The Doomed Oasis

4. The Doomed Oasis

His crew were all Arab and they went about the business of breaking camp noisily but efficiently. They had done it many times. In fact, it seemed a natural process out there amongst the dunes. They were mostly young men, a colourful mixture of race and dress, their teeth flashing white in their dark faces as they fooled around, making light of the work. They were fit and full of life and laughter; they had a football which they kicked at each other periodically, the guttural Arab tongue coming in staccato bursts from their lips.

There was nothing for me to do and I sat perched on the Land-Rover’s mudguard, watching them and looking around me at the surrounding country. There was a dune, I remember, that ran away into the distance like the Prescelly hills north of St David’s. I was looking at it, thinking of holidays I had spent in that part of Wales, and suddenly my eyes became riveted on a dark speck that showed for an instant on its back. It vanished almost immediately so that I thought my eyes had played me a trick. In that shimmering heat it was difficult to be sure. And then it showed again, nearer this time. I could have sworn it was a man moving below the crest of the dune. I was just on the point of telling Entwhistle that he had a visitor when I was jolted off my seat; the clang of metal against metal was followed instantly by the crack of a rifle, and I was looking down at a hole the size of my fist in the side of the Land-Rover’s bonnet.

For an instant everything was still. There was no sound, no movement; Entwhistle and his Arabs just stood there, shocked into immobility, staring at that hole in the side of the Land-Rover. Then Entwhistle shouted something.

Rifles cracked from the top of the dune, little spurts of sand were kicked up round us. A bullet ricocheted off the truck’s drill and went whining past my head. Entwhistle flung himself at the Land-Rover. ‘Jump in!’ he shouted. His crew were running for the truck. Another bullet smacked into the Land-Rover, so close that the wind of it fanned my trouser legs, and then I heard shouts, saw men running towards us from the line of the dunes. The engines burst into life, drowning all other sounds. I dived for the seat beside Entwhistle as he slammed the Land-Rover into gear. Two Arabs landed almost on top of me as the vehicle jerked forward. Behind us the truck was moving, too, and beyond its lumbering shape I caught a glimpse of longhaired tribesmen dropping on to their knees, aiming their rifles. But I never heard the shots. All I could hear was the revving of the engine as Entwhistle ran through the gears.

A moment later and we were clear, out of their range. The two Arabs sorted themselves out and I turned to Entwhistle. His foot was hard down on the accelerator and his lips were moving. The bastards!’ he was saying. ‘The bloody bastards!’ And then he looked at me. ‘Dum-dum bullets.’ His face was white under the sunburn. ‘They cut them across to make ‘them soft nosed. Blow a hole in you the size of a barn door.’ It was this rather than the attack that seemed to outrage him.

‘Who were they?’ I asked, and was shocked to find that I hadn’t proper control over my voice.

‘The Emir’s men. They must have seen the plane turn back and realized we were being warned of their presence.’ He turned to make certain that the truck was following. ‘Fine introduction you’ve had to desert life.’ He grinned, but not very certainly. He shouted something in Arabic to the two men perched on the baggage behind and they answered him with a flood of words. Shortly afterwards he pulled up. The truck drew up beside us, its engine throbbing, excited Arab faces looking down at us, all talking at once.

He got out then and spoke to the driver, walked all round the truck and then came back and lifted the bonnet of the Land-Rover. ‘Look at that,’ he said. I got out and my legs felt weak as I stared at the hole that first bullet had made. Little bits of lead were spattered all over the engine. ‘Bastards!’ he said and slammed the bonnet shut. ‘Well, it might have been worse, I suppose. Nobody’s hurt and the vehicles are all right.’

It was only after we’d got moving again that I realized the windscreen in front of me was shattered. Little bits of glass were falling into my lap. I kept my eyes half-closed until I had picked out all the bits. ‘How far is it to Saraifa?’ I asked him.

‘Not much more than forty miles by air.’ I gathered it was a good deal more the way we’d have to go, for the dunes ran south-east and we had to get east. ‘Might make it shortly after dark if we don’t get bogged down too often.’

It was just after four-thirty then. We kept to the gravel flats between the dunes, travelling at almost thirty miles an hour. The air that came rushing in through the shattered windscreen was a hot, searing blast that scorched the face. The ground was hard as iron, criss-crossed with innumerable ridges over which the Land-Rover rattled in an endless series of back-breaking jolts.

In these circumstances conversation wasn’t easy; the wind of our movement, the noise of the engine, the rattle of stones — we had to shout to make ourselves heard. And Entwhistle wasn’t a talkative man. He’d lived on his own too much. Besides, he had a North Countryman’s lack of imagination. He even used the word ‘humdrum’ when I asked him about his job. And yet I got the impression that he loved it. But it was the job, not Arabia he loved. He’d no feeling for the country or its people. More than once he used the contemptuous term ‘wogs’ when speaking of the Arabs. But though he wouldn’t talk about himself much, he was quite prepared to talk about David.

He had met him three times in all; once in Bahrain and then later when he was sick and David had relieved him.

‘Queer chap,’ he said. ‘Fact is I didn’t like him much when he came out to take over my outfit. But then,’ he added, ‘You don’t like anybody very much when you’re suffering from jaundice.’

‘But you felt differently about him later?’ I prompted.

‘Aye. Got to know him a bit better then. We were two days together whilst we moved to a new location. Then he went off to Saraifa. He’d got some leave due and he was going to spend it mucking around with an old seismological truck his father had got hold of.’ I asked him what had made him change his mind about David, and he said, ‘Oh, the way he talked. He was a great talker. Mind you,’ he added, ‘he was still too chummy with the wogs for my liking, but you couldn’t help admiring the chap. Wanted to make the desert blossom and all that.’

‘Water?’ I asked.

He nodded. That’s it. He’d got a bee in his bonnet about it. Talked about Saraifa being doomed. Well, of course, it is. I’ve only been there once, but-well, you’ll see for yourself. A few more years-’ He didn’t talk for a while after that, for we had come to soft sand; he took it fast, his foot pressed hard down on the accelerator, and we bucketed through it like a small boat in a seaway.

We came off the sand on to a hard gravel pan that scintillated with a myriad diamond gleams. ‘Mica,’ he shouted. The glare of it was dazzling. ‘You interested in geology?’

I shook my head.

‘Pity.’ He seemed genuinely sorry. ‘Damned interesting country.’ For him there was nothing else of interest in Arabia. We bucked another stretch of sand, ridged into shallow waves, and then he told me what had decided him to check David’s survey report. Amongst the papers in that attache case he had found Farr’s report. ‘Didn’t tell the Old Man. Thought I’d keep it in reserve. God knows where David dug it up. It was twenty years old, the paper all faded; the typing too. Could hardly read the damned thing.’

‘Have you got it with you?’ I asked.

‘Aye.’ He nodded. ‘I wasn’t going to leave that behind. I’ll show it to you later. Can’t think why the Company didn’t do something about it.’

‘There was a war on,’ I said. ‘And Farr was killed in Abyssinia.’

‘You know about it then?’ He seemed surprised.

‘David referred to it in his report.’

‘Oh yes, of course.’

We hit another patch of sand, a solid vista of it that stretched interminably ahead of us. We didn’t talk much after that. It was soft sand and the going was tough. Twice the seismological truck got bogged down and we had to lay sand mats. The sun sank slowly down into the desert behind us as we ploughed on, engines roaring, radiators steaming. We were in big dune country that was like a huge, petrified sea, the waves coming up one after the other, yet never moving, always motionless, and the shadows lengthening behind them. It had an eerie, still quality; and it left me with a sense of awe, for it had a certain majesty, a cruel, lost quality that was unnerving. Once I shouted, ‘Is it like this all the way to Saraifa?’

‘Christ! I hope not,’ he yelled back.

‘But don’t you know?’ I asked.

‘How the hell should I? Never been here before.’

The sun set, a brick-red ball of fire, hazed it seemed with dust. Here and there we came upon the derelict remains of trees, gnarled and twisted in a life-long struggle against crippling odds. Dusk descended swiftly and the light faded out of the dunes. Behind us they stood like downlands etched sharp against the sky’s last light. Above us the stars suddenly appeared. Again the truck behind us became bogged and we dug the sand mats down in front of the wheels and pushed and strained to gain a few yards. And when at last we got it moving there was no light left and it was dark.

‘Will you be able to find Saraifa in the dark?’ I asked Entwhistle.

‘Inshallah,’ he said, and we pushed on.

How he did it I don’t know, but about an hour later the dunes became smaller, the stunted tree-growth more noticeable, and then suddenly we ran out on to hard gravel again. And shortly after that the headlights picked up the first of the date gardens, a sad relic of a once fertile place, the walls no longer visible, just the starved tops of the palms sticking up out of the sand.

We passed between two of these ruined gardens and then we joined a well-worn track where the sand had been ground to a fine powder; there were the marks of tyres, the droppings of camels. The headlights picked out the round bulk of a watch tower with men running from it, their guns gleaming with silver furnishings. Entwhistle slowed as they stood, barring our path. They wore turbans and long white robes and strapped across their shoulders was a sort of harness of leather studded with the brass of cartridges; stuffed into their belts were the broad, curved-bladed khanjar knives, the hilts of silver glinting wickedly. As we stopped they came swarming over us, enveloping us with their harsh guttural speech, all talking at once, white teeth flashing in villainous dark faces.

‘What do they want?’ A black-bearded ruffian had the muzzle of his gun jammed against the side of my neck, and though I tried to keep my voice under control I don’t think I was very successful.

‘All right, all right,’ Entwhistle was shouting at them. ‘One at a time for God’s sake.’ He didn’t seem in the least bit scared. Finally, after a long conversation with my bearded friend, he said, ‘It looks like trouble. We’re more or less under arrest.’ He spoke to the bearded Arab again and then he was ordering men on to the Land-Rover and others to the truck behind. ‘It seems,’ he said as we moved off, ‘that Sheikh Makhmud sent a party out in two Land-Rovers this afternoon to arrest my outfit and bring me back to Saraifa for questioning.’ And he added, ‘This could be the sort of thing David came up against. They’re scared stiff of the Emir and frightened to death of any activity on the Hadd border.’

