by Saul David
The room contained three men in evening dress. The duke was standing by the empty fireplace, a portly figure with bald pate and white mutton-chop whiskers. Seated on a sofa to his left was a younger man George did not know, also bald but with a full beard and pince-nez hanging from his neck. Opposite him, on a second sofa, he saw the unmistakable figure of Lord Beaconsfield, the Prime Minister, with his thin, pinched face, prominent nose and goatee beard.
‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost, Captain,’ said the duke, with a chuckle. ‘I can assure you, Lord Beaconsfield is flesh and blood. As is Lord Salisbury,’ he added, gesturing towards the second man. ‘Come over and all will be explained.’
George was taken aback – the Prime Minister and the Foreign Secretary – but he did as he was bidden, bowing slightly as he shook the duke’s hand. Salisbury rose to greet him, but Beaconsfield remained sitting. ‘Forgive my impolitesse, Captain,’ he said, ‘but I’ve been unwell and my doctor advises rest – as if that were possible in these troubled times.’
‘I quite understand, Prime Minister.’
‘Now, before we start,’ said the duke, ‘would you care for a drink?’
George knew it was unwise to accept, but felt it might calm his nerves. ‘Whisky, please.’
‘What you’re about to hear is a matter of national security and must not be repeated without our authority. Secrecy is paramount. Do you understand?’
George nodded as he took his drink from the butler, who then left the room, closing the double doors behind him.
‘First may I congratulate you, Captain Hart,’ began Beaconsfield, ‘on surviving the catastrophe at Isandlwana. I don’t mind telling you that receiving the news of that defeat was one of the darkest moments of my life. The government might have fallen there and then without the glimmer of sunshine provided by the heroic defence of Rorke’s Drift. I gather you fought there too?’
Unwelcome memories of the vicious fighting, particularly the death of his friend Jake, swirled into George’s head. ‘I did, my lord,’ said George, as if in a trance, ‘until I was wounded.’
‘Of course,’ said Beaconsfield, nodding, ‘and I trust you’re fully recovered.’
‘I am. Thank you.’
‘From what His Royal Highness tells me, you have performed a double service for your country – first, by your acts of valour during the fighting, and second, by exposing the inadequacies of the military command in South Africa. My instinct on hearing the news of Isandlwana was at once to relieve Lord Chelmsford of his command. But the duke argued against this, as did Her Majesty the Queen, on the grounds that it would be unfair to condemn the man before the full details of the battle were known. Well, now they are, thanks to you, and a few days ago Her Majesty finally sanctioned the Cabinet’s recommendation to replace Lord Chelmsford with Sir Garnet Wolseley, who will leave on the SS Edinburgh Castle tomorrow. I hear you are booked on the same passage.’
‘Indeed I am,’ said George, barely able to conceal his delight that Chelmsford had finally received his comeuppance. He was eager to return to South Africa – to take revenge on his Zulu cousin Mehlokazulu for killing Jake at Isandlwana, to settle scores with Sir Jocelyn Harris, his former CO, for drumming him out of the 1st Dragoon Guards and to avoid retribution for killing Thompson – but he had dreaded serving again under Chelmsford and his deputy Crealock. Now that threat had been lifted.
‘I can see from your expression that you approve of the Cabinet’s decision,’ said Beaconsfield, leaning forward. ‘Quite right. But you may not have the opportunity to make Sir Garnet’s acquaintance. We have in mind for you a quite different form of military service in another country that should suit your unique talents. Lord Salisbury will explain.’
Nonplussed, and not a little irked that his return to South Africa was in doubt, George swung round to face the Foreign Secretary. ‘Have you ever heard of the Prophet’s Cloak?’ asked Salisbury, in a deep, gravelly voice.
‘No,’ replied George, ‘but I imagine it has something to do with the Muhammadan religion.’
