Текст книги "Cry Wolf"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

Соавторы: Wilbur Smith
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the wide desk, and when he paced the tiled floor,

his heels cracked on the ceramic like drum beats. The elasticity of

his stride was that of a man far younger than sixty-five.

He carried his head low on boxer's shoulders, thrusting his chin

forward a heavy chin below a big shapeless round nose, a short-cropped

grey mustache and a wide hard mouth.

His eyes were deep sunken into dark cavities, like those of a corpse,

but their glitter was alive and aware as he worked swiftly through the

lists of his divisional and regimental commanders,

assessing each by one criterion only, "Is he a fighting man?" Too

often the answer was "no,", or at the least uncertain, so it was with a

fierce pleasure that he recognized one who was without question a

hard-fighting man on whom he could rely.

"Yes," he nodded vehemently. "He is the only field commander who has

displayed any initiative, who has made any attempt to come to grips

with the enemy." He paused to lift his reading glasses to his eyes and

glance again at the reports he held in his other hand. "He has fought

one decisive action, inflicting almost thirty thousand casualties

without loss himself. That in itself is an achievement that seems to

have gone without suitable recognition. The man should have had a

decoration, the order of St. Maurice and St. Lazarus at the least.

Good men must be singled out and rewarded. Look at this this is

typical!

When he was aware that the enemy had armoured resources, he was soldier

enough to lure that armour into a baited trap, to lead it skilfully and

with cool courage on to his entrenched artillery. It was a bold and

resourceful stroke for an infantry commander to make and it deserved to

succeed. If only his artillery commander had been a man of equally

steely nerves, he would have succeeded in luring the entire enemy

armoured column to its total destruction. It was no fault of his that

the artillery lost their nerve and opened fire prematurely." The

General paused to focus his reading glasses on the large glossy

photographic print which depicted Colonel Count Aldo Belli standing

like a successful big game hunter on the carcass of the Hump. The

shattered hull was pierced by shot and in the background lay half a

dozen corpses in tattered shammas. These had been collected from the

battlefield and tastefully arranged by Gino to give the photograph

authenticity. Against his better judgement and his strong instincts of

survival, Count Aldo Belli had returned to make these photographic

records only after Major Castelani had assured him that the enemy had

deserted the field. The Count had not wasted too much time about it,

but had his photographs taken, urging Gino to haste, and when it had

been done he had returned swiftly to his fortified position above the

Wells of Chaldi and had not moved from there since. However, the

photographs were an impressive addendum to his official report of the

action.

Now Badoglic, growled like an angry old lion. "Despite the

incompetence of his junior officers, and there my heart aches for

him,

this man has wiped out half the enemy armour as well as half the

opposing army." He hit the report fiercely with his reading glasses.

"The man's a fire eater no question about it. I know one when I see

one. A fire-eater. This kind of example must be encouraged good work

must be rewarded. Send for him. Radio him to come in to headquarters

immediately." As far as Count Aldo Belli was concerned, the campaign

had come upon a not unpleasant hiatus.

The camp at the Wells of Chaldi had been transformed by his engineers

from an outpost of hell into a rather pleasant refuge, with functional

amenities, such as ice making machines and a water-borne sewerage

system. The de fences were now of sufficient strength to give him a

feeling of security. The engineering as always was of the highest

quality with extensive covered earthworks, and Castelani had laid out

carefully over-lapping fields of fire, and barbed-wire de fences in

depth.

The hunting in the area was excellent by any standards, with game drawn

to the water in the Wells from miles around. The sand-grouse in the

evenings filled the heavens with the whistle of their wings, and

wheeled in great dark flocks across the setting sun, affording

magnificent sport.

The bag was measured in grain bags of dead birds.

In the midst of this pleasantly relaxed atmosphere, the new commanding

officer's summons exploded like a 100 kilo aerial bomb.

General Badoglio's reputation had preceded him. He was a notorious

martinet, a man who could not be sidetracked from single-minded purpose

by excuse or fabrication. He was insensitive to political influence or

power considerations so much so that it was rumoured that he would have

crushed the very Fascist movement itself with force if the issue had

been put into his hands back in 1922. He had an almost psychic power

to detect subterfuge, and to place a finger squarely on malingerers or

lack-guts.

They said his justice was swift and merciless.

