by Saul David
'You have three seconds to find some more money,' said the robber. 'Then I shoot.'
George looked the man in the eye. He stared back unflinchingly, almost daring George to defy him. 'I have a little in here,' said George, handing over his pack.
The robber passed it back. 'You find it.'
As George rummaged among his clothes he felt the cold metal of his Adams revolver and, for a fleeting moment, was tempted to use it. But he suspected that his chance of shooting both robbers before they got him was extremely low. If he handed over some of the sovereigns they would probably be satisfied and leave. He took the latter option and eased five gold coins from the money-belt at the bottom of the pack. 'Take these and go,' he said, passing them to the older man.
'What are they?'
'Gold.'
The robber's eyes lit up as he inspected one of the shiny coins in the moonlight. 'This picture on the mohur, what is it?' he asked, referring to Pistrucci's depiction of St George slaying the dragon.
'It's of one of our mightiest warriors.'
The man grunted in approval, then turned the coin over. 'And who is this?'
'Our queen, Victoria, who is your empress.'
The robber chuckled. 'No, my friend. We Sindis have never been ruled by a woman.' He turned to his accomplice. 'Allah has blessed our endeavours this evening, Jabar, and we have far more than we came for. Kill the Feringhee and let us go.'
It was said so matter-of-factly that George thought he must have misheard until the pockmarked Jabar raised his pistol and pointed it directly at his head. 'Now, hold on . . .' he shouted, as a single shot ripped through the still night.
Jabar's pistol remained unfired as a bullet exited from his chest in a spray of blood and tissue. The younger man looked down at the gaping wound in astonishment and horror, then toppled forward. As his body hit the ground, the older robber spun round in one fluid motion and loosed off three shots in the direction of the gunman, then took off into the night, leaving his stricken accomplice on the sand.
Shocked by the sudden violence, George stood rooted to the spot, amazed by his survival. If it had not been for the acrid smell of gunpowder in the air, and the slickness of Jabar's blood on his face, he might have believed he had imagined the whole thing. But groans from the direction of the original shot brought him to his senses. Oh, no, he thought. Please - not Ilderim.
He grabbed his pistol, ran over and found a man in the foetal position on the sand, clutching his stomach, a rifle by his side. It was Overton. 'You saved me!' said George, wide-eyed. 'Why would you do that? I thought you had it in for me.'
'No,' said Overton, breathing in little gasps. 'Far . . . from it.'
'Lie still and I'll look at your wound.'
'No point, it's in the stomach . . . I'm a goner. But first there's something I must tell you. My name is Overton but I'm not a carpet trader . . . I work for Military Intelligence and I . . . I was sent to keep an eye on you and make sure you reached Afghanistan safely.'
'Who sent you?'
'The Duke of Cambridge.'
'Why?'
Overton paused, as if deciding how much to tell George. 'Let's just say,' he gasped, 'there are vested interests in India who . . . who would prefer you not to complete your mission.'
'What vested interests? Are they businessmen? Do they work for the Indian government?'
'They are the government.'
George was appalled. How could that be? Overton's response, punctuated by increasingly long gasps for breath, was that Lytton and the hawks in his Indian administration were pursuing a quite different agenda in Afghanistan from that of the British government. They preferred an aggressive Forward policy with the aim of dismembering the country so that the borders of British India could be extended to the natural barrier of the Hindu Kush.
'Are you saying,' asked George, aghast, 'that Lytton and his crew want the Mullah Mushk-i-Alam to get his hands on the Prophet's Cloak?'
Overton nodded. It would, he said, guarantee a religious uprising and that in turn would give the Indian government the excuse to invade, topple Yakub and impose British rule. George had to stop that at all costs.
George could see the twisted logic in what Overton was saying, and why Disraeli and Salisbury had avoided using an agent of the Indian government, but he still wanted to know why they had kept him in the dark.
'I suppose they feared,' said Overton, grunting with the exertion, 'that you wouldn't have accepted the mission if you'd known the truth.'
I probably wouldn't, thought George, then remembered something he wanted to ask. 'You said earlier you were sent by the duke to keep an eye on me. Was it his idea, or was he acting for the politicians?'
