For Kingdom and Country (4 page)

‘
Curses to the telephone lines, Kedisi
,’ Fuat snarled. ‘
We march
for
the Sultan. Come!
’

The Kurds downed their tools and gathered their belongings together from the back of the ox cart, and set off down the road towards the marching soldiers.

‘
What about you?
’ Lock asked, turning to Bedros.

He shrugged. ‘
Armenians are not really welcome in the Ottoman Empire, effendim. More so now there is war, I fear
.’

‘
Then you’d best head back to the city and to your family. Take the ox cart
.’

‘And you, effendim?
’

‘
I think I may have an appointment elsewhere, don’t you?
’ Lock flicked his stubbly chin back up the road.

A group of riders had left the main body of the march and were rapidly approaching. Lock imagined that most foreign nationals of the enemies of Germany would be put under house arrest sooner rather than later. He needed to get away and fast.

Bedros shifted nervously on his feet.

‘
Go on
,’ Lock snapped.

The Armenian began to gather up the discarded tools and pile them into the ox cart. Lock lit a cigarette and stood waiting for the riders. He could feel the ground rumble beneath his feet as they got nearer, and soon the sound of clumping hoofs filled his ears.

There were five horsemen, all smart in khaki uniforms with silver-grey collar patches, polished leather belts and riding boots. Leading them
was a stiff officer with two stars on gold shoulder epaulettes and full silver-grey collars. He was sporting the obligatory upturned moustache favoured by the Young Turks. All the men rode typically tough, but small ponies that were adept at coping with harsh terrains.

With a jangle of bridle and bit, and a creak of saddle leather, the cavalry officer pulled up sharply and glared down at Lock. He waved his hand, indicating for his men to search the ox cart. The four riders with the officer dismounted, shoved Bedros aside, and clambered up onto the cart.

‘
How can I help you?
’ Lock said, exhaling tobacco smoke.

‘
Papers
,’ the officer demanded, holding out his hand expectantly.

Lock stalled by making a show of patting his pockets, until the officer snapped his fingers down at him irritably. Lock smiled and, pulling out his documents from his inside breast pocket, handed them up to the officer.

‘
You are … Kedisi?
’ the officer said, frowning.

Lock sighed. ‘
No. My name is Kingdom Lock. I
—’

‘
You are German?
’ the officer interrupted, leafing through Lock’s documents.

‘
No, British. Well, Australian actually
.’

The officer’s piercing hazel eyes flicked up, and he scowled.

‘
You can see, Yüzbaşi, that I am in charge of a work detail
,’ Lock said, using the officer’s correct rank of captain, ‘
laying telephone lines for the Société Ottomane des Téléphones
.’

The
yüzbaşi
leafed through more of the documents, and slowly shook his head.

‘
The dates on these papers are invalid
.’ He looked at Lock. ‘
You are a spy, a khafiyeh, and an enemy of the Sultan
.’

‘
I am an engineer and have been working
for
the Sultan for nearly two years!
’

Lock was beginning to lose his patience. If there was one thing he hated more than bureaucrats, it was military bureaucrats.

The
yüzbaşi
folded the papers up and stuffed them in his tunic pocket, then opened his holster and drew his pistol.

‘
Çavuş
, place this man under arrest
.’

‘
What?
’ Lock protested, but he remained rooted to the spot. The
yüzbaşi
was pointing his gun directly at him.

The cavalryman with one band on his shoulder straps, indicating that he was a sergeant, jumped down from the ox cart and levelled his rifle at Lock.

‘
Hands on your head!
’ he ordered.

Lock glared up at the
yüzbaşi
. ‘
I am not a spy! Ask my men
.’

The
çavuş
jabbed Lock with the point of his rifle. ‘
Up!
’

Lock did as he was told.

‘
Yüzbaşi
, please, there is some mistake
—’

‘
You are to be taken back to Van for questioning,’
the officer added.
‘As for “your men”, they are Mehmetçiks, soldiers, now. Except this one
.’ He waved his pistol at Bedros, who had all this time been standing, frozen, watching wide-eyed as the cavalrymen ransacked the ox cart.

‘
Armenian?
’ the officer said.

Lock nodded. ‘
Yes, but wha
—’

A deafening crack cut him short.

Bedros didn’t even have time to move as the
yüzbaşi
shot him dead.

‘You bastard! You murd—’ Lock screamed in English, dropping his hands and lunging towards the cavalry officer. But he didn’t get more than two paces before a blow to the back of the head knocked him to the ground. A surge of pain shot down his spine and then he felt himself spinning and falling, deeper and deeper into a black pit of nothingness.

