The feast was a monstrous, gargantuan affair — mutton, goat’s flesh, young camel, chicken, gazelle. The platters came on and on and kept on coming, the meat nestled on piled-up heaps of rice, eggs floating in a spiced gravy like little yellow balls, omelettes piled in tiers, flat and leathery like girdle cakes, flat discs of bread, liquid butter and cheese. Half the dishes never got beyond the colonnades, but remained outside in the dust, enough to feed an army. Like all Bedouin feasts it was intended as a meal for the Sheikh’s bodyguard who were waiting on us, for all the palace retainers, and finally for the people of Saraifa themselves so that they should all feel that they had shared in the event.
The cooking was rough desert cooking, the meat overdone and swimming in fat, the dishes lukewarm at best. But I was so damned hungry I scarcely thought about what I was eating. Khalid kept plying me with delicacies — the tongue of gazelle I remember and something that I popped into my mouth and swallowed whole, hoping it wasn’t what I thought it was. An old man sat in a corner playing intermittently on what I can only describe as a lute. The palace poet, I was told. Later he would unburden himself of a poem in praise of the guests and of the occasion. ‘It will be a long poem,’ Khalid said and his eyes smiled whilst his face remained quite serious. There was a sudden silence and into it the man next to me tossed a belch of impressive loudness. There was a great deal of belching. It was a mark of appreciation and before we were halfway through the meal I found myself doing the same, so quickly and easily does one fall into the other people’s conventions. Also my stomach was by then very full.
Outside in the courtyard Sheikh Makhmud’s falconers paraded their birds. He was very proud of his falcons, and seeing them, talons gripped around wooden perches spiked into the sand or around the leather-gauntleted arms of their keepers, I found myself glancing at Whitaker, noticing the same quick, predatory look, the same sharp, beaky features. Our eyes met for a moment and it seemed to me that the mood of exhilaration had drained out of him as though success had a sour taste; or perhaps it was the clothes I was wearing, reminding him of his son.
The main dishes had all been removed now. Lights were brought, for the sun had set and it was growing dark. They were modern, chromium-plated pressure lamps and they were hung on nails in the walls, where they hissed and glared and had to be constantly pumped to maintain the pressure. And with the lamps came dishes of every sort of tinned fruit. There was halwa, too. Coffee followed, and at a sign from Sheikh Makhmud the poet moved into the centre. He sat facing the guests and began plucking at his lute, chanting a ballad — the story, Khalid said, of Saraifa’s need of water and Haj Whitaker’s long search for oil. It had the effect of intensifying the mood of excitement that gripped all the Arabs … all except Sheikh Abdullah, who sat staring stonily into space.
And then suddenly the stillness was shattered by the noise of an aircraft flying low. The ballad-singer faltered, the sound of the lute ceased; the story came abruptly to a halt, unfinished.
The sound swept in a roar over the palms. I thought I caught a glimpse of a dark shape against the stars, and then the engine died. It was coming in to land and Sheikh Makhmud called to his secretary and a guard was despatched to escort the visitors. Everybody was talking at once and Erkhard leaned across to me and hissed, ‘Who is it? Do you know?’
I didn’t answer, but I think he must have guessed, for his eyes were coldly bleak and there was a tightness about his mouth. I looked past him to where Whitaker sat. His face was expressionless, but his body had a stillness that was without repose.
After what seemed a very long wait Gorde and Otto were escorted into the courtyard.
It was a strange moment, for Gorde walked straight in on the feast, limping and leaning on his stick, the sweat-stained trilby jammed firmly on his grizzled head, his battered features set in grim lines. He didn’t greet Sheikh Makhmud. He didn’t greet anyone. He stopped in the middle of the centre archway and stared in silence at the gathering, my briefcase tucked under his arm. It was an effective entrance, and I knew by his aggressive manner that he had intended it to be. Impressive, too, for he was dressed exactly as I had last seen him, and behind him crowded the bodyguard, all armed to the teeth. It was impressive because of the contrast; the man so small, so completely at the mercy of the armed men behind him, and yet so dynamic, so completely in command of the situation.
He ignored Sheikh Makhmud’s greeting. ‘What’s the feast for?’ That harsh voice seemed to cut through the room.
Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Even Sheikh Makhmud seemed stunned into silence.
‘Mister Erkhard.’ The ‘Mister’ was a calculated slap in the face. ‘I take it you’ve signed a concession agreement? There’s nothing else for Saraifa to celebrate at this moment.’ And then, without giving Erkhard a chance to reply, he turned to Sheikh Makhmud. ‘I hope you’re not a party to this — that you signed in ignorance of the true situation.’
‘I don’t understand.’ Sheikh Makhmud’s hands fluttered in a way that suggested dark moths endeavouring to cope with the intrusion of unwelcome thoughts. Slipping into Arabic he began a speech of welcome.
Rudely Gorde cut him short. ‘Have you got the concession agreement on you? I’d like to see it please.’ He held out his hand and such was the driving force of the man’s personality, the absolute conviction that men would obey him, that Sheikh Makhmud slipped his hand into the folds of his robe and brought out the document. Meekly he handed it over. ‘I think you find everything is all right.’ The soft words, the gentle voice gave no sign of doubt or tension.
Gorde called to one of the bodyguard to bring him a light. A stillness hung over the scene as he unfolded the document and glanced quickly through it. Then he raised his head and looked directly at Erkhard. ‘And you signed this on behalf of the Company.’
The note of censure brought an immediate reaction from Erkhard. ‘As General Manager I’m entitled to sign concession agreements.’ His voice was thin, a little venomous as he added, ‘You should know that. You signed enough of them in your day.’
‘But never one like this.’ And slapping the document with his hand, he added, ‘This isn’t our normal agreement. Our normal form of agreement simply gives the Company the right to prospect. This makes it a legal charge upon the Company to do so. Moreover-’ And his gaze fastened on Whitaker — ‘it doesn’t limit it to the area south of here where your rig is. It covers the whole of Saraifa, including the area in dispute on the Hadd border.’
‘Philip.’ Whitaker had risen to his feet. ‘I’d like a word with you.’
‘And I’d like a word with you,’ Gorde said sharply.
‘In private.’
‘No. We’ll settle this thing here and now. I just want a straight answer to a straight question. Is there or is there not oil where you’re drilling?’
‘We’re only down to three thousand odd feet.’
‘That doesn’t answer my question.’ Gorde stared at him coldly. ‘There isn’t any oil, is there? There never was any oil there, and there never will be.’
‘I don’t believe it.’ Erkhard, too, was on his feet.
‘It doesn’t matter whether you believe it or not, Alex,’ Gorde rapped back.‘It’s the truth.’
‘But he’s drilling with his own money. He’s invested every penny he’s got. Ask Grant. He handles his financial affairs and Whitaker admits he’s out here partly because his money is almost exhausted. A man doesn’t put all his savings first into a thorough seismological survey and then into a drilling programme-’
‘Bait.’ The tone of Gorde’s voice brought Erkhard up short. ‘He was baiting the trap.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Of course you don’t. You’d never in a thousand years understand a man like Charles Whitaker. You ride him out of the Company and it never occurs to you that he’ll get his own back some day. If you hadn’t been so intent on trying at the last minute to rectify your position…. And you thought you were getting an oilfield on the cheap, for the price of his development cost plus 50 per cent on royalties. Well, you ask him. You just ask him whether there’s any oil there.’