‘Much trouble in Kabul, sahib,’ they told him. ‘Much shooting, many dead.’
‘What is the cause of the trouble?’
‘It is the mullahs, sahib. They are saying the Amir is wrong to be changing the way of our people. They are saying they do not want to be like the West. We are the East.’
‘But the Amir has the army,’ Murdoch said, hopefully. ‘Many soldiers in the army believe that the mullahs are right, sahib.’
Murdoch followed Ramage up to the pass, where Destry’s squadron was being dug in and machine guns mounted. Already they were confronting nearly a hundred refugees who were trying to continue down the road.
‘We could have a serious situation on our hands,’
Murdoch said. ‘But keep the pass closed, no matter what.’ Ramage nodded, and Murdoch returned to Peshawar. ‘A real-life revolution, right on our doorstep,’ Veronica said. ‘I love it. I just love it.’
‘Any chance of seeing some of the action?’ Harry wanted to know.
‘No chance at all,’ Murdoch told him. ‘There is no one going or coming through the Khyber Pass as long as I can help it.’
‘Of all the cock-ups,’ Lee complained when she could get him alone. ‘The only hope I have of staying sane is to keep that dame on the move.’
‘Well, do that,’ Murdoch told her. ‘There is no trouble in the province, and I intend to keep it that way. Just continue as normal.’
‘But you won’t be able to come along.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Murdoch said. ‘Call on Jennie and Linda. I’ll take care of Harry.’
‘You reckon I want to be alone with her? Maybe she’ll just love it, she really will. But I won’t.’
‘You’ll have Jennie and Linda,’ he told her.
‘It’s going to be a great Christmas,’ she grumbled.
*
In fact, it was. The trouble in Afghanistan grew worse, but none of it spilled over into Waziristan. Murdoch made several flights up to Wana, Tochi and Razmak — and buzzed the Mahsuds en route — just in case anyone was feeling agitated, but the province remained peaceful.
The Viceroy himself came up to see what was going on, concurred with the blocking of the pass, but decreed that a limited number of refugees could be allowed in. However, he recognized that this was a civil rather than a military matter, and a special commissioner, Mr Humphrey, arrived to set up a camp and vet the various applicants for asylum. Murdoch rather felt it was on a cash or usefulness basis, but it was not his responsibility any more. He had to supply guards for the camp, and he had to keep a much stronger force than usual at the pass and in Jamrud, while he also had to keep his various garrisons on the alert, but his mini-crisis was good for the men, and as December drew to a close the position seemed to have become stabilized.
He wondered if he was disappointed. He had no real desire to invade Afghanistan to assist Amanullah. Too many British armies had come a cropper in those mountains, even if he did not doubt he could emulate his boyhood hero, Bobs. But with authority in decline across the border he had suspected the Mahsuds might have been able to encourage other dissidents to chance their arm. They hadn’t, and now the chance seemed gone, as reports of fighting in Kabul died down. Yet Chand Bibi and her father and indeed all her people remained nagging at him like a sore tooth. It was unreasonable, he knew. All the Pathans fought in the same way; they expected no mercy and they gave none. There was not a tribe in the province which had not at some time in the past mutilated British soldiers, and he had no great hatred for any of them. But he did for the Mahsuds. And for Chand Bibi.
Or did he just want to see her again?
*
In January news arrived that Amanullah had abdicated, in favour of his brother Inayatullah. This was a surprise development, as he had seemed to be getting on top of the situation. Murdoch expected to see his friend and the Begum appear at the Khyber Pass, seeking asylum, but they did not — he had apparently fled to the south-west of the country, around Kandahar — and three days later there was a sensational development: Inayatullah was also deposed and power seized by a bandit chieftain named Bacha-i-Saquao, who had himself proclaimed Amir as Habibullah Ghazi. Amanullah immediately broadcast from Kandahar that he withdrew his abdication and would be leading an army against the usurper.
‘It’s just absolute nineteenth-century chaos up there.’ Humphrey complained.
‘The difference is that even thirty years ago we would have marched in and sorted them out,’ Murdoch reminded him. Now we just sit and watch.’
