Kingdom Lock Read online

  Lock stepped back and handed the blade back to Connolly. ‘Wa howa ka-zaalek!’ he said, ‘Good!’, and he thought he saw a faint smile play on the girl’s lips. He remained perfectly still and watched as the girl struggled to her feet and pulled the jacket around her properly. She was shaking so much that her fingers couldn’t button it up.

  Lock dropped to one knee and extended his hand. ‘Taa hena,’ he said, ‘Come here.’

  ‘Sah,’ Underhill repeated impatiently.

  ‘All right, Sergeant Major,’ Lock hissed.

  Underhill and Connolly waited as the girl, never taking her eyes from Lock, shuffled forward and let him button up the jacket for her. It swamped the child’s tiny frame, covering her hands and reaching down to her knees. Lock rolled up the sleeves until they were above her wrists and straightened the lapels.

  ‘Afdal be-katheer!’ he said, ‘Much better!’ and then saluted.

  The girl stared into his eyes. Something registered there for she threw her arms around his neck and held him tight. Lock raised an eyebrow to Connolly. Underhill indicated for them to move, so Lock put his arms around the girl, and lifted her up.

  ‘A moment, sir,’ Connolly said, tossing the dying torch aside.

  Lock waited as Connolly rushed back to the campfire. He moved to the second Kurd Lock had shot and stripped the soldier’s sleeveless sheepskin tunic from his body. He stamped the campfire out and jogged back to Lock.

  ‘What’s the sheepskin for?’

  ‘You, sir. It’ll be mighty cold tonight.’

  Lock helped the girl climb up onto his horse, then, pulling on the foul-smelling sheepskin tunic, he hauled himself up into the saddle behind her. Connolly mounted his own horse, then they circled and followed Underhill back to where they had made camp, further down the river.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The sun had sunk below the horizon and a final strip of pink and purple filled the sky as the twilight began to spread over the land around them. They rode in silence and it took little more than ten minutes to cross the plain where Lock had first seen the dead sheep, and hit the pipeline again running beside the road. From there they directed the horses onto the loose rock of another ridge down to the wide riverbank below.

  Lock eased himself out of the saddle and helped the girl down. She clung to his arm whimpering. ‘Connolly, you’ll take first watch. Put yourself a little up this ridge where the ground levels out. Sergeant Major, get a fire going!’

  Connolly dismounted, left his horse with Lock and removed his peaked cap and goggles. He placed them on the girl’s head, winked, then grabbing his rifle, marched back up to the pipeline. Lock tethered the horses and, with the girl at his side, he gathered up Underhill’s and his own canteen, and walked down to the river. He unfastened the leather strap from his belt and tied the end to the hook at the top of one of the canteens and lowered it down the two-foot drop from the rocky bank into the flowing waters of the Karun. He yawned and rested his eyes for a moment until the weight of the full canteen tugged at his arm. He retrieved the canteen and gave it to the girl to hold and then repeated the process with the second canteen. He trudged back to the fire, with the girl gripping his hand, and dropped the canteens beside Underhill.

  The sergeant major grunted his thanks. Lock sat down with the girl curled up beside him, and watched as Underhill finished building a small circle of stones. The sergeant major then set about filling it with driftwood and dried twigs collected from the riverbank. He struck a match, coaxed the flames into life, and then balanced a tin pan on the stone circle ready to boil some water for the inevitable cuppa.

  Lock pulled a blanket from one of the haversacks and handed it to the girl. He then pulled the saddlebags to him and opened them up. There was little of interest in the first, just some clothes, a lump of hard brown bread and a box of rifle cartridges. The second contained explosives: sticks of dynamite, wires and charges. In the third, the one he had seen earlier, were papers, a map, a leather-bound notebook held together with string, and the two bags of coins. Lock opened one up and, as he suspected, it was full of gold. He fished one coin out and turned it over between his fingers.

  ‘Got you, bastard,’ he said softly to himself.

  The coin showed a crowned eagle, with wings spread, and the legend ‘Deutsches Reich 1914, 20 Mark’ around the edge. The other side depicted Kaiser Wilhelm II.

