Lock was sat in Ross’s compact but comfortable cabin perched on top of the major’s trunk, next to a tiny cabinet upon which rested a washbasin and water jug. A raised bunk with drawer space underneath ran the length of the wall opposite, directly beneath a small porthole. To the right was a racked shelving space full of books. Below this was a fold-down desktop, open, with one chair pushed underneath it. On the surface was a chessboard, an ashtray and, much to Lock’s pleasure, a new bottle of rum and two glasses.
Ross closed the door and made his way over to the desk, pulling the chair out and sitting down. He frowned. ‘Whatever’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I think I have,’ Lock said.
Ross waited for Lock to elaborate. He didn’t.
‘You can smoke if you like. Rum?’ Ross raised an eyebrow.
‘Thank you, yes.’
Ross pulled the stopper from the bottle and poured out two generous measures. He handed Lock a glass then placed his tobacco pouch on the tabletop and began the ritual of filling his pipe.
‘It’s time I let you in on what our mission actually is,’ Ross said.
Lock nodded. About bloody time too, he thought, as he lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the ashtray. ‘Go ahead. Sir.’
‘Johnny Turk is massing around Qurna, as you know. But I don’t think they are just reinforcing their new border. Oh, no, they want their land back and the Germans want our oil …’ He paused, taking a sip of his drink.
‘A Turkish army left Amara, that’s a little place on the banks of the Tigris in Mesopotamia, and set out east, marching across the border into Persia, according to Arab sources in the area,’ Ross said.
‘How reliable is the information?’
‘That, as is always the case with our Arab friends, is open to question. But Command HQ has heard nothing from the British garrison in the area to corroborate it.’ Ross lowered his voice and leant forward conspiratorially, as if worried that someone might be eavesdropping. ‘Brigadier General Robinson has been assigned by the current head of the troops in Basra, General Barrett, to lead a reconnaissance-in-force to assess the situation in Persia. He’s also to clarify whether the reports that there is a large Turkish and Arab army already gathered to the north of there are, in fact, true. Barrett wants Robinson’s force to counter any invasion and to make sure the local Arabs, the ones we’ve been paying to guard the pipeline,’ Ross said, ‘don’t switch sides … you know, join the Turks.’
Lock knocked back his rum and Ross leant over and topped him up again. He struck a match against the tabletop and lit his pipe. ‘There is a man who I keep hearing about, a spy based somewhere in Persia. A Boche called Doctor Wilhelm Wassmuss. Do you know the name?’ Lock didn’t. ‘He speaks Persian like a native,’ Ross continued, ‘and we believe that he is planning on working his way through the centre of the country, weaving his magic, fixing at pushing German influence in the area. If he succeeds in uniting the various warlords and tribes then we may as well pack up and forget this part of our empire for a hundred years. And if that happens, Lock, then our credibility in India will come tumbling down like a house of cards, too.’ He stopped to let his words sink in.
Lock gazed down at his rum. ‘So you’re sending me after this man?’
‘Precisely!’ Ross said and sat back puffing away thoughtfully. ‘You know, Lock,’ he said after a brief pause, ‘he’s very similar to you.’
‘Sir?’
‘In his abilities, his proficiency with the Arab tongue, their customs.’
‘I wouldn’t say that, sir,’ Lock said. Christ, Lock thought, he liked the Arab people, particularly the Kurds, but he wouldn’t say he was any expert. He’d only lived and worked among them for five or so years.
‘Come, come, stop being so modest,’ Ross said. ‘You are so similar to Wassmuss that I feel you are the ideal man to stop him. I believe you could get inside his head, think like him, feel like him. Yes, I admit that he appears to be always just out of reach, that elusive figure in your periphery vision, the fleeting glimpse, just a sense of a presence.’
‘A ghost,’ Lock said.
Ross nodded in agreement.
‘The elusive pimpernel,’ Lock added.
‘Let’s not get carried away. He’s a villain, Lock, pure and simple. A jihadist with one aim, to destroy the British in the Middle East by hook, but mostly, I wager, by crook.’
‘Do we know what he looks like?’
‘No.’
