Kingdom Lock E-Book

I. D. Roberts

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: Kingdom Lock
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 512

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

It is 1914 and while battles rage across Europe, three empires - the Ottoman, the German and the British - fight for dominance in the Middle East. Kingdom Lock works for the British Intelligence Service known as the White Tab and has a mission in Persia. He must stop a German spy from inciting jihad and rebellion among the population and from seizing control of the precious oilfields. But to complete his task, the Australian-born Lock has not only to battle resentment and enemies on his own side, but to keep one step ahead of the war raging around him.

Leseprobe

KINGDOM LOCK

I. D. ROBERTS

Contents

Title PageMapPrologueCHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENCHAPTER SEVENTEENCHAPTER EIGHTEENCHAPTER NINETEENCHAPTER TWENTYAuthor’s NoteAbout the AuthorBy I. D. RobertsCopyright

PROLOGUE

The Hindu Kush near the North-West Frontier December 1914

‘You must. If we stop, we die.’

‘I need a moment …’ the girl said, and slumped down in the snow.

The young man halted, and turned round. The girl had removed her lambskin Kalpak hat and was pulling at her bootlaces.

‘We don’t have time …’

Amy Townshend raised her head. Her face was ivory white and drawn at the corners of her small mouth. But her emerald eyes sparkled defiantly.

‘I have a stone,’ she said. ‘In my boot. Besides, I haven’t seen any sign of our pursuers for a while now. I think we may have lost them.’

Kingdom Lock stared down at her. He knew India and safety were no more than a few days’ hike away, but they needed to press on. How close their pursuers actually were, he wasn’t sure. But he knew they hadn’t lost them.

‘Hurry then.’

‘Go ahead. I can catch you up.’ Amy’s face disappeared behind a curtain of matted, long auburn hair as she continued to struggle with her laces. She tutted and put her rag-bound fingers to her cracked, full lips, winced, and began to pull at the pieces of material with her teeth.

‘I won’t leave you, miss,’ Lock said, his eyes fixed to the top of her head, a splash of chestnut red amongst the crisp whiteness of the landscape around them.

‘I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself,’ Amy said.

Lock turned his gaze away and began to scan the snow-covered mountain range that filled the horizon. A bitter wind stung his face as it whipped at his tattered coat. He glanced over his shoulder and squinted into the milky sun.

‘The border is just over that ridge.’

Amy didn’t respond. She was concentrating on inching her foot out of her boot.

‘Jesus, miss!’ Lock said, and knelt down. Despite Amy’s foot being bound, he could see it was badly swollen and bleeding.

‘It’s nothing. A stone I tell you,’ she said.

‘That’s more than a stone, miss,’ Lock said, taking hold of her foot and peeling back the bloodied rags. ‘How long?’

Amy winced and shook her head. ‘A day, maybe more.’

‘Why the hell didn’t you say something?’ Lock said, and before she could protest, he quickly ripped a strip of material from the hem of her skirt.

‘I’m fine,’ Amy insisted.

Lock ignored her and slowly unbound her foot. He then began to wash the blood and pus away with snow. Amy kept jerking her foot back, but Lock held firm and started to re-dress it with the strip of clean material.

‘We need to get your boot back on or your foot will freeze. This will hurt, miss.’

Amy glared back at him. There were tears in her eyes, but she nodded for him to go ahead. ‘Your left eye, Mr Lock, the green one …’ she said, clearly trying to distract herself from the pain as Lock forced the boot back on as gently as he could. ‘It goes almost brown when you’re angry.’

‘I’m not angry, miss. Just concerned.’

Amy squirmed and cried out briefly, but the boot eventually passed over her ankle. Lock tied it loosely, then got to his feet and held out his hand.

‘I can manage,’ Amy said, pushing the offered hand away.

‘If you say so, miss,’ Lock said. He gathered his coat about him, hitched his scarf back up around his head and took one last look back the way they had come. Bugger. His eyes followed their erratic footprints clearly marked in the virgin snow. That was bad.

‘We haven’t lost them, have we?’ Amy put her hat back on her head and shakily tried to stand.

‘I can’t see them. But they’re there, somewhere.’ Lock gripped Amy’s coat and lifted her tiny frame. She tried to protest, but Lock was firm. ‘You can’t walk, so I will carry you.’

Amy didn’t protest, even when Lock hoisted her unceremoniously up onto his back and started walking.

‘This is your own fault, you know, Mr Lock,’ she said.

‘What is, miss?’ Lock said, adjusting the weight of the girl on his back.

‘This situation. We should have done as I said, taken a boat and headed north across the Black Sea.’

‘The ports and the waterways are heavily patrolled, miss, otherwise I would normally agree. This way, east and south, across country, means we have a better chance of avoiding capture.’

‘Well, that’s not looking so bright, is it?’ Amy said. ‘How long have those riders been on our heels? Nearly four weeks now? Never deviating, always close behind.’

Lock didn’t answer her. But she did have a point. Their pursuers had stuck with them.

‘I didn’t need your help, you know. I was perfectly capable of escaping from that internment camp.’

‘Perhaps you were, miss. But I’m just following orders.’

‘That’s what my father always tells my mother when he gets things wrong.’

‘Does he often get things wrong?’ Lock said.

‘Frequently. He left me behind in Constantinople, didn’t he? Thinking there would be plenty of time for me to finish my schooling and then follow him and maman to India.’

‘Be reasonable, miss. How could he know that the Turks would declare war when they did?’

‘It’s his job to know, Mr Lock.’

‘I think that’s being rather unfair,’ Lock said.

‘Maybe,’ Amy sniffed.

Lock trudged on in silence. The cold was beginning to creep up from his already numb feet, but he had to ignore that. He had to just keep moving. But after a few paces, he paused. He could feel the tremor of Amy’s body through his back and realised that she was laughing softly to herself.

‘Miss?’

‘Oh, it’s nothing, just a childish thought …’

‘Go on,’ Lock said, ‘talk. It will keep us alert.’ He continued walking.

‘I was thinking that this is not how I expected to see in the new year, that’s all.’

‘What, a relaxing hike in the mountains?’ Lock said. ‘So what would a typical new year be then, miss?’

‘Oh, some damned dull party. Father and Mother love to entertain. Always a full social calendar for them, no matter where he’s posted in the world.’

‘I’m sure they’ll want to throw a big party when we get you safely back to India. To celebrate.’

Amy grunted. ‘Yes, I expect so.’ She fell silent again and Lock drifted off into a kind of trance, just listening to his breath rasping in his throat and to the scrunch of the snow beneath his feet.

