‘So, as I understand it, you have lost two men,’ Ibn Mohammed says evenly. ‘Ali Ibn Mudar has told me of it. He asked for my help.’
Wellsted pushes his hair back from his face. There is something in this man’s tone that makes his muscles tighten, as if he ought to get ready to run.
‘You must be a powerful man if Ibn Mudar believes you can help them,’ he says.
Ibn Mohammed laughs. ‘They teach you in Bombay to flatter the Arabs, do they not? They teach you to eat like a man, even how to sit down. Well, I do not need you to tell me whether I am powerful or not. And please do not go on to mention honour and respect – really, you white men must think we are fools.’
‘Please accept my apologies.’ Wellsted sees no measure in angering this strange man any further.
‘You have talked to Said Ibn Sultan of this matter?’ the slaver asks.
‘I have.’
‘They say that your captain wishes you dead, Lieutenant. What is it you have done that displeases him?’
Wellsted casts a glance over at Haines who has given up trying to eat and is sitting with the detritus of his meal around him. This man is well informed about life aboard the
Palinurus
and as far as Wellsted is concerned that is a good thing, however disconcerting. A well-informed man is exactly what he needs – Mickey has clearly done well to consult him. With the subject broached, the lieutenant is determined that he will not be distracted – not even by insults.
‘You chose to come to me, not to Captain Haines. And the matter in hand surely is the missing men. Are Jessop and Jones alive?’
Ibn Mohammed stares straight into Wellsted’s eyes and the lieutenant has to steel himself in order not to shudder. Those eyes are like long, blank tunnels that pull him into a cold place from which there is no escape.
‘My information is three weeks old, or perhaps slightly older. They were alive then,’ Ibn Mohammed says flatly.
Wellsted does not let the relief he feels show on his face.
‘Can you have them released?’
‘Ah,’ the Arab says. ‘Someone will have to go and get them. There will be money involved, naturally. And a negotiation. As they have no doubt told you in your Bombay, negotiations and good manners are terribly important to we Arabs.’
‘Fairness,’ Wellsted says plainly, ‘is important to all men, though few benefit from it, in my experience – in London or here.’
‘They say your Lieutenant Jones squeals like a pig,’ Ibn Mohammed continues evenly.
Khawal.
He almost spits the word. ‘Not really a man at all, Lieutenant.’
‘How much money will it take to get them back?’ Wellsted asks. ‘And what must we do?’
Ibn Mohammed is about to answer. He has a natural sense of drama and is set to make the white man wait for the information that he so desires. He leans in slightly and takes a breath, but before he can speak the
soultan
notices that he has arrived at the table and slaps him on the back heartily, removing all sense of mystery, for the great man himself now wants to know.
‘What of these two men missing in the desert, Ibn Mohammed?’ The monarch sounds bluff. ‘They have offended the
Bedu
. A difficult business. If anyone can help our British friends here, then surely it must be you. As I understand it there is not an oasis between here and Riyadh that does not send its news to you and Kasim.’
‘We were only just talking of it, Your Highness,’ Wellsted bows. ‘And this man – Ibn Mohammed, is it? – says that the men are, to his knowledge, alive.’
‘Alive?’ Haines voice booms over from the other side of the room. ‘Are you sure?’
Ibn Mohammed does not give the captain the courtesy of an answer (for who cannot see the man is a fool?). Instead, the slaver bows low to his
soultan
.
‘Lieutenant Wellsted wants to fetch them himself,’ the sultan says eagerly. The notion clearly amuses him
‘Ah,’ Ibn Mohammed’s smile tightens like a vice.
‘I told him – the
Wahabi
will kill him. But if you were to offer him your protection. If you were to shelter him, to go personally, Ibn Mohammed, to see to these men . . .’ The sultan trails off.
Ibn Mohammed’s smile is fixed now. He nods courteously. No man argues at court with his ruler. ‘As you wish, Said Ibn Sultan.’
In a moment, Kasim is at his partner’s side and the sultan continues.
‘Yes. Yes. Kasim too,’ he nods. ‘With both of you, he will be safe, surely. And whatever these white men have done, well, you will dispatch the business in the most honourable way. Bring them back.’
‘The Indian Navy cannot wait at port for Wellsted to trail off into the back of beyond,’ Haines starts. ‘His Majesty’s orders for the ship
Palinurus
.
. .’
The sultan dismisses the captain with a wave of his hand. ‘He has my permission. I insist on giving the lieutenant my permission,’ he states baldly.
