For Kingdom and Country (7 page)

‘Look at this!’ Bingham-Smith said, pulling at his wine-soaked and stained shirt. ‘You bitch, you stupid goddamn bitch!’ He grabbed at the
girl’s long brown hair and clenched his other fist ready to strike her.

The girl screamed, and the men around the table cheered in unison.

Lock sprang forward, blocking Bingham-Smith’s down-swinging fist. A jarring pain shot up his arm to his shoulder, but Lock just gritted his teeth, clenched his own fist, and punched Bingham-Smith in the face. There was a sickening crunch.

No other body part hurts the way the nose does. Lock knew this and it gave him an enormous sense of not just satisfaction, but release. All that pent-up frustration he had felt ever since discovering that Amy had chosen Bingham-Smith over him, the lies, the betrayals, the manipulation of her family. And then there was the shooting. He expected to be shot, to die, every day he was put in the field, but not from stepping out of a brothel in the middle of a British-held city, not then. He remembered the overwhelming sense of indignation he’d felt as he lay in the dirt of the street feeling his consciousness slip away. He knew it was unlikely to have been Bingham-Smith who shot him and Singh, he even knew it was unlikely to have been Underhill, but he didn’t want to admit that to Ross let alone to himself. Besides, it felt so good, to smash this bastard in the face. Again.

Bingham-Smith staggered backwards, toppling over his chair. But before Lock could inflict more punishment on his rival, he was wrestled down onto the tabletop. Cards, glasses, wine and money scattered everywhere, tinkling and crashing to the floor. Chairs scraped back and toppled over and one of the girls screamed again. Lock heard Jalal Al-bin Bahar yelp, and then he just concentrated on protecting himself, protecting his head wound. He felt blows to his stomach and arms and to his thighs, and his ears filled with shouts of outrage and drunken bravado. He kicked out, felt his boot connect with something soft and smacked his left fist into someone’s face. His knuckles sang with pain, but it gave him a vital moment to roll to one side, up off the table and onto his feet
again. Glass scrunched under the soles of his boots. A glancing blow stung his cheek and he dodged to the left, raised his right arm in defence and thrust upwards with his left fist, hammering the air from the gut of whichever officer happened to be in front of him. The man doubled up and Lock brought his knee up sharply to crack against the man’s jaw.

Lock staggered back, breathing heavily, leaning against the alcove wall, wiping a slick of salty blood from his lip with the back of his hand. To his surprise he wasn’t being ganged up on, as he had initially thought. It seemed that Bingham-Smith’s party was a tinderbox ready to explode and that Lock making the first move, throwing the first punch, was all that the other officers needed to set them off. The fight had spilt out of the annex into the wider field of the foyer and those who could still stand were now brawling amongst themselves. The girls were taking the opportunity to scamper for cover and were being herded to safety by the huge whimpering form of Jalal Al-din Bahar. Glasses and chairs and plant pots and jugs and plates of both china and brass were being flung all over the place like so much shrapnel. The sound of ripping cloth, of splintering wood and body blows was swirling about Lock’s head all underlined, much to his amusement, by the continuous melodic and unwavering accompaniment of the lone unseen oudist.

Lock began to laugh at the farce of it all.

Just at that moment a shrill whistle sounded and a group of provosts burst in the front door, all NCOs sporting SD caps with red tops and black cloth armbands bearing the letters ‘MP’ in red. They were wielding batons and had no hesitation about laying into the melee, clubbing the drunken officers and pulling them apart from one another. The lieutenant who had been sat at Bingham-Smith’s table, the one referred to as ‘Hazza’, staggered up to Lock glaring, his fists raised.

‘You bloody colonial runt,’ he said, spittle flying over a cut, swollen lip. He threw a punch, but Lock easily deflected it.

Before Lock could hit back, three burly red caps stormed towards the alcove and pinned both he and Lieutenant ‘Hazza’ up against the wall.

‘Get your hands orf me, Corporal! Do you know who I am? I am Lieutenant Harrington-Brown, your superior officer!’ His voice was shrill and a vein throbbed at the side of his now very red temple.

The provost corporal didn’t react at all and just held his baton hard against Harrington-Brown’s throat.

‘You men are all under arrest.’

Lock struggled to free himself from the tight grip of the two other red caps, but relaxed when he heard the familiar voice calling out the order. It was Major Ross.

There was a crash of a chair tumbling and Lock glanced over his shoulder to see Bingham-Smith, hand pressed to his bloodied nose, stumbling out of the annex.

