The Doomed Oasis (39 page)

“If I don't go at once to Hadd and get David out of that fort, the Emir will hold me responsible.” Whitaker's face was very pale, his whole body trembling. “
Allah akhbar!
” he muttered. “Why did the idiot have to choose this moment, when I'd talked the Emir into agreement and had obtained the financial backing I needed? Why now?”

“He's still alive, then?”

He turned his eye on me, a fixed, glassy look. “Yes,” he said. “He's alive. The night you left him, he beat back the attack, captured a prisoner, and sent him to the Emir next day with a message. It announced who he was and the terms on which he'd vacate the fort and leave them free to repair the wells.” The terms required the Emir to declare publicly that he accepted the present borders between Hadd and Saraifa for all time, and this declaration was to be supported by a signed document to the same effect, lodged with the United Nations. David also demanded an escort of the Trucial Oman Scouts to see him and his men safely out of Hadd territory.”

But it wasn't the terms that upset Whitaker. It was the fact that David had disclosed his identity. “Did he have to involve me?” he demanded angrily, staring towards the rig.

“I don't suppose he meant to involve you,” I said. “You're involved by the simple fact that you're his father.”

“His father!” He turned on me. “I took a servant girl,” he said harshly. “A moment in time, a passing need—but that was all. It ended there, and I made provision for her.”

“You can't buy immunity from your actions.”

He ignored that. “Twenty years, and the moment catches up with me and I'm faced with the brat; a raw, undisciplined boy with a vicious background.” He glared at me. “And you sent him out here.”

“He'd have come in any case,” I said, “once he knew you were his father.” I was angry myself then. “I don't think you realize what a shock it was to him to learn that he was illegitimate—to discover that his mother had been deserted in childbirth.”

“She'd no claim on me,” he said quickly. “And even if she had, it doesn't justify his coming out here with some idea at the back of his mind that he was going to kill me. Did you know about that? I had it all out of him shortly after he arrived—that and his criminal background and how he was wanted by the police for causing the death of that man Thomas.” And he added: “I should have sent him packing. I should have realized the boy was bent on destroying me, on ruining all my plans.”

“You know that's not true,” I said.

“Then why did he pretend he was dead when he wasn't? And now, when the truth of my theory is within my grasp, when the thing I've been searching for all my life is here, he gets me involved in this stupid, useless demonstration of his.” He was sweating, and there were little flecks of white at the corners of his mouth.

“What he's doing,” I said, “he's doing because he's accepted the things you believed in; he made your world his own, Saraifa his home. And the background you complain of is the reason he's doing it so successfully. He's got the Emir to withdraw his forces from Saraifa. Now is the time, surely, when your influence—”

“My influence? What influence do you think I have now? Men have been killed, and that's something only blood can wipe out.” And he added, staring into the distance: “If I'd gone with the Emir's secretary, I'd have been held hostage for David's submission—his life or mine. And when next the Emir sends an emissary, he'll come in force. That was made very plain.”

He put his hand up to his head, covering his eye as though to shut out the desert and concentrate on what was in his mind. “It's madness,” he breathed. “Madness. He can't achieve anything.…”

“How do you know?” I demanded angrily. “Ruffini has the whole story now, and—”

“That Italian?” He let his hand fall, staring at me in surprise. “How can he affect the situation? The authorities aren't going to take any notice of him.” He said it as though to convince himself, and then in a voice so hoarse it seemed to be torn out of him: “He'll die up there, and that'll be the end of it.” The look on his face was quite frightening. He turned and walked slowly to his tent. I didn't see him again that evening, and the next day his manner was still very strange. We hardly exchanged a word, and I was glad when Captain Berry arrived.

Looking back on it, I suppose I should have tried to understand his predicament. He hadn't enough men to get David out by force and he was probably right in saying the situation had gone beyond the reach of his influence with the Emir. What I didn't realize was that I was seeing a man in the grip of events, forced to a reassessment of his whole life and the values by which he had lived—and being driven half out of his mind in the process.

