For Kingdom and Country (30 page)

Lock felt a moment’s hesitation in his stride. Surely they weren’t looking for him? And then he dismissed the thought as ridiculous. Nobody knew he was here except for Betty and Ross, and Captain Petre, and they were all miles away in the opposite direction. Still, he had no papers and his uniform was suspiciously dusty from the trek through the desert. He pulled up and felt for a cigarette. Then he remembered that he had already smoked the few he had taken before handing the pack to the Arab.

‘Bugger,’ he muttered.

The Arab stopped and turned. He looked Lock up and down and seemed to be reading his mind. Once again he moved to the first of his camels and began to rummage about amongst the pack tied to its hump. He returned momentarily brandishing a stiff brush in his bony hand. He pushed Lock’s arms up and began to vigorously groom the dust from the uniform. Lock tried to protest, but the Arab refused to stop, muttering under his breath as he worked. He then stepped back and nodded as he ran his good eye over Lock’s appearance.

‘
Afdal
be-katheer
,’ the Arab smiled.

Lock glanced down at himself and had to agree. He did look much better. He looked up over towards the sentry post. ‘What to do?’ he thought. He could slip away, down to the water’s edge, find a boat, then row into town under the cover of darkness. Or he could just bluff and bluster his way through this sentry post.

The Arab pulled out the pack of Fatimas and offered one to Lock.
Then he took one for himself, and Lock lit them both.

Lock glanced again at the sentry post. ‘Sod it,’ he muttered. He held his hand out. ‘
Maa
as-salaamah, my friend
.’

The Arab shook Lock’s hand, nodded and grinned. ‘
Wa-alaykum
as-salaam
.’

Lock gave a short nod back, patted the elderly Arab on the shoulder, then turned and strode towards the sentry post. He held his head up, puffed his chest out, and began to scrutinise the line of waiting Arabs as if he were searching for someone.

The three
nefers
were busy with one particular tradesman, a carpet seller, who was angrily complaining about how his wares were being tossed about during the search of his cart.

‘
Kes
sesini!
’ the junior officer growled at the Arab tradesman, as his men continued to throw the carpets aside peering underneath them.

Lock walked on towards the barrier.

The junior officer glanced up as Lock approached. But instead of challenging him, the officer snapped to attention and threw out a smart salute. Obviously Lock looked smarter and more pissed off than he had hoped.

‘
Korvet
Kaptani
,’ the junior officer said, with a trace of alarm in his high-pitched voice.

Lock was pleased to see that the officer was actually a
basçavuş muavini
, an assistant sergeant major, notable by the two cross bars on the shoulder boards of his khaki uniform, and not some pompous
yüzbaşi
angry at being assigned to such a tedious duty. It should be easy to pull rank now and bluff his way through.

Lock gave a stiff nod and glanced back along the line, taking a puff on his cigarette. ‘
What is all this, Basçavuş Muavini? I was out for a quiet stroll along the river and heard the commotion
.’

‘
Merely routine, Korvet Kaptani Bey
.’

‘
No trouble, I hope?
’

‘
None, effendim. All very quiet
.’

Lock snorted. ‘
Not quiet enough
.’

He gave the junior officer as steely a glare as he could with his one uncovered eye. A trickle of sweat had run down under the patch and the eye underneath was stinging like crazy. He waved his hand irritably at the barrier blocking his path.

‘
Oh, I am sorry, effendim
.’ The
basçavuş muavini
rushed over to lift the barrier himself.

Lock passed underneath and turned back. The
basçavuş muavini
dropped the barrier down again and stood stiffly to attention. Lock jutted his chin down the line at the elderly Arab he’d walked in with.

‘
I know that man. At the back. He is a good friend of Binbaşi Feyzi. I’d advise you not to delay him
.’

The
basçavuş muavini
glanced down the queue of Arabs and nodded eagerly. ‘
I understand, Korvet Kaptani Bey. He shall not be held up
.’

‘
Do it now, Basçavuş Muavini
,’ Lock said coldly.

‘
I
…’ The
basçavuş muavini
hesitated, then snapped a quick salute and scurried off down the line.

Lock quickly pushed his finger under the patch and wiped the stinging sweat from his eye. He swore and grimaced, then adjusted the patch so that it was a tighter fit over his eye socket. He watched the
basçavuş muavini
gesticulating as he tried to direct the elderly Arab to move out of line with his camels, and to follow him.

‘So,’ Lock thought, as he took a final puff of his cigarette and then tossed it aside, ‘the name Feyzi is known even to a humble
basçavuş muavini
on sentry duty. Which means he’s here. Somewhere.’

