Four

 

 

1

 

No matter how the situation had been phrased, no matter how much concern was caused in Westminster by the circumstances which had been forced on them, nobody was deluded. The British were staying. And, as if it were a warning, the first explosion of anger occurred in Khaswe within twenty-four hours of the Prime Minister’s speech.

During the day someone stole the Union Jack from the flag-pole outside the British Information Centre and hoisted a dead cat in its place. No one saw it happen – or so they claimed – and the police swore that they knew nothing, and during the evening the window collapsed as a brick shattered the glass. The crowd tore the interior to shreds and within ten minutes the market was on fire and the place was given up to murder, robbery and arson. Half a dozen British-owned cars were burning in the streets, a British soldier had been shot in the back on the Wad, and three policemen, attempting to disperse a mob near the Ministry of Justice, had been seriously beaten up.

As the Saladin armoured vehicles appeared on the streets and the narrow alleys began to echo to the wail of police sirens, in the bizarre palace on the headland the Sultan nervously discussed the situation with Rasaul Pasha.

‘The Defence Force has brought in half a dozen youths, sir,’ Rasaul was saying.

‘Children,’ the Sultan growled. ‘It’s not the boys and girls from the university I want. It’s the agitators. The agents. The people who put the ideas into their heads. The Havrists, the Istiqlal Brotherhood.’

Rasaul sighed. ‘Sir, these men rarely find their way into the streets. They’re zealots, not seedy little terrorists.’

The Sultan irritatedly tapped a report on his desk. ‘This is the fifteenth incident today,’ he said.

Rasaul shrugged. ‘It’s the treaty, sir,’ he said. ‘The people aren’t happy about it. We’re walking a tightrope.’

The Sultan stared through the window, hearing the shifting noises of the city beyond the Palace gardens. Out there, down the narrow, odorous alleys of the old city, scattered with vegetable refuse and the droppings of donkeys and redolent with the smell of charcoal and mint tea, men had started to plot against him, he knew. He turned slowly, his shoes scraping on the bright Moroccan tile-work that covered the floor.

‘Of course we’re walking a tightrope,’ he said sharply. ‘But what do you suggest? That I go aboard my yacht and head for the South of France like Farouk and a few more and live off my savings dallying with women?’

Rasaul said nothing. Privately he thought it was a good idea. The Sultan was noted for his virility and his interest in young women.

‘I’m well aware that there are those in Khalit who’re anxious to see me go,’ Tafas went on. ‘But I don’t intend to go. They’ll only throw in their lot with Cairo, which wants merely to carry on the war with the Jews. I don’t believe in that. I believe in peace!’

Rasaul knew perfectly well that the last thing the Sultan was concerned with was Middle East peace. He was concerned with his own safety and his own revenues, and Rasaul almost had it in him to feel sorry for the British who found themselves in such an unenviable position. If they had gone back on the treaty Tafas was invoking they would have been the object of scorn and derision from their enemies. By standing by it, they were allowing other enemies to raise a storm of fury.

‘There are other factors, sir,’ he said patiently. ‘Our liabilities are in the region of three hundred and fifty million dollars and our assets can’t be realised in the open market. There’s been pressure throughout the whole area to withdraw funds. The banks are uncertain and people are moving their accounts – even the bordel women from the Khaliba area. And when they think of leaving we should look to our affairs.’

Tafas frowned. Alongside his income from olives, fruit, almonds, saffron, mint and minerals, he drew a discreet revenue from hemp and prostitution. ‘I expect the evacuation of British troops to be halted,’ he growled stubbornly.

Rasaul decided he was completely out of touch. Sultans, khalifs and kings were no longer currency under the onrush of new ideas.

‘It will be, sir,’ he pointed out ‘In Khaswe. But the British Government’s offer of support will never include the frontier. We have a time bomb under us just waiting to be lit.’

Tafas frowned and Rasaul went on. He was no more honest than any other of the Sultan’s Ministers and had long since decided it might be a good idea to develop some illness which would necessitate going to his country estate until he could see which way the wind was blowing. When the British left – as they would have to eventually – and the Sultan had disappeared, the people who would inevitably take over would be bound to start looking round for someone with experience to do their work for them, and, having seen his plans wrecked, he was trying to salvage what he could. For once the British Government’s interests ran parallel with his own.

‘The frontier has only remained quiet for so long,’ he pointed out, ‘because the northern tribes have been expecting that we shall have to give up the Toweida Plain. If the British stay, we shall be in trouble on two fronts – here in Khaswe and in the north. The British are prepared to look after us only as far as a line running east and west through Dhafran to Umrah and Aba el Zereibat.’

The Sultan jerked his hand irritatedly. ‘We can hold the frontier with ease,’ he was saying. ‘Khowiba. Umrah. Hahdhdhah. Afarja. Aba el Zereibat. All of them. As for the tribes holding the Dharwa passes – the Shukri, the Khadari, the Jezowi, and the Muleimat – we’ll worry about them when they make a move. At the moment they’re still taking my subsidies.’

‘And what about the evacuation of Hahdhdhah, Umrah and Zereibat?’ Rasaul asked. ‘These were ordered on your instructions and the instructions still stand. Only you can cancel them.’

Tafas gave him a sharp look and Rasaul knew he was still hesitating to do anything definite about invoking the treaty in case it should be the final step which would lose him the north. The day’s violence had shaken him and he was wavering again.

‘Does General Cozzens feel he has the situation here under control?’ Tafas asked.

‘I’m seeing him shortly,’ Rasaul said. ‘He’s giving a small party.’

‘Will the Bishop of Harwick be there?’

‘I hear so, sir.’

‘We should declare him and his friends persona non grata.’

Rasaul’s expression didn’t change. ‘It would be difficult,’ he said coldly. ‘The British set great store by their clericals. A newspaperman or two, perhaps. Even a politician. But not a bishop. He’s supposed to be a man of peace.’

‘He’s stirred up more trouble in his time than a Holy Man declaring a jehad. Perhaps we might arrange for a bomb to be thrown through his window. We could always blame the National Front.’ For a moment the Sultan looked hopeful then he sighed. ‘What a pity I’m only joking, Rasaul,’ he said. ‘I think I’d better ask General Cozzens’ advice, after all.’

Rasaul’s mouth twisted. He’ll never remember, he thought. He never did. The Sultan’s memory was as legendary as his havering.

‘What about the press, sir?’ he asked.

‘What about them?’

‘They are asking for an interview.’

Tafas’ shoulders hunched doggedly. ‘I’ll talk to them later,’ he said. ‘For the moment, I expect they know how to look after themselves.’

 

 

2

 

He was right, and at that moment they were crowded into one of the private bars of the Intercontinental Hotel, waiting for General Cozzens to wind up the little talk that the switch of policy at the Palace had made necessary.

