For Kingdom and Country (29 page)

Lock and Betty jumped out of the automobile. She made her way to the back, and returned with a bulky haversack in her arms.

‘Here, this is for you,’ she said, tossing it to Lock.

The haversack landed with a dull thud against his chest as he caught it.

‘And you’ll be needing this,’ Betty said, handing him his Beholla
automatic and holster. ‘A big Indian fella insisted I take it and give it to you.’

‘Sid,’ Lock smiled, nodding his head.

They stood facing one another in silence, and Lock felt a twinge of desire as he stared back into Betty’s deep brown eyes.

‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘Don’t thank me. Thank Major Ross.’

Lock raised a questioning eyebrow.

‘Aw, come on. You don’t think he’d abandon you, do you?’

Lock stared back at her, but didn’t say anything.

‘Who d’ya think arranged all this?’ Betty gave another of her lopsided smiles.

‘Hurry up, mate,’ the mechanic shouted and beckoned over to them.

‘I think it’s time for you to get going.’

‘I guess so.’

But Lock couldn’t drag himself away from her stare. Pull yourself together, Kingdom, he thought with a smile, and made to move away.

Betty grabbed his sleeve and pulled him back. They hesitated, eyes searching each other’s faces, then Lock felt an electric current race through his veins as their lips met. He felt her tongue dart into his mouth and suddenly all of his tensions and worries evaporated. He was falling, falling deeper and deeper inside of her.

Then Betty pulled her head away and opened her eyes.

‘Get going, handsome,’ she said huskily, and gave him a gentle shove.

‘I’ll be back.’

‘Sure, just make damned certain you got that Feyzi fella with you. Otherwise the major says don’t bother coming back at all.’

Lock grinned and moved off towards the waiting aeroplane.

‘Tell him he’s a nasty Scot’s bastard,’ he called over his shoulder.

‘I can’t do that,’ Betty called back.

‘Why not?’

‘He’s my pa,’ she said.

‘What? What did you say?’ Lock stalled, and turned back to face her, but the pilot was shouting at him now to get a bloody move on.

‘Well, bugger me …’ Lock said.

He turned to the man in the khaki overalls who was standing by the propeller.

‘Here, put this clobber on, mate.’ The Australian mechanic handed Lock a leather pilot’s cap.

Lock stuffed his slouch hat inside his tunic, and pulled on the cap. It was a snug fit.

The mechanic gave him a wink. ‘Beaut’, mate,’ he said, and then thumbed for Lock to climb up into the observer’s seat at the front of the nacelle.

The mechanic cupped his hands together, stooped down and gave Lock a bunk up.

Lock pulled himself up onto the wing, haversick hitched over his shoulder, and scrambled past the pilot and into the front section of the nacelle. He squeezed himself into the tiny, hard seat, strapped himself in, and sat for a moment breathing in the heady stench of hot oil and leather. He then twisted round and shook hands with the pilot, a tanned young man with piercing pale-green eyes and an easy smile.

‘Captain Henry Petre,’ the pilot said, introducing himself, accent thick with an easy Australian drawl. ‘Welcome to Aussie Mesop Airways,’ he grinned.

‘Glad to meet you, Captain. Name’s Lock, Kingdom Lock.’

Petre nodded, then turned and called down to the mechanic. ‘Right-o, Bluey.’

Lock peered down to see the mechanic grab hold of the propeller and give it a spin to catch the magneto. He dodged away, and after a few
splutters, the engine caught, and with a cough of blue-white exhaust, began to turn over.

‘Ever flown before, Lock?’ the pilot shouted above the engine as he adjusted his pedals and readied himself for take-off.

‘Yes. In Tsingtao. Last year,’ Lock called back.

‘Bet it wasn’t in one of these crates, though?’

Lock shook his head. ‘A German Taube.’

‘Fancy. Well, this ain’t no Mercedes engine, it’s Frenchie, a Farman MF.11. But if we’re lucky, we won’t crash. Unless we run into the bloody
shamal
.’

‘The what?’ Lock shouted back.

‘The desert wind. This bucket can’t cope. Wasn’t built for this climate.’

‘Then why are they here?’