The
basçavuş muavini
was shouting at the elderly Arab now and had drawn his pistol from his holster. Lock was about to intervene, when the Arab took the hint and finally stepped out of the line with his camels in
tow. The
basçavuş muavini
waved his pistol and marched back towards Lock with the Arab trotting after him. He lifted the barrier once more, and Lock stepped aside as the elderly Arab and his gurgling camels were hurried through.

‘
Hizlan
, hizlan!
’ the
basçavuş muavini
said impatiently.

Lock gave the elderly Arab the briefest of nods and watched until he and his camels had made their way down the street and had been swallowed up by the gloom. He turned back to the junior officer.

‘
Thank you, Basçavuş Muavini
,’ he said with a watery smile. ‘
Ours not to know the reasons why some men are favoured
.’

The
basçavuş muavini
smiled appreciatively. ‘
Yes, effendim. Thank you, effendim
.’

‘
Well
,’ Lock said, pulling at the hem of his jacket, ‘
duty calls. Good night
.’ He gave a quick salute, turned on his heels and headed off down into the town.

‘
Good night, effendim
,’ the
basçavuş muavini
called after him.

Lock followed the line of illuminated lamp posts, catching and passing his shadow over and over, as he made his way through the increasingly populated streets. There were a lot of people out and about, and turning a corner, Lock suddenly found himself in a busy area where beggars and German officers, tinkers and traders, camels and open-top
Gräf und Stift
staff cars, jostled with one another for space. Off-duty Turkish soldiers and officers were perusing the various shopfronts and stalls that were selling everything from onions and dates to brass trinkets and what appeared to be pieces of stone. The pavement cafes were doing a roaring trade, and Lock’s stomach grumbled as he strode by, the enticing smells of fresh coffee, cooked meat, grilled fish and overripe fruit assaulting his senses. It was tempting to pull up a chair, but he had to find Wassmuss and make it back to the British lines. But where to find him? Staff headquarters would be the best bet, but he couldn’t very well ask for directions without raising suspicion.

In the near distance, Lock could see the tall minarets and domes of a nearby mosque jutting up above the surrounding trees and rooftops, their brickwork and tiles tinged deep orange against the darkening sky. But no telltale flagpole. He checked his watch and then stopped dead in his tracks.

Someone collided into his shoulder, and Lock turned to see an irate
German officer glaring back at him through a monocle.

Lock stepped aside and saluted. ‘
Guten
Abend, Herr Major
,’ he said, hoping the officer wouldn’t say too much in return, as his knowledge of the German language was limited to but a few pleasantries.

The German, a major on the general staff judging by his crimson collar patches, narrowed his blue eyes and Lock was momentarily taken aback. Then he quickly collected himself. This man was tall, at least six feet, and very slim, with smooth skin and baby-blond hair just visible under his peaked cap. He wasn’t Wassmuss.

The major’s blond moustache twitched, and he gave a stiff nod. ‘
Korvettenkapitän
,’ he grunted, and pushed on.

‘Jesus, Kingdom,’ Lock hissed to himself, ‘calm down. Wassmuss can’t be every blue-eyed German you meet.’

He pulled at his collar and straightened the hem of his tunic, but couldn’t help thinking what a strange feeling it was being up close to so many German officers.

If only he had one of Pritchard’s jam-tin bombs, he thought as he looked about at the busy cafes and stalls, and at the laughing faces of so many enemy officers.

‘Just think what I could do for the war effort by taking out all these Boche officers,’ he muttered. ‘Still … Oh, shit.’

Lock remembered why he had pulled up so suddenly. His watch. It was a British trench watch. Not noticeable from afar, but it could be awkward if seen close up, or someone happened to ask him for the time. Lock pulled his sleeve down to cover the timepiece and turned his attention back to the road ahead. He soon spotted the German officer who had bumped into him, quickly darting across the road and disappearing up a side street.

‘You seem in rather a hurry,
Herr Major
.’

Lock skipped across the road making after the German officer. He
dodged by a team of camels and narrowly avoided being struck by a toot-tooting staff car. A bewhiskered Austro-Hungarian
generaloberst
was sat stiffly in the back seat, a tall shako jammed on his head. His eyes momentarily met Lock’s, and the car sped by in a cloud of dust. It too turned down the road after the German
major
with the monocle.

