The Doomed Oasis

by Innes, Hammond;

  I didn’t answer at once, for I’d read through to the end of the newspaper story, to the editorial footnote that had been added at the bottom: The London Office of the Gulfoman Oilfields Development Company issued a statement yesterday denying that there was any truth in rumours that the Company had made an important new oil strike. Asked whether David Whitaker had made a confidential report prior to his death, an official of the Company stated categorically that nothing was known in London about any such report. Despite the Company’s denials, GODCO shares went ahead yesterday in active dealings on the London Stock Exchange.

  “Well?”

  “Suppose there’s something in it?”

  “Suppose pigs had wings,” he snarled. “Well, come on, man. What was it you wanted to see me about?”

  For answer I opened my briefcase and handed over the envelope David had addressed to him. “Have you seen Colonel Whitaker since you’ve been out here?” I asked.

  “What’s that got to do with it?” He was staring down at the envelope, and when I started to explain, he cut me short. “Oh, I’ve heard the talk, if that’s what you mean. But it’s nothing to, do with the Company. If Charles Whitaker likes to waste his money trying to prove a theory …” He grunted. “It’s just damned awkward, that’s all. The boy’s death makes a colourful story, and coming on top of his father’s activities …” He gave a little shrug and slit open the flap of the envelope with his finger. “Erkhard was trying to keep it quiet—and rightly. Saraifa is a trouble spot. Always has been. And the political chaps are touchy about it.”

  “That doesn’t explain why he should try to prevent me seeing you.”

  He had taken out a letter and two wads of foolscap. “What’s that? What are you talking about?” He reached into his pocket for his glasses.

  I told him then how I’d been given facilities for Sharjah as soon as it was known that he had changed his plans and was flying back to Bahrain.

  “What are you suggesting?” he demanded.

  “That Erkhard didn’t intend us to meet.”

  “Nonsense. What difference could it make to him?” He put on his glasses, and after that he didn’t talk as he read steadily through the contents. Finally he said: “Do you know what this is, Mr. Grant?” He tapped one of the foolscap sheets. “Do you know what he’s trying to get me to do?”

  “Sign some sort of undertaking, but I don’t know exactly—”

  “Undertaking!” he rasped. “If I sign this—” He waved the sheet of paper at me. “It would commit the Company to drilling four test wells at locations to be supplied by you.” He took his glasses off and stared at me. “Is that right? You hold the locations?”

  “Yes,” I said. “They’re in a separate envelope. If you sign that document, then I’m instructed to hand it across to you.”

  “But not otherwise?”

  “No.”

  “And you’ve got it with you?”

  I nodded. “It’s here in my briefcase.”

  “And if I don’t sign … What do you do then?”

  “In that case I imagine my actions wouldn’t concern you.”

  “No?” He laughed. And then he was looking down at the document again. “I see here that you will be acting as agent for Sheikh Makhmud and his son Khalid in this matter. Have you ever met Sheikh Makhmud?”

  I shook my head.

  “And you know nothing about the Middle East.” He was staring at me and his eyes had the suggestion of a twinkle. “It has its humorous side, you know. The boy must have thought you a most remarkable lawyer.” He went back to the document again. “Further, it commits the Company to the payment of an advance of a hundred thousand pounds in respect of oil royalties of fifty percent, provided always that Sheikh Makhmud and his son agree to grant to the Company the sole concession from date of signature to the year two thousand. Well,” he said, “there’s your undertaking. The boy must have had a touch of the sun when he typed that.” And he tossed it across to me. “Read it yourself and tell me what you think of it—as a lawyer.”

  I glanced through it quickly, wondering what he expected me to see in it. “It looks perfectly legal,” I said.

  “Exactly. That’s what makes it so damned odd. He’d taken the trouble to look up all the legal jargon for that sort of a document.” He leaned suddenly forward. “He couldn’t have got that in the desert, could he? It means he looked it up before ever he went out there, before he’d even run his survey.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “That his report’s a phony. I’m not a fool, Grant. That boy’s been got at, and I can guess who’s got at him. Here. Take a look at the survey report.” He thrust it at me. “He used his own typewriter for that. The other’s different, probably an office machine. He typed that document and then went out into the desert—”

  “David lost his life as the result of that survey,” I reminded him.