They had been badgering his staff for some time now, demanding to know what was happening, and his conference was an attempt to explain. He wasn’t succeeding very well because it was impossible to explain something he didn’t yet know himself, and the Khaliti Command, unable to pin the Sultan down to anything, was lying low and offering neither help nor press conferences. The press had turned up en masse, the foreigners making sour cracks at the British, all a little edgy and excited because they knew that trouble was brewing, and angry because that morning they’d been in the way of the troops and been rounded up on Cozzens’ orders and marched to safety. Some of them were even feeling spiteful and were after Cozzens’ blood.

There were men – and women – representing the sharp American magazines that so caught the urgent spirit of the States, crisp, bloody-minded, sparing with words but cramming everything into blunt square paragraphs that pulled no punches when it came to criticism. There were the French writers and the slick photographers of Paris-Match determined to get a few of the gory pictures that they put across so well. And all the crowd from London – the Express, the Telegraph and The Times, and all the agency boys, to say nothing of the television teams. The situation was made for disaster and they were anxious to show a few pictures of smoking motor cars and motionless figures sprawled across the pavement for the delectation of the British public with their before-dinner gins.

Alec Gloag regarded them with a jaundiced eye. He’d more than once posed a small boy with a petrol bomb when it wasn’t possible to get close to the in-fighting, more than once helped to stir up a crowd for his own purposes and to titillate his public, and could always write a commentary to go with it that was nicely tinged with sarcasm. There was no one better at it than he was.

He had already talked to the Bishop of Harwick and his companion in indignation, Forester Hobbins, professional protesters both of them, always concerned with someone else’s agony at the other side of the world when it always seemed to Gloag that there were plenty of agonies in England that could use their names.

‘Britain has no right to keep its troops in this part of the world,’ the Bishop had said in the interview Gloag had taped.

‘These people are entitled to work out their own salvation without any help from us.’ Hobbins’ attitude had been even more unequivocal. ‘I wouldn’t lift a finger to save a single British soldier. They have no right to be here and they should protest.’

Gloag had listened to them sourly. A fat lot of good it was asking a British soldier to protest, he thought. Soldiers didn’t have that right and most of them, he noticed, curiously didn’t have much time for the Hobbinses of this world, who, while coming to watch with triumph their departure from the squalid little settlements they had protected with their flesh and blood, didn’t hesitate to demand VIP treatment.

Gloag could still remember how the Bishop had refused to walk a hundred yards from the aeroplane that had brought him to Khalit, to the ferry that would carry him across the harbour, and could still recall the bitter expression on the face of the major who had had to give up his car for him. Privately Gloag thought it was because the Bishop, since the attempt on the life of the Pope, had realised that even churchmen were no longer immune to murder, and suspected there might be assassins hidden in the crowd.

Despite the fact that he’d photographed thousands of demonstrations and thousands of protesters, amateur and professional, Gloag had little admiration for them. It was no longer a brave thing to protest. Once, a man who had the courage to stand up and shout against authority had been on his own and likely to be rushed off to prison. Nowadays, protesting had become a national sport and there were so many of them at it, it no longer required much courage. Gloag was disillusioned even with his own brand of disillusionment.

Cozzens’ little lecture was coming to an end now. It hadn’t achieved much. It was only stating what the Prime Minister had already stated – that the Government had been forced by Sultan Tafas into second thoughts about Khalit – and the newspapermen were at him now, crucifying him as they hurled questions at him.

‘If British troops stay here in Khalit,’ he was being asked by a big Frenchman who spoke perfect English, ‘by what right would that be?’

‘By right of the treaty signed originally in 1860—’

‘Over a century ago!’ someone shouted.

‘—recreated after the First World War’ – Cozzens struggled on to the end – ‘and recreated again in 1940. That is the right.’

‘What about the Khaliti who might have your men pushing them around?’

‘What about my men who are going to have to endure a bit of pushing round themselves?’ Cozzens snapped back with a show of spirit that Gloag privately applauded.

He got to his feet while the journalists about him were drawing their breath for the next attack.

‘What about the outposts at Khowiba, Umrah, Hahdhdhah, Aba el Zereibat and Afarja?’ he asked. ‘They are, I understand, surrounded by Hejri and Deleimi warriors who consider they are on their soil.’

The bastard knew his stuff, Cozzens thought bitterly. ‘What is the question?’ he asked aloud.

‘I understand they contain British troops.’

‘Not British troops. Khaliti troops.’

‘Officered by men from the British Army. What about them?’

Cozzens drew a deep breath. ‘My information is still that all British officers are to be returned to the coast,’ he said. ‘The outposts will be brought in first. That order has never been rescinded.’

‘And the Khaliti troops?’

‘According to my information, they are to be brought in also. Umrah, Hahdhdhah and Zereibat are being closed down to shorten the Sultan’s lines. Later, I understand, they will be reopened.’

‘That’ll be the day,’ someone at the back said.

‘What’s your view, sir?’ Gloag persisted.

Cozzens frowned. ‘I’m not in a position to offer a view,’ he said. ‘The frontier’s the Sultan’s problem. I can give no opinion on something I know nothing about.’ And something I’m never likely to learn about either, he thought bitterly. The Sultan had never been in the habit of telling him much even if he remembered. ‘I command in Khaswe. The Khaliti army, at present commanded by Brigadier Wintle, at Dhafran, controls the frontiers.’

‘And if the Hejri decided not to trust the Sultan?’

Cozzens sighed, hating the job he had to do. ‘The officers in command at Hahdhdhah, Umrah and Aba el Zereibat,’ he said, ‘have already received their instructions. I have received no orders contrary to those I already hold, and have received no signal that I am likely to receive such orders. The evacuation south of the northern garrisons will therefore, I imagine, continue as originally planned.’

Gloag almost pitied Cozzens. He was playing him like a fish on a line. ‘My information,’ he went on, ‘is that Aziz el Beidawi himself is up near Hahdhdhah with most of his men.’

‘If that’s your information, I’d like to know where you got it,’ Cozzens snapped back. Sometimes the bloody newspaper and television people had more money to spend on information than the army itself! ‘In any case,’ he ended, ‘I have every confidence in the officer in command.’

Gloag ignored his burst of anger. He had been about to point out that confidence didn’t count for much when there were a hundred of the enemy to every one of you, but he suddenly lost patience and sat down. In his cynical way, he could keep it up for hours if necessary, but he was growing bored. He glanced across at his cameraman who held up a thumb to indicate that he not only had General Cozzens answering questions but he also had Alec Gloag asking them, which, to viewers in England, was probably much more important. While they had never heard of General Cozzens. and couldn’t care less what sort of show he put up, the performance of Alec Gloag was a matter of great moment to the elderly ladies who followed his programme in Bath, Cheltenham and Tunbridge Wells.

