‘She’s out here in Dubai — a nurse.’
I nodded. ‘You cabled her the news. She sent me a copy.’
‘Yes. A very unfortunate business. It’s not often we have a casualty.’ There was a long pause, and then he said, ‘Why are you here, Mr Grant? Are you hoping to persuade us to resume the search? I had a message, something to that effect from London Office.’ And he added, ‘I assure you it would be quite useless.’
‘Perhaps if I had a full account of the circumstances,’ I suggested.
‘Of course. There is a report of the search. I’ll see that you’re given a copy before you leave.’ Another long pause. ‘You were asking for Sir Philip Gorde, I understand. Why?’ And when I didn’t answer, he added, ‘I signed that cable to Nurse Thomas and you’ve been in touch with London. You knew perfectly well that I gave the order for the search to be abandoned.’ He stared at me. ‘Perhaps you would care to explain?’
‘There’s nothing to explain,’ I said. ‘It happens that I have to see Sir Philip on a private matter.’
‘Connected with Whitaker?’
‘Yes.’
He got suddenly to his feet. ‘I’m the General Manager in Arabia, Mr Grant. Whitaker was employed by me. His death is my responsibility, not Sir Philip Gorde’s.’
‘I appreciate that.’
‘Then your correct approach was surely to ask for an interview with me?’
It seemed to worry him and I wondered why. He was staring down at me, waiting for an answer. Finally he turned away and stood looking out of the window at the brown, dried-up landscape. His light tropical suit was obviously tailored in London and the silk shirt was monogrammed with his initials. ‘Sir Philip is in Abu Dhabi.’ He said it quietly as though he were speaking to himself. ‘Tomorrow, or perhaps the day after, he will be going on to Sharjah. That’s another of the Trucial sheikhdoms, further to the east. He will not be back here for at least a week, perhaps a fortnight.’ He turned then and looked directly at me again. ‘How do you propose to contact him? Have you thought of that?’ ‘I only got in this morning,’ I said. ‘Have you visas for the Trucial sheikhdoms?’ ‘No. I have to apply to the Political Resident’s office-’ ‘Mr Grant.’ He was smiling again. ‘I don’t think you understand. It isn’t easy to get visas for the Trucial Oman. The PRPG is very naturally extremely reluctant-’ He gave a little shrug. ‘This is Arabia, you know, not Europe. The political situation is far from stable and there is a great deal at stake; enormous sums of capital have been sunk in this area.’ He paused there to give me time to consider. ‘Of course, we could help you. Not only in the matter of your application for a visa, but in transport, too. We have flights going east along the coast to our various development projects. In fact, I think there is one going to Abu Dhabi tomorrow. But,’ he added, ‘in order to help you we should have to know the exact purpose of your visit.’
He was taking a lot of trouble over this. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Beyond saying that my business with Sir Philip concerns the Estate — a matter of a signature — I cannot disclose-’
‘You have a document for him to sign?’ He sounded puzzled, and when I refused to be drawn, he gave a little shrug and returned to his desk. ‘Since it is a private matter and not the concern of the Company, I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mr Grant. I’ll send Gorde a personal note, of course, to tell him you’re here.’ A fractional hesitation and then with that little smile that never remotely touched his eyes: ‘And if you’d care to communicate with him direct, then I’ve no doubt we could arrange for a letter to be delivered to him by tomorrow’s plane.’ His hand reached out to the onyx bell-push on the desk.
I
‘One moment,’ I said. I wasn’t sure how to handle it, but I knew that once I was out of that office, the opportunity to question him would be gone for ever. ‘I wonder … perhaps you would be good enough to clear up one or two points for me?’ I said it tentatively. ‘Whilst I’m here,’ I added.
There was a momentary hesitation whilst his hand still hovered on the bell-push.
‘I’m a little puzzled about certain aspects of the boy’s death,’ I murmured.
The hand moved back from the bell-push, reluctantly. And then he smiled and leaned back in his chair. ‘Of course.’
‘You say he was employed by you at the time of his death?’
‘He was employed by the Company, yes.’
I hesitated. The devil of it was I didn’t know what I was after. Something … but what? The map, towering behind him, caught my eye. ‘Could you show me exactly where it was his truck was found?’
He got up at once, almost with relief, I felt. The position he indicated was well to the south-west of Buraimi Oasis, a position where three dotted lines met. Peering over his shoulder I saw that these marked the boundaries of Saudi Arabia, the Sheikhdom of Saraifa and the emirate of Hadd. His finger rested on a point inside the Saudi Arabian border. The whole area was shaded with little dots. The sands of the Rub al Khali,’ he explained. ‘Dune country. It’s called the Empty Quarter.’
‘You’ve no concessions in Saudi Arabia, have you?’
‘No.’
‘Then what was he doing there?’
That’s something we should like to know, Mr Grant.’
‘He was there without your authority then?’
‘Of course.’ His nod was very emphatic.
‘If he was carrying out a survey, then presumably he had a survey crew. What happened to them?’
He hesitated and the quick glance he gave me suggested that this was something he didn’t want to go into. But in the end he said, ‘He had an Arab crew. They were picked up by Askari of the Emir of Hadd. However, the men have been interviewed. It appears they became nervous. Hardly surprising in that area. Anyway, they downed tools, took the Land-Rover and left Whitaker there on his own.’
‘In Saudi Arabia?’
‘No, no.’
‘Where, then?’
He glanced at me quickly again, his eyes narrowing. ‘They wouldn’t say. At least … they couldn’t give the exact location.’
‘Was it somewhere on the Hadd border?’ I asked, remembering what Griffiths had said.
He ignored that. ‘Doubtless they could have led us to the place, but the Emir refused to allow them outside the Wadi Hadd al-Akhbar.’ He gave a little shrug. ‘The Emir is very difficult.’ And he added, ‘But of course this is hardly a matter that concerns you.’
‘On the contrary,’ I said sharply, ‘it’s important that I know exactly where the boy was supposed to be operating at the time of his death. Until I know that-’
But he shook his head. ‘Best leave it at that, Mr Grant.’
‘Because of the political aspect?’ I was convinced now that the locations in my briefcase would show that David had been operating somewhere along the Hadd-Saraifa border.
‘Politics come into it, yes. They always do in Arabia.’
‘And particularly where oil is concerned?’
He nodded agreement, and I asked him then whether he thought there was oil in that area. He looked at me very tight-lipped and said:
‘We’ve no reason to imagine so.’
‘Then what’s the political problem?’
He hesitated, and then half-turned to the map again. Those borders,’ he said. They’re all three in dispute.
Particularly the border between Hadd and Saraifa.’
‘Would you describe that as “political dynamite”?’ His eyes narrowed and I pushed it further: ‘If oil were discovered there?’
‘Yes,’ he said, and turned back to his desk. ‘I think, Mr Grant, we are getting a long way from the purpose of your visit.’
‘I don’t think so.’ He wanted to terminate the interview. Equally I wanted to continue it. ‘Did David Whitaker submit a survey report to you at any time during, say, the two months before his death?’
‘No.’
I stared at him, wondering whether that was the truth. And then I decided to play the thing I’d been holding in reserve. ‘Suppose I told you that I have in my possession the location he was working on at the time of his death?’
He affected disbelief. But it lacked something, the quickness of spontaneity, the sharpness of genuine surprise. And suddenly my mind clicked. ‘Four days ago,’ I murmured, ‘in my office in Cardiff … I was visited by a gentleman who attempted by threats to get those locations from me.’ He didn’t say anything and I let the silence drag out. ‘He didn’t get them, of course,’ I said quietly. I was staring at him, but he kept his eyes on the desk.