But he intended to watch very carefully.
‘Now this is really something,’ Harry Caspar said. ‘I sure would like to get into that country, Murdoch. You gonna let me go up the pass?’
‘I can’t stop you going anywhere you want to, Harry,’ Murdoch told him. ‘You’re an American citizen. I must warn you, though, that there is no way I can come to your rescue...and those fellows have a nasty habit of doing things to their prisoners which would leave Veronica a very frustrated young woman.’
‘You serious? In 1929?’
‘I am very serious indeed.’
‘Heck! I reckon I’d better have a chat with the girl first. Where are they today?’
‘Looking at some tomb,’ Murdoch told him.
*
‘This is the tomb of the Ghazi Anatollah.’ Lee read from her guidebook as the Bentley bumped to a halt beside a stand of trees through which the mausoleum could just be glimpsed.
She had actually been here before — they were only a few miles along the valley south of Peshawar — but she didn’t want to get any of her facts wrong; Veronica had a habit of repeating everything that was told her to Murdoch and Harry. ‘Born 1782, died 1872. Preached war against the British the whole time. Britain didn’t own up here then, of course.’
‘Let’s take a look at it,’ Veronica decided.
Palraj immediately got out and hurried round to open the door for her. George Reynolds was already opening the other door; it was Murdoch’s instruction that George accompanied Lee whenever she went exploring on her own — and that he was armed.
‘Come along, Linda,’ Lee said.
Jennifer had not accompanied them today. Linda lit a cigarette. ‘I’ll stay with the car, if you don’t mind, Lee,’ she said. ‘Ancient tombs give me the creeps.’
Lee hesitated, then shrugged, and followed Veronica, already striding out towards the weathered marble. Giving Linda the Kamasutra to read had not been one of Murdoch’s better ideas. She had returned the book within a week. ‘I’m afraid yonis and lingams aren’t really my style,’ she had said. And yet, it had had an effect on her. Not sexually, Lee felt; Peter Ramage, for all his good humour and relaxed personality, was, she was sure, a pretty desperate man. But Linda had got the message that her friends were trying to tell her something, and had decided to modernize herself. She had shortened her skirts until they were just below the knee, and had taken up smoking cigarettes, neither of which habits Lee approved, especially in India, where she considered it was essential that white women set an example. But she had done nothing about it. To have openly criticized the girl would have caused a quarrel, and that would in turn have caused a rift between Murdoch and Peter. Lee was determined not to do that.
But she thought she might just start leaving Linda behind on future excursions. Jennifer, always cheerful, always willing to please, and always most respectably dressed, was a far better companion. Anyway, Harry and Veronica would be leaving in another week, and life could get back to normal.
‘I sure would like something like this over me,’ Veronica remarked, poking at the tomb with her stick. ‘I love it. I really do.’ She sighed. ‘But Harry believes in this crematorium thing.’
‘So let him,’ Lee said. ‘He’s certain to die before you. Then you can cremate him and do what you like. Just make sure your third husband is an undertaker.’
Veronica gave her a suspicious glance. She had slowly been coming to realize that her l
eg was being pulled a lot of the time, but she was never quite sure when, or how much. Then she looked past Lee. ‘Oh, my,’ she said. ‘What tough-looking guys.’
Lee turned to look back at the car, and saw Linda getting out in some haste, to stand beside George; Palraj was behind them. The two of them were gazing at some twenty men, on foot, who had suddenly appeared from beyond the road. They were armed, and they were clearly Pathans.
Her heart gave a peculiar lurch, even as she reminded herself that she was Lady Mackinder, wife of the general officer commanding, and that no one, but no one, would dare lay a finger on her. She stepped towards them, to ask in her most imperious voice what they wanted, and had her arm gripped by Veronica.
She turned back, irritated at the check, and saw that there were another twenty Pathans behind them, also armed. In front of the men stood a veiled woman.
‘Lady Mackinder,’ the woman said in perfect English. ‘I have long wanted to meet you. I am an old friend of your husband’s. My name is Chand Bibi ibn Shere ibn Ali ibn Muhammad.’