The shock to the Count's system was considerable. He had been singled

out from thousands of brother officers to face this ogre's wrath for he

could not convince himself that the small deviations from reality, the

small artistic licences contained in his long,

illustrated reports to De Bono had not been instantly discovered. He

felt like a guilty schoolboy summoned to dire retribution behind the

closed doors of the headmaster's study. The shock hit him squarely in

the bowels, always his weak spot, bringing on a fresh onslaught of the

malady first caused by the waters of Chaldi Wells, from which he had

believed himself completely cured.

It was twelve hours before he could summon the strength to be helped by

his concerned underlings into the RollsRoyce and to lie wan and palely

resigned upon the soft leather seat.

"Drive on, Giuseppe," he murmured, like an aristocrat giving the order

to the driver of the tumbril.

On the long hot dusty drive into Asmara, the Count lay without interest

in his surroundings, without even attempting to marshal his defence

against the charges he knew he must soon face. He was resigned, abject

his only solace was the considerable damage he would do this upstart,

ill bred peasant, once he returned to Rome, as he was certain he was

about to. He knew that he could ruin the man politically and it gave

him a jot of sour pleasure.

Giuseppe, the driver, knowing his man as he did, made the first stop

outside the casino in Asmara's main street.

Here, at least, Count Aldo Belli was treated as a hero, and he perked

up visibly as the young hostesses rushed out on to the sidewalk to

welcome him.

Some hours later, freshly shaven, his uniform sponged and pressed,

his hair pomaded, and buoyed UP on a fragrant cloud of expensive eau de

cologne, the Count was ready to face his tormentor. He kissed the

girls, tossed back a last glass of cognac, laughed that gay reckless

laugh, snapped his fingers once to show what he thought of the peasant

who now ran this army, clenched his buttocks tightly together to

control his fear and marched out of the casino into the sunlight and

across the street into the military headquarters.

His appointment to meet General Badoglio was for four o'clock and the

town hall clock struck the hour as he marched resolutely down the long

gloomy corridor, following a young aide-de-camp. They reached the end

of the corridor and the aide-de-camp threw open the big double mahogany

doors and stood aside for the Count to enter.

His knees felt like boiled macaroni, his stomach gurgled and seethed,

the palms of his hands were hot and moist, and tears were not far

behind his quivering eyelids as he stepped forward into the huge room

with its lofty moulded ceiling.

He saw that it was filled with officers from both the army and the

airforce. His disgrace was to be made public, then, and he quailed.

Seeming to shrivel, his shoulders slumping, his chest caving and the

big handsome head drooping, the Count stood in the doorway. He could

not bear to look at them, and miserably he studied his gleaming toe

caps

Suddenly, he was assailed by a strange, a completely alien sound and he

looked up startled, ready to defend himself against physical attack.

The roomful of officers were applauding, beaming and grinning,

slapping palm to palm and the Count gaped at them, then glanced quickly

over his shoulder to be certain there was no one standing behind him,

and that this completely unexpected welcome was being directed at

him.

When he looked back he found a stocky, broad, shouldered figure in the

uniform of a general advancing upon him. His face was hard and

unforgiving, with a fierce grey mustache over the grim trap of his

mouth and glittering eyes in deep dark sockets.

If the Count had been in command of his legs and his voice, he might

have run screaming from the room, but before he could move the

General seized him in a grip of iron, and the mustache raking his

cheeks was as rank and rough as the foliage of the trees of the Danakil

desert.

"Colonel, I am always honoured to embrace a brave man," growled the

General, hugging him close, his breath smelling pleasantly of garlic

and sesame seed, an aroma that blended in an interesting fashion with

the fragrant clouds of the Count's perfume. The Count's legs could no

longer stand the strain, they almost collapsed under him. He had to

grab wildly at the General to prevent himself falling. This threw both

of them off balance, and they reeled across the ceramic floor, locked

in each other's arms, in a kind of elephantine waltz,

while the General struggled to free himself.

He succeeded at last, and backed away warily from the Count,

straightening his medals and reassembling his dignity while one of his

officers began to read out a citation from a scroll of parchment and

the applause faded into an attentive silence.

The citation was long and wordy, and it gave the Count time to pull his

scattered wits together. The first half of the citation was lost to

him in his dreamlike state of shock, but then suddenly the words began

to reach him. His chin came up as he recognized some of his own

composition, little verbal gems from his combat reports "Counting only

duty dear, scorning all but honour" that was his own stuff, by the

Virgin and Peter.