‘Do we know where he is?’
‘No.’
‘Jesus, Major, do we know anything?’
Ross sucked on his pipe and shrugged. ‘Not a lot. But what I’ve gathered so far, and some of this has been corroborated by my men in the field, is that this Wassmuss devised a plan, a feasible and foolproof one, so the German High Command believe, and they’ve given him all the gold he needs to implement it.’
‘Implement what?’
‘To organise revolts. To bribe, blackmail and cajole the desert tribes of Persia. And not just here, but in Afghanistan and maybe even the North-West Frontier in India, too. All of Islam could be pulled into a holy war on the side of Germany and the Ottoman Empire. Total carnage.’
‘But the British are really here because their navy, not to mention the German fleet, will be needing oil for their warships,’ Lock said.
Ross smiled brightly. ‘Bravo. Yes, and if the Head of the Admiralty is championing the need to secure the oilfields of Mesopotamia and Persia, then you can be damn well sure that it will be done.’
‘Shears?’
‘No, he’s APOC’s man. I mean Churchill. But yes, Shears is after the same end, I just doubt he’s got Britain’s interests at the top of his list.’
‘You don’t think Wassmuss is somehow connected to APOC do you? His activities I mean?’
Ross shook his head. ‘I think not. He’s Germany’s man, after all, and as I said APOC want the oil for APOC, no matter which sovereign nation owns the land the oil spews from. Still, now you come to mention it …’ Ross trailed off, and his face changed into a glazed expression.
‘But, this uniform,’ Lock said, pulling at his lapel, ‘a good disguise, yes, but can I move freely among the troops? I doubt it, and I’ll need to if I’m to track this Wassmuss down.’
‘Quite so,’ Ross smiled brightly. ‘I’m setting up a special task force to enable you to do just that.’ He paused. ‘Well, within reason. The regiment you’re going to be attached to as cover, the Mendip Light Infantry, is part of General Townshend’s new division, the 6th Poona. It’s a small, private regiment raised around the time of the Boer War by some pompous ass called Godwinson, a self-promoted lieutenant colonel who just so happens to be a wealthy landowner in that district of Somerset.’ Ross puffed on his pipe again before continuing. ‘If you’re unlucky, you’ll get to meet him one day. But the good news is that I’ve been given the Mendips to enable us to do the job properly.
‘Now, the 2nd Battalion of the Mendips were all but wiped out recently at Qurna, and their 1st Battalion, back in England, has been earmarked for France. Therefore, new recruits and replacements for the 2nd were made up from other decimated units in the Basra theatre, or recruited from India. While you were rescuing that fair maiden from the evil Turk, I was reinforcing the 2nd Battalion and securing the authority to use it for White Tab work. I have a difficult job to do, Lock,’ he said, jabbing his pipe forward, ‘keeping one step ahead of Johnny Turk and his Arab conspirators, and the Mendip Light Infantry are going to jolly well help me do that job properly.’
‘An army of spies?’ Lock smiled to himself.
Ross shook his head. ‘The battalion is still a military one under Godwinson’s command. But I plan to influence its direction and to use a company from within its ranks when and where I need to.’
Lock took a deep draw on his cigarette and shrugged. ‘So where do we start?’
‘We’ll get to Basra and then head north, past Qurna, up th
e Tigris,’ Ross said. ‘It’s as good a place as any to begin.’
‘We?’ Lock raised an eyebrow in surprise.
‘I shall be accompanying you part of the way. I just doubt I will be taking an active part in the field. More observation.’ Ross’s face turned serious. ‘But for now we have more important matters to sort.’ He leant forward, pulled the chessboard towards him and began arranging the pieces. ‘Black or white?’ he said with a wry smile.
CHAPTER THREE
It was a good few hours later when Lock pulled himself away from the major’s cabin and took himself for a stroll. He was actually glad to get away from Ross’s chessboard and the major’s constant fretting over how a jihad would affect the state of the Empire. But it was just as uncomfortable outside. The hot day had given in to a humid night and, though sticky, there was at least a mild breeze, the ocean was calm and the stars were out.
