For Kingdom and Country (32 page)

The petrol engine fired up first time, gently purring as it idled. Lock placed the box of pearls at his feet, engaged the throttle, spun the wheel and puttered away from the jetty, heading east.

‘Bugger it all,’ he cursed. He really was in trouble now. Wassmuss was the one person who could have cleared his name. So now, not only was he still accused of being an assassin by the Turks, but he was a fugitive from the British, too.

Unless …

Lock let the boat putter to a standstill, and glanced back over his shoulder. It was a slim chance. But any chance was better than no chance at all. There was something he could do after all, a possibility of reconciliation, of returning to General Townshend and Major Ross triumphant and vindicated. He glanced at his watch. How long had it been since the briefing had broken up? Since he had killed Wassmuss? Ten minutes? Fifteen? Would he catch them? Sod it, what did he have to lose? He punched the throttle back in and puttered forward, scanning the bank for an access road that would lead back up to the edge of town.

The bank of the river changed after just a few yards, becoming more and more commercial, with stone embankments and steps leading up from the water to the quayside. Lock puttered along trying to estimate how far he needed to travel before he should go ashore. Then it would only be a matter of heading inland and making for the same checkpoint where he and the elderly Arab had first entered Nasiriyeh.

The embankment was surprisingly busy with fishermen preparing their nets, and dockhands loading a low barge with what looked like sacks of grain. Artificial lights burnt brightly from the open doorways of the various stores and warehouses, and from a string of lamp posts that lined the quayside.

Lock slowed the motor launch when he came to a large steamer that was docked along the quay with a lighter attached. A troop of soldiers were mustering, ready for transportation.

Lock carried on a little further and then caught sight of a berth at the foot of some stone steps, in between a lenj fishing boat and a row of dhows. He cut the engine and glided the motor launch in. A dockhand was sat at the quayside edge, feet dangling over the water.

‘
Hey, you! Grab this!
’ Lock shouted in Arabic, throwing the dockhand a mooring line.

The dockhand scrambled up, caught the rope, and tied it down. Lock
leapt off the motor launch and bounded up the steps, the box of pearls tucked safely under his arm. He gave the dockhand a coin and nodded his thanks, then made his way back along the quayside towards the assembled troops. There was a flustered
çavuş
directing the men towards the barge, but no senior officers that Lock could see. He elbowed his way through the troops, noting that they were all well attired and well equipped. He reached the line of storehouses, all one-storey wooden buildings with latticed shuttered frontages. There were a couple of dock officials sat on wicker armchairs outside one entrance. They were smoking and drinking coffee, oblivious to the insects that danced and flitted above their heads in the veil of light thrown down from a single electric lamp. An Arab messenger cyclist was standing nearby, deep in animated conversation with a scrawny native dressed in a grey, oil-stained suit jacket. There were two bicycles propped up against the side wall to the storehouse. Lock casually strolled by the two men, grabbing one of the bicycles as he passed, and wheeling it along with him. He continued walking in a straight line for a few yards waiting for a shout of protest. But none came, so he picked up speed, threw his leg over the crossbar, and with a shaky, unsteady wobble, pedalled away.

With the box of pearls balanced precariously between his wrists across the handlebars, Lock weaved through the last of the shuffling troops and turned south at the first junction he came to. He bumped and shook and creeked his way up a quiet side street of dark warehouses, eventually coming out onto the road he had walked up a few hours earlier. He recognised the pavement cafe, now closed up, where he had been tempted to stop to take refreshment before the German
major
had collided into him. The road ran down towards a distant light, the lone street lamp burning near to the sentry hut. There was no sign of a motor vehicle. He glanced over his shoulder. The road was empty in both directions.

‘Bugger,’ he muttered. Was he too late?

Lock cycled on down towards the checkpoint and pulled up. A lone
nefer
sentry was dozing on his feet, outside of the closed door to the hut. The sentry didn’t stir as Lock climbed off the bicycle and rested it up against the mud-brick wall of the hut. With the box of pearls under his arm again, he approached the door, clearing his throat loudly.

The sentry started, pulling his rifle nervously from his shoulder.

‘
Halt!
’

The sentry momentarily relaxed on seeing Lock’s uniform, then immediately snapped his heels to attention.

‘
Relax, nefer
,’ Lock said with a smile. ‘
Is the basçavuş muavini in?
’

‘
Effendim
. Yes, effendim. Sorry, effendim
.’ The
nefer
opened the door, and stood aside.