Chapter Ten: The North West Frontier, 1929
‘The memsahibs not back yet, Kohar?’ Murdoch asked as he and Harry entered the bungalow.
‘Not yet, General sahib.’ The butler bowed.
Murdoch looked at his watch; it was just past five. ‘Did Lady Mackinder say she was going out for the day?’
‘No, General sahib. It is very strange. The Major’s memsahib has been here also, inquiring about the memsahib; she said they were to play the cards together this afternoon.’
‘Hm,’ Murdoch commented.
‘You mean they didn’t come in for lunch?’ Harry demanded.
‘Not at all, sahib,’ Kohar said, adding, unnecessarily, ‘Neither did the car come back.’
‘They were going to the tomb of that holy man,’ Harry said. ‘Is it far?’
‘Not more than a dozen miles. But it is off the main road a way. They must have had a breakdown. Kohar, get me another car. And ask Major Manly-Smith to join me here, with you.’
‘Right away, General sahib.’ The butler hurried from the house.
‘Gee, Veronica will be upset,’ Harry muttered, pouring himself a scotch. ‘She hates things to go wrong. And missing lunch...’
‘Yes,’ Murdoch said absently. He could not see Lee sitting passively in a car waiting for someone to come looking for her. Not for several hours. She’d have started to walk back...twelve miles, in the midday sun?
Ralph hurried in. ‘Thank God you’re back, sir. Jennie’s worried stiff. Seems they had a bridge date this afternoon, and Lady Mackinder never turned up.’
‘So Kohar was telling me. Well, let’s go find them. Was Linda with them?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well we won’t worry Colonel Ramage at this stage.’ Peter was out at Jamrud. ‘Is the car here?’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll just tell Jennie, if I may.’
‘Do that,’ Murdoch agreed, and drummed his fingers on the car bonnet until he returned. Then Ralph sat in the front beside the sepoy driver, Murdoch and Harry in the back.
‘Say,’ Harry remarked as they were about to leave. ‘You guys don’t reckon we should be armed? I mean, heck, they could’ve been held up or something.’
He seemed to think he was still in the States, didn’t understand that being ‘held up’ would have a far more different, and ghastly, connotation on the frontier than merely losing one’s handbag. But he had a point.
‘Yes,’ Murdoch decided.
‘I’ll get them,’ Ralph volunteered, and returned a moment later with three revolvers.
They drove out of town, took the road south. On the uneven surface it was impossible to do more than twenty miles an hour, and it was nearly six, and getting dark, when they reached the track down to the tomb. On the journey, once they left the suburbs of Peshawar behind, they had encountered but a single bullock cart and team; they had stopped to ask the driver if he had seen any memsahibs on the road, but he had not.
‘Veronica is going to be hopping mad,’ Harry moaned. The tomb was about two miles off the main road, and they bumped their way even more slowly.
‘There’s the Bentley,’ Ralph said as the car loomed out of the dusk.
‘What’s that?’ Harry snapped, his voice high, as there was a whirring sound and a dark shadow rose above them.
‘A vulture,’ Murdoch replied, his voice harsh, as he opened his door and stepped out, revolver in one hand, torch in the other. He played the beam over the Bentley, but it was undamaged. Nostrils dilating, he went towards it, shone the torch into the open windows. The car was empty, and the interior was unmarked.
‘Sir!’ Ralph’s voice was urgent. And strange. ‘Oh, my God, sir!’
Murdoch went to his side, about twenty feet from the car, and looked down at Reynolds. Ralph’s torch beam was playing on the naked body. Murdoch looked at the tortured, twisted features; the severed genitals had been stuffed into the mouth. He felt quite cold. He and George had been friends, intimates, for thirty years.
‘Holy Jesus Christ!’ Harry stood beside him. ‘Is that...oh, God!’ he fell to his knees and vomited.
There was a piece of paper pinned to the dead man’s chest. Murdoch bent and pulled it free, shone the light on it.
