A Hundred Thousand Dragons (19 page)

The Turks didn't slit his throat. They didn't do anything much, apart from carry him to a prison cell, and leave him there. The next few days were spent in a daze. All Jack really knew was that Freya Von Erlangen helped him drink, helped him eat, cleaned and bandaged his wounds, and without her he would have died. He fell in love with Freya in those few brief days. Perhaps it was easier to think of Freya than of what he had done, but she filled his world and gave him the strength to live.

Three days had passed before he was able to sit up and take stock of his cell. It was a bare mud-brick room, lit by a small slit of a window high up in the wall. There was no bed, just a blanket on a dried mud ledge against the mud wall and a bucket to use as a lavatory. It was crawling with vermin, which, if he hadn't been so spent, would have revolted him. By the fourth day he was able to stand and was let out under the care of a bored Turkish guard to empty the bucket and to walk briefly round the yard. He was so clearly incapable of any resistance that the guard relaxed, leaning in the shade of the wall while Jack stumbled a few hesitant steps.

One guard was inclined to be friendly. He had been a waiter in London in his uncle's restaurant before the war and wanted to exercise his small stock of English. His name, he told Jack, was Basak. He was a keen supporter of Fulham Football Club and was disgusted to hear that football matches had been suspended for the duration of the war. Their halting conversation about Fulham, Arsenal, Manchester United and Preston North End must be, thought Jack, one of the most unexpected ever conducted in the sun-baked fortress of Q'asr Dh'an.

It was Basak who gave him the news. The convoy had arrived in Petra and, under the eyes of Von Erlangen's men, hidden in the city, had rendezvoused with the Beni Sakr, led by Craig. From what Jack could make out from the guard's hesitant English, the convoy had left the gold and set off, back into the desert. The Beni Sakr celebrated their new wealth with much singing and dancing. At that moment Von Erlangen and the Aityeh had struck. It was, Jack gathered, a massacre. He didn't want to know any more.

About a fortnight later, Jack was sitting against the wall in the shade of the parade ground, Basak beside him. The gates of the fortress were open, and outside, a party of green-clad Turks toiled in the sun, moving rocks. Jack couldn't think what they were doing, then it struck him he had seen men doing similar work before. More than that, he'd done it himself. He sat up, suddenly interested in the work beyond the wall. They were clearing a landing strip, surely?

He turned to ask Basak if he was right, then decided against it. Basak probably wouldn't know, and he didn't want to betray any interest in the activity outside the fortress.

Basak, indifferent to what was happening outside the gates, was deeply depressed. He wanted to go back to Turkey, to Anatolia. More than that, he wanted to go back to his uncle's restaurant, where he was respected, the owner's nephew, in his beloved London, where, one day, he wanted a restaurant of his own. He hated Q'asr Dh'an, he hated the desert, he hated the dust and most of all, he hated the Arabs.

There was an abandoned city some distance from the fort, a place of gaping tombs and whispering ghosts, where the Arabs had massacred a party of Turkish soldiers. Most of the soldiers had been his friends. It was Beni Sakr work, led by that chief of all devils, Craig. The soldiers were mown down by machine-gun fire and horribly mutilated after death. The way the Beni Sakr treated their fallen victims was unmistakable. Basak pronounced Craig's name
Krig
and it took Jack a few moments to work out who he meant.

‘Craig?' he repeated stupidly. ‘But Craig's dead.'

Basak shook his head vigorously. ‘No. He escapes and kills many, many peoples.'

The next evening, the gates of the fort stood open again. Jack looked yearningly at the outside. Was it a landing strip? With Basak beside him, he got as close to the gates as he could. No one paid him any attention as he stood in the dying light, in the shadow of the wall.

He turned round as Freya approached. She looked worried. She drew him away from Basak who, with a shrug of indifference, leaned against the wall and picked his teeth.

‘John, listen to me,' she said in German. ‘Oberst Hirsch will be here very shortly. He is being flown in.'

Flown in? So he was right. It was a landing strip the Turks had constructed.

‘You are going to be questioned.'

Jack's stomach turned over.

She glanced around to see if they could be overheard. ‘What do you know of the Beni Sakr?'

‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing.'