It was late afternoon when Berry got in. A lean, bony-looking Scot with fair hair and a face that was almost brick-red in the slanting sun, he brought a breath of sanity into that sultry camp, for he was from outside and not emotionally involved in what was happening forty miles to the east. He had a message for me from Colonel George picked up on his radio that morning. “I'm to tell you that your Italian friend got his story out in time and that you're not to worry. Everything possible is being done. The Colonel has been ordered to Bahrain to report to the Political Resident in person. Oh, and he said a Nurse Thomas sent you her love and is glad to know you're safe. Okay?”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. For the moment I could think of nothing but that message from Sue. Captain Berry was speaking to Whitaker, something about his son showing what one determined and resolute man could achieve. He was one of those soldiers that believe action is the solution to everything. “You must be very proud of him, sir.”

Colonel Whitaker's face was without expression, but a nerve flickered along the line of his jaw, and he turned away.

Berry watched him for a moment, a puzzled look on his face. “That's a man I've always wanted to meet,” he said. “But I'm surprised he left this to his son. After what's happened in Saraifa, I. should have thought he'd have been busy raising the desert tribes. It would have solved our difficulty if he had. We might be allowed to support a desert rising against the Emir.”

“I take it,” I said, “you'll be leaving at once.” It wasn't only that I wanted to know what had happened since I'd left Jebel-al-Akhbar. I wanted to get away from that camp.

But he told me it was out of the question. They'd been driving for over twenty hours. Both the wireless truck and the Land Rover had to be serviced, the men needed sleep. He had a wireless operator with him and five levies of the TOS under a corporal. “Leave at first light. Makes no difference, I'm afraid,” he added, seeing my impatience. “I can't help Colonel Whitaker's son. Mine's only a watching brief. Anyway, it's no good bashing these dunes in the dark.”

He'd brought a spare kit for me, so that I had the luxury of a camp bed that night. And in the morning I was able to discard my Arab clothes, which by then were very filthy, and put on clean khaki shirt and shorts. We breakfasted on bully beef and tinned peaches, washed down with a brew of strong tea, and then we left.

Colonel Whitaker was there to see us go, and as he said goodbye to me he gave me instructions that were to have considerable significance later: “If anything happens to me, Grant, I leave you to look after my affairs. I think you know enough about me now to understand what I want done if they find oil here.” We drove off then, and I remember thinking he looked a very lonely figure standing there with the clutter of the rig behind him. We went north, taking the shortest route across Hadd territory and driving fast. Keeping to the flat gravel stretches between the dunes, we were clear of Hadd's northern border by ten thirty. We turned east then, and the going became much slower, for we were crossing the lines of the dunes.

At set times we stopped to make radio contact with TOS HQ. The only news of any importance was that Colonel George, before he left for Bahrain, and therefore presumably acting on his own initiative, had ordered Berry's company south into the desert for exercises.

Shortly after midday the dunes began to get smaller, and in an area where it had rained quite recently we came upon the black tents of a Bedouin encampment, and there were camels browsing on untidy bushes of
abal
. Berry stopped and spoke with some of the men. “Well, your chap was alive yesterday,” he said as we drove on. “I thought they were Al Bu Shamis, but they were of the Awamir and they came up past Jebel al-Akhbar yesterday. They say they heard intermittent firing. They also told me that the people of Saraifa are beginning to return to the oasis, that two
falajes
are running again and Khalid's half-brother, Mahommed, is calling men to arms.”

It was the first indication I had that what David had done had not been done in vain.

Soon after that we became bogged down for several hours in an area of small dunes so confused that it looked like a petrified tidal race. As a result, we didn't sight Jebel al-Akhbar until late afternoon. We stopped at sunset. The hill looked deceptively close in the clear still air, the colour of the rock almost mauve, the sky behind quite green. “It's about six miles away,” Berry said, handing me his glasses. I could see the fort quite distinctly then, the tower in silhouette against the fantastic sky. Nothing moved there. No sign of life.

