The Doomed Oasis

by Innes, Hammond;

  “I’m a little puzzled about certain aspects of the boy’s death,” I murmured.

  The hand moved back from the bell-push, reluctantly. And then he smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Of course.”

  “You say he was employed by you at the time of his death?”

  “He was employed by the Company, yes.”

  I hesitated. The devil of it was I didn’t know what I was after. Something … but what? The map, towering behind him, caught my eye. “Could you show me exactly where it was his truck was found?”

  He got up at once, almost with relief, I felt. The position he indicated was well to the southwest of Buraimi Oasis, a position where three dotted lines met. Peering over his shoulder, I saw that these marked the boundaries of Saudi Arabia, the sheikhdom of Saraifa, and the emirate of Hadd. His finger rested on a point inside the Saudi Arabian border. The whole area was shaded with little dots. “The sands of the Rub al Khali,” he explained. “Dune country. It’s called the Empty Quarter.”

  “You’ve no concession in Saudi Arabia, have you?”

  “No.”

  “Then what was he doing there?”

  “That’s something we should like to know, Mr. Grant.”

  “He was there without your authority, then?”

  “Of course.” His nod was very emphatic.

  “If he was carrying out a survey, then presumably he had a survey crew. What happened to them?”

  He hesitated and the quick glance he gave me suggested that this was something he didn’t want to go into. But in the end he said: “He had an Arab crew. They were picked up by askari of the Emir of Hadd. However, the men have been interviewed. It appears they became nervous. Hardly surprising in that area. Anyway, they downed tools, took the Land Rover, and left Whitaker there on his own.”

  “In Saudi Arabia?”

  “No, no.”

  “Where, then?”

  He glanced at me quickly again, his eyes narrowing. “They wouldn’t say. At least … they couldn’t give the exact location.”

  “Was it somewhere on the Hadd border?” I asked, remembering what Griffiths had said.

  He ignored that. “Doubtless they could have led us to the place, but the Emir refused to allow them outside the Wadi Hadd al-Akbar.” He gave a little shrug. “The Emir is very difficult.” And he added: “But of course this is hardly a matter that concerns you.”

  “On the contrary,” I said sharply, “it’s important that I know exactly where the boy was supposed to be operating at the time of his death. Until I know that …”

  But he shook his head. “Best leave it at that, Mr. Grant.”

  “Because of the political aspect?” I was convinced now that the locations in my briefcase would show that David had been operating somewhere along the Hadd-Saraifa border.

  “Politics come into it, yes. They always do in Arabia.”

  “And particularly where oil is concerned?”

  He nodded agreement, and I asked him then whether he thought there was oil in that area.

  He looked at me very tight-lipped and said: “We’ve no reason to imagine so.”

  “Then what’s the political problem?”

  He hesitated, and then half turned to the map again. “Those borders,” he said. “They’re all three in dispute. Particularly the border between Hadd and Saraifa.”

  “Would you describe that as ‘political dynamite’?” His eyes narrowed and I pushed it further: “If oil were discovered there?”

  “Yes,” he said, and turned back to his desk. “I think, Mr. Grant, we are getting a long way from the purpose of your visit.”

  “I don’t think so.” He wanted to terminate the interview. Equally, I wanted to continue it. “Did David Whitaker submit a survey report to you at any time during, say, the two months before his death?”

  “No.”

  I stared at him, wondering whether that was the truth. And then I decided to play the thing I’d been holding in reserve. “Suppose I told you that I have in my possession the locations he was working on at the time of his death?”

  He affected disbelief. But it lacked something, the quickness of spontaneity, the sharpness of genuine surprise. And suddenly my mind clicked. “Four days ago,” I murmured, “in my office in Cardiff … I was visited by a gentleman who attempted by threats to get those locations from me.” He didn’t say anything, and I let the silence drag out. “He didn’t get them, of course,” I said quietly. I was staring at him, but he kept his eyes on the desk.

  “I don’t think this concerns me.” The silence had forced it out of him. His hand reached for the bell-push.

  I waited, and he hesitated. Curiosity had won. He turned to me and said harshly: “David Whitaker was employed by us. We should know the locations he was surveying. We have a right.”

