Kingdom Lock Page 18

  Inside, the cabin looked as if it had been hit by a whirlwind. Furniture was upturned, clothing was strewn across the beds and floor, and books had been torn apart with their pages littered everywhere. Cups were smashed, a trunk was on its side, the contents scattered. Even the mattresses had been tossed over and cut open, their innards ripped out.

  ‘Jesus!’ Ross said, quickly moving inside.

  Lock followed, stepping into the cabin and pulling the door closed behind him. Broken glass crunched under his boots. ‘Careful, sir,’ he hissed, Webley raised, eyes scanning the room.

  Ross kicked through the papers and bent to pick up one of the books. Its cover had been torn, and the spine ripped away. ‘The letters are gone. Damn.’ He got to his feet and moved over to the bunk on the far side. He picked up the pillow and put his hand inside. ‘My, my, that is a surprise!’

  ‘Surely …?’ But Lock stopped short when Ross pulled out a pint bottle of brandy.

  ‘Good God, lad, I keep the notebook on me at all times,’ the major said, patting his breast pocket. ‘Just amazed the brandy’s still where I put it! Come along!’ he added, moving over to the door. ‘We’d better raise the alarm and set about searching the ship. Can’t have a spy roaming around free. Well,’ he smiled sheepishly, ‘not one of theirs, anyhow!’

  Lock held up his hand, stopping the major. ‘Sir,’ he said indicating to the other side of the room.

  ‘What? What is it?’ Ross said, frowning.

  ‘The mattress.’ Lock could see a hand sticking out from underneath.

  ‘I—’ Ross started to say something, and then he too spotted the hand. He picked his way across the room and pulled back the mattress. A body was lying on its front, like a discarded rag doll. Ross knelt down and turned it over. It was Lord Shears.

  ‘Is he dead?’ Lock said.

  ‘Yes. Looks like a stab wound to the heart.’ Ross got to his feet again. His hand was smeared with blood.

  Lock holstered his Webley and moved over to take a closer look at Shears. The dead oilman had already taken on a waxy pallor and there was a look of indignant surprise frozen on his face. ‘Do you think …?’ Lock trailed off.

  Ross gave him a sceptical look. ‘What, that Wassmuss is on board this very ship? Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But if not him, then one of his agents is, that much is certain. Poor Shears must have stumbled on them ransacking my cabin.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve had my suspicions about Lord Shears and the activities of Anglo-Persian Oil for some time. But it appears I was barking up the wrong palm tree, as it were. I realise now that they’re nothing more than a greedy, corrupt corporation out to maintain their profit and supply, no matter who controls Persia.’

  Ross moved to a slatted door in the corner. ‘I think I’d best wash this blood off my hands before we go.’ He pulled open the door. ‘You know Lock, I—’ He stopped short and stepped back into the cabin, slowly raising his hands.

  A figure was standing in the shadowy doorway of the water closet. Lock made to spring forward.

  ‘Careful, Lock,’ Ross hissed, ‘he’s got my gun.’

  ‘Yes, Lieutenant, careful,’ the figure said, moving into the room.

  Although Lock didn’t recognise the figure, other than as Shears’ Arab chauffeur, he did recognise the voice. ‘Wassmuss,’ he said, and instinctively made for his Webley.

  ‘Dear me, no, Lieutenant,’ Wassmuss said, aiming his gun at Lock’s chest. ‘Don’t be so stupid. Hands where I can see them, bitte.’

  Lock slowly raised his hands. He was standing close to the main door to the cabin and, on lifting his arms, he took a subtle step closer to it.

  ‘That is better. Now, gentlemen, I believe you have something that belongs to me.’ He swivelled the gun back towards Ross. ‘Or rather, I believe you do, Herr Major.’ Wassmuss gave a quick, perfunctory smile.

  Lock could scarcely believe his own eyes. Wassmuss bore little or no resemblance to the Bedouin Arab he had sat across the table from in the cafe at Daurat. He was clean-shaven except for the typical curled Persian moustache under his nose. The face, though mostly obscured by tinted-lensed driving goggles and a peaked chauffeur’s cap, was still angular, but seemed a little thinner, as did the man as a whole. His grey uniform was well tailored, down to the highly polished black boots. And, remarkably, he was shorter by an inch or two. If he had not spoken, Lock would never have known.

  Ross didn’t move.

  ‘Come, come, Herr Major. I know the notebook is in your breast pocket. I heard every word.’