‘Didn’t you know that before you decided to run a survey there?’ I asked.

‘Of course I did. But I was reckoning to run the survey and get out before anyone discovered I was there.’ He crashed the gears savagely. ‘I took a chance and it didn’t come off, that’s all.’

We skirted the crumbling wall of a date garden. The palms were green here, the gardens uninvaded by the desert sand. And then suddenly we were in the open, driving on hard gravel, and straight ahead of us, a black bulk against the stars, was the shadowy shape of the Sheikh’s palace standing like a fortress on its hill. The wooden gate of the arched entrance was closed, but it opened to the cries of our guards, and then we were inside, in a great courtyard packed with men and camels and lit by the flames of cooking fires. In an instant we were surrounded, lapped round by a tide of men, all shouting and brandishing their weapons.

A big, portly man appeared, his face black as a Sudanese. The Sheikh’s secretary,’ Entwhistle said to me. He looked like a eunuch, fat and soft, his manner almost feminine. He gave orders for the care of the men and then escorted us into the palace, along dark corridors sparsely lit by smoking lamps made out of old cans, to a small room that looked out on to a central courtyard. Here the earthen floor was carpeted with rugs, the walls lined with cushions; an Arab rose to greet us. He was a compact, stocky man with almost black eyes and a proudly curved nose. The khanjar knife stuck in the girdle of his finely-woven robe was a beautiful example of the silversmith’s craft. ‘Sheikh Makhmud,’ Entwhistle whispered.

I found my hand held in a firm grip. ‘You are welcome to Saraifa,’ the Sheikh said in halting English. ‘My house is your house.’ He had an air of command, yet his voice was gentle. But the thing that surprised me most was the fact that he wore glasses. They were silver-rimmed glasses and they drew attention to the blackness of his eyes. His clean-shaven face was long and tired-looking. He was a man of about Gorde’s age, I suppose. The other occupant of the room had also risen, a thin man with a greying moustache and a little pointed beard, his eyes heavily made up with kohl. He was Makhmud’s brother, Sultan.

We sat cross-legged on the cushions and there was nothing in the Sheikh’s manner to indicate that we were anything but honoured guests. Polite conversation was made, partly in the Arab language, partly in English. Slaves came with a silver jug and a silver ewer. We washed our hands and then they brought in a simple dish of rice and mutton. ‘You eat with your right hand,’ Entwhistle whispered to me, and I tried to copy his practised movements.

I was hungry enough not to care that the meat was stringy and over-fat. We ate almost in silence and when we had finished, the hand-washing was repeated and then coffee was served in little handleless cups, poured by a slave from a silver pot of intricate native design. And with the coffee came the questions. Sheikh Makhmud’s voice was no longer gentle. It had a harsh, imperious quality, and Entwhistle was soon in difficulties with the language, lapsing periodically into English as he tried to explain his presence on the Saraifa-Hadd border. In the end he passed Sheikh Makhmud the note Gorde had written.

Entwhistle had just launched into an account of the attack that had been made on us when a young man entered. He was short, well-built, and beneath his brown cloak he wore an old tweed jacket. But it was the features that caught the eye; they were delicate, almost classic features, the nose straight, the eyes set wide apart, with high cheek-bones and the full lips framed by a neatly trimmed moustache that flowed round the corners and down into a little pointed beard. He looked as though he had just come in from the desert and I knew instinctively that this was Khalid, the Sheikh’s son; he had an air about him that showed he was born to command.

He greeted his father and his uncle, waved us to remain seated and folded himself up on a cushion against the wall. The brass of cartridge belt, the silver of khanjar knife gleamed beneath the jacket. He sat in silence, listening intently, his body so still that I was given the impression of great muscular control — a hard-sinewed body below the Arab robes.

There was a long silence when Entwhistle had finished. And then Sheikh Makhmud made what sounded like a pronouncement, and Entwhistle exclaimed: ‘Good God! I’m not going to do that.’ He turned to me. ‘He wants us to go to the Emir and explain that we were on the border without authority.’

‘You go freely,’ Sheikh Makhmud said in English. ‘Or you go with escort. Which you prefer?’

Entwhistle didn’t say anything. His face was set and pale.

‘Is very difficult this situation,’ the Sheikh said almost apologetically. ‘Very dangerous also. You must make the Emir understand please.’

‘Very dangerous for us, too,’ Entwhistle muttered angrily.

‘I don’t want any trouble.’

‘You want oil, don’t you?’

‘Colonel Whitaker is already drilling for oil.’

‘Then what was his son doing on the Hadd border?’ Entwhistle demanded. ‘He ran a survey there. He wrote a report. And then he vanished.’ There was no answer. ‘Khalid. You were his friend. What happened to him?’

But Khalid was staring out into the courtyard.

In the silence I heard myself say, ‘He got a letter through to me just before he disappeared. He knew he was going to die.’ I felt them stiffen, the silence suddenly intense. I looked at Khalid. ‘Did he die a natural death?’ His eyes met mine for a moment then fell away. ‘Somebody here must know how he died — and why.’

Nobody answered and the stillness of those three Arabs scared me. It was the stillness of unease. ‘Where’s Colonel Whitaker?’ I asked.

The Sheikh stirred uncomfortably. ‘You are full of questions. Who are you?’

Briefly I explained. I was still explaining when there was a sudden uproar in the passage outside and a man burst into the room, followed closely by the Sheikh’s secretary. A staccato burst of Arabic and they were all suddenly on their feet. I heard the word falaj run from mouth to mouth, saw Khalid rush out, quick as a cat on his feet. His father followed more slowly, the others crowding behind him.

‘What is it?’ I asked Entwhistle. ‘What’s happened?’

‘One of the falajes, I don’t know exactly but for some reason the water has stopped.’

We were alone now. Everybody had forgotten about us. It was as though that word had some sort of magic in it. ‘What exactly is a falaj?’ He didn’t seem to hear me and I repeated the question.

‘Falaj?’ He seemed to drag his mind back. ‘Oh, it’s the water system on which the date gardens depend. The water comes from the mountains of the Jebel anything up to thirty miles away and it’s piped into Saraifa by underground channels.’

‘And the underground channels are the falajes?’

‘Yes, that’s it. They’re centuries old — a Persian irrigation system. In fact, they’re the same as the Persian quantas.’ He went to the passage and stood listening. ‘Bit of luck,’ he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘If we can get hold of the Land-Rover-’ He grabbed hold of my arm. ‘Come on.’

I followed him down the dimly lit mud corridors and out into the courtyard. The cooking fires still smoked. The camels still crouched in a shapeless, belching huddle under the walls. But in the whole courtyard there wasn’t a single Arab to be seen. ‘Look! Even the guard on the gate has gone.’

‘But why?’ I asked. ‘Why should that word-?’

‘Water. Don’t you understand?’ He sounded impatient. ‘Water is life here in the desert.’

‘But they can’t depend on one channel. There must be many to irrigate a place like this.’

‘Five or six, that’s all.’ He was searching the courtyard. ‘There used to be more than a hundred once. But tribal wars-’ He gripped my arm. There’s the Land-Rover. Over by the wall there.’ He pointed. ‘Come on! There’s just a chance-’

‘What’s the idea?’ I asked.

‘Get out whilst the going’s good. Hurry, man!’ His voice was high-pitched, urgent. ‘I’m not risking my neck on a mission of explanation to that bloody Emir.’ He had seized hold of my arm again. ‘Quick!’

I started to follow him, but then I stopped. ‘I’m staying,’ I said.

‘Christ, man! Do you want to get killed?’

‘No, but I want to find out why that boy was killed.’

He stared at me. ‘You think it was like that — that he was murdered?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. I didn’t know anything for certain. ‘But I’m not leaving here until I’ve seen Colonel Whitaker.’

He hesitated. But then he shrugged his shoulders. ‘Okay. It’s your funeral, as you might say. But watch your step,’ he added. ‘He’s a tricky bastard by all accounts. And if what you’re suggesting is true and David was murdered, then your life wouldn’t be worth much, would it?’

‘I’ll be all right,’ I said.

‘Aye, I hope so. But just remember you’re right on the edge of Saudi Arabia here and the British Raj is worn a bit thin in these parts.’ He hesitated, looking at me, and then he started towards the Land Rover.

I stood and watched him, certain I was being a fool, but equally certain that I wasn’t leaving. I saw him jump into the driving seat, heard the whine of the starter, the roar of the engine. And then the Land-Rover was moving and he swung it round and came tearing towards me. ‘Jump in, Grant,’ he shouted, as he pulled up beside me. ‘Hurry, man! Hurry!’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m not leaving.’ My voice was like the voice of a stranger to me. ‘You get out whilst you can. I’ll be all right.’ And I added, ‘I’ll make your excuses to the Sheikh for you.’ I meant it to be a jocular, carefree remark, but my voice sounded hollow. He was still hesitating and I said quickly, ‘Good luck to you!’

He stared at me hard and then he gave a little nod. ‘Okay. I expect you’ll be all right. I’ll notify the authorities, of course.’ And he slammed in the gear and went roaring across the courtyard and out through the empty gateway. The cloud of dust he’d raised gradually settled and I walked to the gate and stood there watching his headlights threading a luminous trail through the date gardens. And when they finally disappeared in the open desert beyond, I went slowly down the hill, heading for the murmur of voices, the glimmer of lights amongst the palms beyond the village.

I was alone then — more alone than I’d ever been in my life before.

The moon was just risen and with the stars the village was lit by a soft translucence. The mud buildings were pale and empty, the open square deserted save for the hens nested in the dust and a solitary sad-looking donkey. Beyond the village I followed the crumbling wall of a date garden until I came out into the open again. All Saraifa seemed gathered there, the men bunched together like a crowd at a cock-fight, the women dark bundles flitting on the edge of the crowd or squatting like hens in the sand. Everybody was talking at once, a thick hubbub of sound that seemed to lose itself instantly in the great solitude of the desert that stretched away to the east, to the dim-seen line of the mountains.

