For Kingdom and Country (6 page)

‘I wouldn’t eat that, mate,’ Lock said, as he rushed on through the cafe and back out into the dazzling daylight of the oppressive street. He sidestepped the pedestrian traffic and disappeared into the shadows of the alley opposite where Singh was still waiting. Drenched in sweat, his shirt glued to his back, Lock stood bent double, hands on his knees, wheezing and gulping in huge lungfuls of fetid air. His head was throbbing and stars were dancing before his blurred vision.

‘Sahib?’ Singh said, putting a huge palm on Lock’s shoulder.

Lock waved the Indian’s concern away, straightened up and groaned as he stretched his back. He nodded his head in the direction of the cafe.

Underhill had just stepped out from beneath the awning, followed closely by the fat businessman. The two men didn’t bid one another farewell, but turned in opposite directions without a second glance.

‘You … follow the fat man, Sid. I’ll … take our dear … sergeant major,’ Lock said.

Singh frowned down at his captain. ‘Sahib, I think perhaps you should be back in the hospital.’

‘Nonsense. I’m … just a little … out of practice. Close … close thing … The … they … nearly saw me.’ Lock grinned up at Singh. ‘I’m all right … Honestly … Now get after the fat man … Havildar.’

‘Sahib.’

Singh reluctantly left Lock’s side, and made his way west along the thoroughfare in the trail of the waddling businessman, whose trilby hat stood out like a beacon amongst so many turbans, topis and kufiyas.

Lock pulled his hat off, wiped his brow with his rolled-up shirtsleeve and gathered himself for a moment. He put his hat back on and stepped
out of the alley and headed east, after Underhill.

The sergeant major was already quite a way ahead of him, weaving in and out of the throng of people, aggressively brushing off the inevitable offers of trinkets and wares that were shoved under his nose. He was easy enough to see, but Lock was struggling to keep pace, feeling weaker and more light-headed with every step. The sun was directly behind him now and its heat was punishing on his neck.

‘Think, Kingdom. Where’s the bastard going?’ Lock muttered under his rasping breath. ‘Back to barracks? To meet someone else? Ross perhaps?’ He had to get a look at what was in that box. A million questions raced around his mind as he pressed on. Was the sergeant major up to no good? The fat man … Was he a German? One of Wassmuss’s agents? If so, then was Underhill a spy? A traitor? The rat? And what about Bombegy? And what about Bingham-Smith? His name was mentioned in that room, too, he thought.

Lock stopped to rest. His head was swimming. He put his hand out to lean against a wall, and closed his eyes. He knew he should move on, he knew he should keep after Underhill, but all he wanted to do now was to sit and perhaps sleep for a while. Even the flies had stopped being a bother to him.

Lock groaned. Someone was kissing him. He could feel the wetness of … something? A tongue? Licking him, licking his face? Amy? There was a snuffling close to his ear, then the cold wetness again.

‘Sahib? Sahib?’

Lock opened his eyes. He was surprised to find that he was no longer leaning against the wall, but was sat on the floor, legs stretched out before him. Singh’s face loomed close.

‘Was that you, Sid? Kissing my ear?’

‘No, sahib. A dog.’

‘A dog?’

‘Yes, sahib. A puppy. It will not leave you.’

‘Salt.’

‘Sahib?’

‘The salt in my sweat.’

‘No. It will just not leave you. Look.’

Lock followed Singh’s indication. Barely a foot away sat a mangy mongrel puppy, one ear perked up, the other flopped forward. Its head was slightly inclined and two brown eyes glinted back at him. It was panting, its pink tongue hanging down, covered in white spittle, its tail wagging ferociously in the dust.

‘Hey there,’ Lock said.

The puppy tensed, then shot forward. Singh pushed it back. It yapped playfully.

‘Come along, sahib, let us get you to your feet.’

Singh took a hold of Lock under the arms and hauled him up again. He hooked his left arm around his shoulder and supported him by the waist.

‘Come, sahib. Into this cafe. We need to get liquid inside of you.’

