For Kingdom and Country (27 page)

‘
Thank you, Yüzbaşi. I am Binbaşi Esad Čuvidina. These are my men
,’ he said with a flourish of his hand. ‘
They are all honourable, good soldiers. And loyal. I have surrendered, therefore they have surrendered. You will have no trouble from them, I give you my word
.’ He clicked his boot heels again and gave another little bow of his head.

‘
I know who you are, Esad Čuvidina Bey. I saw your troops parade in Constantinople before the war
,’ Lock said. ‘
Fine men
.’

‘
You honour us, Yüzbaşi …?
’

‘Lock, Kingdom Lock.
But no, Binbaşi Bey, you honour us with your
surrender
,’ Lock said, giving a little bow of his head in return. ‘
However, I would request that your men surrender their weapons
.’ He glanced over to the far side of the courtyard and to what appeared to be a heavy iron door. ‘
Is that a storage vault? Do you perhaps have the key?
’

‘
Onbaşi
Akşener, keys,’ Binbaşi
Čuvidina barked.

A corporal broke from the ranks, trotted over, and saluted. He handed out a large bunch of heavy iron keys.
Binbaşi
Čuvidina nodded over to the large iron door, and the
onbaşi
saluted again, ran over to the doors, unlocked them, pulled them open, and then ran back. He snapped to attention again. The
binbaşi
took the keys from him and passed them to Lock.

‘
Thank you
,’ Lock said. ‘Sid,’ he called, and tossed the keys over to the big Indian. ‘Have the weapons piled up in that vault and then lock them away. Don’t want the locals getting any ideas, do we?’

‘Sahib,’ Singh called.

Lock turned back to the Fire Brigade’s commander. ‘
If you would, please, Binbaşi Bey, we shall march down to the Customs House at the quayside, where the rest of your fellow officers are, along with the governor.’

‘I hope, Yüzbaşi Lock, that all your commanding officers are as learned and courteous as you,’
the
binbaşi
said.

‘Some, Binbaşi Bey. But not nearly enough
.’

The Turk officer snorted lightly. ‘
It is the same in our army. I fear it is the same the world over
.’ He gave Lock a smart salute, then turning to the
yüzbaşi
to his right, passed the order for the men to hand in their weapons. The Turks circled in an orderly fashion, piling their rifles and hatchets inside the storage vault under the watchful eye of Singh and Ram Lal, and turned back to form orderly lines in the courtyard once more.

A
basçavuş
, sergeant major, holding a large brass parade torch, clearly a symbol of great honour for the regiment, stepped forward a pace. He stamped to attention, and the men behind him all shouted in unison,

Lock glanced over to Singh, who was just finishing locking the storage vault shut. He turned and gave a thumbs up, then with Ram Lal at his side made his way over to the gate. Lock moved off with the
binbaşi
walking regally beside him. The
basçavuş
came next with the parade torch held aloft and then, marching two abreast, followed the troops of the Constantinople Fire Brigade.

Lock gave Singh and Ram Lal a reassuring wink as he passed back through the stone arch entrance. ‘Bring up the rear, Sid. Make sure nobody strays.’

‘Very good, sahib,’ Singh said, and waited, watching as the Turks filed by.

The crowds of Arab inhabitants were still lining the streets. Lock and his Turkish prisoners marched back down towards the shimmering Tigris; there was a hushed silence as if the populous could not quite believe that their time under Ottoman rule had come to such an abrupt and peaceful end.

A low murmur started up somewhere to Lock’s left, that quickly spread through the crowd like wildfire, and soon the men, women and children alike were shouting and clapping and singing and calling out Allah’s name in joyous celebration.

By the time Lock had made it back to the river front, the
Comet
was docked along the foreshore. With her were the armed tugboats the
Samana
and the
Lewis Pelly
, both with a horse-boat containing a mounted 4.7 gun on tow. The Turkish dignitaries were no longer out on the quayside and there was no sign of Major Ross. The Union Jack that Singleton’s men had taken up to the roof of the Customs House was now flapping gently in the dry, hot breeze. Perhaps they were all inside. Lock was about to go and find out when a marine approached. He was wearing the dark-blue underdress uniform with the distinctive peakless ‘Broderick’ cap, and his trousers, with their red seam down the outside, tucked into brown laced-webbing gaiters and black laced boots, made Lock think of the Red Caps. It gave him an uneasy feeling, and he suddenly regretted leaving Ross to take the surrender, when Singleton would have been perfectly capable of doing the task.