‘Tell me,’ Amy said after a while, ‘have you done this before?’

‘Done what, miss?’

‘Rescued a woman?’

‘On occasion.’

Lock laboured onwards.

‘Do you … kill? To order, I mean?’ Amy said, breaking the silence once more.

‘On occasion.’

Amy paused. ‘What about dancing? Do you dance? And don’t say “on occasion”.’

‘Dance?’

‘Yes, you know, at balls and parties.’

‘I can’t say I’ve been to many balls, miss.’

‘Well, I think you are right, my parents will probably throw a party,’ she said. ‘Will you come? If it was more than just a celebration of my return, if it was, say, my birthday?’

‘Will it be? Your birthday?’

‘Not until March. I’ll be eighteen then. Can’t avoid a party on one’s eighteenth, I suppose.’

‘True.’

‘I’d like you to come, if I do have a party. Would you, Mr Lock?’

‘We’ll see, miss.’

‘I’d like to dance with you.’

‘It may be a while before you dance on those feet, miss,’ Lock said.

‘Oh. Yes, I suppose …’

‘But what about your beau? Won’t he be jealous if you danced with me?’

‘That’s an indelicate question, Mr Lock,’ Amy said. ‘But, if you must know, yes, I suspect he would be. Anyway, I shall decide whom I dance with.’

‘Good for you, miss. Spoken like a true suffragette.’

‘Don’t be facetious, Mr Lock.’

‘I meant it as a compliment, miss.’

‘Did you?’ Amy sounded dubious. ‘Besides, Casper can go to blazes if he has a problem with the men I choose to dance wi—’

The ground in front of Lock kicked up a spray of snow. Moments later a gunshot rang out, echoing loudly off the mountainside. Lock felt Amy tense as he staggered and turned.

On the furthest ridge behind them, no more than a mile away, there were now three men on horseback.

‘Bugger!’

Lock turned away and laboured on. He tried to think only of their escape and not the impact he would feel when the expected bullet pierced his body ending his mission. Not long now, a voice in his head whispered, it won’t take long for our pursuers to cover the gap between us on horseback. Hide! We need somewhere to hide, his subconscious screamed. But he could see nothing, only a barren, harsh, unforgiving landscape.

Suddenly Lock lost his footing, and both he and Amy fell to the carpet of snow.

‘I can’t … believe … you just dropped m … me!’ Amy lifted her head and scowled. She pulled herself to her feet, brushed herself down and hobbled over to Lock’s side. He was hauling himself up and she helped to steady him. ‘We’re done for, aren’t we?’ she said.

‘Don’t say that.’

‘Just be honest with me,’ Amy said. ‘We can’t run, we can barely walk. And I won’t let you keep carrying me.’

‘I was asked to get you home, and home is where I’m going to get you, miss.’

‘If only we could find some shelter,’ she said.

Lock shook his head. ‘I told you. If we stop …’

‘We die. I know.’ She tried to force a smile. ‘But … Look, we could hold them off for a while. Maybe even scare them away. See.’ She fumbled in her coat pocket and produced a pistol.

‘Where the hell did you get it?’ Lock could see it was a good weapon, a Browning FN Model 1903, the sidearm favoured by the Ottoman police, and it was lighter and easier to use than the British Webley he carried. Only his gun was useless now. He’d used the last of its cartridges some time back.

‘My servant smuggled it to me at the camp,’ Amy said. ‘I do know how to shoot.’

‘I’m sure you do, miss. But shooting a man is very different to shooting a squirrel.’

‘I’m well aware of that, Mr Lock,’ she said.

‘And you’ve had that all this time?’

‘Of course,’ Amy said.

‘And you didn’t think it important to let me know?’

‘No,’ Amy said. ‘Why should I? If the time came, I could produce it. As I have done so now.’

Lock shook his head. ‘Besides, how many bullets have you got in that thing?’

‘Two.’

‘There are three of them.’

‘Well, we can get them to line up,’ Amy waved her hand to and fro, ‘one behind the other. Only need one bullet then.’

Lock snorted and turned his attention back to the ridge. It was snowing now, but he could still make out the darker shapes of their pursuers, and they were getting closer and closer by the minute. ‘But you’re right,’ he said. ‘We need to find shelter.’ He scanned the landscape in front of them. ‘There are some rocks just a little way ahead. Do you think you could make it?’

Amy stuffed the pistol back in her pocket, straightened her skirts, and nodded up at the towering figure of Lock. He opened his coat and she stepped into its protective veil. Amy hooked her arm around Lock’s waist and they slowly stumbled on towards a small grouping of boulders fifty yards ahead. The snow was falling thickly about them.

The two fugitives edged forward, and with every passing minute Lock knew that their pursuers were closing in. He glanced back once but couldn’t see anything through the curtain of snow.

Amy pulled up suddenly. ‘Stop!’

Lock halted. Now what? Amy was pointing ahead. Lock strained his eyes but he still could see nothing but whiteness and the darker mass of the boulders.

‘We … we will have to go around,’ Amy winced.

‘Why? We haven’t the time—’

‘Crev … crevasse.’

‘Where?’ Lock stared into the snow.

‘That slight dip in the ground …’

Lock looked again. He could see it, yes. It seemed to be quite wide just in front of the boulders and ran for a good distance off to their right. ‘How do you know?’

‘Mother took my sister and I skiing … in the Alps last winter. We were taught to … recognise the signs. The snow is so light … acts like a little blanket over a ditch. But one wrong step, and … whoosh!’ Amy made a diving action with her hand.

‘Christ, that’s all we need.’ Lock stared blankly ahead, through the snow that was now cascading around them in huge, pregnant flakes. To his right the indentation in the ground appeared to widen out and stretch as far as his vision could see. To the left, it seemed to stay about as wide as he was tall. He checked behind him again. If he didn’t act now then they were done for.

But Amy was beginning to flag. She was limping worse than before.

Lock heaved her upright.

‘We’re going to have to jump, miss. Do you hear? It’s not too far across, over to our left there.’ The boulders were perhaps ten feet away, maybe a little more, on the other side of the crevasse.

Amy nodded.

‘Together,’ Lock said, gripping Amy’s arm tighter. ‘I help you, you help me.’

Amy raised her head and peered over at the boulders. She nodded again. ‘Very well, Mr Lock, for you,’ she managed to smile.

They shuffled a little over to their left, to where Lock hoped that the crevasse was narrower. After a few paces they stopped again. Lock pulled himself free of Amy’s grip and inched forward tentatively, tensing himself should the ground suddenly give way beneath him.

