Текст книги "Cry Wolf"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

Соавторы: Wilbur Smith
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heaved unpredictably under his hands and the whinnies of passion and

the high-pitched exhortations to greater effort and speed rang

louder.

The resentment he had felt at Gareth Swales's refusal to assist in

painting the iron ladies faded swiftly. He was pushing and pulling his

full weight now, and his efforts made even the most gruelling manual

labour seem insignificant.

As Jake lifted the entire carburettor assembly off the engine block and

stowed it into the carpet-bag, there was one last piercing shriek and

the Bentley came to an abrupt rest while a ringing silence fell over

the palm grove.

Jake Barton crept silently away through the undergrowth leaving his

partner stunned and entangled in a mesh of lanky limbs and expensive

French underwear.

"I want you to believe that in my weakened condition it was a long walk

home. At the same time, I had to try and convince the lady that we

were not betrothed."

"We'll get you a citation," Jake promised him,

and emerged from the engine housing of the armoured car.

"With disregard for his own personal safety Major Gareth Swales held

the pass, stan ned the breach, battered down the gates-"

"Terribly amusing," growled Gareth. "But, just like you, I have a

reputation to maintain. It would embarrass me in certain circles if

this got out,

old son. Mum's the word, what?"

"You have my word of honour," Jake told him seriously, and stooped over

the crank handle. She fired at the first turn and settled to a steady

rhythm to which Jake listened for a few moments before he grinned.

"Listen to her, the bloody little beauty," and he turned to

Gareth. "Wasn't it worth it just to hear that sweet burbling song?"

Gareth rolled his eyes in agonized memory and Jake went on. "Four of

them. Four lovely, well-behaved ladies. What more could you ask out

of life?"

"Five,"said Gareth promptly, and Jake scowled.

"We'd put my name on the fifth one," he wheedled. "I'd sign a

statement to protect your reputation." But the expression on Jake's

face was sufficient answer.

"No?" Gareth sighed. "I predict that your sentimental,

oldfashioned outlook is going to get us both into a lot of trouble."

"We can split up now."

"Wouldn't dream of it, old son. Actually, it would have been dicey

peddling a dead one to those Ethiops. They've got these dirty great

swords, and it's not only your head that they lop off or so I hear. No,

we'll settle for just the four, then." May

22nd the Dunnottar Castle anchored in the Dares Salaam roads and was

immediately surrounded by a swarm of barges and lighters. She was the

flagship of the Union Castle Line, outward bound from Southampton to

Cape Town, Durban, Lourenco Marques, Dares Salaam and Jibuti.

Two suites and ten double cabins of the first class accommodation were

taken up by Lij Mikhael Wasan Sagud and his entourage. The Lij was a

scion of the royal house of Ethiopia that traced its line back to

King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba. He was a trusted member of the

Emperor's inner circle and, under his father, the deputy governor of a

piece of mountain and desert country in the northern provinces the size

of Scotland and Wales combined.

The Ras was returning to his homeland after six months of petitioning

the foreign ministers of Great Britain and France, and lobbying in the

halls of the League of Nations in Geneva, trying to gather pledges of

support for his country in the face of the gathering storm clouds of

Fascist Italian aspirations towards an African Empire.

The Lij was a disillusioned man when he disembarked with four of his

senior advisers and made the short journey by lighter to where two

hired open tourers awaited his arrival on the wharf. Hire of the motor

vehicles had been arranged by Major Gareth Swales and the drivers had

been given their instructions.

"Now, you leave the talking to me, old chap," Gareth advised Jake,

as they waited anxiously in the cavernous and gloomy depths of No. 4

Warehouse. "This really is my part of the show, you know. You just

look stern and do the demonstrating. That will impress the old Ethiop

no end." Gareth was resplendent in a pale blue tropical suit with a

fresh white carnation in the buttonhole, and silk shirt. He wore the

diagonally striped old school tie, his hair was brilliantined and

carefully brushed, and the sleek lines of the mustache had been trimmed

that morning. He ran a judicious eye over his partner and was mildly

satisfied. Jake's suit had not been cut in Savile Row, of course, but

it was adequate for the occasion, clean and freshly pressed. His shoes

had been newly polished and the usually unruly profusion of curls had

been wetted and slicked down neatly.