Her face twisted. ‘They won't believe you. I know you talk to Basak. He told you about the bodies? The bodies of our men?'

Jack nodded.

‘Craig did it, Craig and the Beni Sakr. The gold was being taken to the coast. When it didn't arrive we were told. My husband found the bodies. Oberst Hirsch is coming here to investigate.' Her mouth quivered ‘My husband believes you will know where Craig and his Arabs have taken the gold.'

‘I don't know,' he said desperately. ‘I know nothing about it.'

‘He will kill you,' she said quietly. ‘He is Ozymandias. He will watch you die and . . . and I don't want you to die.'

In the distance came the unmistakable growl of a Mercedes engine. Instinctively he looked up to see the tiny black speck in the sky.

‘Oberst Hirsch,' she breathed. She reached out her hands to him. ‘I'm sorry, John, so sorry.' She walked away, her head bowed.

Basak came up beside him. ‘Time, yes?'

‘Let me see the plane,' begged Jack, pointing to the rapidly growing speck. Basak, totally indifferent, shrugged and resumed picking his teeth.

The plane, easily identifiable as a Rumpler Taube Dove, with its distinctive, bird-like wings, circled overhead, flying low above the fort.

The pilot circled once more then came in to land, gliding down before rumbling to a halt on the sand. The pilot climbed out, stretched his shoulders, then hurried round to salute the officer now climbing out of the cockpit.

Jack sank back into the shadows as Von Erlangen came across the square. There were formalities and a few brief words, then the two senior officers went inside. The pilot relaxed and, catching sight of a Turkish officer, called out something about a drink. The Turk replied and the pilot walked over to him, obviously wanting to know the way to the Mess.

The plane was tantalizingly close and Jack suddenly knew it was now or never. He would have to risk it and it would have to be now, while the plane was still warm, before the propellers needed to be turned to start the engine.

Jack sprinted for the cockpit of the Dove and flung himself aboard. Basak, taken completely by surprise, didn't react until Jack had clambered over the side.

Jack lashed out and caught Basak across the throat, hearing him grunt with a real regret. He fumbled over the unfamiliar controls, then the plane roared into life and he was away, skimming over the level sand. He remembered that the controls were reversed and thrust the joystick forward, utterly exhilarated, as the plane soared into the air.

From beneath him came the crack of rifles but he didn't care. He wouldn't care much if they'd hit him, as long as he didn't have endure another interrogation. Glancing back, he saw the white faces like dots on the parade ground, then settled down to fly back to Petra. With any luck, the fuel dump would still be there and that would get him home.

TEN

I
t was incredible, thought Jack, that outside the window, the birds still sang and the lawnmower still clattered over the grass. He was in Hesperus, where he had fled to once before, wounded by Von Erlangen. Sitting in Uncle Phil's homely library, in a sagging armchair, with a friend beside him, was like a second homecoming, an echo of that first. The solid reality of the present – the library, the books, the smell of cigars, the worn leather armchairs and, most of all, Arthur's concerned face – grew, forcing the stomach-churning terror of the past back into yesterday, back into the sealed-up vault of the over-and-done-with.

Only it wasn't over and done with.

Arthur Stanton let out a deep breath. ‘Bloody hell, Jack, I had no idea you'd been through anything like that. Why on earth didn't you tell me before?'

Jack didn't answer for some time. ‘I was ashamed,' he said at last. ‘And then . . . Quite honestly, I forgot. I got posted to France and no one knew. I didn't
want
to remember, of course, and, after a time, it stopped being important. You know what it was like in France. We lived from minute to minute. I didn't have time to go over the past and I certainly didn't want to.'

‘Yes,' said Arthur. ‘I can see that. What happened after you'd pinched the Dove? Did you get back to Petra?'

Jack nodded and, getting up, lit a cigarette. ‘Yes, I got back to Petra. I remembered where Craig marked the petrol dump on his map and filled up the plane. The B.E.2c was still there but it was badly choked with sand, so I set fire to it, rather than let the enemy have it, and stuck with the Dove. I managed to start the engine by putting the throttle to tick over, which is not something I'd do for fun. I stowed as much fuel as I could in the observer's cockpit and managed to get back to Ismailia with only one stop.'