Lock stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

The hut was a barren affair, four plain walls with a hard-earth floor, a single electric bulb dangling down from the flyblown ceiling, and a bare window looking north up the road. The only furniture was a desk and three chairs, and a black pot-bellied stove in one corner. There was a pot of strong-smelling coffee boiling away on top. Sat opposite the stove were two more
nefers
, and over behind the desk was the young
basçavuş muavini
. He rose to his feet on seeing Lock enter, and saluted.

‘
Korvet
Kaptani, good evening
.’ He snapped his fingers for the two dozing
nefers
to get to their feet.

Lock held his hand up. ‘
Stay where you are, lads. This isn’t an official visit
.’ But the stern look he was projecting to the
basçavuş muavini
said otherwise.

The two
nefers
glanced at the
basçavuş muavini
, and he gave a subtle jerk of his head. The
nefers
gathered up their rifles and shuffled outside.

‘
Can I get you some coffee, Korvet Kaptani?
’ the
basçavuş muavini
said, moving out from behind the desk.

‘
That would be most welcome
.’ Lock said, removing his fez. He put the
jewellery box inside, and placed the fez on one of the chairs.

‘
Cigarette?
’ The
basçavuş muavini
held out a packet of Fatimas.

Lock took one. The
basçavuş muavini
struck a match for him, and then went to the stove and poured out a cup of coffee.

‘
Tell me, Basçavuş Muavini, has an automobile passed through this evening?
’

The
basçavuş muavini
paused for a moment, thinking, then he shook his head.

‘
No, Korvet Kaptani
.’ He handed the cup of steaming coffee to Lock. ‘
May I ask why?
’

Lock took a sip of the coffee and pulled his lips away sharply. It was scalding. He blew on the dark-brown liquid.

‘
We have reason to believe that one of the chauffeurs for the officers who attended the briefing at Command Headquarters this evening is a spy. I would ask that you are meticulous in checking all travel documents, particularly those of the drivers.
’

‘
I assure you, effendim, I am always meticulous
,’ the
basçavuş muavini
said, a touch of annoyance in his voice.

Lock nodded. ‘
I do not doubt it, Basçavuş Muavini. I have been most impressed with your attitude, thus far. As has Binbaşi Feyzi. That is to say, Miralay Feyzi
.’

The
basçavuş muavini
puffed out his chest a little in pride. ‘
But no automobiles have passed this way all night, effendim
.’

Lock rubbed his chin. ‘
Well, then let’s hope none do. This is excellent coffee, Basçavuş Muavini, excellent
,’ he lied, taking another sip, and resisting the temptation to wince. It was truly foul.

The
basçavuş muavini
smiled sadly. ‘
I regret to say that we have plenty of time on our hands to make good coffee, effendim
.’

A light suddenly shone through the window, and Lock and the
basçavuş muavini
turned to see a flaring set of headlights approaching.

‘
Perhaps this is your man, effendim?
’ the
bascavus muavini
said, taking his kabalak from a coat hook on the wall. ‘
If you would excuse me a moment?
’

Lock nodded and pulled hard on the cigarette, trying to rid his mouth of the taste of the rank coffee. The
basçavuş muavini
stepped outside, closing the door behind him. Lock heard the squeal of the automobile’s breaks and then a brief, muffled exchange of words. A car door opened and closed, and then the
basçavuş muavini
came back into the hut, closely followed by a flustered-looking Persian chauffeur. Lock glanced out of the open hut door. He could clearly see the rear passenger door of the automobile, decorated with the palm tree emblem he’d seen earlier.

‘…
it is merely routine, you understand?
’ the
basçavuş muavini
was saying as he moved behind the desk. He had the chauffeur’s travel papers in his hand and was frowning down at them. ‘
Please sit
.’

Lock put the coffee mug down, picked up his fez and the jewellery box, and casually made his way out of the hut, cigarette dangling from his lips, hand in pocket.

The automobile, the same Crossley 20/25 touring car with the raised roof that Lock had seen parked outside of the Command Headquarters, was idling softly. There was a trail of blue tobacco smoke seeping out from the open sides, and Lock could just make out the lower torsos of two men sat in the back. They were chatting quietly, but the voices were unmistakably those of Grössburger and Shears.

‘… do not trouble yourself, Günther,’ Shears was saying. ‘The quota of pearls you have distributed more than compensates for the stutter in oil production. For the moment. But we are back on track. And with this next push, the British government will be forced to consider their options.’