He had scrubbed all traces of grease from his large bony hands and from

under his fingernails.

"They probably don't even speak English," Gareth gave his opinion.

"Have to use the old sign language, you know.

Wish you'd let me have that dead one. We could have palmed it off on

them. They are bound to be a gullible lot, throw in a handful of beads

and a bag of salt-" He was interrupted by the sound of approaching

engines.

"This will be them, now. Don't forget what I told you." The two open

tourers pulled up in the bright sunlight beyond the doors and disgorged

their passengers. Four of them wore the long flowing white shammas,

full-length robes like Roman togas draped across the shoulder.

Under the robes they wore black gabardine riding breeches and open

sandals. They were all of them elderly men, the dense bushes of their

hair shot through with strands of grey and the dark faces wrinkled and

lined. In dignified silence they gathered about the taller, younger

figure clad in a dark western-style suit and they moved forward into

the cool gloom of the warehouse.

Lij Mikhael was well over six feet in height, with a slight scholarly

stoop to his shoulders. His skin was the colour of dark honey and his

hair and beard were a thick. curly halo about the finely boned face,

with dark thoughtful eyes and the narrow nose with its

Semitic beak. Despite the stoop, he walked with the grace of a

swordsman and his teeth when he smiled were glisteningly white against

the dark skin.

"By Jove," said the Lij, in the drawling accent that echoed

Gareth's with surprising accuracy. "It is Forty swales isn't it?"

Major Gareth Swales's composure seemed to fall away, leaving him

tottering mentally at the use of a nickname he had last heard twenty

years before. He had been so branded when his unexpected attack of

flatus had clapped and echoed from the vaulted ceiling and stone walls

of College Chapel. He had hoped never to hear it spoken again, and now

its use took him back to that moment when he had stood in the cold

stone chapel and the waves of suppressed laughter had broken over his

head like physical blows.

The Prince laughed now, and touched the knot of his necktie. For the

first time Jake realized that the diagonal stripes were identical to

those that Gareth Swales wore at his own throat.

"Eton 1915 Waynflete's. I was Captain of the House. I gave you six

for smoking in the bogs don't you remember?"

"My God," gasped

Gareth. "Toffee Sagud. My God. I just don't know what to say."

"Try him with the old sign language, then," murmured Jake helpfully.

"Shut up, damn you," hissed Gareth, and then with a conscious effort he

resurrected the smile that lit the gloomy warehouse like the rising of

the sun.

"Your Excellency Toffee my dear fellow." He hurried forward with hand

outstretched. "What a great and unexpected pleasure." They shook

hands laughing, and the solemn dark faces of the elderly advisers

lightened with sympathetic merriment.

"Let me introduce my partner, Mr. Jake Barton of Texas.

Mr. Barton is a brilliant engineer and financier Jake, this is

His Excellency Lij Mikhael Wasan Sagud, Deputy Governor of Shoo and an

old and dear friend of mine." The Prince's hand was narrow-boned, cool

and firm. His gaze was quick and penetrating before he turned back

to

Gareth.

"When were you expelled? Summer of 1915 wasn't it?

Caught boffing one of the maids, as I recall."

"Good Lord, no!"

Gareth was horrified. "Never the hired help. Actually, it was the

house master's daughter."

"That's right. I remember now. You were famous went out in a blaze of

glory. Talk about your feat lasted for months. They said you went to

France with the Duke's, and did jolly well for yourself." Gareth made

a deprecating gesture, and Lij Mikhael asked, "Since then what have you

been doing, old chap?" Which was a thoroughly embarrassing question

for Gareth. He made a few airy gestures with his cheroot.