Nobody took any notice of me as I skirted the crowd. It was thickest close by the date garden. Out towards the desert it thinned, and here I found a raised water channel built of rock and spanning a hollow Roman aqueduct. It was my first sight of a falaj; and it was empty. I leaned over it, touched the inside with my fingers. It was still damp and in a little puddle of water at the bottom tiny fish flashed silver in the starlight as they gasped for breath. Clearly the water had only recently ceased to flow, turned off as though by a tap.

Fascinated, I crossed the hollow to the far side. For perhaps twenty yards the falaj was open, a neat, vertical-sided trench running a black shadow line across the sand. It was about two feet across and the same deep. I walked along it to the point where it was roofed over. For a hundred yards or so I could trace the outline of it, but after that the sand swallowed it up entirely. From a slight rise I looked towards the mountains. Anything up to thirty miles, Entwhistle had said, and they were the source of the water.

I walked slowly back along the line of the falaj, to the point where it broke surface, and at the sight of the empty trough with the little fish gasping out their lives, I could understand the calamity of it, the sense of disaster that had seized upon the people of this channel-fed oasis. A dry falaj meant a ruined date garden, the beginnings of famine. Only five or six left out of more than a hundred, tribal wars…. The place was as vulnerable as an oil refinery fed by a desert pipeline. Cut the falaj and Saraifa ceased to exist.

The sound of male voices died away, leaving only the high-pitched chatter of the women; there was a stillness of decision as I approached the crowd gathered about the falaj channel where it entered the date garden. In the centre stood Sheikh Makhmud and his brother Sultan. Khalid was facing them, arguing fiercely. His features had no trace of effeminacy in them now. From the skirts of the crowd I saw Sheikh Makhmud turn impatiently away from his son. He called a man forth by name — Mahommed bin Rashid; a fierce, hawk-faced man with a black beard, the one who had stopped us as we entered Saraifa. He gave him an order and a long A — a-agh of satisfaction issued from the throats of the crowd. Instantly all was confusion. Men brandished their weapons, calling on Allah, as a dozen or more of them were singled out and went hurrying back to the palace. Sheikh Makhmud turned and with his brother and his secretary followed them slowly.

It was the signal for the crowd to break up, and as they straggled away from the empty falaj, Khalid was left standing there alone. A few men only remained, a little, compact group of silent followers ranged behind him. They were different from the rest in that their arms were without any silver trappings; they carried British service-pattern rifles.

He stood for a long time without moving, staring after his father and the crowd that followed him, noisy now with the excitement of action. And when they had disappeared from sight he turned to his men with a gesture of dismissal and they, too, moved away, but still silent, still in a compact group. He was completely alone then, staring down at the empty water channel, lost in his own thoughts. Even when I approached him he didn’t stir. I don’t think he knew I was there, for when I asked him whether he spoke English, he turned to me with a start of surprise.

‘A little English — yess.’ His speech was slightly sibilant, his features marred when he opened his mouth by long, widely-spaced teeth. ‘I am at Bombay University, my education.’ He was staring up the hill towards the palace, his mind still on what had happened. They think they are being brave and that I am afraid. They don’t understand.’ His tone was bitter and angry. ‘Their guns are very much old and the men of Hadd will be waiting for them.’

I asked whether it was Hadd who had stopped the water supply and he said, ‘Yess. They perpetrate it once before.

Then the British help us. Your people send soldiers with automatic guns and mortars. But not now. This time we are alone.’

He turned and I saw his dark eyes, sad in the starlight. ‘The falajes you understand, sir, are very much vulnerable.’ He had acquired the Indian penchant for long words. And he added with great determination, speaking slowly as though stating something to himself, ‘We must fight for them now. But not like this. This way is to die.’ He began to walk slowly towards the palace.

There were many things I wanted to ask him, but this didn’t seem the moment and I walked beside him in silence, conscious of his preoccupation. His head was bent and he moved slowly, his sandals dragging in the sand. He was only two years older than David. I learned that later. Yet his manner was that of a man upon whom the whole responsibility for this desert community rested. ‘Do you know Arabia much, sir?’ he asked suddenly. And when I told him this was my first visit and that I’d only arrived a few days ago, he nodded and said, ‘You are from a town called Car-diff, yess? David speak of you sometimes.’

That mention of Cardiff, the knowledge that this young Arab knew who I was … Saraifa seemed suddenly less remote, my position here less solitary. ‘When David first come here, he is like you; he speak Arabic a little, but he don’t understand our customs or the way we live here in the desert. The falajes mean nothing to him and he has never seen the big dunes when the shamal is blowing.’ He had stopped and he was smiling at me. Despite the wide-spaced, fang-like teeth it was a gentle smile. ‘I am glad you come now.’ He offered me his hand and I found my wrist gripped and held in a strong clasp. ‘You are David’s friend and I will see that no harm come to you.’

I thanked him, conscious that he had given me the opening I needed. But already I was becoming vaguely aware of the subtlety of the Arab mind and this time I was determined not to make the mistake of asking direct questions. Sue’s words came unconsciously into my mind. ‘David wanted to defend Saraifa, too.’ I saw his face soften as he nodded and I asked, ‘What was it about this place that so captured his imagination? His sister said he could be very emotional about it.’

‘His sister?’ He smiled. ‘I have seen his sister once, when I am taking a plane at Sharjah. She is with the doctor and I do not speak. A very fine person I think.’

I knew then that David had spoken of Sue to Khalid. ‘What is there about Saraifa,’ I said, ‘that he fell in love with it the way other men do with a woman?’

He shrugged. ‘He came here for refuge and we made him welcome. Also his father live here. It became his home.’

But that didn’t explain it entirely. ‘It was something more than that,’ I said.

‘Yess.’ He nodded. ‘Is a very strange chap. A Nasrani-a Christian. He live very much by your Book, the Bible.’ That surprised me, but before I could make any comment, he added, ‘I should hate him because he is an infidel. Instead, I love him like my own brother.’ He shook his head with a puzzled frown. ‘Perhaps it is because I have to teach him everything. When he first come here, he knows nothing — he has never hunted, never owned a hawk; he does not know how to ride a camel or how to make a camp in the desert. For six months were are living together, here in Saraifa, in the desert hunting, up in the mountains shooting wild hare and gazelle. But he is very good with machines and later, when he is on leave from the Oil Company and we are working for the reconstruction of one of the old falajes, then he spend all his time down in the underground channels with the family who specialize in that work. You see, sir, this oasis is one time very much bigger with very many falajes bringing water to the date gardens. Then Saraifa is rich. Richer than Buraimi to the north. Richer perhaps even than the Wadi Hadhramaut to the south. It is, I think, the richest place in all Arabia. But nobody can remember that time. Now it is-’ He stopped abruptly, his head on one side, listening.

And then I heard it, too — the soft pad-pad of camels’ feet on gravel. Down the slope towards us came a bunch of camels moving with that awkward, lumbering gait. A dozen dark shapes swayed past us, the riders kneeling in the saddles, their robes flying, their rifles held in their hands. For an instant they were like paper cut-outs painted black against the stars, beautiful, balanced silhouettes. Then they were gone and the pad of their camels’ feet faded away into the sand as they headed towards the mountains.

‘Wallahi, qalilet-el-mukh!’ Khalid muttered as he stared after them. And then to me: That man, Mahommed bin Rashid. You heard him when my father give the order. Inshallah, he said, we will kill every harlot’s son of them. But he is more like to die himself, I think.’ And he turned away, adding as he strode angrily up the hill, ‘Allah give him more brain in the world hereafter.’

The sight of that handful of men riding east into the desert along the line of the falaj had changed his mood. He was preoccupied, and though I tried to resume our conversation, he didn’t speak to me again until we reached the gates of the palace. Abruptly he asked me what sleeping quarters I had been allotted. And when I told him none, he said, ‘Then I arrange it. Excuse my father please. He is very much occupied.’ He asked about Entwhistle. ‘Good,’ he said when I told him he’d gone. ‘He is not a fool, that man. He knows when it is dangerous.’ And he added, ‘It would have been better perhaps if you had gone with him.’

‘I’m not leaving here,’ I said, ‘until I know what happened to David.’

There was a moment then when he hesitated as though about to tell me something. But all he said was, ‘Is best you talk to his father — Haj Whitaker.’

‘I intend to,’ I said. And when I asked him whether Colonel Whitaker was in Saraifa, he replied, ‘I don’t know. He has his house here, but is most times at the place of drilling.’

‘And where’s that?’

‘To the south of ‘ere, about ten miles towards Sheikh Hassa’s village of Dhaid.’

We had entered the great courtyard. A man sidled up to us, made his salaams to Khalid. He was dark and toothy with a ragged wisp of a turban on his head, and his eyes watched me curiously as they talked together. My name was mentioned and finally Khalid turned to me. ‘Now all is arranged. Yousif speak a little English. He will show you where you sleep.’ His hand gripped my arm. ‘Ask Haj Whitaker why he goes to see the Emir of Hadd almost two moons past. Ask him that, Meester Grant.’ It was whispered to me, his lips close against my ear and a hard, angry glint in his eyes.

But before I could question him he had drawn back. He said something to Yousif and with a quick Salaam alaikum he left me, moving quickly through the camp fires, the only man in all that throng who wore a European jacket.

‘Come!’ Yousif seized hold of my hand. Heads were turned now in my direction and here and there a man got up from the fireside and began to move towards us. I had no desire to stay there, an object of curiosity. Yousif guided me through dark passages and up to a turret room by a winding staircase where the plaster steps were worn smooth as polished marble by the tread of many feet. The floor was bare earth, the roof beamed with palm tree boles. A slit of a window no bigger than a firing embrasure looked out on to the flat, beaten expanses of the village square. I was in one of the mud towers of the outer wall and here he left me with no light but the glimmer of moonlight filtering in through the embrasure.

Strange, disembodied sounds drifted up to me on the warm night air; the murmur of Arab voices, the grunt of camels, a child crying — and in the distance the weird chuckle of a hyena. I knelt on the firing step, peering down. Beyond the mud houses I could see the darker mass of the palms. Bare feet sounded on the turret stairs and the yellow light of a hurricane-lamp appeared; the room was suddenly full of armed men bearing bedding, which they laid on the floor — a carpet, some blankets, an oryx skin and a silken cushion. ‘May Allah guard you,’ Yousif said, ‘and may your sleep be as the sleep of a little child.’