‘Captain Lock, sir,’ the marine saluted. ‘If you will follow me, I’ll show you where the prisoners are to be taken.’

Lock nodded and led the prisoners further on down the quay. They marched on, passing the vast open courtyard of the bazaar, its rib-vaulted domed ceiling like that of the inside of a cathedral. Outside, in front of rows and rows of crates, fishermen were working at repairing their nets, others sorting through the day’s catch. Lock
could see baskets full of a carp-like fish, some as big as 70lbs. His mouth watered at the prospect of sitting down to eat one of the monsters.

‘Captain Lock, sir, this way.’

The marine led Lock and his prisoners down some greasy wooden steps and onto the muddy foreshore where local children were crying and laughing as they ran in and out of the water.

‘Where exactly are we taking them?’ Lock said.

‘There, sir.’

The marine pointed to a big iron lighter that was anchored out in the middle of the river.

Look stood with Singh and Ram Lal, watching the transfer of men as gulls screeched and swooped overhead in the morning haze. Two able seamen from the
Comet
were ankle-deep out in the water, helping to steady the launch, while under the suspicious glare of the marine, the men of the Constantinople Fire Brigade lined up quietly, ready to climb aboard. The launch then sped off to the lighter, unloaded and returned, where the process was repeated.

Lock was thinking about finding a cafe someplace and ordering a good hot meal and some strong coffee, when his mood was broken by a familiar figure slipping and splashing towards him across the mud.

‘Sir, sir … there’s trouble,’ Elsworth gasped, catching his breath.

Lock glanced back along the muddy foreshore towards the Customs House.

‘What is it, Alfred?’

‘Captain Bingham-Smith … and the colonel, sir. I overheard them arguing … with Major Ross, about you … sir. Something to do with …’ Elsworth hesitated.

‘Go on, Alfred. I think I know what you’re going to say.’

‘Lieutenant Harrington-Brown, sir … He’s dead. Only they’re … saying it’s murder, sir.’

‘Sahib,’ Singh said leaning close to Lock’s ear, ‘I would very much advise you to get out of here.’

‘Make a run for it? From Bingham-Smith?’ Lock shook his head. ‘Never, Sid. It was self-defence, and the major knows it.’

Singh shifted uneasily on his feet, throwing glances up towards the Customs House. Lock had never seen his Indian friend look so concerned, so doubtful, before.

‘Look, Sid,’ Lock said, putting a reassuring hand on the big Sikh’s shoulder, ‘I’m not stupid. I know they’re after my blood, but this war’s bigger than any of us, and if they ca—’

‘Captain Lock?’ a voice called from behind.

Lock turned to see three armed marines standing at the edge of the quayside. They didn’t look friendly.

‘You’re to come with us, sir,’ the burly NCO at the front called, as they descended the wooden steps leading down to the muddy foreshore.

‘Oh? On whose orders?’ Lock called back, standing with his hands on his hips waiting for the three marines to get closer.

The rifles the two junior men carried were the older Navy issue Charger-Loading Lee–Enfields. The NCO wore a holstered Webley at his hip, although Lock noted the holster was unclipped.

‘General Townshend’s, sir,’ the NCO said, as he approached.

‘Bugger,’ Lock said. ‘Very well, Sergeant. Lead on.’

‘And you’re to hand over your weapon, sir.’

‘I shall do no such thing.’

The NCO put his hand to his holster and the two marines with him raised their rifles a touch.

‘Sir. It’s not a request, sir. Sorry,’ the NCO said.

‘Listen you—’ Elsworth said, a surprising level of anger in his voice, as he stepped forward.

Lock held up his hand to stop the young sharpshooter making trouble for himself.

‘It’s all right, Alfred. Just a misunderstanding. Here.’ He unclipped his holster and removed the Beholla, but handed it to Singh and not to the NCO. ‘Look after it for me, Sid.’

‘Sir, that’s not—’ the NCO started to protest, but Lock turned a steely glare on him. The NCO thought better of it, his eye dropping to the bullet hole in Lock’s left breast pocket, then back up to Lock’s face. He cleared his throat. ‘If you’d accompany us back to the Customs House, sir,’ he said.

