Scorpion Sunset (34 page)

‘Of course.'

Rebeka could tell from Mrs Gulbenkian's tone of voice that she didn't really expect her to find Mariam.

‘But you have to remember, Rebeka, that when we start our new life in America, you are not to tell anyone, not a soul, what the Turks did to us and the others.'

‘They will have heard about it from others.'

‘What others, Rebeka? Everyone except us is dead.'

‘There were other groups from other towns,' Rebeka pointed out.

‘Which is nothing to do with us.'

‘A man will know whether or not his bride has been dishonoured.'

‘Once married, a decent man won't ask his bride any awkward questions.'

‘I was happy living without a husband. I don't want a husband …'

‘Just Major Mason?'

Rebeka nodded wretchedly.

‘A man like Major Mason can have any girl he wants. He is an Englishman, a gentleman. We are Armenians, simple farmers. We have not been taught to understand the English or their ways. They are complicated people with their kings and queens, lords and ladies. You only have to see them here. This is a prison, every man who is a prisoner should be equal to every other, yet the colonels do not speak to the captains or the captains to the lieutenants.'

‘That is the same in every army, even the Turkish.'

‘Rebeka, Major Mason is a nice, kind man. You have lost your family, you trust him, and that is why you have fallen in love with him. You are mistaking his kindness towards you for love.'

‘Kindness – that's all you think it is?'

‘After what's happened to you, Rebeka, I don't think you can expect any more from any man. But my cousin will welcome us and we will go to America together.'

‘But first I must look for Mariam.'

‘We will go after you have found Mariam.' Mrs Gulbenkian didn't sound convincing but she embraced her and held her close. Rebeka didn't enjoy the sensation. Mrs Gulbenkian smelled of onions, goose grease, and oatmeal, the ingredients they mixed to make poultices for patients' ulcers that were proving difficult to heal.

All she wanted was to be left alone to try and imagine what her future would be like in a country where the only familiar faces she would see from her past life were Mrs Gulbenkian and Hasmik – and no one else.

Basra

December 1916

After spending the best part of three days travelling downstream cooped on an overcrowded boat, Michael decided to walk back to Abdul's from the Smythes' bungalow. The air was cold but the night crisp and clear and he stepped up his pace to keep warm.

When he left the narrow street that connected the British compound to the wharf, a figure emerged from the shadows and blocked his path.

‘The boat you ordered is up ahead on the left, sir.' The man's English was heavily accented but there was no trace of any dialect that Michael recognised. He wasn't tall but he was broad and well-built and had a vicious-looking dagger tucked into his brown cloth belt. His face and head were swathed in a kafieh he'd pulled over his nose and mouth to conceal his features. His gumbaz and abba were clean, well made, and a nondescript beige that was worn by half the working men in Basra.

Michael had a gun in his pocket but he knew it would take him longer to retrieve it than it would for his companion to pull a dagger and slice into him.

‘Thank you.' Michael headed towards the vessel.

The man grabbed the mooring rope, pulled the boat against the quayside, and held it steady. Michael glanced at him before boarding.

The man followed. ‘The river air is cold tonight. You will be warmer beneath the awning.'

Michael picked his way carefully over the planking of the low-slung native barge towards the curtain that separated a makeshift cabin from the rest of the boat. An unseen hand moved the cloth aside.

‘Thank you for joining me, Michael.' The language was Arabic, the voice, soft, low.

‘Mitkhal, good to see you.' Like Mitkhal, Michael whispered. He ducked his head and entered the ‘cabin'. An oil lamp hung from the rafters. It burned low, sending eerie shadows dancing over the camel hair cloth walls, throwing Mitkhal's features into sharp relief.

‘I came downstream as quickly as I could after receiving your message, Mitkhal.'

‘Thank you.' Mitkhal called out to the boatman.

There was a splash as the man untied the painter and dropped the rope into the water, swiftly followed by the thud of wood knocking on wood when he pushed the boat away from the wharf with an oar. The boat rocked and they moved out into mid-stream.

‘Don't,' Mitkhal warned when Michael reached for the curtain.

