Winds of Eden (11 page)

‘To keep his room for him or his ghost. I have other very good rooms. A big one for you, a small one for your servant, sir. The very best rooms in my house.'

Michael hesitated.

‘I will show them to you. Come. You will find nothing better in the whole of Basra. Not in military quarters or a private hotel. Come, sir.'

Michael followed Abdul up the stairs into a sparsely furnished room almost identical to the one Harry had occupied.

Abdul opened a connecting door. ‘This will be for your servant, sir.'

Michael looked into a cubicle that held a bed and travelling washstand.

‘As you see, sir, two doors. One to the passage outside so your servant need not disturb you with his comings and goings, and one to your room for when you need him.'

‘How much.'

‘A sovereign a week for you, half a sovereign for your servant.'

Michael remained silent. It was a trick he'd learned from Harry.

‘With the services of a girl thrown in.'

‘I don't need a girl.'

‘You will when you see the ones I have on offer.'

Michael resisted the temptation to argue.

‘All the food you can eat.'

Michael said nothing.

‘All the food your servant can eat.'

Michael returned Abdul's stare.

‘I see you are as hard at bargaining as Hasan. ‘One sovereign a week for both of you.'

Michael still didn't say anything.

‘Two sovereigns for both of you for one month.'

Michael finally spoke. ‘I'm unlikely to be here a month.'

‘But you'll want me to keep your things for you when you go to fight the Turk?'

‘You can put them in Harry's room.' Michael slipped his hand into his pocket. ‘Half a sovereign for my servant and myself for one week. We'll talk again then, if I haven't left.'

‘Where are you going, sir?' Abdul asked as Michael walked back towards the stairs.

‘To fetch my bearer and my luggage.'

‘I have people to do that, sir. Stay in your room, rest. I will have fresh fruit and warm water for washing sent up.'

Michael waited until Abdul left before going to the door. He looked down the passageway. Harry's room was at the opposite end of the corridor with the landing and stairs between them. He wondered if his rooms really were ‘the very best' or simply the furthest from Harry's. If that were the case, why would Abdul want him as far away from them as possible?

Abdul went downstairs. He saw one of his barmen, Latif, leaving by a side door. He didn't need to ask where he was going. He knew. He beckoned to the doorman. ‘Summon my carriage. The closed one. Now.'

Zabba's house, Basra, Friday 31st December 1915

Zabba didn't rise when a servant showed Abdul into her private sitting room, but she extended her hand. He kissed her fingers before sitting opposite her and taking the glass of tea her manservant handed him.

‘Two visits in a month, Abdul. People will begin to talk about us,' Zabba joked. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?'

‘What else, other than business. I need a girl.'

‘You have a coffee house full of them.'

‘I need a clever one who can speak English. You train your girls not only to service the English but to talk to them.'

‘They know how to entertain British officers,' she acknowledged.

‘I need one now, right away.'

‘Why the urgency.'

‘Hasan's brother is in Basra.'

Zabba sat upright and leaned as far forward as far as her bulk would allow. ‘A soldier?'

‘No. A writer for newspapers. He will be going upstream soon.'

‘Cox …'

‘Knows he's here or he will shortly. He pays a man in my employ to give him news.'

‘You allow that?'

‘I take care Cox's spy only conveys what I want Cox to know.'

‘Do you think Hasan's brother knows what the British intend for this country?'

‘If he doesn't, he may soon. The way everyone who knew Hasan looks at him, he will be trusted by many, just as Hasan was trusted. Do you have a girl I can buy?'

‘A girl you want to use as a spy?'

‘Yes.'

‘If she gives you information you will share it with me?'

‘Yes.'

‘You haven't forgotten how to lie, Abdul.'

‘You know I keep my word, Zabba,' Abdul protested.

‘You will keep your word, just as you will keep any useful information the girl gives you to yourself until it is so old it is worthless.'

‘Zabba …'

Zabba waved him to silence. ‘This brother of Hasan's, he is young?'

‘He could be Hasan's twin.'

Zabba thought for a moment. ‘I will not sell you a girl, Abdul but I will lend you one. You can pay her for her services, but she remains my property.'

‘I would prefer to buy her.'

‘Then go elsewhere. There are many girls for sale in Basra.'

‘Not trained whores who can speak English.'