‘Exactly so. The Mussulmans believe it was once owned by the Prophet Muhammad himself and as such is one of their most sacred relics. How it found its way to Afghanistan has never been properly explained. Some say it was given as a present to an Afghan chief called Kais who fought on behalf of the Prophet in the seventh century, others that it was brought to the country from Bokhara in the late eighteenth century by Ahmad Shah Durrani, the founder of the ruling dynasty. Today it resides in a locked silver box, itself protected by two outer wooden chests, in the shrine of Kharka Sharif in Kandahar in the south of the country. If we could be sure it would stay there, and never see the light of day, we would not be having this conversation. But experience tells us it can and will be brought out in times of national emergency. It was last donned by Dost Mahomed, the late Amir of Kabul. Does that name sound familiar?’
‘Of course, my lord. Every schoolboy knows of Dost, and of how Britain was forced to restore him as ruler after the disasters of the first Afghan war in the forties.’
‘Quite right. Dost understood the symbolic power of the cloak as a means of rallying the faithful against the foreign invader, which brings me to the point. While you were battling the Zulu, a quite separate war was being fought in Afghanistan. And, like your war, it was launched by a pro-consul who exceeded his brief. When Lord Lytton took up his post as Viceroy of India in seventy-six he was instructed by the Cabinet to prevent the ruler of Afghanistan, Sher Ali, falling under Russian influence. One by one the khanates of Central Asia have fallen to the Russians, who now stand on Afghanistan’s northern border. Our greatest fear is that they will continue their march south and use Afghanistan to invade India. Lord Lytton’s task was to encourage Sher Ali to accept a British resident in Kabul who could keep an eye on the Russians.
‘What he was not authorized to do was send a mission up the Khyber Pass without Sher’s permission, which was what happened last autumn. Inevitably the mission was turned back by the Afghans and war was the result. It might have been avoided, but only if Sher had apologized and agreed to accept a resident. It was vital to our prestige that he agreed to some form of reparation. He refused. These Orientals are very proud.’
The sequence of events was not dissimilar to that which had preceded the Zulu war. Yet there was one vital difference, and George voiced it in the hope that it would end all talk of cloaks and holy war. ‘All this is fascinating, my lord, but was not the recent Afghan war brought to a satisfactory conclusion, unlike the fighting in Zululand, which continues? Or that is the impression one has from the newspapers.’
‘And newspapers never lie, do they?’ asked Salisbury, with more than a hint of sarcasm. ‘But you’re mostly right, Captain Hart. For once our military operations went like clockwork – though the Afghans fought well against Roberts at Peiwar Kotal – and by January this year it was mostly over. Sher Ali had fled north and both Kandahar and Kabul were in our hands. Then in February we heard of Sher Ali’s death and the accession of his son, and former prisoner, Yakub Khan, who had enough sense to open negotiations with us. He signed a treaty last week at Gandamak, ceding a strip of Afghan territory that includes the Khyber Pass and the Kurram valley, agreeing to our original request for a British resident in Kabul, and guaranteeing British control over Afghan foreign policy and freedom of commerce. In return he will receive an annual subsidy of sixty thousand pounds and the promise of British support in the event of war with a foreign aggressor.’
Salisbury paused to let the details sink in, but George was confused. ‘Forgive me, my lord,’ he said, ‘but I don’t see what this has to do with me or the cloak. Surely with the war over and the treaty signed you have everything you want – a British resident, a pliant amir and Russian influence nowhere to be seen.’
Beaconsfield could remain silent no longer. ‘Appearances can be deceptive, Captain Hart. But in truth the situation in Afghanistan is far less satisfactory than the newspapers would
have you believe. How do we know this? Because the Foreign Office has a spy in Kabul, and his last report warned that Yakub is despised by the majority of his countrymen for concluding such a shameful treaty, and that an extremist cleric from Ghazni . . .’ Beaconsfield turned to Salisbury for help. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Mullah Mushk-i-Alam, Prime Minister,’ said Salisbury, ‘which apparently means “Perfume of the Universe”.’
‘Extraordinary! Well, this fellow, according to our spy, is trying to rouse the faithful against our presence in Afghanistan and all who condone it, including Yakub. And the easiest way for him to achieve this is to don the Prophet’s Cloak and declare himself the spiritual leader not just of Afghanistan but of the whole Mussulman world. It goes without saying that it is in our vital interest to prevent this happening – which is where you come in. We want you to travel to Afghanistan, find the cloak and bring it back to Britain.’
