The Doomed Oasis (18 page)

“You got my message,” I said.

He nodded. “Yes. I got your message. But that wasn't what brought me.” His voice was dry, rasping, the words staccato as though life were too short for conversation. “Should be in Bahrain now.” He gave the manager a brusque nod of dismissal, and when we were alone he said: “There's a newspaper on the desk there. That's why I'm here. Read it. I've marked the passage.”

It was the airmail edition of a leading London daily. The marked passage was on the foreign-news page. It was headed: NEW OIL DISCOVERY
IN
ARABIA?—
Desert Death
of
Ex-Borstal Boy Starts Rumours
. It was written “by a Special Correspondent,” and besides giving a full and graphic account of David Whitaker's disappearance and the search that had followed, it included his background; everything was there, everything that I knew about the boy myself—his escape from the police in Cardiff, the fact that he was Colonel Whitaker's son, even the details of how he'd been smuggled into Arabia on a native dhow. The story ran to almost a column with a double-column head, and about the only thing it didn't give was the location he'd been surveying immediately prior to his death.

“Well?” Gorde rasped. “Are you responsible for that?”

“No.”

“Then who is?”

That was what I was wondering. Whoever had written it had access to all the information that I had. “I don't know,” I said.

“You're David Whitaker's solicitor. His executor, in fact, Otto tells me.”

“Yes.”

“And just over two days ago you were in London.”

“Nevertheless, I'm not responsible for it.”

“A young kid just out of oil school and operating in an area he'd no business in … A criminal, to boot.” He glared at me, his fingers drumming at the leather arm of the chair. “The Political Resident had that paper specially flown down to me at Abu Dhabi. The Foreign Office has teleprinted him that half the London press have taken the story up. He's furious.”

“The facts are correct,” I said.

“The facts!” But he wasn't thinking of the boy's background. “You know where his truck was found abandoned? Inside the borders of Saudi Arabia,” he almost snarled. “A story like that—it could spark off another Buraimi, only worse, much worse.” He paused then, staring at me curiously.“Your note said you wanted to see me. You said it was urgent, something about this boy—a communication.”

I didn't answer at once, for I'd read through to the end of the newspaper story, to the editorial footnote that had been added at the bottom:
The London Office of the Gulfoman Oilfields Development Company issued a statement yesterday denying that there was any truth in rumours that the Company had made an important new oil strike. Asked whether David Whitaker had made a confidential report prior to his death, an official of the Company stated categorically that nothing was known in London about any such report. Despite the Company's denials, GODCO shares went ahead yesterday in active dealings on the London Stock Exchange
.

“Well?”

“Suppose there's something in it?”

“Suppose pigs had wings,” he snarled. “Well, come on, man. What was it you wanted to see me about?”

For answer I opened my briefcase and handed over the envelope David had addressed to him. “Have you seen Colonel Whitaker since you've been out here?” I asked.

“What's that got to do with it?” He was staring down at the envelope, and when I started to explain, he cut me short. “Oh, I've heard the talk, if that's what you mean. But it's nothing to, do with the Company. If Charles Whitaker likes to waste his money trying to prove a theory …” He grunted. “It's just damned awkward, that's all. The boy's death makes a colourful story, and coming on top of his father's activities …” He gave a little shrug and slit open the flap of the envelope with his finger. “Erkhard was trying to keep it quiet—and rightly. Saraifa is a trouble spot. Always has been. And the political chaps are touchy about it.”

“That doesn't explain why he should try to prevent me seeing you.”

He had taken out a letter and two wads of foolscap. “What's that? What are you talking about?” He reached into his pocket for his glasses.

I told him then how I'd been given facilities for Sharjah as soon as it was known that he had changed his plans and was flying back to Bahrain.

“What are you suggesting?” he demanded.

“That Erkhard didn't intend us to meet.”

