Confessional. Jack Higgins

he had ever known. He drank it avidly and it seemed to turn to liquid fire in his mouth, burning its way down and he cried out in agony as the mirror shattered and then the ground seemed to open between his feet and he was falling.

      A dream, of course, where thirst did not exist. He came awake then and found himself in exactly the same place as he had been for a week, leaning against the wall in the corner of the little room, unable to lie down because of the wooden halter padlocked around his neck, holding his wrists at shoulder level.

      He wore a green headcloth wound around his head in the manner of the Balushi tribesmen he had been commanding in the Dhofar high country until his capture ten days previously. His khaki bush shirt and trousers were filthy now, torn in many places, and his feet were bare because one of the Rashid had stolen his suede desert boots. And then there was the beard, prickly and uncomfortable, and he didn’t like that. Had never been able to get out of the old Guards’ habit of a good close shave every day, no matter what the situation. Even the SAS had not been able to change that particular quirk.

      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 crisscrossed 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.’

      ‘But Villiers Sahib, I have given my word,’ Salim smiled mockingly.

      ‘I know,’ Villiers said. ‘Don’t tell me. To the Rashid, their word is everything.’

      ‘Exactly!’

      Salim got to his feet as the camel approached. It dropped to its knees and Hamid, a young Rashid warrior in robes of ochre, a rifle slung across his back, came forward. He pulled on the line and the man at the other end fell on his hands and knees.

      ‘What have we here?’ Salim demanded.

      ‘I found him in the night, walking across the desert.’ Hamid went back to the camel and returned with a military-style water bottle and knapsack. ‘He carried these.’

      There was some bread in the knapsack and slabs of army rations. The labels were in Russian.

      Salim held one down for Villiers to see, then said to the man in Arabic, ‘You are Russian?’

      The man was old with white hair, obviously exhausted, his khaki shirt soaked with sweat. He shook his head and his lips were swollen to twice their size. Salim held out the ladle filled with water. The man drank.

      Villiers spoke fair Russian. He said, ‘He wants to know who you are. Are you from Fasari?’

      ‘Who are you?’ the old man croaked.

      ‘I’m a British officer. I was working for the Sultan’s forces in Dhofar. Their people ambushed my patrol, killed my men and took me prisoner.’

      ‘Does he speak English?’

      ‘About three words. Presumably you have no Arabic?’

      ‘No, but I think my English is probably better than your Russian. My name is Viktor Levin. I’m from Fasari. I was trying to get to Dhofar.’

      ‘To defect?’ Villiers asked.

      ‘Something like that.’

      Salim said in Arabic. ‘So, he speaks English to you. Is he not Russian, then?’

      Villiers said quietly to Levin, ‘No point in lying about you. Your people are turning up here today to pick me up.’ He turned to Salim. ‘Yes, Russian, from Fasari.’

      ‘And what was he doing in Rashid country?’

      ‘He was trying to reach Dhofar.’

      Salim stared at him, eyes narrow. ‘To escape from his own people?’ He laughed out loud and slapped