We were now crossing the flat valley bottom, past the hillock from which Limpsfield and I had first set eyes on Moustofi Khan. At the ford there was only a trickle of water: just enough to scintillate white wherever ledges changed the course of the stream. Then for long miles we skirted the flank of Qurnat es Sauda and came to that engineered corner which led me to the track; and so down hill into the silent hollow where the farmhouse lay. There was no sign of Limpsfield and his detachment. Orders were to stay hidden and quiet, but I was sure they were not there.
It was around four a.m. On the flat ground outside the farmhouse a small party was waiting for us. Two Arabs with rifles slung were standing by the heads of four horses, two of them saddled for riding. The loads of the other two had been taken off the pack saddles and deposited on the ground: four small trunks of iron-bound leather. On one of them was sitting Abdullah el Bessam with his famous cushion under him. I believe a car had dropped him somewhere near the fig tree and he had then walked to the farm behind his trunks, infirmities making the back of a horse too painful.
Among that collection of leaders he appeared incongruously dressed except for his headcloth—as a business man who, let’s say, had taken out his wife, children and servants for a formal picnic and allowed himself to wear a suit of alpaca too light for the office. He could have used a packhorse girth for a belt, and the slope of his waistcoat from navel to chest was about equal to that of a volcano. On top of the lot sat a yellow, moon face with a perpetual smile.
This falsely jolly Chinese god of a man must have been invaluable to the movement for the ingenuity with which he circumvented the British banks, the Exchange Control and the Department of Economic Warfare, but I gathered that the Colonel found him merely comic.
‘I told you!’ he said to Hadji. ‘He wouldn’t leave it at Libwe. And then he sits on it hoping for another ten per cent before he pulls the plug! What’s the game now?’
‘Wait and talk.’
The party was too numerous for the usual routine of riding off in ones and twos unsuspected. I had visualised a much more compact body, not this uncertain separating and coalescing in the darkness as if nothing were yet settled. Our baggage horses were led into the building still loaded. Then two paraffin pressure lamps were lit and carried in. The white light glared through the entrance, and the Colonel ordered the doors to be shut. He was taking no chances. So far as I could tell from the points of flashlights and the moving black solids of men and horses he posted a sentry on the ridge and sent off three horsemen into the night to give warning of any stranger approaching from the direction of the Homs-Baalbek road. Meanwhile Hadji, Abdullah and d’Aulnoy were all talking together, and I heard the name of Youssef Mokaddem repeated.
Biddy and I had been ordered to dismount and were standing by the side of the track, opposite the farmhouse and on the edge of the scrub from which I had kept watch on it, with Ahmed guarding us. D’Aulnoy broke off his conversation with Abdullah el Bessam and came over to us. He told Biddy that she must have patience and need not be afraid; she was to stay where she was for the time being. He then turned to me and warned me that Ahmed had orders to shoot to kill if I tried to escape. I replied that I had no intention of trying and asked if we could not be allowed into the house where it would be easier to keep an eye on us without Ahmed continually waving my revolver under our noses.
‘You will remain here,’ he said, ‘until we need your help.’
‘Well, if I can carry a few things in for you…’
‘It is not that kind of help which I meant.’
I knew damn well he didn’t. It was obvious that they already suspected some kind of connection between Youssef Mokaddem and me. I wondered if other eyes but those of simple fellahin had observed the jolly naval officer. Any resemblance between him and that eager rebel, Youssef Mokaddem, had passed unnoticed as Oliver said it would. But now that Mokaddem was proved a fraud, memory could be running back and forth between cells and at least asking questions.
Some kind of interrogation within the farmhouse suited me very well so long as I had a chance to reach that pile of rubble. They were continually opening and shutting the doors. One reason was to talk to Abdullah el Bessam who remained seated on a trunk. He may have been reluctant to leave the cash in sole charge of his escort or, more likely, he was comfortable and disliked to heave up his bulk unnecessarily. Any way, one does not need the Pay at an operational conference.