‘Nurse, help me get him back into bed.’

Lock felt himself being lifted and laid gently back down again.
Something was placed over his body up to the chest and then a sudden coolness enveloped his face.

‘How long has he been like this, Nurse?’

‘Most of the night, Doctor. Tossing and turning, calling out … Sometimes his eyes are open, but he doesn’t see … He was calm for a while when I was reading to him, but—’

‘Good, good. Well, keep bathing his forehead. We need to break the fever. I hope the wound isn’t infected. He’s strong, but we may have to operate again and I’m not so sure if he will survive the trauma to the brain.’

‘… with the offer to abstain from alcohol in order to encourage armament workers to do the same.’

‘Who’s abstaining from alcohol?’ Lock blearily opened his eyes. His vision was filled with Amy’s face and it lifted his heart. She was sat in a chair next to his bed, reading from the
Daily Mirror
.

‘His Majesty, King George.’

‘Why on earth would he want to do that?’

Lock struggled to lift himself up. Amy folded the newspaper away and moved to help Lock sit up in bed.

‘There’s a belief that alcohol consumption slows down production,’ she said.

‘Bollocks.’

‘You’re clearly feeling better,’ Amy said.

‘I didn’t think you would come.’

‘Mary said you were asking after me.’

Lock studied Amy’s face in silence. He enjoyed looking at her, he always had. Her face, framed by a ring of chestnut red hair just visible beneath her nurse’s cap, was still as soft and as white as snow, if a little harder around the mouth. Her full lips were as moist and as sensual
as when he had first seen her. Lips to kiss. Yet her eyes, her beautiful emerald eyes, had lost some of their defiant sparkle, a light Lock found so captivating, so inextricably drawn to. It was a light that illuminated his very being, brought brightness to his darkest moments. And that brought despair to his joy at being close to her again.

Amy sat back down.

‘I’m glad,’ Lock said.

‘Glad?’ Amy said.

‘That you did.’

The room fell silent again.

‘I miss you.’

‘Don’t.’

‘What does “
kedisi
” mean?’ she asked after a while. ‘You kept mumbling the word in your sleep.’

Lock smiled. ‘Do you remember me telling you about the cat in my prison cell? After I was arrested? When Britain declared war with Germany, and excitable panic broke out across Turkey?’

‘No.’

‘It used to climb in through the barred window looking for food.’ Lock laughed softly, remembering. ‘Funny little creatures – the type of cat, I mean. They’re called
kedisi
and are native to Van. That’s a city in Turkey, in eastern Anatolia.’

‘I know.’

‘Oh, yes, of course you do.’

‘And?’

‘Hmm?’ Lock had drifted off momentarily, reaching back into his memory. ‘Oh, well, the
kedisi
cat is known for three things: a love of water—’

‘Really?’ Amy raised a soft brown eyebrow.

‘True. I saw one swimming once. For fun. It was trotting along beside
a stream and just jumped in. Paddled about a bit, then got out again.’ Lock smiled.

‘
Non
. I do not believe you.’

Lock ignored her cynicism. ‘They are always white and …’ He paused, lifting his hand to his face, ‘… they have two different coloured eyes; one blue and one amber. So I was often referred to as “
Kedisi
”.’

‘But you have … a greyish blue one and … a green one,’ Amy said, frowning and leaning forward as if to make sure.

Lock held her gaze and was filled with an overwhelming urge to kiss her. Whether she could sense what he was thinking, he didn’t know, but she blushed and quickly sat back.

‘Please don’t,’ she said.

‘Why? Damn you, Amy. I love you and I bloody well know you love me. Stop lying to yourself. Ah—’ Lock sucked in his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his hand to his temple. The sudden burst of anger was making his head throb.

Amy got to her feet. ‘
Mon Dieu
. This is why I didn’t want to come. I knew you would do this—’

‘What? Tell the truth?’

‘I don’t love you, Kingdom. I love Casper. And we are going to be married. And I wish you could just be happy for me.’

Lock could see the tears welling up in her eyes as she spoke.

‘Marry me, Amy. Marry me.’

‘You just don’t understand.’

‘Understand what? That shit you spouted to me in front of your mother, about duty, tradition and honour? Where’s the honour in marrying a coward like Bingham-Smith?’

Amy shook her head and a tear ran down her cheek. She wiped it away angrily.

‘
Tu
peux être un vrai salaud!
’

‘There you go again, hiding behind your French ancestry when you can’t explain yourself.’