‘Major Ross, look! Look at what that thug of yours has done!’ Bingham-Smith staggered, waving his hand about at the foyer as if it was all Lock’s handiwork.

Ross stepped aside as two more red caps entered the alcove and seized Bingham-Smith by the upper arms.

‘I protest! I protest! Major! I am the assistant provost marshal. You cannot arrest me! These are my bloody men!’

‘Shut up, Bingham-Smith,’ Ross said. ‘Take him away.’

The two provosts dragged the struggling and fuming Bingham-Smith out. Ross turned to follow.

‘Sir?’ Lock said.

The major paused, but didn’t turn around. ‘Bring them,’ he said, ‘bring them all, including those upstairs.’

Lock and Harrington-Brown were manhandled away from the alcove and frogmarched through the remains of
Cennet
’s foyer and out of the front door.

Outside, the street was lit up from the headlights of two AEC Y-type 3-ton trucks, which were parked about ten yards from the entrance. The provosts were pushing and prodding the drunken officers up into the backs of the trucks, shouting at them to get a move on and to keep their traps shut. Lock could see a couple of dishevelled businessmen and a perplexed-looking general amongst the prisoners. They must have been upstairs, away from the party. An NCO red cap was talking to them and taking notes in a little pad. But there was no sign of the fat man. Perhaps he hadn’t gone to the brothel after all? Perhaps Singh misheard?

Lock’s focus turned to the deep recess opposite where he had last seen his Indian friend. There was a staff car parked there, a Vauxhall 25hp D-Type, with an Indian
naik
at the wheel. Its engine was running. Ross was standing next to it with his back to the brothel, talking with Singh. Between his feet sat the dog, ears pricked, fascinated by the goings-on.

‘I could have used your help in there, Sid,’ Lock called.

The dog barked with delight at recognising Lock’s voice and darted over to him, too quick for Singh to stop. The dog pranced around Lock’s legs, tail wagging and then suddenly it yelped in pain and backed away snarling. The provost corporal to Lock’s right had kicked him away.

‘Filthy mutt. Piss off!’

‘Hey!’ Lock said, and he shouldered the red cap corporal, sending him stumbling hard into the edge of the truck.

Lock felt a blow to his back and he crashed to his knees.

The first provost collected himself and raised his fist to strike Lock.

‘Enough!’

Lock glanced up to see the American girl, the USNRF Yeoman 1st Class, Elizabeth Boxer, leaning against the first truck’s fender, arms folded, a cigarette between her lips. She was even more alluring than the first time he had set eyes upon her a few weeks back at Command
Headquarters. She wore the same smart navy-blue military uniform, the three chevrons on the arm of her tightly buttoned jacket showing her rank, the same ridiculous straw hat upon her head of raven hair, with a ribbon stating
U.S. Naval Reserve
around the crown in gold lettering.

‘Miss Boxer.’

The girl stepped forward and indicated for the two provosts to pull Lock to his feet. ‘
Petty Officer
Boxer, Captain.’

Lock scoffed. He was in no mood for games. ‘There are no women in the US forces. Who are you kidding?’

‘What d’you know about it, buster?’ she said.

Petty Officer Boxer stood a little over five feet tall, peering up at him from under the brim of her straw hat, a look of bemusement upon her soft, round face. She pulled the cigarette from her lips, exhaled and raised a dark, slim eyebrow.

‘You look worse than you did in hospital.’ Her distinctive, husky accent was that of Boston, where every ‘a’ is spoken long.

‘You don’t.’

‘Huh. Well, what did you discover in there?’ She jutted her chin to the building behind him.

‘That aristocrats and alcohol don’t mix.’

She tut-tutted and shook her head. ‘The major told you I was investigating the shooting and all you’ve gone and done is screw things up for me.’

‘How so, Elizabeth? It is Elizabeth, isn’t it?’

She narrowed her dark brown eyes and Lock caught a momentary flash of annoyance. But she just gave a lopsided grin.

‘All right, boys, put him in the back with the others.’

The red caps yanked Lock on towards the back of the truck.

‘Was Sergeant Major Underhill’s interview at the Café Baldia part of your investigation?’ Lock said over his shoulder. But he was suddenly
more interested in the familiar rotund figure who was at that moment being escorted out of the brothel.

The fat man was half-dressed, his shirt tails hanging out and his bright-red braces dangling down to his thighs. One chubby hand was clutching the waist of his trousers to keep them up, the other had a tight grip on his trilby. Lock saw Ross indicate to the staff car, and the provosts either side of the fat man bundled him into the back seat.

‘Hey,’ the American girl called, tossing her cigarette aside. The provosts stopped again and Lock turned back to face her.