If I had only been a more experienced soldier I might have foreseen the danger of orders which were too precise. God only knew whether Limpsfield was there, but, if he was, he could not be sure how to act or when. All these comings and goings, shadowy in darkness or momentarily exposed by the light from the door, were too fluid and indecisive. I had told him to push the plunger if the party showed signs of leaving. What I meant was that horses and guards might well be outside, but I had not said so. The position which I had foreseen, when all the leaders were inside the house, was in fact realised once or twice, except for Abdullah. Limpsfield could not know it, however. And, worst of all, no signal had been arranged from him to me or me to him, for I had never envisaged being left outside in the open. I thought of shouting to him to fire, but if he wasn’t there at all I should only arouse suspicion for nothing and be shot by Ahmed.
One of the mounted guards came trotting back and opened the door. Hadji and the Colonel came to talk to him in the doorway. He then led his horse in, and the two came out. That seemed to my impatience a perfectly clear sign of leaving the farmhouse and I waited for it to disintegrate. When nothing happened I was convinced that my detachment had never arrived. But again the movements had been indecisive—one in, two out.
Hadji and the Colonel took a couple of turns up and down the track. I had the impression that they were exasperated by the way deliberations were going. I heard the Colonel say:
‘…if Rashid Ali crosses the frontier tonight.’
‘He’d be safer here than in Damascus,’ Hadji replied.
‘But the fools want to turn this into his command post. That must be at Tripoli or fifty miles to the east. They can’t see it.’
‘It’s a safe spot for the transmitter if we open up this evening.’
‘Well, if it will make them happy.’
The transmitter and generator were still on their pallet between the horses. The Colonel ordered them to be led into the farmhouse, and followed himself. Hadji then turned to talk to the impassive Abdullah.
They were speaking Arabic, but near enough for me to see their gestures. It looked as if Hadji was insisting on Abdullah’s presence inside—more discussion of Youssef Mokaddem?—and Abdullah was unwilling to move. Finally Hadji made him get up, waving down his objections and physically urging him towards the door. He pointed to one of his own armed horsemen from the village as much as to say that Abdullah’s escort could not load the trunks and ride off with them even if it ever entered their heads.
The door of the farmhouse shut behind them. Abdullah’s cushion remained on top of one of the trunks. So far as I could see in the passing light of torches it was covered by a very rare Bokhara of yellow and blue of such fine weave as to be indestructible, and was indeed precious. Abdullah had made a half turn to go back and fetch it, but Hadji was not standing any more nonsense.
‘What’s in the trunks, do you think?’ Biddy asked.
‘Pay.’
‘How much?’
‘Enough cash to provide pocket money and supplies for a considerable body until one of the cities is in their hands. Cheques wouldn’t be much good.’
‘One can’t say it belongs to anybody.’
‘I shouldn’t try. Three rifles plus Ahmed.’
‘Fatty might at least lend me his cushion,’ she said. ‘This ground is so hard and I did give him tea once.’
God bless her, she had opened up a faint possibility! Three guards outside. Everyone else in
side. I warned her to look as if we were talking about the weather and told her that there were two points from which I could blow up the farmhouse and that I must reach one of them.
‘Blaise, too?’
‘The trunks would just be blasted into the bushes. And they belong to nobody, as you said.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Walk down and sit on Abdullah’s cushion. Remember they are just a lot of natives, and you don’t see why you shouldn’t. The two guards will push you away. They may even try to lift you off. Sing out for Ahmed and say you’ll tell d’Aulnoy that they are insulting you.’
‘What happens then?’
‘Ahmed will go over to you, taking me along with him. People may come out of the house to see what the trouble is. That might give me a chance to dash in and blow it up. Or, if my men are here, they could do it. Either way you will be too near the door to have much chance of escaping.’
‘But you will be killed!’