  “Did he? How do you know what caused his death?” He glared at me. “You don’t, and nor do I. Nobody knows—or even what’s happened to him. Has any one mentioned the Whitaker Theory to you?”

  “I know about it,” I said. “Is that why you think he’s been got at?”

  He nodded. “Way back in the thirties Charles Whitaker began claiming that we’d find the oilfields continuing down from the Gulf here between the sand seas of the Empty Quarter and the coastal mountain ranges to the east. It seemed a possibility, and, remembering how Holmes’s theory had finally been proved right in Bahrain, I took a chance on it and moved some of my development teams in from the coast. It was an expensive business, and Buraimi was about the limit, from the practical point of view. I was operating partly in the Sharjah sheikhdom and partly in Muscat territory, and after I’d burned my fingers, even the big companies like Shell and ARAMCO wouldn’t look at his theory.”

  “That was a long time ago now,” I said.

  “Yes, before the war.”

  “What about Saraifa? Did you do any development work there?”

  “No, it was too far from the coast. I sent a geological party in in 1939, but the initial reports weren’t very encouraging, and then the war came and the chap in charge of the survey was killed. We didn’t try again, though Charles was always pressing us to do so. He had a political appointment for a short time after the end of the war, but when he rejoined the Company in 1949 he was still just as convinced that he’d be proved right in the end.” He shook his head. “Poor fellow! It had become an obsession—Saraifa in particular; he wanted us to try again there. The wartime development of desert transport made it a practical proposition, but the political situation between Saraifa and Hadd was worsening, and anyway I’d lost faith in his theory by then.” He stared at the foolscap sheets in my hand. “If that survey report had been turned in by one of our most experienced geophysicists, I wouldn’t touch it.”

  “Because of the political factor?”

  “No. Not just because of the political factor.”

  “What, then?”

  He hesitated. “Because it doesn’t fit in with the reasons I’m out here.” He stared at me then, his eyes narrowed above the tired pouches of flesh. “The fact is,” he said, “the Company’s been spending too much money in the Gulf area and getting too little in return. Nobody is supposed to know this yet—not even Erkhard, though I think he’s guessed. My instructions are to carry out a thorough investigation of all our development projects in the Gulf with a view to cutting down our commitments. It amounts to a reassessment of the value of each project, and those that show no real promise of yielding results are to be abandoned. So you see …” He gave a little shrug, his hands spread out. “This is hardly the moment for me or anybody else to involve the Company in new commitments.”

  “I see.” There was really nothing more to be said, and I folded the papers and put them in my briefcase.

  “It’s a funny thing.” He was leaning back in his chair, his eyes half closed, chuckling to himself. “The Company did this once before. The
y sent Alex Erkhard out, and because I was sick and hadn’t the energy to fight him, he got my job. And now, four years later, I’m back with the same powers he had and the knowledge that he’s made more mistakes than I did and lost the Company a lot of friends.” Again that dry, rasping chuckle, and then his eyelids flicked back. “What I’ve told you is in the strictest confidence, you understand. You’ve been put to a lot of trouble to contact me. I thought it only fair to explain the situation to you. If it’s any satisfaction to you, I’d add that a report like that isn’t conclusive. Seismology never is; it’s simply an indication. The only way to be sure you’re sitting on an oilfield is to drill down and find out.”

  “And suppose Whitaker’s doing just that?”

  “Hmm. To know the answer to that, we’d have to know the locations the boy was surveying and where his father’s drilling.” He stared at me. “Well, there it is. You’ve got your instructions.…”

  I nodded. There was no point in continuing the discussion. “You’re going back to Bahrain, I take it, Sir Philip?”

  “Bahrain? Oh, you’d like a lift in my plane, is that it?”