He listened now, with all his attention, and they were talking about

him. They were talking of Aldo Belli. His caved chest filled out, the

high colour flooded back into his cheeks, the turmoil of his rebellious

bowels was stilled, and fire flashed in his eye once more.

By God, the General had realized that every phrase, every word,

every comma and exclamation. mark of his report was the literal truth

and the aide-de-camp was handing the General a leather-covered jewel

box, and the General was advancing on him again albeit with a certain

caution and then he was looping the watered silk ribbon over his head

so that the big enamelled, white cross with its centre star of emerald

green and sparkling diamantine, dangled down the front of the Count's

tunic. The order of Irish St. Maurice and St. Lazarus (military

division) of the third class.

Keeping well out of his clutches, the General pecked each of the

Count's flushed cheeks and then took a hasty step backwards to join in

the applause while the Count stood there puffed with pride, feeling

that his heart might burst.

You will have that support now," the General assured him, scowling

heavily to hear how his predecessor had grudged the Count sufficient

force to win his objectives. "I pledge it to you." They were seated

now, just the three of them General Badoglio, his political agent and

the Count in the smaller private study adjoining the large formal

office. Night had fallen outside the shuttered windows and the single

lamp was hooded to throw light down on the map spread on the table

top,

and leave the faces of the three men in shadow.

Cognac glowed in the leaded crystal glasses and the big ship's decanter

on its silver tray, and the blue smoke from the cigars spiralled up

slow and heavy as treacle in the lamplight.

"will need armour," said the Count without hesitation.

The thought of thick steel plate had always attracted him strongly.

"will give you a squadron of the light CV.3s," said the General,

and made a note on the pad at his elbow.

"And I will need air support."

"Can your engineers build a landing-strip for you at the Wells?" The

General touched the map to illustrate the question.

"The land is flat and open. It will present no difficulty," said the

Count eagerly. Planes and tanks and guns, he was being given them all.

He was a real commander at last.

"Radio to me when the strip is ready for use. I will send in a flight

of Capronis. In the meantime, I will have the transport section convoy

in the fuel and armaments I shall consult the staff at airforce, but I

think the 100-kilo bombs will be most effective. High explosive, and

fragmentation."

"Yes, yes," agreed the Count eagerly.

"And nitrogen mustard will you have use for the gas?"

"Yes, oh yes, indeed, said the Count. It was not in his nature to

refuse bounty, he would take anything he was offered.

"Good." The General made another note, laid aside his pencil, and then

looked up at the Count. He glowered so ferociously that the Count was

startled and he felt the first nervous stir in his belly again. He

found the General terrifying, like living on the slopes of a

temperamental Vesuvius.

"The iron fist, Belli," he said, and the Count realized with relief

that the scowl was directed not at him, but at the enemy.

Immediately the Count assumed an expression every bit as bellicose and

menacing. He curled his lip and he spoke, just below a snarl.

"Put the blade at the enemy's throat, and drive it home."

"Without mercy, said the General.

"To the death," agreed the Count. He was on his home ground now,

and only just hitting his stride; a hundred bloodthirsty slogans sprang

to mind but, recognizing his master, the General changed the

snowballing conversation adroitly.

"You are wondering why I have put such importance on your objectives.

You are wondering why I have given you such powerful forces, and why I

have set such store on you forcing the passage of the

Sardi Gorge and the road to the highlands." The Count was wondering no

such thing, right now he was busy coming a phrase about wading through

blood, and he accepted the change of theme reluctantly, and arranged

his features in a politely enquiring frame.

The General waved his cigar expansively at the political agent who sat

opposite him.

"Signor Antolino." He made the gesture and the agent sat forward

obediently so that the lamplight caught his face.

"Gentlemen." He cleared his throat, and looked from one to the other

with mild brown eyes behind steel-framed spectacles. He was a thin,

almost skeletal figure, in a rumpled white linen suit. The wings of

his shirt collar were off-centre of his prominent Adam's apple and the

knot of the knitted silk tie had slid down and hung at the level of the

first button. His head was almost bald, but he had grown the remaining

hairs long and greased them down over the shiny freckled plover-egg

scalp.

