*
He was, he knew, within twenty miles of Mahrain, and was thus very much inside the territory ruled by Shere Khan. Soon he passed a herd of goats, and the herdsmen gazed at the tall, mounted figure, the khaki uniform, the Sam Browne belts and highly polished brown boots, the topee and the red tabs on Murdoch’s lapels, the rows of ribbons on his breast, the sword and revolver, in total amazement, then peered behind him to discover the whereabouts of the army this imposing figure must be leading.
Murdoch continued on his way, aware of a very odd feeling as he turned his back; the Mahsud carried a rifle slung across his shoulder. But he was in that type of situation from here on. And as the sun rose higher he became aware of flashes of light passing from hilltop to hilltop; Shere Khan’s sentries were signalling news of his arrival.
He rode through the shallow pass which took him back down to the bend of the river, and looked at Mahrain, its white houses rising out of the opposite bank, beneath the fort. There were banners flying from the fort, and men on the battlements, pointing at him. Closer at hand there were women down at the water, washing, beating the wet garments with rhythmic thwacks of their heavy sticks; the sound echoed up the valley like gunfire. Around them small children, naked save for a brief skirt or jacket, played games. The women stood up to watch him ride down to the ford and splash across.
He rode the slope towards the white walls. Now there were men gathered outside the gate, every one armed, staring at him. He could not tell whether they were expecting him or not.
He walked his horse up to them, reins lying in his left hand, right arm straight at his side, resisting all temptation to unfasten the flap of his holster. ‘I come to see Abdul Hussein ibn Shere ibn Ali ibn Muhammad,’ he said.
The man peered at him, and he wondered if none of them spoke English. But at least one understood what he had said. He spoke in Mahsud, but took Murdoch’s bridle, and led the horse towards the gate. The other men followed.
The gate was open, and the man led the horse up the suddenly crowded street. People pressed close to peer at the English general, and there was a hubbub of conversation. Murdoch was led up to the palace and through the inner gate. Here there were no crowds, but a dozen red-jacketed guardsmen, who stood to attention and presented arms, for all the world like their English counterparts.
Murdoch dismounted, looked towards the palace porch, and the man who stood there. His face was unfamiliar, and he was not an Indian. Murdoch’s heart gave a little leap as he saw the boots, the green breeches and jacket, the little fur cap. The man was clean shaven, and had heavy and rather coarse features. But he was looking pleasant enough at the moment, or at least, pleased to see Murdoch.
‘General Mackinder,’ he said. He did not offer his hand. ‘I did not believe you would come. You are as brave a man as they say.’
Murdoch gazed at him. ‘Who are you?’ he asked. He knew it was essential to maintain his facade of arrogant confidence, project a total certainty that no one would dare harm him.
The man gave a slight bow. ‘I am Sergei Wittvinov.’
‘Ah,’ Murdoch said. ‘And what are you doing in British territory? Communist agents are not welcome here.’
‘British territory?’ Wittvinov asked. ‘I think you will find the Mahsuds do not agree with the estimation, General. And I am not a Communist. I fought for the tsar, and will do so again, God willing. As to what I am doing here, this is my home. I live with my wife.’
‘Your wife?’ Murdoch knew the answer before he finished asking the question...and in that instant knew the answer to a great many other things, as well.
‘My wife is the Princess Chand Bibi.’
Murdoch nodded. ‘Yes. Well, I have come to see Abdul Hussein ibn Shere. Will you inform him of my presence, please.’
‘Alas, General, I cannot do that. It is possible, however, that you may be able to see Abdul in the near future. He is in hell. He died four months ago.’
*
Murdoch felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach. He had indeed committed suicide. But he kept his face rigid with an effort. ‘Allow me to offer you my condolences, Mr Wittvinov. In that case, I must speak with Shere Khan himself.’
Wittvinov shook his head. ‘Shere Khan is in his dotage. He no longer rules the Mahsuds. They obey the commands of his eldest daughter and heiress, Chand Bibi.’
