A Hundred Thousand Dragons (18 page)

‘This is a British pilot, Freya. Captain Talaat and a party of Aityeh found him bivouacking in Petra. They saw his aeroplane over Edom and went to investigate. Fortunately, Talaat was able to restrain himself and took our – our guest – prisoner instead. It was just as well that he did. I would have been annoyed if anything had happened to this young man.' He looked up from the tip of his burning cigar and his blue eyes lanced through Jack. He spoke in English. ‘Welcome to Q'asr Dh'an. We are going to have a lot to talk about.'

Jack swallowed. ‘You're entitled to my name and rank,' he said, trying to keep his voice level. ‘That's all.'

‘So I am. Let's start with your name, shall we?'

‘Haldean. Second-lieutenant Haldean.'

‘Good. Christian names?'

‘John Carlos,' Jack answered as steadily as he could. He felt the oddest flicker of comfort that, although the answer was true, this terrifying man with his ice-chip eyes and scarred face couldn't know he was always called Jack. It was as if he'd managed to retain a little secret place within himself.

Von Erlangen lifted his eyebrows. ‘John Carlos, eh? I didn't think you were pure-bred. Spanish?' Jack didn't answer. He wasn't saying anything he didn't have to. Von Erlangen shrugged. ‘It doesn't matter. Well, Second-Lieutenant John Carlos Haldean, what were you doing in Petra?'

Jack met his stare unflinchingly and said nothing.

Von Erlangen sighed. ‘I can see you are going to be difficult, John. I thought you might be.' Putting down his cigar he walked to the fireplace and selected a lithe, thin twig from the pile of kindling in the basket. He bent it absently in his fingers as he spoke. ‘You will end up telling me everything, Lieutenant. Why not do it now?'

Jack, his mouth dry, awkwardly got to his feet. ‘Are – are you going to shoot me?' he asked.

Von Erlangen looked at the girl and laughed. ‘He wants to know if I'm going to shoot him.'

The girl didn't share the laughter. She stood with her hand nervously playing with a gold locket on the front of her blue dress. In the gleam of the firelight, Jack noticed the glint of a gold ring. They had called each other by their Christian names. Was she his wife?

‘Are you, Lothar?' she asked.

Von Erlangen shook his head. ‘Oh no, he's far too useful.' He looked at Jack, standing in the middle of the room with his hands still tied. He spoke in English. ‘Shoot you? Certainly not, my dear Lieutenant Haldean. Death at my hands is something to be earned.' He snapped the twig in his fingers, his eyes blazing with sudden fury. ‘You will beg to die.'

Jack made a huge effort. ‘There are rules protecting prisoners. You've got to follow the rules.'

Von Erlangen gave an amused laugh. ‘Rules?' His lips parted, showing sharp white canines. ‘Do you realize who I am? Try hard, Lieutenant.'

Jack's voice cracked. ‘Ozymandias?'

Von Erlangen gave Freya a swift, pleased glance. ‘Even this boy's heard of me. Ozymandias,' he repeated, drawing out the word. ‘I make my own rules.' He took Jack's chin in a firm grip and twisted his face round to the light. ‘Are you frightened yet?'

‘No,' said Jack uselessly.

Von Erlangen smiled. ‘You're a bad liar.' He dropped his hand, walked back to the desk and picked up his cigar. ‘Freya, my dear, I think you'd better go. You know this sort of thing upsets you. Send Captain Talaat and his men in here.'

Freya nodded and went to the door. With her hand on the door frame, she paused as if to speak, then, with a glance at Von Erlangen, obviously thought better of it. She closed the door behind her. Without another glance at Jack, Von Erlangen drew a chair up to the desk and picked up some papers.

Jack stared at him. His stomach felt like water, but he forced himself to speak. He had heard rumours of how badly the Turks treated their prisoners, of the neglect and the harsh conditions, and he had also heard stories of what the Arabs could do, but for a German – a civilized, sophisticated German from the land of Beethoven and Goethe – to act like Von Erlangen was outside anything he'd ever imagined. Yes, there'd been stories of brutality, but those, surely, had been carried out by ignorant and frightened troops, not officers. ‘I don't care what fancy name you call yourself,' he said in as even a voice as he could manage. ‘You're still bound by the rules of war. I'm a British officer.'

Von Erlangen didn't bother to look up.