‘We're going to Shalan's house?'

‘We're going where we won't be seen or overheard.'

Michael took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered Mitkhal one.

Mitkhal shook his head. ‘I saw John.'

‘Where? When?'

‘Keep your voice down.

‘Sorry. I've just left Angela Smythe and my sister. We're all worried about him.'

‘With good reason as he's in Turkish hands. He was coping when I last saw him. Many British troops died on the march from Kut into Turkey. There would have been far more fatalities if it wasn't for John Mason. I left him on the border between Turkey and Mesopotamia over a month ago.'

Voices drifted in from outside and Mitkhal held his finger to his lips. Knowing how every sound magnified on water Michael remained quiet. Mitkhal called to the boatman. Moments later the harsh grating of metal on metal filled the air. The boat stopped then moved forward and thudded against a bank.

‘We're here.' Mitkhal moved back the curtain and stepped out on to a small dock. Michael followed and came face to face with the tall, hawk-nosed, commanding figure of Ibn Shalan.

British Relief Force Camp

December 1916

David cradled his glass of whisky, sat forward on his camp chair and watched the flames dance in the fire his bearer had lit in front of his tent. Deep in thought, he was barely aware of the camp noises beyond the fire. The sounds of men conversing in loud, alcohol-fuelled conversation. Camels, mules, and horses snorting in protest as the syces tethered them for the night. The cries of the sepoys manning the canteen offering last orders of food.

Peter and Boris walked up carrying their own chairs.

‘Any whisky going spare?' Boris asked.

‘Help yourself. I sent my bearer to bed. I've just finished a twenty-hour shift and he was with me every step of the way, fetching, carrying and keeping me awake when all I wanted to do was sleep. Now, when I can sleep, I'm past it.' David handed Boris the bottle.

‘There've been more sniper victims?' Boris took a glass from his pocket, filled it, and handed the bottle on to Peter.

‘Four sepoys, poor beggars, and five Arab auxiliaries, which made for a busy day on top of the dysentery and fever cases, and two of the Eton wet bob subalterns decided to crack open one another's skulls. I hope Maude's takes stock of our strength before we move on. He needs to cut the useless dead weight loose, especially the youngest idiots, and send them back downstream.'

‘We came here to be cheered up,' Boris complained, ‘not listen to you moaning. Whatever happened to diverting David?'

‘Diverting David has been transformed into depressing David. Do you two realise we're now well into the third year of this damned war?'

‘I don't need reminding.' Peter finished his drink and refilled his glass.

‘The best years of our lives are slipping by.' David looked up from the fire. ‘But not for you, Smythe. You've a pretty wife waiting for you in Basra.'

‘What's this, Knight? The bachelor life palling on you all of sudden?' Boris teased.

‘Some bachelor life here. Not an available woman in sight.'

‘Just not one you fancy. What's brought on this fit of maudlin introspection?' Peter queried.

‘Just wondering what life's all about.'

‘Drink some more of this,' Peter topped up David's glass, ‘and you won't need to wonder.'

David tried to focus on Peter. ‘Is that what it's all about? A search for oblivion?'

Peter opened his watch, not to tell the time but to look at the photograph of Angela he tucked under the glass plate in the lid. ‘I hate to say it, but until we march into Baghdad and get victory leave long enough to go home, it probably is.'

Chapter Twenty-three

Ibn Shalan's house, Basra

December 1916

The message Michael had received upstream implied that Mitkhal wanted to meet him urgently, but whatever the reason, it wasn't urgent enough for Ibn Shalan to dispense with the lengthy ceremony that marked every visit to a Bedouin household. Michael was shown into a small, exquisitely decorated room and offered coffee, sugar, and pastries while male servants laid out trays of sweetmeats, dates, and almond cakes.

The room was warm, heated by an iron stove and comfortably furnished with low divans and carved tables. Michael sat on a divan, his host sat opposite him and after receiving and making polite enquiries about their respective health, they were joined by Mitkhal.

Michael rose when the Arab entered the room and Mitkhal embraced him as any Arab would a close friend, kissing him on both cheeks.

