The Doomed Oasis (11 page)

“Yes, but what did he say?”

“Nothing very much. Nothing that I can remember, that is. He was talking very fast, you see, the words tumbling over themselves—about his job and where he'd been.”

“And where had he been? Had he been to Saraifa?”

But Griffiths shook his head. “I can't remember,” he said. “I don't think he mentioned Saraifa. It was talk for the sake of talking, you know—for the sake of hearing the sound of his own voice and having somebody listen to it. He'd been in some wild places, I think, and mostly on his own, nobody with him but Arabs.”

I asked about the packet then. “Did he talk about that at all?”

“No. He sat at my desk and wrote that covering letter. And when he'd finished it, he borrowed an envelope from me, sealed the whole thing up, and asked me to put it in my safe and deliver it to you personally the moment I docked.”

“Didn't you ask him why it was so urgent?”

“Of course I did. I was damned curious about the whole thing. But his manner was so odd—”

“He didn't say anything about it being political dynamite, then?”

“Political dynamite?” Griffiths's bushy eyebrows lifted. “No, he didn't say anything like that.” A wary look had come into his eyes. “Is that what he says in that letter?”

I nodded. “Where's Colonel Whitaker now? Can you tell me that?”

But he didn't know for certain. “Probably in Saraifa,” he said. “Why?” His tone was suddenly cautious, as though he were a witness under cross-examination, and since I had no intention of telling him the reason for my interest in Whitaker, I asked him about the previous voyage when he'd had David on board as a passenger. “Was he going to join his father, do you know?”

But he couldn't even tell me that. “All he said was that he was going down into the Rub al Khali.” He took out his watch and glanced at it. “It was a hell of a time to be going down into the Empty Quarter,” he added as though glad to escape into generalities. “That time of the year the sand is hot enough to burn the tires off a truck and the soles off your boots.”

“It was summer?”

He nodded. “Early July it would have been.”

And that was the month I'd received the shipping agent's account. “Did you have a seismological truck on board?”

“Yes.” He stared at me curiously, surprised that I should know about it. “It was deck cargo, and we shipped it down to Muscat. I remember that because we had a devil of a job getting it ashore; had to lash four of the local boats together and bridge them with planks.”

“You don't think it could be the same truck—the one that was found abandoned?”

But of course he couldn't tell me that.

“Did you know he was on loan to his father? Did he say anything about that?”

He shook his head and got to his feet.

“Did he talk about his father at all?”

“No, he didn't mention him.” He said it flatly, as though to discourage any further questions. “I must be going now, Mr. Grant. Just docked—a lot of things to see to, you know.”

I was reluctant to let him go. “One more question, Captain Griffiths.” I was standing facing him then. “You said once that you heard all the gossip out there. Have you heard any rumours about Saraifa?”

“Rumours?”

“That Colonel Whitaker is prospecting for oil there.”

He started to say something, but then he seemed to think better of it and shook his head. “A man like that, you never know what's true and what isn't. And Saraifa is a long way from the coast. A trouble spot, too.” He glanced uneasily at his watch again.

I read him the
Times
correspondent's report, the paragraph about David being on loan to his father. But all he said was: “The Whitaker Theory. It crops up whenever anybody writes about that man.” And then he was moving towards the door. “Well, I've done what I promised, and that's that.” He held out his hand. “Sad about David Whitaker, very sad. Good boy—lots of character.” He shook my hand briefly, cast a quick glance at the envelope still lying unopened on my desk, and then went to the door. His last words to me as I saw him out were: “It's a tricky business, oil. Lot of money involved; politics, too. And if he was operating anywhere near the Hadd-Saraifa border … Well, you'd understand if you'd ever been out there.” He said it in a fatherly way, as though he were giving me some sound advice.

I was reluctant to let him go. That little Welsh sea captain was stuffed full of all the gossip of the Gulf if I could only have wrung it out of him. But I don't think he wanted to talk, and anyway I was anxious to find out what that envelope contained. The covering letter had given me no real indication.

You helped me once long ago. Now I'm asking you to help me again
. He mentioned the envelope then and asked me to put it in a safe place and only open it in the event of his death.
You're the only man I feel I can trust with a thing like this
. And he added:
I should warn you that it's political dynamite, and if anybody knew it was in your possession it might lead to trouble
. He concluded with apologies for bothering me with his affairs, and then these words:
Thank you again for helping me to a life that has suited me and that I have enjoyed
. It was signed:
Yours gratefully
—
David
.

I read it through again, standing at my desk, and there was no escaping the significance of those final words. For some reason he had believed he was going to die. Had he been ill, suffering from some terrible disease? But that didn't fit Griffiths' description of him. Nervous, wrought up, even frightened—yes; but not ill. And why the secrecy anyway?

I picked up the envelope and slit it open. Inside were a typewritten letter, his will, and two envelopes—one addressed to Sir Philip Gorde at the London office of GODCO, the other marked:
Location and Sketch Map
. Location of what? But it wasn't difficult to guess, for what else but the discovery of oil could be described as political dynamite in the deserts of Arabia?

The letter didn't say so in so many words, but it made it pretty clear. And because it gives some indication of his frame of mind—and also because it formed the basis of my subsequent actions—I give it here in full. It was dated December 29 of the previous year, and above the date he had typed:
Somewhere in the Sheikhdom of Saraifa
.

Dear Mr. Grant,

The time has come to put my affairs into the hands of somebody I know and can trust. I am working here on an old survey. It was carried out a long time ago and the man who did it is dead now. If my own results confirm his report—and I shall know very shortly—I shall try and catch Captain Griffiths at Sharjah when the
Emerald Isle
stops there about the end of next month. I cannot explain to you why it is necessary. All I can say is that this is a forbidden zone and that I am working against time and without authority. Everything is against me—almost like it was when I came to you last. I've always been a bit of a rebel at heart. But outside of the pack, you're on your own. And whatever happens to me, I'm determined that Saraifa shall have the benefit of my efforts. The oasis fights a losing battle with the desert. Without money it is doomed. And I spent six of the happiest months of my life there.