As another of the Americans got to his feet with the scrape of a chair, Gloag wondered how best to set about his programme. He had plenty of shots of burning cars and shattered shop fronts in Khaswe, and some good footage of youngsters running from the police. He had the Bishop of Harwick with the breeze blowing his thinning hair about his eyes and Hobbins holding forth on the moral courage that was so lacking in the Government It was still incomplete, though. Having got the British public aware of the garrison at Hahdhdhah, they’d be watching for what happened to them – as if they were watching Watford in a cup-tie against Chelsea – asking themselves if the lost cause was going to come off, and he found himself wondering if he could somehow get permission to go up to Hahdhdhah before it was too late and, if so, if he could get a promise from Aziz el Beidawi, in return for some footage of film, of a safe passage back. He wondered, in fact, what Aziz was thinking about it all, and what the situation was at that moment at Hahdhdhah. He’d heard they were still playing football with the natives.

 

 

3

 

As Sergeant Fox blew his whistle, the Toweida Levies trooped off the dusty field below the fort, followed by the triumphant Dharwa Scouts who, as usual, had won.

There was a lot of cheerful boasting from the Dharwas and sullen responses from the Toweidas, who somehow never seemed able to produce either the energy or the skill to beat the aggressive little hillmen. The Dharwas could knock them into a cocked hat at everything, whether it was weapon-handling or sport or merely knocking back their liquor and chasing the women.

‘Toweidas play football like camels in rut,’ one of the Dharwas said loudly, and Sergeant Fox, scenting trouble, manoeuvred himself to a position between them and started shoving the cocky hillmen back into the fort while Zaid Fauzan’s heavy fists thudded on the heads and shoulders of the Toweidas.

Several groups of villagers had turned up from Hahdhdhah to watch the match, with the civilian clerks and drivers and a few of the wives and children from the fort. They enjoyed football and went berserk when a goal was scored, turning somersaults and loudly offering from the touchline to fight the losing side. As the surly Toweidas trailed back, the drivers and clerks started a game of their own with the Hahdhdhahi, kicking the ball about with more enthusiasm than skill with their bare leathery feet, then Fox noticed that one of the men from the village approached the Hahdhdhahi who was playing in goal, who immediately shouted something to his full-back and set off towards the village at a trot. Soon afterwards, the full-back left, too, and before long most of the villagers had disappeared, only a few of the young boys remaining. The match never got beyond the stage of a kick-about and, eventually, even the boys cut it short and disappeared abruptly, leaving the clerks and drivers angry, hot-eyed and frustrated.

It was a curious incident because the Hahdhdhahi liked the game and many of them fancied themselves at it enough to get hold of European football magazines. Fox stared after them, a referee without a match, wondering how much it was connected with the political events in Khaswe. Rather to their surprise the cancellation of all the instructions for departure they had received had not yet arrived; and they were beginning, tremulously at first but gradually with increasing confidence, to feel that the powers in Khaswe had decided, with the outbreak of violence in the capital, that British officers would be of more use on the coast and were prepared to consolidate by withdrawing from the frontier.

Day after day had gone by yet still the expected order to stay had not arrived, though Fox had long since become aware of the growing tension north of the Dharwas and that the word Istiqlal – Independence – had begun to turn up on the walls of Hahdhdhah village. In addition, a man had been found by one of the Civil Guards, the tough village policemen of the frontier, with a stick of gelignite in a highly volatile state and circular metal discs drilled in the centre which could well have been the base plates of grenades. Fox knew very well what that meant and as the clerks and drivers trailed away to their quarters, he spoke quietly to one of the Dharwa storekeepers who nodded and set off after them.

Not long afterwards, Fox presented himself at Pentecost’s office, still in football shorts but wearing his uniform jacket and cap to make the visit official. He slammed up a salute that shook him from head to foot. He believed in saluting.

‘Hello, Jim,’ Pentecost said, using Fox’s first name as he sometimes did in the privacy of his office. ‘Have a cigarette.’

Fox accepted the cigarette and sat down at Pentecost’s suggestion.

‘I think you ought to know, sir,’ he began. ‘I have a feeling there’s something funny in the wind.’

‘Such as what?’

‘You watched the football match, sir?’

‘Yes. From the tower. It’s a pity the Dharwas always win. It doesn’t help the Toweidas’ confidence.’

‘Notice what happened afterwards, sir?’

Pentecost frowned. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I didn’t. I saw the drivers and the storemen start a match with the villagers but I expected it to be the usual shambles of bad temper and sulks, and decided to let it go.’

‘It never finished, sir.’

‘It didn’t?’

‘No, sir. The villagers broke it off. They went home.’

Pentecost frowned. ‘Something wrong?’ he asked.

Fox gestured with his cigarette. ‘Nothing I saw, sir, but I got Jemal Zeidkha to make a few enquiries. It seemed the villagers had been warned to get home because there was trouble brewing.’

‘Trouble?’

‘That’s what they said, sir.’

 

That night, as usual, Pentecost took up his position on the rampart and stared uneasily towards the hills. Fox’s report didn’t surprise him. He had noticed that the daily cart of fresh vegetables from the village had been growing later each day and that day hadn’t arrived at all. He’d already decided that that was ominous in itself and somehow it seemed more ominous still with the incident Fox had reported.

As he considered the situation, Lack appeared behind him and leaned alongside him in the embrasure.

‘Something worrying you?’ he asked.

‘Here and there,’ Pentecost said mildly. ‘Talaal tells me no vegetables found their way here today. Perhaps the Hahdhdhahi have been listening to the radio, too.’

‘If they haven’t, the Hejri have.’ Lack frowned. ‘They’ve been down in Hahdhdhah threatening the villagers. Beebe picked that one up this morning on his way back. He stopped to buy fruit.’

‘I’d rather Beebe didn’t wander around Hahdhdhah alone,’ Pentecost said. ‘Tell him, will you?’

‘You know what he’ll say: I’m a civilian. I’m an American citizen. I can do as I please.’

Pentecost stared at the hills again, almost as though he’d forgotten Lack.

‘I’ve decided to call in the Civil Guard,’ he said suddenly.

Lack’s eyebrows rose. ‘Oh? Why?’

Pentecost gave a little smile. ‘Let’s say I want to inspect them.’

Lack thought of the tough scruffy policemen of the Hahdhdhah Command who kept the villages in order with the weight of their fists and the threat of their weapons. ‘They’ve never been inspected before,’ he pointed out.

‘Then it’s time they were.’

Lack frowned, never quite able to understand the working of Pentecost’s mind. ‘You mean you want them all?’

‘All! – And while we’re at it, I think we should do something about those vegetables that didn’t appear. I thought we might send someone down to round them up.’ He paused, then gave Lack a radiant small boy’s smile. ‘You, for instance.’

Lack looked shocked at the idea of someone of his rank performing such a menial task.

‘Can’t one of the sergeants do it?’ he suggested.

Pentecost shook his head. ‘I’d rather you went.’

Lack shrugged. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Don’t think I’m dodging it – if that’s what you want. Suppose the bastards don’t want to sell?’