‘My terms or none, Abdul.'

‘Very well, I agree. She will remain yours but I will pay her for her services.'

Zabba turned to her manservant. ‘Find Kalla and bring her to me.'

Chapter Eleven

Furja's house, Basra, Friday 31st December 1915

Mitkhal stood in the doorway of Hasan's bedroom and watched the doctor drip opium into his friend's mouth. Hasan's face was flushed with fever and pain as he tossed and turned on the divan. Occasionally he moaned or whimpered. The worst was when he screamed. Nothing intelligible, just sheer agonising cries of absolute terror. When that happened, Mitkhal knew Hasan was transported back to the tent where the Turks had tortured him.

‘He will live through this, Mitkhal.' Furja materialised like a ghost at his elbow. ‘I cannot believe Allah would allow you to bring him back to us only for us to lose him to death.'

‘Dorset. Here! Dorset!'

The doctor looked up. ‘Do you know what he's saying?'

‘He's calling for his horse.' Mitkhal didn't explain to the doctor that Hasan's words had been clear – and in English.

Furja met Mitkhal's steady gaze. ‘Hasan's delirious. He doesn't know what he's saying.

‘Or what language he's speaking?' Mitkhal murmured too low for the doctor to hear. He stepped outside the room. ‘I'll get his horses.'

‘Mitkhal …'

‘Forgive me, Furja, but I can't stay idle in this house and watch Hasan suffer. If he sees Dorset …'

‘A horse won't heal him,' Furja remonstrated.

‘Maybe not, but he's asking for the mare and the only thing I can do for him right now is find her.' Mitkhal left the room, went into his own quarters and picked up his empty saddlebags. He took them out into the courtyard and set them on a stone bench.

Gutne joined him and handed him a package wrapped in palm leaves. ‘Bread flaps and dates.'

Unable to meet her look, which he knew would be full of reproach; he unbuckled one of the bags and tucked it inside. ‘Thank you.'

Furja joined them ‘Hasan's flask. I've filled it with Turkish brandy. Hasan says French is better …'

‘But Bedawi should be grateful for what they're given. Thank you, Furja.' Mitkhal thrust it into a hidden pocket inside his abba before fastening his coat.

‘Mitkhal, I wish you'd stay.'

‘You know what Hasan thinks of those horses.'

‘No horse is worth a man's life.' Furja sat on the bench.

‘Harry …'

‘Hasan,' Furja swiftly corrected Mitkhal. ‘If he heard you …'

‘I'm sorry, Furja, but he spoke English.'

‘He was raving and we agreed we'd do everything we could to help him forget his previous life.'

‘I'll try not to let it happen again.'

They started nervously at a knock on the iron-reinforced wooden door that separated Furja's house from Zabba's. It was the only door that connected to the outside world. The first thing Furja had done after moving in was hire a trustworthy builder Zabba had recommended to brick up all the other doors that connected with the street or Zabba's house, including the ones in the garden walls.

‘Farik.' Mitkhal called to the gatekeeper who was in the kitchen.

He came and opened the small eye-level grill. ‘Zabba.'

‘Let her in, Farik,' Furja ordered.

Zabba waddled in slowly and embraced Furja and Gutne.

‘Welcome, Zabba.' Furja indicated the sitting room that opened off the courtyard. ‘Farik, bring refreshments and tell the doctor where I'll be if there's any change in Hasan's condition. Mitkhal, Gutne, please join us. Bantu can look after the children. They'll not wake for an hour yet.'

‘Someone is going somewhere?' Zabba noticed the saddlebags as she passed the bench.

‘I am.' Mitkhal went ahead and pulled out a comfortable chair for Zabba.

Zabba lowered herself into it. ‘I know I usually visit first thing in the morning before my household is awake, Mitkhal, but there is no need to look suspicious. I was careful leaving my quarters. No one will miss me or come looking for me. I usually sleep for an hour or two before the evening begins.'

‘But something is wrong. You wouldn't have come here otherwise.'

‘Not something bad, but something you should know. Hasan's brother is in Basra. According to Abdul the resemblance between them is remarkable.' She told them why Abdul had visited her and the little Abdul had gleaned about Michael Downe. ‘He's looking for you, Furja, and you, Mitkhal. He's been asking everyone he meets if they know where you are.'