  The girl’s eyes were wider than ever as she watched the coin glinting in the firelight.

  ‘Here,’ Lock said and tossed the coin to her. It landed with a tinkle in front of her. She picked it up, face transfixed by its lustrous gleam. Lock opened up the notebook. It was crammed with letters and numbers, broken by the occasional sketch or crude map, none of which meant anything to him. He pondered for a moment. Codes? Perhaps. Ross would know. He closed the notebook again. He then leafed through the papers. There was a map of the Karun River, with the pipeline clearly drawn out and points along its length marked with a red cross, a number and a short note in German. Lock had limited knowledge of the language, so was not sure what it said. The other papers looked to be receipts, itineraries and lists of supplies. Lock hesitated. He felt his mouth go dry and the hair prick on his neck. He leant closer to the fire.

  Amongst the pile were two letters with broken wax seals bearing the crest of the Ottoman Empire. Lock opened the first. It was typewritten in Turkish, a language he did have knowledge of, extensive knowledge, and it contained the usual rhetoric about God and Honour and Glory. But as Lock read on, he saw the hidden message within.

  Baghdad

  Miralay Mahomed Pacha Daghistani

  My Heroes! My Soldiers!

  Brothers march across the rooftop of Persia to stand shoulder to shoulder with you as the full moon swells in the fight that is to come at the place where the land bleeds black. The enemy is to be pushed back to the sea, to be expelled from the open veins of our motherland.

  It is now that we must coordinate and expedite our movements and in so doing confuse and split the attention of our enemy from Miralay Subhi Bey’s offensive at the shadow of the crescent moon. I appeal to the energy and the initiative of you, your commanders and of their troops to make decisive the results obtained in triumph.

  Let those of you who are to die a martyr’s death be messengers of victory to those who have gone before us, and let the victory be sacred and the sword be sharp of those of you who are to remain in life.

  In the name of Mehmed Reshad and Hadji Mohammed Guilliamo, I salute you.

  Birinci Ferik Khalil Pasha

  Lock read the letter a second time and slowly lowered the paper, staring down into the flames. ‘My God!’ he said.

  ‘What is it?’

  Lock looked up to see Underhill watching him, a steaming mug of tea in his hand. ‘’Ere.’ He passed it to Lock.

  ‘Thank you. I’m not sure. But Major Ross needs to see this.’ He waved the letter.

  ‘So we ’ead back to Mohammerah at first light?’ Underhill asked, barely disguising his eagerness to return to the safety of the British-controlled port.

  Lock sipped his tea. It burnt his tongue and tasted metallic. It was disgusting, but a welcome warmth. ‘Not yet. I still want to check out this so-called captive at Daurat.’

  Underhill scoffed. ‘You really think there’s any point? I don’t believe they’ve got a prisoner. That girl there, she’s the only prisoner round ’ere!’

  Lock glanced at the girl. She was sleeping now, her thumb in her mouth and the coin clutched in her other hand. ‘Maybe, but those are our orders, Sergeant Major.’

  He put the mug of tea down and unfolded the second letter. As he read it, he felt a tingling of excitement rush through his veins. There was no name, no addressee, but Lock knew whom it was intended for. It had to be.

  Constantinople. Time is of the essence. Daghistani will strike and you must prepare Mohammerah for his arrival. Abbadan is to be brought to chaos. Proceed to Basra. Your contact will have further instructions.
In the name of the Kaiser.

  G

  Lock’s mind was reeling. He’s here, Wassmuss is here, close by. The Turks they’d killed with the gold, the explosives, these letters, the notebook, they must be Wassmuss’s men. And Wassmuss must be the owner of the fifth horse! Lock glanced back into the night around him.

  Where was the German now? He would surely return to his camp, find his men dead, his gold and his papers gone. What would he do? Would he panic? Yes, he must do. How could he know just two men attacked his camp? Surely he’d have scouts, spies working nearby? He’d know by now that the British troops were marching this way. And what the hell did the girl have to do with it all? If she was a Lur, then what was she doing so far south? Had she been captured when Wassmuss and his men crossed into Persia and passed through the Zagros Mountains? And where did the sheep come from?

