There was the rattle of a bolt, the door creaked open and flies rose in a great curtain. Two Rashid entered, small, wiry men in soiled white robes, bandoliers criss-crossed from the shoulders. They eased him up between them without a word and took him outside, put him down roughly against the wall and walked away.
It was a few moments before his eyes became adjusted to the bright glare of the morning sun. Bir el Gafani was a poor place, no more than a dozen flat-roofed houses with the oasis trimmed by palm trees below. A boy herded half a dozen camels down towards the water trough where women in dark robes and black masks were washing clothes.
In the distance, to the right, the mountains of Dhofar, the most southern province of Oman, lifted into the blue sky.
Little more than a week before Villiers had been leading Balushi tribesmen on a hunt for Marxist guerrillas. Bir el Gafani, on the other hand, was enemy territory, the People’s Democratic Republic of the South Yemen stretching north to the Empty Quarter.
There was a large earthenware pot of water on his left with a ladle in it, but he knew better than to try to drink and waited patiently. In the distance, over a rise, a camel appeared, moving briskly towards the oasis, slightly unreal in the shimmering heat.
He closed his eyes for a moment, dropping his head on his chest to ease the strain on his neck, and was aware of footsteps. He looked up to find Salim bin al Kaman approaching. He wore a black headcloth, black robes, a holstered Browning automatic on his right hip, a curved dagger pushed into the belt and carried a Chinese AK assault rifle, the pride of his life. He stood peering down at Villiers, an amiable-looking man with a fringe of greying beard and a skin the colour of Spanish leather.
‘Salaam alaikum,Salim bin al Kaman,’ Villiers said formally in Arabic.
‘Alaikum salaam.Good morning, Villiers Sahib.’ It was his only English phrase. They continued in Arabic.
Salim propped the AK against the wall, filled the ladle with water and carefully held it to Villiers’ mouth. The Englishman drank greedily. It was a morning ritual between them. Salim filled the ladle again and Villiers raised his face to receive the cooling stream.
‘Better?’ Salim asked.
‘You could say that.’
The camel was close now, no more than a hundred yards away. Its rider had a line wound around the pommel of his saddle. A man shambled along on the other end.
‘Who have we got here?’ Villiers asked.
‘Hamid,’ Salim said.
‘And a friend?’
Salim smiled. ‘This is our country, Major Villiers, Rashid land. People should only come here when invited.’
‘But in Hauf, the Commissars of the People’s Republic don’t recognize the rights of the Rashid. They don’t even recognize Allah. Only Marx.’
‘In their own place, they can talk as loudly as they please, but in the land of Rashid…” Salim shrugged and produced a flat tin. ‘But enough. You will have a cigarette, my friend?’
The Arab expertly nipped the cardboard tube on the end of the cigarette, placed it in Villiers’ mouth and gave him a light.
‘Russian?’ Villiers observed.
‘Fifty miles from here at Fasari there is an airbase in the desert. Many Russian planes, trucks, Russian soldiers – everything!’
‘Yes, I know,’ Villiers told him.
‘You know, and yet your famous SAS does nothing about it?’
‘My country is not at war with the Yemen,’ Villiers said. ‘I am on loan from the British Army to help train and lead the Sultan of Oman’s troops against Marxist guerrillas of the D.L.F.’
‘We are not Marxists, Villiers Sahib. We of the Rashid go where we please and a major of the British SAS is a great prize. Worth many camels, many guns.’
‘To whom?’ Villiers asked.
Salim waved the cigarette at him. ‘I have sent word to Fasari. The Russians are coming, some time today. They will pay a great deal for you. They have agreed to meet my price.’
‘Whatever they offer, my people will pay more,’ Villiers assured him. ‘Deliver me safely in Dhofar and you may have anything you want. English sovereigns of gold, Maria Theresa silver thalers.’