His mustache was waxed into points, but stained yellow with tobacco,

and he was of indefinite age over forty and under sixty with the dark

malarial yellow tan of a man who has lived all his life in the

tropics.

"For some time we have been concerned to design an appropriate form of

government for the captured ah the liberated territories of

Ethiopia."

"Come to the point," said the General abruptly.

"It has been decided to replace the present Emperor, Baile

Selassie, with a man sympathetic to the Italian Empire, and acceptable

to the people-"

"Come on, man," Badoglic, cut in again. Verbal backing and filling

were repugnant to him. He was a man of action rather than words.

"Arrangements have been completed after lengthy negotiation, and I

might add the promise of several millions of lire,

that at the politically opportune moment a powerful chieftain will

declare for us, bringing all his warriors and his influence across to

us. This man will in due course be declared Emperor of Ethiopia and

will administer the territory under Italy."

"Yes, yes. I

understand, "said the Count.

"The man governs part of the area which is the direct objective of your

column. As soon as you have seized the Sardi Gorge and entered the

town of Sardi itself, this Chief will join you with his men and,

with appropriate international publicity, be declared King of

Ethiopia."

"The man's name?" asked the Count, but the agent would not be

hurried.

"It will be your duty to meet with this Chief, and to synchronize your

efforts. You will also make the promised payment in gold coin."

"Yes."

"The man is an hereditary Ras by rank. He is presently commanding part

of the army that opposes you at Sardi.

However, that will change-" said the agent, and produced a thick

envelope from the briefcase beside his chair. It was sealed with the

wax tablet and the embossed eagles of the Department of Colonial

Affairs. "Here are your written orders. You will sign for them,

please." He inspected the Count's signature suspiciously, then, at

last satisfied, went on in the same dry disinterested voice.

"One other matter. We have identified one of the white mercenaries

fighting with the Ethiopians those mentioned by you as being reported

by the three of your men captured by the enemy and subsequently

released." The agent paused and drew on his almost dead cigar, puffing

up the tip to a bright healthy glow.

"The woman is a notorious agent provocateur, a Bolshevik with radical

and revolutionary sympathies. She poses as a journalist,

employed by an American newspaper whose sentiments have always been

strongly anti-Empire. Already some of this woman's biased

inflammatory, writings have reached the outside world. They have been

a severe embarrassment to us at the Department-" He drew again on the

cigar, and spoke again through the billowing cloud of smoke.

"If she is taken, and I hope that you will place priority on her

capture, she is to be handed over immediately to the new Ethiopian

Emperor-designate, you understand? You are not to be involved, but you

will not interfere with the Ras's execution of the woman."

"I see." The

Count was becoming bored. This political nitpicking was not the type

of thing which would hold his attention. He wanted to show the young

lady hostesses at the Casino the great cross which now hung around his

neck and thumped on his chest each time he moved.

"As for the white man, the Englishman, the one responsible for the

brutal shooting of an Italian prisoner of war in front of witnesses, he

has been declared a murderer and a Political terrorist. When you

capture him, he is to be shot out of hand. That order goes for all

other foreigners serving under arms with the enemy troops. This type

of thing must be put down sternly."

"You can rely on me," said the Count. "There will be no quarter for

the terrorists."

General Pietro Badoglic, moved forward to Ambo Aradam, there were some

minor brushes. while the Italian General deployed his men for the

major stroke. At Abi Addi and Tembien he received advance warning of

the fighting qualities of his enemy, barefoot and armed with spear and

muzzle-loading gun. As he wrote himself, "They have fought with

courage and determination.

Against our attacks, methodically carried out and covered by heavy

machine-gun fire and artillery barrage, their troops have stood firm,

and then engaged in furious hand-to-hand fighting; or they have moved

boldly to counter-attack, regardless of the avalanche of fire that had

immediately fallen upon them. Against the organized fire of our

defending troops, their soldiers many of them armed only with Cold

steel attacked again and again, pushing right up to our wire

entanglements and trying to beat them down with their great swords."

Brave men, perhaps, but they were brushed aside by the huge Italian war

machine. Then at last Badoglio could come at Ras Muguletu, the war

minister of Ethiopia, with his entire army waiting like an old lion in

the caves and precipitous heights of the natural mountain fortress of

Ambo Aradam.