‘Two Big Noises in rather a hurry …’

Lock made his way down the same side street and caught the rich and earthy smell of the nearby river again, carried on the light breeze blowing towards him. A troop of Turkish infantrymen led by a painfully fresh-faced
mülazimi sani
, a second lieutenant, was marching towards him on the other side of the road. The soldiers looked to be well equipped and well dressed, with German-style packs on their backs and standard issue Ottoman Mauser M1893 rifles at their shoulders. The
mülazimi sani
gave Lock a smart salute as he and his men trudged past.

A shrill tinkle of a bicycle bell warned Lock to step aside just as an Arab messenger cyclist swerved by and disappeared around the corner up ahead. There were two staff officers walking a few paces in front of Lock on his side of the road, and so Lock slowed his pace down, not wanting to catch them up. But he needn’t have bothered for the German
hauptmann
, captain, and the Turkish
mülazimi evvel
, a first lieutenant, barely registered their surroundings, so deep were they in conversation. They turned the corner and Lock paused, before following on.

He found himself stepping out into a pleasant, tree-lined square. The white brick, flat-roofed buildings on two sides were of two storeys, with the ground floor being a series of open archways, and the floor above being one long open terrace. The larger building over to the left was a grander affair of three storeys. Jutting out from the top of the latticed balcony on the second floor was a flagpole from which, flapping limply in the breeze, hung the red and white crescent moon and star of the Ottoman Empire. It had to be the Command Headquarters.

The entrance, a large, studded wooden door, was at the top of some stone steps lit by a pool of yellow light from a lamp suspended from an iron arm above. Lock could also see various other lights shining from behind the latticed windows on either side of the building. The German
hauptmann
and the Turkish
mülazimi evvel
had just crossed the square in front of Lock and were now mounting the stone steps. The
nefer
on sentry duty snapped to attention as the officers passed into the building, then relaxed again.

Lock glanced behind him, then set off at a brisk pace across the square. Four automobiles were parked in a line to his right, their drivers standing together, smoking and chatting, voices rising and falling in whispered conversation. Three cars were
Gräf und Stifts
and each had a different marking on the rear sedan seat doors; a red circle and white star and crescent badge for the Ottomans, a German eagle, and the double-headed eagle of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Lock slowed and squinted his one eye. The fourth vehicle parked was a British Crossley 20/25 touring car. Unlike the others, its roof was up, and on its passenger door the words Anglo Persian Oil Company were written in a semicircle above a palm tree emblem in white on a black square. Lock also noticed that the motor car had twin rear wheels and that there were a couple of extra jerrycans attached to the running-board. Ready for a long journey?

Lock hurried on, passing the rustling ancient fig tree to the left of the entrance, and throwing a quick salute to the
nefer
, as he bounded up the steps two at a time.

Lock opened the door to reveal a long, dimly lit and cool inner corridor. There was a large portrait of Enver Pasha on the wall to the left, with two hard-backed chairs and a potted palm underneath. Opposite, was a rather glum painting of Kaiser Wilhelm II. Various doors led off the corridor, but Lock ignored these and continued on down towards a desk he could see at the far end. There was a soldier sat there, half in
shadow, half in the stark light thrown out from the table lamp at his elbow. Lock’s shoes echoed loudly as he approached, and soon he could make out the distinct sound of muffled chatter, laughter and the clink of glasses and crockery. A party?

The man sat at the desk was a military clerk, with the rank of
mülazimi sani
, distinguishable by his purplish-brown collar and plain gold shoulder boards. On hearing Lock’s footsteps, he looked up from the papers he was reading.

‘
Good evening, Korvet Kaptani
,’ he said. ‘
Are you here for the briefing?
’

‘
Yes, with Binbaşi Feyzi. I’m a little late. Automobile trouble
,’ Lock bluffed, hoping it was Feyzi holding the meeting.

The
mülazimi sani
smiled the way all jaded junior clerks do when listening to lame excuses from superior officers. ‘
Do not worry. As you can hear they are still toasting the binbaşi’s promotion
.’

‘
Promotion?
’

‘
To miralay. Please, go in
.’

Lock nodded and walked on past the clerk. He quickly wiped the sweat from his top lip and made his way to the slightly ajar door from beyond which the sound of voices wafted out. So Wassmuss’s Feyzi had made colonel. To what ends? Was he in command of the garrison at Nasiriyeh now? Lock paused at the threshold of the office, his own reflection staring back accusingly from the brass nameplate screwed to the outer door. He mouthed the name,
Miralay Erkan Feyzi
, while his mind screamed at him to turn and leave, that this was a terribly foolish thing to do. He couldn’t step into that room! What was he thinking? He had no idea who was in there with Feyzi, and he didn’t believe for a minute that if Feyzi was indeed Wassmuss that he wouldn’t recognise him instantly, and call the guard and have him arrested. Or shot on the spot.