He was halfway through the door before I realized what that long speech in English must mean. ‘You’re Colonel Whitaker’s man, aren’t you?’

He checked and turned. ‘Yes, sahib. Me driver for Coll-onel.’ He was staring at me, his eyes very wide so that the whites showed yellow in the lamplight. ‘I tell Coll-onel you are here in Sheikh’s palace.’ He was gone then.

There was no doubt in my mind that he’d been sent to find me. Whitaker was in Saraifa and Khalid had known it as soon as Yousif had sidled up to us. I sat down on the silken cushion, staring blindly at that cell-like room. There was nothing to do now but wait. I felt tired; dirty, too. But I’d no water with which to wash. No soap, no clothes — nothing but what I was wearing. Yousif had left me the hurricane lamp and its light reached dimly to the palm wood rafters. A large desert spider moved among them with deliberation. I watched it for a long time as it went about its unpleasant business, and finally I killed it, overcome with a fellow-feeling for the flies caught in its web. And then I put out the lamp and rolled myself up in a blanket.

It was hot, but I must have fallen asleep for I didn’t hear Yousif return; he was suddenly there, his torch stabbing the darkness, almost blinding me. ‘Coll-onel say you come.’

I sat up, glancing at my watch. It was past eleven-thirty.

‘Now?’

‘Yes, now.’

Down in the courtyard the fires were almost out, the Sheikh’s retainers lying like corpses wrapped in their robes. A few stirred as we crossed to the gate, now barred and guarded; a brief argument and then I was in a battered Land-Rover being driven at reckless speed across the deserted village square, down into the date gardens.

Behind us the palace fort stood bone-white in the moonlight, and then the palms closed round us.

Whitaker’s house was an old mud fort on the far side of the oasis. Most of it seemed to be in ruins, the courtyard empty, the mud walls cracked and crumbling. There was sand everywhere as we hurried through a maze of passages and empty rooms. The palace seemed dead and I wondered that a man could live alone like this and retain his sanity, for he seemed to have no servants but Yousif and to live in Spartan simplicity in one corner of this vast, rambling building.

We came at last to a room where old portmanteaux and tin boxes stood ranged against the walls, and then I was out on a rooftop that looked out upon the desert. He was standing against the parapet, a tall, robed figure in silhouette, for there was no light there, only the moon and the stars. Yousif coughed and announced my presence.

Whitaker turned then and came towards me. His face was in shadow, but I could see the black patch over the eye. No word of greeting, no attempt to shake my hand. ‘Sit down,’ he said and waved imperiously to a carpet and some cushions spread on the floor. ‘Yousif. Gahwa.’ His servant disappeared and as I sat down I was conscious of the stillness all about us — no sound of Arab voices, none of the tumult of the Sheikh’s palace, no murmur of the village below the walls. The place was as isolated, as deserted as though we were the only people in the whole oasis.

He folded himself up, cross-legged on the carpet facing me, and I could see his face then, the beard thinning and grey, the cheeks hollowed and lined by the desert years, that single imperious eye deep-sunken above the great nose. ‘You had a good journey, I trust.’ His voice was oddly-pitched, hard but unusually high, and he spoke the words slowly as though English were no longer a familiar language.

‘It was interesting,’ I said.

‘No doubt. But quite unnecessary. It was clearly understood between us that you would make no attempt to contact me direct. And though I admit the financial situation must have seemed-’

‘I came about your son,’ I said.

‘My son?’ He looked surprised. ‘Your letter merely said you were worried about the amount of money I was spending.’

‘Your son appointed me his Executor.’

He moved his head slightly, the eye glinting in the moonlight, bright and watchful. He didn’t say anything. Behind him the low parapet hid the desert so that all I could see was the great vault of the night studded with stars. The air was deathly still, impregnated with the day’s heat.

‘I’m not convinced your son died a natural death.’ I hadn’t meant to put it like that. It was his stillness, the overpowering silence that had forced it out of me.

He made no comment and I knew that this was going to be more difficult than my interview with Erkhard, more difficult even than my meeting with Gorde, and some sixth sense warned me that this man was much more unpredictable. The clatter of cups came as a distinct relief. Yousif moved silently as a shadow on to the rooftop and poured us coffee from a battered silver pot. The cups were handleless, the Mocha coffee black and bitter. ‘Does his mother know he’s dead?’ It surprised me that he should think of her; and when I told him that I’d broken the news to her myself, he asked, ‘How did she take it?’

‘She didn’t believe it at first. And because I had an overwhelming desire to break through his strange aura of calm, I added, ‘In fact she seemed to think it was your own death I was reporting.’

‘Why? Why did she think I was dead?’

The stars,’ I said. ‘She believes in astrology.’

He sighed. ‘Yes, I remember now. I used to talk to her about the stars.’ And he added, ‘It’s a longtime ago. A long time.’

‘Do you believe in astrology then?’ I asked.

He shrugged, sipping noisily at his coffee. ‘Here in the desert we live a great deal by the stars. It is very difficult not to believe that they have some influence.’ And then, abruptly changing the conversation: ‘How did you get here? It’s not easy to get to Saraifa.’ I started to tell him, but as soon as I mentioned Gorde, he said, ‘Philip Gorde? I didn’t know he was out here.’ It seemed to upset him. ‘Did he tell you why he was here?’ He mistook my silence. ‘No, of course not. He’d hardly tell you that.’ He shook his cup at Yousif to indicate that he’d had enough, and when I did the same the man departed as silently as he had come, leaving a dish of some sticky sweetmeat between us. ‘Halwa. Do you like it?’ Whitaker made a vague gesture of invitation.

‘I’ve never tried it.’

We were alone again now and the silence between us hung heavy as the thick night air, a blanket through which each tried to gauge the other. I let it drag out, and it was Whitaker who finally broke it. ‘You were telling me about your journey.’ He stared at me, waiting for me to continue. I broke off a piece of the halwa. It was cloying on the tongue and it had a sickly-sweet taste. ‘You arrived here with Entwhistle, one of the Company’s geologists. What was he doing on the Hadd border, do you know? The fellow had no business there.’

‘He was checking your son’s survey,’ I said.

There was a sudden stillness. ‘I see.’ He said it quietly. And then, in a voice that was suddenly trembling with anger: ‘On whose orders? Not Philip Gorde’s surely?’

‘No.’

‘Erkhard?’

‘You seem very worried about this?’

‘Worried!’ The word seemed forced out of him. ‘Don’t you understand what’s happened here tonight? The thing I’ve been dreading…. The thing I’ve been trying to avoid ever since I knew-’ He checked himself. And then in a quieter voice: ‘No, you’re new out here. You wouldn’t understand. One of the falajes has been stopped. And all because of this blundering fool Entwhistle running a survey on the Hadd border.’ His voice had risen again, trembling with anger.

‘He was doing what David was doing at the time he disappeared,’ I said quietly.

But it didn’t seem to register. He had withdrawn into his own thoughts. ‘Twenty years-’ His voice sounded tired. And then his eye was staring at me again. ‘How would you feel if the thing you’d worked for over a period of twenty years was in danger of being ruined by young fools too impatient to understand the politics of the desert?’ He turned his head and stared for a moment into the night. ‘The air is heavy. There’ll be a storm soon.’ He gathered his robes about him and rose to his feet, crossing to the parapet and leaning against it, staring out into the desert like some Biblical figure from the distant past. ‘Come here, Grant.’ And when I joined him, he stretched out his arm. ‘Look, do you see those dunes?’ He gripped my arm, pointing west into the desert.

Standing on that rooftop was like standing on the bridge of a ship lying anchored off a low-lying island. To the left lay the dark-treed expanse of the oasis, and beyond the date gardens I could see the village and the squat bulk of the Sheikh’s palace standing on its gravel rise. But to the right, where his arm pointed, was nothing but desert. Dim in the moonlight the dunes stretched away into infinity, a ridged sea of sand, pale as milk. ‘When you’ve seen a storm here you’ll understand. Then all the desert seems in motion, like the sea beating against the shore of the oasis, flooding into the date gardens. The dunes smoke. They stream with sand. They’re like waves breaking; the whole great desert of the Empty Quarter thundering in, the sand flowing like water.’ He turned to me and his grip on my arm tightened. ‘The only thing that stands between Saraifa and destruction is the camel thorn. Out there — do you see?

Those trees. They’re like a breakwater holding the sand sea back, and they’re dying for lack of water.’

‘The falajes?’ I asked, and he nodded. ‘Entwhistle said there used to be around a hundred of them.’

‘Yes. We’ve traced them from aerial photographs.’

‘Your son was very much concerned about-’

‘Oh yes, concerned…. But he lacked patience. He was like a young bull. No subtlety. No subtlety at all.’ And he added, ‘What’s been done tonight can be quickly repaired. There’s an open well every mile or so along the length of the underground channel of the falaj. They’ve blocked one of these wells with sand and stone. It can be unblocked almost as quickly. But the old falajes-’ He shook his head. The wells are fallen in, the underground channels collapsed. Restoring them is a lengthy and costly business. Sheikh Makhmud has managed to restore just one in the fourteen years he’s been Sheikh of Saraifa. It took two years and cost more than twenty thousand pounds. If Saraifa is to survive-’ He gave a little shrug. ‘We need a dozen new falajes, not one.’

‘And only oil will pay for them?’

He nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘David took the same view,’ I said. That’s why he was prospecting on the Hadd border.’ And I added, ‘What happened, Colonel Whitaker? What happened to your son?’

He turned and looked at me. ‘You think I should know?’

‘I’ve come a long way,’ I said, ‘in the certainty that you must know.’

His eyebrows lifted, the single eye stared at me, not blinking. The certainty?’

‘Yes,’ I said. The certainty.’ And I added, ‘He was on loan to you at the time he disappeared. It was the seismological truck you purchased in Basra last June that he left abandoned on the side of a dune twenty miles inside the borders of Saudi Arabia. And just before he disappeared, you visited the Emir of Hadd. You must know what happened.’

