You know this man? the Emir demanded. And when Colonel George nodded, the Emir explained that Haj Whitaker had that morning agreed to go up to the fort and reason with his son. What had happened up there he did not say. He merely gestured to the body. This man’s son has murdered my people. You say it is not murder. Look now at that which lies before you and tell me — is that murder? Colonel George sat there, his eyes hard, his face set. He had no answer. ‘His own father!’ His voice was shocked and he made no attempt to challenge the Emir’s version of what had happened.
‘You can’t be sure,’ I said.
It was Gorde who answered. ‘Do you think it would have occurred to him to have the body flung at our feet like that if Charles had been killed by one of his men?’ He was staring down at the bloody figure lying in the dust, his hands clenched. Then he looked up at the Emir and demanded to know where the body had been found, and when the Emir replied that his men had picked it up at the foot of the cliffs directly below the tower, he nodded his head slowly. As far as he was concerned that settled it.
It was very hot there in the sun, yet a cold shiver ran through me. I was remembering the solitary shot we’d heard that morning, and into my mind came Mrs Thomas’s words — It was never Dafydd that was going to die. Colonel George was the first to recover. Ignoring the body, he dealt with the terms on which the fort would be evacuated and his forces withdrawn. And when the Emir finally agreed, he made the pre-arranged signal to his troops waiting on the Jebel al-Akhbar and withdrew his force into the desert, taking Whitaker’s body with him.
Back at our old encampment we found the helicopter gone and one of the trucks belonging to the Jebel al-Akhbar detachment already returned. After interviewing the driver, Colonel George announced, ‘David Whitaker is apparently still alive. The helicopter’s gone up to bring him out.’ He said it flatly, and behind me I heard Gorde murmur, ‘God help him! He’d have been better dead.’
The helicopter took off from the fort, and when it landed they carried David to the shade of the headquarters truck awning. When I saw him, I thought for a moment it was all over. His face was relaxed, the eyes closed; the flesh, tight-drawn, was bloodless. It was a death’s head, all skull and bone, and the skin like parchment. But then the eyes flicked open and he saw me. The cracked lips smiled and he tried to say something, but no words came. He was too dried-up to speak. The eyes closed again and he went into a coma.
The helicopter had also brought bin Suleiman out. He was badly wounded and very weak but he was alive. Only Hamid was dead. They brought his body down and buried it beside Colonel Whitaker’s within sight of the Jebel al-Akhbar. Gorde stood with bared head and hard, frozen eyes as they laid his old friend to rest in his shallow desert grave, and Ruffini was there, sitting on the ground, his pencil moving steadily across the pages of the notebook held against his knee.
The burial over, I went to talk to him. I wanted to try and persuade him to soft-pedal the fatal news. I was thinking of Sue rather than David. The boy was a hero and the newspapers avid for news. And now the world was going to be told that he’d killed his father. I was probably the only person who could justify it, who understood the provocation. The public’s reaction would be one of revulsion. Sue would be torn to bits, her life made a hell. I touched Ruffini on the shoulder. ‘About Colonel Whitaker,’ I said.
He paused, his face creased against the sun’s glare as he glanced up at me. ‘We talk about him later,’ he said. And he added, ‘It is fantastic, the most fantastic story I ever write. There is this boy David, who by ‘imself has forced the British Government to take action. And now this man they ‘ave just buried — his father who is a great figure in the desert, a sort of … ‘ He clicked his fingers, searching for a name. ‘It doesn’t matter. What matter is that he is dead, killed by a stupid tyrant, a sort of Arabian condottiere, in a lousy little mud town in the desert.’
‘You mean you think the Emir … ‘ I checked, staring down at him.
‘And for what?’ he demanded, his mind concentrated on assembling the English phrases he wanted. ‘He kill him to blacken his son’s name, a ridiculous attempt to destroy this heroic young man. It is a tragedy, a great tragedy. And with the death of Colonel Whitaker, it is the end of an epoch in the desert, the last great Englishman in Arabia … ‘ He bent his head, his pencil flying again.
I stared at him in astonishment. He’d been there. He’d understood what the Emir had said. And he didn’t believe him. His story would accuse the Emir of Colonel Whitaker’s murder, and because he was the only journalist here, the press would carry his version. I could only hope that the authorities would leave it at that.
Colonel George took that story with him when he left shortly afterwards in the helicopter. He also took David, and because of that Gorde was left to travel by Land-Rover. I was standing beside him as the helicopter took off. He turned to me and I can still remember the rasp in his voice as he said, ‘If that little bastard of Whitaker’s lives, you’ll have a lot to answer for.’
‘How do you mean?’ My mouth felt suddenly dry.
‘You sent him out here, knowing he’d killed a man, knowing he was a self-dramatizing little gangster. Fellows like that don’t change, and patricide is something every society abominates. He’s a hero now. But when the public learns the truth … ‘ He stared at me, his eyes cold and hard. ‘Charles Whitaker was a man in a thousand, probably the greatest Englishman who ever made the desert his home. I’ve known him since I first came out to Arabia, and you can rest assured I’ll see to it that the truth is known.’ He turned abruptly, without giving me a chance to say anything, and I watched him as he limped across to where Berry was organizing his convoy.
Colonel George had placed a Land-Rover at Gorde’s disposal and he left immediately, so that I had no opportunity to talk to him. And when I finally reached Sharjah, he was on his way back to England and it was already too late. David had been placed under arrest and an official statement had been issued to the press.
III. THE COURT STANDS ADJOURNED
It was the third day of the trial and David Whitaker had gone into the witness box immediately after the lunchtime recess. Counsel for the Defence had taken him through the salient points arising from my evidence with the object of showing his relationship with his father in the best possible light. Now, late in the afternoon, he had arrived at the crucial point — Colonel Whitaker’s visit to Fort Jebel al-Akhbar. The packed Court was very still, every eye on the fair-haired boy standing, neat and tidy, in the box, his arm in a sling and the sunburned face looking almost black in contrast with his light tropical suit.
‘I would like the Court to have a clear picture of your situation on that particular morning.’ Counsel glanced down at his papers, his hands resting lightly on the desk in front of him. ‘By then you had been on the Jebel al-Akhbar seven days. Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘And there were only two of you left. Salim, Ali and Hamid were dead; Grant had gone. There was just yourself and bin Suleiman, and you were both wounded.’
‘Yes.’
‘Had you been attacked during the night?’
‘No, it was some days since they’d made any attempt to take the fort.’
‘But you were under fire?’
‘They’d got men lying out in the rocks all round the fort, but we were all right as long as we remained in the tower. They’d fire a few shots once in a while just to remind us they were there, and at night they’d move up to the walls. But they didn’t bother us much. We were pretty used to them by then, you see.’ Just the trace of a Welsh accent to remind the Court that this was the same boy who had run wild in Cardiff docks.