‘Far enough!’ Amy said.

Lock stopped. He unwound the scarf from his head and neck and placed it at his feet, then turned and cautiously made his way back to the girl. They both stripped off their heavy coats, and Amy pushed her hat in one of the pockets. Lock walked back to the scarf marker, transferred Amy’s pistol to his own pocket, and threw the coats as far as he could across where he imagined the crevasse to be. They landed about seven feet away. He limped back to the trembling girl.

‘Ready, miss?’

Amy stretched up and kissed his mouth. ‘Pour la chance. For luck,’ she said, and hooked her arm into his.

Lock took a deep breath and cursed – cursed his luck, cursed his life, but most of all he cursed Major Ross and his bloody White Tabs for getting him in this situation in the first place. He’d had enough of this hero work in China, little more than eight weeks previously. And that had proved to be a disaster. He was tired, he was angry, but most of all he was cold.

They ran.

As they reached the scarf, Lock, with his arm gripping Amy’s delicate waist, hauled them both across the crevasse. He suddenly thought that they weren’t going to make it. The pile of coats was too far away. Lock yelled, but they crossed the gap and landed in a heap about a foot from the nearest coat. He gave out a cry of pain and grabbed his knee, then lay still for a moment, breathing deeply and grinding his teeth. But it didn’t matter; they’d made it.

Lock wiped the snow from his mouth and moved forward to help Amy to her feet. But just as she reached out to take hold of Lock’s hand, the ground beneath her gave way. Lock lunged out, seizing Amy’s wrist just in time, and fell forward. The crevasse below was a gaping black hole with no end that Lock could see and Amy, eyes wide with panic, was frantically kicking at the wall of blue ice trying to get a foothold. But the more she struggled the more Lock’s grip on her tiny wrist slackened.

Lock strained to anchor his weight and punched his toes into the snow. As he tightened his grip on Amy, the sweat of the effort began to sting his eyes. He checked for the pursuers. Still no sign.

‘I’ve got a foothold … pull!’ Amy yelled out and Lock gritted his teeth and heaved. The muscles screamed in his arms with the effort, but he finally dragged the girl out of the crevasse and onto firmer ground.

Amy lay still, staring up at the white sky, gasping for air.

Lock scrambled to his feet and snatched up their coats. ‘Miss, are you all right?’ He shivered, quickly pulling his coat back about him and helping Amy on with hers.

Amy nodded and smiled weakly. She was shaking uncontrollably, but there was colour in her cheeks again. ‘You could do with a shave, Mr Lock,’ she said, rubbing her lips. ‘And a haircut.’

‘Come along.’ Lock helped her up.

They staggered over to the boulders and crashed to the ground behind one of the rocks. Lock took the Browning out of his pocket and checked the magazine. It did only hold two bullets. He handed the gun to Amy.

‘Stay here, miss.’

‘Where … where are you going?’

‘Just stay put. Please.’ Lock got stiffly to his feet and hobbled away from the boulders, along to the wider edge of the crevasse.

Thankfully their leap hadn’t caused the entire covering of snow to fall in on itself, and the crevasse was still hidden from view for most of its length. The snow continued to fall and with each passing minute it was making the dip look less and less defined. Lock hoped that it would stay that way. He followed the crevasse until he was a good fifty yards from where Amy was sheltering. He glanced back to her and could see her hat-covered head bobbing up above the edge of the boulders. Lock waved her down. When she didn’t respond, Lock pointed off in the direction their pursuers were coming from. Amy looked over that way, then signalled her understanding and stooped down out of sight. Lock wrapped his scarf around his head and laid himself down in the snow and waited.

After a while, his ears rang as they strained to make out the approaching horses. But all he could hear was the sound of his heart pounding in his chest and the creaking of the snow underneath his body when he shifted his weight. Every few minutes he wiped the snow from his eyes and tried to see into the blankness ahead. How long before he became snow-blind and couldn’t see a bloody thing in front of his eyes? What did they call it? White-out?

He could feel the cold seeping into his bones, though, and worried that when the moment came he would be too numb to move. He turned his head and stopped still. About a hundred yards ahead of him, emerging out of the whiteness, were three horses.

Lock rubbed the snow from his eyes again. The riders were definitely Turks. He could now make out that all three wore the distinctive kabalak hats of the Ottoman cavalry, as well as the huge shaggy fur coats that were common among Anatolian peasants.

Lock knew that the riders couldn’t see him. Not yet, anyhow, not with the heavy snowfall. And he must be well camouflaged by now, too. Just let them get a little closer, he thought. But not so close, that they would spot the crevasse.

Just a few more yards.

Now!

Lock burst to his feet, yelling. The lead horse whinnied in surprise and reared up on its hind legs. But its rider was an expert and, with a yank of the reins, immediately brought his steed under control again.

Lock fled as best he could, first to the side, and then away, away from the crevasse. He prayed that his plan would work and that his knee wouldn’t give out.

He turned his head to see the two lead riders kicking their heels into their horses’ flanks. They shouted into the wind and galloped towards him. The third rider was trying to steady his horse as he raised his rifle. Lock knew it would be a difficult shot as the wind and snow were buffeting him from behind, so he just ran on as best he could. He stole a glance over his shoulder just as the third rider pulled the trigger. Lock saw the weapon kick back but he felt no impact and heard no whistle from a passing bullet. The rider thrust his rifle back into its saddle holster and with a kick of his heels set off in pursuit of his comrades. Lock lumbered on. He looked back again just in time to see the first two horses step onto the covered crevasse. The ground beneath them collapsed and they vanished in a cloud of white powder. There was no sound, no shouts, no screams, nothing. Just one minute they were there, then the next they were gone.

Lock stood still, his lungs burning as he gasped for breath.

The third horse pulled up sharply and reared, its rider desperately dragging back on its reins. He peered down into the abyss before him, then up at Lock. He shouted something, but it was snatched away by the wind. Then, turning about, he trotted a little away to his left, until he came to the point at which the crevasse became narrower. He glared across at Lock again then turned the horse, went back a few paces, turned again and charged forward.

Lock ran in great galumphing strides, swinging the leg with the injured knee swiftly out to the side, hurrying back towards the cover of the boulders and to Amy’s precious pistol. He checked over his shoulder once more. The pursuer’s horse gave a great whinny and, in one graceful movement, leapt across the crevasse.

Lock stopped. To continue to run was pointless. He’d never make it back to the rocks now. He pulled out his empty Webley and, brandishing the revolver like a club, turned full on to face the horseman. ‘Come on then, you bastard!’