Lock mumbled something but didn’t resist as Singh practically carried him off the street and into a pokey but cool cafe that was a few feet away. The owner, an elderly Arab with a face as lined as a railway junction, helped Singh to seat Lock down at a table, then quickly set about placing a terracotta jug of cool lime juice and then a pot of steaming Indian tea in front of them. He nodded and clucked and stood by, watching with watery eyes as Singh helped Lock drain four cups of juice before he felt able to sit back and relax.

‘
Sokkar
?’ the Arab proprietor said, as he placed a tray of sweet cakes on the table.

‘
Shokran
,’ Singh said. ‘Eat, sahib.’

Lock shook his head. He wasn’t hungry. But Singh picked up one of
the sweet delicacies and tried to force it into Lock’s mouth, like a parent feeding a petulant child.

‘All right, all right, Sid. I can do it,’ Lock said. He took the cake from Singh and began to eat.

‘How long have we been here now, Sid?’

The shadows were longer on the street outside and the heat seemed less intense. Three flies circled and dodged in the air directly above the small collection of plates and cups on the table. Having polished off the cakes, Singh had ordered salted meat and date bread, as well as good strong Turkish coffee. Lock now felt energy returning to his body.

‘Three hours, sahib. Maybe a little more.’

‘Bugger. They’ll be long gone. Why did you come after me?’

‘I followed the fat man back towards the city, but he jumped into a taxi bellum and I could not keep up with him.’

‘Pity.’

Singh bobbed his head. ‘Not so, sahib. I overheard where he asked the taxi to take him: Heaven.’

‘Heaven? Really? You are sure he said that?’

‘Yes, sahib. Do you understand what he was meaning?’

Lock shook his head and frowned. ‘No …’ He picked up the last piece of salted beef, took a bite, then dropped his hand to below his seat. The pup snatched the morsel from his fingertips.

‘Hey, gently,’ Lock said, pulling his hand sharply away.

‘A new recruit for Green Platoon, sahib?’ Singh said.

‘We need them.’

Singh nodded his head thoughtfully. It was clear to Lock that the big Sikh had something on his mind.

‘Speak up, Sid.’

Singh looked up at Lock. ‘Sahib, do you truly think that the sergeant
major is a spy? I find this most very hard to believe.’

‘Well, he works for Ross and the major
is
a spy. But whether Underhill is also working for the Germans, I just don’t know. I don’t trust or like the sergeant major, as you know. He’s done some evil, terrible things. But a traitor?’ Lock shook his head. ‘I’m not so sure … But I am sure that he’s up to something. And that fat man …’

‘He reminded me of Lord Shears, sahib.’

‘The fat man? In what way?’

‘A similar suit of clothing, the same pattern of tie.’

Lock slammed his palm on the table top, causing the plates to jump and the pup under his feet to yelp in surprise.

‘Good God, Sid, you’re right! I’m such a bloody blind bugger. I knew there was something about the fat man. I bet you a bottle of arrak that he’s an APOC man.’

‘I do not drink, sahib,’ Singh said.

‘What? Oh, stop being so … pure,’ Lock said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘So, Underhill and an Anglo-Persian oilman … I wonder … I did hear one thing that they said to each other in that room behind the cafe, “I am sure Assistant Provost Marshal Bingham-Smith will be delighted with the package”.’

‘But what does it mean, sahib?’

‘It means we need to find Bingham-Smith. Underhill and that … slimeball together is more than enough grounds for suspicion, don’t you agree?’

Singh bobbed his head slowly and scratched at his beard, but he didn’t commit to an opinion.

‘Tell me you don’t think it was Wassmuss as well. Who shot at us.’

Singh hesitated. ‘No, sahib. But I think perhaps one of his agents …’ He trailed off. He didn’t seem convinced himself now that he had said it out loud.