‘Well, I don’t.’ He said it flatly and it was difficult not to accept it.

Then why did you visit Hadd?’

‘Who else could do it?’ And he added, ‘David was on the Hadd border against my orders, against Sheikh Makhmud’s orders, too. Somebody had to try and convince the Emir there wasn’t any oil there.’

‘Because the border’s in dispute?’

‘Yes. There’s been trouble there ever since the Company was first granted a concession to prospect in Saraifa. As you probably know, Saraifa is an independent sheikhdom. Unlike the Trucial States, it’s not even in treaty relation with the British Crown, though it’s generally considered to be a part of the British sphere of influence. Hadd is different again. It’s independent in theory and in fact, and during the last few years it has strengthened its ties with Arab countries. Some years back we were finally driven to sending troops in, to keep the peace, and they occupied the fort of Jebel al-Akhbar overlooking the town of Hadd. But we couldn’t do that now. It would be much too dangerous.’ He hesitated, and then he added, The risk would only be justified if vital interests of our own were involved.’

‘What sort of vital interests?’ I asked. But I knew the answer before he gave it.

‘Oil,’ he said. ‘From a Western point of view — as you’d know if you’d been out here any length of time — everything in Arabia comes back to oil.’

‘Your son’s death, too?’ I asked. He looked at me, but didn’t say anything. ‘When did you first hear he was missing?’

Towards the end of February.’

‘Could you give me a date?’

He frowned and for a moment I thought he wasn’t going to answer that. But then he said, ‘I can’t be certain. Your calendar doesn’t mean very much to us out here in the desert. But by the moon it would be about the beginning of the last week in February.’

Almost a week before the abandoned truck had been found by the Bedouin, more than three weeks before his disappearance had been reported to the Company. ‘You didn’t notify Erkhard.’

‘No.’

‘Why not? David was in the Company’s employ, even if he was on loan to you.’

He didn’t say anything. He seemed suddenly to have withdrawn inside himself. I think perhaps he was waiting for my next question, knowing it was coming. ‘The truck was discovered abandoned on February twenty-eight,’ I said. ‘Yet you say you knew he was missing almost a week before that. How did you know?’

There was a long pause. At length he said, ‘Some askari were despatched from Saraifa. When they reached his camp they found it deserted, not a soul there; the truck and the Land-Rover had gone, too.’

‘Askari?’

‘Yes. Members of Sheikh Makhmud’s bodyguard. Their orders were to arrest him and bring him back to Saraifa.’

‘Alive?’

‘Of course.’ He stared at me angrily. ‘What other instructions do you imagine they would be given? They were despatched by Sheikh Makhmud — at my request. That was immediately after my return from Hadd.’ And he added, ‘It was done for his own good — and because it was necessary. The Emir was in a very dangerous mood.’

So that was how it had been. ‘And you didn’t want Erkhard to know that he’d been operating on the Hadd border?’

‘I didn’t want Erkhard to know and I didn’t want the political boys to know. As I’ve said, David was there against my express orders. God Almighty!’ he breathed. The impatience of youth. They want the moon for breakfast and the sun for lunch.’ He leaned on the parapet, staring down to the white sand below. ‘I blame myself,’ he said quietly. ‘I should have packed him off back to Cardiff.

Instead, I let him stay. More, I tried to think of him as my son, as God’s gift from my loins, a prodigal given back into my hands.’ He shook his head. ‘I should have known it wouldn’t work.’

He paused there and I didn’t say anything for I felt his isolation here might trap him into some self-revelation if I didn’t try to force it. He looked at me again, the desert lines deep-etched by the moon, a long, sad, solitary face. ‘As you know, I’m a Moslem. I wanted him to become a Mahommedan, too. I wanted him to make the desert his home and to carry on where I left off in due course.’ He sighed softly. ‘I forgot the boy was already nineteen, and only half mine … and that half as obstinate as the devil.’ He smiled. In that harsh face it was a smile of extraordinary tenderness. ‘I turned him into a Christian instead.’ He said it with bitterness, adding, ‘In the end I think he came to hate me.’

‘Why?’

The question was out before I could stop myself and I saw him freeze and close up on me. ‘People get at cross-purposes, you know.’ His tone was casual now. ‘It’s one of the sad things about human relationships. But there…. No point in talking about it now. The boy’s dead, and that’s that.’

‘You can’t be sure of that,’ I said.

He stared at me, his eye blazing in the darkness. ‘What do you mean? I had all the chaps I could spare out looking for him. Khalid was searching too, and Makhmud had men hunting for him all over Saraifa. The only place we never thought of searching was west into the Empty Quarter.’ And he said, with gentleness, softly to himself: ‘The desert is like the sea. No man can disappear into it for two months and come out alive.’

‘All right,’ I said. ‘He’s dead. But if you haven’t discovered what happened to him, what do you think happened to him?’

His eye looked into mine. ‘Have you ever been frightened?’

‘Yes, once,’ I said. ‘In Tanganyika.’

He nodded. ‘Then you’ll understand me when I say no man knows how he’ll react to fear until he’s faced with it. Especially when he’s alone. And David was alone. His Arab crew had deserted him. We found that out later. They panicked.’

‘And you think David did the same?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s a cruel place, the desert. And solitary as hell. Empty too. Even in company the Bedou sing to keep their spirits up.’ It was much what Griffiths had said and it seemed plausible enough. He took my arm and led me back to the carpet. ‘You were telling me about your journey-’

I told him as much as I thought he’d a right to know — about the package Griffiths had brought me and my meeting with Erkhard. But it was Gorde he was really interested in — Gorde and Entwhistle and the fact that the two of them had been together at the locations David had been surveying. It seemed to worry him and he questioned me closely about Gorde’s reactions — what had he said, where was he going when he’d left me there with Entwhistle? And then he asked me what it was that had decided Entwhistle to check David’s survey. ‘He must have known he was risking his life there on that border. What made mm think it was so important?’

I hesitated. He was sitting there, watching me, very still, very tense, and I knew suddenly that this was what the whole interview had been leading up to and that he was deeply concerned. ‘When Entwhistle searched the abandoned truck,’ I said, ‘he found all David’s papers. They included his own survey report and also the report of a much older survey run just before the war. I think it was that report-’

‘Whose report?’ The question was shot at me out of the dark. ‘Was it Henry Farr’s report?’

I stared at him. ‘You know about that?’

‘Of course. Henry sent me a copy of it. He was well aware of my interest in the area. Later we had a talk about it — just before he went into Abyssinia.’

‘But if you knew about it-’ It seemed so incredible. ‘In his letter to me David said he found it in the Company’s files. You never told him about it?’

‘No.’

‘Why ever not? You must have known how he felt about Saraifa, his desperate urge to-’

‘He was employed by the Company — by Erkhard.’ His voice was taut and hard, a note almost of hostility.

‘But… I don’t understand, ‘I said.‘All these years…. And Khalid says you’re drilling to the south of the oasis. That’s at least forty miles from David’s locations.’

‘Exactly. Just about as far from the Hadd border as it’s possible to get and still be in Saraifa.’ He got to his feet and began pacing up and down, seeking relief in movement from the nervous tension that I now realized had existed inside him from the first moment of our meeting. ‘It’s not easy to explain. You don’t understand the situation.’ He stopped suddenly and faced me. ‘For twenty years I’ve had to sit on this, convinced that my theory was right, that the oil-bearing strata continued from the Gulf down into Saraifa, between the Empty Quarter and the mountains you can see there to the east.’ His voice was sharp and bitter with frustration. ‘I had to find some way-’ He paused, standing there over me, and he was silent a long time as though reaching for a decision. Finally he said, ‘You know so much…. You may as well know the rest. Erkhard’s coming here tomorrow, flying down from Sharjah. He’s under pressure as I think you’ll have guessed from your conversation with Philip Gorde. With God’s help I’ll get him to sign the concession, and once the Company’s involved-’ He turned and resumed his pacing. ‘There was no other way. No company would sign a concession with Saraifa if they knew it involved drilling on the Hadd-Saraifa border. No company would dare. But once they’re committed…. ‘ He beat his fist against the palm of his hand.

I

spasmodic fighting on the border. The Emir, you see, was determined to grab any oil there was for himself. And when we finally sent in troops to keep the peace, it was too late for me to do anything about it. The concession had lapsed. Philip Gorde had gone home sick and Erkhard had taker, over. Erkhard would have dealt with the Emir or anybody else. He’d no feeling for Saraifa the way Philip had.’ He turned abruptly and shouted for Yousif. And then, looking at me very hard, he said, ‘You’ve come at a strange moment, Grant, and I’ve told you things I’ve told no other man. I’ve had to, or you’d have caused more trouble. By the mere fact of coming out here…. ‘ He hesitated and I knew he was thinking of Gorde. ‘What did Philip say, was he surprised when he discovered where I was drilling?’

‘I don’t think he knows,’ I said. ‘He wasn’t even sure you were drilling.’

‘Oh, he knows. A plane passed over the rig this afternoon. I thought for a moment it must be Erkhard arriving a day early, but when it circled and turned away I began to wonder.’ He was looking out into the desert again and his face showed the strain he was under. ‘I could have wished it had been anyone but Philip Gorde. He’s the only man in the whole Company who knows enough to guess what I’m up to. But there’s nothing I can do about it now Yousif had appeared and he held out his hand to me ‘You’re a lawyer, Grant. You’ve been involved in our affairs for a long time. I rely on you not to talk.’ He held my hand gripped in his. ‘We have two enemies here in Saraifa — the Emir and the Sands.’ He gestured towards the white expanse of the dunes and added softly, ‘Tomorrow, with God’s help, I’ll lay the foundation of victory over them both.’ It was said with great intensity, his eye fixed on my face.

I left him then, standing alone as I had found him on that rooftop, a strange, almost fanatical figure against the backcloth of endless desert. Even when I got back to my turret room, the memory of him was so clear in my mind that I felt he was still with me. But I was too exhausted to think clearly about that extraordinary meeting. I fell asleep and dreamed instead of women crying over children dead of thirst.

