Hammond Innes - The Doomed Oasis

I thanked her and went up the stairs. Erkhard’s secretary proved to be a man, neat and immaculate with a copy-book smile of greeting. ‘Mr Grant? Will you come this way please.’ He took me along a cool corridor and into an office that looked out across the tumuli. ‘Mr Erkhard’s very busy and you’ve come unexpectedly without an appointment. If you’d keep it as short as possible.’

‘I didn’t ask to see Mr Erkhard,’ I said, and that seemed to upset him. ‘No, no, of course. I understand.’ He paused at the communicating door on the far side, a discreet little pause that gave emphasis and importance to the moment. Then he opened the door. ‘Mr Grant, sir.’

The room was dove-grey, the furniture black steel. The big window looking out across the tumuli was a single sheet of flawless glass fitted with plastic Venetian blinds. The desk at which Erkhard was seated filled most of the far side of the room, and all the wall behind him was taken up with a relief map of Arabia dotted with flags. He didn’t rise to greet me, but simply waved me to the chair opposite his desk. ‘You’re a lawyer, I understand?’

I nodded and sat down.

‘And you’re out here on account of young Whitaker’s death?’

‘I’m his Executor.’

‘Ah, yes.’ There was a peculiar softness about his manner, a smoothness almost. It was something to do with the roundness of his face and the way the lips were moulded into the suggestion of a smile. He was sitting perfectly still, watching me — waiting, I felt. It was disconcerting and I found him a difficult man to place, probably because he wasn’t a type I had met before. In a weaker man that half-smile might have appeared ingratiating. But there was nothing weak about Erkhard. And the eyes were cold as they stared at me unblinkingly. ‘Have you see the young man’s family?’ There was an accent, but so slight it was barely noticeable.

‘The mother,’ I told him. ‘I haven’t seen the sister yet.’

‘She’s out here in Dubai — a nurse.’

I nodded. ‘You cabled her the news. She sent me a copy.’

‘Yes. A very unfortunate business. It’s not often we have a casualty.’ There was a long pause, and then he said, ‘Why are you here, Mr Grant? Are you hoping to persuade us to resume the search? I had a message, something to that effect from London Office.’ And he added, ‘I assure you it would be quite useless.’

‘Perhaps if I had a full account of the circumstances,’ I suggested.

‘Of course. There is a report of the search. I’ll see that you’re given a copy before you leave.’ Another long pause. ‘You were asking for Sir Philip Gorde, I understand. Why?’ And when I didn’t answer, he added, ‘I signed that cable to Nurse Thomas and you’ve been in touch with London. You knew perfectly well that I gave the order for the search to be abandoned.’ He stared at me. ‘Perhaps you would care to explain?’

‘There’s nothing to explain,’ I said. ‘It happens that I have to see Sir Philip on a private matter.’

‘Connected with Whitaker?’

‘Yes.’

He got suddenly to his feet. ‘I’m the General Manager in Arabia, Mr Grant. Whitaker was employed by me. His death is my responsibility, not Sir Philip Gorde’s.’

‘I appreciate that.’

‘Then your correct approach was surely to ask for an interview with me?’

It seemed to worry him and I wondered why. He was staring down at me, waiting for an answer. Finally he turned away and stood looking out of the window at the brown, dried-up landscape. His light tropical suit was obviously tailored in London and the silk shirt was monogrammed with his initials. ‘Sir Philip is in Abu Dhabi.’ He said it quietly as though he were speaking to himself. ‘Tomorrow, or perhaps the day after, he will be going on to Sharjah. That’s another of the Trucial sheikhdoms, further to the east. He will not be back here for at least a week, perhaps a fortnight.’ He turned then and looked directly at me again. ‘How do you propose to contact him? Have you thought of that?’ ‘I only got in this morning,’ I said. ‘Have you visas for the Trucial sheikhdoms?’ ‘No. I have to apply to the Political Resident’s office-’ ‘Mr Grant.’ He was smiling again. ‘I don’t think you understand. It isn’t easy to get visas for the Trucial Oman. The PRPG is very naturally extremely reluctant-’ He gave a little shrug. ‘This is Arabia, you know, not Europe. The political situation is far from stable and there is a great deal at stake; enormous sums of capital have been sunk in this area.’ He paused there to give me time to consider. ‘Of course, we could help you. Not only in the matter of your application for a visa, but in transport, too. We have flights going east along the coast to our various development projects. In fact, I think there is one going to Abu Dhabi tomorrow. But,’ he added, ‘in order to help you we should have to know the exact purpose of your visit.’

He was taking a lot of trouble over this. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Beyond saying that my business with Sir Philip concerns the Estate — a matter of a signature — I cannot disclose-’

‘You have a document for him to sign?’ He sounded puzzled, and when I refused to be drawn, he gave a little shrug and returned to his desk. ‘Since it is a private matter and not the concern of the Company, I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mr Grant. I’ll send Gorde a personal note, of course, to tell him you’re here.’ A fractional hesitation and then with that little smile that never remotely touched his eyes: ‘And if you’d care to communicate with him direct, then I’ve no doubt we could arrange for a letter to be delivered to him by tomorrow’s plane.’ His hand reached out to the onyx bell-push on the desk.

I

‘One moment,’ I said. I wasn’t sure how to handle it, but I knew that once I was out of that office, the opportunity to question him would be gone for ever. ‘I wonder … perhaps you would be good enough to clear up one or two points for me?’ I said it tentatively. ‘Whilst I’m here,’ I added.

There was a momentary hesitation whilst his hand still hovered on the bell-push.

‘I’m a little puzzled about certain aspects of the boy’s death,’ I murmured.

The hand moved back from the bell-push, reluctantly. And then he smiled and leaned back in his chair. ‘Of course.’

‘You say he was employed by you at the time of his death?’

‘He was employed by the Company, yes.’

I hesitated. The devil of it was I didn’t know what I was after. Something … but what? The map, towering behind him, caught my eye. ‘Could you show me exactly where it was his truck was found?’

He got up at once, almost with relief, I felt. The position he indicated was well to the south-west of Buraimi Oasis, a position where three dotted lines met. Peering over his shoulder I saw that these marked the boundaries of Saudi Arabia, the Sheikhdom of Saraifa and the emirate of Hadd. His finger rested on a point inside the Saudi Arabian border. The whole area was shaded with little dots. The sands of the Rub al Khali,’ he explained. ‘Dune country. It’s called the Empty Quarter.’

‘You’ve no concessions in Saudi Arabia, have you?’

‘No.’

‘Then what was he doing there?’

That’s something we should like to know, Mr Grant.’

‘He was there without your authority then?’

‘Of course.’ His nod was very emphatic.

‘If he was carrying out a survey, then presumably he had a survey crew. What happened to them?’

He hesitated and the quick glance he gave me suggested that this was something he didn’t want to go into. But in the end he said, ‘He had an Arab crew. They were picked up by Askari of the Emir of Hadd. However, the men have been interviewed. It appears they became nervous. Hardly surprising in that area. Anyway, they downed tools, took the Land-Rover and left Whitaker there on his own.’