‘See,’ Lock said, ‘even you don’t really believe it. Why would Wassmuss risk coming back into enemy-occupied territory just to seek me out and assassinate me? To what end? Revenge? Wassmuss may be many things, but he’s not stupid and he’s not petty. At least, as far as I can imagine. He got his notebook back and if he did escape, he’d be well away by now, working on some scheme or other to continue with his plan of seizing the oilfields and ridding Mesopotamia and Persia of the British. How am I possibly important to him?’

‘I think, sahib, that perhaps you not only underestimate Herr Wassmuss, but that you underestimate your own worth.’

‘Shut up, Sid. That’s an order.’

‘Yes, sahib.’

Lock eyed the big Indian thoughtfully for a moment. He was pleased to see that Singh’s uniform bore the chevrons of his promoted rank, and more so that Ross had not overridden his decision to promote the Sikh.

‘Three stripes suit you.’

Lock turned his head and clicked his fingers to attract the attention of the proprietor.

The old Arab gave a nod of his head and slowly shuffled over towards them. Lock paid him generously for the food and for letting them rest and then, with the dog at their heels, he and Singh made their way back out to the narrow streets of Basra. The sun was low on the horizon now, and already the temperature and the flies were a thousand times more tolerable.

They carried on walking in silence, side by side, the puppy darting this way and that, sniffing at every corner, but more or less keeping up. Despite the time of day, the streets and the narrow waterways were still busy with traffic and Lock began to slow his pace. He stopped and squinted into the setting sun.

Singh halted and turned to his friend. ‘What is it now, sahib?’

‘I’m getting slow, Sid. I’ve been too woolly-headed. I’m not thinking straight. The answer’s there, in front of us.’

‘Sahib?’

‘Heaven, Sid, heaven. You said the fat man asked to be taken to “Heaven”.’

‘Yeeees?’ Singh was frowning, clearly not following Lock’s train of thought.

‘Come on, Sid. Remember? Heaven. We were shot on its bloody doorstep. The brothel, Sid.
Cennet
or “Heaven”.’ Lock smiled up at his friend.

Singh showed sudden understanding, but then he shook his head, doubt clouding his face.

‘I do not think that is very wise, sahib. You are still very weak.’

Lock was momentarily baffled by his friend’s words. Then he laughed.

‘Sid, you drongo! Not for that. Although, perhaps some leisure time with one of Heaven’s angels of ill-repute would be a welcome tonic,’ he grinned sheepishly. ‘No, I’m talking about leads and coincidences.’

‘I do not understand, sahib.’

‘Think, Sid. The brothel where we were shot … Underhill is a chief suspect for the crime, as far as I’m concerned. Right?’ Singh nodded. ‘The fat man is a shifty APOC man with a German accent. Right?’ Singh nodded again. ‘Well, then?’ Lock shrugged and opened his arms. ‘More than a mere coincidence, don’t you agree?’

Singh bobbed his head slowly in that infuriating way Indians did, neither making it clear to the observer whether it was a sign of agreement or a negative response.

‘All right, sahib,’ Singh said. ‘Just a look-see.’

‘Just a look-see, Sid,’ Lock said. ‘I promise.’

By the time Lock and Singh and their four-legged companion arrived at the doors of Heaven, the sun had dipped below the horizon and the sky was now a golden blaze of red and orange. The shadows were long and there were fewer people about now. The call to prayer from the many mosques had helped clear the city of all but the non-believers, the British and Indian troops, on and off duty. Even the flies had disappeared.

Lock felt the hairs on the back of his arms rise as he stood where the shooter must have been standing barely three weeks previously, in the recess of a doorway opposite the main entrance to the brothel. There was nothing to see, no shell casings or cigarette ends or bloody palm prints, nothing left that Ross or the attractive Petty Officer Boxer wouldn’t have seen or found. And why would there be? Still, he needed to be there all the same, despite the stale odour of cat piss radiating up from the dusty, hard-baked earth. Singh was a silent presence at his side, even the pup was relatively quiet, content to sit and chew at his bootlaces.