The rider drew his sword, extended the blade and charged forward.

Lock could smell the musky, rank stench of the rider’s fur coat now and the stale, acrid saddle sweat of the horse as it thundered towards him. He waited until it was less than a foot away, then at the last moment swung the Webley at the Turk’s leg and dived to one side. The horse’s front hooves barely missed him. Lock caught a glimpse of the Turk’s blade swinging down in a low, sweeping arc, and felt a blow to his stomach.

Lock sprawled heavily to the ground. He felt as if all the wind had been knocked out of him. He was lucky; the horse’s rear leg had caught him, not the rider’s sword.

He lay dazed on the frozen ground. Snow fell onto his face and he tried to catch his breath. In the distance he could hear thunder. He turned his head.

The horse was coming again. Lock cursed and forced his body up. Pain seared through his injured knee, but he ignored it. He had to get to his feet. He raised the Webley once more.

A gunshot cracked through the air and Lock instinctively ducked. Then, with the horse no more than a few feet away from him again, a second gunshot rang out and the rider arched his back and fell forward in his saddle. The horse slowed to a trot and as it careered off to the left, Lock could see Amy standing, legs astride, with the raised pistol in her hands.

‘Miss? Miss!’ Lock shouted, stumbling towards her. She was beginning to sway unsteadily. Just as Lock got to her she let the pistol fall from her grip, her eyes rolled back in her head and her knees gave way. Lock caught her and laid her carefully down.

‘Miss? Miss?’ Lock brushed the hair from Amy’s ashen face. ‘Miss?’ His eyes fell on her pale, chapped lips. He hesitated, then leant forward and kissed them lightly.

‘Amy?’

Lock glanced back at the horse. It was standing still and shivering, head stooped, its dead rider collapsed beside it, one foot still caught in a stirrup. Lock lay Amy carefully down and made his way over to the horse, making gentle cooing noises as he approached. The horse raised its head and snorted nervously, but Lock reached out and caught its bridle. The horse tried to pull away. Lock held firm and stroked its muzzle reassuringly. ‘There, boy. Steady, steady.’

The horse calmed and Lock edged around to its flank, gathered the reins and yanked the dead rider’s foot from the stirrup. He stripped the rider of his thick coat, then turned the horse about, and walked it over to Amy. Lock helped the girl to an upright position, wrapped the dead Turk’s coat about her, and then gathered her in his arms.

Amy’s eyes flickered open. ‘Hello.’ Her voice was barely a whisper.

‘Hello, you,’ Lock said softly.

‘Did I get him?’

‘Yes, yes you did.’

Amy smiled weakly. ‘You’re right, Mr Lock. It is different to shooting a squirrel.’

‘You did what you had to, miss.’

‘Did I?’

‘Yes. You saved my life.’

With an effort Lock raised Amy up onto the horse and then climbed up behind her. He clicked his tongue and turned the horse about and trotted away from the crevasse.

‘I feel so … dizzy,’ Amy said.

‘We need to get that foot seen to,’ Lock said. ‘It may be infected.’

Amy pressed her head against Lock’s chest and sighed softly. ‘Mr Lock?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you have a Christian name?’

‘Kingdom.’

‘Kingdom?’

‘Yes, miss.’

Amy fell silent again and Lock wondered if she had passed out. But then the girl stirred. ‘I like it,’ she said. ‘May I call you “Kingdom”?’

‘Yes, miss.’

‘And you must call me “Amy”.’

‘Yes, miss.’

The horse trotted on.

‘Kingdom?’

‘Yes?’

‘Did I faint?’

‘Yes, miss.’

‘Oh, how embarrassing,’ she said.

The horse snorted a protest, its hot breath steaming out of its nostrils and Lock thought that was ample comment. He leant forward and patted its neck reassuringly.

‘Kingdom?’

‘Miss?’

‘Did you just kiss me?’

Lock didn’t reply straight away, he just continued to concentrate on the snowy landscape ahead of him. He thought about not telling her, if it was best that he didn’t tell the truth. But then he realised he needn’t worry. She had passed out again.

‘Yes, miss,’ he said. ‘I believe I did.’

CHAPTER ONE

Karachi Twelve weeks later

The horse-drawn carriage turned into a sweeping gravel-lined drive and jarred to a halt directly opposite the main entrance of an imposing Victorian residence. All of the homes were grand in the Clifton district of Karachi, but this particular one was a palace. It was one of those Anglo-Indian constructions built in the early days of the Raj, and, as appeared to be the fashion, was lit up like an opera house. The carriage door opened and Kingdom Lock stepped stiffly down onto the greasy path. The rain had eased off and the chilly night air was carrying the sickly sweet aroma of spices and tea up from the distant docks. Lock brushed his hand through his thick, sandy hair and placed his dark-brown fur felt fedora on his head. He handed a coin up to the driver, who bobbed his head with thanks, and watched as the carriage rattled its way back around the drive. Lock glanced up at the sky. The stars were beginning to show through the thinning clouds and there was an ominous sickle moon glowing to the east. He smiled softly to himself: even the gods saw fit to constantly remind him of the Turks and the threat of the Ottoman Empire.

‘We shall see,’ he muttered and turned to the house.

Outside the front door, at the top of a set of stone steps, two sepoy sentries were standing erect under a pair of yellow gas lamps. They were as oblivious of the cloud of moths and crickets that danced above their heads as the insects were of the certain death offered by the flickering flames. Both soldiers were dressed in long red parade tunics, with blue trousers tucked into white spats, and on their heads they wore the distinctive pagri wrapped around a khulla cap. They didn’t even give Lock a second glance as he ascended the steps. Before he even got to the top, the main door opened and a smiling Indian servant greeted him with a bow.

‘Good evening, sahib.’

Lock pulled an invitation card from his dinner-jacket pocket and handed it over to the servant. ‘I’m a little late. Took me an age to find a carriage in this rain.’

‘Very good, sahib. Welcome.’

Lock stepped inside and removed his hat. ‘Take good care of that, won’t you?’ he said, handing it to the servant.

‘If you will kindly follow me please, sahib.’

The servant led the way across a cool and dark entrance hall. Opulent portraits of forgotten dignitaries and unmemorable royals gazed down on them from high up on the walls. Their footsteps echoed loudly as they crossed the stone floor and made their way past a grand marble staircase and over towards a set of highly polished wooden double doors. Lock could hear muffled voices and soft music from the other side.

‘Have I missed dinner?’

‘Not dinner, sahib, a buffet,’ the servant replied, and he opened the double doors.