‘Why the hell are we all bloody here?’ Petre shouted back and patted Lock on the shoulder. ‘Right-o, mate, here we go.’

The aeroplane’s engine roared even louder as Petre opened the throttle, then when the entire aircraft was vibrating and Lock felt certain that his teeth would rattle loose, let alone the bolts and rivets holding the winged death trap he was sat in together, they began to taxi forward.

‘Where to?’ Petre shouted.

‘You got enough fuel to get us back to Oz?’

He could hear Petre’s laugh above the howling engine. ‘You think I’d still be here if I did?’ the pilot shouted.

‘South. I need to get to Nasiriyeh, beyond Hammar Lake, some eighty miles west of Basra. On the Euphrates,’ Lock shouted back.

Petre patted him on the shoulder again in confirmation. Lock focused forward as the aeroplane picked up speed. It pitched and bounced across the grass, then all of sudden Lock felt his stomach drop as the aircraft lifted. As they rose, he craned his neck over the edge and peered back down at Betty. She was standing beside the motor vehicle watching them
climb with a hand shielding her eyes. The mechanic was with her now, looking up also. Lock gave an exaggerated salute and Betty waved back. Then the aeroplane banked to the left and headed out towards the river.

Lock was amazed at how calm and still the Tigris looked from above, as it snaked off into the hazy distance, such a contrast to the raging current and the stifling heat that he’d endured over the past few days when actually down there, on it and in it. Disturbed by the passing shadow of the aeroplane, a flock of birds rose up from the muddy foreshore. They kept formation with them for a while, then turned as one and glided back down to the water. Lock’s eye followed their movement, then it was drawn to the vast amount of shipping steaming northwards towards Amara.

Townshend’s Regatta had been a resounding success, there was no doubt about it. The Turks had barely put up a fight. But the war was far from won. This mission had been a failure for Lock personally. He hadn’t gained any ground, or made any progress in getting closer to solving who had shot him outside the brothel in Basra.

Ross and Betty’s investigation had come up with nothing new, either. Could the answer lie in Nasiriyeh?

When Lock had told Ross that he thought Wassmuss was more than one man, that ‘he’ could be a group, the major had been encouraged by the idea. And the more Lock thought on it, the more he believed the theory to be right. Grössburger, Harrington-Brown, Bombegy, the dead German officer on the
Marmaris
that Harrington-Brown had silenced … So many were involved. And what about Godwinson’s name being on that list? Was that the reason why the colonel was so keen to see him fall? Because of the threat of exposure? There was also the man who Lock had thought was ‘Wassmuss’, the blue-eyed chameleon who had kidnapped Amy and nearly killed her. Was he this Brugmann, Ross had mentioned? And finally there was the mysterious
‘G’. Was he the paymaster general? The commander? The real Wassmuss?

Lock cursed and closed his eyes, trying to block out all the tumbling thoughts. His head hurt with the questions and he was beginning to feel dizzy. It was an infuriating puzzle.

‘How long before we land, Captain?’ Lock called over his shoulder.

Petre held up two fingers.

Lock nodded and turned back to face the direction of travel.

The aeroplane jolted suddenly as it hit a pocket of cooler air and banked once more to head south. Lock peered down at the Tigris for a final look at Amara before they left it behind.

There was a steamer with a huge red cross daubed on its funnel anchored in the middle of the river. Lock wondered if Amy was on board and then he swore softly. Had he truly lost her? Was it time to let her go, let her make her bed with that fool Bingham-Smith? He put his fingers to his lips and smiled, remembering the strong kiss he had just shared with Betty Boxer. Perhaps it was time to move on?

‘Officers’ daughters, Kingdom,’ he said to himself and smiled wryly. ‘It’ll end in tears.’

Lock awoke with a start. He was cold and stiff, the wind chill having crept in through his clothing as he had dozed. His mouth tasted sour and he was thirsty. But, to his surprise, he didn’t feel groggy, he felt invigorated.

‘Hey, Lock. Down there,’ Petre shouted from over his shoulder.

Lock twisted in his seat. Petre was pointing down to their left. Lock waved in acknowledgement.