Lock let his gaze slowly wash over the brothel facade. It looked as quiet and as unremarkable as the many other double-fronted Mesopotamian buildings. Only the flickering of the oil lamp hanging above the door gave any indication of what could possibly lie beyond the threshold, a threshold that Lock himself stepped over and nearly drowned in not so very long ago. He gave a little snort thinking he’d still be there now, if
Singh, on orders from Ross, hadn’t come and dragged him away. Yet, if Singh hadn’t, then would he have been shot? Or would the assassin have sought him out in his room? He would have been an easier target, lying drunk and semi-conscious. He probably would have succeeded.

A bawdy shout snapped Lock from his thoughts. The door to the brothel was flung open, spilling golden light and a cacophony of sound into the dusk. The traditional twang of an oudist struggled for dominance over the raucous chatter beyond the threshold. There was clearly some kind of party going on inside. Then a completely intoxicated young lieutenant of His Britannic Majesty’s army burst out. The officer stumbled once, then sprawled onto all fours and vomited violently across the dusty street. Two more officers stepped out of the brothel, jeering and laughing at the man being sick.

‘Bah, blardy whimp, Jackers! S’only blardy seven o’ clock. In the strit lick a gal. Haw, haw!’ The officer who spoke belched loudly and put his hand to his mouth.

Lock didn’t know the officer on all fours, nor the taller of the newcomers, the man slurring his upper-class education, who was also a lieutenant. But he did know the shorter man at his elbow, the chubby one with the carrot-red hair, the one swaying unsteadily on his dumpy feet. It was the cowardly, bloated turd that went by the name of Gingell. And if Gingell was here then, by God, he knew his master, Bingham-Smith, would be, too. But more than anything, this was just too much of a coincidence for Lock. They’d come here to follow up on the fat man, which in turn was from tailing Underhill. And what do they find? Bingham-Bloody-Smith. Lock couldn’t believe it. He glanced at Singh, knowing what he must do now. The fat man could wait.

‘Here, don’t let him follow.’ Lock scooped up the dog and pushed him into Singh’s arms.

‘Sahib, no.’

But the Indian was unable to stop Lock, as he was too busy keeping a tight grip on the squirming dog. Lock strode quickly across the street, snatching off his slouch hat and folding it away in his pocket.

Gingell didn’t even see Lock approach until it was too late. His chubby face drained of all colour and crumpled in recognition, as Lock, shoving the taller man aside, reached out and grabbed hold of the fat lieutenant’s lapels.

‘I say, steady on, ol’chap.’

Lock ignored the other officer and all but lifted Gingell across the threshold and back inside the brothel.

‘Wh-wh-what … d-d-d’you …? Wh-wh-what—’

Lock bared his teeth in a grimace of hate. ‘Where is he, lard arse?’

But Lock wasn’t really after a reply. Gingell couldn’t even speak properly, being in such a state of nervous surprise, his green eyes bulging out of their sockets. He just kept blustering and spitting out random half-words, his fleshy, wet lips quivering like two landed fish.

Lock suddenly let go of Gingell’s lapels.

Gingell stumbled backwards and fell heavily on his backside. He flinched, holding his short arms up for protection, as Lock stepped over him and into the familiar surrounds of the brothel’s foyer.

Gone was its opulent beauty, its decadent style, its rich, sensual aromas that Lock recalled so vividly from when he had first entered into the brothel’s warm embrace. Now all he could see was something akin to one of the more disturbing paintings by Hieronymus Bosch. The place was in bedlam and the noise was deafening. There was laughter, shouting, arguing, coupled with slurred conversations, as well as the playful and not so playful yelps from some of the women, and all of this competing with the continuous strain of music coming from an unseen musician playing the oud.

There were about twenty young officers scattered about the foyer.
They wore mess dress uniforms, not the familiar scarlet jacket, but the open-fronted, warm-weather whites with lapels, over a stiff-fronted shirt, with studs, detachable collar and black tie. Their trousers were the high-waisted type in khaki green with a wide, paler
galon
stripe on the side, as well as stirrups buckled underneath dress boots. A cummerbund in Mendip regimental green was worn over the waistband. Normally it was a very smart appearance. However, Lock doubted any would pass muster now. All were in various states of intoxication, some worse than others. Hardly a man was fully clothed, there was even one with his breeches gathered around his ankles. He was slumped, passed out in a chair, his shirt, thankfully, covering his manhood.