She stood, legs slightly apart, backlit from the lamplight coming from the entrance to the brothel, the side of her face illuminated by the truck’s headlamp.

‘It’s Betty. Only my Ma calls me “Elizabeth”.’

Lock had time to throw her a smile before he was yanked away and shoved up into the truck with the rest of the prisoners.

Lock swore. Once again he found himself sat on the rough wooden bench of the familiar 6ft-by-6ft cell. The last time he had been here was, he guessed, barely a month previously, just prior to the Battle of Barjisiyah Woods. But he doubted he’d get a summons from the General Staff to free him this time.

Despite the rising temperatures of the days, the cell was still damp and stuffy. The barred window high up on the wall near to the cut-stone ceiling showed an inky black sky sprinkled with stars. There was no moon. The only illumination he had was from the weak yellow light coming through the open, narrow observation hatch in the cell door. Sounds of groaning, of vomiting and of loud snoring seeped through from the occupants of the other cells, all those nice young officers who had been arrested with him, who had been thrown in a cell to sleep it off and to await either a severe dressing-down or worse for their unruly behaviour at poor Jalal Al-din Bahar’s house of ill-repute.

‘Belt up!’ came a shout from somewhere outside. It sounded to Lock like Bingham-Smith.

Rubbing his hand across his bristly chin, Lock fished a cigarette from his pocket. He struck a match and inhaled the sweet, strong tobacco deep into his lungs. He coughed, winced and put his hands to his ribs. They
were tender to the touch. He spat onto the mud floor and was relieved to see no blood. He inhaled again, a shallow puff this time, and stared down at the floor watching his trail of saliva as it snaked its way between the seven cigarette butts, each one marking a further fifteen minutes in which he had been incarcerated.

‘Bugger,’ he muttered.

‘Bugger, indeed.’

Lock snapped his head up. Someone was watching him through the observation hatch. They moved away. A harsh light spilled over Lock as the bare bulb dangling from the ceiling was switched on. Then a key turned, and the heavy door to the cell creaked open.

‘Hello, sir,’ Lock said.

Major Ross glared down at Lock, arms folded across his chest, his face dark with anger. He didn’t step into the cell, but remained standing on the threshold, a slight twitch pulling at his left cheek. Lock hadn’t seen the major look quite so angry before.

‘I was bored of lying in bed.’

Ross just glared back.

‘I thought I could help. With the investigation.’

Ross said nothing.

‘God damn it, sir. It was me who got shot!’

Ross remained tight-lipped.

Lock sighed, threw his cigarette end to the floor and crushed it out with his boot.

‘All right. I disobeyed you. But I had to follow my instincts, my suspicions.’

The major unfolded his arms and pulled his pipe from his pocket. But still he didn’t say anything.

‘About Underhill and Bingham-Smith,’ Lock added.

‘And just what did your suspicions tell you, laddie?’ Ross said. He
put his pipe in his mouth and struck a match against the door jamb repeatedly, without luck.

‘That they were behind the shooting. My shooting.’

Ross scowled as he struck a second match, but that too failed to ignite.

Lock pulled himself to his feet and offered his matches to the major.

‘You should get yourself a lighter.’

Ross grunted his thanks and tried again. This time he got a flame. His tobacco caught and he sucked and wheezed and puffed away until he was satisfied and surrounded by a cloud of smoke. As was his habit, the major then pocketed Lock’s matches. He pulled the pipe from his mouth and squared up to Lock.

‘I told you to leave Underhill alone. How could they both be behind the shooting? Answer me that. That faux aristocrat and the belligerent but, I might add, fiercely loyal sergeant major have nothing in common—’

‘Their hatred of me.’

Ross hesitated. ‘Do you really think you matter that much? Bingham-Smith is getting married to the Townshend girl, to Amy; Underhill is working for me, working hard. You are an irrelevance to them, a mild irritation at most.’

‘Underhill and I have history, sir.’

Ross raised a questioning eyebrow.

‘Lhasa. 1904.’

The major chewed on his pipe thoughtfully for a while. Lock couldn’t be certain if Ross knew exactly what had happened between him and the sergeant major, but he must know about the atrocities committed by the British in Tibet, and Lock was sure that Ross could put two and two together and guess what Lock was getting at.

‘Things happen in times of war, laddie. Stop being so naïve.’

Lock shook his head. ‘We weren’t at war, sir. And there is nothing that can excuse wh—’

‘Shut up!’ Ross took a step forward, jabbing his pipe into Lock’s chest. ‘That’s an order. Or do you want to spend the rest of the war in this cell?’