‘I suggest that you take Sergeant Stone down there with Int-Zaid Mohamed and twenty men to encourage them. Leave Mohamed outside with the men – we don’t want him visiting his wife and getting himself knocked off down an alley.’

‘Wouldn’t it be better to take Hussein? He hasn’t got a wife down there to visit.’

Pentecost smiled. ‘It won’t worry Mohamed. I’ve noticed that when he’s parked outside, his wife always nips out and visits him.’

Lack frowned, wondering how it was that Pentecost seemed to know everything worth knowing about everyone. He’d never noticed the movements of Mohamed’s wife when he’d visited the village. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Mohamed it is.’

‘Take Stone in with you to do the arguing,’ Pentecost went on. ‘If the excuses are genuine, make sure the supplies come back with you. If they aren’t genuine, get Stone on the job.’

Lack was inclined to make light of the missing vegetables. ‘Won’t they turn up tomorrow?’ he asked.

‘They might not.’

Lack frowned. ‘Billy,’ he said, ‘are you gathering stores in case we have to stay here?’

‘I’m just fussing perhaps,’ Pentecost conceded mildly. ‘But it’s a great thing in a soldier – fussing. All the best soldiers are born fussers.’

‘Do you think something’ll go wrong and they’ll make us stay?’

‘We’ve been given no indication that they’re thinking that way,’ Pentecost said. ‘Our orders are still to leave on the twenty-first.’

Lack nodded. ‘You’d expect some sort of provisional instruction if they were going to change it, wouldn’t you?’ he said.

‘You would indeed.’

‘Then what’s with all this about the vegetables?’

‘I just like my greens,’ Pentecost said evasively. ‘That’s all. But while you’re at it, you might to-and-fro a bit and see if you can spot anything.’

Lack was looking uneasy now. ‘You think there’s something in the wind, Billy, don’t you?’ he said.

Pentecost was still non-committal. ‘Got to keep the Hahdhdhahi up to snuff, haven’t we?’ he said. ‘Got to let ’em know we’re not relaxing or they might be encouraged to do something naughty on the twenty-first.’

 

 

4

 

Lack was not the only unwilling one. Despite his wife’s presence, Int-Zaid Mohamed seemed to show no enthusiasm for the job either – any more than the Toweida Levies who were usually cheerful enough about a chance to see women. They marched out briskly, however, making a good show, and Pentecost watched them from the rampart above the gate. He turned to Fox. ‘Let’s have the sentries doubled, Sergeant,’ he suggested. ‘And tell ’em to keep their eyes open.’

Fox gave him a curious look, then he saluted and turned away.

‘Billy’s worried,’ he observed to Sergeant Chestnut as they passed on the parade ground a moment later. ‘He thinks there’s trouble in the offing.’

‘Och, charming,’ Sergeant Chestnut said sourly. ‘Bluidy charming! Yon’s all we want.’

Lack didn’t enjoy his stay in the village. The headmen were polite, even effusive, and as usual offered him coffee and a seat on their carpets. He refused, though he knew quite well that Pentecost would have accepted and, perched primly on a dusty cushion under the fretted woodwork of the coffee house, would have remained chatting cheerfully, drinking coffee or mint tea off the charcoal barriers and nibbling sweetmeats while still managing somehow to conduct the search that Stone was undertaking at that moment. Pentecost had the gift of being polite even to a murderous-looking Hahdhdhahi and completely in touch with his job at the same time. Lack decided he wasn’t cut out for searching hostile villages.

Behind him, the women were beating their washing by the stream and the labourers and farmers were tending the meagre earth beyond the houses, where their withered oranges and olives and dates grew. But he had also noticed strangers standing in doorways and in the shade of the few dusty trees, and he suspected they were tribesmen who had filtered down in the night from the hills to stir up the trouble he was encountering now. He even suspected they had guns with them and, as his back tingled at the thought, he wished to God he was within the safety of the fort.

He decided he’d been a damned fool to volunteer for this duty with the Khaliti army. He’d been growing bored with Germany at the time and had felt that Khalit might be a good place to get in a little not very dangerous active service that would enable him to lord it over the newcomers in the mess when he returned to civilisation. He hadn’t allowed for a dangerous switch in policy and he certainly hadn’t expected to be posted to a God-forsaken spot like Hahdhdhah.

He heard the crash of Sergeant Stone’s boots behind him and turned. Stone was always the most militaristic of the sergeants. He was a short thickset man with a stiff blond thatch and he always conducted himself as though he were on parade with the Guards outside Buckingham Palace.

‘All ready, sir,’ he announced.

‘What have we raised?’ Lack demanded.

‘All three carts of vegetables and grain.’

‘Much trouble?’

‘No, sir. But it’s my opinion the bastards didn’t want to let us have ’em.’ Stone looked at Lack curiously. ‘What’s Mr Pentecost up to, sir? Why are we getting so fussy? We’re still leaving on the twenty-first and we’ve got enough tinned stuff to keep us till then.’

‘Major Pentecost,’ Lack said glumly, ‘like God, moves in a mysterious way.’ He slapped his boot with his cane. ‘Mohamed seen his wife?’

Stone grinned. ‘Yessir. Vanished into one of the Toweida huts for ten minutes. I reckon it was long enough.’

Lack shrugged. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘let’s go. And, since there was some difficulty in getting the bloody stuff, let’s have the Toweidas under Mohamed behind us, between the carts and the village, and you and I in front in the car so that the bastards can’t bolt. We don’t want any twisted knickers this trip.’

 

Back at the fort, Pentecost eyed the vegetables with approval. ‘What was it like in the village?’ he asked.

‘Bloody nasty,’ Lack replied feelingly. ‘You could feel it. There were a bunch of bods down there who were never Toweida. They had Khusar stamped all over them.’

‘Armed?’

‘Nothing I could see. Though my back was tingling all the time. I reckon they’ve been intimidating the headmen. I heard a few snide remarks.’

‘They know about the Sultan’s new attitude?’

‘Oh they know all right.’

Pentecost nodded. ‘You might be good enough to ask Beebe if he’ll drop in on me when he’s a moment.’

Beebe didn’t have a moment just then and he made no effort to provide one. It didn’t really suit him to take orders from a young man who looked as though he ought still to be in diapers, and he finished what he was doing before strolling over to Pentecost’s office. Outside the door he met Minto emerging.

‘How’s Billy?’ he asked.

Minto grinned. ‘Navel still central,’ he said.

Beebe paused and lit a cigarette deliberately because he knew that Lack and Minto always made a point of putting out their own cigarettes before entering. One always did put out one’s cigarettes before entering the commanding officer’s sanctum sanctorum and one continued to do it even when the commanding officer was only a jumped-up captain with a face like a Botticelli cherub.