‘
Fils
de pute!
’ Amy spat, and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Lock sat and stared after her, at the finality of the closed white door. The echo of her final insult faded and he was left with the silence of the now empty room once more.

‘Bugger,’ he sighed. ‘I should never have left China.’

Lock paused in the doorway to let his eyes adjust to the gloom outside, and lit a cigarette. He thought with a mental shrug that to do so was a little stupid, for now all he could see was the flame of the match burnt onto his retina. The city was still, with only the insects protesting the silence. What a relief it was not to hear those damned guns booming in the distance. He gave a satisfactory sigh and, when the memory of the match flame faded, he turned to make his way towards the canal, its dank, mouldy, fetid stench a helpful guide to the right direction. But before he had taken more than two paces, a figure loomed out of the shadowy doorway opposite. Lock wasn’t really concentrating on his surroundings and was slow to react, painfully slow. He put his hand up instinctively to ward off the expected blow, but then something exploded in the hand of the shadowy figure and a bolt of lightning slammed like a hammer into Lock’s temple.

‘Singh!’

‘Easy there, laddie. Easy.’

Lock slowly felt the fog of his nightmare lift. He was drenched in sweat, his breath short and panting in his chest, which ached as if someone had been standing on it. He rubbed his wet eyes and relaxed as his mind adjusted to reality. He was in bed once more. It was dark outside the window now and a small lamp on top of the table in the corner threw a soft yellow light into the room. Sat by the side of his bed, leaning forward, a frown of
concern across his dark, round face, was Major Ross.

Lock was inwardly pleased to see the Scots officer again, though he was surprised at the touch of grey dusting the major’s thick chevron moustache. And were the bags under his hazel eyes a little larger, a little darker? Perhaps.

‘It’s nothing,’ Lock said, easing himself gingerly up on his elbows.

‘Didn’t sound like nothing,’ Ross said, settling back into his chair. He sat still, waiting for Lock to speak, his eyes just watching patiently.

‘I keep reliving the moment when I was shot,’ Lock said, ‘over and over. Only … I just can’t see the shooter’s face.’ He flashed the major a quick smile. ‘The strange thing is, just now, in my dream, I was alone. Singh wasn’t with me and …’

‘Yes?’

Lock shook his head. ‘I don’t know … There was something familiar …’

Ross pulled out his pipe and knocked it against the metal bedframe with a dull, hollow clang. Then he began his methodical, familiar ritual of filling it. Lock found himself transfixed by the major’s fingers as they poked and prodded the sweet-smelling tobacco into the pipe bowl.

‘Singh says the same. About the gunman.’

‘How is he?’

‘Better than you. The bullet grazed his rib. He’ll mend.’ Ross scratched the tip of his nose with a match. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘the provosts have come up with nothing. No clues, no witnesses, not a dicky. Bingham-Smith and—’

‘Bingham-Smith?’ Lock said.

‘Yes, he’s leading the investigation.’

Lock scoffed. ‘You
are
jesting?’

‘I agree he’s about as much use as an umbrella in a Zeppelin raid, but at least the provosts are stirring things up with their heavy-handedness.
Shaking the cage, as it were, whilst Betty and myself sift through the crap that falls out of the bottom.’

‘Betty?’

Ross struck a match and puffed his pipe into life.

‘Hmm, you remember? My American girl? You met her a few weeks back at Command HQ … Pretty thing in a navy-blue uniform …’

Lock nodded and gave a wry smile. Betty was one of those girls who scared men. She was confident, as well as alluring. Her husky voice was one thing, her uniform another, but it was the way she held herself, the way she just … radiated sex appeal that Lock so vividly recalled. The polar opposite to Amy. Not that Amy wasn’t attractive, wasn’t desirable. But Betty was a different species altogether, a different kind of woman. She was grown up, whole, totally arousing, and fierce with it.

‘Val. Yes, I remember her,’ Lock said.

Ross scowled back at Lock. ‘Not Val, Elizabeth. Elizabeth Boxer.
Petty Officer
Elizabeth Boxer. And don’t you forget it. She’s not one for fools, I can tell you. Or for fooling around. A good lass. Quick-witted and very intelligent. She’d beat you at chess, every time.’

The major paused, and puffed on his pipe.

Lock shrugged.

‘She’s doing what she can,’ Ross said, ‘and so far we have a few threads. Even Underhill is grudgingly impressed.’

‘Underhill?’

Ross nodded. ‘He’s her … chaperone.’

‘Pah!’

‘Now, look here,’ Ross snapped, jabbing his pipe at Lock’s chest. ‘I don’t appreciate this ongoing feud. Bingham-Smith is one thing, I can understand that, what with everything you’ve been through with Amy Townshend, but Underhill is one of mine and you’d do well to remember that.’