‘Very well, Sergeant.’

Lock splashed on up the foreshore, with the two marines flanking him and the NCO leading the way. Singh and Elsworth followed, leaving Ram Lal with the two able seamen and the first marine to watch over the transfer of the last of the Turkish prisoners.

Lock was sat on a hard chair to the left of a closed, heavy wooden door in the foyer of the Customs House. It was a bland, soulless space, vast and full of echoes. A sweeping staircase curved up from the left leading to a mezzanine level above. Two Tommies, one on a stepladder, the other leaning down precariously from the balcony above, were removing the only form of decoration in the foyer. It was a huge imposing portrait of Enver Pasha, framed by the Ottoman and the German flags, hung just below the balcony. It was the first thing you saw when entering the Customs House, and Townshend wanted it gone. The only other presence in the foyer was an armed marine guard. He was standing on the opposite side of the door to Lock, but his eyes were keeping a close watch on him.

From behind the heavy wooden door, Lock could hear raised voices. He couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying, but as Townshend, Ross, Godwinson and Bingham-Smith were in there, Lock was confident that he was the subject of their heated debate.

Lock crossed his leg over his knee, sighed, and began to pick at the loose stitching on the brim of his slouch hat held in his lap. He licked his lips and tried to ignore the dryness of his throat. How long had it been since he’d had a decent drink? Christ, he could use a smoke, too.

‘I wonder …’ Lock started to ask the marine guard, before a sudden voice echoing around the foyer interrupted him.

‘I might have known you’d be the cause of all this fuss.’

Lock looked over to the main entrance. Standing in the threshold, leaning against the door jamb, with sun streaming in behind her, was the silhouette of a woman.

Lock grinned, recognising the voice. ‘Pretty Officer Boxer, what brings you to this desolate part of the world?’

‘You do,’ she said striding forward, her shoes click-clacking against the stone floor.

‘I’m honoured.’

‘I wouldn’t be,’ she said, pulling a cigarette from between her lips, and blowing a smoke trail behind her like a slow-moving locomotive.

Lock got to his feet, a move that unnerved the nearby marine guard, who took a step towards him, rifle raised.

‘Easy, tiger,’ Betty snarled to the guard. ‘He ain’t goin’ nowhere.’

The guard scowled back at her, eyes dropping to the three chevrons on her sleeve. He frowned, then took a step back to his post, having made the decision to leave be.

Lock couldn’t help but run his eye up and down Betty as she walked closer. She was no longer dressed in the heavy blue serge uniform, but had swapped it for more sensible summer whites. She had on a single-breasted
Norfolk-style coat, decorated with gilt buttons and a rating badge on her left sleeve. The skirt was hemmed to no more than four inches above her slender ankle and her shirt was open at the neck with a standard Navy neckerchief completing the look. She was hatless and her lightly curled, thick raven hair was hanging loose to just above her shoulders. It bounced, as did the rest of her, in time with her movements.

She came to a halt a mere step from Lock, and stared up at him through narrowed dark-brown eyes.

‘What happened to that ridiculous straw hat?’ Lock said.

Betty scoffed and took the cigarette out of her wide mouth again. She held it up and raised a slim eyebrow. ‘From Cairo.’

Lock took the offered cigarette, noted the pale lipstick mark, then put it between his own lips, and inhaled deeply. He closed his eyes and let the sweet Egyptian tobacco coat his mouth and tongue.

‘God, that’s good,’ he sighed. ‘Thanks. So, why are you here?’

‘I’m escorting
you
back to Basra. Doesn’t look good, you know, about this assassination thingy.’

Lock shrugged. ‘I may be up for more than that now.’

Betty gave Lock one of her lopsided, wry smiles. ‘Such a bad boy.’

‘So are you taking me back all on your own?’

‘Hell, no,’ Betty snorted lightly. ‘You ain’t to be trusted. I bought some of the Red Cap boys with me. They’re hanging around outside,’ she said, jerking a thumb over her shoulder.

Lock smiled and continued to smoke.

‘We had to let Grössburger go,’ Betty said.

‘Why?’

‘Pressure from APOC and the Swiss consulate. He’s got some powerful friends.’