  Lock put his hand to his head and cursed. So many thoughts. If only it was morning.

  ‘Why don’t you get some kip? I’ll take second watch,’ Underhill said.

  Lock nodded. He folded the second letter and moved over to the girl. Checking that Underhill wasn’t watching, Lock stuffed the two letters and the notebook into the breast pocket of his jacket that the girl was wearing. She whimpered in her sleep but didn’t wake, and Lock pulled the blanket up to her chin. He then closed the saddlebag and, using it as a pillow, he lay down and pulled a blanket around himself. He felt his eyelids getting heavier as he watched Underhill fuss with the fire, then pour more water into the tin pan serving as a makeshift kettle.

  Lock wondered what Amy was doing at that precise moment, whether she was perhaps waiting for a cup of tea. Maybe she was standing on the poop deck of the Lucknow thinking of him as she looked up at the blanket of stars in the night sky. Lock smiled as he saw himself standing behind her, hands on her hips, kissing her neck. She turned to face him and their lips met in a long embrace.

  ‘I love you,’ she whispered, and he suddenly saw his own reflection in her eyes. Only it wasn’t his face he saw, but Bingham-Smith’s.

  Lock opened his eyes, bewildered.

  It was dark. The fire was little more than burning embers. Underhill’s kettle was still perched on one side. He could feel the air was cold now, rasping in his chest. He pushed his blanket aside and sat up. He reeled at the sudden waft from the sheepskin tunic he was still wearing. His hand shot to his holster. It was empty. He slowly pulled himself up to a crouch. The girl was gone, too.

  Lock strained his ears, but could hear nothing but the crackle of the fire and, beyond that, the rushing of the water of the river below. He was alone. He looked back to his pillow, the saddlebag. He moved over to it. Empty. Where the hell was Connolly and that bastard Underhill? There was no sign of the horses either, or the other two saddlebags. He opened his mouth to whisper the sergeant major’s name into the night, but decided against it.

  A piece of wood popped. Lock started and ducked down. It was just the fire, he reassured himself, keeping his eyes on the shadows beyond. No, there was something else.

  Lock scanned the campsite and spotted the three haversacks stuffed behind some rocks to the left of the fire. He paused, straining his eyes and his ears for any sign of movement, then scuttled over to the bags. He stopped, listening again. Still there was nothing. He opened the bags. But after a hasty rummage through, he could find nothing of use as a weapon. ‘Bugger.’ He reached out for Underhill’s tin kettle. It was empty and only lukewarm to the touch. How long had he been asleep?

  Keeping low, Lock moved off up the ridge until he was enveloped by the night. He stopped and peered back at the fire, a speck of light in a black, inky well now far below him, then turned and carried on as quietly as he could. But as he slowly inched forward into the darkness every footfall seemed to crunch deafeningly in his ears. Despite the rushing water in the river below, he felt that he could be heard all the way back in Mohammerah. He paused to let his eyes become accustomed to the blackness, and waited. Where the hell were Underhill and Connolly?

  Lock breathed softly and tried to pick some other sounds out of the eerie emptiness around him. But he could still hear nothing but the flow of the river. There was no moon above him, only the occasional glimpse of the star-speckled sky through the gaps in the canopy of clouds. As he looked down again, he was convinced that there was a darker mass not ten feet ahead. Surely that must be the pipeline? He crouched down and momentarily closed his eyes, trying to decide what to do. Should he call out? No, he could be right on top of a group of Arabs. Or Wassmuss? Christ, was the German here? Had he found them? Come back for the girl? His papers? But why, Lock wondered, was he still alive if that was the case? Why was his throat not cut?

  Lock opened his eyes again and stared into the gloom. He shifted his head slightly in an attempt to get a clearer picture of what was up ahead from his periphery vision. There was a slight variation between the blackness of the ground and the deep grey of the sky, and he knew then that the dark mass in front of him was indeed the pipeline.

