Hammond Innes - The Doomed Oasis

‘I am still your friend,’ Gorde said.

‘Then please you will honour the agreement.’

‘There is no agreement.’ His voice held a note of pity now. ‘Mr Erkhard has done the only thing possible in the circumstances.’ He turned to Whitaker. ‘For God’s sake, Charles; did you have to raise their hopes like this?’ It was clear from his words that he didn’t like the role he was being forced to play. ‘The truth was bound to come out in the end.’

‘What is the truth?’ The pale eye was fastened on Gorde in an aloof stare. ‘Do you know it? Are you so sure there’s no oil in Saraifa? For twenty years now I have searched-’

‘To hell with your theory,’ Gorde snapped. ‘Just answer me this; a simple Yes or No. Is there oil where you’re drilling?’

‘I’ve told you, we’re only down to just over three thousand feet. Erkhard could have waited-’

‘You know damn’ well he couldn’t wait. You’re not such a fool that you haven’t guessed why I’m out here risking my health on another tour of the Gulf.’

‘You thought my theory sound enough at one time. Remember?’

‘And I backed you,’ Gorde rasped. ‘I backed you because you’d got faith in yourself. But now I wonder. Now I think you’ve lost that faith. I don’t think you believe in your theory any more.’

‘What makes you say that?’ Whitaker’s voice was sharp, unnaturally high, and his face looked shocked.

Gorde leaned his squat body forward. ‘Because,’ he said, ‘if you’d any faith in your theory, you’d have backed your son. Instead, you left him to die out there on his own — alone, deserted.’ Each word punched home in that rasping voice. It was a terrible indictment. And he added, ‘Didn’t you understand that he was attempting to do what you’d no longer the guts to even try and do — to find oil, real oil. Not this sham, this clever, crooked dodge to trap us into signing-’

‘Philip!’ It came from Whitaker’s mouth as a strangled cry. ‘I want to talk to you — alone.’

It was an appeal, the call of past friendship. But Gorde ignored it. ‘I’ve nothing to say to you, Charles.’ The words came bleak and cold. ‘Except perhaps this: if there is any oil in Saraifa, then my guess is that it’s right there on the border where your son was prospecting. But,’ he added, turning to Sheikh Makhmud, ‘I have to tell you that there’s absolutely no question of our Company — or any other company, for that matter — undertaking exploratory work there at the present time. I was with the Political Resident for two hours this morning. He made the Government’s attitude very clear. And now that I know what happened here last night, simply because one of our geologists was inadvertently on that border, I think he’s right.’

There was silence then and for a moment Colonel Whitaker continued to stand there as though shocked into immobility. Knowing what I did, I felt sorry for him. Gorde had misinterpreted his motives, but there was nothing he could do about it at that moment. Whitaker knew that. Abruptly he gathered his dark, embroidered cloak about him. ‘I’m sorry you had to come when you did, Philip.’ His tone was bitter; his manner arrogant, unbending, aloof. ‘You’ll live, I hope, to regret the words you’ve said and your hasty judgment. I did what I thought best for Saraifa, and Makhmud knows it.’ He walked past Gorde then, his one eye staring straight ahead of him as though on parade; a beaten, proud old man. The ranks of the bodyguard parted and he walked through them, magnificent and solitary.

With his departure the whole place became a babel of sound. It was as though Whitaker alone had held down the safety-valve of the crowd’s temper. Violence quivered on the sultry air and I got up quickly and went over to Gorde. ‘I think you ought to see Whitaker,’ I said. ‘As soon as possible. Tonight.’

‘Why?’

But the place had suddenly become quiet. Sheikh Makhmud was on his feet making a speech, presumably of explanation. ‘I can’t tell you here. But I think it’s important you should see him.’

‘It’s true, is it — you look after his financial affairs?’ He stared at me, his face tired now, leaning heavily on his stick. ‘Where’s Entwhistle?’ I told him and he nodded. ‘Sensible fellow. This is no place to be just now.’ He glanced at the sea of faces that packed the courtyard beyond. ‘It all looks very feudal, doesn’t it? But there’s an element of democracy in these desert states. The sheikhs rule by consent, not by right. Just bear that in mind.’ He was turning away, but then he checked. ‘Here’s your briefcase.’ He handed it to me. ‘You’ll find all the papers there.’

Again I pressed him to see Whitaker, but he shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t serve any purpose after what I’ve said. And anyway I don’t intend to. He’s the pride of the devil, has Charles.’

‘Go and see him,’ I said. ‘And take these papers with you.’ I held the briefcase out to him.

He looked at the case and then at me. ‘I took them along with me when I went to see the PRPG this morning. I thought I might persuade him-’ He gave that little shrug of his. ‘If he could have given us the All Clear politically I think I might have taken a chance on that boy’s survey and backed Erkhard. But he didn’t. More, he gave me a direct order that the Company was to keep clear of the area.’

It was final, and as though to emphasize the point, he said, ‘I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning as soon as it’s light. No doubt Charles will take care of you, but if you want a lift out…. ‘ Sheikh Makhmud stopped talking and the courtyard was in an uproar again. Gorde’s hand gripped my arm. ‘Hope turned to despair makes men dangerous,’ he said, his small, bloodshot eyes looking into mine. There’s going to be trouble here and these people are in an ugly mood.’

He turned abruptly away from me and in the midst of the noise and confusion I heard him say casually to Sheikh Makhmud, ‘Mind if we have something to eat? I’m damned hungry.’

Immediately, Sheikh Makhmud was the solicitous host, courteous and hospitable. ‘Faddal! Faddal! He waved Gorde to the place vacated by Whitaker, found room for Otto, called for food to be brought. Khalid was in the courtyard now, pacifying the tribesmen, shepherding them out. He was quick, decisive, a born leader, but they went sullenly.

I returned to my place, feeling nervous and ill-at-ease. I didn’t need to be told that they were in an ugly mood. I could feel it all around me. It was like an electric charge. And the uproar had spread from the feasting place into the great courtyard beyond and out into the village of Saraifa. The sound of their voices murmured on the night air, a continual angry buzzing as the whole population swarmed about the palace. Men came in and out to stand and stare, and it seemed to me that their eyes in the lamplight blazed with a wild, fanatical hate. Erkhard felt it, too, for he leaned across to me and said, ‘It’s all very well for Gorde to say he’ll leave at daybreak. He’s got his plane here. Mine is ten miles away beside that rig.’ And he added, ‘Damn the man! A Moslem. I should have guessed he’d be up to every sort of trickery.’

‘Did you have to turn him against his son?’ I said angrily.

But it didn’t register with him. ‘Greed,’ he said. ‘It’s an Arab failing.’

I thought that was good, coming from an oilman with his reputation. But I didn’t have a chance to reply, for Yousif was suddenly bending over me. ‘Coll-onel want you come,’ he hissed. ‘Very important, sahib.’

I hesitated, unwilling to leave the protection of Sheikh Makhmud’s presence or to lose contact with Gorde and his promise of a lift out. But I couldn’t very well refuse. ‘All right,’ I said and got to my feet. Courtesy demanded that I pay my respects to Sheikh Makhmud before leaving. He didn’t rise and his eyes regarded me coldly from behind their glasses. No doubt he held me partly responsible for what had happened. His face looked haggard, the line of his mouth bitter. I turned to Gorde. ‘I’m going to see Whitaker now,’ I said. ‘But I’d like to accept your offer of a lift.’