Until now George had listened to both men in respectful silence. They were, after all, the most powerful men in the country, which, by dint of the Empire’s pre-eminence, meant the world. But this request was insane. No, he decided, it was worse than insane – it was guaranteed to get him killed. ‘I’m flattered that you’ve considered me for such an important mission, Prime Minister,’ he began, careful not to sound ungrateful, ‘but, with all due respect, I fail to see how I fit the bill. I’m still young and learning my profession, I’ve never been to Afghanistan, and I’ve no experience of espionage. Surely it would make more sense to send an agent of the Indian government who knows the country and can speak the lingo.’
‘You might think so, Captain Hart,’ said Salisbury, ‘but we and the Indian government don’t always see eye to eye. For the last few years they’ve been pursuing a quite different—’
Beaconsfield raised his hand. ‘I don’t think we need to go into that, Salisbury. Suffice to say, Captain Hart, we have our reasons. As for your fitness to undertake this mission, I can think of no one better. Yes, you are young, but you were the best in your class at Sandhurst and your feats in Zululand confirm you as an officer of outstanding promise. You’ve shown bravery, endurance, resourcefulness and integrity, all qualities that are needed for the Afghan mission. I’m told you pick up languages easily, that you are an excellent horseman – and you have one important advantage over almost any other British officer for an undercover operation of this nature, and that is – how shall I put this? – you’re . . .’
‘Expendable?’ suggested George, one eyebrow raised.
‘Why on earth would you think that?’ asked the Prime Minister.
‘I apologize, Prime Minister, I was being flippant, though it strikes me that you’d be much less likely to send a titled member of the Brigade of Guards than a misfit like me.’
Beaconsfield smiled. ‘There’s more to it than that.’ He turned to the duke, who was still standing by the fireplace, a glass of whisky in hand. ‘Your Royal Highness, would you mind if I had a word in private with young Hart?’
‘Not at all. I’ll be next door.’
‘You too, Salisbury.’
The Foreign Secretary frowned. ‘Is that really necessary, Prime Minister?’
‘Yes.’
Once the pair had left the room, Beaconsfield turned back to George, a faint smile playing on his lips. ‘You may be surprised to hear this, Captain Hart, but you and I have much in common.’
‘We do?’ asked an unconvinced George.
‘Yes. We’re both . . . cuckoos in the nest. We may look the part, say the right things, but we don’t really belong. My father was a practising Jew who baptized his children into the Church of England so that they could get on in society. Did you know that?’
‘I did not.’
‘It’s true, and just as well for me because I couldn’t have climbed the greasy pole if I hadn’t become an Anglican. Until a few years ago Jews couldn’t vote, let alone stand for Parliament. But don’t misunderstand me. I didn’t always want to be a politician. Before I became an MP I tried my hand at business and writing novels. I wasn’t very successful at either, which mattered to me because I always want to be the best at anything I do, and I suspect you feel the same. Am I right?’
George hadn’t given it much thought before now, but he couldn’t deny he had always been fiercely competitive and had worked twice as hard as his peers at Harrow and Sandhurst.
‘I thought so. The truth is, Hart, people like ourselves don’t fit neatly into English society and never will. They know it and, more importantly, we know it, which is why we will move Heaven and Earth to prove ourselves superior. Harrow and Sandhurst can’t have been easy for someone of your background yet you excelled, and clearly have determination as well as brains, a combination not usually found in a pink-cheeked ensign of the Grenadier Guards. You believe we’ve selected you for this mission because you’re nobody and therefore expendable. Far from it. You possess a range of qualities that are rarely found in someone of your age and education – not least a handsome figurehead, which, alas, I was not blessed with – and that is why we – I – would hate to lose you.’
Not as much as I’d hate to lose myself, thought George, as he tried to read between the Prime Minister’s honeyed lines. Did they really have that much in common? Or was Beaconsfield, consummate politician that he was, simply telling him what he wanted to hear? He couldn’t decide. And something about the undercover mission made him uneasy. ‘I’m flattered, of course, my lord,’ said George, after a lengthy pause, ‘but there’s much to consider. I appreciate your intention is to avoid more bloodshed and turmoil, but would it not be best to withdraw from Afghanistan and leave the Afghans to their own devices?’
