Chronicles of the Secret Service (25 page)

Their journeyings from then on were fairly uneventful. They crossed the border of Afghanistan safely, but, if anything,
Kershaw’s precautions were increased. They were now in the land of the Pathan tribes; in other words, in districts from which Abdul Qadir Khan had hoped to enlist and train the army that he had intended eventually to throw against the British. There was never any certainty that a solitary Englishman would pass unmolested through that lawless country. However, Landi Kotal was reached safely, and there Kershaw obtained an escort of Gurkhas, who marched with him down the Khaibar and on to Peshawar. He had not considered it expedient or wise to travel by train. An inclination had assailed him at Landi Kotal to leave his prisoners there, while he went back to search for Aziz Ullah, but his duty prevented this. He must carry on to Peshawar. Besides, there was very little hope of any success regarding such an undertaking. If Aziz had escaped from the men he had led on such a wild goose chase, it was certain he would now be on his way to Peshawar. The fact that he had not caught them up reduced Kershaw’s spirits to the lowest ebb. By the time he reached Peshawar, and Abdul Qadir Khan and his brother had been imprisoned in the Cantonments, he had given up hope for ever of seeing Aziz Ullah alive again.

The two Mahsuds were locked up with the greatest secrecy. It was essential that no whisper of the Khan’s capture should leak out. Having handed them over, Kershaw sent a laconic telegram to Major-General Sir Leslie Hastings. Then he was driven to Dean’s Hotel. Almost the first person he saw there, squatting on the veranda outside his rooms, was Aziz Ullah!

He barely succeeded in stifling a great cry of joy and relief in time. It would never do for an Englishman to show such tremendous elation at sight of the disreputable old man who
rose to greet him. Hurrying the latter inside, he closed the door, and clasped Aziz Ullah’s hand in both of his.

‘By Jove, old chap!’ he cried. ‘I have never felt so glad to see anybody in my life before. It is really you, isn’t it? I’m not suffering from fever and delusions, am I?’

For answer the other gave him a grip that caused him to howl with the pain of it.

‘Certain now?’ asked Aziz with a smile.

‘Yes; confound you. Was it necessary to break my bones to convince me? Sit down and – no, wait a while. My bearer will be along in a minute or two with a few bottles of iced beer. He’s trustworthy enough, but it’s just as well that he shouldn’t know too much. We’ll wait until he’s gone.’

‘Did you say beer?’ asked Aziz Ullah in a tone of ecstasy.

Kershaw laughed.

‘A fine Mohammedan you are, O Master. Yes; I said beer, my lad.’

‘The blessings of Allah be upon you. I only want five things. Lots of beer – a few bottles will be no good to me – a bath, a shave, decent clothes, and a pipe of baccy.’

‘You shall have all. I forgot to mention to you before that your suitcase duly arrived, and has been locked up in the bedroom there for the last six months.’

The bearer put in an appearance as he finished speaking, carrying four large bottles of Allsopp’s Lager in an ice pail. He took little notice of the disreputable old man standing before his master. He was used to the queer visitors Kershaw so often had in his rooms. The Intelligence officer sent him to find Havildar Mahommed Rashid.

‘That’ll keep him out of the way for a bit,’ confided the latter when the man had gone. ‘Rashid is probably in his quarters some distance from here taking a well-earned rest.’

‘Why not let him continue to rest?’ queried Aziz. ‘Surely you could have got rid of the bearer on some other pretext?’

‘Rashid would never forgive me if I didn’t let him know at once that you are safe. He’s been as anxious as I about you.’ He rummaged in a cupboard, produced a couple of pewter tankards, and filled them with the foaming lager. ‘Sit down,’ he urged, handing one to his guest, ‘and tell me all about it.’

Aziz sank into a comfortable cane chair with a sigh of deep satisfaction.

‘Do you think I can bear to talk when I have this in my hand?’ he asked reproachfully. ‘Have a heart! This is the first man’s drink I’ve touched for over six months. Cheer ho!’

Kershaw responded suitably, and the two quaffed the beer in copious draughts. Aziz put down his tankard empty.

‘Lord!’ he gasped. ‘I’ve always liked my beer, but I’ve never known it taste quite so good before. Encore please.’ Kershaw obliged. His visitor accepted the replenished tankard gratefully. ‘I can talk now,’ he proclaimed.

Thereupon he plunged into a recital of his adventures since leaving the rendezvous near Dakka. When the Afghan troops had appeared, he had hidden himself by climbing into a tree a short distance away. From there, although he could not see anything but the campfire and the shadowy figures of Kershaw, Rashid, and the Afghan officer, he was able to hear distinctly and thus learnt about the outlaws. Directly he gathered that the officer insisted on seeing what was contained in the large
packages, he slipped to earth, and crawled to the animals, picking up Kershaw’s sporting rifle on the way. He guessed that the Intelligence officer and Rashid would delay the opening of the rolls as long as they possibly could, and calculated that he would thus have time to get a good distance from the camp. He had been compelled at first to lead the pony he took, in order to make as little sound as possible. But he had mounted as soon as he dared, and had crossed to the other bank of the river. There he had fired a shot and shouted, paused a little, and then fired and yelled again.