Overton had shut his eyes. His breathing was much shallower now, his face deathly pale. 'Overton? Can you hear me?'
At first there was no response, and George feared he was dead. But he could see a slight quiver on Overton's lips and at last there came a whispered reply: 'It was his idea . . . his alone.'
George was mystified. Why would the duke send someone to shadow him without telling his political superiors? It didn't make sense - unless the Commander-in-Chief had a personal interest in his safety and the success of his mission. But what could it be?
He looked back at Overton and saw that he was perfectly still. He felt his neck for a pulse. There was nothing. 'Poor fellow.'
Behind him someone was approaching. He whipped round, gun at the ready, to see a bare-chested Ilderim clutching his Khyber knife. 'Huzoor, are you injured?' said the Afghan, genuine concern on his face.
'I'm fine, but no thanks to you. Where the devil have you been?'
Ilderim looked sheepish. 'I . . . ah . . . had someone to meet.'
'In the middle of the night? Who?'
'Forgive me, huzoor, but I couldn't resist.'
'Couldn't resist? Couldn't . . . Oh, no!' said George, having suddenly twigged. 'Please don't tell me you were off whoring with Soraya when you should have been protecting me.'
'Shame on me, huzoor, but how was I to know this dog and his accomplices would try to kill you tonight?' said Ilderim, pointing at Overton's body.
'This dog saved my life.'
Ilderim took a step closer to examine Overton's face. 'But is this not the man who was following you?'
'He was sent from England to protect me. I got the wrong end of the stick.'
'The wrong end . . . ?'
'Never mind. The point is, if he hadn't intervened those dacoits would have killed me.'
'I saw one body at our camp, huzoor. How many were there?'
'Two.'
'And the other escaped?'
'Yes - after he'd shot Overton here, and with my money.'
'I beg your forgiveness, huzoor,' said the big Afghan. 'I have failed you miserably and if you seek to replace me I will understand.'
'Don't tempt me, Ilderim. But we've come this far and, having seen you in action, I know how useful you'll be in any future scrum. If you're present, that is, and can keep your mind off the ladies and your trousers on.'
'I can and I will, huzoor, on my father's life.'
'Good. Now, you can start by fetching a spade from the steamer. We need to bury these bodies.'
'At once, huzoor.'
'And, Ilderim?'
'Yes?'
'Don't dwell on tonight. You couldn't have known what was going to happen and we've all made mistakes with the fairer sex,' said George, thinking of his own ill-starred liaison with Mrs Bradbury, which had cost him his first commission before the Zulu war. 'I just hope your Soraya was worth the trouble.'
Ilderim grinned. 'She was, huzoor. In the moonlight her body gleamed like--'
'Enough!' interrupted George. 'I don't need the details. Just be sure her father doesn't find out.'
Chapter 5
Khyber Pass, North West Frontier Province, late summer 1879
The sun was high in a beautiful cobalt blue sky, the temperature already above a hundred degrees,
as George and Ilderim rode through the famous stone gateway at Jamrud - almost medieval in appearance with its round towers and crenellated parapet - and into the Khyber Pass proper. They had left Peshawar at sunrise, having arrived there by train a day earlier. The remainder of the journey up the Indus to Multan had passed without incident.
'Look around you, huzoor,' said Ilderim, from the back of his sturdy pony, gesturing to the craggy, dun-coloured hills on either side of the track. 'This was Afghan territory the last time I rode this way. Now it's part of British India, but the tribesmen haven't changed. They're still Afridis - on both sides of the border.'
'Is that your tribe?' asked George.
'I'm a Ghilzai from beyond Michnee Pass. Thankfully my father's lands are still in Afghanistan.'
'Are they close to our route?'
'Not far.'
'Then we must pay your family a visit.'
Ilderim shook his head vigorously. 'No, huzoor, that will not be possible.'
'Why ever not?'
'Because my father and I did not part on good terms.'
'But that was many years ago,' said George, reining in his horse and forcing his companion to stop. 'Surely he'd be pleased to see you.'