The action gave him surprisingly little pleasure, however. Pentecost had always been scrupulously polite and friendly towards him. His manner always made Beebe feel more important than he was and he realised that it sprang from a gilt for making each of them feel he was their only friend. It was charm, Beebe knew, but but he also knew that it wasn’t a false or superficial charm; but something very real that came with breeding, something Lack would never have, for all his boisterous bonhomie, and he guessed it came through his family, from centuries of caring for other people.

As it happened, Pentecost didn’t even notice he was smoking. He simply waved him to a chair, pushed a packet of cigarettes across the desk to him, and finished signing two or three papers before looking up.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr Beebe,’ he said with a disarming smile.

Beebe moved uncomfortably in the chair, to his own surprise keeping the cigarette below the desk where it couldn’t be seen. ‘Understand you want to see me,’ he said.

‘That’s right.’ Pentecost paused, rubbing his peeling nose before he spoke. ‘Like a drink? I have a little left.’

‘No thanks. Not for me.’

Pentecost didn’t press him, and leaned back in his chair.

‘You’ll be fully aware of the Government’s new policy towards Khalit, Mr Beebe,’ he said. ‘In fact, it was you who drew our attention to it.’

‘Sure, I heard it on the radio.’ Beebe was conscious of the studied formality of Pentecost’s address. Lack and Minto seemed to have got over their surprise at having an American among them and gave him his Christian name but Pentecost still stuck to the stiffer title.

He eyed Pentecost warily. He was fidgeting with a book on the table and Beebe caught the title. The Cavalier Poets, for Christ’s sake. The idea startled him at first then somehow he realised it went with Pentecost.

‘Have they told you you’ve got to stay?’ he asked.

Pentecost smiled. ‘Not yet, Mr Beebe. Not yet. I still have my fingers crossed.’

‘Will they?’

‘So far we have no reason to think they will. For some reason that’s beyond our ken, the Khaliti Command seems to be giving up the frontier.’

‘Either way it’s a lousy deal they’ve handed you.’

‘It’s nothing new,’ Pentecost replied. ‘We have to earn our keep.’ He seemed a little shy, as though his sense of duty were something to be ashamed of in front of others. ‘However, I do agree with you and I’m making a point of putting it all down on paper. Just in case something goes wrong and they start blaming us.’

Beebe stared at him. He seemed to have a strange solid belief in his own ability, as though his family traditions made sure of that. It was an odd self-satisfied attitude which was also, at the same time, self-effacing, because he seemed to feel that, with his background, it wasn’t necessary for anyone else to appreciate his worth.

He was a funny little cuss, Beebe thought, puzzled as always by him. Pentecost – even the goddam name suited him! Vaguely prim, very correct, dainty, even the right overlay of religion that best suited his type of soldier – ‘Oh, Lord, if I be too busy this day to remember Thee, do not thou forget me.’

‘How about your wife?’ he asked. ‘What’ll she think if you have to stay?’

Pentecost smiled. ‘She’s a soldier’s daughter,’ he said. ‘She won’t argue.’ Though he wasn’t so sure about it when he considered it. Soldiers’ daughters weren’t so stiff-upper-lip as they had been, because they were a great deal better educated and more realistic these days.

‘I’d like to meet her,’ Beebe found himself saying.

‘I’ll see that you do, Mr Beebe,’ Pentecost said warmly. ‘When we get to the coast. She’s a pretty girl. You’d like her.’

Beebe found himself smiling and suddenly thought with surprise, goddammit, the sonofabitch’s twisting me round his little finger!

Pentecost seemed to sense his irritation and came to the point quickly. ‘Have you thought of your plans?’ he asked, and Beebe became blunt and brusque again, feeling he’d been led up the garden path.

‘They remain the same, I guess,’ he said shortly. ‘When I’m through I go.’

‘Have you considered getting a bit of a wriggle on? Despite the absence of orders, Mr Beebe, circumstances have changed and I thought you might prefer to go a little earlier than you originally planned.’

‘I guess I’ll go when I’ve finished.’ Beebe was still feeling that he’d been too ready to be friendly.

Pentecost smiled, undisturbed by his stubbornness. ‘As you wish, Mr Beebe,’ he said. ‘That seems to be that then. Perhaps when you’ve time, you’ll let me have it in writing. I should hate anyone to accuse me of keeping you here against your will. Or neglecting to get rid of you when I should.’

‘Aw, hell…!’ Beebe began angrily, but Pentecost looked up, a faint twisted smile on his face.

‘They might, Mr Beebe,’ he said.

He picked up his pen again and Beebe rose, aware somehow of a curious dissatisfaction with the interview. It had been his intention to run it his way, but it had been Pentecost who had kept the initiative all the time, despite his surly defiance.

He set off towards his own quarters still feeling faintly offended, then his cigarette began to burn his fingers and as he stopped to light a new one from the butt, he remembered Aziz and wondered what he was thinking about the new situation.

 

 

5

 

The coffee-hospitality was over. Thawab abu Tegeiga and his Deleimi were in a hurry. They were all young and most of them favoured shirts and trousers to the flowing robes of their elders, and Aziz stared at them with scorn on his thin features. Behind him in the shadows, the women chattering over their duties, the tinkling instruments and wailing flutes, the snake-charmers, the beggars and the dancers that always followed the camps went unheeded. Thawab had appeared at Addowara as the light went out of the hills, unasked and unwelcome, ignoring the green banner that stated it was Aziz’s territory.

A few of the older men with him still wore the dyed cloaks or the traditional headcloths of their tribe, but all of them were armed to the teeth with rifles and pistols. All in all, Aziz had to admit, they were a younger group than those who stood behind him – more up to date and more urgent.

At their head, in the firelight that caught the colours of a woven rug and the burnish of copper cooking utensils, stood a small dark-faced man with the icy eyes of a fanatic. He wore the red Tayur cloak and black headdress of the Deleimi nation. Aziz knew him well. Majid the Assassin he was known as, and he knew that if Thawab gave the word Majid would shoot him dead and be willing to pay the price of his crime with his life.

By his side, as though he sought his protection, Thawab himself waited, like a cat, sleek and comfortable, his face cheerful. But Aziz’s expression didn’t melt. Though Thawab was only thirty-five, he was already putting on flesh. He liked to indulge himself too much and, despite his religion, Aziz knew he drank whisky when no one was looking. He wore Italian suits and shirts away from Khusar and there was a hard-featured Egyptian belly-dancer in a house in Makhrash.

Not that his sex life troubled Aziz much. He had a girl himself in his tent in the village, a Hassi from Gara, one of the mountain villages, a wild creature whom he kept for his old age, for dalliance, not for love. He dressed her in a Hejri cloak of blue brocade held by a jewelled haik pin, bangles and necklaces of gold coins and gold and silver baubles, and an elaborate bead headdress with a medallion between the eyebrows. It hid the hair and the ears but, when worn with little else but a filigree necklace and Berber earrings, could always excite the old man. She was anointed with perfumed oil and painted her toe nails and finger nails on his orders, and he had decided that when he moved back to Makhash she would go with him.

