Текст книги "Cry Wolf"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

Соавторы: Wilbur Smith
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"Can you drive a motor car?" Jake asked unexpectedly, and

Gregorius smiled and nodded.

"Indeed, sir. I have my own Morgan sports car in Addis Ababa."

"That's great." Jake returned the smile. "But you'll find an armoured

car a rougher ride."

"Gregorius will pack what he needs for the journey, and join you

immediately. As you know, this ship sails at noon," observed the

Prince, and the young Ethiopian nobleman bowed to his uncle and left

the cabin.

"You now owe me a favour, Major Swales, and I request repayment

immediately." Lij Mikhael turned back to Gareth, whose complacency

evaporated immediately, to be replaced by an expression of mild

alarm.

Gareth had developed a healthy respect for the Prince's ability to

drive a bargain.

"Now listen here, old chap-" he began to protest, but the Prince went

on as though there had been no interruption.

"One of the few weapons that my country has to exploit is the

conscience of the civilized world-"

"I wouldn't give you much change for that," observed Jake.

"No," agreed the Prince sadly. "Not a very effective weapon as yet.

But if we can only inform the world of the injustices and unprovoked

aggression which we suffer then we can force the democratic nations to

come to our support.

We need popular support we must reach the people. If the common

peoples are informed of our lot, they will force their own governments

to take action."

"It's a pretty thought," Gareth agreed.

"Travelling with me now is one of the most highly thought of and

influential journalists in America. Someone who has the ear of

hundreds of thousands of readers across the United States of America,

and the rest of the English-speaking world as well. A person of

liberal conscience, a champion of the oppressed." The Prince paused.

"However,

this person's reputation has preceded us. The Italians realize that

their case might be damaged if the truth is written by a journalist of

this calibre and they have taken measures to prevent this happening.

We have today heard by radio that transit of English, French and

Italian territories will be refused, and' that this ally of ours will

be denied access to Ethiopia. They do not only embargo weapons but

they prevent our friends from giving us succour."

"No," said Gareth. "I've got enough trouble that I must act as a taxi

service for the entire press corps of the world.

I'll be damned if I will-"

"Can he drive a motor car? "Jake interrupted "We are still short of a

driver for the last car."

"If I

know journalists, all he can drive is a whisky bottle," grunted Gareth

gloomily.

"If he can drive we'd save the wages of hiring another driver,"

Jake pointed out, and Gareth's gloom lightened a little.

"That's true if he can drive."

"Let us find out," suggested the

Prince, and spoke quietly to one of his men who slipped out of the

cabin. Gareth took advantage of the pause to take the Prince's arm and

draw him aside from the main group.

"I have drawn up an estimate of the additional expenses we will

encounter the hire of a ship and that sort of thing it stretches the

old finances. I wonder if you could see your way clear to making a

gesture of good faith just a small advance. A few hundred guineas."

"Major Swales, I have made the gesture already by giving my nephew into

your care."

"Not that I don't appreciate that-" Gareth was about to enlarge his

argument, but he was prevented from doing so by the opening of the

cabin door and the entry of the journalist. Gareth Swales straightened

up and touched the knot of his tie. His smile broke across the cabin

like the early morning sun.

Jake Barton had slumped down into one of the chairs beside the chart

table and was about to light a cheroot, the match flaring in the cup of

his hands, but he did not complete the movement. The match burned on

forgotten, as he stared at the newcomer.

"Gentlemen," said the Prince. "I have the honour to introduce

Miss Victoria Camberwell, a distinguished member of the American press

and a good friend of my country." Vicky Camberwell was not yet thirty

years of age, and she was also an unusually attractive and nubile young

woman. She had learned long ago that youth and feminine beauty were

not assets in her chosen career and she tried, with little success, to

disguise both.

She adopted a severe, almost mannish, dress. A military-style shirt

with cloth epaulets and button-down breast pockets that were pushed out

by the large but shapely breasts. Her skirt was tailored in the same

cream linen with more button down pockets on the thighs, and clasped at

the slim waist with a leather belt and heavy snake's buckle.