  Ross lowered his hand. Wassmuss jutted the pistol forward and shook his head. Ross slowed his movements down and carefully began to remove the notebook from his pocket.

  ‘Very good. It was careless of me to let it out of my sight,’ Wassmuss shrugged. ‘But I have so much on my mind these days. I think I need a secretary, no?’

  Lock was itching to make for his gun, but despite the German’s cavalier attitude to the situation, he knew that if he made one sudden movement he’d get a bullet in his gut. He flicked his eyes to the light switch on the wall by the door. It was tantalisingly close. If he could just reach it, then the sudden darkness would give him all the time he needed. But it was a risk. Ross was in the line of fire and Wassmuss could just as easily shoot him.

  And then the major made Lock’s mind up for him. As he held the notebook out for Wassmuss, he made a sudden lunge towards the German’s gun.

  ‘Now, Lock!’ Ross shouted.

  Lock seized his chance and dived for the light switch, plunging the cabin into darkness.

  Wassmuss opened fire. There was a flash, and the major cried out. Lock threw himself to the floor, fumbling at his holster again. A second shot rang out with a deafening clang, ricocheting off the bulkhead to his right ear. Lock shifted to his left, lifted his Webley and pulled the trigger. The shot smacked against the wall, but the muzzle flash revealed that Wassmuss had stepped to the cabin door. The German fired his gun wildly once more, then threw the door open. Moonlight spilt into the cabin, and then the German was gone. There was a shout of alarm from outside and Lock could see a wavering beam of light cutting through the darkness.

  Lock exploded out of the cabin to give chase. ‘Stop that man!’ he bellowed.

  ‘Oi!’ Underhill yelled, pulling himself up. Lock could see Wassmuss had barged through the sergeant major and a group of sepoys. An electric torch was spinning on the deck like a Catherine wheel.

  ‘Stop him!’ shouted Lock again.

  Wassmuss spun around and let off two shots in quick succession. Lock, Underhill and the sepoys threw themselves to the deck as the bullets screamed by them.

  ‘What the bleedin’ ’ell are you up to?’ Underhill fumed.

  ‘It’s Wassmuss, the spy!’ Lock hissed.

  ‘What, ’ere? Bollocks! You’re tight, sah! I can smell the rum on you!’

  Lock clambered to his feet and aimed at the fleeing German. But as he pulled the trigger, Underhill clumsily knocked his arm and the bullet smacked harmlessly into the bulkhead.

  ‘He shot the major, you stupid bastard!’ Lock shoved Underhill away from him and ran on after Wassmuss.

  Rounding the corner, Lock saw the German approach the very stern of the gunboat and athletically jump up onto the guard rail, grabbing hold of the ensign mast to steady himself. He turned, jammed Ross’s pistol into his trouser belt, and raised his hands to remove the driving goggles.

  ‘Hold it right there, Wassmuss,’ Lock said, Webley aimed at the German’s head.

  Wassmuss slowly raised his arms.

  ‘I’ve got you now,’ Lock snarled. ‘You’ve led me a merry dance, but it’s over. Turn around!’

  The German twisted around, using the ensign mast to steady himself.

  ‘Up!’ Lock jerked the Webley, indicating for Wassmuss to keep his hands raised.

  ‘Quite the hero, aren’t we, Lieutenant? Is the general’s daughter proud of you?’ Wassmuss said.

  Lock didn’t reply, he just kept
his gun aimed at his foe.

  ‘But, tell me, Herr Lock,’ Wassmuss said, ‘will you be able to protect this one? She is very close is she not? At the hospital in Basra, ja?’

  Lock licked his lips. He wasn’t going to let himself get riled by the German’s taunts. ‘Shut up and step down. Slowly.’

  Wassmuss dropped his goggles to the deck but remained where he was. ‘You cannot protect your women, Herr Lock, can you? Your mother, your Chinese lover, and now that pretty little nurse. Amy, is it not? Perhaps I will pay her a visit.’

  ‘I said, shut up!’ Lock’s finger tightened on the trigger. How the hell did the bastard know all this? Know about Amy? Know where she was? Sod it, just shoot him and be done with it. Get the notebook. He began to squeeze the trigger. Wassmuss must have sensed some change in Lock, for his face seemed to tighten up. Then Lock eased off slightly. He could hear Underhill and the sepoys nearby, their boots thundering on the deck as they rapidly approached. Then a torch beam struck the German. His blue eyes sparkled as his face broke into a smile.