Below was the sparkling Euphrates River, snaking off to the bleak horizon both to the east and the west. The ground to the south was no longer awash with floodwater but was dry, flat, desolate desert.

The aeroplane banked into the afternoon sun and spluttered lower. Lock could now see a series of mounds breaking up the otherwise bleak landscape.

‘Where are we?’ he shouted back over his shoulder.

‘Ten miles south of Nasiriyeh,’ Petre hollered over the engine, ‘place called Ur … Nothing here now, except Ziggurats … ancient ruins … Meant to be the birthplace of Abraham … according to the Book of Genesis … Gonna put her …’ But the rest of Petre’s words were snatched away by the wind as the aeroplane dipped and bobbed.

Lock watched the landscape get closer and closer, as Petre searched for a suitable spot to put down. There was a thin, dusty trail stretching off into the desert haze in both directions that ran parallel to the strange
mounds. Lock caught sight of a small black dot of movement and, as they dropped lower still, it soon transpired to be a single man leading two camels.

There was a tap on his shoulder, and Lock turned to see Petre jabbing his finger downwards again and then giving the thumbs up. He was going in.

The aeroplane swooped low over the figure and the camels, banked, then slowed and began its descent. As the ground rushed up towards them, Lock could now see that it was a well-worn track and would make for a perfect landing strip. The desert either side was rocky and treacherous.

They spluttered lower and lower passing over the Arab once more, who was now standing still, gawping up at them. His camels flicked their heads nervously and opened their mouths in complaint, a sound lost in the aeroplane’s noisy engine.

The Farman MF.11 dropped, bounced once, twice, then with a swing to the left and a corrective jerk back to the right, met the ground and was down bumping and juddering along the track, throwing up a choking cloud of dust. The aeroplane came to a standstill, coughing and spluttering as it turned, and taxied back round the way it had come in.

Lock loosened his safety harness, grabbed the haversack Betty had given him from beneath his feet, and dropped it over the side of the nacelle. He climbed out onto the wing and jumped down to the desert floor. The ground was hard and Lock could feel the stifling heat radiating up through the soles of his boots already. He glanced up along the track. The Arab with the camels was about 500 yards away, heading slowly in their direction.

Lock quickly unfastened his Sam Browne belt and cross strap, pulled his jacket off and snatched the pilot’s cap from his head. He removed the holstered Beholla, putting it to one side, then making sure that his
slouch hat was still stuffed safely in the inside pocket of his jacket, he tied the whole thing up with the belt. He gathered the bundle up, scrambled back up onto the wing, and handed the pilot’s cap and then the bundle to Petre.

‘Keep these safe for me?’ Lock shouted over the idling engine.

‘Will do, mate,’ Petre said, stuffing the bundle down under his seat.

‘Thank you, Captain,’ Lock said. ‘You’ll get back all right?’

The two shook hands.

‘No worries. I’ve enough fuel to get to Shaiba. Good luck, Captain Lock.’ He gave a grin and a thumbs up.

Lock returned the gesture and jumped back down to the ground. He scooped up the haversack and scampered out of the way, turned and waved.

Petre gave a quick salute, let the throttle out, and taxied forward. The aeroplane picked up speed, and just as Lock thought it would plough straight into the Arab and his camels, it shot up into the air and was on its way south.

Lock stood watching until Petre’s Farman MF.11 was a tiny speck glinting in the sun, then he crouched down and opened up the haversack Betty had given him. Inside was a water canteen, a bag of dates and a hunk of bread. There was a tin mug, inside of which, wrapped in a piece of cloth, was a small piece of mirror, a cut-throat razor, a cake of soap and a shaving brush. Lock rubbed his stubbly chin.

‘Good thinking, Betty,’ he smiled. He hadn’t the growth to fashion a traditional Turkish moustache, so he’d best be clean-shaven if his ruse was to work.

Underneath a layer of newspaper was a neatly folded Ottoman Imperial Navy officer’s uniform in dark blue. The shoulder boards were gold and red for engineering and the cuff insignia indicated the uniform was that of a
korvet kaptani
, a lieutenant commander. There was also a
traditional red fez with black tassel, a belt with anchor insignia, leather gaiters and black shoes.