Her shoes were of the lace-up type that women call "sensible."

On her long lovely legs they looked almost frivolous.

Her hair was drawn severely back to expose a long swan neck. The hair

was fine and silken, sun-bleached, in places, almost white and shaded

over her high broad forehead to the colour of wheat and autumn

leaves.

Gareth recovered first. "Miss Camberwell, of course. I know your

work. Your column is syndicated in the Observer." She looked at him

without expression, remarkably immune to the celebrated Swales smile.

Her eyes, he noticed, were serious and level, sage green in colour, but

shot with speckles of tawny gold.

Jake's match burned his fingers and he swore. She turned to him and he

stood up quickly.

"I didn't expect a woman."

"You don't like women?" Her voice was pitched low and had a husky tone

that raised goose bumps on Jake's forearms.

"Some of my favourite people are women." He saw that she was tall,

reaching almost to his shoulder, and that her body had a poised

athletic carriage. She held her head at a haughty angle which

emphasized the strong independent line of mouth and jaw.

"In fact, I can't think of anyone I like more." And she smiled for the

first time. It had surprising warmth, and Jake saw that her front

teeth were slightly uneven one pushed out of line with the other. He

stared at it fascinated for a moment, then he looked up into the

appraising green eyes.

"Do you drive a car?" he asked seriously, and her smile turned to

surprised laughter.

"I do." said Vicky, laughing. "I also ride a horse and a bicycle,

I can ski, pilot an aeroplane, play snooker and bridge, sing, dance and

play the piano."

"That will do," Jake laughed with her. "That will do just fine." Vicky

turned back to the Prince. "What is all this about,

Lij Mikhael?" she asked. "Just what do these two gentlemen have to do

with our plans?" The towering purple hull of the Dunnottar Castle

swung slowly across the back-drop of palm trees and the high sun-gilded

ranges of cumulus cloud, as she pulled her anchors and came around for

the harbour entrance.

At the rail of the upper deck, the tall figure of the Prince was

flanked by the white-robed figures of his staff, and as the ship

increased speed and kicked up a white sparkling bow wave, he lifted an

arm in a gesture of farewell.

Swiftly, the shape of the liner dwindled away into the limitless

eastern ocean as she made her offing before turning northwards once

more.

The four figures on the wharf lingered after it had disappeared,

staring out at the horizon whose long sweep was uninterrupted except by

the tiny white triangular sails of the fishing fleet coming in off the

banks.

Jake spoke first. "We'll have to find digs for Miss Camberwell. And

at the thought, both he and Gareth made a grab for her single battered

portmanteau and the typewriter in its leather case.

"Spin you for it," suggested Gareth, and an East African shilling

appeared in his hand.

"Tails,"decided Jake.

"Rough luck, old son," Gareth commiserated, and returned the coin to

his pocket. "I'll take care of Miss Camberwell-" he went on, " then

I'll start looking for a ship to take us up coast. In the meantime, I

suggest you have another look at those cars." As he spoke,

he hailed a ricksha from the row which waited at the head of the

wharf.

"Remember, Jake, it was one thing driving them down to the harbour but

an altogether different matter driving them through two hundred miles

of desert. You'd best make sure we don't have to walk home, he

advised, and handed Vicky Camberwell into the ricksha. "Driver,

advance!" he called, and with a cheery wave they jogged away up

town.

"It looks as though we are on our own, sir," said Gregorius, and

Jake grunted, still staring after the departing ricksha. "I think I

should also find accommodation," and Jake roused himself.

"Come along, lad. You can doss down in my tent for the few days before

we leave." And then he grinned. "I hope you won't be offended if I

wish it was Miss Camberwell rather than you, Greg." The boy laughed

delightedly. "I understand your feelings but perhaps she snores,

sir."

