‘I’ve known Maggie for years,’ said Grace from her armchair. ‘It would be my guess that she knows there’s a girl involved. I don’t think she’d risk the well-being of the tribe for any old chap – I mean, I can’t see Rathmore’s plight tugging at her heartstrings – but, bless her, she’s always stood up for her sex. If it came to her ears – and there’s not much that doesn’t – that a young girl had been carried off against her will, she’d go out of her way to make sure the right people knew about it.’

James pointed to the map. ‘Mahdan Khotal. I’ll bet anything that’s where the buggers are!’

Hugh stirred excitedly and peered more closely at the map. ‘I say! There! But that’s near where I saw the flash of light on my way over here! Look! Can’t be more than five miles east of… what do you call it? Mahdan Khotal, did you say? What is that anyway?’

‘It’s the village, the fortified village of Ramazad Khan. The father of Zeman Khan,’ said James. He looked carefully again at the map and, smiling, shook his head. ‘Clever Iskander! Can you see what he’s done?’ His finger traced the route the Afghanis had taken from the fort up towards the Khyber. ‘He leads us off in this direction – the direction we expected him to take, straight back to Kabul – but then he disappears before he gets half-way through the pass. He must have gone down one of these defiles. There are plenty we’ve never explored. And then he slogs it over these ridges and down more defiles, thirty miles or more of tough riding, I’d say, but all through Afridi country, and approaches Mahdan Khotal from the back. He’s done a huge loop, put us right off the track and now he’s sitting up there in that eyrie above the Bazar Valley watching us! He can’t be more than fifteen miles away as the crow flies!’

‘Hooting with laughter every time he sees the plane take off towards Afghanistan!’ said Fred admiringly. ‘But look, James, if that’s where he is it’s an afternoon’s stroll down the valley to get at him, isn’t it? What do we do now? Gather the troops? Get reinforcements from Peshawar? Attack in force? Not yet! First we get a flight of bombers up from Miram Shah and give the buggers a surprise. Soften them up a bit. It worked for us last year in Mahsud territory. I’ll just go and check how many we could muster – if we got the go-ahead, of course.’ And he hurried off to the communications room.

He left Joe, James and Hugh looking at each other in consternation.

‘Hadn’t realized Fred was such a fire-eater,’ said James, with a speculative look at Hugh.

‘Who would blame him?’ said Hugh awkwardly. ‘I mean… after what happened to his nephew last year.’

‘What did happen to his nephew?’ said James. ‘Can’t say it’s generally known up here in army circles.’

‘Philip… I think he was called Philip… came out from England a fully trained pilot, eighteen years old, eager to see some action, regretful to have missed the war… you know the sort of thing… and his first sortie was a recce over Waziristan.’

James sighed. The Wazirs were the most fierce and least tractable of all the surrounding Pathan tribes. He didn’t want to hear the rest of the story.

‘He never came back.’ Hugh spoke reluctantly. ‘No sign of the plane and his body was never recovered. The whole op was being run by Fred.’ He fell silent, uncomfortable with the information he had just imparted.

In silence they continued to study the map.

‘Nothing comes to mind yet, I’m afraid,’ said James slowly. ‘But if we’re going to see Lily and Rathmore alive again, I think we’d better come up with something a bit more subtle than the scheme Fred has in mind. In fact, the more I think about it, the more concerned I become.’ He traced the short route from the fort and down the Bazar Valley with his finger and up into the hill country above. ‘Oh, I know it looks a doddle on the map but on the ground, and believe me, I’ve been on that ground, it’s not so easy. In fact, I’ll tell you – it’s impossible.’

‘What do you mean – impossible?’

‘I don’t think anyone’s even seen the fort at Mahdan Khotal. There’s a good five miles of rugged ground, stream beds, ravines, overhangs, between the valley bottom and the stronghold. Think of the Persian army trying to take the narrows at Thermopylae. A million invaders were held up for days by a tiny army of three hundred determined Spartans. Ramazad Khan’s men fight like Spartans and there’s a sight more of them! You could send the whole of the Indian Army against him and he’d laugh at you. Perhaps we’ll all fall back on Fred’s strategy after all?’

‘But it’s only one small tribe! James, you’re forever taking gashts out and organizing barramptas to teach small tribes a lesson. What’s so special about this one?’

‘It’s been tried.’

He passed a hand wearily over his forehead before continuing. ‘Before the war – 1910, I think it was – Ramazad Khan had a reputation for being a firebrand and he did something that really got up the noses of the military. One thing led to another and it all ended in disaster. Many mistakes made, dead on both sides and no lessons learned. Thoroughly bad show.’

‘And the British found another way of taming Ramazad Khan, I understand?’ said Joe tentatively.

‘Oh, yes. Not proud! The government tried to buy him off. Offered the old bugger a few sackfuls of cash, technically “in reparation for the lives of his valued clansmen” lost in the fight. Not a usual device but these were special circumstances – the manipulative old sod had had two sons killed and did he ever make the most of that!’

‘And Zeman it was who benefited from all this? Didn’t you say he was sent off for his expensive English education on the proceeds?’

‘That’s right. And where has all this landed us? Two thousand pounds of English education and a Sandhurst training and where is it all? Under four foot of earth in an abandoned cemetery! What a waste of a man!’ He turned from the table in disgust. ‘And now it’s all happening again! We’ll never break the bloody circle!’

‘Another cup, anyone?’

Grace’s comfortable voice was more appropriate to the calm order of the drawing room than to the tense atmosphere of the ops room. ‘Milk, James? Joe? No use brooding on the past, you know. No use at all. Now, there is a way through this. Oh, yes, a very simple way. I’m surprised that it hasn’t occurred to either of you!’

Chapter Fourteen

While Joe and James listened to Grace’s suggestion, Sir George Jardine in distant Simla lit a cigar – a thing he did not often do and to those who knew him well it was a sign of agitation. He had been more disturbed than he would have admitted by James’s news of the death of Zeman. He had had his eye on Zeman for some years, an eye blending suspicion and admiration. He had often been heard to say, ‘I believe I could make something of that young man!’ He had seen him as an unreliable friend, as a dangerous ally but, nevertheless, a force to be exploited. And now that promising young man was dead and, as far as Sir George could understand, in circumstances unlikely to reflect credit on the British administration.

‘The situation in those parts is always dangerous,’ he thought. ‘I don’t want this! Dammit! I think I’m getting too old.’ He addressed himself to the task in hand which was to finish and enjoy an expensive cigar. This ritual complete, he set in train the complicated process by which he might put a telephone call through to Joe on the ground and set himself down to wait.

Startled, agitated and finally convinced by Grace’s outrageous solution to their problem, his cup of tea, now cold, still clutched in his hand, Joe turned to listen to the Scouts officer who came to find him. ‘Hurry, Joe, if you can to the communications room – we’ve got Sir George on the telephone!’

Through the usual swishing and gargling sounds inseparable from the Indian telephone system, Joe heard the voice of Sir George.