A rotund, bewhiskered regimental sergeant major, resplendent in dress uniform, greeted Lock with a stiff nod of his head. He took the invitation card from the servant and turned to the grand room before him. He cleared his throat and bellowed in a rich voice that held the merest hint of a Teesside lilt, ‘Mr Kingdom Lock.’

A few eyes looked across to see the late arrival, but most of the guests continued with their light chatter.

Lock waited by the doorway at the top of three wide steps that led down into what he presumed was a ballroom. There were about fifty people there, of all ages, and all dressed in their finery. The majority of the men were uniformed officers, with bright polished buttons and shining leather belts. The women were a dazzle of satin, silk and sparkling jewellery. A ripple of laughter floated across the room like a wave on a sandy shore. A band was over in the far corner playing light classical music, but it was nothing Lock recognised. Here and there a waiter wafted through the throng with a tray of filled glasses balanced on their upturned hand.

Lock adjusted his bow tie, and was about to descend the steps, when a sudden voice called from amongst the crowd.

‘Kingdom! Kingdom!’

Lock stopped and looked up. Amy Townshend was weaving her way through whispering couples and gossiping groups. She put her hand up and waved, calling again as she pushed her way politely on. Lock raised his hand in recognition, and descended the steps. The nearest people to him, a middle-aged British colonel with a yellow-grey walrus moustache and his sour-faced, overweight wife, gave him a disapproving glance, but Lock ignored them and moved on towards the approaching Amy.

The girl, a vision of pink silk and lace, her auburn hair piled deliberately on top of her head, was slightly out of breath when she reached him, and threw her arms unashamedly around his neck. ‘Oh, I’m so very pleased to see you!’ she beamed, embracing him tightly. There were a few disapproving glances and mutters from those guests nearest them.

Lock gently pulled Amy away from him. ‘Miss …’

Amy caught the embarrassed look on his face and laughed. ‘Oh, tosh! Don’t let these stuffed shirts bother you. I don’t care! They’re not my guests. I’m just so pleased you came.’

‘Well, I promised you, didn’t I?’

Amy scowled, as she looked Lock up and down. ‘You look very handsome in that … dinner suit … However, I just bet you’d look even more dashing in uniform.’

‘Now, miss, let’s not spoil the evening.’

‘Well, I’ll have a uniform soon. I’m to be a nurse.’

‘Really?’

Amy nodded. ‘I’ve signed up with the VAD. Father isn’t happy about it, but maman supports me. She’s a nurse, too, well, a sister actually. And we must all do our bit, mustn’t we, Mr Lock?’

‘Amy …’ Lock warned. He wanted to advise her not to go against her father’s wishes, that he had done something similar at her age, nearly ten years previously, and still regretted it. But now wasn’t the moment, and she wouldn’t listen to him anyway. It was the girl’s party, her birthday, and she looked happy. In fact, if he was honest, she looked absolutely beautiful.

‘Here, perhaps this will suffice?’ He fished a small packet out of his pocket and handed it to her. ‘Happy birthday.’

Amy narrowed her eyes suspiciously and tore open the box. She paused, then burst out laughing.

‘Oh, how very sweet, a tin soldier. Thank you, Kingdom, I shall treasure it.’

‘Well, you do go on about men in uniform. So now you will always have one.’

‘You are a tease, Kingdom.’ Amy’s face broke into a smile.

‘So, how is your foot?’

‘Well, I avoided the celebratory party upon my triumphant return, as you so astutely predicted. But it’s better now, thank you.’

‘For dancing?’ Lock smiled.

‘Yes. For dancing. Shall we get a drink?’

Lock nodded. ‘A splendid suggestion.’

‘Come along, then,’ Amy said, grabbing his hand and pulling him back through the crowd.

Amy smiled sweetly at a white-haired general who was muttering with two other uniformed officers and a smartly dressed Indian merchant as she and Lock weaved by. Lock nodded affably, but was met with cold, steely stares.

‘I don’t know who half these people are, you know,’ Amy called back to Lock.

‘What about your beau? Is he around?’

‘Who, Casper? Somewhere. His regiment is off to Mesopotamia the day after tomorrow, so all his chums are here having a last hurrah, too,’ Amy said, as she continued to lead Lock towards the far end of the ballroom where a small group of officers, ladies and merchants were gathered around a tall and suave older officer.

‘There’s Father,’ Amy said, ‘holding court as usual. No doubt telling another of his boring stories about his and maman’s social circle back home in Paris. At least he hasn’t brought out his banjo. Well, not yet. It’s still early.’

‘Banjo? Are you being serious?’

Amy nodded. ‘Deadly.’

One of the officers, a stocky man in his forties, with a dark, round face and a thick chevron moustache, who was standing to the right of Amy’s father, caught Lock’s eye and gave the subtlest of nods.

‘Do you know Major Ross?’ Amy said.

‘Oh, yes,’ Lock said. ‘He’s the man who asked me to get you out of Constantinople. I wouldn’t have come if I’d known he was going to be here.’

‘Oh. Well, in that case, let’s steer you away and find Casper. I’ve told him all about you.’

‘Good idea. But I’m afraid we’re too late, he’s coming over.’

‘Bother.’ Amy put on a false smile and waited for Ross to get to them.

‘Ah, Lock, there you are!’ beamed Ross. ‘Mademoiselle Amy, many happy returns. And may I say you are looking divine tonight?’ He raised the glass of champagne he held in his hand.

‘You may, Major, thank you.’ Amy gave a short, mocking curtsy. ‘But I have been eighteen for nearly a whole week now.’

‘How’s the knee, Lock?’ Ross said, his voice soft with a subtle Scottish accent.

Amy put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, mon dieu, Kingdom. How rude of me,’ she said. ‘I never even thought to ask.’

‘It’s quite all right,’ Lock smiled. ‘On the mend. A little stiff in the evenings, that’s all.’

‘Jolly good,’ Ross said, and turned to Amy. ‘Do you mind awfully if I borrow Mr Lock for a moment?’

Amy glanced at Lock and tried to conceal her disappointment.

‘I shan’t keep him long …’ Ross said.

Amy smiled politely. ‘For a moment then, Major.’

Ross bowed his head and Lock watched as Amy weaved her way through the blur of uniforms and dresses, and over to the French doors on the far side of the band, where a number of young officers were chatting to some young ladies. She was a lovely creature and it troubled him that he thought so. He really had believed that his passion had died on that field in Tsingtao when he watched his love die in his arms. Was he really ready to embark on the chase again? So soon.