He made his way along the promenade deck to the forward companionway and climbed the stairs up, past the bridge, to the navigation deck. It was dark now and relatively quiet up there, with only a few officers stargazing, and a sailor on watch. Lock moved to the guard rail and stared down at the upper deck below him. It was a heaving mass of men. Every available space, right up to and including the forecastle deck to the very stem of the bow, was occupied by a soldier of His Britannic Majesty’s Indian Army. Lock could make out their forms in the moonlight and could hear the low hum of their chatter, like the rumble of a distant train. It was too dark for cards or dice, for no light was allowed after sunset for fear of attracting the attention of enemy ships, but he could see the glow of countless cigarettes, lit up like so many little red stars in the night.
‘Christ,’ he muttered to himself, taking out a cigarette of his own and lighting it. ‘And I thought the wharf was crowded.’
Lock realised how lucky he was to be billeted where he was. There weren’t that many NCOs and low-ranking officers in comparison. Perhaps he would see if he could get inside one of the ten lifeboats that were lined up along both the starboard and port sides, for a little bit more privacy. But he should do that sooner, rather than later.
He drew a lungful of tobacco and, as he exhaled, his eyes drifted out to the surrounding ocean. He could just make out one of their warship escorts, a little way off, a dark shadow keeping guard over them.
Lock glanced at his wrist and at the new watch Lady Townshend had given him on the night of the party, a thank-you gift for saving her daughter’s life. It was a beautiful piece, a Swiss-made Omega with a distinctive red twelve o’clock on the face indicating it was an officer’s watch. The hands read 10 p.m. It was time for a visit. Amy would have settled in, been fed and was probably, hopefully, doing as he was, looking for a way to meet.
Lock tossed his cigarette butt over the side and made his way back down the companionway, down past the promenade deck where Ross and the other senior officers and Lord Shears had cabins, on down past the boat deck where the mid-ranking officers were berthed, and came out on the saloon deck. There were cabins along here, too, but the ship’s crew had those. Lock made his way aft, pushing along the walkway, which was surprisingly busy. Soldiers were dotted about chatting, smoking, staring out to sea. He tried his best not to tread on any prostrate limbs. There were a few curses and gripes, but Lock muttered his apologies and stumbled on past the gangway, now barred by a barrier should some fool step out into open air and plunge down into the waters below. Beyond this was another companionway and Lock guessed that on the other side would be where the nurses were. They had been given the rear section of the Lucknow, as far as he could gather, and it had been segregated from the rest of the ship.
Lock stepped into the companionway. Up was dark and he could make out the muffled chatter of yet more men, officers more than likely; below was darker still and smelt of oil and stale sweat. That was the realm known as ‘below decks’. He glanced behind him, then dog-legged past the stairs, and came to the aft section of the saloon deck. This walkway was almost deserted. At the far end was a lone figure, a guard perhaps? Lock couldn’t be certain. He fished out his cigarettes and matches, cupped his hands to hide the flame and struck a match. Then, as nonchalantly as he could, he began to stroll towards the lone figure, softly whistling ‘Waltzing Matilda’ as he went.
As he got closer, the figure turned to face him and Lock could see that he was an armed guard and that behind him was a gate barring the way further on.
‘Evening soldier, everything all right?’ Lock said.
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir, this section is out of bounds. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to turn about.’
‘It’s quite all right, Private …?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, them’s my orders. Please go back.’ He swung his rifle from his shoulder, keeping it low.
Lock took another drag of his cigarette and leant against the guard rail, glancing down to his left and right. He quickly assessed if there was another open walkway below – there wasn’t – and then turned to the sentry again.
‘Excellent work, Private. You are as vigilant as I had hoped, protecting the honour of our fair nurses. Well, goodnight to you.’ Lock gave a nonchalant salute and turned on his heels. He strolled back the way he had come.
‘Goodnight, sir,’ the sentry said.
Lock stopped at the entrance to the companionway and turned to face out to sea. He drew on his cigarette and watched the sentry out of the corner of his eye. The private lowered his rifle and sat back down, looking out to sea himself. Lock remained where he was, then stepped into the shadow of the companionway.
