Kingdom Lock Page 13

  ‘Let’s get the hell out of here!’ he said, picking up his haversack and slapping his slouch hat on. He grabbed a piece of flatbread and a couple of eggs.

  ‘And the saboteur?’ Underhill asked, knocking back his coffee, and slipping the saddlebag over his shoulder.

  ‘There are no saboteurs here, only heroes fighting for Arab independence.’

  Underhill scoffed. ‘Told you we’d get no ’elp from these ’eathens. By the way, it’s an ’Un one all right.’

  ‘What’s a “Hun one”?’

  ‘The soddin’ exploder! The detonator box!’

  They quickly made their way over the busy square and darted down one of the passageways between the brightly coloured canvas tents. It was dusty and oppressive, and lined with open pots. In such a confined space, Lock found the air chokingly thick with heat and the heady aroma of overbearing spices. He glanced behind to see that the four armed Qashqai tribesmen were hastily following.

  He pushed Underhill on ahead of him. ‘We need some transport, and quick! We’ll never make it out of here on foot.’

  ‘Are we finally leavin’?’ Underhill said.

  ‘Yes. But we need to find that girl.’

  ‘What? What bleedin’ girl?’

  ‘The child!’

  ‘The fanti lass? You mad? She could be anywhere!’

  ‘I know, but she’s got something vital and Wassmuss wants it too!’

  ‘Wassmuss? The ’Un spy?’

  ‘Our saboteur,’ Lock said.

  ‘You’re kiddin’? And you let ’im go?’

  ‘We were lucky to get out of that cafe alive. And we’ve still got to get out of here!’

  ‘I saw some camels over that way.’ Underhill jutted his chin to the left.

  ‘Got anything to barter with?’ Lock called to him.

  ‘I’ve got me gun!’ Underhill snarled.

  ‘What about that detonator box? Can you make it work? Set it off?’

  ‘Not without explosives.’

  Lock pulled his haversack up and, fishing about inside, produced an oily package and quickly unwrapped a stick of dynamite. ‘From the pipeline.’ He slapped it into Underhill’s outstretched hand.

  ‘Jesus! Careful! Was that in there all the time?’ Underhill said. ‘It looks so bloody old, bound to be unstable. All right then, won’t be needin’ the detonator box. Got no blastin’ cap, anyhow. Or safety fuse. But I’ll rig one up with these,’ he said, snatching up a handful of candles as they passed a store stocked with them. He quickly broke the wax apart, yanking out the wicks. The storeholder called angrily after them, and Lock tossed the man a coin, and pushed on quickly through the crowd.

  ‘Hurry!’ Lock glanced back over his shoulder again, but he could no longer see their pursuers. He weaved his way on through the milling traders and shoppers, barely registering their faces as they went about the business of buying and selling.

  The passageway widened out onto an open area and Lock felt his hand instinctively go to his Webley. He came alongside Underhill, who was still frantically working with his knife and a candle wick to set up a crude fuse for the dynamite.

  ‘This stuff’s pretty brittle!’ the sergeant major said.

  One of their Qashqai pursuers emerged from a canvas passageway a little ahead of them. ‘This way!’ Lock shoved Underhill to the left, pushing by a man holding out an animal hide for their inspection, and down another narrow passage. Lock could hear shouting behind him, but he didn’t look back.

  They rounded a corner and came to the open-sided barn where the white motor car was parked. It was a handsome vehicle, with an open-top body and a plush green-leather interior. Lock now recognised the model. It was a Rolls-Royce, and it looked even more out of place at close quarters. The thought flashed across Lock’s mind to hijack the vehicle, but he quickly dismissed it as foolish. The terrain wasn’t ideal for an automobile, and escape across the hills would be better by four legs than four wheels.

  ‘Ready?’ Lock asked, glancing over his shoulder once more. He could see one of their pursuers pushing angrily through the crowds and knew that it wouldn’t be long before gunshots broke through the general melee.

  Beyond the Rolls, past the open barn, was a flat area of rocky sand and scrub enclosed on three sides by crumbling, ten-foot-high mud-brick walls. Here were the camel traders. Inside the enclosure, twenty or so camels were picking at the ground, and nearby, four Bedouins sat in a circle drinking mint tea. Lock could smell the distinctive scent from the moment he rounded the corner.

  ‘Done!’ Underhill said, and he held up his crude dynamite bomb.

