Winds of Eden (12 page)

‘No, thank you, I dined well in the Basra Club.'

‘And you found your way to Abdul's afterwards. I congratulate you, from one end of Basra's social spectrum to another on your first evening. What led you here?'

‘My room. I've moved in.'

‘You are aware it's a brothel?' Theo filled his glass and topped up Michael's.

‘So everyone keeps saying but I've yet to see a girl.'

‘Abdul keeps them at the back of the building, behind a well-guarded door on the second floor, lest anyone try sampling the goods without paying. He also owns a building behind this one as well, where the brandy is cheaper but coarser and the girls older and somewhat plain. It's popular with the ranks, but I don't recommend it.'

‘You know a great deal about Abdul's business,' Michael commented.

‘Professional interest. I check out his girls on a weekly basis. Medically, that is,' Theo explained. ‘I recommend them. They're pliant, trained to satisfy, and if you've any doubts about disease there's a box of French letters in every room. Apparently courtesy of a suggestion your cousin John Mason made to Abdul.'

‘John visited this place?'

‘To check the girls. Before Ctesiphon the Indian Medical Service did the honours, but after Ctesiphon their medics were too busy so Abdul approached the Lansing.' He finished his brandy and winked at Michael. ‘It has its perks, which I'm off to enjoy. I'm surprised to see you still in Basra?'

‘I'm hoping to track down my sister-in-law, Harry's Arab wife. Don't suppose you have any idea where she is?'

‘Unfortunately, no. I never met her. You've spoken to my sister about her?'

‘Yes, she couldn't help me. But I only have a day or two to search for her before I head upstream.'

‘To report on the top secret “show” everyone is talking about. Good luck, Michael, I hope to see you again before you leave. If you'd like a tour of the Lansing Memorial Hospital, please call in. I can give you a couple of paragraphs of copy designed to keep the donations flowing in.'

‘I can't see the readers of the
Mirror
donating to a medical facility that treats the enemy.'

‘We treat natives, too, Mr Downe, including women and children. They can be real pocketbook-openers.' Theo rose from his seat. ‘Excuse me. I hate to keep ladies waiting.'

Michael finished his drink and left the table. Before he walked away the waiter cleared the bottle of brandy, plates of uneaten sweetmeats and glasses.

Lightheaded from the uneasy mixture of Abdul's brandy and the Chianti he'd drunk with his meal in the Basra Club, he went to his room. He knocked on the door of Adjabi's cupboard and opened it. His bearer was sound asleep on his divan. Closing the door he turned. He'd left the shutters open. Moonlight streamed in illuminating a figure in Arab robes sitting in the corner behind the door.

Michael's breath caught in his throat. ‘Harry?' he whispered.

‘No, Mr Downe.' The man rose and stretched out his hand. ‘Sir Percival Cox, Secretary to the Government of India and Political Resident in the Gulf. Until his death, Lieutenant Colonel Downe was under my direct command. I'd appreciate a word.'

Chapter Twelve

Kut al Amara, Friday 31st December 1915

‘This is becoming a habit,' Peter Smythe complained as he, Crabbe, and Sub-Lieutenant Philip Marsh – who, unfortunately for him, had been posted to Nasiriyeh a day before the battle of Ctesiphon – stepped down into the front line trench where the Dorsets faced the Turks across the barbed-wire-strewn wasteland of no-man's-land.

‘Someone has to keep up the men's morale, and as the brass are busy guarding their personal supplies of whisky, brandy, and cigars, it falls to us lowly officers.' Crabbe saluted a private on sentry duty.

‘Password, sir.'

‘Wellington,' Crabbe answered.

‘Thank you, sir. Nice of you to call. Don't suppose you've any New Year's cheer tucked away in your pockets for us poor sappers?'

‘Evans put you up to asking, Roberts?'

‘He did, sir, but we're all hoping.'

‘Hope away, Roberts. The only New Year cheer you'll get until we're relieved is a slice of mule with whatever you find growing around here as vegetable substitute.'

‘That's not a cheery thought, sir.'

‘This is not a cheery place,' Peter Smythe countered.

‘Please, can one of you sirs tell us poor sappers why we're here?' Private Evans feigned subservience.

‘The stock answer is serving king and country,' Crabbe answered.

‘We know that, sir. What we can't fathom is why any king, let alone one as good and kind as ours, would want us here. From what I've seen this country's no good to man, beast, or anyone used to living in Buckingham Palace. It's certainly no good to anyone from Ynysybwl.'

‘Ynys-a-where?' Peter had trouble repeating the name.

‘Ynysybwl, sir. It's a nice little village outside Pontypridd in Wales. Not much there other than mountains, the pit where my father works, and a couple of shops. But it has a railway station for those who want to get away for a few hours and some nice pubs for them that wants to stay. It would be my pleasure to show you around when we get out of here. The barmaids …'

‘That's enough, Evans. Officers don't want to hear about your village. Nice to see you up and about, Lieutenant Marsh, sir. I trust your wound has healed.' Sergeant Lane stepped out of a canvas roofed dugout and saluted the officers.