  I nodded. “Please.”

  He seemed to hesitate. But then he said: “All right.” He picked up his drink. “You know my pilot—Otto Smith? Perhaps you’d be good enough to get him for me.” He tapped his leg. “Can’t move about like I used to.”

  “I’ll get him,” I said. And I went out and left him there, leaning back in the chair with his eyes half closed as though exhausted.

  I had some difficulty in finding Otto, but eventually I ran him to earth in the showers, sitting naked, smoking a cigarette and gossiping with his navigator. I waited whilst he dressed and then went back with him to the manager’s office.

  Gorde was in the same position, but now he had my briefcase open on his lap and he was peering down at a sheet of paper he held in his hand.

  I can’t remember what I said to him—I was too angry. I think I called him some pretty unpleasant names, but all he said was: “What did you expect me to do?” His tone was mild. Almost he seemed amused. “If I’d asked you to let me see the locations, you’d have refused. Quite rightly.” And he added: “I just wanted to check them against the position where his truck was found.”

  “But you’d no right—”

  “Of course I’d no right,” he said. “But yelling at me and getting yourself into a muck sweat won’t alter the fact that I now have them. Do you know where they are?” he asked, peering up at me.

  “No,” I said. “I haven’t had an opportunity—”

  “On the Saraifa-Hadd border. Right bang on the bloody border.” He glared at me. “I suppose you’ll tell me you didn’t know that the border was in dispute?” The way he said it implied that I’d tried to put something over on him.

  Angrily I told him that I didn’t have the advantage of his lack of scruples. “I kept strictly to my instructions and refrained from opening the envelope until I’d seen you.”

  “All right,” he said. “We’ll talk about it in a moment.” He levered himself round in his chair. “Is the plane refuelled yet, Otto?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I’ll check, if you like. Are you wanting to leave right away?”

  “Yes, right away. But first I want you to check that your tanks are full. A personal check, please. You’ve got to have enough fuel on board to fly to the Saraifa border and back.”

  “I’m afraid we have to have authority to fly to Saraifa, Sir Philip.”

  “Since when?”

  Otto hesitated. “I don’t know exactly. Since the trouble there, I guess. It was just after you left; a border clash between Saraifa and Hadd. They had to send the Trucial Oman Scouts in, and since then nobody has been allowed to go to Saraifa.”

  Gorde gave a little sigh. “Let’s not argue about it, Otto. I intend to have a quick look at these locations. Now then, how do we go about it without some little clerk reporting my movements to the PRPG, eh?”

  Otto thought for a moment. “I think the best thing would be to say we’re doing a recce of certain areas, taking a look at a seismological outfit we’ve got operating at the foot of the Jebel, possibly landing at Ras al Khaima if we’ve time, otherwise returning here. If we make it vague like that, I guess it’ll be all right. That is, so long as you don’t want to land at Saraifa.”

  “I don’t know what I want to do,” Gorde grumbled. “Haven’t had time to think about it yet.” He poked around in my briefcase until he found a sheet of plain paper. “Communications here still functions for civilian messages, doesn’t it?” And when the other nodded, he pulled a gold pencil from his pocket and began to write. I watched him as he signed his name and read it through. I was more curious than angry now; he’d taken matters out of my hands, and for the moment my only concern was to get on this flight.

  “Have Communications send that off right away.” He held out the message. “Then check your fuel. Oh, and Otto,” he added as the pilot was leaving. “We’ll be flying on to Bahrain tonight.” The door closed and he turned to me. “I suppose you think I owe you an apology, hm?” He handed me back my briefcase. “Well, maybe I do. But I spent a lot of my time in Saraifa, and anyway I’m an oilman. We’ve no built-in moral code like you boys when it comes to things like locations.” He folded the foolscap sheet and put it back in its envelope and sat there tapping it against his thumbnail, lost in thought. “It’s just possible, I suppose.…” He said it softly, speaking to himself.

  “That Colonel Whitaker’s drilling in one of these locations?”