He gave a humourless smile. ‘Believe you me, it's no joke flying what's virtually a bomb back over the desert, knowing that any bright lad on our side would take a pop at what seemed to be some demented enemy pilot flying flat, straight and very slowly into British territory. The only thing that got me through was that it was night. Still –' he thrust his hands into his pockets, – ‘I made it. I'd been given up for dead, of course, and when the euphoria was over, I had to explain what happened.'

Arthur winced. ‘A Board of Inquiry?'

‘That's the one.' Jack walked to the window and looked sightlessly on to the terrace. ‘What counted in my favour was that I'd made such strenuous efforts to get back. The Dove spoke for itself and so did my previous record. I was pretty young, too. I was only just seventeen. I'd fudged my age to get in.'

He turned and looked at Arthur. ‘They liked that. It showed evidence of keenness. They were very keen on being keen. Major Youlton understood what the flight back entailed, too, so that was a good point. However, the Inquiry wasn't fun. It's a capital offence to wilfully supply the enemy with information. I certainly hadn't done it wilfully, but there was a definite feeling amongst some members of the board that I could have held out longer. Anyway, Donahue, the medical officer, gave me a thorough going-over and testified I'd been put through the mill a bit. The fact I'd had Ozymandias to deal with caused a real stir. So, with Major Youlton's support and a certain reluctance in some quarters, I was exonerated. What really put the cat amongst the pigeons was when Craig blew in.'

‘Craig?' repeated Arthur. ‘But that would have told in your favour, wouldn't it? I mean, he swiped the gold back. As far as the mission was concerned, he'd succeeded.'

‘He didn't.'

Arthur stared at him. ‘What? But Craig and his Arabs attacked the German convoy. That's why that chap, Oberst Whatisname, flew in to investigate.'

‘Not according to Craig,' said Jack. ‘That's the story I got from Basak, the Turkish bloke, and from Freya Von Erlangen, but Craig had another story. Craig said he'd got to Petra with the Beni Sakr right enough, and taken charge of the gold from Captain Hawley's convoy. Then, just as Basak had told me, as the Beni Sakr were celebrating, they were attacked. And that, as far as Craig was concerned, was that. He managed to escape with a few men, but there were far too few of them to lead a counter-attack. He was livid that my story had been believed. As he saw it, I was a coward and a traitor who'd blabbed at the first opportunity and cost the lives of his men, to say nothing of the gold. I'd made up this story of a counter-attack to make it seem as if we'd succeeded, which would be better for me.'

‘Blimey,' said Arthur after a few moments' thought. ‘So the gold just vanished? That's awkward.'

Jack nodded in vigorous agreement. ‘It damn well was awkward, Arthur. You see, the Board had given its verdict, so I was officially in the clear. I wondered if the Beni Sakr had taken the gold independently of Craig. He was there when I said it and hit the roof. They were his men, he trusted them implicitly and so on.' He sighed and crushed out his cigarette. ‘It was pretty awful, really. Craig blamed me, first, last and foremost. And, to be fair about it, I can see his point of view.'

‘You would,' said Arthur.

Jack smiled briefly. ‘No, I mean it. You can't get round it, Arthur, he was ambushed because of me.' His face grew grave. ‘Craig came off very much worse from the affair. If he'd been a different sort of man, he might have weathered it, but, like a lot of these bluff types, he's deeply sensitive and resented the shadow cast over him and his doings when the real villain, as he saw it – me – got away scot-free. He pushed off into Central Arabia and spent most of the war out there. His pet scheme, that of starting an Arab revolt, was taken up by Colonel Lawrence and Prince Feisal, and so we had T.E. Lawrence, Lawrence of Arabia, not Durant Craig in the starring role. As for me . . .' His voice broke off abruptly.

‘Well,' prompted Arthur gently. ‘What about you?'

Jack walked to the mantelpiece where he stood, restlessly turning a paperknife over and over in his hands. ‘I went through it,' he said quietly. ‘Men had been killed because of me.' He rubbed his face with his hand. ‘When I went to France I fought like a maniac, trying to . . . well, you know. I don't know why I survived.' His voice shook. ‘I actually got given a couple of medals. It didn't
work
.'