Bluff, bluff and again bluff, Murdoch told himself. ‘Then you had better let me see the princess. It is a most urgent matter.’
‘I am sure it is, General. But my wife is not here at this time. As I think you know. She did leave instructions, however, that were you to pay us a visit before her return, you were to be entertained.’
‘I am too busy a man, Mr Wittvinov,’ Murdoch told him. ‘As your wife is not here, I will leave, and return on a more suitable occasion. When do you expect her back?’
‘Not for a few days yet. But I cannot let you leave, General Mackinder. Chand Bibi would be very angry were I to do that.’
Murdoch felt rather than heard movement, and realized that two of the guards stood on either side of him.
‘I think you should know,’ he said evenly, ‘that you are committing an act of war.’
‘But that is my intention,’ Wittvinov said.
Murdoch stared at him. ‘An act of war which I anticipated, Mr Wittvinov. There is a brigade of British and Indian soldiers leaving Tochi Camp next Wednesday morning to march on Mahrain. If I do not return to meet them, they are going to raze this town to the earth.’
‘With you in it, General? Not to mention your wife, perhaps? Come now, I am not such a fool as to believe that.’ His voice suddenly hardened, and he spoke in Mahsud. Before Murdoch could react his arms were seized, and another of the men was unbuckling his Sam Browne belts to remove the revolver holster, cartridge case and sword. He made no effort to resist them. At forty-eight he remained as tough and as fit as at any time in his life, and he had little doubt that he could, probably, take on these four. But there were another dozen standing behind him who would certainly be able to overpower him, and he wanted neither to risk his dignity nor any injury; he was going to need all his strength during the next few days.
Still holding his arms, the guards marched him into the palace itself, and through the outer court. Here they were surrounded by whispering, giggling women, and some children. Murdoch made himself ignore them, but he could not help but turn his head when one of the children, a startlingly lovely girl of perhaps eight or nine, ran forward to hold Wittvinov’s hand. She looked like her mother, he thought.
He was taken through a corridor to one side of the throne room, down several flights of steps, until he realized he was in the very heart of the hillside on which Mahrain stood. Here there were guttering torches set in the walls, and the walls themselves damp and cold. There were several cells on this level; he did not know if any were occupied, for there was no sound apart from the scuffling of their own feet and their breathing. At least one of the doors was opened and he was thrust inside.
‘Your quarters, until my wife returns,’ Wittvinov said.
Murdoch’s arms had been released, and he looked at the wooden cot against the wall; the mattress was wooden too, and there were no covers. There was nothing else in the room at all, and there was no window — a shaft let into the wall reached up to a faint light, a long way away. He turned to face his captor; the little girl had come down with her father, and still held his hand.
‘You have just signed your death warrant,’ Murdoch said. ‘And that of all your people. Including your daughter.’
‘The death warrant has your name on it, Mackinder. No one else’s,’ Wittvinov said. ‘Strip.’
Murdoch frowned at him.
‘Undress,’ Wittvinov commanded. ‘Or would you rather my men did it for you?’
Murdoch gazed at him, then took off his tunic and pulled his tie loose.
‘You may think my objective is to humiliate you,’ Wittvinov said. ‘Well, of course i
t is. But it has a practical purpose. I cannot risk you despairing and strangling yourself with one of your garments before my wife returns. She would never forgive me. You will be uncomfortable, of course, and a little chilly. But you will not freeze. Everything, Mackinder.’
Murdoch gazed at the little girl as he removed the last of his clothing. One of the guards gathered up the garments, almost reverently. Another took the boots.
Wittvinov smiled. ‘She will see more of you than this, in the course of time, General. Now we will leave you, to anticipate the coming of Chand Bibi.’ He drew the girl out of the room, and the guards slammed the door.
The cell was almost dark; the faint light just enabled him to see. But there was nothing to see. He discovered another shaft in the floor at the far corner, which, from the stench, he gathered was his lavatory.
He sat on the bed, and tried not to shiver; already the chill was striking at him; if Chand Bibi did not return for another two days he would be a shuddering wreck. But no doubt that was intended.
