The Doomed Oasis by Hammond; Innes Page A

pilots who had flown the search.
    Flight-Lieutenant Hill described the truck as similar to those used by oil companies for seismological work, though no company markings showed on either bonnet or sides. It was halfway up the side of a big sand dune, as though it had stalled or bogged down in an effort to surmount this obstacle. It was hardly surprising, he said, that he had flown several times over the area without seeing it; high winds—the local shamal —had piled the sand up on one side of it. He had only sighted the truck because the sun was low and it was casting a shadow.
    It was less a news story than a short article, and most of it was about Colonel Whitaker— that strange, half-Arab figure, so prominent in the search for Gulf oil during the past twenty years . It was “From Our Own Correspondent,” and I had a vague sense as I read it that there was something behind the piece, something that he was not in a position to reveal but that was nevertheless there for those who could read between the lines. Such phrases as: The fascination of this man who has maintained his theory about oil in the face of persistent failure; and Whether he is another Holmes or not, whether the oil company he served for so long will live to regret his departure, only time will tell . Finally there was this: It appears there is some foundation for the rumour that his son, though employed by GODCO, was on loan to him for some private purpose, presumably connected with prospecting for oil .
    The suggestion that David had been on loan to his father at the time of his disappearance did nothing to allay the uneasiness that had resulted from my visit to Mrs. Thomas. And then the following morning Captain Griffiths walked into my office and I knew for certain that there was something more to the boy’s death than the Company had so far revealed.
    Griffiths had docked at first light and was still in uniform, having come straight from his ship. “I promised to deliver this personally into your hands.” He put a fat envelope down on the desk in front of me. “Personally, you understand. He wouldn’t risk it through the post.”
    â€œWho’s it from?” I asked. But the address was handwritten, the writing familiar. I knew it was from David before he answered my question. “Young Whitaker,” he said and sat himself down in the chair opposite my desk.
    I was too startled to say anything for a moment, for the boy had been alive when he’d handed this to Griffiths. I picked it up, staring at the address as though that would give me some clue as to what was inside. “When did he give you this?”
    â€œWell, now …” He frowned. “It was Sharjah, and we were anchored about a mile off—”
    â€œYes, but what was the date?”
    â€œIt’s the date I’m trying to remember, man.” His little beard bristled. “Without my log I can’t be sure. But we left Basra on January twenty-third and we called at Kuwait, Bahrain, Doha, Abu Dhabi, and Dubai before we anchored off Sharjah; it would be about the middle of the first week in February.”
    And David had been reported missing on February 28. Griffiths must have been one of the last people he saw before he went out into the desert—perhaps one of the last of his own race to see him alive.
    â€œStill the same offices, I see.” Griffiths had pulled his pipe out and was busy filling it. He didn’t know the boy was dead.
    â€œThe trouble is the clients don’t pay their bills,” I said and slit the packet open. The old rogue had never settled my account, though he’d admitted that Whitaker had made him a present of fifty quid for getting the boy out to Arabia. Inside was a hand-written letter folded around another envelope that had GODCO, B AHRAIN , printed on the flap. Across the front of it he had typed: DAVID WHITAKER—TO BE OPENED ONLY IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH.
    Those