Chand Bibi had written:
Not one, not two, but three! Am I not the most fortunate woman on earth, my Mackinder? Or is it that you are the most foolish man on earth, so to allow your women to wander? Did you know that I have kept you under surveillance for more than a year? Did you not realize that Palraj is a member of my own personal guard, that we have waited patiently for the right moment? Yes, you are a fool, my Mackinder, because you are too confident, too arrogant. It is foolish to be arrogant.
The cold was being replaced by heat.
Now I am embarrassed for pleasure. I can hardly make up my mind what to do first, to whom. Would you like a nose to help you make up your mind what to do? But I think the body of your man will act as a spur.
His fingers were beginning to curl into fists, carrying the paper with them; he had to straighten them with an effort.
What will you do, my Mackinder? Will you mount at the head of your dragoons and come galloping into our country, guns blazing? I hope you will do that, my Mackinder. For two years I have tried to rouse my people and their allies to make war upon you, upon the British. But their warriors are grown old, and afraid. Mackinder does not trouble us, they say. Why should we trouble Mackinder? But you are going to have to trouble them now, are you not, my Mackinder? To what avail? But I will make a bargain with you. When you commence to war upon us, I will send you the skins of your women, that you may have them stuffed and remember what you are fighting for.
Now the heat was beginning to fade into cold again, leaving him clammy with sweat.
Or will you come by yourself, the great hero, and offer yourself in exchange for your wife? I should like that best of all, my Mackinder. So I will be generous. Come by yourself, and I will let the women go. I will not even make them suffer, more than a little, for a week, to see if you come. But I do not think even you have the courage for that, my Mackinder, much as I dream that you might. So, you will plunge the frontier into war, and we will all be happy. Except your masters, my Mackinder. They will repudiate you. And your wife, who will die screaming your name. But I will send you her skin.
Murdoch stared into the darkness. She was right, of course. He had been a fool. An arrogant fool, supposing he held all the trumps. Whereas he held none at all. Save the ultimate trump, that of vengeance. But it would be a bitter vengeance, and it would accomplish her purpose just the same.
‘Sir?’ Ralph stood at his elbow. Murdoch gave him the letter.
‘What is it?’ Harry wanted to know. ‘Some kind of ransom demand?’
‘Yes,’ Murdoch said. ‘You could say that.’
‘Oh, God,’ Ralph muttered. ‘Oh, God.’ His voice was trembling.
‘What the hell is in that thin
g?’ Harry demanded.
Murdoch gave it to him in turn, then walked to the waiting cars and found a blanket in the boot of the Bentley. He and the sepoy driver wrapped George’s body in it, and laid it on the back seat. By then Harry had read the note and was just about in tears.
‘They can’t be far,’ he said. ‘Let’s turn out the cavalry and go get them, Murdoch. Let’s tear this country apart.’
‘Presuming they were taken almost the moment they arrived here,’ Murdoch told him, ‘and that was nine hours ago, they could be thirty miles away by now. And we don’t know in what direction they’ve gone.’
‘Thirty miles? Veronica can’t walk thirty miles.’
‘We would need the entire army to cover the ground,’ Murdoch went on, ‘and we do know that Chand Bibi is quite capable of killing her prisoners if cornered. Losing our heads is not going to solve anything. Let’s get back to Peshawar,’ he said, and sat behind the wheel of the Bentley.
*
He called Ramage back from Jamrud, and summoned him and West and Humphrey, as well as Squadron-Leader Eccles, to the bungalow where Ralph and Harry and himself waited, showed them George’s body, gave them the letter to read, watched their horrified expressions.
‘Christ,’ Peter said. ‘Linda, in the hands of that devil.’
‘We are going to get her back,’ Murdoch said. ‘We are going to get all of them back.’
‘I want to ride in there and shoot the whole God damn lot,’ Harry growled.
‘I think we would all like to do that, but not until the women are safe. And we have to act quickly.’
‘The only way we can regain the women, according to this letter, is for you to surrender yourself,’ West said. ‘You would be committing suicide, sir. In a most unpleasant way. And we do not have any guarantee that Chand Bibi will keep her word.’
‘Agreed. But we must believe that, or we must believe that our wives are already dead. And I refuse to believe that.’
The Command Page 26