‘Thus allowing the Russians to advance to the very borders of British India? We cannot allow that to happen.’
‘But would it, my lord? Surely the Russians would find the Afghans every bit as tough a nut to crack as we have. Is it not better to have Russians dying in the Hindu Kush than our own soldiers in the Khyber Pass?’
‘Of course. But we cannot guarantee the Afghans will win such a war. And if they do not we shall face a mortal threat in India. No, Hart, the only sensible option is to retain a British envoy in Kabul to keep an eye on things. But the position of our current resident, Sir Louis Cavagnari, is in danger of being undermined by religious radicals, as I’ve explained, and the best way to prevent this is for us to get our hands on the Prophet’s Cloak.’
George rubbed his chin. ‘I see the sense of that, my lord, but I can’t help feeling uneasy. The cloak is clearly a religious artefact of great importance to the Afghans. Won’t our removing it make it harder for them to accept us as an ally?’
‘Of course, but only if they know we’re responsible – which they will not, if you’re careful.’
‘It doesn’t seem right to interfere in someone else’s religion. Or sensible. After all, isn’t that what caused the Mutiny of fifty-seven?’
‘Partly, though I suspect many Indian sepoys were simply using the defence of their religion as a pretext to overthrow our rule. In any event, we’ve learnt our lesson. This is not about meddling with the Muhammadan religion but about safeguarding our vital interests in the region. As long as the Afghans keep the Russians out, they can worship whom they damn well please. Well, I’ve said my piece and now, I think, it’s best if the others rejoin us. Andrews!’
The butler put his head round the door. ‘My lord?’
‘Be so good as to ask your master and Lord Salisbury to come back in.’
Once the pair had resumed their former places, Beaconsfield continued, ‘I think, gentlemen, that Captain Hart is ready to give us his answer. Is that right?’
‘Not quite, my lord,’ said George. ‘You still haven’t explained the “important advantage” I have over my peers for a mission of this kind.’
Beaconsfield chuckled. ‘I would have thought that was obvious. Why, it’s the colour of your skin, of course. Put you in Afghan clothing and you’ll pass for a n
ative in no time. What do you say, Salisbury?’
The Foreign Secretary nodded vigorously. ‘I agree. They’ll never know you’re British.’
That’s because I’m not, thought George. Well, not entirely. But he was not about to explain to these powerful men that a mixture of Zulu, Irish and British blood ran in his veins. What would be the point? Far better to stick to the story his mother had told him as a boy: that she was of Maltese descent. That way he could continue the charade that he was an officer and a gentleman with only a touch of the tarbrush. After all, if Beaconsfield – the son of a practising Jew – could become Prime Minister, what was to stop George Hart rising to the very top of his profession, if he kept quiet about his African past?
‘I am, of course, happy to second you to the Foreign Office for the duration of the mission,’ interjected the duke, ‘and if you’re successful there’s a good chance, a very good chance, that Her Majesty will approve your promotion to the rank of major.’
‘So will you do it?’ asked Beaconsfield.
George paused. Every bone in his body was urging him to say thank you, but no thank you. It wasn’t just the qualms he felt about purloining an article of such religious significance, or that he had unfinished business in South Africa: he had been looking forward to joining the 3rd/60th Rifles and becoming a proper regimental officer with men under his command. Yet, on the other hand, promotion to major would take him tantalizingly close to the rank of lieutenant colonel and five thousand pounds of his father’s money. Neither could he deny that Lord Beaconsfield had a point: he indeed possessed many of the attributes required for such a mission. This gave him, he realised, a crucial bargaining chip that might help him solve his mother’s financial worries. And something else swayed him, something to which Beaconsfield had just alluded: the determination to excel at soldiering, the only profession that interested him, and to prove himself as good as, if not better than, all those officers who were unmistakably ‘white’. His heart was thumping as he drained his glass, then set out his terms.