The Doomed Oasis

by Innes, Hammond;

  However, there was no point in speculating. His instructions were clear, and I picked up the phone and rang the London office of GODCO. And whilst I was waiting for the call to come through I had a look at the will. He had typed it himself, but it was a perfectly legal document even though the witnesses to his signature were two Arabs. It appointed me executor and his sister, Susan, sole legatee with instructions to take care of their mother. Again no reference to his father.

  This and the letter and the fact that he had made such careful provision against the possibility of death gave a strange quality of isolation to his activities, as though he were operating alone in a hostile world. I think it was then that I seriously considered the possibility that his disappearance was no accident.

  My call to GODCO came through and I was put on to the same thin, cultured voice. No, Sir Philip was not available, would not be for some time. He was on a tour of the Company’s Middle East properties and not expected back for at least a month. I could contact him through the Bahrain office if the matter were important.

  I put the phone down and sat there for a long time, considering. But I don’t think there was ever any real doubt in my mind. I hadn’t heard from Whitaker, and, quite apart from his son’s death, the necessity for a meeting with him was urgent. It was just that the Persian Gulf was a long way away and I had got out of the habit of travelling. Fortunately, I now had an arrangement with another firm of solicitors which enabled me to get away when necessary, and in the end I put a call through to a local travel agency. BOAC flights direct to Bahrain were weekly, leaving on Thursdays at 1000 hours and arriving 0305 hours Friday. That just gave me time to make all my arrangements, get visas, and clear my desk of the more urgent matters. I told them to book me out on the next flight, locked the contents of the envelope in the safe, and went out for a drink. I needed to think, for I was beginning to realize what it was he’d landed on my desk. Political dynamite! If he was a good geophysicist, then what I’d locked away in my safe might well be the location of a new oilfield.

  Three days later I flew out of London Airport in a storm of rain and wind. March going out like a lion; but at Rome it was hot, and all down the Mediterranean we had bright sunshine. And I sat in my seat with an empty feeling inside me, for the day before I’d left Cardiff a man had come to see me, a tired-looking, hard-faced man with a skin like leather who’d refused to give Andrews his name or state his business.

  Even when he was alone with me in my office he went about it in such a tortuous way that it only gradually dawned on me what he was after. It was cleverly done—a hint here, a hint there, and the abyss gradually opening up at my feet. He knew David had boarded the Emerald Isle off Sharjah, knew, too, that Griffiths had delivered that packet to me. He’d been down to see him at his cottage in the Gower. He’d been to the police, too; had talked with Sergeant Mathieson and had checked the files. He knew the boy’s real name, his whole background, everything, and what he wanted from me was that packet.

  He smiled when I told him I couldn’t discuss my client’s affairs. “Professional etiquette? Your professional etiquette, Mr. Grant, is somewhat elastic, if you follow me.” It was a cat-and-mouse game, for he knew I’d helped the boy to get out of the country. “There are several charges outstanding and a warrant.”

  “The boy is dead,” I reminded him.

  But it made no difference. He had his instructions, he said. These were to take possession of the packet. “You can hand it to me or forward it to the Company—one or the other.” I asked him what authority he had for making such an outrageous proposal, but all he’d say was that it was in the country’s interests. One knows, of course, that there are men like that employed by Government and by large companies, but one doesn’t expect to come across them. They belong to a half-world that lies outside the experience of ordinary citizens.

  “In your own interests, I suggest you hand it to me. Nobody need know anything then.”

  It was blackmail, and by then I was sweating, for I was beginning to realize what I was up against. Politics and oil—the Middle East; the scope of a provincial lawyer doesn’t cover that sort of world.… I just hadn’t the right sort of pull, the contacts, the friends in high places.

  “You can go to the devil,” I told him.

  He got to his feet then. “I had hoped for your cooperation.” And he added: “Think it over, Mr. Grant. The police have an interest in this, and if they began an investigation … It could be very unpleasant for you. A man in your position, a lawyer …” He left it at that and picked up his hat.

