm. One.'
Ilderim drew his knife and looked at George.
'Two.'
George nodded.
'Three.'
Ilderim moved a step closer to the second guard, as far as he could risk without being identified.
'Four.'
Ilderim hurled his knife as hard as he could. It seemed to take an age to reach its target, turning end over end, and finally embedding itself in the soft wood of the door frame, two inches from the guard's neck, with a loud thwack. Shocked by this closest of shaves, the guard looked at the quivering knife, then back at Ilderim before raising his rifle. But George was quicker. A gunshot rang out and the guard toppled backwards.
'I thought you never missed!' scolded George.
'He must have moved, huzoor.'
'Never mind that now. Get the cloak. I'll try to hold off the other guards.'
As Ilderim ran towards the mosque, George made for the cover of a small godown between the gate and the guardhouse. From there he could hear shouts and see armed men emerging into the night with lighted torches. He shot one, causing the others to fling themselves to the ground and return fire. Bullets were slamming into the front wall of the godown, sending splinters of wood slicing through the air. George flinched as one shot whistled narrowly past his face. More men, waving rifles and swords, were emerging from the door behind the guardhouse that led to the mullah's private dwelling. George fired at one, and saw him crumple, but others kept coming, and soon the storm of fire against the godown had forced him to duck out of sight. 'Ilderim!' he shouted, towards the mosque. 'For God's sake, hurry!'
Seconds later, Ilderim emerged from the doorway of the mosque, wearing a bag across his chest that had to contain the cloak. In spite of the danger all around, George's heart skipped a beat as he took in the significance of the moment: at last, after all they'd been through, they had in their possession a piece of clothing that had belonged to the Prophet Muhammad. But for how long?
The guards had spotted Ilderim and a great roar of fury went up as they realized what he was carrying. Bullets were kicking up the ground as he ran, but he made it unscathed to the main gate where he stopped and raised his carbine to give George covering fire. 'Run, huzoor!' he bellowed, firing and loading as fast as he could.
George set off for the gate with shoulders hunched, doing his best to keep the godown between him and the mullah's guards. He could see bullets striking the gate post above Ilderim's head, and inwardly rejoiced that the Ghazis were such bad shots. But with barely five yards to go he felt a searing pain in his right calf and pitched heavily to the ground, his carbine clattering along the cobblestones. Barely able to look, he put his hand to his leg and felt a penny-sized hole close to the fibula. It was seeping blood. He felt sick, and the pain was so acute he was close to blacking out.
Strong hands were lifting him. It was Ilderim who, seemingly without effort, hauled him up onto his shoulder and quickly covered the remaining distance to the gate. Once through it, he turned left and ran as fast as his burden would allow him towards the junction where Yasmin was waiting with the horses. He could hear shouts and running feet from inside the compound, and knew that the mullah's men were in pursuit, and would soon have a clear shot at his back. Just as he neared the junction, a bullet zipped past his ear. More shots rang out, but none found its mark, and he and George reached the cover of the building at the junction. Twenty yards further down the side lane Yasmin sat on her mount, holding the reins of the other horses in one hand and a pistol in the other. 'Princess!' shouted Ilderim, as he ran towards her. 'Help me get the sahib on to his horse. His leg is wounded.'
'No,' she said, pointing the pistol at Ilderim's chest. 'Put the Feringhee and your weapon on the ground and give me the cloak. If you don't I'll kill you.'
'What? This is no time for jokes, Princess. Those fiends from hell will be here at any moment. Get off your horse and help me.'
Yasmin aimed and fired, the bullet striking sparks from the ground at Ilderim's feet before ricocheting harmlessly away. 'Hand me the cloak,' she said coldly.
Cursing her faithlessness, Ilderim dropped his carbine before gently lowering George to the ground. He then unhooked the large bag from across his chest and handed it to Yasmin. She opened it to inspect the contents. Satisfied, she refastened the tie at the neck and placed it in her saddle-bag. 'I'm taking the horses so you can't follow me,' she said, 'but I'll tether them in the compound of Mahmud's tomb.'
George looked up at her from the ground and, through a fog of pain and disbelief, uttered a single anguished word: 'Why?'
She gazed down at him, a tear in her eye. 'Forgive me, Angrez, but I have my reasons.'
Before George could respond, she had turned her horse and was cantering down the lane and away from the mullah's compound, trailing the two mounts behind her.
Ilderim picked up his carbine and was about to fire a shot after her when George intervened: 'Forget her and save yourself. Quickly, before the mullah's men arrive.'
'And leave you?'
'You must. Now go.'