‘Don’t they all,’ Lock scoffed. ‘Tell me, how did you get here?’

‘Boat. Same as you.’

‘No chaperone?’ Lock mocked.

Betty gave him a withering look. ‘I had some nurses for company. General Nixon was so confident of victory that he arranged for medical staff to be ready to set up a hospital here. I’m thinking that the Brits want Amara to be their new administrative centre before long.’

Lock nodded. ‘Nurses, hey?’

‘That’s right. Mind you, I’ve heard that you didn’t have too many casualties.’

Lock had drifted off into thought. Could Amy be among the nurses?

‘I was saying,’ Betty said, ‘not too many injuries.’

Lock focused on Betty again. ‘What? Oh … no … nothing like Shaiba. Incredible really. Tell me, Bet … Petty Officer … was a Miss Townshend one of the nurses?’

‘Shoot, I don’t know,’ she said with a touch of irritation. ‘Why, she your sweetheart?’

Lock shrugged. ‘Was.’

‘Uh, huh,’ Betty said, nodding slowly. ‘Sounds as if you don’t like the situation.’

Lock was about to reply, but his answer was cut short by the door behind him suddenly opening. The guard snapped to attention and Lock turned to see Ross staring back at him. The major gave a brief nod to Betty, then beckoned for Lock to come in.

‘Excuse me,’ Lock said to Betty, tipping his forelock mockingly and passing her back the cigarette.

Ross held the door open wide for Lock, then shut it firmly behind him.

The office was a surprisingly tranquil room, not at all militaristic, and reminded Lock of the headmaster’s study he had stood in once too often when he was a child. Huge French windows were open at the far end, and Lock could see an invitingly cool courtyard outside with a lone
palm tree in its centre offering ample shade. The only sound was the soft chirruping of birds and the gentle patter of water from some unseen fountain. In front of the French windows was a desk, behind which sat a stony-faced General Townshend. He didn’t look at all well to Lock, his skin grey and taut, his eyes bloodshot and watery. The desk was bare except for a single candlestick telephone, the cardboard file of documents he had taken from the
liva amiral
and then later given to Bingham-Smith, and a Webley. And something …

Oh, bugger, Lock thought. His knife.

There were two more chairs lined up to the left of the desk. Colonel Godwinson, legs crossed, cane tap-tapping lightly against his boot, was sat in one, Bingham-Smith, with his usual smug smirk written across his face, was sat in the other. Lieutenant Singleton was standing, smoking a cigarette, on the far side of the room in front of a large, empty stone hearth cut into the wall. Major Ross crossed the room to join the Royal Navy commander. Beneath the tobacco and leather, the room smelt faintly of mint tea.

Lock, slouch hat in his hand, stood to attention in the middle of the Herati-patterned Persian rug that dominated the room, and waited.

‘Bloody fellow doesn’t even shave,’ Godwinson grumbled, his blue-grey eyes boring into Lock. ‘Never seen him with a smooth chin. A damned disgrace.’

Townshend coughed lightly and Godwinson fell silent.

‘Sir, I …’ Lock started to say, but the general just glared back at him. Lock snapped his mouth shut.

‘Two things, Lock,’ Townshend said. ‘One. Did you disobey a direct order from your commanding officer and refuse to transfer a valuable prisoner to the command vessel, the
Espiegle
?’

‘No.’

‘Rot!’ Godwinson spat. ‘Casper …’ He paused, clearing his throat to
correct himself. ‘Bingham-Smith is your superior officer and after he led the assault on One Tree Hill he discovered that there was an important Turkish officer—’

Lock began to laugh.

‘What the devil?’ Godwinson spluttered, turning to Townshend. ‘See? This man is not fit to lead men!’ He turned back to Lock, rising from his seat, his face a deep crimson, eyes bulging with fury. ‘This is not a joke, you nasty little colonial … blaggard. How dare you?’

Lock was shaking with the effort of trying to hold in his laughter. But it was no good, for the more he tried, the more Godwinson bleated and blustered, and the more Lock found it hilarious.

‘Stop it! Stop it, I say.’ Godwinson lunged forward, his cane raised.

There was a vicious snap as the cane sliced through the air. But Lock’s hand shot straight up and caught it just inches away from his face. He gripped it tightly and glared back at the colonel, all his laughter evaporated.