  I wondered then whether he knew I was leaving for Bahrain in two days’ time. The Foreign Office had my passport. They could still refuse to grant me the necessary visas. “All right,” I said. “I’ll think it over.”

  And the next day, in London, I found I had been granted a visa for Bahrain, but not for either Dubai or Saraifa. A note pinned to my passport stated that for any further visas you should apply to the office of the Political Resident Persian Gulf in Bahrain.

  Darkness fell, the port light showing red. I woke to the touch of the air hostess’s hand on my shoulder and the sighing sound of the flaps going down. The sliver of a new moon had risen, reflected with the stars in the still surface of the sea coming up to meet us, a steel mirror suddenly patterned with the arrowheads of fish traps as we skimmed the shallows. A moment later we touched down in Bahrain. And at three thirty in the morning the air was still heavy with the day’s heat. It came at us as soon as the door was opened, suffocating in its humidity.

  The squat, white-fronted coral houses of Muharraq were without life as the airport bus drove us across the long causeway to the main island and the town of Manama. A solitary dhow was putting to sea, the curve of its sail a thing of ghostly beauty against the blackness of the water; all the others lay dormant in the mud or bare-poled against the coral hards with sails furled.

  Only the BOAC Hotel showed any sign of life at that hour. It was down an empty side-street, the airline’s bluebird insignia standing out against the drab of concrete; lights were burning against our coming. I was given a room with a balcony that was full of the sounds of a late-night party, laughter and the clink of glasses. There was a lot of coming and going in the passage outside, and I went to sleep to the sound of a girl’s voice harsh and loud and slightly drunk.

  Sunlight woke me four hours later, the hard sunlight of a hot country. An Arab boy brought me tea, and I drank it, lying naked on the bed, a stale feeling at the back of the eyeballs and my body hot and without energy. Getting up, shaving, having breakfast—it was all an effort. And this was only April. I wondered what it must be like in midsummer.

  When I enquired at the desk for the offices of the Gulfoman Oilfields Development Company, I was told that they were several miles out of town on the Awali road. A fat man in a tropical suit of powder blue was asking about a taxi he’d booked for Awali. He was an Italian who had joined the flight at Rome, and I asked him whether he would give me a lift. “Sì, sì, signore. Of course.”

  His name was Ruffini and he was a journalist. “You are in oil?” he asked as we drove past the Customs Quay crowded with dhows. And when I said no, he looked surprised. “But you ’ave an appointment at GODCO, no?”

  “A matter of an estate,” I told him. “A client of mine has died.”

  “So!” He sighed. “A lawyer’s business—always to concern itself with death. Is depressing for you, no?” He offered me an American cigarette. “Who do you see at this Company? Is none of my business,” he added quickly, seeing my hesitation. “But though I am never in Bahrain before, I ’ave contacts—introductions, you say. If I can ’elp you …” He left it at that, reaching into his breast pocket for a pair of dark glasses. And because he was being helpful I told him who it was I’d come to see.

  “You know anything about this Sir Philip Gorde?” he asked.

  “He’s a director of the Company in London.”

  “But not the most important man ou
t here, I think.” And he leaned forward and asked the driver, a pock-marked Bahraini with a lot of gold teeth. “Who is the big man at GODCO?”

  “Is Meester Erkhard.”

  Ruffini nodded. “Alexander Erkhard. Bene. That is also my information.”

  “Many years,” the driver added, turning to face us. “Many years it is Sir Gorde. Not now.” The car touched the road verge, sending up a cloud of dust. “Ten years now I have taxi and am driving down the Awali road, sir, with men from BAPCO, GODCO, ARAMCO. I speak not well Eenglish, but understand plenty, get me? I look after the boys good, very bloody good. They all friends of Mahommed Ali. That my name, sir.” He was looking over his shoulder again. “You want something, you find my car outside BOAC Hotel.”

  “When did Mr. Erkhard come out to Bahrain?” I asked.

  “Five, six years ago, sir. Before I get this Buick.”

  “And Sir Philip Gorde was the big man then?”