“Nonsense. What difference could it make to him?” He put on his glasses, and after that he didn't talk as he read steadily through the contents. Finally he said: “Do you know what this is, Mr. Grant?” He tapped one of the foolscap sheets. “Do you know what he's trying to get me to do?”

“Sign some sort of undertaking, but I don't know exactly—”

“Undertaking!” he rasped. “If I sign this—” He waved the sheet of paper at me. “It would commit the Company to drilling four test wells at locations to be supplied by you.” He took his glasses off and stared at me. “Is that right? You hold the locations?”

“Yes,” I said. “They're in a separate envelope. If you sign that document, then I'm instructed to hand it across to you.”

“But not otherwise?”

“No.”

“And you've got it with you?”

I nodded. “It's here in my briefcase.”

“And if I don't sign … What do you do then?”

“In that case I imagine my actions wouldn't concern you.”

“No?” He laughed. And then he was looking down at the document again. “I see here that you will be acting as agent for Sheikh Makhmud and his son Khalid in this matter. Have you ever met Sheikh Makhmud?”

I shook my head.

“And you know nothing about the Middle East.” He was staring at me and his eyes had the suggestion of a twinkle. “It has its humorous side, you know. The boy must have thought you a most remarkable lawyer.” He went back to the document again. “Further, it commits the Company to the payment of an advance of a hundred thousand pounds in respect of oil royalties of fifty percent, provided always that Sheikh Makhmud and his son agree to grant to the Company the sole concession from date of signature to the year two thousand. Well,” he said, “there's your undertaking. The boy must have had a touch of the sun when he typed that.” And he tossed it across to me. “Read it yourself and tell me what you think of it—as a lawyer.”

I glanced through it quickly, wondering what he expected me to see in it. “It looks perfectly legal,” I said.

“Exactly. That's what makes it so damned odd. He'd taken the trouble to look up all the legal jargon for that sort of a document.” He leaned suddenly forward. “He couldn't have got that in the desert, could he? It means he looked it up before ever he went out there, before he'd even run his survey.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“That his report's a phony. I'm not a fool, Grant. That boy's been got at, and I can guess who's got at him. Here. Take a look at the survey report.” He thrust it at me. “He used his own typewriter for that. The other's different, probably an office machine. He typed that document and then went out into the desert—”

“David lost his life as the result of that survey,” I reminded him.

“Did he? How do you know what caused his death?” He glared at me. “You don't, and nor do I. Nobody knows—or even what's happened to him. Has any one mentioned the Whitaker Theory to you?”

“I know about it,” I said. “Is that why you think he's been got at?”

He nodded. “Way back in the thirties Charles Whitaker began claiming that we'd find the oilfields continuing down from the Gulf here between the sand seas of the Empty Quarter and the coastal mountain ranges to the east. It seemed a possibility, and, remembering how Holmes's theory had finally been proved right in Bahrain, I took a chance on it and moved some of my development teams in from the coast. It was an expensive business, and Buraimi was about the limit, from the practical point of view. I was operating partly in the Sharjah sheikhdom and partly in Muscat territory, and after I'd burned my fingers, even the big companies like Shell and ARAMCO wouldn't look at his theory.”

“That was a long time ago now,” I said.

“Yes, before the war.”

“What about Saraifa? Did you do any development work there?”

“No, it was too far from the coast. I sent a geological party in in 1939, but the initial reports weren't very encouraging, and then the war came and the chap in charge of the survey was killed. We didn't try again, though Charles was always pressing us to do so. He had a political appointment for a short time after the end of the war, but when he rejoined the Company in 1949 he was still just as convinced that he'd be proved right in the end.” He shook his head. “Poor fellow! It had become an obsession—Saraifa in particular; he wanted us to try again there. The wartime development of desert transport made it a practical proposition, but the political situation between Saraifa and Hadd was worsening, and anyway I'd lost faith in his theory by then.” He stared at the foolscap sheets in my hand. “If that survey report had been turned in by one of our most experienced geophysicists, I wouldn't touch it.”

