Hammond Innes - The Doomed Oasis

He had just taken a piece of meat from the dish in front of him and he looked up, licking the grease from his fingers. ‘First light,’ he said. ‘And watch it, Grant. Charles has lost face and anything can happen to a man that’s been hit as hard as he has.’

Yousif’s hand was on my arm and as I turned I saw Sheikh Abdullah’s dark eyes fixed on me. The men in the courtyard fell back from me, suddenly silent, as we made our way out. Their eyes followed me, gleaming in the lamplight, and once again I caught the whisper of that word — Nasrani. There was no mistaking the significance of it this time. They were hating us all that night.

Whitaker was waiting for me on that same rooftop over looking the desert, but this time he was pacing up and down it. His movements were caged and restless. He checked only momentarily as I entered. ‘Will Philip Gorde come and see me, do you think?’ he asked, and when I told him No, he resumed his pacing. ‘After all these years, to talk to me like that!’

It was too dark for me to see his face, but I could tell from the stooped outline of his shoulders, the lowered head, above all the nervous quickness of his movements, the way he spoke, that his mood was one of desperation. ‘All my life I’ve had to use subtlety. It’s been part of my job out here. Always the need to find my way through the maze of Arab politics. Never a straight course. Always the devious approach. These oilmen out from England — stupid men like Erkhard who don’t understand the Arab mentality — they don’t realize the problems of these Bedou sheikhs, the feuds, the vague boundaries that didn’t matter so long as it was desert sand and nothing more. History, culture, race — they go back three thousand years and more, virtually without change, untouched by Western civilization. It’s a culture in which the individual is still dominant, personality and human emotions the overriding factor governing men’s actions. And over all this are the outside factors — international politics, the Foreign Office. Even Philip doesn’t really know the Arab — though he likes to think he does.’

It was the fact of having somebody with him of his own race. The words came out of him in a pent-up torrent. But what he said was said for his own benefit, not for mine; an attempt to justify his actions. But when he’d said it all, he turned and faced me, suddenly almost humble: ‘Suppose I go to Philip myself?’

There was no point in raising his hopes. ‘I don’t think it would do any good.’ And I told him about Gorde’s visit to the PRPG.

His head came up. ‘In other words, I was right. The Company’s not allowed to enter into any agreement involving the Hadd border.’ There was relief in his voice, but it was overlaid by the bitterness of frustration. And he added acidly, ‘Nice of the Political Resident to confirm my own assessment of the situation so exactly.’ His shoulders sagged; he turned his face towards the desert. ‘Then I’ve no alternative now … ‘ He said it to himself, not to me. standing very still, looking out to where the stars met the hard line of the sands. ‘Over thirty years I’ve been out here. Grant. I’m practically a Bedou. I think like them, act like them … I’m over sixty now and I know more about the Arab and Arabia … ‘He stopped there and in the stillness I could hear the breeze rattling the palms. He turned slowly and stared at me. ‘All these years out here and a boy of twenty-four sees it clearer than I do.’ His voice was harsh, his face grim, the lines cut by sand and sun so deep they might have been scored by a knife.

‘It’s a pity you didn’t reach that conclusion earlier,’ I said.

He took a step forward, his eye bulging, his body taut, gripped in a sudden blaze of anger. But all he said was. ‘Yes, it’s a pity.’ He turned and resumed his pacing, the shoulders stooped again. ‘Heredity is a strange thing,’ he murmured. ‘If we’d been less alike … ‘ He shrugged and added, ‘In that case I don’t suppose he’d have gone back to the locations against my orders.’ He fell silent again then. The breeze was from the east and it brought with it the murmur of Saraifa like the beat of the surf on a distant shore.

‘You wanted to see me,’ I reminded him. The sound of that distant crowd made me anxious to get back to Gorde.

‘Yes, about finances.’ He kicked a cushion towards me and told me to sit down. ‘Just what have I got left?’ he demanded, folding himself up on the floor beside me.

I was glad Gorde had returned my briefcase then. I could have told him the position more or less from memory, but all the papers were there and it made it easier. He shouted for Yousif to bring a light and for the next ten minutes I went over the figures with him. He hadn’t much left. But there were some shares I hadn’t sold and they’d appreciated quite considerably, and after repaying back loans, I thought he’d have just enough if he lived quietly. I thought he’d decided to go home, you see, to leave Arabia and retire. It seemed reasonable for a man of his age. ‘I’m sorry it’s not more,’ I said, putting the papers back in their folder.

He nodded. ‘I’ll have to borrow then.’

‘It would be better,’ I said, returning the file to my briefcase, ‘if you could arrange to live within your means.’

He stared at me, and then he burst out laughing. But the laughter was without humour. ‘So you think I’m beaten, do you? You think I’m turning tail and heading for home like a village cur … ‘ The fury building up in him seemed to get hold of his throat so that the words became blurred. That’s what they’ll all be thinking, I don’t doubt — Gorde, Makhmud, that man Erkhard.’ And then in a voice that was suddenly matter-of-fact: ‘I take it you’ll be going back in one of the Company planes?’

‘Gorde has offered me a lift.’

‘Good. I’ll have letters for you to various merchants in Bahrain. A list of things to order, too. Would you like to wait here whilst I write them or shall I send Yousif up with them later? When is Philip leaving, by the way?’

‘First light.’ And because I wanted to make certain I didn’t miss the flight I asked him to have the letters sent after me.

He nodded. That gives me the night in which to think this thing over.’ He summoned Yousif and gave him instructions to take me back to the palace. ‘By the way,’ he said, as I got to my feet, ‘you mentioned a package Griffith had brought you, something David took to him on board the Emerald Isle. Was that his survey report?’

I nodded.

‘Based on Henry Farr’s old report?’

‘Yes.’

‘I take it Entwhistle was running a check on David’s locations? You don’t know with what result, I suppose?’

‘No. He didn’t say.’

He had risen to his feet and standing close to me, he seemed to tower over me. ‘I’d like to see my son’s survey report. Have you got it with you in your briefcase?’

I realized then why he’d considered his finances inadequate. ‘Good God!’ I said. ‘You’re surely not going to start drilling operations on that border … ‘ I was staring at him, remembering what Gorde had said. But there was nothing wild-eyed about him. He was bitter, yes. He’d been humiliated, deeply shocked by the behaviour of a man he’d always regarded as his friend, but the eye that met mine was level and unflinching and I knew that he hadn’t yet crossed the borderline into madness. ‘You haven’t a hope of succeeding now,’ I said. ‘The Emir will be watching that border and the instant you start drilling … ‘

He smiled thinly. ‘I’m not afraid of death, you know. Being a Muslim makes one fatalistic.’ He turned away, leaning his body on the parapet and staring out across the dunes, grey now with the first light of the risen moon. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do yet. I haven’t made up my mind.’ He hesitated and then turned to me. ‘But if I should decide to go ahead then I’d like to have David’s report. He gives the locations, I take it?’ And when I nodded, he said. ‘Do they coincide with Henry Farr’s?’