‘Glad you made it tonight, Lock. I was beginning to worry about you. It’s been nearly three months. Did you not get my messages?’

Lock turned to face the major, surprised at how annoyed he felt at being distracted from his thoughts. He grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray.

‘I’ve been busy.’

‘Have you, indeed?’ Ross narrowed his hazel eyes, looking after Amy, and sipped at his champagne. He took hold of Lock’s arm and indicated over to Townshend and his audience. ‘There are some very important men here tonight, Lock. You’d do well to take note.’

‘I came here to see Amy.’

Ross ignored his remark. ‘You see that short, balding fellow with the silver moustache and irritable, impatient eyes?’ he continued. ‘That’s Lieutenant General Sir John Nixon. He’s the Commander-in-Chief of India’s Southern Command. And the distinguished-looking chap next to him, with the chiselled face and bushy moustache? That’s Lieutenant General Sir Percival Lake. He’s the man London have sent over to protect our oil interests in Basra.’

‘I have no oil interests in Basra,’ Lock said.

‘Tisk, Lock. Be quiet and listen,’ Ross said, ‘you may learn something. He’s here to finalise negotiations with the Shah over buying up the majority stock in the Anglo-Persian Oil Company before the Russians and the Germans get too influential. Russia I’m not so worried about, but Germany’s on the march, as you well know, and the bloody Shah’ – Ross paused and raised his glass to a passing major – ‘is totally incapable of keeping foreign intrusions at bay.’

‘Foreign?’ Lock said. ‘Like His Britannic Majesty’s representatives?’

Ross shot Lock an irritated glance. ‘It’s not a matter to be trifled with, Lock, the future of our nation is at stake. Lake is ambitious and I’ve heard rumour he’ll be staying on as the new Commander-in-Chief of the Indian army. It’s hard to keep up, but one thing’s for certain, oil is going to be the new power base, Lock, in this troubled world of ours, and I have my suspicions about this bloody war.’

‘Meaning?’

‘The assassination of the Archduke Ferdinand.’

Lock choked on his champagne and coughed.

‘You can’t be serious?’

‘Think about it. Take him, over there.’

‘Who?’ Lock looked in the direction the major had jerked his chin. It was at the only person, beside himself, who wasn’t in uniform or native dress. He was a rather grey, sallow-faced man in his mid-to-late forties, clean-shaven, and wearing round spectacles perched on a straight, thin nose. ‘The gentleman in the dinner suit, with the glasses?’

Ross pursed his lips. ‘Yes. Lord Shears … A bit of a mystery, really. So far, all I know is that he’s an oil tycoon, Anglo-Persian’s man. I wager he’s here to ensure that APOC maintains its interests in the region, no matter who wins the war. They’re only interested in self-preservation. He arrived on the steamer from the Cape with a letter of introduction from Lord Crewe himself, and it is not just any old businessman that has references from the Secretary of State for India, Lock. He’s apparently “to advise” as to the best way to protect the oilfields on Abbadan Island and the pipeline that runs through neutral Persia. He has a lot of influence with the government in London, more so than Sir Percival, in fact. But I do know for certain that he’ll be travelling with us to Basra.’

‘Excuse me?’ Lock turned in surprise to Ross.

But before he could get a reply, General Townshend broke away from his conversation and stepped forward and held out his hand to Lock.

‘Major, is this him, is this your man?’ he beamed, looking at Lock with a glint in his eye. His voice was velvety and warm, with no hint of an accent, just pure aristocratic English.

‘Major General Townshend, may I introduce Mr Kingdom Lock,’ Ross said.

‘Delighted, sir, absolutely delighted,’ the general said, pumping Lock’s hand. ‘I don’t know where to begin to thank you for getting Amy out of that damned internment camp. You saved her life, Mr Lock.’

‘She actually saved mine, sir,’ Lock said.

The general gave a chuckle of laughter and patted Lock on the shoulder, and continued to shake his hand. ‘She’s her father’s daughter all right. A crack shot and a stubborn streak as long as the Lyari River. Just like her mother.’ He turned and called back to his wife, ‘Alice, chérie,s’il te plaît!’

A handsome woman dressed in pale green excused herself from the group and glided over to the general’s side. She was a little younger than her husband, tall and slender, with a soft, rounded face framed by lightly curled brown hair that, like her daughter’s, was piled up upon her head. Lock could see Amy’s beauty in her mother’s face, the same piercing emerald eyes full of mischief and determination.

‘Alice, this is the young man who rescued our darling child from the lair of the enemy.’

Lady Alice held out her hand. Lock wasn’t sure if he should shake it or kiss it, but Lady Alice just held his grip and studied him intensely. He returned her gaze, and what he saw there was genuine warmth.

‘Mr Lock, Amy has told me so much about your gallantry,’ she said, her French accent as soft and delicate as a waterfall. ‘I am indebted to you, as is my husband, for returning her safely to us.’

‘Well, my lady, I think the Turks were rather glad to get shot of her, to be honest. I know I was.’ Lock bowed his head.

There was a moment’s awkward silence and then Townshend slapped his thigh and laughed. Lady Alice smiled brightly and was about to say something more when Amy burst forward with a young blond officer in tow.

‘Here he is! Kingdom … I mean, Mr Lock, I’d like you to meet Lieutenant Casper Bingham-Smith.’

‘Lieutenant Smith.’ Lock held out his hand.

The blond lieutenant was tall and slim. Lock was immediately impressed with how fit he looked and guessed he rode regularly, probably hunted, and perhaps he did a little boxing, too. His face, though admittedly handsome, had a certain cruelness about the eyes. ‘It’s Bingham-Smith, actually,’ he said, looking down his nose at Lock, ‘with a hyphen.’

‘Casper,’ Amy hissed, ‘don’t be so rude.’

Lock lowered his hand. ‘A hyphen. You must be so proud?’

‘I note you’re not in uniform, Lock?’ Bingham-Smith said.

‘Very observant of you,’ Lock said.

‘Too good for the military are we, Lock?’

‘Casper, stop it,’ Amy insisted.

‘May I ask you something … personal, Mr Lock?’ Bingham-Smith said, ignoring Amy’s pleas. Lock shrugged. His patience was wearing thin, but he let the insolent young officer continue, having seen his manner was affecting Amy and her opinion of her so-called fiancé-to-be. A selfish act, perhaps, but one worth playing out.

‘Your eyes …’

‘Casper!’ Amy growled.

‘What about them?’ Lock said curtly.