When you read this I shall be dead. Please then take the following action: Contact Sir Philip Gorde, who is on the board of directors of GODCO, and give him the envelope I have addressed to him. It contains a document which is correctly phrased and is a copy of other concession agreements. It will also contain my survey report, but without the locations. The locations will be contained in a separate envelope, together with additional copies of my survey report. This envelope is only to be handed over after Sir Philip Gorde has signed the concession agreement and legally bound the Company, to your satisfaction, to drill
four
test wells at the locations indicated. [The
four
had been written in in ink, presumably later.]

In the event that Sir Philip Gorde refuses to sign, then you will please take whatever action you think best in the interests of Saraifa. Khalid, the Sheikh's son, knows what I am doing and you will find he fully understands what is at stake so far as the oasis is concerned. It is essential that somehow you get the concession taken up. Saraifa needs oil desperately and if you succeed you will not find Khalid lacking in appreciation, or Sheikh. Makhmud for that matter. You may, of course, make what use you can of the circumstances of my death, my parentage, and my past to achieve publicity and so attract the interest of other oil companies.

Enclosed also is my Will. I have appointed you my Executor and after making the necessary arrangements with my bank in Bahrain, you will please draw on the account for fees and expenses. Please understand that I would not again involve you in my affairs if I were not desperate. In the event of my death I have instructed my sister to contact you immediately.

David Whitaker

It was an unusual communication for a solicitor to receive, most unusual; and, reading it through again, I was struck by the fact that he made no mention of his father. In the whole of that document there wasn't one reference to Colonel Whitaker.
Everything is against me
. There were other phrases, too. I was greatly disturbed about the whole thing, particularly as I knew that Whitaker was engaged in an operation that must run counter to the interests of the company he had served and which David was serving at the time of his death.

However, there was no point in speculating. His instructions were clear, and I picked up the phone and rang the London office of GODCO. And whilst I was waiting for the call to come through I had a look at the will. He had typed it himself, but it was a perfectly legal document even though the witnesses to his signature were two Arabs. It appointed me executor and his sister, Susan, sole legatee with instructions to take care of their mother. Again no reference to his father.

This and the letter and the fact that he had made such careful provision against the possibility of death gave a strange quality of isolation to his activities, as though he were operating alone in a hostile world. I think it was then that I seriously considered the possibility that his disappearance was no accident.

My call to GODCO came through and I was put on to the same thin, cultured voice. No, Sir Philip was not available, would not be for some time. He was on a tour of the Company's Middle East properties and not expected back for at least a month. I could contact him through the Bahrain office if the matter were important.

I put the phone down and sat there for a long time, considering. But I don't think there was ever any real doubt in my mind. I hadn't heard from Whitaker, and, quite apart from his son's death, the necessity for a meeting with him was urgent. It was just that the Persian Gulf was a long way away and I had got out of the habit of travelling. Fortunately, I now had an arrangement with another firm of solicitors which enabled me to get away when necessary, and in the end I put a call through to a local travel agency. BOAC flights direct to Bahrain were weekly, leaving on Thursdays at 1000 hours and arriving 0305 hours Friday. That just gave me time to make all my arrangements, get visas, and clear my desk of the more urgent matters. I told them to book me out on the next flight, locked the contents of the envelope in the safe, and went out for a drink. I needed to think, for I was beginning to realize what it was he'd landed on my desk.
Political dynamite!
If he was a good geophysicist, then what I'd locked away in my safe might well be the location of a new oilfield.

Three days later I flew out of London Airport in a storm of rain and wind. March going out like a lion; but at Rome it was hot, and all down the Mediterranean we had bright sunshine. And I sat in my seat with an empty feeling inside me, for the day before I'd left Cardiff a man had come to see me, a tired-looking, hard-faced man with a skin like leather who'd refused to give Andrews his name or state his business.

Even when he was alone with me in my office he went about it in such a tortuous way that it only gradually dawned on me what he was after. It was cleverly done—a hint here, a hint there, and the abyss gradually opening up at my feet. He knew David had boarded the
Emerald Isle
off Sharjah, knew, too, that Griffiths had delivered that packet to me. He'd been down to see him at his cottage in the Gower. He'd been to the police, too; had talked with Sergeant Mathieson and had checked the files. He knew the boy's real name, his whole background, everything, and what he wanted from me was that packet.

He smiled when I told him I couldn't discuss my client's affairs. “Professional etiquette? Your professional etiquette, Mr. Grant, is somewhat elastic, if you follow me.” It was a cat-and-mouse game, for he knew I'd helped the boy to get out of the country. “There are several charges outstanding and a warrant.”

“The boy is dead,” I reminded him.

But it made no difference. He had his instructions, he said. These were to take possession of the packet. “You can hand it to me or forward it to the Company—one or the other.” I asked him what authority he had for making such an outrageous proposal, but all he'd say was that it was in the country's interests. One knows, of course, that there are men like that employed by Government and by large companies, but one doesn't expect to come across them. They belong to a half-world that lies outside the experience of ordinary citizens.

“In your own interests, I suggest you hand it to me. Nobody need know anything then.”

It was blackmail, and by then I was sweating, for I was beginning to realize what I was up against. Politics and oil—the Middle East; the scope of a provincial lawyer doesn't cover that sort of world.… I just hadn't the right sort of pull, the contacts, the friends in high places.