This and that, you know. One thing and another.

Business, you understand. Importing, exporting, buying and selling."

"Which brings us to the present business, does it not?" the

Prince asked gently.

"Indeed, it does," agreed Gareth and took the Prince's arm. "Now that

I realize who is buying, it only increases my pleasure in managing to

assemble a package of such high quality." The wooden crates were

stacked neatly along one wall of the warehouse.

"A .

"Fourteen Vickers machine guns, most of them straight from the factory

hardly a shot through the barrels-" They passed slowly down the array

of merchandise to where one of the machine guns had been uncrated and

set up on its tripod.

"As YOU can see, all first-class stuff." The five Ethiopians were all

warriors, from a long warlike line, and they had the true warrior's

love of and delight in the weapons of war. They crowded eagerly around

the gun.

Gareth winked at Jake, and went on, "One hundred and forty-four

Lee-Enfield service rifles, still in the grease-" Half a dozen of the

rifles had been cleaned and laid out on display.

No. 4 Warehouse was an Aladdin's Cave for them. The elderly courtiers

forgot their dignity, and fell upon the weapons like a flock of crows,

cackling in Amharic as they fondled the cold oiled steel.

They hoisted up the skirts of their shammas to crouch behind the

demonstration machine gun and traversed it happily, making the staccato

schoolboy imitations of automatic fire as they mowed down imaginary

hordes of their enemies.

Even Lij Mikhael forsook his Etonian manners and joined in the

delighted examination of the hoard, pushing aside an old greybeard of

seventy to take his place at the Vickers gun and triggering off a noisy

squabble amongst the others in which Gareth diplomatically

intervened.

"I say, Toffee, old chap. This isn't all I have for you. Not by a

long chalk. I've kept the plums for the last." And Jake helped him to

gather up the robed and bearded group of excited old men and herd them

gently away from the display of weapons and down the warehouse to the

open tourers.

The motorcade, headed by Gareth, Jake and the Prince in the leading

tourer, came bumping down the dusty track through the mahogany forest

and parked in the clearing in front of the candy-striped marquee that

had taken the place of Jake's weather-beaten bell tent.

The Royal Hotel had undertaken to cater for the occasion, despite

Jake's protests at the cost.

"Give them a bottle of Tusker each and open a tin of beans," he

insisted, but Gareth had shaken his head sadly.

"Just because they are savages doesn't mean that we have to behave like

barbarians, old chap. Style. One has to have style that's what life

is all about. Style and timing. Fill them up with Charlie and then

take them for a stroll down the garden path, what?" Now there were

white-robed waiters with red sashes and little red pillbox fezes upon

their heads. Under the marquee, long trestle-tables were laden with

displays of choice food decorated sucking pig, heaped salvers of boiled

scarlet reef lobster, a smoked salmon, imported apples and peaches from

the Cape of Good Hope and case upon case, bucket upon bucket of

champagne. Although Gareth had been swayed t by Jake's pleas for

economy sufficiently to order a Veuve Clicquot not of a selected

vintage.

The Prince and his entourage disembarked to a salvo of champagne corks

and the elderly courtiers crowed with delight. Quite by chance,

Gareth had struck upon the Ethiopians" love of feasting and strong

sense of hospitality.

Little that he could have done would have endeared him more to his

guests.

"I say, this is very decent of you, my dear Swales" said the

Prince. With his innate sense of courtesy, he had not used Gareth's

nickname since the first greeting. Gareth was grateful and when the

glasses were filled he called for the first toast.

"His Majesty, Negusa Nagast, King of Kings, Emperor Baile

Selassie, Lion of Judah." And they drained their glasses, which seemed

to be the correct form, so Gareth and Jake imitated them, and then they

fell upon the food, giving Gareth a chance to whisper to Jake, "Think

up some more toasts we've got to get them filled up." But he needn't

have worried for the Prince came in with: "His Britannic Majesty,

George V, King of England and Emperor of India." And no sooner were

the glasses filled again than he bowed to Jake and lifted his glass.