Captain Talaat and five other Turks entered the room and saluted. ‘You sent for us, Herr Oberstleutant?' Talaat asked in German.

Von Erlangen looked up then. ‘Yes,' he replied. ‘Did you find any papers or maps in the aeroplane?'

‘There were maps, Mein Herr, but no papers.'

Von Erlangen frowned. ‘Were the maps marked in any way?'

‘No, Herr Oberstleutant.'

Von Erlangen nodded, crushed out his cigar and lit another one. ‘In that case, Talaat, you'll be pleased to hear, we have to do this the interesting way.' He stood up, flexed his fingers and walked over to Jack. ‘You see, John,' he said in English, ‘part of what keeps my men happy is providing pleasure. Illegitimate pleasure, but pleasure all the same. Take his shirt off,' he added in German.

Talaat drew out a knife, stepped forward, and taking Jack's shirt by the back of the collar, cut down. Then he grasped the front and ripped, leaving the sleeves hanging where Jack's hands were bound. He ran his hand over Jack's chest as if he were inspecting a horse he was about to buy.

Von Erlangen nodded towards the other four and they came forward. The leader, a thick-set, dark-jowled man, had a thin black leather whip in his hands which he coiled and uncoiled. His mouth worked with excitement.

‘Now,' said Von Erlangen, casually flicking the ash off his cigar, ‘would you care to tell us what you were doing in Petra?'

Jack shook his head, dumbly. He was roughly turned round and pushed face downwards on to the chair. The whip cracked. A line of fire ran down his back and he shuddered. The Turks laughed and the whip snaked out once more. Despite himself, Jack grunted. The hands holding his shoulders dug into the flesh as fingers of pain etched across his back. After the tenth crack of the whip he screamed. His scream encouraged the Turks and the blows came faster. Jack slumped, lying half over the chair.

‘Stop!' Von Erlangen came forward and took the whip. He rolled Jack off the chair to sprawl helplessly on the floor. Von Erlangen knelt beside him and placed the butt of the whip under Jack's chin. ‘What were you doing in Petra?'

Jack shook his head once more and Von Erlangen tossed the whip to one of the waiting men. ‘Carry on.'

There was a frenzy of pain, of shouts, of laughter and through it all the ribbon of fire kept falling and rising. Von Erlangen retreated to the desk and smoked his cigar, placidly watching while a human being disintegrated before him. When the cigar was smoked down to the tip he ground it out in the ashtray and walked to Jack, kneeling beside him again.

‘John,' he said quietly. ‘John.' There was a silence, broken only by Jack's laboured breathing. Von Erlangen ran his hand softly over Jack's face and waited for the blurred eyes to focus. ‘John, look at me. You were in Petra because of the gold convoy, weren't you?'

A tiny light of defiance flickered in the dark eyes.

‘If you say yes, John, I can get them to stop.' His voice was tender. ‘Please help me, John. I want them to stop. Was it the gold, John?' Von Erlangen looked up, nodded, and the whip whistled out once more. Jack whimpered and tried to writhe away. ‘It was the gold, wasn't it, John?'

‘Yes.' His voice was a distant whisper.

‘Where are they taking the gold to?'

Von Erlangen was swimming in and out of focus. Jack had a brief moment of clarity and summoned up his strength. ‘Go to the devil.'

‘I am the devil.' He stood up and dusted off his knees. ‘Get on with it, Essad. I know you're waiting.'

He stepped back and watched, a quiet smile on his lips as the cloth was ripped from his victim's body.

There was a roaring in Jack's ears as more blows landed. There was the smell of garlic and filth. He drew his head back and cracked his tormentor's face as hard as he could and then the violence he had been dreading burst upon him. Shame twisted him as unclean hands grasped his body. He tried to roll away but there was nothing but this white wall of agony. As the Turks stood up, panting, something deep inside had fractured and was dying.

Von Erlangen knelt beside him once more. He reached out and stroked Jack's hair gently. ‘John, make them stop. Tell me where the gold is going to, John. I don't want them to hurt you, John. Where is the gold going?'

John. John. John could tell them. Jack wasn't a traitor but this was someone called John. A tiny voice in his head whispered ‘No!' but that, too, was dying.

‘Where is the gold going to, John?' The voice was very tender and John wanted kindness then. ‘Where is the gold going to, John? Is it Petra?'