‘Just as well Abdul doesn't know,' Furja said.

‘Abdul wouldn't tell anyone, even if he did know,' Mitkhal countered.

‘Not even if he was offered money?'

‘Not even then, Furja.' Mitkhal turned to Zabba. ‘How long is Michael Downe staying in Basra?'

‘He intends to follow the soldiers upriver in the next few days. Everyone knows there's going to be a major battle there soon between the British and the Turks.' She remembered the saddlebags. ‘You're going upriver too?'

‘I'm going upstream, but not because of Michael Downe. This is the first I've heard of him. Hasan is concerned for his horses. I promised I would look for them.'

‘If you travel you may be recognised. One of the British may see you, or one of Ibn Shalan's men, and that will be the end of you. If they torture you and you reveal the secret of this house, it will also be the end of the lives of everyone here.'

‘I would never betray Furja, Gutne, or the children.'

‘I know you wouldn't, Mitkhal, no matter what it cost you, because you are as stubborn as Hasan. But you'd still be risking your own life. It's not worth it, not for horses,' Furja insisted.

‘Some things are worth taking a risk for, Furja.'

‘If you won't be dissuaded, Mitkhal, my cousin has a boat. He's leaving Basra tomorrow. I could ask him to take you upriver with him.' Zabba accepted the tea Farik handed her.

‘Your cousin who visits battlefields to pick up the weapons of the fallen so he can sell them to the sheikhs?' Mitkhal guessed.

‘The same cousin.'

‘He'll take me upriver without telling Shalan, or anyone else who asks, the identity of his passenger?'

‘He will, because he knows better than to cross me. But that doesn't mean he'll take you without payment. He'll charge full rate.'

‘For a passenger or a fugitive?' Mitkhal asked.

‘He's my cousin.'

‘Fugitive rate,' Mitkhal said wryly.

Zabba smiled and her chin wobbled. ‘We poor people have to make a living.'

‘You'll need money, Mitkhal,' Furja warned.

‘What's in Abdul's will be enough.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘I'm sure.' He eyed Zabba. ‘You said Abdul wanted a girl for Hasan's brother.'

‘One who spoke English so she could spy on him. I gave him Kalla.'

‘Gave him?' Mitkhal repeated.

‘I explained she has regular customers and will have to return here one or two days a week to keep her appointments.'

‘And when she does, she'll inform you of everything's she's learned about the British plans from Hasan's brother?' Furja suggested.

‘I doubt it will be much. From what the officers say after a few glasses of brandy, I don't think even British command knows their plans. Mitkhal, do you want to travel upriver with my cousin or not?'

‘It will be quicker than by horse or camel, so yes, thank you. What time will he be leaving?'

‘All I know is tomorrow. He's eating with me this evening. If you visit me at midnight you can make arrangements with him.'

‘How far upriver will he be going?'

‘As far as Kut al Amara.'

‘Sailing on the Tigris?'

‘He's not a fool, Mitkhal. He'll be travelling the back way through the canals and the Shatt-el-Hai. Less risk of being stopped and searched by the British military.'

It took Furja to say what they were all thinking. ‘But more risk of being stopped by the Marsh Arabs, who'd slaughter a man for his abba, let alone a boat.'

Zabba rose from her chair. ‘My cousin is used to dealing with Marsh Arabs. I guarantee you'll reach Kut in one piece, Mitkhal. However, travelling downriver with horses, especially if they're good ones, may be a little trickier.'

Basra, Friday 31st December 1915

‘It was good to have someone from home to talk to. We could have dinner in the Basra Club every night until you go upstream,' Charles suggested.

‘Provided they allow you out of the hospital again.' Michael helped Charles from his chair into the landau.

‘They will,' Charles muttered through gritted teeth.

Richard Chalmers folded the chair and placed it on the floor of the carriage. He held the door open. ‘We'll drop you off at Abdul's on our way to the hospital, Michael.'

‘No, thank you. I've seen enough of Basra to know it's out of your way. Besides, I'd like to get my bearings and explore the town by night. Am I right in thinking that, if I stay on this road, I'll reach the quay and Abdul's?'

‘In about ten minutes, but don't deviate or wander up any alleys,' Charles warned. ‘The natives are aware that British officers are armed, but there's a criminal element that might consider a European in civvies a soft target with a fat wallet.'