"The President of the United States of America, Mr. Franklin D.

Roosevelt." Not to be outdone, each of the courtiers shouted an

unintelligible toast in Amharic, presumably to the Prince and his

father and mother and aunts, uncles and nieces, and the glasses were

upended. The waiters rushed back and forth to the steady report of

champagne corks.

"The Governor of the British Colony of Tanganyika." Gareth lifted his

glass, slurring slightly.

"And the Governor's daughter," Jake murmured sardonically.

This provoked another round of toasts from the robed guests, and then

it dawned on Jake and Gareth simultaneously that it was folly to try

drinking level with men who had been bred and reared on the fiery tej

of Ethiopia.

"How are you feeling?" muttered Gareth anxiously, squinting slightly

to focus.

Beautiful, "Jake grinned at him beatifically.

"By God, these fellows know how to pack it away."

"Keep pounding them, Forty. You've got them on the run." With his

empty glass he indicated the smiling but sober group of courtiers.

"I'd be grateful if you could refrain from using that name, old chap.

Distasteful, what? Not in the best of style." Gareth slapped his

shoulder with bonhomie and almost missed. A look of concern crossed

his face. "How do I sound?"

"You sound like I feel. We'd better get out of here before they drink

us flat on our backs."

"Oh

God, there he goes again," Gareth muttered with alarm as the Prince

raised his brimming glass and looked about him expectantly. "Wine with

you, my dear Swales," he called as he caught Gareth's eyes.

"Enchanted, I'm sure." Gareth had no choice but to acknowledge and

toss off the contents of his glass before hurrying forward to intercept

the waiter who darted in to recharge the Prince's empty glass.

"Toffee, old sport, I do want you to see this little surprise I

have for you." He grabbed the Prince's drinking arm and prised the

glass from his grip. "Come along, everybody. This way, chaps." Among

the grey-bearded courtiers there was a decided reluctance to leave the

marquee, and Jake had to assist Gareth. Both-of them spreading their

arms and making shooing noises, they finally got them moving down the

track through the forest which emerged a hundred yards farther on into

an open glade the size of a polo field.

A stunned silence fell upon the party as they saw the row of four iron

ladies, gleaming in their new coats of grey, with the heavily jacketed

water-cooled barrels of the Vickers machine guns protruding from the

ports and the rakish turrets emblazoned with the tricolour horizontal

bars of the Ethiopian national colours green, yellow and red.

Like sleep-walkers, they allowed themselves to be led to the row of

chairs under the umbrellas, and without removing their gaze from the

war machines they sank into their seats.

Gareth stood in front of them like a schoolmaster, but swaying

slightly.

"Gentlemen, we have here one of the most versatile armoured vehicles

ever brought into service by any major military power And while he

paused for the Prince to translate, he grinned triumphantly at

Jake.

"Start them up, old son." As the first engine burst into life, the

elderly courtiers came to their feet and applauded like the crowd at a

prize fight.

"Fifteen hundred quid each," whispered Gareth, his eyes sparkling,

"they'll go fifteen hundred!" ij Mikhael had invited them to dine in

his suite aboard the Dunnottar Castle, and over Jake's Protests a

short-order tailor had run up a passable dinner jacket to fit Jake's

tall rangy frame.

"I look like I'm in fancy dress, "he objected.

"You look like a duke," Gareth contradicted. "It gives you a bit of

style. Style, Jake me lad, always remember. Style! If you look like

a tramp, people will treat you as one." Lij Mikhael Sagud wore a

magnificently embroidered cloak in gold and scarlet and black, clasped

at the throat with a dark red ruby the size of a ripe acorn,

tieht-fitting velvet breeches and slippers embroidered with twenty-four

carat gold wire. The dinner had been excellent and the Prince seemed

in a mellow mood.

