A moment later and we were clear, out of their range. The two Arabs sorted themselves out and I turned to Entwhistle. His foot was hard down on the accelerator and his lips were moving. The bastards!’ he was saying. ‘The bloody bastards!’ And then he looked at me. ‘Dum-dum bullets.’ His face was white under the sunburn. ‘They cut them across to make ‘them soft nosed. Blow a hole in you the size of a barn door.’ It was this rather than the attack that seemed to outrage him.
‘Who were they?’ I asked, and was shocked to find that I hadn’t proper control over my voice.
‘The Emir’s men. They must have seen the plane turn back and realized we were being warned of their presence.’ He turned to make certain that the truck was following. ‘Fine introduction you’ve had to desert life.’ He grinned, but not very certainly. He shouted something in Arabic to the two men perched on the baggage behind and they answered him with a flood of words. Shortly afterwards he pulled up. The truck drew up beside us, its engine throbbing, excited Arab faces looking down at us, all talking at once.
He got out then and spoke to the driver, walked all round the truck and then came back and lifted the bonnet of the Land-Rover. ‘Look at that,’ he said. I got out and my legs felt weak as I stared at the hole that first bullet had made. Little bits of lead were spattered all over the engine. ‘Bastards!’ he said and slammed the bonnet shut. ‘Well, it might have been worse, I suppose. Nobody’s hurt and the vehicles are all right.’
It was only after we’d got moving again that I realized the windscreen in front of me was shattered. Little bits of glass were falling into my lap. I kept my eyes half-closed until I had picked out all the bits. ‘How far is it to Saraifa?’ I asked him.
‘Not much more than forty miles by air.’ I gathered it was a good deal more the way we’d have to go, for the dunes ran south-east and we had to get east. ‘Might make it shortly after dark if we don’t get bogged down too often.’
It was just after four-thirty then. We kept to the gravel flats between the dunes, travelling at almost thirty miles an hour. The air that came rushing in through the shattered windscreen was a hot, searing blast that scorched the face. The ground was hard as iron, criss-crossed with innumerable ridges over which the Land-Rover rattled in an endless series of back-breaking jolts.
In these circumstances conversation wasn’t easy; the wind of our movement, the noise of the engine, the rattle of stones — we had to shout to make ourselves heard. And Entwhistle wasn’t a talkative man. He’d lived on his own too much. Besides, he had a North Countryman’s lack of imagination. He even used the word ‘humdrum’ when I asked him about his job. And yet I got the impression that he loved it. But it was the job, not Arabia he loved. He’d no feeling for the country or its people. More than once he used the contemptuous term ‘wogs’ when speaking of the Arabs. But though he wouldn’t talk about himself much, he was quite prepared to talk about David.
He had met him three times in all; once in Bahrain and then later when he was sick and David had relieved him.
‘Queer chap,’ he said. ‘Fact is I didn’t like him much when he came out to take over my outfit. But then,’ he added, ‘You don’t like anybody very much when you’re suffering from jaundice.’
‘But you felt differently about him later?’ I prompted.
‘Aye. Got to know him a bit better then. We were two days together whilst we moved to a new location. Then he went off to Saraifa. He’d got some leave due and he was going to spend it mucking around with an old seismological truck his father had got hold of.’ I asked him what had made him change his mind about David, and he said, ‘Oh, the way he talked. He was a great talker. Mind you,’ he added, ‘he was still too chummy with the wogs for my liking, but you couldn’t help admiring the chap. Wanted to make the desert blossom and all that.’
‘Water?’ I asked.
He nodded. That’s it. He’d got a bee in his bonnet about it. Talked about Saraifa being doomed. Well, of course, it is. I’ve only been there once, but-well, you’ll see for yourself. A few more years-’ He didn’t talk for a while after that, for we had come to soft sand; he took it fast, his foot pressed hard down on the accelerator, and we bucketed through it like a small boat in a seaway.
We came off the sand on to a hard gravel pan that scintillated with a myriad diamond gleams. ‘Mica,’ he shouted. The glare of it was dazzling. ‘You interested in geology?’
I shook my head.
‘Pity.’ He seemed genuinely sorry. ‘Damned interesting country.’ For him there was nothing else of interest in Arabia. We bucked another stretch of sand, ridged into shallow waves, and then he told me what had decided him to check David’s survey report. Amongst the papers in that attache case he had found Farr’s report. ‘Didn’t tell the Old Man. Thought I’d keep it in reserve. God knows where David dug it up. It was twenty years old, the paper all faded; the typing too. Could hardly read the damned thing.’
‘Have you got it with you?’ I asked.
‘Aye.’ He nodded. ‘I wasn’t going to leave that behind. I’ll show it to you later. Can’t think why the Company didn’t do something about it.’
‘There was a war on,’ I said. ‘And Farr was killed in Abyssinia.’
‘You know about it then?’ He seemed surprised.
‘David referred to it in his report.’
‘Oh yes, of course.’
We hit another patch of sand, a solid vista of it that stretched interminably ahead of us. We didn’t talk much after that. It was soft sand and the going was tough. Twice the seismological truck got bogged down and we had to lay sand mats. The sun sank slowly down into the desert behind us as we ploughed on, engines roaring, radiators steaming. We were in big dune country that was like a huge, petrified sea, the waves coming up one after the other, yet never moving, always motionless, and the shadows lengthening behind them. It had an eerie, still quality; and it left me with a sense of awe, for it had a certain majesty, a cruel, lost quality that was unnerving. Once I shouted, ‘Is it like this all the way to Saraifa?’
‘Christ! I hope not,’ he yelled back.
‘But don’t you know?’ I asked.
‘How the hell should I? Never been here before.’
The sun set, a brick-red ball of fire, hazed it seemed with dust. Here and there we came upon the derelict remains of trees, gnarled and twisted in a life-long struggle against crippling odds. Dusk descended swiftly and the light faded out of the dunes. Behind us they stood like downlands etched sharp against the sky’s last light. Above us the stars suddenly appeared. Again the truck behind us became bogged and we dug the sand mats down in front of the wheels and pushed and strained to gain a few yards. And when at last we got it moving there was no light left and it was dark.
‘Will you be able to find Saraifa in the dark?’ I asked Entwhistle.
‘Inshallah,’ he said, and we pushed on.
How he did it I don’t know, but about an hour later the dunes became smaller, the stunted tree-growth more noticeable, and then suddenly we ran out on to hard gravel again. And shortly after that the headlights picked up the first of the date gardens, a sad relic of a once fertile place, the walls no longer visible, just the starved tops of the palms sticking up out of the sand.
We passed between two of these ruined gardens and then we joined a well-worn track where the sand had been ground to a fine powder; there were the marks of tyres, the droppings of camels. The headlights picked out the round bulk of a watch tower with men running from it, their guns gleaming with silver furnishings. Entwhistle slowed as they stood, barring our path. They wore turbans and long white robes and strapped across their shoulders was a sort of harness of leather studded with the brass of cartridges; stuffed into their belts were the broad, curved-bladed khanjar knives, the hilts of silver glinting wickedly. As we stopped they came swarming over us, enveloping us with their harsh guttural speech, all talking at once, white teeth flashing in villainous dark faces.