Wellsted bows. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he says. ‘I will be honoured.’
‘The first white man to cross the desert,’ the sultan muses, thinking how interesting it will be to see what happens. ‘Perhaps it is time one of you tried.’
When, over breakfast, Mickey hears of what has taken place at the palace the night before, he bursts out laughing, spilling thick, creamy
labneh
onto his lap. The juxtaposition of Wellsted being taken into the interior by Muscat’s richest slave traders seems hopelessly comic at first. The Englishman is pale as milk and, as far as Mickey can tell, despite a couple of forays up a mountainside in Socotra and the day’s trek to the oasis at the edge of the desert where he picked up the information about his fellows, the lieutenant is absolutely inexperienced in the hardship of travelling across desert terrain.
The Empty Quarter, or
Rubh Al Khali,
is one of the most formidable deserts on the planet and hardly the place for a white man to start to learn about survival on the sands. Mickey is enjoying the image that has appeared in his mind of the look on the man’s face when he realises that his jolly jaunt will prove to be the most dangerous journey of his life. Then it strikes him, suddenly, that it may not be comic at all and that Lieutenant Wellsted is in fact, in grave danger. Neither Kasim nor Ibn Mohammed can be pleased they have been sent on this mission (which truly is beneath them). Worse, that they will have to undertake it in the company of a pink-faced novitiate will come as much of a slap in the face as having to go at all. The slavers are, without dispute, hard and difficult men – the hardest and most difficult. Kasim told Mickey the afternoon before, as he carefully ate his way through a plate of cheese curds, coriander and cucumber at Ibn Mohammed’s compound, that he was planning his next trip to Somalia. When Mickey mentioned the notorious pirates off the coastline, Kasim shrugged his shoulders at the dangers.
‘The
Zigua
tribe are elegant,’ he said, by which Mickey understood that the tribe were marketable and worth the risk. If anything, Mickey had the sense that Kasim would relish the opportunity to kill a pirate or two. To be sent into the desert instead of sailing to the profitable and exciting shores of eastern Africa will rankle the men horribly, he is sure – and neither Kasim or Ibn Mohammed are men that you could possibly wish to rankle. They are far too ruthless for that.
‘Now I must amend my plan,’ Mickey mumbles.
He had intended to head north himself that afternoon in order to contract a family of
Bedu
that Kasim recommended as middle men. Given the insular world of the desert tribes, Mickey reasoned that if desert
Bedu
dealt with desert
Bedu
it would keep tribal tensions and inter-racial hatred to a minimum and the trade would go off as smoothly as possible. Now the sultan has ignored those sensitivities, for he is sending not only the slave traders but another white man as well, and in the process has probably raised the ransom price quite considerably.
‘Feck it!’ Mickey says under his breath. ‘Feck it!’
He scoops up the spilled
labneh
and downs the last of his painfully strong coffee, then Mickey Ibn Mudar leaves the house and makes directly for the dock to try to improve matters on the Indian Navy’s behalf.
The
Palinurus
is quiet. The deck is newly washed and is still drying in the sun but the captain has not yet emerged and the crew are passing the time dicing and drinking under the shade of a tarpaulin that has been set up for the purpose. The midshipmen are nowhere to be seen; they have left early for an outing to inspect the city walls. Mickey walks on board unchallenged and makes his way past the first of the carefully furled square sails before Wellsted gets to him.
‘Morning, sir,’ the lieutenant smiles. ‘You have found us at rest.’
Mickey shakes his hand warmly. ‘You are off to the desert I hear, Lieutenant.’
‘Yes,’ Wellsted beams.
‘With Kasim and Ibn Mohammed.’
The smile fades.
‘I am glad to see that this worries you as much as it worries me.’
‘The sultan ordered them to look after our interests,’ Wellsted says evenly.
‘I rather think that may be my job,’ Mickey replies, his tone ominous. ‘And for a start, we cannot send you into the wilderness as a
Nazarene
.’
‘My eyes are blue,’ Wellsted echoes the
soultan
the night before. He isn’t sure what else to say – he can’t help his colour.
There is a crack as the low door to the captain’s cabin opens and Haines emerges onto the deck, putting on his hat as he steps into the sunlight.
‘Ah, Mr Al Mudar!’ he hails Mickey. ‘Well met! What can we do, sir, about this nonsense? Wellsted going to the inter ior on a damn wild-goose chase? Jessop and Jones are dead by now. Do you not agree?’