  “Have you?” I asked.

  “Yes. And I’ll add this: I find it very difficult to understand why you should have been given this information whilst the Company has been left in the dark.”

  He was facing me, and after what seemed a long time his eyes fell away to the desk again. He was puzzled. A little frightened, too. I thought he’d every reason to be both.

  “David Whitaker knew he was going to die.” I said it slowly and with emphasis. And before he had time to recover from the shock of what I’d said, I shifted my ground. “Does Colonel Whitaker know his son’s dead?”

  “I really cannot say.” He was still considering the implication of what I’d told him, and I was convinced it was something he hadn’t known before.

  “We regarded the sister as the most suitable person to inform.” And he added: “The boy was illegitimate, you know.” It was a mistake, for it confirmed something I had come to suspect—that David’s background was known to the Company. But he didn’t seem conscious of it. Nor did he seem conscious of the drift of my questions. “I think you will agree, when you’ve read the report of the search, that everything possible was done.”

  “But they didn’t find his body?”

  “No. And if you knew the sort of country it is there, that wouldn’t surprise you.” He seemed anxious to reassure me on this point. “It’s big-dune country and the sand is moving all the time. It obliterates everything. Even his truck was half buried when they located it.”

  “It was a seismological truck, I believe?”

  He nodded.

  “One of yours?”

  He didn’t answer immediately and there was a sudden stillness in the room. And when he spoke he chose his words carefully. “I’ve already told you he was employed by the Company at the time of his death.”

  “Oil-company trucks are usually marked with the name of the company, aren’t they?”

  “What are you implying?”

  “There were no markings on this particular truck.”

  “How do you know?”

  “There was a report of the search in The Times.”

  “Oh, so you’ve seen that.” He hesitated. “Not every truck, you know, is marked with the Company’s name.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question,” I said. “Was that truck a Company truck or not?”

  I thought he was going to evade the question. But then he said: “No. No, it wasn’t one of our trucks.”

  “Whose truck was it, then?”

  But he’d had enough. “I’m not prepared to discuss the Company’s affairs. The truck has no bearing on the boy’s death.”

  “I think it has,” I said, as his hand reached for the bell-push again. And I added: “One final question. Can you tell me where I’ll find Colonel Whitaker?”

  “Whitaker? I thought it was Gorde you’d come to see?”

  “Whitaker, too,” I told him. “David may have been employed by you, but he was on loan to his father at the time of his death.”

  “Quite untrue. The Times is in error.” And he pressed the bell. The interview was at an end.

  As though he had been waiting for his cue, the secretary came in immediate
ly.

  “See that Mr. Grant has a copy of the report on the Whitaker search, will you, Fairweather? He can take it away with him.” Erkhard turned to me. “Have you a taxi waiting?” And when I shook my head, he told his secretary to arrange for a Company car to drive me back to Manama.

  “You haven’t told me where I’ll find Colonel Whitaker,” I said as I got to my feet.

  He couldn’t very well refuse to answer me in front of his secretary. “In Saraifa, I imagine.” And he added: “But if you’re thinking of going there, I should remind you that you will not be granted a visa.”

  Did that mean he’d use his influence to prevent me getting one? I hesitated, glancing up at the map. The flags had names on them, and because it might be the only opportunity I’d have, I went across to it and had a close look at them. There were only two anywhere near the Saraifa-Hadd border and the names on them were Ogden and Entwhistle.

  “That man is confidential, Mr. Grant.” It was the secretary, at my side now and quite agitated.

  “You needn’t worry,” I said. “I know nothing about oil, so it doesn’t tell me anything. Who did the ground search?” I asked Erkhard.

  “Entwhistle,” he answered without looking up.

  “I’ll give you that report now,” the secretary said.

  Erkhard didn’t look up as I left, determined to give me no excuse for further questions. In the outer office I asked if I could write a note to Sir Philip Gorde. The secretary gave me a sheet of Company notepaper and I wrote it at his desk with him more or less standing over me. I marked the envelope Personal, but I was careful to say nothing in it that Erkhard didn’t know already. The secretary promised to see that it went out by the next plane. “If there is a reply, I’ll send it down to your hotel.” He gave me a duplicated copy of the report of the search and showed me out.