I woke in the small hours to the reality of their cries, a queer, keening sound coming up from the square below. The palace, too, was alive with voices, and though they were muffled by distance and the thickness of the walls, I caught the vibrant note of disaster.

It was quite chill as I flung off my blanket and went to the embrasure. The village square was ghostly pale in moonlight, empty save for a little group immediately below me, a dozen women and some children huddled like rags around the dead body of a man. He had been shot in the face and he wasn’t a pretty sight there in the moonlight. Nearby a camel’ lay in a pool of blood.

It was just after four by my watch and already the sky was paling in the east. I put on my shoes and went down into the courtyard. The place was in an uproar, fires smoking and men standing in little groups, all talking at once. The nearest fell silent as they saw me and the word Nasrani passed from mouth to mouth, a whisper of fear, perhaps of hate. I beat a hasty retreat to the seclusion of my turret cell.

Sleep was impossible after that and I sat huddled in my blanket and watched the dawn break over the Jebel mountains, the grey light of it creeping across the palm tops, heralded by the brazen sound of an ass braying. The keening ceased and when I went to the window embrasure there was no sign of the dead man and the camel’s carcase had gone. It might have been a bad dream, for as daylight flooded the square it was full of the sound of children and their carefree laughter.

There was a shireeya, or open waterhole, a short distance from the tower and young Arab girls were driving goats towards it. There were boys there, too, with their asses, filling goat-skin bags and dripping a dark trail of the precious fluid as they took it to houses in the village.

Skinny, undersized fowl pecked in the dirt; a shapeless bundle of womanhood passed, her face hideously concealed by the black mask of the burqa. And when the sun lifted its glaring face above the distant line of the mountains, the palms, the sand, the mud houses were all miraculously suffused with colour, as though I were looking at the scene through rose-tinted glasses. Exhausted, I lay down again and was instantly asleep.

I woke to the cry of ‘Gahwa’ and a barefoot attendant pouring coffee for me, his gun slung across his back, the brass of his cartridge belt gleaming in the light from the embrasure. It was eight-thirty and the flies crawled over the dates he left for my breakfast.

I ate the dates slowly, for time hung heavy on my hands and I didn’t dare venture out alone after what had happened. My eyes felt tired, my body lethargic. My mind wandered in weary circles as the heat of the desert grew in intensity, invading the room. It was almost eleven when Khalid came for me. A brief salaam, a polite hope that I’d slept well, and then he said, ‘My father holds a majlis. He desires your presence, sir.’ His face looked grave and the eyes, deep-sunk and shadowed, spoke of a sleepless night. The Emir of Hadd has sent one of his sheikhs to make demand for a new border.’ His voice sounded weary, too.

‘What happened last night?’ I asked. ‘There were women crying and a dead body in the square.’

They waited in ambush by the fourteenth well. Mahommed bin Rashid is dead and two of his men also. Three are wounded. Come! My father waits for you.’

I asked him if I could wash first, but he said there was no time. ‘You must explain now please to the Emir’s representative why you and Meester Entwhistle are on the border.’ And then urgently: Tell Sheikh Abdullah there is no oil there.’

‘I’m not a geologist.’

‘He don’t know that. He thinks you work for the Oil Company.’

‘Well, I don’t.’ I spoke sharply, irritable with lack of sleep. ‘I’m a lawyer, and all I’m interested in is what happened to David Whitaker.’

His dark eyes stared at me hard. ‘Is better you don’t talk about David at this meeting,’ he said quietly.

‘Why?’ Angry and tired, I didn’t stop to think what I was saying. ‘Because your father sent some of his bodyguard to arrest him?’

‘You saw Haj Whitaker last night. You know why they were sent. He was on the Hadd border against my father’s orders.’

‘Against Whitaker’s orders, too, I gather.’

‘Yess. If he had been a Muslim instead of a Nasrani-’ He gave a little shrug. ‘The Prophet has taught us that the word of the father is as a law and that the son must obey.’ And he added, ‘My father is wishing to avoid trouble. He does not believe that a few miles of desert sand is worth righting for.’

‘And you do?’

Again the little shrug. ‘My father is an old man and he has known Haj Whitaker many years now. He is guided by him in these matters. And I–I also am not a geologist.’

‘Who did your father send with the soldiers?’ I asked. ‘Was it you?’

‘No. Mahommed bin Rashid.’ He turned abruptly. ‘Come, please. My father is waiting.’ And as I followed him down the turret stairs, he said over his shoulder, ‘Please. You will not speak of David.’ He said it fiercely, with great urgency.

He led me through passages that were cool in semi-darkness and up to a rooftop by another staircase. The majlis, or audience, was being held in an open room with arches that looked out across the rooftops to the oasis. Sheikh Makhmud didn’t rise to greet me. His face looked tired and strained, sullen with anger. He was also, I think, a little frightened. Beside him sat the representative of Hadd, a bearded, sly-eyed, powerfully-built man with an elaborately-embroidered cloak and a headdress that was like a turban of many colours.

Sheikh Makhmud motioned me to sit facing him. I was thus in the position of the accused facing a court, for all the notables were there, seated cross-legged and grave on silken cushions ranged round the inner walls of that airy room. On a carpet in the centre were bowls of camel milk and tinned pears. Nobody touched them except the flies. The atmosphere was tense, almost electric.

The situation was distinctly unpleasant for it was obvious as soon as Sheikh Makhmud began to question me in halting English that he regarded me as responsible for the situation that had developed. Entwhistle’s absence didn’t help and though I answered the questions truthfully, I could see from Sheikh Abdullah’s manner that he didn’t believe me. He listened to the translation with a lack of interest that he didn’t bother to conceal.

In the end I lost my temper with him. I scrambled to my feet and standing over the man, delivered myself of the sort of broadside I occasionally indulged in in the courts. My action might have been dictated by expediency, for attack was undoubtedly the best method of defence. But, in fact, my nerves were on edge. ‘Your men attacked us without warning and without cause,’ I shouted at him. And I described how the soft-nosed bullet had slammed into the bonnet of the Land-Rover, how the fusillade of shots had raised spurts of sand all around us. He looked suddenly uncomfortable. ‘Only a few years ago,’ I said, ‘my country had to send troops here to keep the peace. Now you break it again. Why? What explanation do you wish me to give when I return to Bahrain?’

My words translated, the crafty eyes slid from my face to the assembled men and he licked his lips as though suddenly uncertain of himself. ‘You have no answer,’ I said, and with that I gave Sheikh Makhmud a quick bow and made my exit. I couldn’t go far, for armed retainers barred the staircase leading down from the roof. But I had made my point and felt better for it, even though I was now forced to remain out in the full glare of the sun. I sat myself down on the oven-lid heat of the mud parapet and pretended to be absorbed in watching a camel caravan being loaded at a huddle of barastis close by the date gardens. Behind me I could hear the guttural sound of their talk as they continued to deliberate.

Coffee was served and Khalid came over and joined me. ‘Is no good,’ he said. ‘The Emir listens to Cairo Radio and he believes he has powerful friends. It has made him bold. Also he has many new rifles. They have come up from the Yemen, I think. From the coast also.‘And he added, ‘Only if we have oil here in Saraifa will your people give us their full support. We know that.’

‘Mr Erkhard is seeing Colonel Whitaker today,’ I said.

He nodded. ‘My father will not make a decision until he hears from Haj Whitaker. He is full of hope.’

‘And you?’ I asked, for the way he said it suggested he didn’t share his father’s optimism.

He.shrugged. ‘1 also hope, but Haj Whitaker is old, and he is tired and sick.’

‘Sick?’

‘Sick here.’ And he touched his heart.

I asked him then what exactly Sheikh Abdullah was demanding. ‘A new border,’ he said and drew it for me in the sand of the rooftop floor with the toe of his sandalled foot. It meant that all the area David had surveyed would belong to Hadd.

‘And if your father refuses?’

Again that fatalistic shrug. Then Sheikh Abdullah say they will destroy another falaj, and another and another, until we have no water for the dates, no water for our beasts, none for ourselves even. We die then of thirst and starvation.’ He was staring out across the oasis. ‘I am young yet. I had thought to rebuild the falajes, one by one, until Saraifa is like a garden again and the desert at bay. That is my dream.’

‘And David’s, too.’

‘Yes, it is the dream we share since we first hunt the gazelle together.’ His eyes had a faraway look, his voice sad with the loss of that dream. His father called to him and he finished his coffee and went back to his place. The conference was resumed, and looking at the faces of the men gathered in that room, I knew he was right. They were in no mood to fight and if Whitaker didn’t save them then they would accept it as the will of Allah and agree to the Emir’s demands.

The camel caravan down by the palm-tree fringe finished loading. I watched the heavily-laden beasts move off through the date gardens, headed north into the desert. The whole oasis shimmered in the heat, and beyond it stretched the sands, a golden sea thrusting yellow drifts amongst the palms. The sun climbed the sky. The heat became unbearable, the talk spasmodic, and Sheikh Abdullah sat there, his heavy eyelids drooping, not saying anything, just waiting.

I was half asleep when I saw the dust trail of the vehicle. It was coming through the date gardens from the south, driven fast, and when it emerged into the open I saw it was a Land-Rover packed with Arabs, all shouting and waving their guns in a frenzy of excitement. And as it reached the outskirts of the village they began firing into the air.

A few minutes later Yousif burst through the retainers standing at the head of the stairs. He went straight up to Sheikh Makhmud, interrupting the deliberations with that extraordinary lack of respect that seems a contradiction almost of the feudalism of the Bedou world. He was excited and Arabic words poured from him in a flood as he handed the Sheikh a folded slip of paper.

As soon as Sheikh Makhmud had read it his whole manner changed. His eyes lit up. He became re-vitalized, a man suddenly in command of the situation. He said a few words, speaking softly and with great control. The name of Allah was repeatedly mentioned, presumably in praise. And then he rose to his feet. The effect was remarkable.

The place was suddenly in an uproar, everybody on their feet and all talking at once. There was a general movement towards the stairs and Sheikh Makhmud swept out ahead of his elders, moving fast and with a light, soundless tread, so that he seemed to flow like water from the rooftop.