Lock glowered back at Ross, but lacked the energy to argue. Yet, both
names the major had mentioned, Bingham-Smith and Underhill, were on his list of suspects as to who pulled the trigger on him and Singh. And he wasn’t forgetting about the rat in the White Tabs either. And the sergeant major was a sure bet for that little tag, too.

‘Besides,’ Ross said, ‘we are pretty certain that it was Wassmuss behind the shootings.’

‘He’s dead.’

Ross tutted. ‘You can’t be sure. We never found a body, and the attack on you has got his signature all over it. The bullet removed from Singh’s rib and the one Petty Officer Boxer dug out of the door frame of that … house you left …’ The major smiled thinly, ‘the one that bounced off of your skull, they’re both 7.65 parabellum rounds. Those commonly used by the Luger semi-automatic. That’s a German handgun.’

‘I know it’s a bloody German handgun,’ Lock said, ‘and it means nothing. Christ, do you know how many Lugers our boys use? The Webley may be able to blow an elephant off its feet, but it’s a shitty, heavy and cumbersome gun.’

‘Poppycock.’

‘Poppycock nothing. I carry a Turkish handgun and the 7.65 is the same round I use. Or do you think that perhaps I shot Singh and then turned the gun on myself?’

Ross sat back in his seat and puffed on his pipe. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

The major narrowed his eyes and stared back at Lock, long and hard. Then he grinned.

‘It’s pretty nasty out there. Conditions, I mean. The city feels like an open cesspit. You’re in the best place. Out there,’ he nodded to the window, ‘many of the streets are still flooded and with the temperatures rising … My God, the flies are out in force. It’s unbearable at times. They get in everything.’ He paused, grimacing at some recent memory.

‘When Allah made hell,’ Lock said, ‘he did not find it bad enough, so he made Mesopotamia – and added flies.’

‘Where did you hear that?’

‘Thomas Cook and Son.’

Ross scoffed. ‘Well,’ he continued, ‘there’s overcrowding, poor sanitation and, by God, poor administration is compounding matters as well. The men are dropping ten to the dozen … Sickness is rife. The hospitals are overrun, bar this one. Seems the officer class has a better constitution.’

‘Better sanitation and water, you mean,’ Lock said.

Ross tut-tutted and sucked on his pipe. But he didn’t disagree.

Lock shifted, wincing as he adjusted his position in bed.

‘How’s the shoulder, sir?’

Ross raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘Good of you to ask. A little stiff. Particularly when it rains.’

‘It always rains.’

‘There you go, then.’

Lock snorted. ‘And how goes the war, sir?’

‘Well,’ the major said, clearing his throat, ‘there’s been an election back home, in Britain, and we have a new Secretary of State for India, chap called Austen Chamberlain. Seems he’s a little bit more on the ball than Crewe was, though I did like His Lordship. Anyhow, Chamberlain is trying to get a grip on the situation here and has already telegrammed Hardinge and ruffled a few feathers.’

‘In what way?’

‘Oh, well, I’m paraphrasing, but he’s insisting our generals grasp “their proper place in the perspective of the overall scheme of the war”.’

‘That amuses you, doesn’t it?’ Lock said, noting the sparkle in Ross’s eyes.

The major shrugged. ‘He’s right though, isn’t he? But more troops are on their way to help reinforce our presence here in Mesopotamia.’

Lock rubbed his eyes. He was feeling wearier by the minute.

‘So what’s next? Do we just hold the Turks off and sit tight and reinforce Basra? Stay in permanent check with them?’

Ross shook his head. ‘No, laddie. Townshend’s got the bit between the teeth and is itching to have a crack at Johnny, and Nixon and I have finally managed to convince London and Simla to push on and force the Turks further away from the oilfields.’

‘Oh, good show, sir.’

Ross hesitated and gave Lock a withering look. Lock just smiled mischievously back.

‘I can see your attitude is on the mend,’ the major said. ‘I told Lord Crewe way back in November that we should declare a permanent occupation of the Basra Vilayet …’

Lock raised a questioning eyebrow.

‘The Basra Vilayet? Oh, historically it covered an area roughly stretching from Nasiriyeh and Amara in the north to Kuwait in the south. Where was I? Oh, yes, Crewe … He rejected the idea, of course, worrying about upsetting our entente allies when he’d promised there would be no acquisition of territories until the war was over. Ha! Silly man. He’d probably still be in the job if he wasn’t such a cautious fool. So, now we’re just waiting on the final say-so giving us the go-ahead to push on up the Tigris to Amara. Hopefully we’ll get word by the end of the month.’

