I had my lunch in the company of a German commercial traveller and two American tourists staying the night on their way to India. The German could talk of nothing but the fact that his product had been copied in Karachi and was on sale in almost the identical wrapping in the bazaars of Dubai. The Americans were from Detroit, plaintive and unable to see any attraction in the untamed beauty of the desert, faintly disturbed by the condition of the Arabs, nostalgic for a hotel that would give them the built-in sense of security of a Statler.
The sound of aircraft coming in low interrupted the desultory conversation. Ten minutes later the screen door was flung open and Otto came in with his navigator. ‘Hi!’ He waved his hand and came over to me. ‘Fairy godfather, that’s me. Anything you want, Otto produces it. The Old Man’s in the manager’s office right now.’
‘Gorde?’
He nodded. ‘But watch out. He’s hopping mad about something.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, and went across to my room and got my briefcase.
The manager’s office was by the arched entrance and seated opposite him in one of the big leather armchairs was a much older man with a yellowish face that was shrivelled like a nut. He had a tall glass in his hand and on the floor at his side lay a rubber-ferruled stick. Small bloodshot eyes stared at me over deep pouches as I introduced myself. He didn’t say anything but just sat there summing me up.
I was conscious at once that this was a very different man to Erkhard. He looked as though he belonged in the desert, a man who had had all the red blood baked out of him by the heat. He wore an old pair of desert boots, khaki trousers and a freshly-laundered cream shirt with a silk square knotted round his throat like a sweat rag. A battered brown trilby, the band stained black by the perspiration of years, was tipped to the back of his grizzled head.
‘You got my message,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘Yes. I got your message. But that wasn’t what brought me.’ His voice was dry, rasping, the words staccato as though life were too short for conversation.
‘Should be in Bahrain now.’ He gave the manager a brusque nod of dismissal and when we were alone he said, There’s a newspaper on the desk there. That’s why I’m here. Read it. I’ve marked the passage.’
It was the airmail edition of a leading London daily. The marked passage was on the foreign news page. It was headed: NEW OIL DISCOVERY IN ARABIA? — Desert Death of Ex-Borstal Boy Starts Rumours. It was written ‘by a Special Correspondent’ and besides giving a full and graphic account of David Whitaker’s disappearance and the search that had followed, it included his background; everything was there, everything that I knew about the boy myself — his escape from the police in Cardiff, the fact that he was Colonel Whitaker’s son, even the details of how he’d been smuggled into Arabia on a native dhow. The story ran to almost a column with a double-column head, and about the only thing it didn’t give was the location he’d been surveying immediately prior to his death.
‘Well?’ Gorde rasped. ‘Are you responsible for that?’
‘No.’
‘Then who is?’
That was what I was wondering. Whoever had written it had access to all the information that I had. ‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘You’re David Whitaker’s solicitor. His Executor, in fact, Otto tells me.’
‘Yes.’
‘And just over two days ago you were in London.’
‘Nevertheless, I’m not responsible for it.’
‘A young kid just out of oil school and operating in an area he’d no business in … a criminal to boot.’ He glared at me, his fingers drumming at the leather arm of the chair. The Political Resident had that paper specially flown down to me at Abu Dhabi. The Foreign Office has teleprinted him that half the London press have taken the story up. He’s furious.’
The facts are correct,’ I said.
‘The facts!’ But he was thinking of the boy’s background. ‘You know where his truck was found abandoned? Inside the borders of Saudi Arabia,’ he almost snarled. ‘A story like that — it could spark off another Buraimi; only worse, much worse.’ He paused then, staring at me curiously. ‘Your note said you wanted to see me. You said it was urgent, something about this boy — a communication.’
I didn’t answer at once, for I’d read through to the end of the newspaper story, to the editorial footnote that had been added at the bottom: The London Office of the Gulfoman Oilfields Development Company issued a statement yesterday denying that there was any truth in rumours that the Company had made an important new oil strike. Asked whether David Whitaker had made a confidential report prior to his death, an official of the Company stated categorically that nothing was known in London about any such report. Despite the Company’s denials, GODCO shares went ahead yesterday in active dealings on the London Stock Exchange. ‘Well?’
‘Suppose there’s something in it?’
‘Suppose pigs had wings,’ he snarled. ‘Well, come on, man. What was it you wanted to see me about?’
For answer I opened.my briefcase and handed over the envelope David had addressed to him. ‘Have you seen Colonel Whitaker since you’ve been out here?’ I asked.
‘What’s that got to do with it?’ He was staring down at the envelope, arid when I started to explain, he cut me short. ‘Oh I’ve heard the talk if that’s what you mean. But it’s nothing to do with the Company. If Charles Whitaker likes to waste his money trying to prove a theory-’ He grunted. ‘It’s just damned awkward, that’s all. The boy’s death makes a colourful story and coming on top of his father’s activities-’ He gave a little shrug and slit open the flap of the envelope with his finger. ‘Erkhard was trying to keep it quiet — and rightly. Saraifa is a trouble-spot. Always has been. And the political chaps are touchy about it.’
That doesn’t explain why he should try to prevent me seeing you.’
He had taken out a letter and two wads of foolscap. ‘What’s that? What are you talking about?’ He reached into his pocket for his glasses.
I told him then how I’d been given facilities for Sharjah as soon as it was known that he had changed his plans and was flying back to Bahrain.
‘What are you suggesting?’ he demanded.
That Erkhard didn’t intend us to meet.’
‘Nonsense. What difference could it make to him?’ He put on his glasses and after that he didn’t talk as he read steadily through the contents. Finally he said, ‘Do you know what this is, Mr Grant?’ He tapped one of the foolscap sheets. ‘Do you know what he’s trying to get me to do?’
‘Sign some sort of undertaking, but I don’t know exactly-’
‘Undertaking!’ he rasped. ‘If I sign this-’ He waved the sheet of paper at me. It would commit the Company to drilling four test wells at locations to be supplied by you.’ He took his glasses off and stared at me. ‘Is that right? You hold the locations?’
‘Yes,’ I said. They’re in a separate envelope. If you sign that document, then I’m instructed to hand it across to you.’
‘But not otherwise?’
‘No.’
‘And you’ve got it with you?’
I nodded. ‘It’s here in my briefcase.’
‘And if I don’t sign … What do you do then?’
‘In that case I imagine my actions wouldn’t concern you.’.
‘No?’ He laughed. And then he was looking down at the document again. ‘I see here that you will be acting as agent for Sheikh Makhmud and his son Khalid in this matter. Have you ever met Sheikh Makhmud?’