‘This could be a very short kidnapping attempt indeed,’ Lock muttered to himself. ‘Bugger.’ He pulled his hand back from the handle
and glanced over his shoulder. The clerk was still sat at the desk, but facing the opposite way.

Lock swiftly moved from the office door and made his way further down the gloomy corridor. He tried the door to the room next to Feyzi’s. It was unlocked. He glanced back at the clerk, then slipped inside.

Thankfully the room on the other side was empty and in darkness. Lock stood with his back to the door, letting his one uncovered eye adjust to the gloom. He appeared to be in a small office and could make out a desk and a couple of chairs over to the left. There was a large window at the far end. It was shuttered, but he could see thin strips of faint light shining through the slats. He moved towards it and his shin struck something heavy. There was a scrape and a crash as something fell to the floor. Lock froze, ears peeled, ignoring the sharp pain in his leg. Nothing. He moved on to the window. He felt around, found a latch, and slowly lifted the lower panel. It made a high-pitched squeal as wood scraped against wood. Lock cursed and froze again, feeling the sweat trickle down from under his arms as he listened intently to the muffled conversation from the room next door. They didn’t stop or hesitate. Somebody laughed.

Lock gently pulled and lifted the lower window towards him. This time its action was smooth. He pressed his palm against one shutter and gave a gentle push. It gave. That was good. It meant that they weren’t fastened from the outside. He pushed the left side open a crack, just enough for him to be able to see out to the right.

An intense aroma of jasmine suddenly tickled Lock’s nose, and he sniffed away a sneeze. He could smell the earthy rot of the Euphrates under the scent of the flowers. He pressed his face to the gap and peered out. It was dark outside, but light was spilling from the office next door where Feyzi and his guests were gathered. Lock could make out that there was a tranquil park-like garden beyond the window, resplendent with flowering bushes and lush palm trees. There was nobody outside from
what he could see, so, cautiously, he pushed open the shutters on both sides. He paused and listened again.

Beneath the continual murmur of conversation from Feyzi’s office, Lock could hear the constant buzz of tiny unseen insects and the soft flutter of moths dancing in the artificial light. There was the gentle trickling of a nearby water feature and in the distance the cough and splutter of an outboard motor. Then a harsh human laugh broke the spell of calm once more.

Lock poked his head outside. There were beds of managed bushes and plants running along the walls underneath the window, then a gravel path and then, to his surprise, a lush lawn with palm trees and fig trees beyond. It was like something he would expect to see in a European stately home, not a Middle-Eastern town. Satisfied that the coast was clear and that the garden was empty, he eased himself out of the window.

Lock had to stretch his legs far to avoid the low bush directly below the sill. He stepped out onto the gravel path. It scrunched softly underfoot. He leant back and pushed the shutters closed, then turned and stepped off the path and onto the lawn. The grass was surprisingly spongy and Lock was filled with a sudden irrational desire to pull off his shoes and feel the cool, soft grass on his bare feet. The sound of gently trickling water was indeed coming from an ornate stone-carved water fountain. It was placed directly in front of the open French windows to Feyzi’s office.

The light spilling out from the room only went so far, and Lock was able to keep in the dark shadows, thankful that the uniform Betty had supplied him with was the dark blue of the navy and not the summer whites of the artillery. He moved around the outside of the fountain until he had a clear view of the office interior.

Lock counted ten men. Some held champagne glasses in their hands, others china cups and saucers. There were three German staff officers, taller than everyone else, all senior men wearing tailed uniforms of field
grey and breeches with crimson piping. One was an
oberleutnant
, the other a
major
, the same monocle-wearing
major
whom Lock had collided with outside of the cafe. The third was the bewhiskered Austro-Hungarian
generaloberst
that had sped by Lock not fifteen minutes earlier. Without his shako on, Lock could see that the
generaloberst
had a head of thick snow-white hair. He was wearing a distinctive sky-blue uniform with gorget patches of three silver stars on a gold balloon.

On the other side of the room, speaking amongst themselves, were two Turkish staff officers dressed in green with red collars and piping on their breeches, and a man whom Lock presumed was a pro-Ottoman Arab. He was wearing a Turkish
birinci
ferik
’s, a general’s, uniform with gold epaulettes and a ludicrous amount of medals on his chest, as well as a pair of white gloves. Flitting between the two groups, clutching a bottle of champagne, was a Turkish naval officer, a
yüzbaşi
. Feyzi’s adjutant perhaps?