‘So will they. That is war.’
‘If I take the chance, could I tell my husband it was a gallant act?’
That staggered me. If Ahmed had been watching my face, he could never have believed we were talking about the weather. It was a side of her which I had never had reason to suspect. What the hell does one know of the religious simplicities of one’s acquaintances?
‘I suppose there’s nothing braver.’
‘But I shouldn’t feel—well, quite honest.’
‘Biddy, we all have at least two motives for whatever we do.’
‘He’ll be so annoyed that I blew his pension.’
‘Won’t it be a very peculiar heaven if he gives a damn?’
‘But he trusted me. Both of us were so very dear to each other.’
‘That’s all that matters.’
‘When you talk like that, I almost wish it goes off. I’m not much use to anyone. Will they send Val home?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, here goes!’
She got up, just waving Ahmed aside with the explanation that she had a little need, and strolled the twenty yards to the horses and the trunks. She gave a nod to Abdullah’s escort, but she did not sit on the cushion as I had told her. She picked it up and began to walk back with the two guards hissing Arabic and grabbing the other end. Ahmed, still keeping his eye on me, ordered her to drop it. The door of the farmhouse remained obstinately shut. The voices were not loud enough for anyone to come out and see what the matter was.
Ahmed hesitated, knowing that she was a friend of his revered master and reluctant to use force. For a moment his attention was concentrated on this unseemly wrangle for the precious cushion. I made one dive for the scrub behind me and another for the thicker stuff a few yards uphill, where I dropped flat expecting a volley of shots. Ahmed, however, trusted to a powerful torch. I suppose he knew he had me at his mercy and—mixed motives again—was well aware that I was required for further interrogation and far more valuable alive than dead. Besides that, he did not want to be blamed for carelessness.
He was very close, but the myrtle behind which I was crouching was too dense for him to see me. He was a fool to use the torch at all, for he blinded himself. Even so, I had no chance whatever of crawling down to the track and running across it to Limpsfield’s exploder. He charged round the little thicket to get me and for a moment held the beam a bit too high. I was able to slide away into thicker, lower stuff. Of course he heard me and walked fairly straight towards my very inadequate cover. To my astonishment there was a quick slithering of feet far beyond my actual position. Ahmed strode on towards the sound, thinking that he had mistaken my cover and that I was getting too far away. Remember that there were patches of bare, stony ground where a man could move a few steps quickly and silently, so any slight change of position was conceivably possible even though we were never more than ten yards apart.
He must have spotted something moving, for at last he lost patience and fired twice. That allowed me to cross behind him with a couple of plunges which gave me two much better bushes for hide-and-seek. But this time I made far too loud a noise. He had no more doubt where I was and ran the beam of his torch systematically over the ground and through the cover. He was so intent on his hunting that he took no notice of a rustle out to his right. He may have thought that I was throwing sticks or stones to distract him—which wouldn’t have been a bad idea if I had ever had time to think of it—but he was almost within reach of me and knew it. As for me, my mind was wholly occupied with wondering if he would kill me when I put up my hands. I was just rising to my knees when I was suddenly covered by a thick shower of blood and Ahmed toppled over into the bush, his body suspended over me. My saviour had to be Holloway, but what he had done I could not then imagine. I shouted to Limpsfield to fire.
I never foresaw such complete, volcanic and utter devastation. The place was rickety anyway and the charges were heavy. A huge stone landed between Holloway and myself, missing us by inches as he was wiping his tulwar on the dead grass. I recovered my belt and revolver from Ahmed and observed, with almost more of a shock than the explosion, that he had no head.
As the echoes died away, there was nothing alive in or about the farmhouse. At least I hope not. I could hear one of the escort galloping away, and the sentry on the ridge escaped and bolted. The two guards who had been disputing the cushion with Biddy were dead. Two other human figures were distinguishable a few yards from the doorway. They must have gone out at the sound of the shots and were still near enough to be smashed down by flying stone and timber. All the horses were killed except for one knocked down but unhurt and three stampeding up the valley. I called to Wilson and Flowers to turn them if they could.