  I read that report in the car driving back to Manama. It told me very little that I didn’t already know. The truck had been discovered by nomads of the Rashid tribe, who had passed the news on to some Harasis going down to the Gulf of Masira. The naukhuda of a dhow had brought the news across to Masira Island, and the RAF station there had radioed it on to RAF HQ, Aden. A Valetta, landing at Masira on the milk-run up from Kormaksar, had begun the aerial search on March 11, and the abandoned truck had been located after a three-day search. Erkhard had then ordered Entwhistle, who was operating about seventy miles away, to break off his seismological survey work and proceed at speed to the area.

  Due to a broken spring, Entwhistle had not reached the abandoned truck until three days later. He had then carried out a systematic search, but had found no trace of David, and the few nomads he encountered knew nothing about him. After four days, lack of supplies had forced him to retire. Meantime, the Valetta, supported by a plane chartered by GODCO, had carried out an intensive air search. This had been abandoned on March 16. Everything had then depended on the ground search, but the rough going had put Entwhistle’s radio out of action and it was not until he joined up with Ogden’s outfit on March 24 that he was able to report his failure to find even the body.

  It was obvious that no blame attached to the Company. As Erkhard had said, everything possible had been done. I put the report away in my briefcase. The only man who could tell me anything more was Entwhistle, and, remembering the position of his flag on Erkhard’s operations map, I knew there wasn’t much chance of my having a talk with him.

  We were approaching the town now, the twin minarets of the Suq al-Khamis Mosque standing slender against the sky, and I told the driver to take me to the Political Resident’s office. “The PRPG, sir?” He slowed the car. “Is not in Manama. Is out at Jufair by the Naval Base.” He hesitated. He was a very superior-looking Bahraini. “You wish me to drive you there?”

  “Please.”

  He turned right and we reached the Jufair road by the National Cinema. “Have you a pass, sir? Everybody need a pass to enter Jufair Naval Base.” But the native sentry on the gate knew the car and he let us through without question. We were close to the sea then with a frigate lying white as a swan on the oily-calm water. The road curved amongst the trees, the Government blocks standing discreetly back in semblance of a country estate. It was all manifestly English, and so, too, was the Passport Control Office with its forms. Purpose of visit … what did I put for that? I handed my passport to the clerk, together with my application for visas.

  “Abu Dhabi, Dubai, Sharjah, and Saraifa. That’s quite a tour.” He shook his head doubtfully, turning over the pages of my passport. “The first three, they’re Trucial sheikhdoms—they may be possible. But Saraifa—that’s quite out of the question.”

  “Isn’t that for the Ruler to decide?” I asked. “I understand it’s an independent sheikhdom.”

  The suggestion seemed to strike him as a novel one. “We decide who goes to Saraifa,” he said stiffly. And he added: “If you’ll come back later …”

  “This afternoon? I want to leave for Abu Dhabi tomorrow.”

  “This afternoon?” He sounded doubtful. “Well, perhaps …”

  I drove to the BOAC office then, only to discover that if I wanted to fly to Abu Dhabi I should have to charter a plane. Gulf Airways ran a service to Sharjah, but not to Abu Dhabi. It was my first experience of the difficulties of communication in the country. Back at the hotel in time for lunch, I was hailed by Ruffini, sitting alone like a pale-blue toad in front of a tall glass. “You like a beer?”

  He had seen one of the chief executives of BAPCO—the Bahrain Petroleum Company—out at the oil town of Awali, and then had an interview with Erkhard. “This afternoon I go to Jufair, but I do not think they tell me anything.” He leaned towards me across the table. “You puzzle me, Signor Grant,” he said. “A lawyer, always with your briefcase. You say you are not interested in oil, yet your business is with two of the most important oil men in the Gulf.”

  The boy brought my drink. “Salute!” Ruffini raised his glass. “That girl at the reception desk—she is new to GODCO and she talk. This morning when you ask for Sir Philip Gorde and he is not there, Erkhard immediately sees you ’imself. Why?” His eyes were fixed on my face, full of curiosity. “Why are you so important? What is in that briefcase of yours, signore?” He shook his head and gave a mock sigh. “You will not tell me, of course. Not yet.” His faced creased in a smile and he gulped down the rest of his drink. “Let’s go and eat.”