Lock glanced up to check the progress of the Arab, then pouring a little water into the tin mug, he took up the cake of soap and the brush and began to lather his face. He held up the mirror at such an angle that, as he shaved, he could also keep an eye on the trail behind him. The Arab was still a good distance away.

When he had finished, Lock checked his smooth jaw, and satisfied, wiped the excess soap off with the cloth. He stood up and stripped naked. The afternoon sun felt good on his skin and there was a little breeze now. Even the incessant flies weren’t bothering him. He closed his eyes momentarily, wishing he were some place else.

‘Time to get ready, Kingdom.’

He set about putting on the Turkish uniform. It was a snug fit, but at least the shoes didn’t pinch. He gathered together the shaving implements and the tin mug, tossing away the dirty water, and cleaning it out with sand. Then he rolled up his own khaki breeches, and stuffed them along with the shaving kit and his old boots in the haversack. He took a sip of water from the canteen.

‘Nasty stuff,’ he mumbled, replacing the stopper.

He got to his feet and pulled at the hem of his jacket, straightening out the creases and patting the pockets.

‘Bless you, Betty Boxer.’

Lock pulled out a packet of Fatima brand Turkish cigarettes and a book of matches. He lit one and let the strong flavour envelop his mouth. He slipped his left hand in his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins, all German marks. He put them back in his pocket and stood, smoking contentedly, waiting for the Arab to catch up.

The afternoon sun was lower now, but its heat was still intense as it burnt into Lock’s back. Already sweat was trickling down from under his
arms and down his spine. He finished his cigarette, crushing it out with his shoe, and looked along the trail.

He could smell the heady mix of piss, shit and rank fur of the camels long before the creatures got anywhere near. Then the single-humped dromedaries let out a long gurgling, guttural cry as if to warn their master of danger up ahead.

‘
As-salaam alaykum
,’ Lock called, swinging the haversack up onto his shoulder and stepping forward, raising his hand in greeting.

The Arab was an elderly man, very short, lean, with a face as blotchy, lined and cracked as the desert floor around his sandalled feet. He had a dirty white beard and wore a black aba and kufiya. But the most interesting thing to Lock about the Arab’s appearance was the fact that he wore a black patch over his left eye. That was something that would come in very handy. The Arab was carrying a wooden staff and leading his two camels, both laden with goods, by a line of rope, one behind the other. Now, Lock was up close, he found it hard to determine who smelt the worse, the man or his beasts of burden.

The Arab nodded a greeting in return, but did not break his stride or slow down, as if seeing an aeroplane land and deposit a lone man in the middle of the desert was an everyday occurrence to him.

Lock fell into step beside the elderly Arab.

‘
Do you mind if I walk with you?
’ Lock asked in Arabic.

‘
Ensha
Allah
,’ the Arab croaked, his voice as dry as dust.

They walked in silence, the camels plodding languidly behind them, every now and again snorting in complaint. Lock pulled out the pack of Fatimas and offered one to the Arab.

‘Shokran jazeelan
,’ the Arab nodded and smiled a gummy smile. His bony fingers eagerly snatched one of the cigarettes and put it between his thin, cracked lips. ‘
Shokran, shokran. Jayyed, jayyed
,’ he said as Lock struck a match for him.

They walked on, and Lock considered the packet of Fatimas. He took four out for himself, then handed the rest of the pack to the Arab. ‘
Tafadal
.’

The old man nodded, hid the packet quickly away within the folds of his aba should Lock change his mind, and carried on walking, smoking in silence.

Lock turned his attention to the huge mounds off to their right, the highest heap now looking more like a truncated pyramid the closer they got. Lock could just make out the niched brick casing of its construction poking through the drifted sands. They were indeed eerie monuments to an ancient civilisation half-buried and forgotten, and he wondered what they would look like if someone took the time to clear away the sand. He cast his eye over the surrounding rocky, dusty plain. There was nothing. No vegetation, no animals, not even a bird in the cloudless sky. Just him, the Arab and the two camels. The war was a million miles away, and Lock felt at peace. He smiled.

‘
Are you walking to Nasiriyeh?
’ he asked the Arab after what seemed like an age.