The girls of the house, though experienced in dealing with all types of clients, appeared out of their depth here. Each one had a haunted look upon their face, eyes bright with … not fear, but something not far off. They were mostly naked, sat on laps, or were being pushed and pulled and prodded about, like toys belonging to a bunch of spoilt brats.

Then Lock spotted the proprietor, the portly Arab with the large mole on his left cheek. He was waving his sausage-fingered hands in the air and was moaning in his native tongue, as he clucked and darted about in a most distressed manner. He stopped short when he spotted Lock, mouth dropping open in surprise. Then he rushed over, golden aba billowing around him.

‘Capateen Lock, you are not dead! Allah be praised,’ he said, beaming and patting Lock’s chest as if he couldn’t believe his own eyes that he was real and not an apparition.

‘Not yet, Jalal Al-din Bahar, not yet,’ Lock said.

‘Please, Capateen, please, in the name of the Prophet, please tell these … gentlemen to leave,’ Jalal Al-din Bahar said. He was gripping Lock’s hands now and squeezing them tight.

Lock pulled his hands free and wiped his now wet palms off on the
back of a nearby semi-conscious subaltern. He then pushed the soldier aside.

‘These, as you may have surmised, my dear Jalal, are not gentlemen,’ Lock said, as he began to walk slowly through the foyer, scanning the room in search of Bingham-Smith. Jalal Al-din Bahar scuttled along at his heels.

The once plush interior was now a wreck; the wall hangings were torn, seats were upturned and their cushions were strewn everywhere; some even had their horsehair stuffing exposed through what Lock surmised to be sabre cuts. The carpet in places squelched underfoot and was stained dark with damp patches and worse, and was littered with broken glass, empty bottles and items of clothing that ranged from a leather riding boot to a torn sari. There was even a topi with a sabre jammed in its crown. Potted plants were upturned, their roots and soil scattered everywhere, and the once heady aromas of spices had been replaced by the sharp tang of urine and vomit. Lock approached another young officer who had his back to the room. He was standing pissing up against a beautiful Persian wall hanging. Lock shoved the man hard in the back. His forehead smacked into the wall and he bounced back, collapsing, groaning, in a heap on the floor.

‘
Effendi
Capateen, please, you must get these … officers to leave,’ Jalal Al-bin Bahar said. ‘They have ruined me! A whole night and a whole day they have done this and I cannot stand more … Look at my beautiful palace …’

The Arab gave a sob of despair as he watched a painfully young lieutenant with a fluffy, pencil-thin moustache, stagger and tumble forward, taking a large urn with him, as he crashed to the floor.

‘I’m looking for one man in particular, probably the ringleader,’ Lock said.

Jalal Al-din Bahar nodded his head vigorously. ‘Beegham Smeeth. It
is his … How is it said? “Stag”?’ The Arab spoke the word as if it was a total mystery to him.

‘That’s the chap. Where is he?’

Jalal Al-din Bahar shuffled forward and beckoned Lock to follow. They picked their way through more detritus until they came to an arched alcove. Lock heard Bingham-Smith before he saw him, his pompous tone immediately recognisable even in its drunken state.

Beyond the alcove was an opulent annex, a large room of wooden panels and elaborate Persian tapestries, all earthy colours of browns, oranges and golds. The atmosphere in there was thick with cigar smoke, wine and sweat. Four lamps, one in each corner, shone a warm yellow light through the tobacco haze. Two of Jalal Al-bin Bahar’s girls were standing erect against the far wall, jugs of wine clutched to their naked breasts. They were dressed only in flimsy golden loincloths. In the centre of the room was a large oak dining table, surrounded by eight high-backed, carved wooden armchairs. Each was occupied by a young officer. Drinks and lighted cigars were at their elbows and each man held a fan of playing cards in their hands. That was, all except for the man with his back to Lock. He was slumped forward, head on the table, snoring softly.