It was so much easier to agree. ‘Petra,' he breathed.

Von Erlangen smiled and carried on stroking Jack's hair. John turned his face so his cheek would be stroked too. ‘Who was flying with you, John? Who was the passenger in the plane?'

Jack shook his head. ‘Not . . . allowed . . . to . . . tell you.'

Von Erlangen sighed and taking a poker from the fireplace, put it in the fire until the tip glowed bright red. He snapped his fingers and one of the Turks handed him a knife. He turned Jack over, cut the rope that bound his hands, then rolled him on to his back again. ‘You see, John, what you are making me do.' He took one of Jack's hands in his, then inspected the glowing end of the poker carefully. ‘If I put this on the back of your hands, the nerves will shrivel and you will be left with useless claws. You can't fly then, can you?' Von Erlangen lightly touched Jack's knuckles with the glowing metal, watching his reaction with satisfaction. ‘You like flying, don't you?'

‘Yes.'

‘If you make me put it in your eyes, you'll be blind. Blind pilots can't fly. Now, who was flying with you?'

Jack didn't care about the future; there was only the present and all he wanted was the pain to stop. He watched as the poker came nearer, then threw back his head and screamed as it was pressed under his shoulder-blade. Von Erlangen held the poker close to Jack's face.

‘Who was flying with you, John? Who was your passenger?'

The red tip was flickering by his eyes. The heat from it was hurting.

‘Who was flying with you, John?'

‘Craig. Durant Craig.'

There was an indescribable light in the ice-chip eyes. ‘Craig? Where's Craig now?'

‘With the Arabs.'

The poker still flickered by his eyes. ‘Which Arabs?'

‘The Beni Sakr.'

‘Are they going to Petra?'

‘Yes. Soon, very soon.'

Von Erlangen put the poker back in the fire, smiled broadly and got up. ‘That's all I need to know, John. You're a traitor. Traitors aren't fit to live.' He looked at the Turks and gestured to Jack on the floor. ‘You can finish him off,' he said in German. ‘Finish him off,' he repeated in English, savouring the words.

As the Turks closed in once more, Jack whimpered in terror and grasped Von Erlangen's leg convulsively. ‘You said you'd make them stop.'

Von Erlangen kicked Jack away in disgust, and walked to the desk, indifferent to the scene behind him.

A soft, damp cloth washed his face. Jack flickered his eyes open. Freya was kneeling beside him, her face drawn with anxiety. She smiled in relief as he opened his eyes and said something in German which he couldn't catch. Her voice was kind and he felt a surge of gratitude. She had a basin full of water and was wiping the blood away from his wounds. Her hands were cool and gentle. She held a glass to his lips, but his throat was too dry to swallow and the water ran down the side of his mouth. Patiently, she tried again, and this time he was able to drink a little. ‘Did I tell them?' he mumbled.

She listened intently, obviously working out what he'd said. ‘
Ja
.' She put the English words together with difficulty. ‘It is over now.'

A great wave of despair washed over him. He was a traitor. He wanted to die.

Von Erlangen was sitting, writing at his desk. Jack rolled himself over on to his elbows and crawled painfully across the room. Von Erlangen laid down his pen and waited for him. ‘Yes?'

‘You said I could die.' His voice broke. ‘Please.'

Von Erlangen picked up a revolver from the desk and toyed with it before aiming it at him. Jack rested his forehead on his hands and waited, empty of all emotion.

‘No, Lothar!' Freya Von Erlangen quickly crossed the room and put her hand on his.

Von Erlangen paused with his finger on the trigger. ‘No?' He lowered the gun. ‘It makes little difference to me.' His eyes flicked back to Jack. ‘No. I won't kill you, my dear John. You want it too much. Besides, the carpet you're lying on is a Tekke Bokhara. It's too valuable to soil with your brains. I'll give you to the Turks. They might slit your throat for you.' He picked up his pen and returned to his writing.

‘Was it worth it, Lothar?' asked Freya in German.

Von Erlangen clicked his tongue, irritated by the interruption. ‘Of course, my dear. Vital.' He half-turned. ‘Ask Talaat to take him away, would you?' He yawned, delicately covering his mouth with his hand. ‘My God, I'm tired. Yes, of course it was worth it. When Craig arrives we'll be waiting for him.'