He tried to think, but he could only feel; his brain was overwhelmed by the knowledge that he had not allowed for the one, or perhaps two, eventualities which would leave him helpless. The death of Abdul Hussein, and the possibility that Chand Bibi was obtaining outside help. Outside help; if Wittvinov was that girl’s father, then Chand Bibi must have married him by 1920, almost immediately after returning to her father.
Therefore, with her brother dead and Shere Khan a nonentity, there was no check at all on Chand Bibi’s ambitions. He had not a weapon left to play with, save vengeance — and Chand Bibi was looking forward to that vengeance. And the frontier would explode into flames. And Lee...my God, Lee! Would they die together? Or would Chand Bibi make Lee watch her husband being torn apart, before executing her in turn?
It was incredible, that a week ago they had been playing bridge with Linda and Peter Ramage, while Harry mixed martinis and Veronica prattled aimlessly in the background, in the total security of the Bala Hissar. It was even more incredible that there were earnest politicians sipping their beers in the House of Commons Bar, clad in sober suits and clean underwear, discussing India as if it was an abstract mathematical problem, to which there had to be a solution simply because every problem had to have a solution, who had no idea of the realities of life on the frontier, of the depths of hatred and anger...on both sides, now. He did not doubt that the Westerns would destroy this place, if they knew that their beloved erstwhile Colonel, and his no less admired lady, had been murdered in it.
And what would the newspapers say? They would not wish to disturb their readers. ‘Shocking crime in the North West Frontier Province. News has been received that Major General Sir Murdoch Mackinder, known as Britain’s finest leader of light horse, and Lady Mackinder, have both been murdered by revolting Pathan tribesmen. (No details, of course: perhaps an ‘in horrifying circumstances’.) A reprisal raid has since been carried out, and a Pathan village burned to the ground. Major-General Mackinder will be remembered, etc, etc, etc.’
He could recall reading similar reports himself, before the war; and they had made very little impression on him. He had not been there.
The door opened, and he was fed; the gaoler was guarded by four armed men. Even naked, he was still the famous Murdoch Mackinder. The curry was quite palatable, and there was a jug of cool mountain water to drink. The meal warmed him up, somewhat, then the door was shut and he was again left to his thoughts. But now he had to concentrate entirely on vengeance, on imagining himself at the head of the dragoons as they stormed those white-washed walls. There was no other way he was going to survive the next few days.
Keeping track of time was difficult. He had left Tochi Camp on Thursday morning, and he had entered Mahrain on Saturday morning. He wondered how fast Chand Bibi was travelling. On foot he did not see how she could make more than ten miles a day. That would mean ten days from Peshawar. But she had spoken of a week, therefore she must have had horses, or at least mules. So perhaps six days. The kidnapping had taken place on Tuesday morning, therefore she could be back on Monday. Until then life had no meaning; his entire being was concentrated on trying to keep warm. He made himself walk up and down his cell until he was exhausted — this had the advantage of making him sleep. But he awoke shivering, teeth chattering, and soon began to sneeze and his nose to run.
Cold and mental state apart, he was not ill treated. He was fed twice a day, always curry, and he was visited once a day, by Wittvinov, although to his relief on these visits the Russian was not accompanied by his daughter. The visits enabled him to keep track of the days.
And as he had calculated, when the door opened on the Monday afternoon, he gazed at Chand Bibi.
*
She must have arrived some time before, for she did not look in the least travel weary. She had clearly just bathed, and she wore a green and gold sari. He had not seen her for thirteen years, and thus she had to be very nearly forty years of age, but she looked magnificent, bathed in the light of the lanterns held by two of the guards behind her.
He forced himself to his feet, tried to keep from shivering. ‘You made good time,’ he said, and sneezed. ‘You must have had horses.’
She looked him up and down. ‘Always debonair, my Murdoch. Oh, indeed, we made good time, despite having to take shelter when your planes were overhead. But they made so much noise we could hear them coming long before they could see us. I’m afraid the ladies did not enjoy their journey. I tied them to their horses, on their bellies across the bare backs. It was great sport. But I have never heard so many complaints. The large blonde lady was the worst. I finally had to have her beaten.’