‘Come on,’ he muttered, keeping his gaze on the sky. It was bright, but there were clouds and Lock was waiting for one particular formation to drift its way across the moon. Lock looked back towards the sentry. There was no sign of movement, but then he caught the faint glow of a cigarette end. He turned his attention back to the sky and watched as the cloud began to inch in front of the moon.
Suddenly, what little light there was had gone and the gloom intensified. Lock trusted that the sentry would at that same moment glance up to the sky himself. He sprang forward, hitched up onto the guard rail and swung himself over and down. He paused. There was no shout of alarm. So far, so good. He hadn’t been seen.
He was now dangling down on the outside of the ship, clinging to the lower rung of the guard rail. When he had stolen a glance over the edge earlier, he had spotted about five feet below a narrow ridge running the length of the ship just below the line of portholes on the next level. Below that, the waterline, then nothing but ocean.
Try not to think about that, Kingdom, he said to himself, and cautiously edged his feet down the greasy topside until he felt the ridge firm beneath his feet. He allowed the pressure to build on the sole of his boots. It would hold. He was in an awkward crouching position, but was out of sight from the walkway above.
He began to move, pulling his right hand off the rail, and as soon as he did, he felt his weak knee throb and lost his footing immediately. He snatched for the rung, gripped and pulled his weight back up.
His heart was pounding.
‘Bugger,’ he gasped. ‘You’d better be waiting for me, Amy.’
He decided now to keep most of his weight supported by his hands and, pushing the edge of his boots hard against the hull, began to edge and haul his way aft again. He listened to the ocean below as the Lucknow cut through the water, and told himself not to.
‘Just think of Amy, Amy …’ he muttered. ‘Soft red hair, sparkling green eyes …’
Lock inched on, patiently, until he came to the point where the sentry would be sitting above him. Here, the guard rail ended and became a smooth bulkhead for, Lock estimated, four feet. This was where the gate was keeping the soldiers from the nurses. Lock paused and peered down at the black water beneath him and at the white foam churned up by the ship’s movement. He took a deep breath and was drenched by a sudden burst of sea spray.
Was the sea getting rougher? He mu
st keep moving.
Lock pulled himself ever so slightly up and peered through the bottom rung. He could make out the figure of the sentry, his back to the gate now. There was the glow of a cigarette where his face would be, facing down the length of the walkway. Lock lowered himself down again, then leant his body out.
Could he swing and jump?
Too risky?
He couldn’t lean over and stretch, it was just out of reach. He’d have to go lower. He looked down again. He let go his left hand and slowly crouched until he could feel the ridge beneath his fingertips. It was wet but rough, with plenty of grip. He glared up at his right hand. It wouldn’t obey him and release its hold.
A booming voice from above made him freeze.
‘You there, what do you think you’re doing?’
There was a scuffle of movement above Lock and something fizzed past his face.
‘No smoking on duty! Do you hear?’ the voice called again.
‘No, Sergeant. Sorry, Sergeant,’ the sentry replied.
‘Come ’ere, me laddie!’ the sergeant called.
Lock released the grip from his right hand and dropped his body lower, feet dangling in open air just above the waterline. He shimmied himself along, counting the distance, ‘One foot, two foot … three … four,’ and gritted his teeth as he pulled himself up by his hands. He lifted his body so that his chest rose above the ridge, then stretched his hand up the topside feeling cool rough metal slide beneath his palm, until his fingers felt, then gripped the rung of the guard rail again. He let out his breath in a great gasp and realised he’d been holding it in for a good while. He hauled his body up, found a foothold, then pulled himself to the edge of the guard rail, looking first to the gate on the other side a little way down the walkway.
The sentry had his back to him and was still being chastised by the sergeant. Lock peered down the length of the walkway on the nurses’ side of the ship. It was dark, quiet and mercifully deserted. He pulled himself up and over the guard rail and landed like a cat on the walkway. He stood and pressed his back against the bulkhead, glanced once more through the gate. He brushed his jacket down, and straightened his hair. He rubbed his sore knee, then turned and walked silently aft. Now, where to find Amy?
Kingdom Lock Page 5