“Because of the political factor?”

“No. Not just because of the political factor.”

“What, then?”

He hesitated. “Because it doesn't fit in with the reasons I'm out here.” He stared at me then, his eyes narrowed above the tired pouches of flesh. “The fact is,” he said, “the Company's been spending too much money in the Gulf area and getting too little in return. Nobody is supposed to know this yet—not even Erkhard, though I think he's guessed. My instructions are to carry out a thorough investigation of all our development projects in the Gulf with a view to cutting down our commitments. It amounts to a reassessment of the value of each project, and those that show no real promise of yielding results are to be abandoned. So you see …” He gave a little shrug, his hands spread out. “This is hardly the moment for me or anybody else to involve the Company in new commitments.”

“I see.” There was really nothing more to be said, and I folded the papers and put them in my briefcase.

“It's a funny thing.” He was leaning back in his chair, his eyes half closed, chuckling to himself. “The Company did this once before. They sent Alex Erkhard out, and because I was sick and hadn't the energy to fight him, he got my job. And now, four years later, I'm back with the same powers he had and the knowledge that he's made more mistakes than I did and lost the Company a lot of friends.” Again that dry, rasping chuckle, and then his eyelids flicked back. “What I've told you is in the strictest confidence, you understand. You've been put to a lot of trouble to contact me. I thought it only fair to explain the situation to you. If it's any satisfaction to you, I'd add that a report like that isn't conclusive. Seismology never is; it's simply an indication. The only way to be sure you're sitting on an oilfield is to drill down and find out.”

“And suppose Whitaker's doing just that?”

“Hmm. To know the answer to that, we'd have to know the locations the boy was surveying and where his father's drilling.” He stared at me. “Well, there it is. You've got your instructions.…”

I nodded. There was no point in continuing the discussion. “You're going back to Bahrain, I take it, Sir Philip?”

“Bahrain? Oh, you'd like a lift in my plane, is that it?”

I nodded. “Please.”

He seemed to hesitate. But then he said: “All right.” He picked up his drink. “You know my pilot—Otto Smith? Perhaps you'd be good enough to get him for me.” He tapped his leg. “Can't move about like I used to.”

“I'll get him,” I said. And I went out and left him there, leaning back in the chair with his eyes half closed as though exhausted.

I had some difficulty in finding Otto, but eventually I ran him to earth in the showers, sitting naked, smoking a cigarette and gossiping with his navigator. I waited whilst he dressed and then went back with him to the manager's office.

Gorde was in the same position, but now he had my briefcase open on his lap and he was peering down at a sheet of paper he held in his hand.

I can't remember what I said to him—I was too angry. I think I called him some pretty unpleasant names, but all he said was: “What did you expect me to do?” His tone was mild. Almost he seemed amused. “If I'd asked you to let me see the locations, you'd have refused. Quite rightly.” And he added: “I just wanted to check them against the position where his truck was found.”

“But you'd no right—”

“Of course I'd no right,” he said. “But yelling at me and getting yourself into a muck sweat won't alter the fact that I now have them. Do you know where they are?” he asked, peering up at me.

“No,” I said. “I haven't had an opportunity—”

“On the Saraifa-Hadd border. Right bang on the bloody border.” He glared at me. “I suppose you'll tell me you didn't know that the border was in dispute?” The way he said it implied that I'd tried to put something over on him.

Angrily I told him that I didn't have the advantage of his lack of scruples. “I kept strictly to my instructions and refrained from opening the envelope until I'd seen you.”

“All right,” he said. “We'll talk about it in a moment.” He levered himself round in his chair. “Is the plane refuelled yet, Otto?”

“I don't know, sir. I'll check, if you like. Are you wanting to leave right away?”

“Yes, right away. But first I want you to check that your tanks are full. A personal check, please. You've got to have enough fuel on board to fly to the Saraifa border and back.”