Bingham-Smith was at the head of the table, slouched with one leg over the armrest. He was dressed in his shirtsleeves, open to the navel. His bare chest was smooth and glistening with alcoholic sweat, a sheen that his pasty, thin face reflected. His blond hair was damp, glued to his clammy forehead, his eyes glazed and unfocused. But when Jalal Al-din Bahar stepped aside, and Bingham-Smith caught sight of Lock, his face changed. It flickered first with startled surprise, then immediately hardened and took on its familiar arrogant smugness.

‘Lieutenant Lock,’ he said, sitting upright and laying his hand of cards face down on the table, ‘I don’t recall inviting you to my lil’ party.’ He talked slowly and managed to keep his slurring to a minimum.

‘Smith, how are you and your hyphen? Having fun?’ Lock said.

There was a flicker of anger in Bingham-Smith’s pale eyes, but the blond officer didn’t bite, he just grinned and picked up his cards again. He frowned at his hand, then placed two kings and two sevens down on the table, face up. He picked up the smoking cigar from the ashtray at his elbow and puffed away, keeping his gaze away from Lock.

‘You seemed surprised to see me just now,’ Lock said.

Bingham-Smith snorted. ‘Did I?’ he said, rubbing the scar under his right eye absentmindedly.

It was the only mark left from his encounter a few months ago with Lock back on the RIMS
Lucknow
when he and Gingell had tried to jump Lock and had received a bottle in the face for their troubles. The irony was that the scar actually gave Bingham-Smith some character, gave some depth to his otherwise bland, aristocratic visage.

Lock’s attention moved briefly to the card game and to Bingham-Smith’s companions gathered around the table. They were all of a similar age, in their late teens or early twenties and all of similar breeding. He watched the officers take turns at cards, laying down pairs face up, then offering their hand face down to the person on their left. That player then selected a card and added it to their own hand, checked it, then after laying any pair they had face down, turned to their left and continued the routine. Only the men here seemed to be struggling to focus, often dropping cards or putting down pairs that weren’t pairs at all. It was all rather comical, Lock thought, if it wasn’t all so pathetic.

‘Even I’m surprised at how bad a shot you are. All that grouse shooting when growing up on Daddy’s estate, and one still can’t kill a man at a few yards,’ Lock said.

Bingham-Smith’s eyes darted to Lock’s momentarily and then he frowned. But whether it was from guilt, anger or confusion it was impossible to tell. The man was clearly very drunk and was finding it
increasingly hard to focus on the card game and keep up his vain attempt at seeming to be in control. He moved his hand of cards closer to his nose, shook his head as if to clear it, then snatched up his glass of wine, knocked it back and thrust out his arm. The girl to his left stepped forward and filled the empty glass to the top. Bingham-Smith drained it a second time, then grabbed the girl by the wrist and yanked her towards him. She yelped in surprise, spilling wine from the jug all over Bingham-Smith’s front.

‘You stupid whore!’ Bingham-Smith shoved the girl away hard, sending her tumbling backwards and sprawling to the floor. The jug she was holding smashed against the wall.

The two officers either side of Bingham-Smith laughed.

‘Ha! Looks like the bint’s the old maid,’ said the officer with the head of tight curls.

‘No, no, no, Hazza,’ the other officer slurred, ‘Bing’s the one stuck with the old maid.’

Whether this was a reference to Amy Townshend or to the card game they were playing wasn’t clear to Lock, but it certainly riled Bingham-Smith.

‘Shut up!’ the blond officer said, getting unsteadily to his feet.

His two companions just laughed louder.

‘And for Christ’s sake, will someone please shoot that bloody musician,’ Bingham-Smith barked. ‘I can’t stand that incessant twanging! Bahar? Bahar?’

Lock saw Jalal Al-bin Bahar shirk back behind him, but Bingham-Smith’s outburst just served to amuse his fellows all the more. Even the girl on the floor was smirking. The loud music carried on regardless in the background.