  ‘Never hesitate, Lieutenant! You lose!’ He then winked, turned, and dived overboard.

  Lock let off a shot at the same instant and ran towards the guard rail. He stared down into the inky-black waters and cursed. Wassmuss was gone.

  ‘Christ, Lock! What the hell is going on?’ Hayes-Sadler gasped, as he, Underhill and the sepoys came storming up to the guard rail next to him. The captain peered down into the water below. ‘Iggry! The light! The light!’ he called back over his shoulder.

  Singh pushed forward with the electric torch, and directed it down into the water. The beam cut through the darkness, but searched in vain for any sign of the German. ‘Do you think he was cut up by the propellers, sahib?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Hayes-Sadler said. ‘Wait … what’s that?’

  Singh moved the beam through the frothing water of the ship’s wake until it fell upon a chauffeur’s cap floating on the surface.

  ‘Our dignitary’s manservant, that Arab chauffeur … was a Fritz spy, Captain,’ Lock said, stuffing his Webley back in its holster. ‘He killed Shears and shot Major Ross.’

  Hayes-Sadler stared back in shock. ‘Are they both dead?’

  ‘No, Captain, I’m very much alive. He just wounded my pride a little.’ Ross shuffled forward. His left arm hung loosely at his side and his shoulder was matted with blood. He spotted something on the deck and bent down to pick it up. It was the German’s driving goggles.

  ‘I can’t believe he duped us, sir,’ Lock said.

  ‘Did you get the notebook back?’ Ross leant over the guard rail and scowled into the water below.

  Lock gave a shake of his head. ‘Why would he risk exposing himself like that, sir?’

  ‘Who knows? Panic, perhaps? I guess Shears stumbled on him searching my cabin for his documents. One thing’s for certain, though, we’re close to Basra and he’s worried. I managed to copy out some of the contents; we could still thwart his plans if I can decipher it. Maybe find this rat in the White Tabs. Or perhaps he meant to kill us all before we reached Basra …’ Ross turned to Underhill. ‘Sergeant Major?’

  ‘Sah?’ Underhill saluted stiffly.

  ‘Best search the boat from top to bottom for any signs of sabotage. A bomb, a leak, anything suspicious. Can’t be too careful. This chap has form.’

  ‘Very good, sah!’ Underhill saluted again. ‘Right lads,’ he said, turning to the sepoys, ‘follow me!’

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ Hayes-Sadler said, and led Underhill and the sepoys back towards amidships.

  Singh remained with Lock and Ross, directing the torch over the river.

  ‘Did you get him?’ Ross said.

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I think so.’ Lock continued to watch the beam of light scanning the river. ‘He knows about Amy, where she is.’

  ‘We’ll get to Basra before he does, see she’s safe,’ Ross said.

  ‘I hope so, sir. I hope so.’

  Ross smiled weakly, tossing the goggles over the side and taking the bottle from his pocket. ‘At least he didn’t shoot the brandy.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  What do you think, sir?’ Lock said, lowering his field glasses.

  He was standing alongside Ross on the bridge of the Espiegle, with Hayes-Sadler, Underhill and the first officer, looking up the wide, open, flat water of the Shatt al-Arab towards the legendary city of Basra, the Venice of the East. It was eerily still and Lock could make out the line of the city wall and the jagged rooftops of the buildings beyond, as well as a Babylonian tower and a magnificent dome that reminded him of St Paul’s in London. All were dark and still, giving the impression of a theatre set, particularly as the far-off, thumping gunfire had turned the sky behind the city to the west into an artist’s palate of pulsating reds, oranges and yellows.

  ‘It’s like the aurora borealis,’ Ross almost whispered. ‘Have you ever seen the Northern Lights, Lock?’

  ‘No, sir, I can’t say that I have.’

  ‘A must, Lock, a must.’

  Lock turned back to stare in wonder at the light show.

  Would Amy be standing somewhere, on a balcony perhaps, looking at the same thing? Would she be as captivated? Or would she be nervous and full of apprehension? Perhaps she was up to her elbows in blood, tending to the wounded. Lock smiled. She would make a good nurse, he thought; strong, brave, stubborn. He couldn’t wait to see her again. So close now. He fingered her handkerchief deep inside his pocket. Not long now.