  ‘Keep that handy and keep an eye out for our pursuers.’ Lock turned to the camel traders. ‘Sabaah al-khayr!’ he beamed as he approached.

  The four Arabs rose to their feet. Three were very young, little more than boys, and Lock thought they looked extremely wary, shifting on their feet and tugging at the worn cloth of their grubby abas.

  ‘I need two camels, gentlemen, saddled,’ Lock addressed the older Bedouin man, who wore multicoloured robes, sandals and a grey turban.

  The man pulled at his long greying beard and bobbed his head. ‘We have many fine camels, sayyid.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, Lock could see Underhill leaning against the wall at the entrance to the enclosure, rifle raised and ready.

  ‘I can see that you have, but two is all I require,’ Lock said.

  The old Bedouin nodded again. ‘Come, sit. Have mint tea. We discuss.’

  Lock cursed to himself. He knew that the proper etiquette was to sit, haggle and finally, after maybe half an hour, agree on a price. But he didn’t even have half a minute. He had two options: make a threat or a ridiculous offer. Threat was the best option, but he was surrounded by enough enemies as it was. He scrutinised the three boys again. They were scared. He undid his wristwatch and held it out. It was all he had to offer. ‘Haza ahsan sear.’

  The old man took the watch and put it close to his eyes. Lock was momentarily distracted. He could hear shouting getting closer and closer. When he looked back, the old man was staring at him. His watery brown eyes moved to the sound of the approaching commotion, then back to Lock’s face.

  ‘’Urry up!’ Underhill called. ‘What ya bloody doing? Just shoot the bastards!’

  ‘Min fadlak,’ Lock pleaded.

  The old man’s brown eyes dropped to Lock’s holstered Webley and then darted across in Underhill’s direction. He snapped some quick instructions to the three youngsters at his side. They quickly scuttled off to the camel herd and came back with a couple of mangy-looking beasts, but both were saddled.

  ‘Underhill!’ Lock called, as one of the young men coaxed the gurgling camels slowly down to their knees.

  ‘’Bout bleedin’ time!’ Underhill said, and shouldering his rifle quickly, he scrambled up onto one of the camels.

  Lock climbed up onto his beast, and the young Arab egged both animals up again. ‘You ever ridden one of these?’ Lock called across to Underhill.

  ‘Once. Filthy bloody things! Flea-ridden. Got bitten to buggery. But they can’t ’alf move! Hut-hut!’ The sergeant major kicked his heels into his camel’s side and it shot forward.

  Lock indicated his thanks to the old Bedouin and quickly made off after Underhill. There was a shout from behind and he instinctively ducked down as a rifle shot cracked through the air. Lock twisted in his saddle to see not only one of the young camel traders aiming a rifle at him, but the four Qashqais giving chase. Lock gave a shout of encouragement to his camel, kicking his heels hard into its sides.

  ‘Throw that dynamite!’ he yelled to Underhill. But the sergeant major was one step ahead of him, and Lock ducked again as the makeshift bomb came fizzing over Underhill’s shoulder.

  Seconds later the dynamite exploded in a cloud of dust and fire. There was an almighty crack and Lock’s ears rang. His camel faltered but kept on galloping forward.

  ‘Bastard!’ Lock shouted.

  They rod
e hard and fast towards the east, Lock thinking that they would double back for the river and the road to Mohammerah once they were out of sight of Daurat. The British troops wouldn’t be far off and he knew Wassmuss and his Qashqai allies wouldn’t risk running into such a formidable force. He glanced over his shoulder, back at the settlement. There were people gathering, gesticulating wildly, but no horsemen on their tails yet.

  He pushed on up the rocky ridge that weaved towards the horizon. Then he heard Underhill curse and saw him yank back on the reins of his camel.

  Lock pulled up beside him.

  At the top of the ridge lining the horizon directly ahead of them were a number of horsemen silhouetted by the morning sun.

  They were trapped.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Lock turned in his saddle. They couldn’t double back through Daurat, not now. It would only be a matter of time before Wassmuss persuaded Ahmad Omid Esfahani and his Qashqai warriors to come after them. He still believed Lock was in possession of his precious notebook, after all.

  Underhill levelled his rifle at the silhouetted riders and cursed. ‘Shitty place to die.’

  But just as he pulled the trigger, Lock smashed the butt into the air sending the bullet harmlessly up into the cloudless sky.