‘It's better than yours by the size of that bandage on your shoulder, Sergeant Lane,' Philip answered.

‘You sure you should be here and not in the hospital, Sergeant Lane?' Crabbe questioned.

‘Someone has to keep the boys on their toes, sir. Give them five minutes rest and they'll take five days if you let them.'

‘As long as you're not watching them at the cost of your health, sergeant.' Peter pulled out a pack of Golden Dawn and offered them around before he and Lieutenant Marsh turned right towards the fort that marked the North East boundary of the Front.

Crabbe lit Sergeant Lane's cigarette. ‘The men really all right?'

‘They grumble as only sappers can, sir.'

‘But?' Crabbe waited.

‘It's none of my business, sir, but if I was an officer I'd take a look at the lines around Brigade HQ. There was a bit of a ruckus there half hour ago among the sepoys. I couldn't tell what they were shouting. Only that one or two sounded as though they needed to keep their hair on.'

‘Thanks for the tip,' Crabbe called to Smythe and Marsh. ‘We're making a detour.' They turned back and joined him.

‘All quiet here, Major Crabbe, sir,' Lieutenant Ash reported as they entered one of the “linking” trenches between the first line and the second manned by the Kents and Hampshires.

‘But not further on?' Crabbe suggested.

‘Sepoys been a bit noisy around the Norfolks' HQ, sir.'

‘Drew the short straw, Ash,' Philip Marsh crowed.

‘It'll be your turn next week, Marsh,' Ash retorted. ‘You can't play the wounded soldier for ever.'

‘I hope the Turks will be as sleepy on my duty as they are on yours.'

‘Ssh.' Crabbe unbuckled his revolver holster and moved forward. Peter Smythe saw a shadow on the river bank. He rose above the parapet to take a better look. A shot rang out and he crumpled to the ground.

Lieutenant Ash shouted, ‘Bastard's reloading.'

Philip Marsh unbuckled his revolver. He saw the silhouette of a sepoy, aimed and fired. The Indian screamed and dropped his weapon.

Crabbe crouched beside Peter. ‘Where are you hit?'

‘My arm. It's not serious.'

Crabbe shouted, ‘Stretcher-bearer!'

A major from the Indian 103rd Infantry ran up to the sepoy, dragged him into the trench and threw him down alongside Crabbe.

The sepoy fell to his knees. ‘I am Muslim, Sahib Major. Tell them I am Muslim,' he pleaded. ‘Those are my brothers on the other side. I cannot kill my brothers. I want to join them …'

‘You'll be doing that soon enough but not on any side on this earth, you bloody fool,' the major snapped. ‘Beasely, Warrington?'

A sergeant and sub lieutenant appeared.

‘Get this bastard to Brigade HQ and convene a court martial. Ash, Crabbe, Marsh, you're witnesses. How's that poor beggar?'

‘In need of the hospital.' Crabbe put pressure on Peter's wound and helped him to his feet.

‘What will happen to me, Sahib?' the sepoy begged.

‘Wounding an officer while trying to desert? You'll be shot at sunrise,' the major declared. He shouted down the second line. ‘Where's that bloody medic? Doesn't he realise it's an officer in need of assistance.'

Basra, Friday 31st December 1915

Michael shook Cox's hand before striking a Lucifer and lighting the oil lamp. The flame sent shadows dancing around the rooms, throwing Sir Percy Cox's face into dark, sardonic profile when he moved his chair away from the pool of light.

Cox lifted an attaché case from the floor and extracted a file.

‘Is this about Harry, sir?' Michael ventured.

‘It's about you, Mr Downe. I believe you could be useful to us.'

‘The military, sir?'

‘King and Empire, Downe.'

‘When I volunteered for the army, sir, I was rejected.'

‘On physical grounds. A leg injury incurred in childhood, when you fell from a tree in the middle of the night.'

Michael looked at him in surprise.

‘Correct?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘You studied German and French at school, passed all your examinations with distinctions, unlike your brother Harry, and went on to read History at Cambridge. Education completed you accepted your father's invitation to join him at Allan and Downe's Bank. Earlier this year you married your cousin, Lucinda Mason. A month after the outbreak of war you applied for a position as war correspondent to the
Daily Mirror
. Posted to France, you requested a transfer to the Mesopotamian Front. Your request was granted at the beginning of December.'

‘You know a great deal about me, sir.'

‘I know a great deal more than those basic facts, Mr Downe. You met a Mr Smith in your editor's offices the day you left England. He telegraphed me, alerted me to your talents, and suggested you might prove useful to the Political Department of the Indian Expeditionary Force.'

‘As I've already pointed out, sir, I have no military experience.'

‘Few political officers have …' Cox paused, and Michael sensed he was choosing his words carefully, ‘what you would call a conventional military background, Mr Downe. In fact blind obedience is a disadvantage in the field of politics. Take your brother for example. His military career was hardly exemplary before he joined us. I've recruited archaeologists, journalists, engineers, and naval officers, among others, and the one characteristic they all had in common was the ability to think for themselves, especially when they were in a tight corner.'