‘Oh no, Captain.’ Mickey makes a little bow. ‘We have good information that the men are being held alive, though how long they might survive I cannot say. I think, sir, it would be foolish not to try to rescue them.’
‘And this is the man for the job, is it?’ Haines indicates the lieutenant. ‘My last fully trained officer,’ he sneers.
Mickey casts his eyes skywards. It is not what he’d have chosen, there is no denying it. ‘Yes, sir. The sultan has spoken.’
‘The bally sultan, is it?’ Haines booms.
Mickey looks round nervously. This is not the manner in which the citizens of Muscat speak about their ruler and down on the docks there are enough English speakers for the insult to be understood.
‘Please, Captain,’ he says. ‘His Majesty recognises the sultan and I fear . . .’ his voice tails off to a whisper, ‘We must accommodate his wishes. It is sport to him, I expect, and if Lieutenant Wellsted does not now fall in with the wishes of our illustrious ruler, then no mission may be sent to rescue the men at all.’
Haines considers this momentarily. Not sending a mission is, of course, his preferred option, but he knows he cannot really take it. For a start, a group of the men have stopped their dicing on the deck and are congregated, hands behind their backs, listening to every word. The captain knows that he cannot refuse to send a rescue mission for two of his crew when it has just been stated the men are alive, and he certainly does not feel he can do so in front of men he is expecting to fight and perhaps die on his orders. He’s been grappling with this all morning in his cabin and he finally gives up the tussle. To be honest, it is a relief to do so, the midshipmen are competent enough for the short voyage back to Bombay and it will be a damn sight more pleasant on board without the lieutenant anyway.
‘Oh, very well,’ he dismisses Wellsted with a wave of his hand. ‘You will return to Muscat, Wellsted, on completion and report back to Mr Al Mudar here, who will be well aware of the Marine’s movements and which ships can return you to Bombay. He will provision you, will you not, Mr Al Mudar? Be as quick as you can on His Majesty’s time, Wellsted, for God’s sake. We’re not paying you to sightsee and buy souvenirs.’
Wellsted tries not to smile too widely for he is aware that this will only bait the captain, but Mickey smirks – there are no souvenirs in the desert; the English treat everything as if it is merely the opportunity for a picnic. It perpetually surprises him that they are so effective.
Wellsted salutes. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he says.
Mickey takes the lieutenant’s arm and nods at the captain.
‘Safe voyage, Captain Haines. I will look after Lieutenant Wellsted to the best of my ability,’ he says and then, turning to Wellsted, he leads him away along the deck. ‘So you must be Turkish, I think. Come,’ the agent insists, ‘we will go to a shop I know of and dress you in Turkish clothes. It will also account for your accent. You must speak Arabic now at all times, Lieutenant Wellsted. You need the practice. We have not got long. When the
soultan
commands, all obey. Come with me.’
The men walk down the gangplank and Wellsted feels butterflies stirring in his stomach. This will be an adventure if ever there was one. Mickey cuts along the dock and up an alleyway towards the heart of Muttrah, past stalls selling strange-looking birds in wooden cages, calabashes strung onto long poles and long-haired goatskin water flasks. A group of
Bedu
loiter in the shady interiors, smoking among piles of basketware, leather boxes and tapestry bags. Both Mickey and Wellsted know that any conversation they indulge in on the street can be overheard so they remain silent as they climb the cobblestone incline, weaving through the crowd. They pass purposefully through the jewellery quarter, where beads of malachite, amber and turquoise lie on display and cheap, brass bangles and shoals of rings in basketware containers are pushed to the front of the stalls. Dancing jewels – bell-strewn, thin chains of different lengths and shimmering silver earrings and head-dresses adorn the interiors and deep inside, in the dark to the rear, there is the occasional glimmer of a well-cut stone changing hands. In one stall there is a donkey, in another two goats tied to a rock.
After a few minutes, Mickey veers to the left and knocks on the door of a flat-fronted house up a poor side street. The child who opens it has bare feet and a thin cloth, greying with dirt, draped around his bony frame. Mickey snaps something in Arabic and the men are admitted. They clatter upwards on a dusty, stone staircase directly in front of the door. Upstairs, as they enter, two women run from the small room, their black robes flying in their haste, and all that is left behind them is a fat man who, Wellsted realises, he has been able to smell since they entered the house. The odour is a mixture of garlic, grease and stale sweat. The fat man offers them a copper shaker containing a liquid that smells very faintly of rose-water to freshen themselves while he claps his hands and shouts for refreshments. Despite the show of hospitality, he eyes the lieutenant carefully. The same child who opened the door appears with a tray of mint tea. His nails are ragged and crusted with dirt. He carefully deposits the tea at the fat man’s side and scurries from the room.