Meanwhile little runnels of red fire were worming their way under the debris. One of the paraffin lamps had probably been blown against something solid rather than straight into the sky. When a shaft of flame flickered high and clear I saw Biddy standing on the slope unhurt except for rips from the thorn into which she had been thrown. I found her absolutely deprived of voice. She gave a trembling nod when I asked her if she was all right. I had forgotten, perhaps not even noticed, that I was drenched with blood.
It was only then that cause and effect began to separate themselves clearly enough for me to ask Holloway what had happened.
‘Saw you were in trouble, sir, so I upped and cut ’is ’ead off. Sorry about the mess, but went through him same as butter, it did.’
Like the good soldier he was, he had taken orders as the word of God and considered how best to carry them out. The enemy, I had written, must be silenced in the most convenient manner without the use of fire-arms. And so, as we were not issued with commando knives or knuckle dusters, he had gone off to borrow a tulwar from the mule company.
How did executioners sometimes manage to make such a mess of the job? I suppose Holloway’s tulwar struck right between vertebrae. He was quite unmoved—more inclined to rub his hands with the proper satisfaction of an old cavalryman. A typical Englishman. As individuals the French and Germans aren’t in it with us when it comes to bloodshed. Our fault in war is that on the rare occasions when we actually bring superior forces to bear at the decisive point we are not very proud of it. We prefer the more sporting tradition of Agincourt.
Limpsfield, the kindly and considerate gamekeeper, was aghast at the effect of so simple a movement of his hand. He was not trained as a sapper. Nor was I, for that matter. We comforted ourselves with a singularly false heartiness and turned to the business of catching the three loose horses which were cantering back down the valley followed by Wilson, Flowers and Boutagy. Holloway and Limpsfield got one each, and the third came up to them of its own accord. Any port in a storm, like the rest of us.
The parched June undergrowth had now caught, and the fire was spreading over the ridge and on in the direction of the Hermel road. I had always hoped that if I surviv
ed and the operation were successful my party could retire at once up the track and that our responsibility for this regrettable explosion might never be known. Explanations were too difficult since, though I could always offer the proof of the quarry room, I had not much else without producing Oliver. When I put the problem to Limpsfield, he agreed with me. If it was a toss-up, he said, whether we received decorations or a spell in the glass-house, it was wiser to ensure that we got neither. He also pointed out that identification of the bodies would not be easy—at any rate until the cinders were raked over by experienced police. Even then the residue was likely to remain nameless.
The four trunks had been blasted across the track into the bushes, their iron bands and strong cowhide merely distorted. I felt that the worldly half of Biddy, now relieved of awkward explanations to the late colonel, should have its reward. The broken pack saddles were still hanging together enough to be trusted for a few miles, so we loaded up two of the horses, kept the third for riding and allowed the winded fourth, now on its legs, to wander off.
Before we started Boutagy came up to me holding a small bag and asked if he was right to assume that I wished to keep our ‘victorious expedition’ as secret as it had been up to the present. I replied that secret was a strong word, but I certainly intended to be thoroughly unhelpful if questioned. So far as I was concerned, some party of arms traffickers had managed to blow themselves up, and that was all.
‘The villagers may believe it was an accident,’ he said, ‘but they know that you and Mrs. Ronson-Bolbec were with the party, and they will talk.’
I doubted if anyone would ever make the connection between a mysterious explosion near Hermel and a remote hamlet on the Tripoli side of the range. But Boutagy was right. Whispers of our departure with the caravan and conjectures as to how we had survived could reach Sir and be passed from Sir to Magnat.
‘Might I be allowed to deal with these villagers, sir?’ Boutagy went on. ‘I understand the Moslem fellahin. They are dirt.’
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