"Now, my dear Swales. The prices for the machine guns and the other

armaments were decided months ago but the armoured cars were never

mentioned. Would you like to suggest a reasonable figure?"

"Your

Excellency, I had in mind a fair figure before I realized it was you

I

was dealing with-" Gareth drew deeply on one of the Prince's Havana

cigars, steeling himself for the wild flying chance he was going to

take. "Now, of course, I am prepared merely to cover my costs and

leave only a modest profit for my partner and myself to share." The

Prince showed his appreciation with a gracious gesture.

"Two thousand pounds each," said Gareth quickly, running the words

together to make it sound less shocking, but still Jake almost choked

on a mouthful of whisky soda.

The Prince nodded thoughtfully. "I see," he said. "That is probably

five times the actual value." Gareth looked shocked. "Your

Excellency-" But the Prince silenced him with a raised hand.

"During the last six months, I have spent a great deal of time

inspecting and pricing various items of military equipment. My dear

Swales, please don't insult us both by protesting." There was a long

silence and the atmosphere in the cabin was taut as guitar strings then

the Prince sighed.

"I could price those weapons but I could not buy. The great powers of

the world have denied me that right the right to defend my country

against the predator." There was an age of weariness in the dark eyes

and smooth brow furrowed with thought. "My country is landlocked, as

you know, gentlemen. We do not have access to the sea.

All imports must come through the territories of French and British

Somaliland or Italian Eritrea. Italy the predator or the French and

the British who have placed us under embargo." Lij Mikhael sipped at

the drink in his hand, and then frowned into the depths of the glass,

as though it were a crystal ball and he could read the future there.

"The great powers are prepared to deliver us to the Fascist tyrant,

with our sword hand empty and trussed behind our back." He sighed

again heavily and then looked up at Gareth. His expression changed.

"Major Swales, you have offered me a collection of worn and obsolete

vehicles and weapons at many times their actual value. I am a

desperate man. I must accept your offer and the price you demand."

Gareth relaxed slightly and glanced at Jake.

"I must even accept your condition that payment be made in British

sterling." Gareth smiled now. "My dear fellow-" he began, but again

the Prince silenced him with a raised hand.

"In turn I impose only one condition. It is vital to my acceptance of

your offer. You and your partner, Mr. Barton, will be responsible for

the delivery of all these weapons into the territory of

Ethiopia. Payment will be made only when you hand over the shipment to

me or my agent within the borders of his Imperial Majesty, hail

Selassie."

"Good God, man," exploded Gareth. "that involves smuggling them

through hundreds of miles of hostile territory. That's ridiculous!"

"Ridiculous, Major Swales? I think not. Your merchandise is of no

value to me or to you in Dares Salaam. I am your only customer nobody

else in the entire world would be foolish enough to buy it from you. On

the other hand, any attempt that I should make to import it into my

homeland would certainly be frustrated. I am being watched carefully

by agents of all the major powers. I know I shall be searched the

moment that I land at Jibuti. Lying here, the merchandise has no

value." He" paused and glanced from Gareth to Jake. Jake rubbed his

jaw thoughtfully.

"I see your point, Your Excellency."

"You are a reasonable man, Mr.

Barton," said the Prince, and then returned his attention to Gareth,

and repeated his last statement. "Lying here it has no value. In

Ethiopia, it is worth fifteen thousand British sovereigns to you. The

choice is yours. Abandon it or get it into Ethiopia."

"I am appalled," said Gareth solemnly, as he paced back and forth.

"I mean, after all the fellow is an old Etonian.

God, I can hardly believe that he would welsh on our agreement.