  “That’s right, sir. He is here before Awali, before I am born—a friend of the Ruler, of all Arabs. Very great man, Sir Gorde. But then he is sick and this Mr. Erkhard, he come to Bahrain. Everything different then. Not friend of Ruler, not friend to Arabs.” And he spat out of the open window. “Here is GODCO office now.”

  We turned left with a screech of tires. The dusty date gardens were left behind and a white building stood at the end of a tree-lined road. Beyond it lay the sea, a blue line shimmering on the horizon. “Ecco!” Ruffini gripped my arm, pointing away to the right, to a litter of small mounds. “Tumuli. Èmolto interessante. There is a Danish man who dig in those tumuli. The oldest burial ground in Arabia per’aps.”

  The brakes slammed on and the car stopped with a jerk. I got out. “I will see you at the ’otel. Per’aps we ’ave a drink together, eh?” I thanked him for the lift and he waved a pudgy hand. “Ciao!” The taxi swung away and I went in through the double glass doors. It was like walking into a refrigerator, for the place was air-conditioned to the temperature of a London office. Glass and tiled walls, steel furniture, and the girl at the reception desk cool and immaculate. But when I asked for Sir Philip Gorde she frowned. “I don’t think Sir Philip is back yet. Have you an appointment?”

  “No,” I said. “But I’ve flown out from England specially to see him.”

  She asked me my name and then got on the phone. A white-faced electric clock ticked the seconds away on the wall above her head. Finally she shook her head. “I’m sorry. It’s as I thought. Sir Philip is still in Abu Dhabi.”

  “When will he be back?” I asked. Abu Dhabi was the first of the Trucial sheikhdoms and at least a hundred and fifty miles from Bahrain.

  She started talking on the phone again and I lit a cigarette and waited. At length she said: “Could you tell me the nature of your business with Sir Philip, please?”

  “If he’s in Abu Dhabi,” I said, “there’s not much point, is there?”

  She cupped her hand over the mouthpiece. “If it’s urgent, then I think they’d contact him for you. I told them you’d come out from England specially.”

  I hesitated. But there was no point in concealing what I’d come about. “It concerns David Whitaker,” I said. “I’m a lawyer.”

  “David Whitaker.” She repeated it automatically, and then the name suddenly registered and her eyes widened. “Yes,” she said quickly. “Of course. I’ll see what I can do.”

  I leaned on the desk and waited, watching her as she talked into the phone. There was a long pause while she just stood there holding it, and occasionally glancing at me with an expression of curiosity she couldn’t conceal. And then I heard her say: “Yes, of course, sir. I’ll send him up right away.” She put the phone down and came back to the desk. “Mr. Erkhard will see you himself.” She said it on a note of surprise. “If you’ll go up to the first floor, his secretary will be waiting for you.”

  I thanked her and went up the stairs. Erkhard’s secretary proved to be a man, neat and immaculate with a copybook smile of greeting. “Mr. Grant? Will you come this way, please?” He took me along a cool corridor and into an office that looked out across the tumuli. “Mr. Erkhard’s very busy and you’ve come unexpectedly without an appointment. If you’d keep it as short as possible.”

  “I didn’t ask to see Mr. Erkhard,” I said, and that seemed to upset him.

  “No, no, of course. I understand.” He paused at the communicating door on the far side, a discreet little pause that gave emphasis and importance to the moment. Then he opened the door. “Mr. Grant, sir.”

  The room was dove-grey, the furniture black steel. The big window looking out across the tumuli was a single sheet of flawless glass fitted with plastic Venetian blinds. The desk at which Erkhard was seated filled most of the far side of the room, and all the wall behind him was taken up with a relief map of Arabia dotted with flags. He didn’t rise to greet me, but simply waved me to the chair opposite his desk.

  “You’re a lawyer, I understand?”

  I nodded and sat down.

  “And you’re out here on account of young Whitaker’s death?”

  “I’m his executor.”