'I think not.'
'Suit yourself, but I don't see why we should spend any more time roughing it than we have to.'
They rode on in silence up the twisting track, past small fortified villages of mud and stone, perched like eyries on the barren, rocky hillsides of an ever-narrowing valley. Vegetation was sparse and the soil thin and barren. Every now and again they would look up and see a lone Afghan horseman, rifle slung on his back, watching them from the sun-baked ridge above.
'He's from the Akakhel clan of the Afridi,' said Ilderim of one. 'They've been guardians of this stretch of the pass for centuries, and are constantly feuding with the other clans. The only time they band together is when a foreign power tries to use the pass without paying a subsidy.'
'Like the British in forty-two?'
'Yes, though my own people were the first to close the passes beyond Jalalabad.'
Near the summit at Shagai, 3,500 feet above sea level, the pass was barely more than twenty feet wide with steep rocks at either side, a death-trap for any advancing army. But beyond the route levelled and widened into the Landi Kotal plateau - the site of an ancient caravanserai for travellers and soldiers - before narrowing again as the track fell through a series of hairpins and defiles towards the new border crossing at Torkham. There, a red-faced sergeant of the 92nd Highlanders, perspiring freely in his khaki tunic and heavy kilt, detained them long enough to inspect George's papers and warn him against travelling at night.
Though it was early evening they pressed on regardless, and were toiling up yet another precipitous defile, the loose shale and stones causing their mounts to slip and slide, when Ilderim uttered an oath and pointed ahead. Strung out across the summit, blocking their path, were eight horsemen, their slung rifles clearly silhouetted against the darkening sky. 'They're Ghilzai,' said Ilderim. 'Let me do the talking.'
As they got closer George could see that each rider was clad in the tribesman's standard garb of kurta, pyjama trousers and a black turban, and was armed to the teeth. Obtruding from the chadar, or cummerbund, round his waist were the handles of a knife and pistol, while two cartridge bandoliers across his shoulders provided ammunition for his rifle. Most had Sniders, the breech-loading single-shot rifle first issued to British troops in the sixties and since superseded by the more robust and accurate Martini-Henry. George was relieved to see they were still slung and trusted Ilderim's tribal connection to get them safely through.
'Greetings, brothers,' said Ilderim, cheerily, in Pashto as they approached to within a few yards of the waiting horsemen, whose deadpan expressions betrayed neither friendliness nor hostility. 'Is it far to Jalalabad?'
'Yes, very far,' responded the leader of the group, a bearded ruffian with a hawk nose and high cheekbones. 'Who are you and what are you doing in Afghanistan?'
'My name is James Harper,' responded George, 'and I'm--'
'Hold your tongue, Feringhee,' barked the Afghan. 'I wasn't speaking to you.'
'We have business in Kabul,' said Ilderim, 'and plan to stop in Jalalabad on the way.'
'What business?'
'My companion works for the Anglo-Indian Trading Company and is hoping to develop trade between Afghanistan and Britain for the mutual benefit of both countries.'
'You lie. Trade is an excuse for the British to take control. Did not their interest in Hindustan begin with trade?'
'I can assure you,' said George, 'that my company has no--'
'Quiet! If you speak again, Feringhee, you will lose your tongue. Is it not bad enough that our exalted amir has relinquished the Khyber and allowed the Franks a presence in our capital? Soon, if we let them, they will take over and convert us to Christianity - which is why it is our duty to kill all Feringhees and their Afghan accomplices.'
The leader drew his pistol and aimed it at Ilderim. 'Prepare to meet Satan, you Angrez lapdog!'
'Wait!' shouted Ilderim, who was sure he recognized the cheek mole on the man about to kill him. 'You're Gul Shah. Your father served mine. I'm Ilderim Khan, son of Abdulla Khan, Malik of Khajuri.'
George was about to draw his own pistol, though he knew it would only delay the inevitable, but stayed his hand for the Afghan's response.
'You're Ilderim?' the man asked, jaw dropping. 'The malik's only son?'
'I am.'