  After a few more moments, Lock took a deep breath, pulled himself to his feet, and crept on. He edged forward, taking one tentative step at a time, then stopped after ten or so paces and crouched down again, listening. Still there was nothing but empty silence. He couldn’t even make out the river any more. His eyes were adjusting to the gloom with each passing minute and he was beginning to make out the odd form on the ground around and ahead of him. He tried to see if he could pick out Connolly or Underhill crouched nearby, but it was impossible. He hesitated. There was a shape up ahead. It appeared to be a kneeling figure.

  Lock felt around for a small stone. He picked one up and tossed it at the shape. Stone struck stone with a gentle click. The shape was nothing more than a boulder. He moved on. More shapes became clearer; a bush here, a larger boulder there, but still there was no sign of Connolly or Underhill, or of the Arabs he knew must be nearby.

  He swore bitterly. This was a fool’s errand. He couldn’t possibly find anything in this darkness, and his mind raced with thoughts of what was the best course of action: go back to the fire? Or keep searching?

  Lock put his hand out and it fell against the cold, rough metal of the pipeline. The sensation jolted him into action. He must make for the troops. He turned on his heels, crouched low, and scuttled as quietly and as quickly as he could back the way he had come. He stumbled, kicking against something hollow and metallic, and landed heavily on his hand. Cursing through gritted teeth, he lay still, breathing heavily, listening. If there was anyone around then he must have surely given his presence away by now. But there were no other sounds, no movements, no click of a gun’s hammer or of a bolt being pulled back, nothing but his own heart beating like a drum in his ears.

  Lock felt around until his hand came across the smooth surface of a tin mug. He picked it up and put it to his nose. Brandy! Connolly? It had to be the Irishman’s mug.

  Lock made to stand, but his foot was tangled in something. He slowly sat up and felt down his leg to his boot. A thin cable was caught around his heel. He pulled the cable free and felt along its length. It seemed to stretch off back over towards the pipeline. He gently tugged at it. There was no give. He felt along its length in the other direction, away from the pipeline, and pulled again. This time it moved.

  Lock pulled again, harder, and heard a soft dragging sound in the near distance. Something heavy was attached to the other end of the cable. He pulled a third time and the object on the other end toppled over with a dull thud. He felt his way along the length of cable until he came to a metal box. Blindly he studied the object in his hands. The cable split and the ends were screwed to two terminals. In the centre was a thick handle, depressed. It was a detonator box, he was sure of it.

  Lock wiped the sweat from his brow, and sat for a moment, thinking. Then he pulled the cable violently from the terminals and stood with the disconnected detonator box in his hand. At least he could delay their work.

  There was a sudden pain in Lock
’s left side and all the breath was forced from his lungs. The detonator box went flying out of his hand, crashing to the ground nearby. He couldn’t move. A huge weight was on top of him fighting to push his flailing arms away. Lock threw out a punch and hit something hard. There was a clang of metal a little to his left. He tried to throw the weight off again, but a terrific pain filled the side of his head. His ear began to sing. He grunted and desperately tried to hit out again. His hand was slapped away and then he felt his throat gripped by rough fingers that kept on squeezing.

  Lock threw his body left and right, but the weight on his chest wouldn’t shift. He coughed, choked, and could feel his lungs begin to smart. He bucked again and brought his right knee sharply up. It connected with something soft and his assailant cried out in pain. The grip around Lock’s throat slackened and he punched into the dark above him again. He felt a sting in his knuckles and heard a crack of breaking bone and his assailant fell off to the side. Lock scrambled into the darkness after him, grabbed out and raised his fist ready to strike again.

  The whole night lit up around Lock and a terrific clap of sound filled his ears. He flinched and stared at the cloud of orange flames rising into the night air over to his left and at a figure not ten yards away, an Arab judging by the shape of the silhouette, running from the burning pipeline. Lock stared down at his assailant.

  ‘What the …?’

  ‘You broke me bleedin’ teeth!’ Underhill spat, trying to shake out of Lock’s grip.

  ‘Just what in hell’s name do you think you’re doing?’ Lock said, pulling himself and the sergeant major up.

  Underhill rubbed his jaw. ‘Thought you were ’im, the bloody saboteur!’ he said, stooping to pick up the knife Lock had knocked out of his hand.