  Over lunch he told me why he was in Bahrain. He worked for a newspaper group in Milan and he’d had a tip-off from one of Italy’s leading oil men. “I think he is right,” he said. “There is trouble. But where?” He had been up since six, talking in the bazaar, to Indians chiefly. A squadron of bren-gun carriers of the RAF regiment was rumoured to have been sent to Sharjah, and two RAF reconnaissance planes had been fitted with long-range tanks. There was talk, too, of additional transport allocated to the Trucial Oman Scouts, and the G.O.C. Persian Gulf was known to be on a tour of inspection. “If there is trouble ’ere,” he said, “then it mean only one thing—oil.” And suddenly, without warning, he said: “What about this David Whitaker, eh?” He smiled at me. “Now you are surprised. But that little girl knew him and you told her your business is about this boy who is missing.” He stared at me. “But you don’t want to talk about it, eh?”

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” I said. “I’m his executor, that’s all.”

  “An’ you ’ave to see Sir Philip Gorde, who is four years ago one of the most important men in the Gulf, but not any more—who is also the life-long friend of Colonel Whitaker, the boy’s father. An’ you ’ave nothing to tell me, eh?” He shook his head sadly. “Per’aps you do not know it, my friend—but I think maybe you are sitting on the story I want.” He stared at me a moment, and then very seriously: “You will think I am being very stupid now, but walk with care. I like you. I like men who ’ave a sense of duty. That is why I am warning you.”

  “You sound very serious.” I wanted to laugh it off. But he said: �
��I am very serious. Oil is big money. And in a country like this it is also political dynamite.” Probably he read the shock his choice of words gave me, for he added quickly: “You don’t believe that, eh? Well, I will take a bet with you. You will not get to Abu Dhabi or to Sharjah. Saraifa is closed anyway. You will, in fact, not be allowed out of Bahrain. And you will be got out of ’ere somehow before Sir Philip Gorde returns. Have you got your visas yet?”

  “I have to go back to Jufair this afternoon.”

  “Okay,” he said. “You can come with me. But you will not get any visa.”

  He was right there. They were very apologetic about it down at Jufair, but the only man who could deal with my application had unfortunately been called away on urgent business. Perhaps if I came back tomorrow. There was no point in arguing. The brick wall of officialdom can’t be battered down unless you have the right contacts, and I’d no contacts at all. I went for a walk along the naval jetty. There was a wind blowing off the anchorage, but it was a hot wind and did nothing to refresh me.

  Half an hour later Ruffini joined me. “Do you get your visas?” He gave me a wicked smile. He knew I hadn’t got them.

  “Did you get the low-down on the political situation?” I asked him.

  He gave a fat chuckle and shook his head. “The same thing. Nobody is saying anything. What is more,” he added, “you and me, we are in the same boat. No visas for Ruffini also. He is to stay ’ere and mind his bloody business.” He hoisted himself on to the sea wall. “Officials can be very stupid. If I have to stay on in Bahrain and write my story from ’ere, then I have to guess at what goes on, and maybe I guess wrong.” He was staring out across the anchorage, his eyes screwed up against the dazzle of the water. “That gunboat, for instance …” He nodded towards the frigate, which was slowly fetching up to her anchor, the clatter of her winch coming to us very clear across the water. “An exercise, they tell me. Routine. Maybe that is all it is and they are speaking the truth. But ’ow do I know?”

  We stayed and watched her steam out of the anchorage, and then Ruffini heaved himself down off the wall. “Do you ever ’ear of the Emir of Hadd?” he asked as we walked back to the taxi. “The Emir Abdul-Zaid bin Sultan? Well, no matter.” He wiped the perspiration from his face. “But try shooting that name at the political people ’ere and see ’ow their faces go blank. I tell you,” he added, “this country is worse than a Sicilian village, full of old vendettas and not a clear boundary anywhere to mark the finish of one sheikh’s piece of sand and the beginning of the next.”