He loosed his full might against the old chieftain, the big

three-engined Capronis roared in, wave after wave, to drop four hundred

tons of bombs upon the mountain in five days of continuous raids, while

his artillery hurled fifty thousand heavy shells, arcing them up from

the valley into the ravines and deep gorges until the outline of the

mountain was shrouded in the red mist of dust and cordite fumes.

Up to now, the time of waiting had passed pleasantly enough for

Count Aldo Belli at the Wells of Chaldi. The addition to his forces

had altered his entire way of life.

Together with the magnificent enamelled cross around his neck,

they had added immeasurably to his prestige and correct sense of

self-importance.

For the first few weeks he never tired of reviewing and manoeuvring his

armoured forces. The six speedy machines, with their low rakish lines

and Aided turrets, intrigued him. Their speed over the roughest

ground, bouncing along on their spinning tracks, delighted him. They

made wonderful shooting-brakes, for nothing held them up,

and he conceived the master strategy of using them for game drives.

A squadron of light CV.3 tanks, in extended line abreast, could sweep a

thirty-mile swathe of desert, driving all game before them,

down to where the Count waited with the Mannlicher. It was the

greatest sport of his hunting career.

The scope of this activity was such that even in the limitless spaces

of the Danakil desert, it did not pass unnoticed.

Like their Ras, the Harari warriors were men of short patience.

Long inactivity bored them, and daily small groups of horsemen,

followed by their wives and pack donkeys, drifted away from the big

encampment at the foot of the gorge, and began the steep rocky ascent

to the cooler equable weather of the highlands, and the comforts and

business of home. Each of them assured the Ras before departure of a

speedy return as soon as they were needed but nevertheless it irked

the

Ras to see his army dwindling and dribbling away while his enemy sat

invulnerable and unchallenged upon the sacred soil of Ethiopia.

Tensions in the encampment were running with the strength and passion

of the groundswell of the ocean, when storms are building out beyond

the horizon.

Caught up in the suppressed violence, in the boiling pot of emotion,

were both Gareth and Jake. Each of them had used the lull to set his

own department in order.

Jake had gone out under cover of night behind a screen of

Ethiopian scouts to the deserted battlefield, where he had stripped the

carcass of the Hump. Working by the light of a hooded bull's-eye

lantern, and assisted by Gregorius, he had taken the big Bentley engine

to pieces, small enough for the donkey packs and lugged it all home to

the encampment below the camel-thorn trees. Using the replacements,

he had rebuilt the engine of Tenastefin ruined by the Ras in his first

flush of enthusiasm. Then he had stripped, overhauled and reassembled

the other two cars. The Ethiopian armoured forces were now a squadron

of three, all of them in as fine fettle as they had been for the past

twenty years.

Gareth, in the meantime, had selected and trained Harari crews for the

Vickers guns, and then exercised them with the infantry and cavalry,

teaching the gunners to lay down sheets of covering fire.

Foot soldiers were taught to advance or retreat in concert with the

Vickers.

Gareth had also found time to complete the survey of the retreat route

up the gorge, mark each of his defensive positions, and supervise the

digging of the machine-gun nests and support trenches in the steep

rocky sides of the gorge. An enemy advancing up the twisting hairpin

track would come under fire around each bend of the road, and would be

open to the steam-roller charge of the foot warriors from the concealed

trenches amongst the lichen-covered rocks above the track.

The track itself had been smoothed, and the gradients altered to allow

the escape of the armoured cars once the position on the plains was

forced by the overwhelming build-up of Italian forces. Now all of them

waited, as ready as they could be, and the slow passage of time eroded

all their nerves.

It was, then, with a certain relief that the scouts who were keeping

the Italian fortifications under day and night surveillance reported

back to the Ras's war council that a host of strange vehicles that

moved at great speed without the benefit of either legs or wheels had

arrived to swell the already formidable forces arrayed against them,

and that these vehicles were daily engaged in furious activity, from

sun-up to sun-down, racing in circles and aimless sweeps across the

vast empty spaces of the plains.

"Without wheels," mused Gareth, and cocked an eyebrow at Jake.

"You know what that sounds like, don't you, old son?"

"I'm afraid I

do." Jake nodded. "But we'd better go and take a look." Half a moon

in the sky gave enough light to show up clearly the deeply torn runners

of the steel tracks, like the spoor of gigantic centipedes in the soft

fluffy soil.

