Chapter Sixteen

At dawn.’

The phrase has its melodramatic ring and, as he delivered it, Joe had been aware of this and wished he could take back the words. Confronted now with the reality of dawn in a forbidding landscape drained of colour and with a sharp wind blowing off the hills, he felt many things and gallantry and confidence were not among them.

He looked at the two Scouts who had been told off to accompany this lunatic foray. Aslam and Yussuf were already standing by at the chiga gate, eager to start out.

‘How did you select them?’ Joe had asked James.

‘Not easy,’ had been the reply. ‘Every bloody man in the unit volunteered. No surprise to me! That always happens. And you’re faced with the alternatives of offending everybody you don’t select and inflating the consequence beyond measure of the two you do select. But still, they’re good men these two, you’ll find. Very reliable, very experienced. And they are not of the same tribe – don’t want any tribal combining, thanks! They’d serve you well even without the bonus of six months’ extra pay I’ve offered them to bring you both back out again safely. Six months’ pay! Enough to buy them a rifle or a bride. They’ll take good care of you!’ He paused. ‘And I had another reason for choosing this pair. They both have brothers in the unit.’

‘Hostages, do you mean to say?’ Joe had asked.

‘Yes,’ said James. ‘More or less. More or less. That’s how they’ll see it anyway!’

Joe looked the Scouts up and down. They wore nailed sandals, woollen hose-tops, baggy shorts and long shirts crossed by bandoliers each carrying fifty rounds. Their beaming faces were surmounted by a Pathan pagri, a length of khaki cloth wound around a dome-shaped, padded kullah, and the loose end of the pagri trailed behind in a shamleh, protecting the back of the neck from the sun. Joe thought they looked pretty good; they looked businesslike, spare and effective.

He couldn’t, he thought, quite say the same of the third member of the party as Grace joined them. She looked swiftly round. ‘I was expecting two Scouts,’ she said. ‘Why do I see three?’ She stared and started. ‘Well, I’m damned! Not bad, Joe! Not bad at all! Nearly fooled me and that takes some doing.’

Joe was not taken in but he was amused by Grace’s cheerful by-play. He thought he did look pretty convincing; a little kohl rubbed into his eyebrows and around his eyes and quite a lot of dirt massaged into his face had worked wonders. His tall athletic frame was very like that of the other two Scouts and the company barber had carefully given the three the same short regimental haircut the night before. He had wondered whether to pull his turban down slightly over one eye to cover his war wound but the Scouts had advised against this, pointing with pride to their own wounds, and he gathered it gave him authenticity and even prestige. They had scrutinized him carefully, made a few adjustments to his gear and finally were satisfied – ‘The sahib will pass as Pukhtun so long as he does not get off his horse,’ said Aslam mysteriously and explained further that ‘Ferenghi walk with ram-rod up their arse but Pukhtun walk like leopard.’ Joe’s not entirely serious practice attempts to walk like a leopard were greeted with stifled laughter. ‘Not camel, sahib – leopard!’

‘The question is, Grace,’ said Joe, ‘will it fool anybody else?’

‘Oh, yes, certainly. If you keep your mouth shut, stay in the background and don’t take your trousers off.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of doing so,’ said Joe, ‘but why particularly?’

‘I have to ask the question – circumcised? Uncircumcised?’

‘The latter,’ said Joe, ‘but I reckon that given time you could fix that as well!’

‘Certainly I could,’ said Grace. ‘But perhaps we haven’t got time today. You’d have to make an appointment and my book gets full! But, anyway, you’ve been warned. Be careful.’

Her practical good humour lightened the grey morning and eased the tension coiling in his stomach. He looked with a smile at her outfit. She was wearing voluminous red trousers, a hat and a veil and a man’s loose white shirt belted at the waist.

‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I know I look ridiculous but this is my campaign gear. Pathan women wear red trousers when they’re out and about – it’s a signal to gunmen that they’re not a target. Like this I can be seen from far off. I take nobody by surprise and,’ she looked down at her billowing trousers, ‘I confess, I think they look extremely becoming! Don’t you?’

Her horse was led out for her and a Scout – was it Aslam or Yussuf? – it was hard to tell them apart – came forward and cupped his hands for Grace’s foot and swung her into the saddle. The other Scout attached Grace’s medical case to the crupper and they were ready. Their exit from the fort was deliberately discreet and in minutes they had slipped through the chiga gate and headed west at a trot down the broad valley along the banks of the Bazar river. Joe noted the easy way Grace sat in the saddle, moving with all the economy of a cavalryman.

‘I suppose,’ he thought, ‘that, to the Pathan, Grace is a sort of honorary man and as such transcends all the normal rules. But then, I can’t think of any place where Grace wouldn’t feel at home from Viceregal Lodge through lecturing to medical students to worming children in the market place. And I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d brought half the hairy scoundrels who lie in wait ahead of us into this world! Such a reputation must be worth something!’

Grace tuned into his thought, turning to him as they rode and saying seriously, ‘Being in my company is a sort of good conduct pass but it won’t carry you all the way. Remember, Joe, that as far as is known and with the exception of actual prisoners (like Rathmore) no ferenghi – no European, that is – has ever made his way into Mahdan Khotal. Sacred ground, you understand. It’s very important therefore that you should be as invisible as possible and when we get a bit closer I’ll ride ahead with Aslam who is Afridi and you can ride behind with Yussuf who is Khattack. Should anyone ask, we’ll tell them you’re a Chitrali from the north. That’ll explain any awkwardness with language. They’ll notice the leading hand but won’t pay so much attention to the matched pair behind. In any case, three armed Scouts are not likely to be perceived as much of a threat, particularly since they have no idea that we’re on to them.’

She paused and looked back over her shoulder as a Bristol fighter roared its way into the sky behind them and made its patient and pointless way north-west over the Khyber. ‘Good old Fred! That’ll keep them guessing!’ Her tone changed. ‘Once we’ve been admitted to the fort the nature of the game changes. You, I and the two boys will have become their guests and thereby under their protection. It ought to work but I’d be more comfortable if – just in case it doesn’t and, as the saying goes, “the worst came to the worst” – you had one of these.’ She reached across as he rode beside her and put a red glass capsule in his hand. ‘Cyanide,’ she said and continued, ‘I expect I’m being histrionic but there is just a chance – more than a chance – that this could go wrong.’ She gave him a level glance and resumed, ‘Put it where you can easily get at it.’

‘It’s glass,’ said Joe, momentarily puzzled.

‘Should you be in a position where you need to use it, a mouth full of glass will be the least of your problems!’

Joe pondered the implication, saying at last, ‘Believe me, Grace, I don’t want to be there when it goes wrong but if it does I’ll just carry on taking the tablets and see you in a fortnight. Correct?’

‘Yes, that’s about it.’

The easy way in which Grace handed out a lethal poison reawakened all Joe’s suspicions. The scene might have changed into a desperate rescue dash into the hills to bring out Rathmore and Lily but his main objective remained to find out who had killed Zeman. He was sure that much would flow from that solution. He had never accepted the theory of andromedotoxin poisoning that Grace had put forward and was even less happy with the idea of a fatal dose of arsenic delivered through the medium of the unfortunate pheasant and, what was more, he knew Grace could never have subscribed to these theories either. Achmed’s so fortuitously timed confession had played innocently into her hands but he found he was left with the inevitable conclusion that Grace was involved in a cover-up, a cover-up in which she had been caught out by Iskander. But for the midnight swim, all would have been happy or at least accepting of the arsenic theory. But for whom was she covering? Herself? James? Iskander? Someone else?