  ‘That artillery fire’s coming from Shaiba, the fort a few miles further west,’ Ross said. ‘Those letters you intercepted were right, Lock. Do you remember? “Split the attention of our enemy from Miralay Subhi Bey’s offensive at the shadow of the crescent moon.” Well, look to the sky.’

  Lock glanced up. Ross was right; it was as the letter said. This moon, he recalled from schooling, was known as a waxing gibbous; not quite full, and the crescent on its left side was, indeed, as a shadow.

  ‘I don’t think we’re too late, though. Wassmuss’s army can’t be here yet. But we need to get into the city and contact the garrison,’ Ross said, his voice thick with strain. His left arm was in a sling and his face was pasty and glistened with sweat. Lock could see that the major was struggling to stay alert.

  ‘Did you get any clues from the notebook, sir, about what Wassmuss had planned?’

  ‘He has agents in the city, Arabs, although I wouldn’t put it past him to have a man in British uniform, too,’ Ross said. ‘He’s a cunning fellow.’

  Lock knew that all too well. Twice he had come face to face with the German now, and twice he had surprised him. He knew he hadn’t shot the bastard when he dived overboard and his instincts told him that he’d escaped the propellers and made it to the shore. But which side? Ross had told him that Wassmuss was a master of disguise, that he’d been living and working among the Arab people for years. Well, Lock could easily believe that. The German’s ability to blend in was astounding, and he knew their customs and languages. Lock had to admire the man, and that worried him. Wassmuss could pass himself off as anyone: British, Arab, Indian, Turk … He could slip into the city and disappear. But then again, Lock knew him to be arrogant. He’d want to lead his army to glory, that’s what he believed. But he was also troubled about how much the German knew about him, about Amy.

  Ross wiped the sweat from his brow and frowned. ‘Why is the city so qui—’ He broke into a coughing fit and winced, grabbing hold of the guard rail to steady himself.

  Lock moved to help, but Ross waved him away.

  ‘Did the MO get the bullet out?’ Lock said.

  Ross shook his head again. ‘Lodged in my shoulder. But I’m fine. You’d best get ashore and reconnoitre. Signal from the city wall when you’ve assessed the situation. We’ll steam on through to the quays. We don’t want to get sunk by friendly fire now, do we?’ Ross’s eyes flickered and he began to sway on his feet.

  Lock grabbed hold of him. ‘Steady
, sir. We really should get you to that hospital.’

  ‘Do as I say!’ Ross snapped. He checked himself and smiled apologetically. But his grey, damp face looked ghostly and drawn in the moonlight.

  ‘Very well, sir,’ Lock said. ‘Singh, gather the lads, make ready to go ashore. Sergeant Major, you’re to stay with Major Ross. I’m leaving Private Dunford and Bombegy with you.’

  ‘I should be going with the landing party, sah,’ Underhill said through gritted teeth.

  Lock pulled the sergeant major aside. ‘I need you to get the major to the military hospital in the city. You can see he’s in a bad way. Dunford and Bombegy will act as stretcher-bearers. I’m putting the major’s welfare in your hands. Understand?’

  Underhill nodded reluctantly, and Lock turned back to Ross.

  ‘If you jump off on the west bank you can make your way up to the city directly,’ the major said.

  ‘No, the east,’ Lock said. ‘I want to find out how Wassmuss is planning to get his army across the Shatt. It may be its narrowest point here, but it’s still a little over 750 feet to the other side. Remember, they are on foot, or horseback, travelling over land. They must have some plan as to how to cross the river.’

  ‘It’s probably in that damned notebook,’ Ross winced. ‘But I couldn’t work it out. Very well, Lock, get going!’

  Half an hour later, Lock was hidden with Singh amongst the date palms on the eastern shore of the Shatt al-Arab as the river ran towards the north, scanning the opposite bank through his field glasses. Despite Basra’s tranquil impression, he knew things weren’t right. There was the flicker of flames and a worrying amount of smoke billowing from just behind the city walls further upriver. He prayed it wasn’t the hospital. Beyond that he could make out the unending series of quays where shadowy forms of boats and steamers lay berthed at the wharves.

  Lock turned his glasses back. The whole corner of the city directly across the wide expanse of water, just above the gaping mouth of a large creek that headed south-west, looked deserted. There were no fires. There wasn’t even a light shining. ‘I can see no sign of life. Not so much as a sentry on the walls …’ He glanced at Singh. ‘I don’t like it.’