‘I tried to sound like a crowd,’ he remarked.

‘You succeeded,’ Kershaw assured him. ‘I certainly thought the bandits that fellow was after had quite innocently created a diversion. I said so to Rashid, when the Afghans stampeded after you.’

Aziz went on to tell him how he had waited until he heard the thunder of hooves; then had ridden away, firing an occasional shot or two at first, later dropping various things, such as an article of clothing, cartridge cases, and so on.

‘They must have wondered what the outlaws were playing at,’ he commented, ‘but that didn’t matter a hoot. They could think what they liked so long as they kept on following me. When I calculated I had covered some miles from you, I stopped, dismounted, and removed the saddle from your beast. It was a particularly English-looking affair, and wouldn’t have passed muster as the possession of an Afghan bandit. Then I gave the pony a hearty punch which sent it careering away, hid the saddle, and sat down to wait. I had to wait a jolly long time too, and began to fear the troops had given up the chase
and gone back, but, at last, they arrived. They pounced on me with glee. In fact, they seemed so glad to see me that I thought they would pretend I was one of the outlaws, to save themselves trouble, and take me back in triumph to Dakka, saying that they had killed the rest or something. But I suppose I looked too old and feeble to delude anybody into believing I was a tough guy—’

‘Phew!’ whistled Kershaw softly, admiration showing in his eyes. ‘You took an infernal risk. I hate to think what would have happened had they taken you along with them, and washed your face.’

‘Well, they didn’t. They bombarded the old man – that’s me – with questions, and I sent them off quite happily, with a tale that a dozen or so wild-looking fellows had passed by half an hour or so before riding like the wind. They didn’t even ask me what I was doing there. I suppose they thought I was just a tramp. That’s about all I think. I buried your saddle, and set off to walk to Landi Kotal. It wasn’t any use going back to find you. It took me two days pretty steady going to get there. Every time I met anybody, I had to go all bent and feeble and old. I begged or stole food. By that time I was too dilapidated to buy it – it might have roused suspicion had I produced money. Sorry about your pony and saddle, Kershaw, but que voulez vous?’

The red-haired Intelligence officer was sitting as though lost in admiration.

‘And they say the old spirit of the adventurers is dead!’ he murmured.

‘For goodness’ sake, don’t come all over mushy,’ begged the
other. ‘By the way,’ he went on, ‘I managed to hold on to your rifle. I left it with some of the lads at Landi Kotal. They were damned inquisitive to know how I had come into possession of it, and I’m afraid I had to tell a few fibs. Anyhow, you’ve only to ask for it in the mess next time you’re in Landi Kotal.’

‘How did you get it over the Frontier in your get-up?’ asked the surprised Kershaw. ‘And where did you conceal it during your journey?’

Aziz Ullah smiled.

‘Rolled it in some of my rags,’ he replied. ‘As for the Frontier, I crossed where there weren’t no bloomin’ outposts or prying eyes or nuffin’. As a matter of fact, I travelled to Landi up and down some of the grimmest, most barren-looking precipices I’ve ever tackled. Talk about mountaineering! If I ever go climbing in Switzerland again, it’ll seem like up a staircase, after those I’ve just negotiated.’

Kershaw gave vent to a deep sigh.

‘You’re a marvel!’ he exclaimed. ‘And the general spoke of Aziz Ullah as “That bloody Afghan” in tones of the deepest contempt. He’s in for a number one surprise. By the way, how is it you got here before me, when—?’

‘Use your brains, my lad. I travelled from Landi Kotal by train; squeezed in among a crowd of smelly Peshawaris, wives, children, family utensils, and whatnots. It was great fun. And now what about your end? You got Abdul Qadir and brother through all right, I hope?’

Kershaw nodded.

‘They’re lodged secretly and safely in the Cantonments.’

Aziz Ullah drained his tankard.

‘Good!’ he remarked. ‘I can now become human again. Lead me to a bath, Kershaw, where I can soak for some hours. Then for the luxury of a shave, some nice Christian duds, a haircut, more beer, and a succession of pipes. And heigh ho! Farewell to Aziz Ullah. May the peace of Allah be upon him.’

Major-General Sir Leslie Hastings had not heard any news of Major Kershaw for some weeks and had reached the point of exasperation again. The consequence was that his staff, although now in the cool altitudes of Murree, were again in a state of heated resentment. All this was suddenly changed, however, when a telegram arrived from Peshawar. Captain Charteris opened, and read it, gave a single whoop of joy, and actually ran to the general’s office, quite oblivious to any scandal this lack of decorum on the part of a staff officer might cause to the orderlies and sentries. He burst into Sir Leslie’s room, forgetting to knock, and waved the telegram in the air. The startled general looked at him as though he thought he had gone mad.