"No girl who looks like that could possibly snore," Jake told him. "And

another thing don't call me "sir", it makes me nervous. My name's

Jake." He picked up one of Greg's bags. "We'll walk," he said. "I

have a horrible hollow feeling that it's going to be a long weary wait

until next the eagle screams." They set off along the dusty unpaved

verge of the road.

"You said you own a Morgan? "Jake asked.

"That's right, Jake." you know what makes it move?"

"The internal combustion engine."

"Oh brother," applauded Jake. "That is a flying start. You have just

been appointed second engineer get your sleeves rolled up." Gareth

Swales had a theory about seduction which in twenty years he had never

had reason to revise.

ladies liked the company of aristocrats, they were all of them

basically snobs and a coat of arms usually made the coldest of them

swoon. No sooner had they settled into the padded seats of the

ricksha, than he turned upon Vicky Camberwell the full dazzling beam of

his wit and charm.

No one who had built up an international reputation in the hard field

of journalism by the age of twenty-nine could be expected to lack

perception, or be naive in the wicked ways of the world. Vicky

Camberwell had made a preliminary judgement of Gareth within minutes of

meeting him.

She had known others with the same urbane good looks and meticulous

grooming, the light bantering tone and the steely glint in the eye.

Rogue, she had decided and every second in his company confirmed the

initial judgement but damned good-looking rogue, and very funny rogue

with the exaggerated accent and turn of speech which she had recognized

immediately as a huge put-on. She listened with amusement as he set

out to impress with his lineage.

"As the colonel used to say we always referred to my old man as the

colonel." Gareth's father had indeed died a colonel, but not in an

illustrious regiment, as the rank suggested. He had worked his way up

from the lowly rank of constable in the Indian police.

"Of course, the family estates were from my mother's side-" His mother.

had been the only daughter of an unsuccessful baker, and the family

estate had comprised the mortgaged premises in Swansea.

"The colonel was always a bit of a rogue, and moved with a wild crowd,

you know. Fast ladies and slow horses. The estates went to the block,

I'm afraid." Victims themselves of the grinding injustices of the

British class system, mother and father had devoted themselves to

lifting their only son beyond that invisible barrier that divides the

middle from the upper classes.

"Of course, I was at Eton and he was mostly on foreign service.

Wish I'd got to know the old devil better. He must have been a

wonderful character-" Entrance to the school had been assisted by the

Commissioner of Police, himself an old Etonian. The mother's small

inheritance and the greater part of the father's salary went into the

costly business of turning the son into a gentleman.

"Killed in a duel, would you believe it. Pistols at dawn.

He was a romantic, too much fire in his veins." When the cholera took

the mother, the father's salary was insufficient to meet the bills that

a young man casually ran up when he mixed sociably with the sons of

dukes. In India, bribery was a convention, a way of living but the

colonel was found out. It was indeed pistols at dawn. The colonel

rode out into the dark Indian forest with his Webley service pistol,

and his bay mare trotted back to the stables an hour later with an

empty saddle and the reins trailing.

"Had to leave Eton, naturally." Under considerable duress.

It was coincidence that Gareth's friendship with the house master's

daughter took place at the same time as the colonel's last ride, but at

least it allowed Gareth to leave in a blaze of glory, as

Lij Mikhael remarked, rather than as a nobody whose fees had not been

met.

He went out into the world with the speech, the manners and the tastes

of a gentleman but without the means to support them.

"Luckily they were having this war at the time " and even a regiment

like the Duke's were not enquiring too deeply into the private means of

their new officers. Eton was sufficient recommendation, and,

with the help of the German machine guns, promotion was swift.

However, after the armistice, things were back to normal and it

required three thousand a year for an officer to support himself in the

style the regiment expected. Gareth moved on, and had kept moving ever

since.

Vicky Camberwell listened to him, fascinated despite herself She knew

that this was the cobra dance before the chicken, she knew herself well

enough to realize that part of the attraction he held for her was the

very devilry and roguishness she had so readily recognized.