It's absolutely frightful. I mean, I trusted him." Jake was sprawled

on the couch in Madame Cecile's private room. He had shed his

dinner-jacket, and perched on his knee there was a plump young lady

with a cap of brassy blonde hair. She was dressed in a flimsy daffodil

coloured dress, the skirts of which had pulled up to show bright blue

garters around her ripe thighs. Jake was weighing one of her ample

breasts in his hand with all the concentration of a housewife choosing

tomatoes from a greengrocers tray. The girl giggled and wriggled

provocatively into his lap.

"Damn it, Jake, listen to me. "I am listening," said Jake.

"The man was positively insulting," protested Gareth, and then seemed

for a moment to lose his concentration as Jake's companion unbuttoned

the bodice of her wispy dress.

"By Jove, Jake, they are rather delicious, what?" and they both

regarded the display with interest.

"You've got your own, "Jake muttered.

"You're right," agreed Gareth, and turned to the junoesque female who

waited patiently for him on the other couch.

Her glossy black hair was piled upon her head in an elaborate nest of

curls and plaits, and she had large, intense, toffee-coloured eyes in a

face whose paleness was emphasized by the vividly painted crimson lips.

She pouted at Gareth, and draped one arm languidly around his

shoulders.

"Are you sure neither of them understands English?" Gareth called,

as he entered into the practised embrace of the white arms.

"Portuguese, both of them," Jake assured him. "But you'd better test

them."

"Very well." Gareth thought a moment. "Girls, I must warn you that we

aren't paying for your company not a penny. This is for love alone."

Neither of their expressions changed, and the enfolding movements of

sinuous limbs continued without pause.

"That settles it," Gareth opined. "We can talk."

"At a time like this?"

"We've only got until morning to decide what we are going to do." Jake

made a muffled remark and Gareth admonished him, "I can't hear a

word."

"That gullible old Ethiop of yours has us over a barrel"

repeated Jake with sardonic relish. Before he could reply, vivid

lips,

pouting and red as ripened fruit, closed over Gareth's. There was

silence for a while until Gareth wrested himself loose and his head

popped up mustache in disarray and stained with lipstick.

"Jake, what the hell are we going to do?" And Jake told him in

nautical language which left no room for misunderstanding precisely

what he was about to do.

"don't mean that, I mean what are we going to tell old Toffee tomorrow?

Are we going to deliver the goods?" Gareth's companion reached up,

took him in a head lock and drew his mouth down again.

"Jake, for God's sake, concentrate on the problem," he pleaded as he

was engulfed.

"I am, I am!" Jake assured him, rolling his eyes sideways to meet

Gareth's, but without interrupting his efforts with the plump blonde.

"How the hell do we get four armoured cars ashore on a hostile coast,

just for a start then how do we run them two hundred miles to the

Ethiopian border?" Gareth lamented, speaking out of the unemployed

corner of his mouth, and then something caught his attention. He

pulled free and raised himself on one elbow. "I say, your companion

isn't a blonde after all. Extraordinary." Jake glanced sideways and

grinned.

"And yours seems to be Scottish she's wearing a sporran, by God."

"Jake, we've got to make a decision. Do we go or don't we?"

"Action first, decisions later. Let's engage the targets."

"Right," Gareth agreed, realizing the futility of discussion at this

moment. "Driver advance."

"Gunner. Traverse right. Steady. On. Independent rapid fire."

"Shoot!" cried Gareth, and the conversation languished.

It was half an hour before it was resumed, with the two of them in

shirt sleeves, braces dangling and black ties discarded, poring over a

large-scale map of the East African coast that Madame Cecile had

produced.

"There's a thousand miles of unguarded coast line." Gareth traced the

great horn of Africa in the light of the Petromax lamp and then ran his

finger inland. "And this is marked as semi-desert all the way to the

border. We aren't likely to run into a crowd."

"It's a hell of a way to make a living, "said Jake.

"Are we going then?" Gareth looked up.

"You know we are."

"Yes," Gareth laughed. "I know we are.