Jake squatted on his haunches, and regarded them broodingly. He knew

now that what he had dreaded was about to happen. He was going to have

to take his beloved cars and match them against tracked vehicles with

heavier armour, and revolving turrets, armed with big-bored,

quick-firing guns. Guns that could crash a missile into his frontal

armour, through the engine block, through the hull compartment and any

crew members in its path, then out through the rear armour with

sufficient velocity still on it to do the same again to the car

behind.

"Tanks," he muttered. "Bloody tanks."

"I say, an eagle scout in our midst," murmured Gareth, sitting

comfortably up in the turret of

Priscilla the Pig. "A tenderfoot might have thought those tracks were

made by a dinosaur but you can't fool old hawk-eye Barton, son of the

Texas prairies," and he reached out to stub his cheroot against the"

side of the turret, an action which he knew would annoy Jake

intensely.

Jake grunted and stood up. "I'm going to buy you an ashtray for your

next birthday." His voice was brittle. It did not matter that his

beloved cars might be shot at by rifle, machine gun and now by cannon

that they had been scarred by flying gravel and harsh thorn. The

deliberate crushing of burning tobacco against the fighting steel

annoyed him, as he knew it was meant to.

"Sorry, old son." Gareth grinned easily. "Slipped my mind.

Won't happen again." Jake swung up the side of the car and dropped

into the driver's seat. Keeping the engine noise down to a low murmur,

a sound as sweet and melodious in his ears as a Bach concerto,

he let Priscilla move away across the moon gilded plain.

When Jake and Gareth were alone like this, out on a reconnaissance or

working together in the gorge, the dagger of rivalry was sheathed and

their relationship was relaxed and comforting, spiced only by the mild

needling and jostling for position. It was only in Vicky

Camberwell's physical presence that the knife came out.

Jake thought about it now, thought about the three of them as he did a

great deal each day. He knew that, after that magical night when he

and Vicky had known each other on the hard desert earth, she was his

woman. It was too wonderful an experience to have shared with another

human being for it not to have marked and changed both of them

profoundly.

Yet in the weeks since then there had been little opportunity for

reaffirmation a single stolen afternoon by a tall mist-smoking

waterfall in the gorge, a narrow ledge of black rock, cool with shadow

and green with soft beds of moss, and screened from prying eyes by the

overhang of the precipice. The moss had been as soft as a feather bed,

and afterwards they swam naked together in the swirling cauldron of the

pool, and her body had been slim and pale and lovely through the dark

water.

Then again, he had watched her with Gareth Swales the way she laughed,

or leaned close to him to listen to a whispered comment, and the

mock-modest shock at his outrageous sallies, the laughter in her eyes

and on her lips.

Once she touched his arm, a thoughtless gesture while in conversation

with Gareth, a gesture so intimate and possessive that

Jake had felt the black jealous anger fill his head.

There was no cause for it, Jake knew that. He could not believe she

was fool enough or so naive as to walk into the obvious web that

Gareth was weaving she was Jake's woman. What they had done together,

their loving was so wonderful, so completely once in a lifetime, that

it was not possible she could turn aside to anyone else.

Yet between Vicky and Gareth there was the laughter and the shared

jokes. Sometimes he had seen them together, standing on a rock

–promontory above the camp or walking in the grove of camel-thorn

trees, leaning towards each other as they talked. Once or twice they

had both been absent from the camp at the same time for as long as a

complete morning. But it meant nothing, he knew that.

Sure, she liked Gareth Swales. He could understand that.

He liked Gareth also more than liked, he realized. It was,

rather, a deep comradely feeling of affection. You could not but be

drawn by his fine looks, his mocking sense of the ridiculous, and the

deep certainty that below that polished exterior and the overplayed

role of the foppish rogue was a different, a real person.

"Yeah. "Jake sardonically grinned in the darkness, steering the car

south and east around the sky glow that marked the Italian

fortifications at the Wells. "I love the guy. I don't trust him,

but

I love him just as long as he keeps the hell away from my woman."

Gareth stooped out of the turret at that moment and tapped his

shoulder.

"There is a ravine ahead and to the left. It should do," he said,

and Jake swung towards it and halted again.

"It's deep enough, "he gave his opinion.