  ‘Wait!’ Lock snapped.

  ‘Are you out of your bleedin’ mind? I ain’t just gonna sit and let them take me an’ skin me and bugger me corpse!’ Underhill snarled.

  ‘Trust me.’ Lock had seen something in one of the silhouettes, the only short figure among them, something familiar about the shape of its head.

  Underhill snorted and swore.

  ‘Shoulder your rifle and follow me,’ Lock said, kicking his heels into his camel’s side. The beast gurgled and lumbered forward.

  ‘You ar—’ But Underhill’s words were cut out by his own camel’s guttural complaint at being urged on again.

  As they got closer to the men on horseback, Lock counted twenty riders, a fierce-looking bunch, unsmiling, with weathered, mostly bearded faces. They were all wearing distinctive large round felt caps and long, bulky cloaks. He could also see that they all carried long-barrelled Muscat rifles.

  ‘As I thought, they’re not Qashqai,’ he said. ‘Bakhtiaris perhaps? No, I think they’re Lurs, I’m sure of it.’

  The two men stopped about twenty yards from what appeared to be their chief, a man with a scarred face. He was sitting astride the only horse that wasn’t black or brown. His was a beautiful white stallion.

  Nobody moved for what seemed like an age, and then the scar-faced Lur tapped his heels and his horse trotted forward. He came to within five feet of Lock and Underhill, and then began to circle them.

  ‘Well, I’ll be …’

  Lock glanced at Underhill to see that he was nodding to the left of the main group. The girl they had rescued was sitting behind one of the riders. She was still clothed in Lock’s service jacket and had Connolly’s cap on her head and his goggles over her eyes. Lock couldn’t help but smile. That was the familiar shape he’d recognised, the cap.

  The Lur saw the expression and glanced behind him. He looked back at Lock quizzically. ‘Min an to?’ he said. ‘Almaanee?’

  ‘Ostraalee, wa Breetaanee,’ Lock said.

  The Lur turned his horse, which snorted impatiently, and continued to circle them, but now in the opposite direction.

  ‘My daughter tells that you save her from Turkish devils.’

  Lock glanced at Underhill and raised an eyebrow. The Lur had switched from Arabic to English.

  ‘This is truth?’ the Lur said.

  ‘Yes,’ Lock said, ‘but I wish we had found her sooner. I am sorry.’

  The Lur yanked at his horse’s reins, trying to still the beast. He patted its neck, then trotted closer until he was face to face with Lock. He studied Lock’s features in silence for a moment; Lock took the opportunity to do the same.

  The Lur was in his forties, judging by the flecks of grey in his beard. His skin was dark and weathered and a scar ran from his left eye, which was blind and opaque, down to his neck. His good eye was bright and fierce and never blinked. He was dressed in a black cloak with a brown tunic underneath and two bandoliers criss-crossed over his shoulders, forming a showy waistcoat of cartridges. He wore a pair of deep-red baggy trousers with a green sash tied around his waist, and on his feet were a fine pair of leather riding boots. He brought to mind a circus performer crossed with some bandit from a penny Western novel.

  The Lur suddenly broke into a toothy grin and his arms flew up in the air. ‘Bismillah hir rahman nir raheem!’ he shouted.

  The horsemen on the ridge raised their rifles in the air and cheered Allah as one.

  ‘Esmee Lock, Lieutenant Kingdom Lock of the Australian Imperial Force.’

  ‘Wa-alaykum as-salaam,’ the one-eyed Lur bowed his head slightly. ‘I called Aziz Azoo. I of Bala Garideh Lurs. I am eternally in your debt, ya sayed Kingdom Lock, for life of my daughter.’

  ‘What is her name?’ Lock said.

  Aziz looked back towards the girl. She was staring over at Lock and smiling. ‘It is Fairuza,’ he said.

  ‘Ah,’ said Lock, ‘the colour of her eyes.’

  Aziz grinned. ‘She tell of her rescue. And how she escape and find me, her father who had been tracking her for days. We were on other side of river when she find us, then bring us back to you. She knew you would need assistance.’

  ‘Lock, I don’t wanna break up your little tryst, but …’ Despite his usual belligerence, Underhill sounded concerned.

  Lock turned in his saddle. Underhill was shielding his eyes and looking back down the ridge towards the town. Lock pulled his field glasses out of his haversack and steadied his camel. He could see Daurat clearly. There was a thin line of dust running from the western entrance, and at its head something glinted in the early morning sun.