But everyone knew about her, as they did not know about Thawab’s Egyptian. Thawab was soft-centred, a hypocrite, with ice in his veins, condemning all things Western while enjoying them himself, wearing his battledress to impress and not because he went into battle.

Thawab liked to laugh when he wasn’t occupied with plans, short, strong, fair-skinned, and popular, and his people thought him a farseeing man. Aziz didn’t. Neither did he trust him. He considered him insincere and ambitious and knew he made friends arbitrarily and was full of caprice. Even the simple humour that his followers noticed was false because always, even as he was careful not to stir Aziz to too much anger, he watched out of the corner of his eye for the opportunity that would give him political leadership of the Khusar peoples.

‘My young men,’ he was saying, ‘tell me that Aziz el Beidawi has allowed himself to be tricked by his blond young friend from the fort.’

Aziz said nothing. He knew Thawab’s men had been down in Hahdhdhah for some time, listening and watching, and he knew they made remarks about his friendship with Pentecost, comparing the young Englishman with the Circassian boys who had pleased him in his youth.

‘They tell me,’ Thawab continued, ‘that the English Government has had second thoughts on their treaty with Tafas.’

‘I have heard this, too,’ Aziz replied warily.

‘They tell me they will uphold the treaty after all. You have been telling us that the Englishman promised you they were to leave Toweida land.’

‘The Englishman promised me nothing,’ Aziz growled, despite his reputation fanatically faithful to those he considered his friends. ‘He is a paid soldier, a mercenary, who must do what he is told.’

Thawab’s mouth twisted with disdain. ‘It is odd that the Lord Aziz treats with a mere mercenary,’ he said.

Aziz’s scimitar of a nose went up. ‘There are some mercenaries I would rather treat with than great chieftains,’ he growled.

It was a sharp dig and Thawab knew it was directed at him. He decided not to respond in kind.

‘We were promised Toweida,’ he said. ‘If we are not given it, my young men insist that we take it.’

‘And will Thawab be in the forefront of the attack?’ Aziz asked slyly, knowing perfectly well that it had never been Thawab’s habit to expose himself much.

Thawab smiled, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. ‘Soon the Dayi men will be here, with Ghalim, my cousin. They will join my Tayur and the Hawassi, their allies. There will be enough of us to defeat the wishes of Aziz.’ He moved restlessly inside his clothes. He seemed to be summoning his courage. ‘My young men tell me that Aziz grows too old to lead the Hejri,’ he went on. ‘And that when a man talks with the enemy instead of destroying him, he has reached the age when he should retire to his lands and grow cucumbers.’

Aziz’s hand reached for the rifle. ‘Thawab is eager to dispute my strength?’ he asked quietly.

Thawab smiled. ‘I am not eager,’ he admitted. ‘I am reporting what my young men say. My cousin Ghalim tells me that the Dayi think the same way.’

‘Your cousin Ghalim is in your pocket. He is Thawab’s tongue. When your young men stand up to me face to face and tell me they are more capable of leading than I am, when your silken skin has as many scars on it as mine has, then I will step down. Until then I am the leader of the Khusar peoples.’

‘Thou art an old fool, Aziz,’ Thawab said softly.

Aziz rose slowly to his feet but Thawab was already moving away, and Aziz was aware of the clear hostility in the eyes of his followers. There was a murmuring behind him, too, that told him that there were some even among the Hejri men who felt like Thawab and believed they would even now be cheated of the Toweida Plain.

Thawab turned and spoke over his shoulder. ‘Thou art an old fool, Aziz,’ he said again, more confidently. ‘My father told me so. “Take no notice of Aziz,” he said. “Leave him in the forefront of battle and he is happy, but don’t trust him with the cares of the council. He has not the head for it.”’

As he finished speaking, Thawab turned quickly. A few of his young men waited behind, in case any of Aziz’s men tried to avenge the insult, then they too turned and left.

Aziz stared at the empty door of the tent, his eyes hot, his mind seething with rage, his breast hollow with the anger that was consuming him. Despite what he had said to Thawab he had not heard of the change of attitude in England and he resented the fact that he had received the news in this way from Thawab. He felt he had been made to look a fool. His face began to work and he found he was shaking with passion. He saw his followers edging away.

‘Get me my horse,’ he shouted in an explosion of rage. ‘Get – me – my – horse!’

 

 

6

 

‘Sir—’ Pentecost sat bolt upright in bed as he felt Fox’s hand shaking his shoulder ‘—His Nibs is here again.’

Pentecost drew a deep breath. He had been expecting this for days. ‘Aziz?’

‘The man himself, sir. Sitting there, with his boys, in the darkness. You can just see ’em from the tower.’

Pentecost paused for a moment, then he nodded. This one was going to be tricky, he told himself. ‘I’ll be there,’ he said. ‘Have you told Mr Lack and Mr Minto?’

‘Do you want me to, sir?’

‘I think you’d better. And turn out the chaps.’

Fox stared at him. ‘You going out there, sir?’ he asked.

Pentecost had stripped off his pyjama jacket now and Fox studied his slender frame. ‘Why not?’ Pentecost said.

Fox stared at him for a second and was aware of a great feeling of affection for this young man whom he treated vaguely as a cleverer younger brother. He was well aware of the tension that had been growing around Hahdhdhah since the Prime Minister’s speech.

‘If you like, sir,’ he volunteered impulsively, ‘I’ll come with you. Make a bit of a show. Best bib and tucker and so on. Bags of swank.’

Pentecost turned to look at him. His body was ashen in the light of the lamp because, since his fair skin burned easily, he never dared sit in the sun without his shirt like the other men in the fort. In the middle of his face, his nose glowed redly.

‘Would you, Jim?’ he said softly. ‘Would you do that?’

The way he said it twisted Fox’s heart. He was no sentimentalist but he trusted Pentecost and at that moment he seemed desperately lonely. He nodded.

‘Yes, I would, sir, if you wanted me to.’

Pentecost smiled. ‘Thank you, Jim,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know you cared.’

Fox grinned and the frail sentimental moment passed easily because of Pentecost’s facetiousness, when it might easily have left them awkward and wondering what next to say.

‘All the same,’ Pentecost said, ‘I’m going to refuse your offer despite the thought behind it. It’s me and Aziz. It always has been and that’s the way it’s got to stay. If he saw anyone with me, he’d have to bring someone, too. Face! Anything you can do, I can do better. You know the way they think. And that would prevent him speaking freely.’

‘I understand, sir.’

‘He’d have to be diplomatic. He’d have to remember that everything he said would be carried back to the Hejri and, probably, held against him later. After all, he’s only their leader because he’s the toughest or the craftiest. If they could quote his words at him, he might find himself in a sticky situation. And I suspect he’s probably already in a sticky situation. Just as we probably are.’