As Ilderim continued to hesitate, a Ghazi poked his weapon round the wall and fired, the bullet narrowly missing the prone George. This made up Ilderim's mind for him. He fired a single shot in reply, gave George a nod of encouragement, then ran down the lane and into the night.
Suddenly George was alone and immobile. He drew his revolver, fully determined to ke
ep the last bullet for himself. But he was still in a state of shock - the effects of his injury compounded by Yasmin's desertion - and did not register the approaching footsteps until it was too late. As he swung round to fire, a foot kicked the pistol from his grasp, while another man leapt on him and held a knife to his throat. More shadowy figures ran up. 'Does he have the cloak?' asked one in a gruff baritone.
'No, master. The other robber must have it. He ran up the lane.'
'Then after him, you fools, and don't come back without it.'
Another voice barked orders and part of the crowd - some on horseback, others on foot - set off after Ilderim. The rest were baying for George's blood. 'Only say the word, master,' said the man sitting on George's chest, 'and I will send this dog to hell.'
'No. To kill him now would be a kindness. First I must know he who is and why he seeks the cloak. Only then will I put an end to his suffering.'
Chapter 16
A hilltop fort, near Ghazni, late autumn 1879
George lay naked and shivering on the straw-covered floor of a freezing cell. The pain from his wounded calf had receded to a dull throb but it was ever present, as was his hunger and thirst. Far harder to endure was his sense of betrayal. Why had she done it? he kept asking himself. Why had she cheated him after all he and Ilderim had done, were doing, for her and her country? Why had she drawn him into her web, like a spider, by pretending to like him - love him, even - before leaving him to his enemies with no hope of escape? The only answer that made sense to George was that she wanted the cloak for her own ends. But what ends? That was the question, and the more George asked it the further he seemed from a satisfactory answer. He had, in any case, more immediate concerns.
He had been brought to the fort blindfolded five days earlier, and had no idea of its location, though he suspected from the length of the journey and the incline of the route that it lay in the hills close to Ghazni and was the property of an acolyte of the mullah. The routine was always the same. Sustenance arrived once a day in the form of half a pint of water and scraps from the kitchen. Barely had he fallen into a fitful sleep than two guards would enter the cell and douse him with a pail of cold water. All this George could just about bear, but not the regular sessions of torture in the room up the corridor.
It had started mildly enough, with punches and slaps interspersing the questions of who he was and what he was doing in Afghanistan. But as his answers had failed to convince, the methods of his interrogators had become more brutal. He had been beaten with a weighted club, his head held under water until he almost drowned, and his hands tied with leather bonds that were kept wet so that they dug into his wrists and cut off all circulation. And all the while he was hooded and unable to see his tormentors, and barely conscious from lack of sleep. Thus far he had only confessed his name and military rank. But he was at the end of his tether and feared that during the next session he would tell all to end his pain. He would have done so earlier had it not been so obvious that they were only keeping him alive to extract information that might help them recover the cloak.
He started at the sound of footsteps in the corridor, aware of what they heralded. A key sounded in the lock and the heavy wooden door swung open.
'Greetings, Feringhee. It's time for your morning interview,' cackled one of the guards, as he pulled a black hood roughly over George's face.
Two men grabbed his arms, then dragged him out of the cell and along a stone-flagged corridor to the interrogation room, ignoring his cries of pain as his wounded leg bumped against the floor. He was thrown face down into the room and the door clanged shut behind the departing guards. Normally the interrogation began immediately. But this time there was silence and George assumed he was alone. 'I can't take much more of this,' he whispered to himself. 'I'd rather die.'
'Patience, Feringhee, all in good time,' said a nasal voice that George recognised as his usual interrogator's. 'Just tell us what we need to know: why did you steal the cloak and how can we get it back?'
George said nothing, his teeth chattering from the cold. Footsteps got closer until George sensed the man was standing above him. He tensed his body against the inevitable blow but when it came it was far more excruciating than any before. The man had placed his foot against George's wounded calf and was slowly exerting pressure. The pain was so bad George was convinced the leg was fractured and let out a guttural roar. Tears of anguish began to flow down his face.
'Tell me, Feringhee,' said the interrogator, lifting his foot slightly, 'and the pain will stop.'
'All right,' said George, gasping with relief. 'I'll tell you. I was sent by my government in London to prevent the cloak being used to promote jihad.'
'Being used by whom?'
'The Ghazni mullah, your master.'
'And why did your government think that might happen?'
'They received intelligence from a spy.'
'And your plan once you had the cloak?'
'To keep it safe until the country had settled down and a pro-British ruler was secure on the throne.'
'That will never happen, Feringhee, be assured of it. But your spy spoke the truth. My master needs the cloak to establish his legitimacy in the eyes of the faithful. So where has your accomplice taken it?'