Khalid followed him, the others crowding after them, and in a moment there was only myself and the Emir’s representative left. He looked unhappy, his arrogance undermined by this development which had clearly affected his embassy. I smiled at him, waving him to the staircase ahead of me, and was amused at the childish way he turned his back on me in a huff.

From the rooftop I could see men running. The news seemed to have spread round the oasis in a flash. And south, beyond the palms, another dust trail moved across the desert. By the time I had found my way down to the great courtyard the whole male population of Saraifa seemed gathered there. And when the Land-Rover, driven by Colonel Whitaker himself, turned slowly through the gateway, forcing a passage through the crush to where Sheikh Makhmud stood waiting, a great shout went up: Haji! Haji! In the passenger seat beside Whitaker sat Erkhard, as cool and neat and spotless as when I had seen him last.

The greetings over, the Company’s General Manager was taken into the palace, I had a glimpse of Whitaker’s face as he walked beside Sheikh Makhmud, towering over him and all the Arabs round him. He wasn’t smiling and yet it expressed his elation; a secret, almost violent emotion. Twenty years was a long time, and this the culmination of his life, the moment of victory. It seemed a pity David couldn’t be here to share it.

Nobody took any notice of me now. I walked out through the main gate, down into the shade of the palms, and sat by the steaming waters of the shireeya. Gorde, Whitaker, Erkhard, Entwhistle — those three women; my brain reeled with the heat. Unable to fix any pattern to my thoughts, I returned finally to my turret room. It was cooler there, the shadowed interior peaceful, and I took my siesta to the lazy buzzing of flies, the distant murmur of people wild with joy.

I must have slept heavily for when I woke the sun was low and there was a little pile of freshly-laundered clothes beside me — a tropical suit, shirt, tie, pants, socks. There was also a note from Whitaker: The concession is signed and there is a feast to celebrate. I thought you might like a change of clothes. Yousif will call you at sunset. As soon as I started to put them on I knew the clothes weren’t his, for he was much taller and these fitted me reasonably well. They were obviously David’s and it seemed to me strange that I should be attending this feast in his clothes.

The acid smell of wood smoke permeated the room and the hubbub of sound from the village square drew me to the embrasure. The whole beaten expanse was full of people and cooking fires. The carcases of sheep and goats hung by their hind legs, their slashed throats dripping blood into bowls. Chickens were being prepared and blackened pots of rice simmered over the fires. Half Saraifa was in the square and there was a great coming and going of the Sheikh’s armed retainers who carried the cooked dishes into the palace. The sun sank and the sky blazed red for an instant and then died to purple and light greens.

‘You come now, sir, please.’

Yousif stood at the head of the stairway almost unrecognizable in clean clothes and spotless turban, a curved khanjar knife gleaming silver at his waist. He took me down to a central courtyard that I hadn’t seen before. It was packed with retainers, the silver and brass of guns and cartridges gleaming in the shadows. The Sheikh and his guests were already gathered in the long, colonnaded room on the far side, and dishes lay in lines in the dust.

Khalid came forward to greet me. He was beautifully clad in long robes of finest cashmere, a brown cloak gold-embroidered, and his eyes, newly made-up with kohl, I

looking enormous, his beard shining and silky with some scented lotion. Whitaker was seated on one side of Sheikh Makhmud, Erkhard on the other. And next to Whitaker sat Sheikh Abdullah of Hadd. ‘You sit with me,’ Khahid said.

As I passed Erkhard, he looked up. ‘Grant!’ I couldn’t help being amused at his surprise. They told me in Sharjah that you’d left with Gorde, but I didn’t expect to see you here.’ He frowned. ‘Where is Gorde, do you know?’

‘I think he flew back to Bahrain.’

He nodded. ‘Good.’

As I took my place beside Khalid, retainers were already moving among the guests with ewers of water. We rinsed our hands and the first great platters were moved forward on to the rugs. The occasion was very formal. Nobody talked unless the Sheikh himself was talking. The result was that conversation went in disconcerting leaps — one moment bedlam, the next a silence in which the only sound was the coming and going of the retainers in the courtyard.

The feast was a monstrous, gargantuan affair — mutton, goat’s flesh, young camel, chicken, gazelle. The platters came on and on and kept on coming, the meat nestled on piled-up heaps of rice, eggs floating in a spiced gravy like little yellow balls, omelettes piled in tiers, flat and leathery like girdle cakes, flat discs of bread, liquid butter and cheese. Half the dishes never got beyond the colonnades, but remained outside in the dust, enough to feed an army. Like all Bedouin feasts it was intended as a meal for the Sheikh’s bodyguard who were waiting on us, for all the palace retainers, and finally for the people of Saraifa themselves so that they should all feel that they had shared in the event.

The cooking was rough desert cooking, the meat overdone and swimming in fat, the dishes lukewarm at best. But I was so damned hungry I scarcely thought about what I was eating. Khalid kept plying me with delicacies — the tongue of gazelle I remember and something that I popped into my mouth and swallowed whole, hoping it wasn’t what I thought it was. An old man sat in a corner playing intermittently on what I can only describe as a lute. The palace poet, I was told. Later he would unburden himself of a poem in praise of the guests and of the occasion. ‘It will be a long poem,’ Khalid said and his eyes smiled whilst his face remained quite serious. There was a sudden silence and into it the man next to me tossed a belch of impressive loudness. There was a great deal of belching. It was a mark of appreciation and before we were halfway through the meal I found myself doing the same, so quickly and easily does one fall into the other people’s conventions. Also my stomach was by then very full.

Outside in the courtyard Sheikh Makhmud’s falconers paraded their birds. He was very proud of his falcons, and seeing them, talons gripped around wooden perches spiked into the sand or around the leather-gauntleted arms of their keepers, I found myself glancing at Whitaker, noticing the same quick, predatory look, the same sharp, beaky features. Our eyes met for a moment and it seemed to me that the mood of exhilaration had drained out of him as though success had a sour taste; or perhaps it was the clothes I was wearing, reminding him of his son.

The main dishes had all been removed now. Lights were brought, for the sun had set and it was growing dark. They were modern, chromium-plated pressure lamps and they were hung on nails in the walls, where they hissed and glared and had to be constantly pumped to maintain the pressure. And with the lamps came dishes of every sort of tinned fruit. There was halwa, too. Coffee followed, and at a sign from Sheikh Makhmud the poet moved into the centre. He sat facing the guests and began plucking at his lute, chanting a ballad — the story, Khalid said, of Saraifa’s need of water and Haj Whitaker’s long search for oil. It had the effect of intensifying the mood of excitement that gripped all the Arabs … all except Sheikh Abdullah, who sat staring stonily into space.

And then suddenly the stillness was shattered by the noise of an aircraft flying low. The ballad-singer faltered, the sound of the lute ceased; the story came abruptly to a halt, unfinished.

The sound swept in a roar over the palms. I thought I caught a glimpse of a dark shape against the stars, and then the engine died. It was coming in to land and Sheikh Makhmud called to his secretary and a guard was despatched to escort the visitors. Everybody was talking at once and Erkhard leaned across to me and hissed, ‘Who is it? Do you know?’

I didn’t answer, but I think he must have guessed, for his eyes were coldly bleak and there was a tightness about his mouth. I looked past him to where Whitaker sat. His face was expressionless, but his body had a stillness that was without repose.

After what seemed a very long wait Gorde and Otto were escorted into the courtyard.

It was a strange moment, for Gorde walked straight in on the feast, limping and leaning on his stick, the sweat-stained trilby jammed firmly on his grizzled head, his battered features set in grim lines. He didn’t greet Sheikh Makhmud. He didn’t greet anyone. He stopped in the middle of the centre archway and stared in silence at the gathering, my briefcase tucked under his arm. It was an effective entrance, and I knew by his aggressive manner that he had intended it to be. Impressive, too, for he was dressed exactly as I had last seen him, and behind him crowded the bodyguard, all armed to the teeth. It was impressive because of the contrast; the man so small, so completely at the mercy of the armed men behind him, and yet so dynamic, so completely in command of the situation.

He ignored Sheikh Makhmud’s greeting. ‘What’s the feast for?’ That harsh voice seemed to cut through the room.

Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Even Sheikh Makhmud seemed stunned into silence.

‘Mister Erkhard.’ The ‘Mister’ was a calculated slap in the face. ‘I take it you’ve signed a concession agreement? There’s nothing else for Saraifa to celebrate at this moment.’ And then, without giving Erkhard a chance to reply, he turned to Sheikh Makhmud. ‘I hope you’re not a party to this — that you signed in ignorance of the true situation.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Sheikh Makhmud’s hands fluttered in a way that suggested dark moths endeavouring to cope with the intrusion of unwelcome thoughts. Slipping into Arabic he began a speech of welcome.

Rudely Gorde cut him short. ‘Have you got the concession agreement on you? I’d like to see it please.’ He held out his hand and such was the driving force of the man’s personality, the absolute conviction that men would obey him, that Sheikh Makhmud slipped his hand into the folds of his robe and brought out the document. Meekly he handed it over. ‘I think you find everything is all right.’ The soft words, the gentle voice gave no sign of doubt or tension.

Gorde called to one of the bodyguard to bring him a light. A stillness hung over the scene as he unfolded the document and glanced quickly through it. Then he raised his head and looked directly at Erkhard. ‘And you signed this on behalf of the Company.’

The note of censure brought an immediate reaction from Erkhard. ‘As General Manager I’m entitled to sign concession agreements.’ His voice was thin, a little venomous as he added, ‘You should know that. You signed enough of them in your day.’

‘But never one like this.’ And slapping the document with his hand, he added, ‘This isn’t our normal agreement. Our normal form of agreement simply gives the Company the right to prospect. This makes it a legal charge upon the Company to do so. Moreover-’ And his gaze fastened on Whitaker — ‘it doesn’t limit it to the area south of here where your rig is. It covers the whole of Saraifa, including the area in dispute on the Hadd border.’

‘Philip.’ Whitaker had risen to his feet. ‘I’d like a word with you.’