Bingham-Smith snorted. ‘Don’t be like that. I’m sure we’ve all been dying to ask. I’ve never seen eyes two different colours before – not in a person, that is. It’s heterochromia, isn’t it?’

Lock nodded.

‘There was a mangy old sheepdog in our village …’ Bingham-Smith paused, frowning. ‘And I do believe Alexander the Great had the … erm, similar … eyes, I mean …’ he smiled, insincerely. ‘Is it a birth defect?’

Lock didn’t reply straight away, sensing the growing discomfort amongst the small group, but also noting that they were all waiting for his answer.

‘No. A fight. When I was a boy.’

Bingham-Smith nodded his head. ‘A scrapper, eh? What did you do?’

‘Do?’ Lock said.

‘To the person’ – Bingham-Smith waved his hand in front of his own eyes – ‘who did it?’

‘Set fire to his bed.’

‘What!?’ Bingham-Smith spat. There was a murmur of surprise from the others, but Lock noted how uncomfortable Amy seemed, and he suddenly regretted letting the line of questioning get this far.

‘Did you … kill him?’

‘No, Lieutenant. Bastard wasn’t in it at the time. More’s the pity.’

Bingham-Smith was about to add something else when the general stepped in.

‘I think, Amy, you and Casper should return to your friends,’ Townshend said. ‘Mr Lock and I have some business to discuss.’

Bingham-Smith cleared his throat and glanced nervously at the general. ‘Only jesting, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m jolly grateful to Mr Lock for rescuing my Amy.’ He held his hand out.

Lock took it graciously, but it was limp and clammy and the look in Bingham-Smith’s grey-blue eyes was one of contempt.

‘Monsieur Lock, I really cannot thank you enough for bringing our eldest back safe and sound,’ Alice said, trying to lighten the prickly atmosphere. ‘If there is anything Charles or I can ever do to repay you, then do not hesitate to ask.’

Lock shifted his attention from Bingham-Smith and smiled at Lady Alice.

‘Just doing my duty, ma’am.’

Bingham-Smith snapped a quick salute to the general, and taking Amy by the arm, gently, but firmly, escorted her away.

‘Casper, how could you be so rude?’ Amy fumed.

‘If you’ll excuse me, too, Monsieur Lock, I must continue to circulate,’ Lady Alice said. ‘Perhaps I will see you a little later? I have a small token of gratitude to give to you.’

Lock bowed his head again. ‘I’d be delighted, ma’am.’

‘Yes, quite right,’ Townshend said. ‘You’ll have to forgive young Casper, Lock. Can’t be easy for him. All Amy talks about is you. I think he’s feeling a tad inadequate.’

Lock gave a non-committal grunt, as he watched the young couple get swallowed up by the crowd. ‘I thought your daughter had better taste, sir.’

Townshend frowned. ‘Major, if you’d care to escort Mr Lock to the library, I’ll join you directly.’

Ross nodded and, placing a hand on Lock’s arm, led him in the opposite direction.

The library was dimly lit and smelt faintly of stale cigars and brandy. Books lined every wall from floor to ceiling. There was a drinks trolley next to a pair of deep and inviting worn blood-red leather armchairs. An oak table stood between them, empty except for a leather-bound folder and a green-shaded reading lamp that spilt a circle of light into the shadows. Opposite was a marble fireplace. A fire was burning away in the open grate. Ross made his way to the drinks trolley and poured himself a glass of brandy, then went and stood beside the fire. Lock was scanning the shelves. He pulled one large volume out, a blue leather-bound book with gold lettering on the spine, and opened it. An elegant carriage clock set on the mantle chimed the hour. Lock was surprised to see that it was ten o’clock.

‘Do you like Napoleon?’

Lock looked over as General Townshend came into the room.

‘I remember your daughter telling me about his strategies, sir.’ Lock closed the book and put it back on the shelf.

The padded library door made a soft click as Townshend closed it behind him. ‘Yes, Amy may be a trifle … free-spirited, but she’s got a head for military manoeuvres. Not like her younger sister, Audrey. She’s just obsessed with society and marriage.’ The general drifted off for a moment, staring into space. ‘Amy should have been a boy really,’ he mumbled, then clearing his throat, he focused back on his two guests.

‘Well, gentlemen, sorry to have kept you, got cornered by that Shears chap. Right, a drink and then let’s get down to business.’ He rubbed his hands together and walked over to the trolley, fixed himself a brandy and soda, picked up the leather-bound folder, and went to stand next to Ross. ‘Have you told him?’

‘No, sir,’ Ross said.

‘Hmm. Now, Lock, the major has filled me in on your background,’ Townshend said. He placed his glass on the mantle, opened up the folder and started to leaf through the papers within. ‘You were born in … Australia? Really? You don’t have an accent.’

‘I was brought up in India and schooled in Somerset, sir.’

‘You joined the army at sixteen,’ Townshend read, ‘the British army, and were with the British exhibition to Tibet and fought under Major Younghusband at Lhasa in 1904 …’ He looked up as if for confirmation. Lock nodded. ‘Promoted regularly until you made platoon sergeant … And then this.’ Townshend shook his head slowly and tutted. ‘Dishonourable discharge, and after such an exemplary record, too.’

‘I was a young lad, sir,’ Lock said.

‘Not when you were kicked out, you weren’t,’ Townshend said.

‘I was just twenty-one, sir, and, as I have explained to the major—’

‘How old are you now?’ Townshend interrupted.

‘Twenty-six, sir.’

‘Five years to gain maturity! Pah!’

‘Sir, he’s one of my best agents,’ the major said.

Townshend chewed his lip thoughtfully and turned another page in Lock’s file.

‘You were working as a civil engineer,’ he continued, ‘supervising the laying of telegraph lines across Turkey, for the Société Ottomane des Téléphones, when the major recruited you into the White Tabs … is that correct?’

‘Sir.’

‘And then you had a stint in the Far East … Tsingtao?’ Townshend raised a questioning eyebrow at Ross.

‘It’s a former German port on the east coast of China, sir.’

‘Really? Never heard of it … and then you returned to Turkey after we had declared war on them … and what did you do?’

‘I set about sabotaging the telegraph lines.’

‘He also did a little snooping for us, sir, until he was asked to get your daughter out of Constantinople,’ Ross said.

‘Quite, but ther—’

‘He has considerable experience, sir, that’s what counts,’ Ross said.

Townshend brushed his carefully manicured English moustache thoughtfully and stared at Lock. He was clearly attempting to give the illusion that he was mulling over what to do, even though Lock knew he had already decided. Otherwise, Lock told himself, he wouldn’t be here. He remained cool and turned his gaze to the flames. The wood spat in the hearth and the clock softly ticked away the evening.