Fifteen thousand sovereigns say we have to." ij Mikhael received their

decision with a curt nod and then asked, "Have you planned yet how you

will accomplish this task? Perhaps I can be of assistance, I know the

coast well and most of the routes to the interior." He gestured for

one of his advisers to spread a map upon the stateroom table. Jake ran

his finger across it, as he spoke.

"We thought to hire a shallowdraughted vessel here in Dares

Salaam, and make a landing somewhere in this area.

Then to load the cases on the cars, and, carrying our own fuel,

run directly inland to some prearranged rendezvous with your people."

"Yes," agreed the Prince. "The basic idea is right. But I should

avoid British territory. They maintain a very intensive patrol system

to discourage the export of slaves from their territory to the East.

No, keep clear of British Somaliland. The French territory is more

suitable." They plunged into the planning of the expedition, both Jake

and Gareth realizing swiftly how lightly they had discounted the

difficulties that faced them, and how valuable was the Prince's

advice.

"Your landing will be one of the critical stages. There is a tidal

fall of almost twenty feet on this coast and an unfavorable shelving of

the bottom. However, at this point about forty miles north of Jibuti

there is an ancient harbour called Month. It's not marked on the

chart. It was one of the centres of the slave trade before its

abolition, like Zanzibar and Mozambique Island. It was stormed and

sacked by a British force in 1842. The port is without fresh water and

since then it has been deserted. Yet it has a deep-water channel and a

good approach to the shore. This would be a suitable place to land the

vehicles an awkward task without good wharfage and overhead cranes."

Gareth was scribbling notes on a sheet of Union Castle notepaper,

while

Jake leaned attentively over the chart.

"What about patrols in this area?" he asked, and the Prince

shrugged.

"There is a battalion of the Ugion ttrang&e at Jibuti and they send an

occasional camel patrol through this area.

The odds are much against an encounter."

"Those are the kind of odds I like," muttered Gareth.

"Once we are ashore what then?" The Prince touched the map.

"You should then move parallel with the border of Italian Eritrea – a

southwesterly heading until you encounter the swamp area where the

Awash River sinks into the desert. Then turn directly westwards and

you will cross the French Somali border and enter the Danakil country

of Ethiopia. I will arrange to meet your column here-" He turned to

his group of elderly advisers and asked a question. Immediately an

animated and high-volume discussion broke out, at the end of which

the

Prince turned back to them with a smile.

"We seem to be in general agreement that the rendezvous should be at

the Wells of Chaldi here." He showed them the map again. "As you can

see, it is well within Ethiopian territory. This will suit my

Government as well for the cars will be used in the defence of the

Sardi Gorge and the road to Dessie in the event of an Italian offensive

in that direction-" The Prince was interrupted by one of his advisers

and he listened for a few minutes before nodding in agreement and

turning back to the two white men. "It has been suggested that as your

journey from Month to the Wells of Chaldi will be through trackless

desert country some areas of which would be impassable to wheeled

vehicles we should provide you with a guide who knows the area-"

"That's more like it, "Jake growled with relief.

"That's absolutely splendid, Toffee," agreed Gareth.

"Very well. The young man I have chosen is a relative of mine, a

nephew. He speaks English well, having also spent three years at

school in England, and he knows the area through which you will be

travelling, as he has often hunted the lion there as a guest of a chief

in French territory." He spoke to one of the advisers in Amharic, and

the man nodded and left the cabin. "I have sent for him now. His name

is Gregorius Maryam." When he came, Gregorius was a young man probably

in his early twenties. However, he was almost as tall as his uncle

with the warrior's fierce dark eyes and eagle features but his skin was

smooth and hairless as a girl's, the colour of pale honey. He also was

dressed in Western European fashion, and his expression was intense and

intelligent.

His uncle spoke to him quietly in Amharic and he nodded, then turned to

meet Jake and Gareth.

"My uncle has explained what is required of me and I am honoured to be

of service." Gregorius's voice was clear and eager.