Murdoch swallowed. But imagining Veronica Caspar being beaten did not help him at all. He dared not imagine Lee being tied on her belly across a horse’s back. ‘Where are they?’ he asked.
Chand Bibi smiled. ‘They are being given hot baths. Is that not kind of me? They are being bathed by men. Is that not even kinder of me?’
Murdoch refused to be drawn. Lee was alive, and that was what mattered. What happened to her, in the way of insults or humiliation, was irrelevant. They were down to fundamentals, and only the ones who survived would have any right to smile.
‘But you,’ Chand Bibi said. ‘You also need a hot bath. I’m afraid my dear Sergei has been cruel to you. He is really afraid of you, I think.’
‘You mean you did not command my imprisonment?’
‘I did not expect you to come, my Murdoch. I really did not. Your courage amazes me. Come.’
She stepped outside and waited for him. The corridor was full of guards, but it would not have mattered. He could do nothing until he could reach Lee.
They escorted him up the various uneven stairs, led by Chand Bibi, and he thought he was going to be taken out into the courtyard, naked and shivering, but she turned aside, through a curtained doorway, and he found himself in a world of women.
This was an Indian, not a Turkish harem, and this was a world of fighting men and women as well — there was no room for eunuchs. Although he was now clearly in the private apartments of Chand Bibi herself, the guards entered with him, and marched him to a great enamel tub set in the centre of the floor. This was filled with steaming water, and in this he was made to sit. It was clearly a tub used on occasion for more sinister purposes, for there were stout steel rings set into the sides, and to these his wrists were secured, leaving him quite helpless. Then the guards bowed and withdrew.
‘You will forgive my caution, my Murdoch,’ Chand Bibi said. ‘But you are a famous warrior, are you not?’ She studied him. ‘It is remarkable, the effect heat has on a man. I suppose it makes the heart pound, and this affects the penis. Is your heart pounding, my Murdoch?’
‘Yes,’ he said. However she might enjoy watching him, he was enjoying the magnificent sensation of warmth spreading through his limbs.
‘I will have you bathed again, immediately before your execution.’
‘Chand Bibi,�
� he said, ‘you are destroying your people.’ Looking at her, at her face, at once so intelligent and so calm and so beautiful, it was impossible to believe that she could not listen to reason, that she really lived only to destroy.
‘Have you met my daughter?’ Chand Bibi brought the child forward to stand by the side of the tub with the other women. ‘Her name is Yasmin, and she is nine years old. Do you not think she looks like me?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Do you wish me to see her lying dead?’
‘She will not lie dead,’ Chand Bibi said.
‘There is a brigade leaving Tochi Camp on Wednesday morning to march on Mahrain,’ Murdoch said. ‘Unless I and all three of the ladies are released unharmed and meet them on the way, they are going to burn your town to the ground, and kill anyone they find in their way. Can you understand that? They will be here on Friday, and the assault will be launched immediately. But before that, on Thursday morning, my aeroplanes will fly over your heads. That will be your very last chance. If I do not signal them with the Verey pistol which was in my pack, a signal known only to me and their commander, they will return that afternoon and they will bomb your village flat.’
‘With you and your wife in it?’
‘They are under orders that if I have not signalled them by noon on Thursday, they must assume I am dead.’
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘I was going to execute you on Friday, when your soldiers came in sight. Now I will bring forward, as you say, to Thursday. Of course, I could torture you into telling me the agreed signal. Could I not?’
‘Do you think I would tell you?’
She gazed at him for several seconds, then said, ‘Probably not. So let me see, I must work things out. Leave us,’ she commanded.
The ladies bowed and left the room, taking the little girl with them. Then Chand Bibi took off her sari. Her body was as splendid as he had always known it would be, firm-muscled from the life she lived as a hill woman, and yet voluptuously overflowing with sexuality.
The Command Page 28
