‘My aide,’ Zeman said, waving a hand at the young Pathan at his side, ‘Muhammed Iskander Khan, and I will be delighted.’
Joe looked again at Iskander Khan. Watchful but not unfriendly green eyes looked back at him. He was a pale-skinned Pathan, one of the tribesmen who claim that their colouring comes from the ancient line of Alexander the Great whose Macedonian army had passed through these hills two thousand years before. His brown hair was bobbed and curled, wind-blown around his turban, his nose, like Zeman’s, was magnificent, but he was clean-shaven and lacking the luxuriant moustache.
‘Then come with us,’ said James, turning his horse. ‘Your men will be taken care of.’
He summoned a havildar who, though suspicious and wary, began with a formal bow to talk with the senior remaining Afghan.
Out of earshot, Joe leaned towards James and hissed, ‘You might have warned me! What shall I guess? Wellington and Sandhurst?’
James grinned. ‘No. As it happens – Rugby and Sandhurst. You’ll have a chance to get better acquainted over supper. His mother is an Afghan princess, Durrani tribe, royal blood, and his father is a chief, a Malik, of a branch of the Afridis who live this side of the border. Now he’s a nasty old brute! Hates the English but he’s not above using the large grants of English cash we give him to send his only son off to Europe for a military education. Nothing like learning how your enemy ticks from the inside, I suppose.’
‘So when Zeman sticks his dagger in my throat I may expect him to say, “Sorry about this, old chap! Nothing personal you understand,” in the best Sandhurst drawl?’
James considered for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you’ve got it just about right. Don’t forget to lock your door tonight!’
The next morning Joe and James stood together on the roof of the fort, already uncomfortably hot by ten o’clock, binoculars sweeping the road up from Peshawar. They were joined by Zeman Khan. ‘When do we expect to see this so important delegation?’ he asked easily, seating himself on the parapet.
‘At any moment now,’ said James, offering him the binoculars.
With a smile Zeman waved them away and looked towards the Peshawar road. ‘At any moment now? Then unless I mistake, here they are.’
And a motorized convoy, an armoured car leading the way, began to appear, slowly making its way along the newly metalled road to the fort.
‘Do you recognize anybody?’ Joe asked.
‘Well,’ said James, ‘one of the men in the first car is in RAF uniform so that can only be Moore-Simpson.’
‘Moore-Simpson?’ said Zeman, suddenly alert. ‘I didn’t realize he was coming. What’s he coming for?’ His tone was suspicious.
‘Well, primarily,’ said James pacifically, ‘if he’s done what I asked, he’s got two hundred Players Medium Navy Cut fags on board for you. But, beyond that, it’s not for me to expound the motives of my lords and masters. And with him in the car, I note, there’s Sir Edwin Burroughs of the Indian Civil Service.’
‘That’s a funny pairing,’ said Zeman. ‘Moore-Simpson’s well known to be in favour of bombing the wicked tribesmen into submission and Sir Edwin is in favour of anything, including a British retreat from the frontier, that might save money! Ha! I should think they had an interesting journey together!’
James evidently thought the same but didn’t care to have British frontier policy explained to him from the other side of the tribal boundary.
‘Next car? That’s a Dodge, isn’t it?’
‘Buick, I think.’
‘Delage,’ said Zeman authoritatively.
‘Well, whatever the car, it seems to contain none other than the formidable Grace Holbrook. Yes, undoubtedly – motoring veil! That’s her all right.’
‘Who’s that in the car with her?’
‘That must be the Lord Rathmore, I’d guess. And opposite him and turning towards us . . .’ He spoke with studied calm. ‘Yes. It’s Betty. Do you see her, Joe?’
The first two cars were separated from the next two by a lorry full of Scouts infantry. A third car came in view.
‘Luggage,’ said Joe, staring. ‘Nothing but luggage. Any more to come? What’s the matter, James?’
‘Well,’ said James, ‘I’m looking for the member of this party for whom I have the greatest anxiety and I do not see her. Where the hell’s bloody little Miss Lily Coblenz got to, I’d like to know? Here comes another car . . . but there’s no one in it but the driver. And there’s the troop of Lancers bringing up the rear. That’s it. Now what? My orders were absolutely specific! She was to travel in the second car with my wife and Dr Holbrook. Ah, dammit! I should have gone down myself!’