‘I hope you are right. But I do not like the way that these Ottomans are handling the situation on the Tigris,’ Grössburger grumbled. ‘It has be—’

Lock sauntered on, heading the few yards up towards the barrier where the three
nefers
were huddled together, smoking and talking in low tones. One turned on hearing Lock’s footfall, shielding his eyes against the bright headlights of the Crossley. He nodded, and Lock gave a nonchalant wave of his hand in return. Just before the beam from the headlights would reach his face, Lock stopped and turned back. He continued strolling and smoking his cigarette, making his way casually over to the driver’s side of the Crossley. That side of the motor car was in complete shadow. Lock walked slowly by, kicking his feet in the dust, head down.

‘… the British are getting worryingly close to Baghdad, I am thinking,’ Grössburger was saying.

‘Nonsense, Günther. Nonsense,’ Shears said. ‘You must have faith. And faith, my dear fellow is a very powerful weapon, particular in this part of the world. One that we will continue to use and corrupt.’ He gave a soft chuckle, before continuing. ‘Besides, the British have a surprise in store, mark my words. And our Russian friends will be adding to their worries soon. No, things have been … difficult, but …’

Lock glanced across the roof of the car, through the open door of the office. The
basçavuş muavini
was still interrogating the chauffeur.

It was now or never.

Lock tossed his cigarette aside, and quickly pulled open the driver’s door and slid in behind the wheel. He was sat in total shadow.

‘Everything in order?’ Shears asked from the back seat.

‘Yes, sayyid,’ Lock replied, giving his voice a heavy Persian accent.

‘Then let’s be going.’

Lock tossed the jewellery box onto the seat next to him. He shoved the car into gear, released the brake, and stamped his foot down on the accelerator. With a scrunch of dust, the Crossley shot forward, skidded and sprayed the wall of the sentry hut with gravel, making a sound like
machine gun fire. The three
nefers
had a split second to dive out of the way, blinded by the beams of the headlights looming up on them. There was a terrific crack of splintering wood, and of breaking glass, as the Crossley smashed through the barrier. Lock wrestled with the wheel as the Crossley swerved and skidded away. He glanced in the wing mirror to see the
basçavuş muavini
and the chauffeur running out of the sentry hut and the three
nefers
picking themselves up.

‘What do you …?’ Shears gasped from the back seat.

There was a ping of a bullet ricocheting off the Crossley’s wing, but Lock just pressed his foot down as far as it would go, sending the car chasing after its own headlight beam that stretched out into the darkness ahead. Lock remained tense, his shoulders hunched, until the light of the checkpoint behind him was but a speck in the wing mirror.

‘Farrokh!’ Shears shouted.

‘
Was ist …?
’ Grössburger blustered, but the car was swinging and bumping and crashing so violently that the two men in the back seat couldn’t string a sentence together, let alone attempt to grab a hold of Lock.

Every now and again a hand would manage to snatch at his shoulder, but Lock just wrenched the wheel to the left or right, and the oilmen would be thrown back again in a spit of curses.

‘
Halt! Halt!
’ Grössburger shouted.

‘Just what in God’s name has gotten into you, Farrokh?’ Shears growled.

Lock pushed the accelerator down harder still, until the oilmen’s protests were drowned out by the wind that whistled in past the windscreen and through the open sides of the Crossley. On and on Lock drove, until the large Ziggurat mounds of Ur loomed up ahead and he realised that he had reached the same stretch of track that Captain Petre had landed on some eight hours earlier.

Suddenly the Crossley coughed and backfired and jolted. Lock guessed that it needed refuelling, but he wasn’t concerned, remembering the extra jerrycans he had spotted attached to the running-boards of the car. He eased off the accelerator, swung the car about by forty-five degrees, and slammed on the brakes. Shears and Grössburger were thrown forward in their seats and then violently back again. Lock turned off the engine and sat for a moment, hands gripping the steering wheel, listening to the heaving breathing of the two oilmen behind him over the ticking of the cooling metal of the bonnet.

One of the oilmen lurched forward and made another grab for him, but Lock snatched the clawing hand, twisted it until there was a squeal of pain.

‘Touch me again and I’ll break your arm,’ Lock growled. He let go of the hand.

‘Wh … what do … you want? Wh … who are you?’ Grössburger gasped through his pain.

‘Get out,’ Lock said. ‘This side. Hands where I can see them.’ He opened the driver’s door, pulled out his Beholla and went to stand a good distance away from the car, keeping out of the faint glare from the headlight.