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- his escape from the police in Cardiff, the fact that he was Colonel
Whitaker's son, even the details of how he'd been smuggled into Arabia on a
native dhow. The story ran to almost a column with a double-column head, and
about the only thing it didn't give was the location he'd been survey ing
immediately prior to his death.
'Well?' Gorde rasped. 'Are you responsible for that?'
'No.'
'Then who is?'
That was what I was wondering. Whoever had written it had access to all the i
nformation that I had. 'I don't know,' I said.
'You're David Whitaker's solicitor. His Executor, in fact, Otto tells me.'
'Yes.'
'And just over two days ago you were in London.'
'Nevertheless, I'm not responsible for it.'
'A young kid just out of oil school and operating in an area he'd no business
in ... a criminal to boot.' He glared at me, his fingers drumming at the lea
ther arm of the chair. The Political Resident had that paper specially flown
down to me at Abu Dhabi. The Foreign Office has teleprinted him that half the
London press have taken the story up. He's furious.'
The facts are correct,' I said.
'The facts!' But he was thinking of the boy's background. 'You know where h is
truck was found abandoned? Inside the borders of Saudi Arabia,' he almos t
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snarled. 'A story like that - it could spark off another Buraimi; only wo rse,
much worse.' He paused then, staring at me curiously. 'Your note said you
wanted to see me. You said it was urgent, something about this boy - a
communication.'
I didn't answer at once, for I'd read through to the end of the newspaper
story, to the editorial footnote that had been added at the bottom: The
London Office of the Gulfoman Oilfields Development Company issued a stat
ement yesterday denying that there was any truth in rumours that the Comp any
had made an important new oil strike. Asked whether David Whitaker ha d made a
confidential report prior to his death, an official of the Compa ny stated
categorically that nothing was known in London about any such r eport. Despite
the Company's denials, GODCO shares went ahead yesterday i n active dealings
on the London Stock Exchange. 'Well?'
'Suppose there's something in it?'
'Suppose pigs had wings,' he snarled. 'Well, come on, man. What was it you
wanted to see me about?'
For answer I opened.my briefcase and handed over the envelope David had a
ddressed to him. 'Have you seen Colonel Whitaker since you've been out he re?'
I asked.
'What's that got to do with it?' He was staring down at the envelope, arid wh
en I started to explain, he cut me short. 'Oh I've heard the talk if that's w
hat you mean. But it's nothing to do with the Company. If Charles Whitaker li
kes to waste his money trying to prove a theory--' He grunted. 'It's just dam
ned awkward, that's all. The boy's death makes a colourful story and coming o
n top of his father's activities--' He gave a little shrug and slit open the
flap of the envelope with his finger. 'Erkhard was trying to keep it quiet -
and rightly. Saraifa is a trouble-spot. Always has been. And the political ch
aps are touchy about it.'
That doesn't explain why he should try to prevent me seeing you.'
He had taken out a letter and two wads of foolscap. 'What's that? What are y
ou talking about?' He reached into his pocket for his glasses.
I told him then how I'd been given facilities for Sharjah as soon as it was
known that he had changed his plans and was flying back to Bahrain.
'What are you suggesting?' he demanded.
That Erkhard didn't intend us to meet.'
'Nonsense. What difference could it make to him?' He put on his glasses and
after that he didn't talk as he read steadily through the contents. Finally he
said, 'Do you know what this is, Mr Grant?' He tapped one of the foolscap
sheets. 'Do you know what he's trying to get me to do?'
'Sign some sort of undertaking, but I don't know exactly--'
'Undertaking!' he rasped. 'If I sign this--' He waved the sheet of paper at me
. It would commit the Company to drilling four test wells at locations to be s
upplied by you.' He took his glasses off and stared at me. 'Is that right? You
hold the locations?'
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'Yes,' I said. They're in a separate envelope. If you sign that document, then
I'm instructed to hand it across to you.'
'But not otherwise?'
'No.'
'And you've got it with you?'
I nodded. 'It's here in my briefcase.'
'And if I don't sign . . . What do you do then?'
'In that case I imagine my actions wouldn't concern you.'.
'No?' He laughed. And then he was looking down at the document again. 'I
see here that you will be acting as agent for Sheikh Makhmud and his son
Khalid in this matter. Have you ever met Sheikh Makhmud?'
I shook my head.
'And you know nothing about the Middle East.' He was staring at me and his
eyes had the suggestion of a twinkle. 'It has its humorous side, you know.
The boy must have thought you a most remarkable lawyer.' He went back to th e
document again. 'Further, it commits the Company to the payment of an adv ance
of a hundred thousand pounds in respect of oil royalties of fifty per cent,
provided always that Sheikh Makhmud and his son agree to grant to the
Company the sole concession from date of signature to the year two thousan d.
Well,' he said, 'there's your undertaking. The boy must have had a touch of
the sun when he typed that.' And he tossed it across to me. 'Read it yo urself
and tell me what you think of it - as a lawyer.'
I glanced through it quickly, wondering what he expected me to see in it. 'It
l ooks perfectly legal,' I said.
'Exactly. That's what makes it so damned odd. He'd taken the trouble to look
up all the legal jargon for that sort of a document.' He leaned suddenly forw
ard. 'He couldn't have got that in the desert, could he? It means he looked i
t up before ever he went out there, before he'd even run his survey.'
'What are you suggesting?'
'That his report's a phoney. I'm not a fool, Grant. That boy's been got at, a
nd I can guess who's got at him. Here. Take a look at the survey report.' He
thrust it at me. 'He used his own typewriter for that. The other's different,
probably an office machine. He typed that document and then went out into th e
desert--'
'David lost his life as a result of that survey,' I reminded him.
'Did he? How do you know what caused his death?' He glared at me. 'You d on't,
and nor do I. Nobody knows- or even what's happened to him. Has an yone
mentioned the Whitaker Theory to you?'
'I know about it,' I said. 'Is that why you think he's been got at?'
He nodded. 'Way back in the thirties Charles Whitaker began claiming that we'd
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find the oilfields continuing down from the Gulf here between the san d seas
of the Empty Quarter and the Coastal mountain ranges to the east. I
t seemed a possibility, and remembering how Holmes's theory had finally be en
proved right in Bahrain, I took a chance on it and moved some of my dev
elopment teams in from the coast. It was an expensive business and Buraimi was
about the limit from the practical point of view. I was operating par tly in
the Sharjah sheikhdom and partly in Muscat territory, and after I'd burned my
fingers, even the big companies like Shell and ARAMCO wouldn't look at his
theory.'
That was a long time ago now,' I said.
'Yes, before the war.'
'What about Saraifa? Did you do any development work there?'
'No, it was too far from the coast. I sent a geological party in 1939, but t
he initial reports weren't very encouraging and then the war came and the ch
ap in charge of the survey was killed. We didn't try again, though Charles w
as always pressing us to do so. He had a political appointment for a short t [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]