‘Since when do you wait for the official go-ahead?’ Lock said.

‘I shall ignore that,’ Ross said. ‘Now, as for my own particular war … Well, I’ve been diligently working through the copies I made from Wassmuss’s notebook before the blighter stole it back. Do you recall that rat mentioned in the White Tabs?’

Lock nodded, but didn’t mention his own personal feelings on the matter.

‘I believe,’ the major continued, ‘that it’s all connected. Wassmuss has
a vast network of agents at work but,’ and Ross clenched and squeezed his fist here to illustrate the point, ‘I’m shutting his operations down, Lock, one by one.’ He smiled and pulled himself to his feet with a grunt, then struck another match and relit his pipe. ‘But don’t concern yourself with it, just get on with recuperating and leave the investigating to us.’

‘I’m sick of being in bed,’ Lock said. ‘I’m fine. I want to help.’

‘Nonsense. You need rest. That’s a nasty head wound and you’re lucky,’ Ross said. ‘The doctor tells me your balance is still shaky and the headaches will be paralysing at times. That’s no good to me out in the field.’

‘Balls, sir. I’m feeling fitter every day,’ Lock said.

‘No. What possible use are you to me if you keep fainting like a damned young girl in too tight a corset? Just do as I say, and do as the M. O. says. You’ll be back on your feet within a week or so. We’ll manage until then.’

‘And what about Amy?’

‘What about her?’

‘Oh, come on, sir. If what you say is true, about Wassmuss being loose about the city seeking revenge, then Amy’s in danger,’ Lock said. ‘He knows what she means to me. Huh, he knows more than she does. Look, sir, I need to get out of here—’

Ross stepped forward, pressing Lock back down into bed.

‘No you don’t. You need to rest. We can manage. As for Amy, she’s quite safe. I have people watching her. Besides, she’s more than capable of looking after herself, isn’t she?’

Lock grunted in agreement. He couldn’t argue with that.

‘She’s distracted enough by her wedding preparations, anyway,’ the major added.

Lock sighed heavily and relaxed back into his pillow. He’d quite forgotten about the wedding. ‘Damn the girl,’ he thought. He smiled up at Ross.

‘Very well, Major, if you say so. I’ll be a good little boy and take my medicine and wait for nurse to make me all better.’

Ross straightened up, a hurt look across his face.

‘There’s no need to be sarcastic.’

‘It’s why you love me.’

Ross snorted. ‘You are impossible.’ He gathered up his cap and cane and stepped towards the door. ‘Well, take it easy, laddie. I’ll be back in to see you in a few days. Let you know how we are getting along.’

Lock gave a soft nod of agreement, albeit an agreement he had no intention of sticking to. He had been laid low long enough. It was time for action.

‘Before you go, Major …’

Ross paused at the threshold and inclined his head slightly.

‘It’s about Singh,’ Lock said. ‘Just before I … we were shot, I promoted him.’

‘You did, did you?’

‘To havildar … sergeant.’

‘Didn’t you mean to
naik
? Can’t have him jumping two ranks. I think Corp—’

‘Havildar,’ Lock said. ‘Sid deserves it.’

Ross pursed his lips. ‘Hmm. We’ll see.’

Then without any further comment he left, closing the door behind him.

Lock lay still after the major had gone and gave it a while longer should he return. When he judged that plenty of time had passed, Lock threw back the covers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat himself tentatively up. A wave of nausea forced him to pause and he pressed his hands to his head, and squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the feeling to pass.

In his mind’s eye Lock saw the Turkish cavalry officer who had accused him of being a spy – if only he had known how prophetic his accusation
was – back when he was in charge of the work detail in Anatolia on the day that war was declared between Britain and Germany. Only now Lock couldn’t make out the
yüzbaşi’s
face. It was completely in shadow. Yet when the officer spoke, his voice was familiar to Lock. Only the more Lock tried to place it, the more it slipped away from him, like trying to grab hold of a handful of smoke. Lock opened his mouth to ask, but the shadowy officer was now standing in a darkened doorway opposite
Cennet
, his pistol raised. There was a flash and a loud bang.

Lock gasped. His cheek was cold and his left arm was on fire. He flickered his eyes open and the first thing he saw was the metal legs of his bed and a crescent moon of dust underneath where the cleaner’s broom had swept lazily by. There was a cockroach scuttling along in the far corner and Lock watched its progress, while his brain began to fire up again.