Hammond Innes - The Doomed Oasis

‘You can go to the devil,’ I told him.

He got to his feet then, ‘I had hoped for your cooperation.’ And he added, Think it over, Mr Grant. The police have an interest in this and if they begin an investigation. … It could be very unpleasant for you. A man in your position, a lawyer-’ He left it at that and picked up his hat.

I wondered then whether he knew I was leaving for Bahrain in two days’ time. The Foreign Office had my passport. They could still refuse to grant me the necessary visas. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll think it over.’

And the next day, in London, I found I had been granted a visa for Bahrain, but not for either Dubai or Saraifa. A note pinned to my passport stated that for any further visas you should apply to the office of the Political Resident Persian Gulf in Bahrain. Darkness fell, the port light showing red. I woke to the touch of the air hostess’s hand on my shoulder and the sighing sound of the flaps going down. The silver of a new moon had risen, reflecting with the stars in the still surface of the sea coming up to meet us, a steel mirror suddenly patterned with the arrowheads of fish traps as we skimmed the shallows. A moment later we touched down in Bahrain. And at three-thirty in the morning the air was still heavy with the day’s heat. It came at us as soon as the door was opened, suffocating in its humidity.

The squat, white-fronted coral houses of Muharraq were without life as the airport bus drove us across the long causeway to the main island and the town of Manama. A solitary dhow was putting to sea, the curve of its sail a thing of ghostly beauty against the blackness of the water; all the others lay dormant in the mud or bare-poled against the coral hards with sails furled.

Only the BOAC hotel showed any sign of life at that hour. It was down an empty side street, the airline’s bluebird insignia standing out against the drab of concrete; lights were burning against our coming. I was given a room with a balcony that was full of the sounds of a late-night party, laughter and the clink of glasses. There was a lot of coming and going in the passage outside and I went to sleep,

to the sound of a girl’s voice, harsh and loud and slightly drunk.

Sunlight woke me four hours later, the hard sunlight of a hot country. An Arab boy brought me tea and I drank it, lying naked on the bed, a stale feeling at the back of the eye-balls and my body hot and without energy. Getting up, shaving, having breakfast — it was all an effort. And this was only April. I wondered what it must be like in mid-summer.

When I enquired at the desk for the offices of the Gulfoman Oilfields Development Company I was told that they were several miles out of town on the Awali road. A fat man in a tropical suit of powder blue was asking about a taxi he’d booked for Awali. He was an Italian who had joined the flight at Rome and I asked him whether he would give me a lift. ‘Si, si, signore. Of course.’

His name was Ruffini and he was a journalist. ‘You are in oil?’ he asked as we drove past the Customs Quay crowded with dhows. And when I said No he looked surprised. ‘But you ‘ave an appointment at GODCO, no?’

‘A matter of an estate,’ I told him. ‘A client of mine has died.’

‘So!’ He sighed. ‘A lawyer’s business — always to concern itself with death. Is depressing for you, no?’ He offered me an American cigarette. ‘Who do you see at this Company? Is none of my business,’ he added quickly, seeing my hesitation. ‘But though I am never in Bahrain before, I ‘ave contacts, introductions you say. If I can ‘elp you-’ He left it at that, reaching into his breast pocket for a pair of dark glasses. And because he was being helpful I told him who it was I’d come to see.

‘You know anything about this Sir Philip Gorde?’ he asked.

‘He’s a director of the Company in London.’

‘But not the most important man out here, I think.’

And he leaned forward and asked the driver, a pockmarked Bahraini with a lot of gold teeth. ‘Who is the big man at GODCO?’

‘Is Meester Erkhard.’

Ruffini nodded. ‘Alexander Erkhard. Bene. That is also my information.’

‘Many years,’ the driver added, turning to face us. ‘Many years it is Sir Gorde. Not now.’ The car touched the road verge, sending up a cloud of dust. ‘Ten years now I have taxi and am driving down the Awali road, sir, with men from BAPCO, GODCO, ARAMCO. I speak not well Eenglish, but understand plenty, get me? I look after the boys good, very bloody good. They all friends of Mahommed Ali. That my name, sir.’ He was looking over his shoulder again. ‘You want something, you find my car outside BOAC Hotel.’

‘When did Mr Erkhard come out to Bahrain?’ I asked.

‘Five, six years ago, sir. Before I get this Buick.’

‘And Sir Philip Gorde was the big man then?’

‘That’s right, sir. He is here before Awali, before I am born — a friend of the Ruler, of all Arabs. Very great man, Sir Gorde. But then he is sick and this Mr Erkhard, he come to Bahrain. Everything different then. Not friend of Ruler, not friend to Arabs.’ And he spat out of the open window. ‘Here is GODCO office now.’

We turned left with a screech of tyres. The dusty date gardens were left behind and a white building stood at the end of a tree-lined road. Beyond it lay the sea, a blue line shimmering on the horizon. ‘Ecco!’ Ruffini gripped my arm, pointing away to the right, to a litter of small mounds. ‘Tumuli. E molto interessante. There is a Danish man who dig in those tumuli. The oldest burial ground in Arabia per’aps.’

The brakes slammed on and the car stopped with a jerk. I got out. ‘I will see you at the ‘otel. Per’aps we ‘ave a drink together, eh?’ I thanked him for the lift and he waved a pudgy hand. ‘Ciao!’ The taxi swung away and I went in through the double glass doors. It was like walking into a refrigerator, for the place was air-conditioned to the temperature of a London office. Glass and tiled walls, steel furniture and the girl at the reception desk cool and immaculate. But when I asked for Sir Philip Gorde she frowned. ‘I don’t think Sir Philip is back yet. Have you an appointment?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘But I’ve flown out from England specially to see him.’

She asked me my name and then got on the phone. A white-faced electric clock ticked the seconds away on the wall above her head. Finally she shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. It’s as I thought. Sir Philip is still in Abu Dhabi.’

‘When will-he be back?’ I asked. Abu Dhabi was the first of the Trucial sheikhdoms and at least a hundred and fifty miles from Bahrain.

She started talking on the phone again and I lit a cigarette and waited. At length she said, ‘Could you tell me the nature of your business with Sir Philip please?’

‘If he’s in Abu Dhabi,’ I said, ‘there’s not much point, is there?’

She cupped her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘If it’s urgent, then I think they’d contact him for you. I told them you’d come out from England specially.’

I hesitated. But there was no point in concealing what I’d come about. ‘It concerns David Whitaker,’ I said. ‘I’m a lawyer.’

‘David Whitaker.’ She repeated it automatically, and then the name suddenly registered and her eyes widened. ‘Yes,’ she said quickly. ‘Of course. I’ll see what I can do.’

I leaned on the desk and waited, watching her as she talked into the phone. There was a long pause while she just stood there, holding it, and occasionally glancing at me with an expression of curiosity she couldn’t conceal. And then I heard her say, ‘Yes, of course, sir. I’ll send him up right away.’ She put the phone down and came back to the desk. ‘Mr Erkhard will see you himself.’ She said it on a note of surprise. ‘If you’ll go up to the first floor his secretary will be waiting for you.’