‘What the devil’s the matter with you, Charteris?’ he demanded wrathfully.

‘A telegram, sir.’

‘Confound you! I can see that. What’s in it to make you behave like a lunatic?’

‘It’s from Major Kershaw, sir. He’s back in Peshawar with Abdul Qadir Khan!’

‘Eh! What’s that? What’s that?’ The general rose from his chair with surprising agility for one of his bulk, leant forward, and almost snatched the telegram from his secretary’s hand. “Have brought A. Q. to Peshawar,” he read aloud. “If not
coming down, kindly wire instructions.” If not coming down!’ he repeated with a sound that was very much like a snort. ‘Of course, I’m going down. Charteris, order a car at once. We’ll be able to reach ’Pindi by dark, and can go on to Peshawar early in the morning. Send a wire telling Kershaw I’ll be there before noon. Gad! What a man!’ he exulted, as the staff officer hurried from the room.

‘Jumbo’ was as good as his word. His car, white with dust, drew up outside command headquarters at ten minutes to twelve on the following morning. The general found Major Kershaw awaiting his arrival.

‘Glad to see you, Ginger,’ he bellowed, as he stepped from the motor, forgetting for once in a way that such familiarity and lack of dignity on the part of a general officer was not conducive to good discipline. As a matter of fact, he was like a schoolboy on holiday. Captain Charteris who, of course, was with him, had never seen this side of his character before, and had begun to form a different opinion of him. ‘Come along in,’ Sir Leslie invited the smiling Kershaw. ‘Your news sounds so good that I feel there must be a catch in it somewhere.’ When they were seated alone in the office, with the fans going full speed he leant eagerly forward. ‘Is it actually true? You have brought Abdul Qadir to Peshawar?’

‘Yes; he and a fellow called Sikandar Khan – he says he’s a brother – are under close guard in a part of jail which has been cleared specially so that the news can’t leak out. My advice to you, sir, if I may presume, is to spirit them away from this part of the country at once – send them to Delhi by special train tonight.’

‘H’m! Sounds the sensible thing to do. But how the devil did you manage to get him?’

‘I did very little, sir. The brain behind the whole scheme was that of Sir Leonard Wallace—’

‘What! You mean the Director of the Secret Service?’

‘There is only one Sir Leonard Wallace,’ returned Kershaw. ‘He conceived the scheme, and one of his most brilliant men carried it out marvellously. I assisted in a very chota manner.’

‘Who is the man to whom you are referring?’

‘Aziz Ullah, sir. The bloke you called “That Bloody Afghan”.’

The GOC stared at him incredulously for several seconds; then:

‘You’d better start at the beginning and tell me the whole tale,’ he decided.

‘Right,’ assented Kershaw. ‘Some months ago, when it was first discovered that this new and very modern menace Abdul Qadir Khan had risen on the Frontier – the news first reached Sir Leonard from an agent of his in Persia – all kinds of traps were laid for him, but he was far too cunning to fall into them. Sir Leonard then conceived a scheme that for sheer subtlety and ingenuity would take a lot of beating. It had been learnt that one of Abdul Qadir’s pet ideas was to ally Afghanistan with him. He knew very well the amir and present government were friendly with England, but it isn’t so difficult to overthrow kings and governments in Afghanistan, so long as the proper man with the right personality and powers of leadership comes along. From Abdul Qadir’s point of view, he must also be one who, for services rendered, would afterwards put the Afghan army at his disposal. He scoured the country for such a man. Sir
Leonard Wallace decided to supply him with one, who would eventually trap him. Now the Chief of the Secret Service is far too clever to create entirely imaginary people. He realised that inquiries might crash the whole scheme. Information was immediately sought concerning Afghans living in Persia. He chose Imam Aziz Ullah of Mesched, who had been born in Herat, and had moved to the Persian city as a boy. There his life has been devoted to religion, he is almost a recluse, and is regarded as a very holy man. Sir Leonard selected one of his most efficient agents, a man who speaks Persian like a native. This man spent some time in Mesched, studying Aziz Ullah; then travelled from Bushire to Karachi, where I met him. I had received orders through the Intelligence Department of the Indian government. The whole scheme was put to me by the new Aziz Ullah, who by then had grown a beard and allowed his hair to lengthen. He dyed his body with a stain that no amount of washing or rubbing would remove, and which wears off slowly, only having to be renewed occasionally. Dressed in native attire, he then departed to commence his work, having had his European belongings packed in a suitcase which was duly forwarded to me at Dean’s. He travelled by way of Baluchistan into Afghanistan and spent a couple of months becoming fully acquainted with customs, habits and the part of the country in which he was to operate. From my knowledge, I had been able to give him directions enabling him to find a safe retreat in which to hide and a rendezvous where he and I could meet occasionally.