The Seventh Scroll - Smith Wilbur - Страница 87

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beneath them i was turbulent as a storm sea and they were thrown about

mercilessly in the rear seats. Up in front Geoffrey seemed to be faring

no better. He was very quiet and took no interest in their conversation.

There had been no opportunity for them to talk privately the previous

evening, what with either Geoffrey or Nogo hovering within earshot at

all times. Now with their heads close together, the engine beat covering

their voices and Geoffrey occupied with his own queasy thoughts, they

were able to concoct their story.

Geoffrey had made it clear that the British Ambassador in Addis was less

than delighted with the inconvenience they had caused him. Apparently

there had been a string of faxes from Whitehall since they had been

reported missing. Added to that, the Ethiopian Commissioner of Police

was anxious to question them. They had to make sure that they did not

implicate Mek Nimmur in the killing of Boris Brusilov, and at the same

time they must not alert or alarm Pegasus in any way. They realized that

the reaction from that quarter would be swift and probably lethal if

they gave the least suspicion that they knew who the other players were

in Taita's game.

Most of all they must avoid antagonizing the Ethiopian authorities, or

give them any cause to cancel their visas and declare them to be

undesirable immigrants. They agreed to feign ignorance and play the role

of innocents caught up in affairs which they had not precipitated and

which they did not understand.

By the time that they landed at Addis Ababa they had prepared their

story and rehearsed it thoroughly. As soon as the Cessna pulled on to

the hardstand in front of the airport buildings and the pilot cut the

engine, Geoffrey came back to life again, only a little green around the

gills, and handed Royan down the aircraft steps with a flourish.

"Of course, you will stay at the residence," he told them. "The hotels

in town are too dreadful to contemplate, and HE has a half-decent chef

and a passable wine cellar. I will rustle up some togs for both of you.

My missus is about the same size as you, Dr Al Simma, and Nicky will fit

into my gear at a pinch. Thank God, I have a spare dinner jacket. HE is

a bit of a stickler for form."

The British Ambassador's residence had been built during the reign of

the old Emperor, Haile Selassie, before Mussolini's invasion in the

1930s. Set on the outskirts of the town, it was an example of the better

colonial architecture, with a thatched roof and wide verandas. The

lawns, tended by. a host of gardeners, were wide and green, contrasting

with the brilliant crimson of the poinsettia. The mansion had survived

both the revolution and the war of liberation that followed.

At the front entrance Geoffrey handed them over to an Ethiopian butler

in a long, spotlessly white shamnw, who showed them to adjoining

bedrooms on the second floor. Nicholas heard the bathwater running in

Royan's suite next door as he lay in his own brimming bath, sipping a

whisky and soda and twiddling the taps with his big toe.

Then there was the murmur of the doctor's voice from next door as he

attended to Royan's knee.

Geoffrey's dinner jacket was loose round his waist and too short in the

arms and legs, and his shoes pinched, added to which Nicholas was in

need of a haircut, he realized, as he surveyed himself in the mirror.

"No help for it, now, he decided with resignation, and went to knock on

Royan's door.

"I say!" he exclaimed as she opened it. Sylvia Tennant had loaned her a

lime'green cocktail dress that set off Royan's olive skin marvellously

well, Royan had washed her hair and left it loose on her shoulders. He

felt his pulse accelerate like a teenager on his first date, and laughed

at himself.

"You look absolutely scrumptious," he told her, and meant it.

"Thank you, sir," she laughed back at him, "and you look very dashing

yourself May I take your arm?"

"I was hoping to carry you. Addictive activity."

"Those days are over," she told him, and brandished the carved ebony

walking-stick with which the butler had provided her. She used it on her

bad side. As they started down the long corridor, she asked in a

whisper, "What is the name of our host?"

"Her Britannic Majesty's Ambassador, Sir Oliver Bradford KCMG."

"Which stands for Knight Commander of St. Michael and St. George,

right?" she asked.

"No," he corrected her, "it stands for Kindly Call Me God."

"You are impossible!" She giggled, and then became serious. "Did you

manage to send-the fax to Mrs. Street?"

"It went through at the first attempt and she acknowledged. Sends you

her salaams, and promises to have some information about Pegasus double

pronto." It was a mild evening and Sir Oliver was waiting to greet them

on the veranda. Geoffrey hurried forward to make the introductions. The

Ambassadot-bad a bush of white hair and a red face. Geoffrey had warned

them about him and his view on troublesome tourists, but his hostile

frown started to fade as soon as he laid eyes on Royan.

There were a dozen other guests for dinner apart from Geoffrey and

Sylvia Tennant, and Sir Oliver took Royan's arm and led her around the

group introducing her. Nicholas trailed along behind them, resigned by

now to the fact that Royan had that effect on most men.

"May I present General Obeid, the Commissioner of Police," Sir Oliver

said. The head of the Ethiopian police force was tall and very

dark-complexioned, suave and elegant in his blue mess uniform. He bowed

over Royan's hand.

believe that we have an appointment to meet tomorrow morning. I look

forward to that with the keenest pleasure."

Royan glanced at Sir Oliver uncertainly. She had been told nothing of

this.

"General Obeid wants to know from you and Sir Nichola a little more

about this business in, the Abbay gorge," Sir Oliver explained. "I took

the liberty of having my secretary make the appointment."

"Just a routine interview, I assure you both, Dr Al Simma and Sir

Nicholas. I will take up very little of your time, I promise you that."

"Of course we will do everything that we can to assist you" Nicholas

told him politely. "What time are we coming to see you?"

"I believe we are meeting at eleven in the morning, if that suits you."

"A most civilized hour,'Nicholas agreed.

"My driver will pick you up at ten-thirty, and take you down to police

headquarters," Sir Oliver promised.

At the dinner table Royan was seated between Sir Oliver and General

Obeid. She was pretty and charming, and both men were attentive.

Nicholas realized that he would have to become accustomed to sharing her

company with other men; he had had her to himself for much too long.

For his own part, Nicholas found Lady Bradford at the other end of the

table rather heavy-going. She was a second wife, thirty years younger

than her husband, with a pronounced London accent and an even more

pronounced common streak, with a mane of dyed blonde hair and an

improbable bust which overflowed her sequined cleavage.

An old man's folly, Nicholas concluded. It appeared that she had made

herself an expert on the genealogy of the English aristocracy - in other

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