Townshend closed the folder and put it to one side. ‘I’ve been discussing your situation with Major Ross, Lock. He insists that given your background, your knowledge of Turk and Arabic languages and their customs, having lived and worked amongst them for a number of years, not to mention my daughter’s gushing tales of your resourcefulness in a tight spot,’ Townshend smiled briefly, ‘that you would be the perfect man for work …’ He paused and glanced at Ross.

‘… of a special nature,’ the major said.

‘More rescues? More snooping?’ Lock said.

‘Well, not exactly,’ Ross said. ‘We were thinking more about …’

‘In the field?’ Townshend offered.

‘Precisely!’ Ross said.

‘What field would that be, sir?’

‘You’ll have to have some official status, of course,’ Townshend said, ignoring Lock’s insolence. ‘So we thought a commission. Besides, there’s a war on and it would only have been a matter of time before you would have been called up.’

Lock was momentarily taken aback. ‘But, sir, as you have already pointed out, what about my army past? Won’t that be a problem?’

Townshend laughed. ‘I don’t mean in the British army. No, no, that would never do.’ He paused once more and looked to Ross. ‘The major and I feel it would be more prudent for you to be commissioned into the army of your birth nation. In case of …’

‘Complications,’ Ross said.

‘I see, sir,’ Lock said.

‘So, you’ll be part of the general’s 6th Poonas and still be working for me,’ Ross said. ‘But in Australian uniform.’

‘Well, Kingdom my boy, how does that sound? Interested?’ Townshend raised an expectant eyebrow.

Lock didn’t respond immediately. He just held the old man’s gaze. He didn’t want to join the army again, he’d had his fill of military service, of saluting. He liked the White Tab work, being his own boss, if he didn’t count Ross. Besides, he was thinking of making a little trip home, back to Australia. To get away for a while, recuperate, take in the desert air of the outback. But then there was Amy and he suddenly realised everything had changed. For the first time since he lost Mei Ling in Tsingtao, he felt alive again, inside. And that was thanks to her, to Amy. He still felt the loss of the Chinese girl deeply, but the scars were healing. The war wasn’t going anywhere soon and it was only a matter of time before it caught up with him. He looked to Ross, then back to Townshend. He was going to regret this, he thought, but what choice did he really have?

‘Very well, General … sir, I accept.’

‘Bravo, my lad, I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’

The two men shook hands vigorously.

‘When do I leave, General, sir?’

‘Keen to get on, eh? That’s the spirit! You’ll have to watch this one, Major, eh?’ he winked.

Ross nodded slowly. ‘Aye, I already am.’

‘Now, I know you have an army background, Lock,’ Townshend said, ‘but being an officer and a gentleman is a very different matter. There’s an officer cadet training camp in—’

‘Sir,’ Ross said, ‘I think we can dispense with all that nonsense. Lock is an experienced man, nearly five years’ military service under his belt. It’s all there in that folder you have. He’s adept at weaponry, close-order drill, marksmanship, scouting, tracking, elementary tactics, and that sort of thing. Not to mention the last five years he’s had with the Société Ottomane. Team leadership under pressure is a given. Besides, time is of the essence. You’ve said so yourself.’

‘I …’ Townshend was clearly uncertain, but from the look on Ross’s face there was no argument to be had. ‘Hmm … it’s just not the done thing, Ross … Could cause a bit of an upset with the other young officers coming through, don’t you think?’

‘All the more reason for his commission into the AIF rather than a British regiment, sir. Better cover if – when – he bumps into other new officers who’ve never seen him at OTC,’ Ross said, pulling an envelope from his breast pocket. He gave it to Lock. ‘Here, it’s official, signed and agreed to by General Bridges.’

Townshend plucked at his moustache. ‘Very well, Major, but on your head be it.’

‘Naturally, sir, isn’t it always?’ Ross knocked back his brandy and put the empty glass on the mantle. ‘Well, sir, we must be off. A visit to the tailor’s for young Lock here, and I have some paperwork to catch up on.’ He held his arm out for Lock to lead the way out.

‘Sir, I did promise Miss Amy a dance. She’ll be very disappointed if I leave without even saying goodbye.’

‘Won’t be the first time, Lock, and it won’t be the last,’ Townshend said. ‘And I think you’ve riled young Casper enough for one evening without whirling his girl around the dance floor to boot, what?’ he grinned. ‘I’ll explain to Amy. She’ll understand.’

‘Very well, sir. Goodbye.’ Lock, unsure whether to salute the general or not, half lifted his arm then dropped it again and followed Ross over to the door. He would get a message to Amy later, arrange to meet her before he set sail.

‘Oh, and Lock …’ Townshend called after him.

Lock stopped and turned. ‘Sir?’

‘Go see a barber and posh up, there’s a good chap! Even Bridges’ Australian Infantry Force has standards, I believe. Chin-chin!’ He raised his brandy glass in salute.

Lock smiled wryly and followed the major out.

CHAPTER TWO

Two days later, Lock felt strangely self-conscious as he approached the wharf, dressed as he was in officer’s service dress, consisting of a pale khaki shirt and an irritatingly restrictive olive-drab necktie, a dark-khaki open-collar tunic, light-coloured cord breeches with brown leggings and ankle boots. As well as the smart sunburst badge and the Mendips’ three hills on each collar point, both arms bore the bronze shoulder title ‘Australia’ and his shoulder straps the single brass pips of his rank. The patches below them were a bit of a mish-mash, however, being the plain block of purple signifying the 1st Div. Engineers, as a nod to his civil engineering experience in Turkey, but with an additional white square, for the White Tabs, in the centre. It would add a little confusion, Ross said, but would also stop any cases of mistaken identity. Lock doubted this greatly, but what did it really matter? He was just another young officer amongst many. He tossed his half-smoked cigarette aside, hitched his haversack up on his shoulder, and adjusting his slouch hat, followed the train tracks that ran the full length of the dock to the towering cranes in the distance.

As Lock strode on, his mind drifted to Amy. He had tried to see her, get word to her, but all his efforts had been blocked. She either wasn’t at home, had gone sailing, or he had just missed her. If he didn’t know better, he would say she was avoiding him. He had left countless messages, but all had gone unanswered. Surely she couldn’t have been that angry at him for leaving her party without saying goodbye, for not giving her that promised dance? And now time had run out.

Lock walked on and to his left, looming large, black smoke billowing out of its two funnels, was the monstrous form of the RIMS Lucknow