In silence they continued to study the map.
‘Nothing comes to mind yet, I’m afraid,’ said James slowly. ‘But if we’re going to see Lily and Rathmore alive again, I think we’d better come up with something a bit more subtle than the scheme Fred has in mind. In fact, the more I think about it, the more concerned I become.’ He traced the short route from the fort and down the Bazar Valley with his finger and up into the hill country above. ‘Oh, I know it looks a doddle on the map but on the ground, and believe me, I’ve been on that ground, it’s not so easy. In fact, I’ll tell you – it’s impossible.’
‘What do you mean – impossible?’
‘I don’t think anyone’s even seen the fort at Mahdan Khotal. There’s a good five miles of rugged ground, stream beds, ravines, overhangs, between the valley bottom and the stronghold. Think of the Persian army trying to take the narrows at Thermopylae. A million invaders were held up for days by a tiny army of three hundred determined Spartans. Ramazad Khan’s men fight like Spartans and there’s a sight more of them! You could send the whole of the Indian Army against him and he’d laugh at you. Perhaps we’ll all fall back on Fred’s strategy after all?’
‘But it’s only one small tribe! James, you’re forever taking gashts out and organizing barramptas to teach small tribes a lesson. What’s so special about this one?’
‘It’s been tried.’
He passed a hand wearily over his forehead before continuing. ‘Before the war – 1910, I think it was – Ramazad Khan had a reputation for being a firebrand and he did something that really got up the noses of the military. One thing led to another and it all ended in disaster. Many mistakes made, dead on both sides and no lessons learned. Thoroughly bad show.’
‘And the British found another way of taming Ramazad Khan, I understand?’ said Joe tentatively.
‘Oh, yes. Not proud! The government tried to buy him off. Offered the old bugger a few sackfuls of cash, technically “in reparation for the lives of his valued clansmen” lost in the fight. Not a usual device but these were special circumstances – the manipulative old sod had had two sons killed and did he ever make the most of that!’
‘And Zeman it was who benefited from all this? Didn’t you say he was sent off for his expensive English education on the proceeds?’
‘That’s right. And where has all this landed us? Two thousand pounds of English education and a Sandhurst training and where is it all? Under four foot of earth in an abandoned cemetery! What a waste of a man!’ He turned from the table in disgust. ‘And now it’s all happening again! We’ll never break the bloody circle!’
‘Another cup, anyone?’
Grace’s comfortable voice was more appropriate to the calm order of the drawing room than to the tense atmosphere of the ops room. ‘Milk, James? Joe? No use brooding on the past, you know. No use at all. Now, there is a way through this. Oh, yes, a very simple way. I’m surprised that it hasn’t occurred to either of you!’
Chapter Fourteen
While Joe and James listened to Grace’s suggestion, Sir George Jardine in distant Simla lit a cigar – a thing he did not often do and to those who knew him well it was a sign of agitation. He had been more disturbed than he would have admitted by James’s news of the death of Zeman. He had had his eye on Zeman for some years, an eye blending suspicion and admiration. He had often been heard to say, ‘I believe I could make something of that young man!’ He had seen him as an unreliable friend, as a dangerous ally but, nevertheless, a force to be exploited. And now that promising young man was dead and, as far as Sir George could understand, in circumstances unlikely to reflect credit on the British administration.
‘The situation in those parts is always dangerous,’ he thought. ‘I don’t want this! Dammit! I think I’m getting too old.’ He addressed himself to the task in hand which was to finish and enjoy an expensive cigar. This ritual complete, he set in train the complicated process by which he might put a telephone call through to Joe on the ground and set himself down to wait.
Startled, agitated and finally convinced by Grace’s outrageous solution to their problem, his cup of tea, now cold, still clutched in his hand, Joe turned to listen to the Scouts officer who came to find him. ‘Hurry, Joe, if you can to the communications room – we’ve got Sir George on the telephone!’
Through the usual swishing and gargling sounds inseparable from the Indian telephone system, Joe heard the voice of Sir George.