‘Harry was always at his most inventive when he was in trouble.' Michael smiled in spite of the emotionally crippling pain that struck whenever he thought of his brother.

‘It was precisely that trait that made him a brilliant political officer. Every success the Indian Expeditionary Force achieved until Ctesiphon owed something to his efforts. He averted several disasters and saved more lives than he was aware of.'

‘Perhaps because he spoke fluent Arabic and could pass a native.'

‘That undoubtedly helped, but Arabic can be learned, Mr Downe. As for passing as a native,' the political officer indicated Michael's divan.

Michael hadn't noticed the robes laid on the camel-hair rug that covered it. He picked them up. ‘These look like the ones in the chest in Harry's room.'

‘I brought them in. Wearing those and the headdress you would be indistinguishable from your brother, Mr Downe. The resemblance will open doors closed to officers of His Majesty's Army, including myself. As for the Arabic, your brother became fluent in a matter of months. I could assign you a syce who has proved himself an excellent Arabic tutor.'

‘I have a bearer.'

‘When you go upstream you will need horses, and horses require a syce to care for them, Mr Downe.' Cox rose to his feet. ‘You don't have to give me an answer now. Meet me in the Basra Club the day after tomorrow. One o'clock.'

‘Would you expect me to give up my post as the
Mirror's
war correspondent?'

‘No, Mr Downe. It affords excellent cover for any tasks we might assign you. We would of course pay you for your services, initially at a captain's pay rate.'

‘I am more concerned about being able to fulfil my duty to my country than remuneration and I'm still not sure what I can do to help you,' Michael demurred.

‘Spoken like your brother, Mr Downe. You resemble him in more ways than appearance. As for fulfilling your duty, I wouldn't have invited you to join us if I wasn't certain that you will do just that. To your own detriment, if the situation calls for sacrifice.' He went to the door.

‘My brother … Do you know where I can find his wife?' Michael asked.

‘Unfortunately not, Mr Downe. She appears to have gone to ground.'

‘In Basra?'

‘Or the desert.'

‘Major Reid mentioned Harry had an Arab friend.'

‘He had several, Mr Downe.'

‘He mentioned a name – Mitkhal.'

‘They were close,' the political officer acknowledged.

‘Do you know where he is?'

‘Like Mrs Downe, he appears to have gone to ground.'

‘He's alive?' Michael persisted.

‘I've heard nothing to indicate that he's dead.'

‘Could you get a message to him?'

‘I can try.'

‘Could you please tell him that Harry's brother is staying in Abdul's for the next day or two and he'd like to see him?'

‘I make no promises, Mr Downe, but I'll try.' He shook Michael's hand, opened the door, and strode down the corridor to the head of the stairs. Michael followed him as far as the landing.

He turned his back on the stairs and looked down at the inner courtyard. It was enclosed on all four sides by the building. Several hooded oil lamps burned, illuminating carved stone and wooden benches set on marble tiles. Potted palms drooped; sad winter victims of the buffeting wind and rain. A brass-headed marble fountain was caked with rotting foliage, but it took little imagination to picture the garden in summer, cool and inviting in the shade of the high walls.

He looked up. There were no drapes at any of the windows that overlooked the inner yard. Theo Wallace was standing in front of bed in a room diagonally opposite. Two dark-haired women, both naked, were kneeling before him on the divan. The women were doing things he'd seen depicted in the pornographic postcards his fellow students had passed around his college. Things he'd never imagined any woman doing willingly to a man, yet both of Theo's ‘ladies' were smiling as broadly as Theo who was obviously enjoying their ministrations.

‘Mr Downe?'

Embarrassed at being caught playing the voyeur, Michael started. Abdul was behind him.

‘I was seeing a visitor out …' Michael glanced at the empty staircase.

Abdul ignored his explanation. ‘I've brought you a girl. If you don't find her pleasing I can show you a selection.'

‘No, thank you,' Michael stammered. ‘I don't need a girl.'

‘If you'd prefer a boy …'

‘No! Neither –' Michael could feel colour flooding into his cheeks.

Abdul barked an order. A girl moved out of the shadows.

‘Take her or view some others, Mr Downe. You'd disrespect my hospitality if you refuse.'

Michael recalled Theo Wallace's warnings about annoying Abdul but he simply couldn't look the girl in the eye.

‘I speak English, Mr Downe, and I would try to make you as happy as I did my captain before he was killed.'

Michael looked up from the bare henna-painted feet of the young girl. Dressed in a simple red robe, her most striking feature was her enormous brown eyes.

‘Mr Downe?'

Michael nodded to Abdul and managed a murmured, ‘Thank you.'

‘You are Mr Downe's for as long as he stays here, Kalla.'

The girl replied in Arabic.

‘Can I send a servant with anything else you require, Mr Downe? Food, drink?'

‘No, thank you.' Michael opened the door of his room, the girl followed. She closed the door behind them and removed her robe.

‘Kalla …' embarrassed by her nudity, Michael faltered.

‘You don't find me pretty?'

‘Very pretty.'

‘You were watching Dr Theo and his girls. I could send for another girl …'

‘No!'

‘Then I will try to be enough for you, Mr Downe.'