Now it was Lock’s turn to remain quiet.

Ross nodded. ‘Yes. A good agent should have a fast brain and a slow mouth. You seem to be behaving in the exact opposite manner.’ He paused, squinting at Lock’s left eye and then his right. ‘Perhaps that bullet did affect your brain, after all.’

Lock shook his head. He still had something to say.

‘There’s a rat in the White Tabs, according to Wassmuss’s own notebook. Yes?’ he said. ‘Unless that’s a double bluff to cause discontent, suspicion and paranoia amongst our own ranks. But if it is true, then just why do you think that the sergeant major is secretly meeting with foreign business dignitaries in the back rooms of cafes?’

Ross did an almost perfect job of keeping a straight face, but Lock spotted the merest hint of surprise.

‘There was no sign of Bett … Pretty Officer Boxer either at this cafe, so I’m presuming Underhill’s being there can’t have been to do with the “investigation”, as you so quaintly put it. Sir.’

‘Who did he meet?’

‘A fat man. In a suit. Spoke with a strong accent, possibly Dutch or German.’

‘More,’ Ross said, turning away from Lock. He began to pace the cell, tapping his pipe stem against his teeth. ‘Go on, go on,’ he waved irritably.

‘I didn’t get a clear look, sir,’ Lock said, ‘but I would say that he was in his fifties, very overweight, sweated profusely. He had tightly cropped blond-grey hair, a round, red face, fleshy, moist lips. He’s a snappy dresser, a dark suit with a red and white spot—’

‘Spotted handkerchief,’ Ross interrupted. ‘Kept in his front breast pocket.’ He pointed to his own breast pocket. ‘Smokes a cigar?’

‘Do you know him, sir?’

The major nodded. ‘Oh, yes. An old colleague of our dearly departed Lord Shears.’

‘Another oilman?’ Lock was inwardly pleased. He and Singh had already guessed as much.

‘Yes, another APOC director. Not Dutch or German; Swiss. His name is Günther Grössburger.’

‘Apt.’

‘Very. And you didn’t hear or see what they were talking about or doing?’

‘Some negotiation. There was something on the table between them. Then the fat … Grössburger gathered it up, put it in a small black box and handed it to Underhill.’

‘Handed?’

‘Yes. I couldn’t see it clearly, but whatever it was, it was small and Underhill put it in his pocket.’

‘Money? Papers?’

‘From the sergeant major?’

‘Yes, of course from the sergeant major. What did he give Grössburger? Tell me you saw that much.’ The major stopped pacing and raised an expectant eyebrow.

Lock shook his head. ‘Nothing. He gave him nothing.’

‘Damn.’

‘Except a coin purse.’

‘So he did give him something. He gave him money.’

‘If that was what was in the purse. Yes, sir. But not papers. Unless it was folded into a tiny square.’ Lock held up his hand with his thumb and forefinger squeezed close together as an illustration of the size.

‘Don’t get smart with me,’ Ross glowered.

‘No, sir. Sorry, sir. But do you believe me now? That the sergeant major is up to something?’

Ross fished the matches out of his pocket again and relit his pipe.

‘And you didn’t hear anything?’

‘Only a name, sir.’

‘A name?’

‘Bingham-Smith.’

‘Oh, for pit—’

‘That’s what I heard, sir. Something is going on and it’s to do with both the assistant provost marshal and the sergeant major. And the German, Grössburger.’

‘Swiss, Lock, he’s Swiss.’

‘If you say so, sir.’

‘And there was no one else?’

‘No, sir.’ Lock decided to keep Bombegy’s presence outside of the cafe from Ross for the time being. He would question his Indian cook himself later on.

Ross was scowling again, staring off into the middle distance. His face seemed troubled now.

‘Did they see you?’

‘Who?’

‘Underhill and Grössburger,’ Ross snapped.

‘No.’

‘Certain?’

Lock frowned, thinking. No, he was positive that he’d managed to get away from the cafe without causing too much of a disturbance. Hopefully his pale, sweating complexion and his haste, not to mention his warning comment about the cuisine to the Australian officer sat eating there, marked him out as just another case of food poisoning making a quick exit before his bowels did.

‘Absolutely, sir. Why?’

Ross glared back at him. The colour around his neck was flushed, but he was keeping the pent-up fury at bay.

‘Because, you idiot,’ Ross said, through gritted teeth, ‘Underhill is on a job and if you’d been seen by Grössburger, or the sergeant major, or confronted them, then you may well have blown weeks of hard work.’