  But he shook his head. “In that area? He wouldn’t be such a fool.” Silence again, and the rhythmic tapping of that envelope. “However …” The small, bloodshot eyes peered at me curiously, and then he began to chuckle. “A provincial lawyer—and it’s just possible you might have got hold of the thing the Company has been searching the Gulf for during almost thirty years.” The rasp of that chuckle seemed to threaten to choke him. “You and Charles Whitaker. God Almighty!” he gasped. “And that boy … he’d never have dared operate on that border on his own.”

  “You think they were together, then?”

  “How the hell do I know?” He handed me the envelope. “I don’t know where Charles is drilling any more than you do. I’m not even certain he is drilling. It’s just rumours.” He reached for his stick and dragged himself to his feet. “But I mean to find out,” he said. “If Charles is drilling on these locations …” He let it go at that, and since he seemed to take it for granted that I was going with him, I stuffed the envelope into my pocket, picked up my briefcase, and followed him to the door. As he pulled it open, he said to me over his shoulder: “Prove Whitaker’s theory correct, and on that border, and you’ll be in politics so deep, my friend, that you’ll wish you’d never been born. But I can’t believe it,” he added, limping out into the bright sunshine. “Pig-headed, proud, revengeful … He still couldn’t be such a bloody fool.” And he stumped off across the courtyard, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

  We took off ten minutes later, and by then I’d had an opportunity to glance at the contents of that envelope. There were several foolscap sheets headed: REPORT OF SURVEYS CARRIED OUT ON SARAIFA TERRITORY; and it was subheaded: Basis on which an Immediate Program of Test Drilling is Recommended at Points A, B, C, & D. Pinned to it were four sheets of graph paper covered with figures and diagrams. There was also a sketch map giving his survey points, a whole series of them, each with the position pinpointed in latitude and longitude. A number of Arab names were given, but none that I could recall from my brief examination of the map in Erkhard’s office. Points A, B, C, and D were marked in red ink; they were very close to each other, in a little huddle at the eastern end of the line of his survey. There was no covering letter. Just the report and the sketch map.

  I read the report through carefully as we flew south into the desert, It was typewritten, highly technical—quite beyond my comprehension. For this reason I do not intend to giv
e the details. But there were several references to the “Whitaker Theory,” and right at the beginning there was a paragraph that read: It should not be imagined that I stumbled on this by accident. If anything comes of it, the credit must go to Henry Farr. He surveyed the area in the very early days of the war. The Saraifa Concession was fairly new then and Farr’s outfit was the only survey team in the area. Moreover, he made his report at a time of crisis in the Middle East; it was pigeonholed away in the Company’s headquarters and shortly afterwards he died fighting in Abyssinia. I was fortunate enough to come upon this report when searching old surveys for anything that had a bearing on Saraifa.…

  I leaned back in my seat, thinking about the war and how that old report had got lost in the files. Colonel Whitaker had fought in Eritrea. The same area. I wondered whether he and Farr had ever met. I was thinking about that when Gorde leaned across to me. “Well?” he said. “What are you going to do about that report when you get back to Bahrain?” He was smiling, tight-lipped. “The boy’s like his father,” he grunted. “A dreamer. The same dream, too.”

  “The dreams of youth sometimes come true,” I said. I was remembering how Sue had talked of him.

  His eyes clouded and he looked away from me, staring out of his window towards the mountains. “Ah, yes, the dreams of youth.” He gave a little sigh. “But the boy’s dead and Charles isn’t a young man any more.”

  “And what about Farr?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “He’s dead, too.”

  “You don’t think they could be right?”

  “The Whitaker Theory?” He gave a snort. “Charles had a nose for oil, a sort of instinct for it, like Holmes. But he didn’t know a damn thing about geology. That nose of his cost the Company a lot of money. We struck oil, but never in large enough quantities. I should know,” he almost snarled. “I backed him, and it cost me my job out here. And I loved it,” he added quietly. “I loved this country. Look at it!”