  “Ah, yes.” There was a peculiar softness about his manner, a smoothness almost. It was something to do with the roundness of his face and the way the lips were moulded into the suggestion of a smile. He was sitting perfectly still, watching me—waiting, I felt. It was disconcerting, and I found him a difficult man to place, probably because he wasn’t a type I had met before. In a weaker man that half-smile might have appeared ingratiating. But there was nothing weak about Erkhard. And the eyes were cold as they stared at me, unblinking. “Have you seen the young man’s family?” There was an accent, but so slight it was barely noticeable.

  “The mother,” I told him. “I haven’t seen the sister yet.”

  “She’s out here in Dubai—a nurse.”

  I nodded. “You cabled her the news. She sent me a copy.”

  “Yes. A very unfortunate business. It’s not often we have a casualty.” There was a long pause, and then he said: “Why are you here, Mr. Grant? Are you hoping to persuade us to resume the search? I had a message, something to that effect from London Office.” And he added: “I assure you it would be quite useless.”

  “Perhaps if I had a full account of the circumstances,” I suggested.

  “Of course. There is a report of the search. I’ll see that you’re given a copy before you leave.” Another long pause. “You were asking for Sir Philip Gorde, I understand. Why?” And when I didn’t answer, he added: “I signed that cable to Nurse Thomas and you’ve been in touch with London. You know perfectly well that I gave the order for the search to be abandoned.” He stared at me. “Perhaps you would care to explain?”

  “There’s nothing to explain,” I said. “It happens that I have to see Sir Philip on a private matter.”

  “Connected with Whitaker?”

  “Yes.”

  He got suddenly to his feet. “I’m the General Manager in Arabia, Mr. Grant. Whitaker was employed by me. His death is my responsibility, not Sir Philip Gorde’s.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Then your correct approach was surely to ask for an interview with me?”

  It seemed to worry him, and I wondered why. He was staring down at me, waiting for an answer. Finally he turned away and stood looking out of the window at the brown, dried-up landscape. His light tropical suit was obviously tailored in London and the silk shirt was monogrammed with his initials. “Sir Philip is in Abu Dhabi.” He said it quietly as though he were speaking to himself. “Tomorrow, or perhaps the day after, he will be going on to Sharjah. That’s another of the Trucial sheikhdoms, further to the east. He will not be back here for at least a week, perhaps a fortnight.” He turned then and looked directly at me again. “How do you propose to contact him? Have you thought of that?”

  “I only got in this morning,” I said.

  “Have you visas for the Trucial sheikhdoms?”

  “No.
I have to apply to the Political Resident’s office—”

  “Mr. Grant.” He was smiling again. “I don’t think you understand. It isn’t easy to get visas for the Trucial Oman. The PRPG is very naturally extremely reluctant.…” He gave a little shrug. “This is Arabia, you know, not Europe. The political situation is far from stable and there is a great deal at stake; enormous sums of capital have been sunk in this area.” He paused there to give me time to consider. “Of course, we could help you. Not only in the matter of your application for a visa, but in transport, too. We have flights going east along the coast to our various development projects. In fact, I think there is one going to Abu Dhabi tomorrow. But,” he added, “in order to help you we should have to know the exact purpose of your visit.”

  He was taking a lot of trouble over this. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Beyond saying that my business with Sir Philip concerns the estate—a matter of a signature—I cannot disclose …”

  “You have a document for him to sign?” He sounded puzzled, and when I refused to be drawn, he gave a little shrug and returned to his desk. “Since it is a private matter and not the concern of the Company, I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mr. Grant. I’ll send Gorde a personal note, of course, to tell him you’re here.” A fractional hesitation and then with that little smile that never remotely touched his eyes: “And if you’d care to communicate with him direct, then I’ve no doubt we could arrange for a letter to be delivered to him by tomorrow’s plane.” His hand reached out to the onyx bell-push on the desk.

  “One moment,” I said. I wasn’t sure how to handle it, but I knew that once I was out of that office, the opportunity to question him would be gone for ever. “I wonder … Perhaps you would be good enough to clear up one or two points for me?” I said it tentatively. “Whilst I’m here,” I added.

  There was a momentary hesitation whilst his hand still hovered on the bell-push.