by Saul David
‘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, huzoor,’ said Ilderim, and and fled up the steps.
George looked below. Black-turbaned guards were racing upwards. One h
eld 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.
As George was brought before him, he spat on the ground. ‘Allah has granted you a temporary stay of execution, Feringhee,’ said the mullah, his lip curled in derision. ‘You should be grateful.’
George could scarcely believe what he was hearing. ‘What? I don’t understand.’
‘Then listen well. Last night a messenger from Ghazni brought a note from your accomplice. In it he offers the cloak for your life, and suggests the exchange takes place today at noon in a defile five miles north of Ghazni. He wants you and two of my men to ride to a point just beyond the narrowest part of the defile where you will find, hanging from the branch of a willow tree, a bag containing the cloak. As soon as my men are happy that the bag is genuine, they are to release you and leave with the bag. Your accomplice says he will be watching nearby in case of treachery.’
‘And you agreed?’
‘Of course. I must have that cloak. The future of my country depends upon it. But mark my words, Feringhee. If that bag does not contain the cloak, you will not leave the defile alive. My men,’ he said, indicating the riders behind him, ‘will see to that.’
By the time the mullah and his calvacade of mounted men reached the entrance to the defile, after an hour’s hard ride, it was almost midday and the sun was high in the sky. George was sore and thirsty, having been forced to ride with his hands bound and his mouth gagged, yet he felt more hope than he had at any time since his capture. Ilderim was hiding in the defile and would, he felt sure, have devised a plan to rescue him without handing over the cloak. How he would do so was another matter: George was fairly certain that Ilderim didn’t have the cloak. Or did he? Had he somehow caught up with Princess Yasmin and recovered it? It seemed hard to believe.
George was still mulling over his chances of surviving the encounter when the mullah called forward his two best men to give them last-minute instructions. ‘As soon as you have the cloak you’re to release the infidel. If it isn’t there, kill him. Do you understand, Ahmed?’
‘Yes, master,’ lisped the older of the two, a hawk-nosed villain with a broken front tooth. ‘But what if his friend is hidden with a rifle nearby?’
‘What if he is? There are two of you and one of him. And the rest of my men will join you as soon as they hear shots. You have nothing to fear. Now go. It’s time.’
Ahmed nodded, grabbed George’s bridle and led his pony into the defile with the other rider following. Both had left their rifles behind, as Ilderim had requested, but beneath their coats they had hidden pistols and knives, which they fingered nervously as they followed a path along the bank of a small stream. At first the width of the defile was a good fifty yards, with the side walls rising at a shallow angle. But the further they rode the steeper and closer the walls of rock and scree became, until they were barely six yards apart and the path was so narrow that the riders could only proceed in single file. A perfect place for an ambush, thought George, as he craned his neck in an effort to see the ridge above the defile, but no one was visible. Once through this narrow stretch, which only lasted for a hundred yards or so, the floor of the defile widened dramatically, though it was covered with brushwood and small boulders, and still not easy to negotiate.
‘There it is!’ shouted Ahmed, pointing to a willow tree on the bank of the stream ahead, just below the path. Hanging from one of its lower branches was a multi-coloured shoulder bag that George had never seen before, and which convinced him more than ever that Ilderim did not have the cloak.
‘Fazel,’ said the leader to the second man, ‘go and see if it contains the cloak. If it does, raise your right hand and I will release the Feringhee. If it doesn’t, show your left and I’ll kill him.’
Fazel nodded and rode on. Once level with the tree, he dismounted and scrambled down the bank. George’s heart was in his mouth as the man unhooked the bag and looked inside. His left hand was on the point of being raised when a shot rang out. The man staggered and fell down the rest of the bank into the stream.
‘Treachery!’ shouted Ahmed, as he scrabbled for his pistol. With his hands bound and helpless, George could only pray that Ilderim wouldn’t miss with his second shot. But he did, the bullet pinging harmlessly off the rock behind Ahmed who, by now, had drawn his pistol and was swinging it round to fire. In desperation, George dug his heels into his pony and sent it barrelling into Ahmed’s mount, the shock enough to spoil the Afghan’s aim. The bullet passed a couple of inches above George’s head, the explosion ringing in his ears. Ahmed aimed again and, knowing that he wouldn’t miss a second time, George threw himself from his pony as the Afghan fired, hitting the ground hard with his right shoulder and jarring his wounded leg. Ignoring the pain, he looked up, expecting a third shot. But Ahmed’s saddle was empty, his crumpled body lying beside his mount. Ilderim, George realised, must have fired simultaneously, and this time he hadn’t missed.
George waited anxiously for Ilderim to appear, fearful that the mullah and his men would have heard the shots and be rapidly approaching. The sound of hoofbeats provided confirmation and George began to panic. Did Ilderim think he was dead? He tried to cry out that he was alive, but his gag muffled the sound. The hoofbeats were getting louder and George knew that the game was almost up. He tried to drag his battered body into the cover of some nearby bushes, but had covered barely half the distance when a noise like an oncoming train sounded on the hillside above him. He looked up to see a huge rock bounding down the hillside, loosening scores of smaller ones as it went. The landslide gathered pace and crashed into the floor of the defile at the moment that the first of the mullah’s riders emerged from the narrow path, consumi
ng both horses and men in its lethal torrent of earth and rock.
As the dust settled, and the cries of wounded men and horses echoed along the defile, George understood why Ilderim had chosen this location for the ‘exchange’. The rockfall had sealed the entrance of the narrow section to a height of more than fifteen feet. It would take the mullah’s men hours to remove the obstacle, giving George and Ilderim plenty of time to escape. George shook his head in admiration. The resourcefulness of his Afghan companion knew no bounds.
Minutes later Ilderim appeared, leading the two horses that Yasmin had taken. He ran over to George, who was still prone on the ground, and released his gag. ‘It’s good to see you with your skin in one piece, huzoor,’ he said, with a grin.
‘You too,’ replied George, his swollen tongue making his voice barely recognizable. ‘Now cut my ties and help me on to a horse.’
Ilderim did as he was asked, and after twenty minutes of hard riding they were clear of the defile and into open country, heading north towards Kabul. But the action of riding over broken ground soon proved too painful for George and he signalled to Ilderim to slow to a walk. ‘Would you like to stop and rest, huzoor?’
‘No,’ said George, though he would have liked nothing better. ‘We must put as much distance between ourselves and the defile as possible. I’ll feel better in a while, and we can press on. But thank you for saving my life again. You didn’t have to come back for me. Why did you?’
Ilderim smiled. ‘Because I like you, huzoor, and because my father would never have forgiven me if I’d returned without you.’
George nodded. ‘And the cloak?’
‘That faithless bitch has it still. When I recovered the horses at Mahmud’s tomb, she was long gone and the cloak with her.’
‘Have you any idea where she may be and why she took it?’
‘No, huzoor. Though it’s possible she went north to Kohistan.’