Cry Wolf - Smith Wilbur - Страница 42

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us."

"Good God, Toffee," Gareth intoned mournfully. "I must say I am

appalled. Utterly appalled."

"Does that mean you refuse, Major

Swales?" Gareth glanced at Jake, and a flash of agreement passed

between them. Gareth sighed theatrically. "Well, I must say that I

did have an appointment in Madrid. They've got themselves this little

war they are working on, but-" and here he studied the bank draft

again, "but one war is very much like another. Furthermore, you have

given me some fairly powerful reasons why I should stay on." Gareth

withdrew the wallet from his inside pocket and folded the draft into

it. "However, that doesn't alter the fact that I am utterly appalled

by the way this whole business has been conducted."

"And you, Mr.

Barton?" Lij Mikhael asked.

"As my partner has just remarked fourteen thousand pounds isn't exactly

peanuts. Yes, I accept." The Prince nodded, and then his expression

changed, became bleak and savage.

"I must urge you most cogently not to attempt to leave Ethiopia before

the expiry of our agreement justice is crude but effective under my

father's administration." At that moment the gentleman under

discussion lifted the sword high above his head and then drove the

point deep into the earth between his feet. He left it there, the

blade shivering and gleaming in the firelight, and staggered wheezing

and cackling to his place between Jake and Gareth.

He flung a skinny old arm around each of them and greeted them with a

hug and an affectionate cry of "How do you do?" and Gareth cocked a

speculative eye at him.

"How would you like to learn to play gin rummy, old son?" he asked

kindly. Six months was a lot of time to while away and there might yet

be further profit in the situation, he thought.

The sound of the drums woke Count Aldo Belli from a deep,

untroubled sleep. He lay and listened to them for a while, to the deep

monotonous rhythm like the pulse of the earth itself, and the effect

was lulling and hypnotic. Then suddenly the Count came fully awake and

the adrenalin poured hotly into his bloodstream. A month before

leaving Rome he had attended a screening of the latest Hollywood

release, Trader Horn, an African epic of wild animals and bloodthirsty

tribesmen. The sound of tribal drums had been skilfully used on the

sound track to heighten the sense of menace and suspense, and the Count

now realized that out there in the night the same terrible drums were

beating.

He came out of his bed in a single bound with a roar that woke those in

the camp who were still asleep. When Gino rushed into the tent, he

found his master standing stark-naked and wild-eyed in the centre of

his tent with the ivory-handled Beretta in one hand and the jewelled

dagger clutched in the other.

The instant the drums began beating, Luigi Castelani hurried back to

the bivouac, for he knew exactly what " reaction to expect from the

colonel. He arrived to find that the Count was fully uniformed,

had selected a bodyguard of fifty men and was on the point of embarking

in the waiting Rolls. The engine was running and the driver was as

eager to leave as his august passenger.

The Count was not at all pleased to see the bulky figure of his

Major come hurrying out of the darkness with that unmistakable

swaggering gait. He had hoped to get clear before Castelani could

intervene, and now he immediately went on the offensive.

"Major, I am returning to Asmara to report in person to the

General," shouted Aldo Belli, and tried to reach the Rolls, but the

Major was too nimble for him and interposed his bulk and saluted.

"My Colonel, the de fences of the wells are now complete," he reported.

"The area is secure."

"I shall report that we are being attacked in overwhelming force,"

cried the Count, and tried to duck around Castelani's right side, but

the Major anticipated the move and jumped sideways to keep belly to

belly.

"The men are dug in, and in good spirits."

"You have my permission to withdraw in good order under the enemy's

bloodthirsty assault." The

Count attempted to lull the man with the prospect of escape, and then

lunged to the left to reach the Rolls but the Major was swift as a

mamba, and again they faced each other. The entire (officer corps of

the Third Battalion, hastily dressed and alarmed by the drums in the

night, had assembled to watch this exhibition of agility as the Count

and Castelani jumped backwards and forwards like a pair of game cocks

sparring at each other. Their sentiments were heavily on the side of

their Colonel, and they would have enjoyed nothing more than the

spectacle of the retreating Rolls.

They would then have been free to follow in haste.

"I do not believe the enemy is present in any force." Castelani's

voice was raised to a level where the Count's protests were completely

drowned. "However, it is essential that the Colonel takes command in

person. If there is to be a confrontation, it will involve a value

judgement." The Major pressed forward a step at a time, until his

chest was an inch from the Colonel's and their noses almost touched.

"We are not formally at war. Your presence is essential to reinforce

our position." The Colonel was pressed to the point where he had no

choice but to fall back a pace, and the watching Officers sighed sadly.

It was an act of capitulation. The contest of wills was over and

although the Count continued to protest weakly, the Major worked him

away from the Rolls the way a good sheep dog handles its flock.

"It will be dawn in an hour," said Castelani, "and as soon as it is

light, we shall be in a position to evaluate the situation." At that

moment the drum fell silent. Up the valley in the caves, the Ras had

at last finished his dance of defiance, and to the Count the silence

was cheering. He threw one last wistful look at the Rolls, and then

let his gaze wander to the fifty heavily armed men of his bodyguard and

took a little more heart.

He squared his shoulders and drew himself erect, throwing back his

head.

"Major," he snapped. "The battalion will stand firm." He turned to

his watching officers, all of whom tried to fade into insignificance

and avoid his eyes. "Major Vita, take command of this detachment and

move forward to clear the ground. The rest of you fall in around

me."

The Colonel gave the Major and his fifty stalwarts a respectable

lead,

so that they might draw any hostile fire, and then, surrounded by a

protective screen of his reluctant juniors and prodded forward by

Luigi

Castelani, he moved cautiously along the dusty path that wound down the

slope of the valley to where' the battalion's forward elements had been

so expertly entrenched.

Phe most junior of Ras Golam's multitudinous grooms was fifteen years

of age. The previous day one of the Ras's favourite mares in his care

had snapped her halter rope while he was taking her down to the water.

She had galloped out into the desert, and the boy had followed her for

the whole of that day and half of the night, until the capricious

creature had allowed him to come up with her and grasp the trailing end

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