'I don't know,' said George, half relieved that the princess's role in the theft had not been discovered. 'We didn't discuss what we'd do once we had the cloak.'
'You lie!' said the interrogator, treading hard on George's right calf.
George screamed. 'I'm telling the truth. I don't know where he's taken it.'
'Who is your accomplice?'
Even through the fog of pain, George knew he could never admit Ilderim's true identity. 'He's a Ghilzai,' he gasped, 'a former Guide called Firoz Khan. He lives in the Khyber country.'
'Where exactly?'
'He never told me.'
'Liar!' shouted the interrogator, exerting more pressure on George's injury.
George screamed again.
'Tell me the truth.'
'I am telling the truth,' sobbed George. 'I don't know!'
'Enough!' said a second voice, the same gruff baritone he had heard the night he was captured 'The dog doesn't know. No man would endure such pain for another when he knows the truth will put an end to his misery. Tomorrow morning we will give him what he wants. You will execute him in the courtyard. But he will die by inches: genitals first, then hands, limbs and finally his head, which will adorn the gate of the fort. In the meantime I want you to send out riders to search for this elusive Firoz Khan. And when you've found him and recovered the cloak, I want you to destroy all trace of his line. Do you understand?'
'Yes, master.'
That night, George was woken from his feverish sleep by the sound of his cell door swinging open. Ilderim was standing there, lighted torch in hand. 'You!' George was astounded. 'How did you get past the guards?'
'I'll explain later, huzoor,' replied Ilderim. 'We must leave before they come back.'
George stood up on his good leg, hiding his nakedness with a hand. 'They took my clothes.'
'I can see that,' said Ilderim, with a grin. 'Wrap this turban around your waist.'
George caught the cloth and, despite his predicament, couldn't help laughing. With his modesty covered, he hopped over to the doorway, which Ilderim was guarding with a pistol.
'Which way?' he asked.
'Up, of course. Follow me.'
Ilderim led the way up a flight of stone steps with George hopping behind. Halfway up, George stopped. 'Ilderim -' he was gasping for breath '- you'll have to carry me.'
Ilderim muttered an oath and was on the point of descending the steps towards him when a shout came from below. 'Oh, God!' exclaimed George. 'They must have seen the empty cell.'
'Yes, which means, huzoor, that I must leave you now.'
'You can't! I'm to be killed in a few hours.'
'Better one than two. I'll never escape if I have to carry you. Goodbye, huzo
or,' said Ilderim, and and fled up the steps.
George looked below. Black-turbaned guards were racing upwards. One held a tulwar above his head, ready to strike. George screamed Ilderim's name, but no sound came out. He screamed again - and woke. He was in his cell, lying on straw. He felt sick. It had all been a dream, and he would still die an agonizing death.
As he lay there, waiting for the mullah's men to take him to his execution, he thought of the people who would regret his passing: his mother, certainly; his father too, if indeed he was the Duke of Cambridge; Fanny Colenso and Lucy Hawkins, the latter without question; Ilderim, because he hadn't been paid; and possibly Lords Beaconsfield and Salisbury, but only because his death would signify the failure of his mission. And that was it. His only real friend, Jake, had died earlier that year. Would they meet in Heaven?
Once again the cell door opened, but this time George knew he wasn't dreaming. Two guards entered and one, a tall man with a jagged scar down his cheek, threw George the clothes that had been taken from him when he arrived. 'Put these on, Feringhee.'
George raised one eyebrow. 'Am I to be dressed for death?'
'Do as I say, or you'll feel the edge of my whip.'
George dressed, taking care not to bump his wounded calf, which, without proper care, had swollen to twice its normal size. Not that it mattered any more. Once he had finished, the guards placed him on a makeshift stretcher and carried him up endless flights of steps, grumbling all the while, until they reached level ground and the door that led to the main courtyard. The morning sun dazzled George as they passed through the doorway and his eyes took a moment to adjust to natural light. He had been expecting to confront some form of scaffold, and despite his earlier calm his heart was beating fast. But instead all he could see was a large group of men on horseback, eyeing him as he was brought out into the courtyard.
'Bring the Feringhee to me,' said one of the mounted men, in the same baritone that George remembered from the night before. It could only be the Mullah Mushk-i-Alam, George reasoned, the man who was plotting a holy war against the British and their Afghan allies, the man from whom they had stolen the cloak to prevent such a war. It was the first time George had seen him in the flesh. He was dressed in black, tall and broad-shouldered, with a thin, wrinkled face and a bushy white beard that indicated a man in his sixties, if not older. Yet he seemed to have lost none of his physical vigour, and he sat his grey Arab with the ease of a seasoned horseman.