I was tired after the long drive and I felt depressed. Darkness fell. We had our food, and after the meal Berry disappeared into the back of the truck. He wanted to hear the BBC news. It kept him in touch, he said; but what he meant was that it brought home nearer and made the desert seem less remote.

Nature's needs took me into the desert and when he called to me I didn't hear what it was he shouted, but only caught the excitement in his voice. Back at the truck I found him seated with the earphones pressed tight against his head. “It was in the summary,” he said. And then after a while: “Your chap's made the headlines, apparently. A big story in one of the papers this morning.” He removed the earphones and switched off. “They even got his name right and the name of the fort.… And the Foreign Secretary is to be asked a question about it in the House tonight.” He rolled his long body over the tailboard and stood beside me. “Funny thing,” he said, “if it had been a soldier up there on the Jebel al-Akhbar, they'd have taken it for granted, or more probably somebody would have raised hell because the fellow had disobeyed orders. But because he's a civilian …” He gave a quick, derisive laugh. “Not that it makes any difference. One newspaper story and a question in the House won't change my orders. We'll be left to sit here and watch him die. That is, if he isn't dead already.”

We'd heard no sound since we'd gone into camp. The night was deathly still, not a breath of air. And Berry made it plain to me that he couldn't go any nearer. His orders were to stay in Trucial territory, and in front of us stretched the invisible barrier of the Hadd border. “You can be certain we're under observation. If I cross that border the political repercussions would be endless. As it is, my colonel's sticking his neck out sending me down here on his own authority.”

We stayed up late to listen to the last news summary from home. The item we were waiting for came towards the end. “
Questioned in the House this evening about reports that a British civilian, David Whitaker, with two Arabs, was holding the fort of Jebel al-Akhbar in the Arabian Emirate of Hadd, the Foreign Secretary said that the newspaper report emanated from a foreign source and was almost certainly without foundation. He added that he was having enquiries made … Cairo Radio this evening accused Britain of concentrating a large force on the Hadd border, including armoured cars and artillery
.…”

“Armoured cars and artillery!” Berry snapped the receiver off. “‘Why the hell do they repeat that sort of nonsense?” Like most soldiers who know what the situation is on the spot, he was contemptuous of the organs of publicity. “And you heard what the Foreign Secretary said. It's all going to be hushed up. Oil and politics—it's always the same out here in the Middle East. For the sake of peace and quiet a petty tyrant is going to be allowed to get away with murder.” He jumped out of the truck and stood staring a moment towards the Jebel al-Akhbar. Finally he gave a little shrug. “Care for a drink? I've got a little Scotch left.”

I shook my head. I was wondering whether any of the other papers would take the story up, and, if so, whether they'd make enough of it to stir up public opinion. Only public opinion could force the Government to accept its responsibility for Saraifa and take action; and without that, David's sacrifice became pointless. “I think I'll turn in now,” I said. “I'm still very tired.”

I slept like the dead that night, and in the morning it wasn't the sun that woke me, but Berry shaking my arm. “Somebody's still in the fort. I heard shots just after dawn—very faint, but definitely rifle fire. I've reported it to HQ.”

I scrambled up, sweaty from lying in my sleeping bag in the blazing sun, but even through the glasses there was nothing to be seen: just the Jebel al-Akhbar shimmering in a heat haze.

Berry glanced at his watch. “You might like to listen to what the newspapers are saying back home.”

We went into the back of the truck and switched on the radio. It was an overseas service of the BBC with a roundup of news and opinions from the national press. I don't know what I expected—what Berry expected. A few references, perhaps a leader. Instead, every newspaper had taken up the story. For almost ten minutes the thin voice of the announcer came to me through the earphones, speaking as though from another world, and giving variations on the theme of the story I had told Ruffini. David was headline news. One I particularly remember: BORSTAL BOY HOLDS FORT FOR FOREIGN OFFICE. And another popular paper was quoted as attacking the Foreign Secretary for trying to hoodwink the public.