When Fox had gone, Pentecost finished dressing and shaving, taking care to be precise. As he stared at himself in the mirror he wished he were a more martial figure. There had been no gilt’s for a long time now, and the hills had seemed more silent than ever, and they had been aware of hostile eyes among the tradesmen who arrived to sell their wares in the fortress. He suspected that everyone, and especially Aziz, was waiting to see what would happen at Hahdhdhah. They had read the signs and now Aziz had come down personally to find out the truth.

They were both out on a limb, he decided. He, on account of a stubborn old man in Khaswe who was insisting on sticking to the last full stop and comma of his treaty with the British because he could see no sense in giving up territory; Aziz, because he was being jockeyed by Thawab and had to produce the goods he had promised.

Pentecost sighed, suddenly aware that they couldn’t both win.

 

He finished bucking on his belt and walked out into the morning light. Lack was standing near the gate with Minto, and they both looked a little nervous. Faizan and Zaid Ghalib were watching them, with Int-Zaids Hussein, Mohamed and Suleiman standing behind them. Beebe was there, too, swarthy and bear-like, a faint cynical stare on his face.

‘Give him m-my love,’ Minto said facetiously in a voice that was unexpectedly high-pitched. He cleared his throat. ‘If he’s come to ask us for cocktails, tell him I’ve got a date.’

‘I hope to God he’s not brought any more gifts,’ Lack grumbled. ‘You’re not having my electric razor for the old bastard.’

Beebe’s eyes flickered between them. All Lack’s big talk washed over his head as though it were meaningless gibberish, and Minto he regarded as a boy still wet behind the ears. Pentecost he wasn’t so sure of, but the chaffing still seemed stupid. They’d probably be calling silly remarks to each other, he thought, as Aziz’s tommy gunners blew them to shreds.

He watched as Pentecost adjusted his uniform.

‘Got your popgun?’ Lack asked.

‘No.’ Pentecost gave him a wry smile. ‘I’ll chance it without.’

‘Tell him we still appear to be leaving on the twenty-first, and have no hostile intentions,’ Lack went on. ‘Tell him I have no hostile intentions, in fact, towards anyone.’

Pentecost’s mood changed and he straightened himself abruptly. He glanced round. A group of Dharwas and a few of the Civil Guards who had appeared for the ‘inspection’ he had ordered were watching him, their eyes wide in their dark faces. The gate opened slowly.

‘After you, Cecil! It’s all yours!’

Beebe watched from the rampart as Pentecost walked slowly across the dusty patch of ground towards the waiting line of horsemen. This I’ve seen before, he thought on television. John Wayne. Walking out to meet the Indians. It just isn’t real. It just doesn’t happen. It was too corny to be true. Anybody who could get on with the murderous old rogue beyond the rocks could get on with tarantulas.

As he halted by the group of boulders which had become their meeting place, Pentecost saw Aziz clap spurs to his horse. As it leapt away from the man carrying the green banner and halted beside him, Aziz made no attempt to climb from the saddle.

‘I come in anger, Bin T’Khass,’ he shouted, his thin face drawn. ‘I come aware of treachery!’

Pentecost stared up at him, keeping his face expressionless. ‘There has been no treachery on my part, Aziz,’ he said mildly. ‘Though I am aware that Khusar men watch me in the village of Hahdhdhah.’

For a moment there was silence as Aziz’s tragic eyes rested on his face. ‘Thawab’s spies,’ he said contemptuously, then he went on loudly, his voice bitter with reproach. ‘My young men tell me,’ he said loudly, ‘that your Ministers do not intend to act with honesty.’

Pentecost remained calm. ‘I have heard nothing, Aziz,’ he said quietly.

Aziz stared at him, his eyes flashing. ‘Cannot your Queen remove these men?’ he demanded more quietly.

When he had set off down the scree slopes of the Urbidas to the plains, his brain had been full of the worms of rage, but now, faced with Pentecost’s calmness and transparent honesty, he was unable to say the things he had wanted to say and found himself seeking to blame someone else. ‘Cannot your Queen remove them?’ he asked again.

‘My Queen doesn’t do that sort of thing, Aziz.’

‘Then why is she Queen?’ Aziz shouted. ‘You should have a king! Men should not be ruled by a woman! They are no good at ruling!’

‘She doesn’t rule, Aziz,’ Pentecost explained.

‘Then why–?’ Aziz frowned and dropped the subject. ‘Thou hast lied to me, Bin T’Khass,’ he said harshly.

‘I have not lied,’ Pentecost pointed out. ‘I told thee the facts. These facts still exist.’

‘My young men tell me the English intend to uphold the treaty they made with Tafas el Taif and that the soldiers will not leave the fort.’

‘I have heard nothing about staying, Aziz,’ Pentecost persisted, raising his voice to make himself heard through the older man’s anger.

‘It is a bad treaty,’ Aziz snorted, still trying not very successfully to be ill-tempered in front of Pentecost’s friendliness. ‘No man in Khalit wants it. They wish to rule themselves, not to be ruled by the British.’

‘The British don’t rule Khalit,’ Pentecost pointed out. ‘They simply support the Sultan under the treaty.’

Aziz’s head jerked. ‘The Sultan is no longer popular,’ he said. ‘Like us, the Khaliti wish to elect their own leaders. The days of hereditary government are done.’

Pentecost gave a slow, quiet smile. ‘Your father was hereditary ruler of the Hejri, Aziz,’ he pointed out gravely.

Aziz stared at him, then he grinned. ‘Thou art no fool, Bin T’Khass, for all thy youth. That is so. But I am strong enough to lead them in the way they wish.’

‘When you are old, will you not make your son ruler of the Hejri?’

Like Beebe, Aziz felt vaguely that his words were being chosen for him. ‘I shall make him ruler of the Hejri,’ he said sharply. ‘It is up to him to remain ruler.’

‘Thawab abu Tegeiga might think differently.’

Aziz’s smile faded. ‘Thawab abu Tegeiga always thinks differently,’ he growled. ‘Thawab abu Tegeiga is the cheating son of a camel. He and his young men drive me. They insist we take back what is our own. They know there is nothing can stop them if they so decide.’

‘Only me, Aziz,’ Pentecost said quietly.

Aziz eyed him warily. ‘Thou art a great warrior, Bin T’Khass, but even thou art not that great.’

‘Thawab might be surprised.’

Aziz paused again. Clearly the old man was troubled by the news that had been brought to him.

‘Thou hast heard nothing of this decision to hold Hahdhdhah?’ he asked more calmly, sincerely eager to be reassured.

‘Nothing,’ Pentecost said.

‘That is good.’ Aziz looked earnestly at him. ‘Could not thy duty allow thee to leave?’

‘My duty is to stay here until five noons from now. My duty is to hold Hahdhdhah until then against the Hejri, and if necessary against the whole Khusar country, against Thawab, even against thee, Aziz.’

Aziz looked uncomfortable. ‘Toweida is my people’s birth-right,’ he said sullenly.