The house is cramped and the sound of its inhabitants moving around, the clatter of plates and odd snatches of muffled conversation, penetrate its thin walls. Wooden boxes lie on the floor, spilling their contents haphazardly. It is difficult to tell if this place is a shop or a home or both and what purpose the room may be put to, for in one corner there is what looks like a pile of old bedding while on a table to one side there is a collection of grimy lamps of all sizes – the kind of array by which Aladdin would be fascinated and on account of which he would immediately fall, no doubt, into an adventure. The smell of cooking emanates from downstairs though the aroma of baking
khubz
is obliterated as the fat man gesticulates in welcome. Wellsted and Mickey crouch on cushions and each accept a grubby glass cup of mint tea with a thin film of oil on top.
‘I have brought my friend,’ Mickey explains. ‘He needs a disguise. Used clothes, not too fine, in the manner of the Turks, a goatskin for water – something worn but serviceable – and a weapon – no, two weapons –
khandjar
knives.’
The fat man peers at Wellsted and it is all that the lieutenant can do not to veer away from the stench. ‘Yes, yes,’ he mumbles.
From those two words alone it is apparent that the merchant has some kind of strange speech impediment; Wellsted can understand what he says though he has to concentrate. The man’s voice is singsong and his manner far more formal than the surroundings warrant.
‘He is to be Turkish, you say. But he is very pale, is he not?’
Mickey nods but dismisses the comment with a wave of his hand indicating that his headdress will have to provide cover. Wellsted will simply tie his
kaffiya
across his face and make a mask – a
litham.
It is not an uncommon manner of dress, particularly in the desert.
‘You wish him to appear an Anatolian warrior?’
‘No. Not a man of war. Definitely not. A trader,’ Mickey decides. ‘Comfortable, understated, not too wealthy but neither a pauper. Inconspicuous. The Turks are dangerous, Lieutenant, or their military men are. Ten years ago they razed Riyadh to the ground – a dispute over sovereignty. It is still held badly in some quarters. We will make you Turkish on account of your colouring, but it must be clear always that you are a Turkish trader not a soldier, do you see?’
Wellsted nods. He is well aware that the Ottoman Empire is a well-built bully of a state which is outgrowing its borders like a muscle man bulges out of his clothes. The Turks’ territories extend to the Balkans in the west and well into Tunisia in northern Africa. Even though they have been booted northwards by the desert Arabs, they are bound to try their luck in the desert again and attempt to move the line of the border southwards and dominate the Peninsula once more, if they can.
‘I understand,’ he nods.
The fat man’s cheeks gleam with sweat but he does not speak, only thinks for a moment about what Mickey has said and the white man’s response. He has been privy to a conversation about which he feels uncomfortable, as if the two men have been discussing matters of the
harim
or personal financial arrangements. He discards the information with a grunt and then heaves himself off the cushions and leaves the room. Mickey regards the tea glass before him and places it carefully back on the tray.
‘He is right,’ he says, ‘about your skin. You are very pale.’
Wellsted shrugs. There is little he can do about his inability to pick up a tan. He has spent most of the last ten years on sailing ships, and if that hasn’t done the trick, nothing will. Instead, he turns his attention to the issues with which he will have to deal.
‘Do you believe, sir, that my life will be in danger from Kasim and Ibn Mohammed?’
Mickey looks around as if Wellsted has made this comment in a crowded room and he is expecting it to draw attention. He leans in conspiratorially.
‘They won’t kill you. But they would let you die, I imagine.’
‘The oath of the caravan—’ Wellsted starts.
Mickey stares at him with eyes so wide that the lieutenant stops mid-sentence. ‘The oath of the caravan applies, perhaps, to poor
Bedu
, or an oath between Muslim brothers, shall we say? Kasim and Ibn Mohammed owe you little. Less than that. Please, do not be naïve. They are only taking you on the sultan’s orders and it will be no shame to them if you die as long as they do not brandish the sword that kills you. Kasim and Ibn Mohammed have their uses but this is not how I would have chosen to rescue Dr Jessop and Lieutenant Jones. Please, make no mistake, Lieutenant, you mean as little to those men as a poor Catholic means to King William.’