Lock was taken aback. ‘I don’t—’

‘Of course you don’t understand, Lock. You weren’t in the loop. You were in hospital recovering from an attempt on your life. Christ, I wish that bullet had been more true.’ Ross, his face the colour of beetroot now, such was his anger, glared up at Lock. ‘Or you were
supposed
to be in hospital. I told you to stay put. I told you the investigation was well underway. I told—’

‘Perhaps, if you had told me what was going on, what you were doing, sir, then may—’

‘What!?’ Ross said, spraying Lock with spittle. ‘Let me remind you, Captain, that you,’ he jabbed Lock’s chest with his pipe for emphasis, ‘work for me. You,’ he jabbed Lock’s chest again, ‘take orders from me and you—’

He went to jab Lock’s chest for a third time, but Lock was quicker, grabbing hold of the major’s pipe.

‘Will you please stop poking me with your bloody pipe.’ It was a stupid thing to do.

The major wrenched the pipe from Lock’s grip and pressed his face close.

‘You,’ Ross said, ‘will do as you are told. Do you understand?’

Lock straightened up and stared the major right in the eye. He wasn’t going to back down. Not yet. There were too many questions.

‘It’s too much of a coincidence, sir. The brothel, Grössburger, Underhill, Bingham-Smith … They’re all linked somehow.’

Ross glared back at him but he didn’t attempt to interrupt again.

‘So,’ Lock said, ‘if Underhill is working for you and some lead ended up with the sergeant major holding a clandestine meeting with Grössburger, then what does it all mean?’

Lock hesitated, his thoughts suddenly turning to Bombegy. He cursed. No, not Bombegy? Surely not? Was he the lead?

The major scowled back at him, hesitant about adding something of his own.

‘Was it just a coincidence that Grössburger was at the brothel when Bingham-Smith was?’ Lock continued. ‘Was your raid really to keep the peace? Or was it all an elaborate plan so you could legitimately arrest Grössburger without arousing suspicion from any of Wassmuss’s other agents who may have been watching?’

Lock paused. His head was throbbing, but he was waiting for the major to either deny or to confirm what he had said thus far. But Ross wasn’t saying anything. He was just standing there letting Lock’s mind continue to try to unravel the mess.

‘What about the two merchants and the general I saw being questioned by a red cap outside of the brothel? Are they here? In a cell? Or did you spirit them away, too?’

Still the major remained tight-lipped.

‘You planned it, didn’t you?’ Lock said. ‘The fight. One or more of those pals of Bingham-Smith’s is a White Tab.’

There was a faint flicker of amusement on Ross’s face, but the major was too shrewd to give much away, and was quick to suck and puff on his pipe again to hide any telltale expression.

Lock nodded slowly, realisation dawning.

‘My turning up at the brothel was actually a bonus for you, an even better spark to ignite the fight.’

Now the major visibly relaxed. He shrugged.

‘We spotted you and Singh approaching, so held back until you went inside. That’s why Singh never came to your aid. I stopped him.’

‘I see.’ Lock was absent-mindedly rubbing the sore spot on his chest where the major had been poking him.

‘Come, laddie, he’d be under arrest too if he had done. And I’d imagine there’d be a few more broken heads.’ Ross chuckled at the thought.

‘And Grössburger? What have you got out of him so far?’

Ross looked mildly surprised. ‘How do you know we have him?’

‘I saw him being bundled into that staff car that was parked opposite
Cennet
.’

Ross nodded. ‘Of course you did. Well, nothing of particular interest. Yet. But he’ll break. Underhill and Petty Officer Boxer are questioning him at this very moment. How about we pop along and see how they’re doing?’ He held his hand out towards the open cell door.

‘
Petty Officer
Boxer!’ Lock scoffed. ‘Come off it, sir. I said the same to her; there are no women in the Services. Not ranked, anyway.’

Ross gave a wry smile and put his finger to his lips. ‘A little experiment. But it’s coming. As surely as votes for women is coming.’

Lock followed Ross along the corridor that was lined with metal doors all bearing faded tin numbers, and on up the worn stone steps he’d climbed before.

They emerged out into the empty antechamber and then into the vast echoing hall. As he was the last time Lock was here, the lone provost sergeant was still sat at the same desk writing in presumably the same ledger.

Lock headed for the main door, but Ross took his arm and steered him in the other direction, over towards a recess in the mud-brick wall. This, in turn, led to another dimly lit corridor, again lined with metal doors, four on either side. However, there were no numbers here, only letters. They walked to the far end where, leaning against the wall, stood a provost sentry. He stood bolt upright on seeing Ross and Lock approach.