‘And I’d like a word with you,’ Gorde said sharply.

‘In private.’

‘No. We’ll settle this thing here and now. I just want a straight answer to a straight question. Is there or is there not oil where you’re drilling?’

‘We’re only down to three thousand odd feet.’

‘That doesn’t answer my question.’ Gorde stared at him coldly. ‘There isn’t any oil, is there? There never was any oil there, and there never will be.’

‘I don’t believe it.’ Erkhard, too, was on his feet.

‘It doesn’t matter whether you believe it or not, Alex,’ Gorde rapped back.‘It’s the truth.’

‘But he’s drilling with his own money. He’s invested every penny he’s got. Ask Grant. He handles his financial affairs and Whitaker admits he’s out here partly because his money is almost exhausted. A man doesn’t put all his savings first into a thorough seismological survey and then into a drilling programme-’

‘Bait.’ The tone of Gorde’s voice brought Erkhard up short. ‘He was baiting the trap.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Of course you don’t. You’d never in a thousand years understand a man like Charles Whitaker. You ride him out of the Company and it never occurs to you that he’ll get his own back some day. If you hadn’t been so intent on trying at the last minute to rectify your position…. And you thought you were getting an oilfield on the cheap, for the price of his development cost plus 50 per cent on royalties. Well, you ask him. You just ask him whether there’s any oil there.’

But it wasn’t necessary. One glance at Whitaker’s face told Erkhard all he needed to know. It was drawn and haggard, the colour of putty, and though the mouth moved, no words came. Erkhard crossed to Gorde, took the document from his hand and tore it across and across and dropped the pieces in the dust.

There was a deathly hush. AH eyes were turned on Sheikh Makhmud, waiting for his reaction. His face was the colour of clay, a shocked, almost old-womanish face, and his hands were trembling in the wide sleeves of his robe. ‘Sir Philip.’ He had some difficulty in controlling his voice. ‘Your Company has signed an agreement. To tear up the paper is not to say the agreement does not exist.’

‘You can take us to court,’ Erkhard said. ‘But if Gorde’s right, you’ll lose your case.’

Sheikh Makhmud waved his hands to signify that he had no intention of taking the Company to court. He ignored Erkhard, addressing himself to Gorde. ‘I have always trusted the British. And you also; you have been my friend.’

‘I am still your friend,’ Gorde said.

‘Then please you will honour the agreement.’

‘There is no agreement.’ His voice held a note of pity now. ‘Mr Erkhard has done the only thing possible in the circumstances.’ He turned to Whitaker. ‘For God’s sake, Charles; did you have to raise their hopes like this?’ It was clear from his words that he didn’t like the role he was being forced to play. ‘The truth was bound to come out in the end.’

‘What is the truth?’ The pale eye was fastened on Gorde in an aloof stare. ‘Do you know it? Are you so sure there’s no oil in Saraifa? For twenty years now I have searched-’

‘To hell with your theory,’ Gorde snapped. ‘Just answer me this; a simple Yes or No. Is there oil where you’re drilling?’

‘I’ve told you, we’re only down to just over three thousand feet. Erkhard could have waited-’

‘You know damn’ well he couldn’t wait. You’re not such a fool that you haven’t guessed why I’m out here risking my health on another tour of the Gulf.’

‘You thought my theory sound enough at one time. Remember?’

‘And I backed you,’ Gorde rasped. ‘I backed you because you’d got faith in yourself. But now I wonder. Now I think you’ve lost that faith. I don’t think you believe in your theory any more.’

‘What makes you say that?’ Whitaker’s voice was sharp, unnaturally high, and his face looked shocked.

Gorde leaned his squat body forward. ‘Because,’ he said, ‘if you’d any faith in your theory, you’d have backed your son. Instead, you left him to die out there on his own — alone, deserted.’ Each word punched home in that rasping voice. It was a terrible indictment. And he added, ‘Didn’t you understand that he was attempting to do what you’d no longer the guts to even try and do — to find oil, real oil. Not this sham, this clever, crooked dodge to trap us into signing-’

‘Philip!’ It came from Whitaker’s mouth as a strangled cry. ‘I want to talk to you — alone.’

It was an appeal, the call of past friendship. But Gorde ignored it. ‘I’ve nothing to say to you, Charles.’ The words came bleak and cold. ‘Except perhaps this: if there is any oil in Saraifa, then my guess is that it’s right there on the border where your son was prospecting. But,’ he added, turning to Sheikh Makhmud, ‘I have to tell you that there’s absolutely no question of our Company — or any other company, for that matter — undertaking exploratory work there at the present time. I was with the Political Resident for two hours this morning. He made the Government’s attitude very clear. And now that I know what happened here last night, simply because one of our geologists was inadvertently on that border, I think he’s right.’

There was silence then and for a moment Colonel Whitaker continued to stand there as though shocked into immobility. Knowing what I did, I felt sorry for him. Gorde had misinterpreted his motives, but there was nothing he could do about it at that moment. Whitaker knew that. Abruptly he gathered his dark, embroidered cloak about him. ‘I’m sorry you had to come when you did, Philip.’ His tone was bitter; his manner arrogant, unbending, aloof. ‘You’ll live, I hope, to regret the words you’ve said and your hasty judgment. I did what I thought best for Saraifa, and Makhmud knows it.’ He walked past Gorde then, his one eye staring straight ahead of him as though on parade; a beaten, proud old man. The ranks of the bodyguard parted and he walked through them, magnificent and solitary.

With his departure the whole place became a babel of sound. It was as though Whitaker alone had held down the safety-valve of the crowd’s temper. Violence quivered on the sultry air and I got up quickly and went over to Gorde. ‘I think you ought to see Whitaker,’ I said. ‘As soon as possible. Tonight.’

‘Why?’

But the place had suddenly become quiet. Sheikh Makhmud was on his feet making a speech, presumably of explanation. ‘I can’t tell you here. But I think it’s important you should see him.’

‘It’s true, is it — you look after his financial affairs?’ He stared at me, his face tired now, leaning heavily on his stick. ‘Where’s Entwhistle?’ I told him and he nodded. ‘Sensible fellow. This is no place to be just now.’ He glanced at the sea of faces that packed the courtyard beyond. ‘It all looks very feudal, doesn’t it? But there’s an element of democracy in these desert states. The sheikhs rule by consent, not by right. Just bear that in mind.’ He was turning away, but then he checked. ‘Here’s your briefcase.’ He handed it to me. ‘You’ll find all the papers there.’

Again I pressed him to see Whitaker, but he shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t serve any purpose after what I’ve said. And anyway I don’t intend to. He’s the pride of the devil, has Charles.’

‘Go and see him,’ I said. ‘And take these papers with you.’ I held the briefcase out to him.

He looked at the case and then at me. ‘I took them along with me when I went to see the PRPG this morning. I thought I might persuade him-’ He gave that little shrug of his. ‘If he could have given us the All Clear politically I think I might have taken a chance on that boy’s survey and backed Erkhard. But he didn’t. More, he gave me a direct order that the Company was to keep clear of the area.’

It was final, and as though to emphasize the point, he said, ‘I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning as soon as it’s light. No doubt Charles will take care of you, but if you want a lift out…. ‘ Sheikh Makhmud stopped talking and the courtyard was in an uproar again. Gorde’s hand gripped my arm. ‘Hope turned to despair makes men dangerous,’ he said, his small, bloodshot eyes looking into mine. There’s going to be trouble here and these people are in an ugly mood.’

He turned abruptly away from me and in the midst of the noise and confusion I heard him say casually to Sheikh Makhmud, ‘Mind if we have something to eat? I’m damned hungry.’

Immediately, Sheikh Makhmud was the solicitous host, courteous and hospitable. ‘Faddal! Faddal! He waved Gorde to the place vacated by Whitaker, found room for Otto, called for food to be brought. Khalid was in the courtyard now, pacifying the tribesmen, shepherding them out. He was quick, decisive, a born leader, but they went sullenly.

I returned to my place, feeling nervous and ill-at-ease. I didn’t need to be told that they were in an ugly mood. I could feel it all around me. It was like an electric charge. And the uproar had spread from the feasting place into the great courtyard beyond and out into the village of Saraifa. The sound of their voices murmured on the night air, a continual angry buzzing as the whole population swarmed about the palace. Men came in and out to stand and stare, and it seemed to me that their eyes in the lamplight blazed with a wild, fanatical hate. Erkhard felt it, too, for he leaned across to me and said, ‘It’s all very well for Gorde to say he’ll leave at daybreak. He’s got his plane here. Mine is ten miles away beside that rig.’ And he added, ‘Damn the man! A Moslem. I should have guessed he’d be up to every sort of trickery.’

‘Did you have to turn him against his son?’ I said angrily.

But it didn’t register with him. ‘Greed,’ he said. ‘It’s an Arab failing.’

I thought that was good, coming from an oilman with his reputation. But I didn’t have a chance to reply, for Yousif was suddenly bending over me. ‘Coll-onel want you come,’ he hissed. ‘Very important, sahib.’

I hesitated, unwilling to leave the protection of Sheikh Makhmud’s presence or to lose contact with Gorde and his promise of a lift out. But I couldn’t very well refuse. ‘All right,’ I said and got to my feet. Courtesy demanded that I pay my respects to Sheikh Makhmud before leaving. He didn’t rise and his eyes regarded me coldly from behind their glasses. No doubt he held me partly responsible for what had happened. His face looked haggard, the line of his mouth bitter. I turned to Gorde. ‘I’m going to see Whitaker now,’ I said. ‘But I’d like to accept your offer of a lift.’

He had just taken a piece of meat from the dish in front of him and he looked up, licking the grease from his fingers. ‘First light,’ he said. ‘And watch it, Grant. Charles has lost face and anything can happen to a man that’s been hit as hard as he has.’

Yousif’s hand was on my arm and as I turned I saw Sheikh Abdullah’s dark eyes fixed on me. The men in the courtyard fell back from me, suddenly silent, as we made our way out. Their eyes followed me, gleaming in the lamplight, and once again I caught the whisper of that word — Nasrani. There was no mistaking the significance of it this time. They were hating us all that night.