‘Toweida will be yours five noons hence.’ As he spoke, Pentecost watched the old man, guessing at the harsh words that had been spoken over the coffee in Addowara village and the tents in the Urbidas.

‘I understand your problems, Aziz,’ he went on and the old man gave him a twisted smile.

‘I am glad this new friendship we have found, Bin T’Khass, is not to cease. I do not wish to part as friends to become enemies.’

‘Nor I.’

The old man’s heart jumped. Pentecost reminded him uncomfortably of his dead son. ‘I shall always think kindly of thee, Bin T’Khass,’ he said impulsively. ‘Whatever happens.’

‘And I of thee, Aziz.’

Aziz sighed. ‘If your Ministers do not give us Toweida, I fear there will be much bloodshed.’

Pentecost shrugged. ‘So be it.’

Aziz stared down at the young man in front of him. ‘It is the will of Allah,’ he said slowly. ‘Thou art an honourable man, Bin T’Khass. Aziz is well aware of this. One cannot talk with men without becoming aware of these things.’

Pentecost bowed slightly.

Aziz was silent for a moment. His face was working but his anger had dissipated. ‘If there is treachery, Bin T’Khass,’ he said at last, ‘I must fight. Even against thee.’

‘I understand all this.’

‘If it comes to war, it will not be possible to hold back my young men.’

‘This I understand also.’

Aziz stared at Pentecost from the saddle, his mouth twisted.

‘Allah protect thee, whatever comes.’

‘God be with thee, too, Aziz.’

For a moment longer, Aziz gazed at Pentecost. Then the horse whirled as he clapped his spurs against its haunches; and as he reached the line of horsemen, its ends curled inwards like the horns of a bull, and they swept behind him as he headed for the hills.

For a long time, Pentecost stared after them, blinking at the dust they had stirred up which was blowing into his face. Then he turned round and slowly headed back towards the fortress.

 

 

7

 

‘…All grain, rice and foodstuffs beyond what will be needed for the journey to be left. Weapons to be removed, together with all mechanical, electrical and radio equipment, and all ammunition and explosives. Timber, corrugated iron, iron piping, rush mats, plastic sheets may be left…’

‘Toilet paper?’ Lack asked sarcastically.

Pentecost looked up. ‘That, too,’ he said, frozen-faced.

While they talked, Beebe was scanning his instructions. ‘The first party,’ he read, ‘will leave at 1100 hours under Captain Lack. It will consist of half the lorries, each manned by a driver and two guards, the cooking equipment and one of the armoured cars. The lorries will contain the women and children and civilian workers, and include the vehicle of Mr Beebe. They will carry half the mortars and machine guns, both light and heavy, and half the ammunition for all weapons. The Civil Guard will march behind. Bugler Owdi will accompany this party.’

He looked up at Pentecost sitting at the other side of the desk, small, smooth-faced, self-assured – a spruce little figure who looked as though he ought to have been editor of a woman’s magazine rather than a soldier.

Beebe’s eyes fell again to the sheets he held in his hand. ‘The second group, under Captain Minto,’ he read, ‘will leave at 1130 hours and will consist of one lorry, 150 men of the Toweida Levies, and 40 men of the Dharwa Scouts. They will carry their weapons, forty rounds of ammunition and rations for three days. The last group under the Commanding Officer will leave at 1200 hours. This group will consist of the remaining Toweidas and the remaining Scouts, marching in a formation to be decided later, the second armoured car and the rest of the lorries containing the remainder of the weapons and ammunition. Weapons and ammunition in all groups will be stowed so as to be easily accessible. A radio watch and a sharp look-out will be kept at all times. In case of trouble, a red Very light will be fired. If a Very light is seen, groups will close up on it and wireless communication will be opened immediately.’

Beebe looked across at Pentecost who was waiting patiently for him to finish reading, his elbows on the desk, his hands together in the form of a steeple, his finger tips neatly under his chin. He looked pleased with himself.

Beebe gave him a puzzled look. The orders he’d drafted were sound enough and seemed professional even to Beebe. Pentecost had prepared for all emergencies and had worked out a formation that would enable the first group to be in Hahdhdhah village before the last group left the fort. That way, Beebe realised, if Aziz decided to be difficult, they could hold a passage through the village until the last party arrived. Yet if there were shooting or treachery, they would still have one foot in the fort and could call back the lot if necessary.

Lack and Minto had finished reading now. ‘Bit cautious, aren’t you, Billy?’ Lack asked.

‘You never know,’ Pentecost said calmly.

‘But, hell, all that about splitting up the weapons and having everything ready. Thought you and Aziz were like that.’ Lack held up two fingers.

‘Just precautions, actually,’ Pentecost said mildly. ‘We’ll be meeting Wintle at the other end of the pass.’

‘Think the Civil Guards ought to be in the first group?’ Lack asked. To Beebe he seemed to be trying to show off his knowledge and experience.

Pentecost didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘They can keep an eye on the women. The women are used to them. They’re a bit scared of ’em, too,’ he added. ‘And that’s no bad thing.’

Beebe thought of the forty or fifty scruffy-looking men in shreds of khaki uniform assembled in the courtyard. They had been arriving for some time now and, despite their general air of slovenliness, he had to admit they looked tough customers. They were reputed to dislike the Hejri as much as the Hejri disliked them.

As they finished speaking, Beebe stepped forward. ‘I can’t have my equipment in the first group,’ he said abruptly, ‘I shan’t have time.

Pentecost looked up. ‘Couldn’t you hurry, Mr Beebe?’ His voice sounded sad and reproachful, and Beebe suspected he was being manoeuvred again.

‘I guess not,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m dealing with explosives and precision stuff.’

‘Surely you could pack it beforehand?’

Beebe stared back at Pentecost, determined to remain his own man and take orders from no one.

‘Mine’s last-minute stuff,’ he said. ‘I need all the time I can get. Even an hour.’

Pentecost stared at him and Beebe had an uncomfortable feeling that he could see through the excuse to the meanness of spirit that had prompted it. ‘Very well,’ he said, not arguing. ‘I’ll arrange for your vehicle to go with my group.’

Lack spoke. ‘Couldn’t we leave at first light?’ he asked.

‘My orders say midday.’

‘What’s an hour or two when we’re giving the place up?’

Pentecost surveyed Lack expressionlessly. He was still not convinced that they were giving the place up. Deep down in his mind, he suspected that somewhere something had gone wrong and he was sufficiently a professional soldier not to transgress against instructions in case circumstances arose whereby they were later flung in his face.

‘I bet Tom Jeffreys at Zereibat won’t wait till midday,’ Lack said. ‘And Howard at Umrah won’t be out on a limb.’

‘We’re rather more out on a limb than either of them,’ Pentecost pointed out quietly.

‘But hell, Billy–!’

Pentecost sighed. It was not his duty to query orders, even if he suspected them. It was his duty to do as he was told. Exactly as he was told. Whatever he might think in private.

‘Midday,’ he said firmly.