‘That would be a help indeed,’ said James. ‘Thank you, Fred! I’ll get someone to take you over to the communications room. The lines are still working – they at least didn’t cut the wires – and you can liaise straight away with Peshawar. Oh, by the way, I sent a signal to the fort at Landi Kotal – that’s half-way down the Khyber, Joe – to watch out for and detain the Afghanis when they try to pass through. Nothing seen of them so far but they’re going to wire us every hour on the hour with news or a nil return. But you mentioned two fronts, Fred?’
‘Yes, the other solution would seem to be to do as Iskander insists. Find out who killed Zeman – if anybody did. And you’d better work fast, my boy, because your list of suspects appears to be shrinking at a quite alarming rate! Last night there were nine people here in the guest wing whose names might have been on any suspect list and now there are only six. And that’s if Burroughs is still around. Anybody checked? At this rate Joe is going to find himself the only one remaining and he’s going to have to top himself. But have you thought? – suppose that Rathmore is the villain. He’s the chap my money’s, on. Hotheaded and jealous. Though I wouldn’t have thought he was clever enough to have pulled off a stunt like this… Anyway, he’s in custody and can’t answer for himself but just suppose we find that he’s guilty? What then?’
‘In that case we take no action at all,’ said Joe, ‘and we wait for Iskander to do the dirty deed for us.’
‘Sounds like the best solution all round,’ said Fred cheerfully.
‘Stop this!’ said James. ‘This is just silly speculation! I’ve told you what’s going to happen!’
‘And I told you what isn’t going to happen! Let’s get those planes up,’ said Joe. ‘Come on, Fred, we’ll give those idle buggers in Peshawar something to do.’
Dermot Fitzmaurice Benson, First Baron Rathmore, was in anguish both social and physical. As the official precursor of an important trade mission, he was firmly and indignantly of the opinion that he had not been treated with the deference that he deserved. He blamed James for this. He blamed Joe to some extent. He didn’t think Zeman – or for that matter Iskander – had paid him appropriate respect. He didn’t after all expect the natives to presume to address him as equals. ‘Bloody cheek! Quoting Kipling!’
So much for his social disquiet which was now compounded by a physical anguish even more acute. A note on a sheet of the fort’s own writing paper had summoned him to an assignation with Lily. He had it in his pocket. He didn’t need to look at it again. He knew it well by heart. ‘Why don’t we meet at eleven at the postern? L.C.’ Lily Coblenz. There could be no doubt about that. But it had not been Lily who had kept this tryst but two Afghani tribesmen. Untidy habiliments, long, dust-coloured shirts over baggy trousers, hawklike, wind-blackened faces and not much ceremony!
As he’d stepped up to the gate, strong hands had swept his legs from under him from behind, a cloth – through which it was difficult to breathe – was firmly tied over his mouth and another one put over his head and in spite of his solid twelve stones he was hauled out through the gate and on to the back of a waiting horse. A far from docile horse. A horse that skittered sideways and humped its back, a horse he just had time to see was grey with a wild white eye. He was at best an indifferent horseman and the thought came to him, ‘I shan’t be able to stay on that bloody thing! I could break my neck!’ But, as he soon realized, among many dangers, falling from his horse was not one. His feet were tied firmly with leather straps under the horse’s belly, the reins were thrust into his hand and with a slap across its quarters, the horse set off at a trot in the company of two – or was it three? – horsemen. From the noise, Rathmore deduced that they were at first walking then trotting and later cantering. For a while the hooves rang on a tarmacked surface and then broke off on to rocky ground and they appeared to be scrambling over loose stones and moving up a defile.
His captors muttered incessantly amongst themselves. A horseman drew up beside him and a soft voice spoke, just audible above the clatter of hooves and the rattle of falling stones. ‘Good morning, Lord Rathmore – I suppose it is morning? I’m sorry to have to discommode you.’ A hand came out and the cloth was taken from his head revealing the face of Iskander Khan. ‘With home-bred hordes the hillsides teem, you see,’ he said with a gesture to the gang of horsemen who’d gathered around, grinning at him.
Purple-faced, Rathmore recovered his breath and turned on Iskander. ‘You won’t get away with this!’ he said. ‘I don’t know what the devil you’re playing at but you won’t get away with it!’ He wished he could have thought of something more original to say and added, ‘Start from there and tell me what the hell’s going on!’
‘I think your normal good sense has deserted you, Lord Rathmore! I shouldn’t need to explain. It must be obvious to the meanest intelligence – that you have been “kidnapped” and that you are now a hostage. A hostage to ensure the performance of an undertaking which I have laid on the good Major James Lindsay.’
‘Where the hell are we going?’ said Rathmore.
‘The name would mean nothing to you. We are going to a place nearby. There are plenty of “places” in these hills, none of them frequented by the British. The comforts of these vary but we will do our best to make you feel at home. In any case your stay will not be a long one.’
Rathmore threw his head back. ‘Help!!!’ he shouted. To his bitter mortification this was greeted with a roar of laughter and remorselessly the clattering convoy went on its way. It was clear that Iskander was hurrying them all he could. As dawn broke, a rider offered a water bottle to Rathmore and another a handful of dried apricots. This apart, the journey proceeded in silence as the sun rose.
A way led them down a path in the hills, little more than a steep-sided cleft in the black rocks with a yeasty, brawling and rocky stream at its foot, a narrow ribbon of blue sky above, dotted with circling birds. Listening to the rattle of hooves, Rathmore became aware that a second group was following his but, straining and tied to his stirrups, he couldn’t turn enough to see who or what this could be.
Ceaselessly, Iskander rode up and down the convoy, cheering and encouraging, and at last came to rest beside Rathmore. ‘Five more miles,’ he said, ‘and then you can rest. I’m sorry this has been uncomfortable for you.’
‘Who’s that behind us?’ asked Rathmore.
‘Not, I’m afraid, Indian cavalry come to your rescue but someone whom I think you will be surprised to see. Let’s get you untied. I don’t think you could walk back to the fort from here. And, were you so foolish as to try, you would be picked off by a ten rupee jezail loaded with who knows what, possibly a Lee-Enfield if you were lucky, before you had gone ten yards. You are in what we call and have always called “The Free Land”. The warriors and the shepherds – and out here it’s the same thing – who lurk behind every crag are not aware that they are “the captives of your bow and spear” and a barony is no breastplate out here, you’ll find. And now we’ll halt for a few minutes and get acquainted.’
With a rattle and a clatter the convoy drew to a halt where the track widened and descended to a surging stream. Rathmore’s legs were untied and, stiff and sore, he turned in the saddle to watch the company bringing up the rear approach. Two Afghanis escorted a smaller figure who had been, unlike him, riding free. The small, fair-haired figure bundled up in an afghan poshteen was laughing with one of her attendant brigands. A terrible truth paralysed his mind and the only words he could summon up were a shocked exclamation.
‘Miss Coblenz! Lily!’