'Is it possible? The last time I saw Ilderim he had fluff on his chin, yet indeed you resemble him. There is one way you can prove it. Tell me how I got this scar on my temple.' He tapped the side of his head with the revolver.
Ilderim smiled. 'We were hunting for eagles' eggs. You fell and hit your head.'
'That's right,' said Gul, nodding. 'And you stole my prize.'
'You'd have done the same,' countered Ilderim. 'It's good to see you, old friend. Tell me, is my father well?'
'He is. But he still hasn't forgiven you for betraying your people and serving the British. I will spare you and the dark-skinned Feringhee for now, but your father will decide your punishment. Come - Khajuri, as you know, is many miles to the west. It will be dark long before we arrive.'
With Gul and three of his men preceding them, and four more behind, there was little chance of escape, but George was more relieved than concerned. As they rode he told Ilderim that he was looking forward to seeing his ancestral home, and felt sure his father would forgive his youthful indiscretions. 'You're his flesh and blood, after all.'
'You do not know my father,' growled Ilderim. 'When I told him, aged eighteen, I was going to join the Guides, he flew into a rage and said it would be over his dead body. I stole away one night and never returned.'
'That explains your lack of enthusiasm when I suggested a visit. You could have told me, Ilderim.'
'We all have secrets, huzoor, even you.'
George wondered again if he should tell him the truth about his mission. But now was not the time.
An hour later, his legs stiff from so long in the saddle, George had just urged his horse up and over yet another steep, scree-covered incline when he saw ahead the ominous outline of a squat mountain fortress with a main entrance gate and a tower at each corner. 'Khajuri?' he asked Ilderim.
'Yes. It seems like only yesterday that I was stick-fighting with Gul in the courtyard, but it must have been thirty years ago.'
'Come!' shouted Gul, kicking his pony into a canter. 'Your fate awaits you.'
They clattered over the wooden drawbridge and into a courtyard lit with burning torches. Grooms hurried forward to hold their horses as they dismounted. 'Follow me,' said Gul to Ilderim, pistol in hand. 'Your father will be dining in the great hall.'
With Gul leading the way, they passed through a large wooden door, studded with iron, and down a stone passageway to where another door and a guard with a rifle barred their progress.
>
'Tell the malik I've brought his son and a Feringhee,' said Gul.
The sentry nodded and entered the hall, closing the great door behind him. At last it opened to reveal a towering figure of a man with a jet-black beard and a craggy, lined face, his chin glistening with animal fat. 'I have no son,' he said coldly, looking from Ilderim to George. 'Kill them.'
The words were so peremptory, so shocking, that George just stood there open-mouthed. Then he spoke. 'What do you mean you have no son?' he said in Pashto. 'He's standing before you.'
Abdulla turned his fierce dark eyes on George. 'You dare to address me, Feringhee?' he said, with quiet menace.
'Yes,' said George. 'I do. Your son is a warrior famed for his valour. You should be proud of him.'
'Proud?' spat Abdulla. 'Of a man who betrayed his people? Never!'
'How did he betray his people?' demanded George. 'Did he take up arms against them? No, he became a soldier of the British, like countless others. When was it a crime for an Afghan to become a mercenary?'
'Always - if his employer is British. They have twice invaded our country and deposed our rightful ruler. Now, instead of Sher Ali, we have his faithless son, Yakub Khan, who has allowed the British a residency in Kabul. Soon they will conquer the whole country.'
George measured his response. He knew that his and Ilderim's lives hung in the balance, and that to preserve them he would have to convince Abdulla that Britain was not intent on annexing his country. The only way to do this, he decided, would be to tell the truth about his mission. Only then might Ilderim's military service be forgiven.
'That is not true,' said George. 'The British government's only interest in Afghanistan is to prevent Russian encroachment, which might threaten the security of India. If Yakub Khan can guarantee this, he will be left to govern as he sees fit. How do I know this? Because I heard it from the mouth of our wazir, Lord Beaconsfield.'
'You lie, Feringhee. Why would your wazir tell a mere boy like you - and a dark-skinned one at that - about matters of such importance?'
