"Innes, Hammond - The Doomed Oasis" - читать интересную книгу автора (Innes Hammond)

THE DOOMED OASIS

In the baking heat of the Persian Gulf the Arabs, whose ancestors roamed the lands are wary of the Europeans. Only the legendary Arabist, Charles Whitaker, is always welcome in their camps. It is he who helps maintain the uneasy peace between hostile neighbours.

To this barren land comes Whitakers illegitimate mate son, David, raised on the tough Cardiff waterfront, whose love for the desert and for the tribes that inhabit it becomes as fierce as his father's.

But the two men see the land's future in very different ways - and neither will tamely submit to the other. The confrontation between father and son reaches its explosive climax in the treacherous sands of the doomed oasis.




Hammond Innes



The Doomed Oasis





To The Royal Air Force and the Officers of the Trucial Oman Scouts

With my admiration for the work they do in circumstances of difficulty, often of great hardship; and with my appreciation of their cooperation, without which this book could not have been written.

I would like to express my appreciation of the help I have received from Neil Innes during the actual writing of The Doomed Oasis. He was Minister of External Affair to the Sultan of Muscat at the time I was journeying in Arabia; not only did he check the final typescript for me, but at various stages of the writing I benefited greatly from his knowledge. I should perhaps make it clear, however, that I have ignored his advice on the spelling of two Arab names, in particular believing that my own spelling of Makhmud would be more helpful in conveying the sound of that name than the correct Mahmud. Both the sheikhdom of Saraifa and the emirate of Hadd are, of course, entirely imaginary Arab States.

Cold voices whisper and say -
'He is crazed with the spell of far Arabia,
They have stolen his wits away.'
WALTER DE LA MARE





1. THE COURT OF FIRST INSTANCE




Call Aubrey George Grant!

Aubrey George Grant!

The moment had come. My mouth felt suddenly dry. The Court was waiting and I knew the ordeal ahead of me was a long one. And at the back of my mind was the knowledge that in telling the truth, the whole truth, I might convict an innocent man. I felt the touch of her hand on mine, the quick pressure of her fingers, and I rose to my feet, the sweat sticking the shirt to my back as I followed the attendant. The doors of the courtroom stood open. I checked, a moment's hesitation in the entrance; the place was packed, the atmosphere tense with expectancy.

Quickly I walked down through the Court, the setting familiar to me, a part of my working life; only my role had changed. It was the first time I had entered Court as a witness. I kept my eyes on the Judge, on the pale London face above the tropical suit. He had been specially appointed to try this unusual case and he looked tired after the long flight, shrunken almost, the suit too large; without the scarlet robes he seemed less awe-inspiring and the Law robbed of some of its majesty. Counsel, too, looked ordinary without wig and gown, and the courtroom itself-all open shirts or pale, loose-fitting jackets, a scattering of Bahrainis in flowing Arab robes. The Code of Criminal Procedure in this Court was based on the Indian Penal Code, yet in essence it was the same Law, and as I moved towards the witness box, the Judge leaned slightly forward, peering at me short-sightedly, his hands clasped together.

Once in the box I faced the crowded courtroom; no longer a mass of unidentifiable humanity, but a sea effaces all lifted to stare in silent expectation waiting for the full story which they now knew I alone could give.