I suppose I was in that limbo of half-coma that is the result of shock and exhaustion, my mind in confusion, a kaleidoscope of thoughts and imaginings all as strange as the lights and the music. Darkness came eventually, and sleep — a sleep so dead that when I finally opened my eyes the sun was high above the hotel roof and Hussain was shaking me. He was even more unshaven now and he kept repeating, ‘Tiffin, tiffin, sahib.’ It was almost ten o’clock and there was a tray on the small central table with boiled eggs, sliced white bread, butter, marmalade and a big pot of coffee.
My clothes had gone, but the notes and traveller’s cheques that had been in my hip pocket were on the table beside me. Kites wheeled in a cloudless sky. I had a quick shower and breakfasted with a towel wrapped round my middle. A copy of Dawn lay on the table. Founded by Quaid-i-Azam Mohammed AH Jinnah, it said — Karachi, 21 Safar, 1400. The lead story was about Iran, the conflict between the IRP and the left-wing Mujaheddin. I could find no mention of a dhow being wrecked off Gwadar or of anybody being washed ashore there. The bearer came with my clothes, laundered, ironed and reasonably dry. As soon as I was dressed I rang the office of Lloyd’s agents down near the Customs House, but Peter Brown was out and the only other person I knew there, a Parsi, had no information to give me. I sat by the window then, reading the paper from cover to cover and watching the kites. Hussain refused absolutely to allow me out of the room and though I had a telephone call from Brown’s office it was only to say he would contact me as soon as he had any information. I could have done with a drink, but the hotel was under strict Islamic laws and drier than the sands of Baluchistan.
Just after midday Ahmad Khan arrived, the jacket of his blue suit slung over his shoulder, his tie loosened. ‘There is no ship,’ he said in his rather high lilting voice. He was standing in the middle of the room, his dark eyes watching me closely. ‘Muscat report their aircraft have overflown all the khawrs of the Musandam Peninsula. There is no tanker there.’ He paused to let that sink in. ‘Also, Gwadar report no body being washed onto the coast.’
‘Was there any sign of the man who jumped overboard?’ I asked.
‘No, nothing. And no sign of the ship.’
‘I told you they would have sailed the morning after we escaped. Have they made a search along the tanker route?’
‘Oman say they are doing it now. I have told my office to let me know here as soon as we receive a report.’ He threw his jacket on to the nearest bed, picked up the phone and ordered coffee. ‘You want any coffee?’
I shook my head. Just over two days at full speed, the ship could be nine hundred, a thousand miles from the Straits, clear of the Oman Gulf, and well out into the Indian Ocean — a hell of a lot of sea to search. ‘What about other ships? Have they been alerted?’
‘You ask Mr Brown that. I have no information.’
His coffee came, and when the waiter had gone he said, ‘You don’t wish to amend your statement at all?’
I shook my head. ‘No, not at all.’
‘Okay.’ And after that he sat there drinking his coffee in silence. Time passed as I thought about the route the tanker would have taken, and wondered why he was here. It was just on twelve-thirty that the phone rang. It was Brown and after a moment he handed it to me. All shipping had been alerted the previous night. So far nothing had been reported. ‘I’ve just been talking to the Consul. I’m afraid they’re a bit sceptical.’
‘Do you mean they don’t believe me?’
‘No, why should they? I don’t think anyone’s going to believe you unless the tanker actually materializes.’
‘Do you?’
There was a moment’s hesitation. ‘I might if it wasn’t for your story about Choffel. Let’s wait, shall we? If the body turns up, or we get a sighting of that tanker…’ His voice drifted away apologetically. ‘Anyway, how are you feeling now — rested?’
‘Yes, I’m all right.’
‘Good, good.’ There was a pause while he searched around for something else to say. ‘Glad you’re all right. Well, if I hear anything I’ll give you a ring.’ There was a click and he was gone.
The conversation left me feeling lonely and disconsolate. If he didn’t believe me, the little Sindhi intelligence man sipping noisily at his coffee certainly would not. Hussain arranged for lunch to be brought up from the cafe below, a spiced rissole, chilli hot, with slices of white bread and some tinned fruit. Ahmad Khan hardly spoke and I was speculating what was going to happen to me when it was realized the tanker had vanished. Obviously, once outside the Gulf of Oman, it would be steering well clear of the shipping lanes. Clouds were building in the white glare above the rooftops and the kites were wheeling lower.
Suddenly the phone rang. It was Ahmad Khan’s office. Muscat had reported both reconnaissance planes back at base. They had been in the air over 3V2 hours and had covered virtually the whole of the Gulf from the Straits right down to Ras al Had, south-east of Muscat, and had also flown 300 miles into the Arabian Sea. Of all the tankers they had sighted only five or six had approximated to the size of the Aurora B, and none of those had answered to the description I had given. Also, most of the ships sighted had been contacted.by radio and none had reported seeing anything resembling the Aurora B. All the ships sighted had been in the normal shipping lanes. They had seen nothing outside these lanes and the search had now been called off. The same negative report had been made by seaborne helicopters searching the Mus-andam Peninsula and the foothills of the Jebel al Harim. That search had also been called off.
He put the phone down and picked up his jacket. ‘I am instructed to escort you to the airport and see that you leave on the next flight to the UK. Please, you will now get ready.’
‘Any reason?’
He hesitated, then gave a little shrug. ‘I don’t think it matters that you know. Your allegations have been discussed in the highest quarters. They are regarded as very sensitive. Accordingly your Consul has been informed that you are persona non grata in this country. You understand?’
I nodded. I felt suddenly as though I had some contagious disease, everybody distancing themselves from me. But at least I was being allowed to leave.
‘You come now please.’ Ahmad Khan had his jacket slung over his shoulder and was standing waiting for me. I had nothing, only the shirt and trousers in which I had arrived. ‘I’ll need a sweater, something warm. It’s winter in London.’
But all he said was, ‘That is for your Consul. Come please.’ Hussain was standing with the door open. We went back down the cement corridors, the room bearer following us a little forlornly. We left him at the lift muttering to himself. A driver was waiting for us at the reception desk, a big, serious-looking man with a black moustache and a sort of turban, who led us out to an official car. We went first to the Abdullah Haroon Road Bazaar, where I had passport photos taken, and after that we drove out on the Khayaban-i-Iobal road to the British Consulate, which was close to the Clifton seaside resort. I had been there once before. It was up a long drive through a well-tended estate and gardens.