The Arab nodded.

‘
The market?
’

Again the Arab nodded his head.

‘
I would like to make a trade
.’

The Arab carried on walking without hesitation or question.

‘
With you. Your eyepatch. For … this blade
.’ Lock fished out the cut-throat razor from the haversack, and offered it out.

The Arab gave the razor a cursory glance, stroked his beard as if to say what need had he for a razor, and continued putting one foot in front of the other without comment.

Lock opened the haversack again and fingered the riding boots. He was reluctant to give them up and cursed himself for not having left them
with Petre along with the rest of his Aussie uniform. But he knew he couldn’t carry them with him into Nasiriyeh.

‘…
and these boots
.’

The Arab stopped, turned to Lock and narrowed his one grey eye.

Lock held out the boots.

The Arab softly cackled and removed his patch. Underneath, the eye was opaque and blind. He kicked off his tattered leather sandals, sat himself down on the ground and pulled on the boots. They looked far too big, but he appeared delighted. Lock helped him back up onto his feet.

‘
Here, you may as well have this, too
.’ Lock handed out the haversack.

The old man peered inside and pulled out the khaki breeches and then the shaving items. He nodded, grinning up at Lock, then bending to pick up his old sandals, stuffed everything in the haversack and plodded over to the first camel. He stashed the haversack away, and then began to rummage around in the packages and boxes tied to the animal’s hump.

Lock removed his fez, and tied the patch in place to cover his grey-blue eye. Now his disguise was complete. He couldn’t be walking about behind enemy lines as
Kedisi
. He didn’t want to stand out and he couldn’t afford to be recognised, obviously, before he found Wassmuss. Now he was just a one-eyed naval officer.

He checked his watch. It was a little before 4 p.m. He estimated that it would be a good three hours before they reached the town. The sun would set near to 7 p.m., so if he was lucky they’d be there just before dark.

Lock lit one of his remaining cigarettes and waited for the old Arab to finish whatever it was he was doing amongst his packages. A minute later the old man came back, a paper bundle held in his hand. He opened it up to reveal a cooked fish that had been picked at a number of times already.

‘
Masgouf
,’ the Arab said holding out the fish with his right hand, wafting the curious flies away with his left. ‘
Tafadal
.’

‘
Shokran
,’ Lock said, pulling off a piece of the cold fish with his right hand. He placed it in his mouth and chewed. It was surprisingly smoky, succulent and quite delicious. He nodded his appreciation, and pulled off another piece of the flaky fish.

‘
Wa
howa ka-zaalek
,’ Lock said.

The old Arab nodded and grinned and tore off a piece of the fish for himself. He stuffed it in his mouth, then folded the rest away and this too was hidden away within the folds of his aba.

On they walked, the desert scrunching underfoot, while the sun beat down and the camels gurgled and snorted behind them.

By the time the sun had become a hazy orange orb low on the horizon in the misty eastern sky, turning the sand of the track underfoot a deep red, the desert around them had begun to show signs of life. There was more and more scrub grass to see and Lock even spotted a far away bird of prey circling slowly. Then, with their shadows stretched far into the dusk, they came to the outskirts of Nasiriyeh itself.

Lock stayed with the Arab as the desert floor became a carpet of green until, passing through a cluster of date palms, they finally hit a more established road. The air was fresher here, as the road ran parallel to the nearby Euphrates River, but the mosquitoes were out in droves. Lock waved his hand in front of his face over and over, but the act was futile.

Buildings came into view, their rooftops taking on a deep orange hue in the setting sun. There were a few people about, all native Arabs, but no one gave Lock more than a cursory glance. This was, after all, Lock thought, occupied Ottoman territory. At the end of a small row of mud-brick hovels was a checkpoint. There was a wooden pole stretched across the road, and beyond that, a sentry hut. Lock could see a telephone wire
running from the roof of the hut up to the string of telegraph poles that lined the street. A lone street lamp, a beacon for hundreds of moths and insects, was throwing a pale pool of yellow light over the queue waiting to be admitted to the town. Three Turkish
nefers
, privates, and their officer were meticulously scrutinising each person and checking through their baggage.