  ‘Looks as if that fancy motor car is heading for the Ahwaz–Mohammerah road,’ Lock said. He turned his gaze to the eastern entrance and to what, he presumed, Underhill was worried about. A band of about forty riders were heading straight for them. Their rifles and swords, raised above their heads, glinted in the sunlight that penetrated the huge dust cloud created by the pounding of their horses’ hooves.

  Aziz Azoo trotted alongside Lock, a large elaborate brass telescope pressed to his one good eye. He was still grinning. ‘This is good, ya Kingdom Lock. The Qashqai dogs want your blood. But they shall not have your blood. The only blood they shall have this day is their own spilt upon the desert floor.’

  Lock lowered his glasses. ‘What do you mean? You have only twenty men. What about your daughter?’

  Aziz Azoo folded his telescope away and stuffed it inside his tunic. ‘She is a warrior’s daughter, ya Kingdom Lock. She is a daughter of the Bala Garideh Lurs, the most fearsome of all the Lurs. We have a reputation to uphold. It is said that we have habit of preying on both our Lur and not-Lur villages. I do not want to disappoint the storytellers!’ He put his hand out to Lock and the two men gripped each other’s forearms. ‘I thank you again for the life of my daughter. It shall never be forgotten. I will have a man collect your tunic and cap from her.’

  ‘No, ya Aziz Azoo. They are hers to keep. I ask only for the notebook and letters in the breast pocket.’

  Aziz Azoo nodded. ‘You are most kind, ya Kingdom Lock.’ He then pulled his horse about and trotted back to his men.

  Underhill came up alongside Lock. ‘What the ’ell’s ’e up to?’

  ‘I think he means to charge our pursuers.’ Lock clicked his tongue urging his camel to move on up the ridge towards Aziz Azoo and his men.

  ‘Eh? Why not go?’ Underhill said, following on.

  ‘Religion.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘The Lurs are Shi’a; the Kurds who held his daughter prisoner were Sunni. The Qashqai … I don’t know, but honour is at stake, too. They helped the men who violated his daughter.’

  ‘Bloody ’eathen lo
onies, if you ask me. Still, it’ll make a good diversion while we make our escape, them chargin’ down the ’ill and all.’

  ‘No. I can’t let them fight our battles, Sergeant Major.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Underhill said, pulling at Lock’s arm. Both men came to a halt again.

  ‘I mean that I don’t let other people fight my battles.’

  Underhill stared at Lock, frowning, trying to make sense of what Lock meant.

  But Lock had made his mind up. Stupid, yes, he thought, but he was an honourable man, too. Besides, what guarantee did he have that the Lurs would succeed? He couldn’t just leave them while he and the sergeant major sneaked away like cowards. The Lurs lived in the Zagros Mountains. If he proved himself brave in battle, then their allegiance to the British could be sealed. They would be a useful ally to have along the borders of Northern Mesopotamia, keeping a watchful eye for Ottoman invaders.

  ‘Jesus!’ Underhill spat. He understood what Lock intended now. ‘This isn’t a suicide mission, Lieutenant! What if you get killed? What about them papers, eh? Best give ’em to me!’ He held out his hand.

  Lock shook his head. ‘Oh, no, Sergeant Major. If I buy it, you can find my body and fetch them yourself. I’m not asking you to join in. You can always sit and keep Fairuza company.’ He gave a patronising smile. ‘If we fail, scuttle back to Ross and tell him what I did. Besides, I don’t have the papers … yet.’

  Underhill glared back, his face reddening. ‘I may just do that,’ he spat.

  ‘It is time,’ Aziz said, trotting up to them. He handed Lock Wassmuss’s notebook and the two letters with the broken wax seals. ‘You head east on towards Shadegan. About five miles there is trail used by sheep-herders. It heads south back to road to Mohammerah.’

  Lock put the German spy’s papers safely away down the top of his boots, avoiding the heated glare of Underhill. Then he pulled his Webley from his holster and, pushing open the cartridge drum, began to reload the empty chambers. ‘If you don’t mind, I think I fancy a spot of shooting practice before I leave.’

  Aziz Azoo narrowed his eyes. Then he threw his head back and laughed. ‘You are like Lur; fierce and bloodthirsty for a fight! It would be honour to have you at my side. And your soldier with the red face?’ Aziz addressed this to Underhill.