‘My wallet is anything but,' Michael refuted.

‘Only by your standards, not those of the natives,' Richard cautioned. ‘We'd be happier if you'd let us give you a lift.'

‘I'll be fine. I'll call in the hospital to see you tomorrow, Charles.' Michael shivered when icy air hit his lungs and he walked briskly in an effort to keep warm. The street was narrow, hemmed in by high mud brick walls pierced at intervals by close-fitting wooden doors. Lamps burned in niches set alongside them. Michael couldn't see keyholes and presumed the doors were bolted or barred on the inside and manned by a doorkeeper.

Rubbish was piled below the walls. It stank abominably and dark, foul liquid oozed from it, forming puddles he tried to avoid.

The road widened when it approached the river bank. The quay came into view and the high walls were supplanted by shop fronts on the landward side. Most were shuttered, but a stall selling dried dates and figs was open, lit by smoking oil lamps. The stallholder shouted and stepped out to greet him. Michael shook his head to indicate he didn't want to buy anything.

Undeterred the man ran towards him. Michael sidestepped, but the man caught him and began speaking at speed in Arabic. Michael extricated himself and backed towards Abdul's. Grinning, still talking, the man followed. When they were within earshot of the coffee shop the doorman called out to the stallholder. When Michael saw the man freeze and tears appear on his cheeks, he realised he'd been mistaken for his brother – yet again.

‘You look so like Hasan you will have to get used to it, my friend.' Abdul, who'd watched the proceedings from the window, pulled a chair out from his table for Michael.

Michael sank down, loosened his muffler, removed his gloves, opened his overcoat and held his hands out to the stove to warm them.

Abdul clicked his fingers at a waiter. He brought over a bottle of brandy and two glasses. Abdul filled both and handed one to Michael.

‘You've just begun to realise Hasan is dead.'

‘How did you know?'

‘I see the pain in your eyes, my friend. He was a brother to me too.' Abdul raised his glass. ‘To Hasan.'

Michael emptied his glass. Abdul refilled it and his own.

‘To Mesopotamia. May the country oust all the interlopers who wish to take it and make it their own.'

Michael hesitated but after a moment's reflection diplomatically joined in the toast. ‘I thought Muslims didn't drink alcohol,' he commented when Abdul filled their glasses a third time.

‘Some do, some don't. Some drink to honour their friends. Hasan was my true friend even if he was born a ferenghi.'

‘Ferenghi?'

‘Like Hasan when he first came here, you have much to learn about my country, our ways and our language. A ferenghi is a foreigner.'

Exhausted after a long day, devastated by Harry's death, overwhelmed by the unfamiliarity of his surroundings, Michael was tempted to go upstairs and pack his bags. Then he remembered his brief as war correspondent. If he felt like a fish out of water, what were the feelings of the men who'd been ordered into this theatre of war without any prior knowledge of the country or its inhabitants?

‘You say you're here to write about the war for the newspapers, Mr Downe. So you won't be doing any fighting?'

‘No,' Michael confirmed.

‘Not at all?

‘I'm here to watch, not fight. Please, tell me about my brother, did he stay here often?'

‘He lived here whenever he was in Basra.'

‘With his …' Michael recalled Abdul's vehement denial that Harry's bearer was his servant, ‘… friend.'

‘Mitkhal lived here too.'

‘You said Harry's father in law had a house in Basra. Do you know where?'

‘No.' Abdul left the table.

‘Someone must know …'

‘It's not wise to ask questions about important people,' Abdul pushed the brandy bottle towards Michael's glass and went into his office. He closed the door behind him.

‘To annoy Abdul is to flirt with danger, Mr Downe. He knows some very odd people.' Theo Wallace approached the table.

‘I didn't set out to irritate him.'

‘Like all Arabs, he frequently sees insult where none was intended. Mind if I join you?'

‘I'd be glad of your company.'

Theo picked up the bottle of brandy and waylaid a waiter. ‘Bring me a glass, please?'

‘That's Abdul's brandy.'

‘Don't worry, I'll put it on my expenses.'

The waiter returned with the glass and two plates of snacks.

‘Sesame and date balls and fig halva soaked in honey. Thank you.' Theo pushed one of the plates towards Michael and filled his glass.