‘You look good, Michael, campaigning in the desert suits you.' Mitkhal sat opposite him next to Shalan.

‘It's easier now the cold weather is upon us.'

‘Your Arabic has improved.'

‘Daoud is a good teacher.'

‘Just in Arabic, or all things Arab?'

‘All things Arab.' Michael was careful to observe Bedouin formality. He kept the soles of his feet firmly on the floor and touched nothing with his left hand. Tired after a long day and looking forward to returning to Kalla more than he would have admitted to Mitkhal or Ibn Shalan, he attempted to move the conversation on. ‘The arms, ammunition, and livestock I arranged to be supplied to you before the fall of Kut were satisfactory?'

Ibn Shalan inclined his head and reached for his tobacco pouch. ‘They were satisfactory,' he echoed, ‘but the situation has changed since Kut surrendered. As demanded by British command, I sent many of my men to the North to assist the British troops who were being marched to Turkish prison camps, this, despite the increased number of hostile tribesmen who massed in the Karun Valley in preparation to attack the British Relief Force from the rear.'

‘British Command knows that Ibn Shalan is safeguarding their flanks and they are grateful for his friendship and assistance.' Michael sat back and waited for the request he suspected was coming.

‘The British surrender of the town of Kut al Amara has given some men in the tribes reason to believe that the British will lose this war,' Shalan observed.

‘We won't,' Michael refuted.

Shalan finished rolling his cigarette and proceeded to light it. Mitkhal continued the conversation.

‘The Bakhtairi Khans have been more active, not just in the Karun Valley and on the northern borders. We did not have sufficient men to control them, so I recruited men from some of the smaller tribes friendly to us and the British, but,' Mitkhal shrugged, ‘although they were prepared to fight they had no horses, camels, or guns.'

‘So these men you recruited were of no use to you?'

‘I supplied a few of the strongest with weapons, ammunition, and camels from the last of our stock,' Shalan explained. ‘I cannot deny the British have been generous in giving us what we need to fight the Turk, but we have lost many men between Kut and the Turkish border. And not just men: livestock, ammunition, and weapons.'

‘You need more weapons?' Michael didn't know why he was asking when it was obvious what the sheikh wanted. The chief political officer, Percy Cox, had given him considerable leeway when it came to fulfilling the tribes' requests for stock and ammunition, provided the tribe in question could prove loyalty to the British. But his remit did not extend to guns. A tighter control was kept on weapons because Cox was all too aware that they could be used against the British if they fell into the wrong hands.

‘We urgently need weapons, ammunition, horses, camels, and goats. With the war raging in every corner of the desert the women cannot tend our livestock.'

‘How much do you need?' Michael asked.

‘A thousand rifles would be good, two thousand better. Ammunition sufficient for six months' use of the guns, plus mounts and goats,' Shalan said.

Michael decided the honest approach was the best one. ‘The livestock and ammunition won't present a problem. Mitkhal and I can go to the supply department and the markets tomorrow. You'll have whatever you need in a day or two.'

‘The guns?' Ibn Shalan asked.

‘The British Command makes a note of every gun they distribute among the tribes. Your men have more British firepower than any other tribe in Mesopotamia.'

‘We fight longer and harder for the British than any other tribe.'

‘And we are grateful.'

‘But not grateful enough to give us more guns?' Shalan pressed.

‘It is not my decision. If it was, I would give you everything you ask for. But the men in power are concerned as to what will happen when the last Turk has been driven back over the border into Ottoman Turkey.'

‘Until that moment we will fight resolutely by your side.'

‘And afterwards?' Michael's question was met by a silence so dense, so absolute it prompted a buzzing in his ears.

‘We all know what will happen then, Michael.' The curtain that covered the doorway moved.

‘Harry!' Michael jumped up and stared at his brother before clasping him in his arms and hugging him.

‘Hasan. Harry Downe is dead.' He returned Michael's embrace before pushing him back and studying him with his one eye. ‘You look good, Michael, as handsome as I remember myself before I fell into the hands of the Turks.'