There had been others like this one. Her job took her to the trouble

spots of the world, and men of this breed were attracted to the same

hot spots. With these men there was always the excitement and danger,

the thrill and the fun but inevitably there was also the sting and the

pain in the end.

She tried not to respond, wishing the ride would end, but Gareth's

sallies were too much for her and as the ricksha drew up in front of

the Royal Hotel entrance, she could not resist the almost suffocating

urge to laugh. She threw back her head, shaking her shining pale hair

in the wind as she let it ring out.

Gareth had learned also to use the calibre of a woman's laughter as a

yardstick. Vicky laughed with an unaffected gaiety, a straightforward

physical response that he found reassuring, and he took her arm

possessively as he helped her out of the ricksha.

He showed her through the royal suite with a proprietorial air.

"Only one suite in the place. Balcony looks out over the gardens, and

you get the sea breeze in the evening." And, "Only private loo in the

building, even one of those French jobs for sluicing the old

privates,

you know." And, "The bed is quite extraordinary, like sleeping on a

cloud and all that rot. Never experienced anything like it."

"Is this where I am to stay?" Vicky asked, with a small-girl

innocence.

"Well, I thought we could make some sort of arrangement, old girl." And

she was left with no doubts as to the type of arrangement Gareth Swales

had in mind.

"You are very kind, major," she murmured, and crossed to the handset of

the telephone.

"This is Miss Camberwell. Major Swales is vacating the royal suite for

me. Please have a servant move his clothes to alternative

accommodation."

"I say-" gasped Gareth, and she covered the mouthpiece and smiled at

him. "It's so sweet of you." Then she listened to the manager's

voice. "Oh dear," she said. "Well, if that's the only room you have

vacant, it will just have to do then, I am sure the major has

experienced more uncomfortable billets." When Gareth saw the room that

was now his, he tried honestly to remember humbler and less comfortable

billets.

The Chinese prison in Mukden had been cooler and not placed directly

over the boisterous uproar of the public bar, and the front line dugout

during the winter of 1917 at Arras had been more spacious and better

furnished.

The next three days Gareth Swales spent at the harbour, drinking tea

and whisky in the office of the harbour master, riding out with the

pilot to meet every new vessel as it crossed the bar, jogging in a

ricksha along the wharf to speak with the skippers of dhows and

Tuggers, rusty old coal-burners and neater, newer oil, burners, or

rowing about the harbour in a hired ferry to hail the vessels that lay

at anchor in the roads.

His evenings he spent plying Victoria Camberwell with charm,

flattery and vintage champagne for all of which she seemed to have an

insatiable appetite and complete immunity. She listened to him,

laughed with him and drank his champagne, and at midnight excused

herself prettily, and nimbly side-stepped his efforts to press her to

his snowy shirt-front or get a foot in the door of the royal suite.

By the morning of the fourth day, Gareth was understandably becoming a

little discouraged. He thought of taking a bucket of Tusker out to

Jake's camp and cheering himself up with a little of the American's

genial company.

However, he did not relish having to admit failure to Jake, SO he

fought off the temptation and took his usual ricksha ride down to the

harbour.

During the night a new vessel had anchored in the outer roads and

Gareth examined her through his binoculars. She was salt-fir ned and

dirty, (Id and scarred with a dark nondescript hull and a ragged

crew,

but Gareth saw that her rigging was sound and that although she was

schooner rigged with masts which could spread a mass of canvas, yet she

had propeller drive at the stern probably she had been converted to

take a diesel engine under the high poop. She looked the most likely

prospect he had yet seen in the harbour and Gareth ran down the steps

to the ferry and exuberantly tipped the oarsman a shilling over his

usual fare.

At closer range the vessel seemed even more disreputable than she had

at a distance. The paintwork proved to be a mottled patchwork of layer

peeling from layer, and it was clear what the sanitary arrangements

were aboard. The sides were zebra-striped with human excrement.

Yet closer still, Gareth noticed that the planking was tight and sound

beneath the execrable paint cover, and her bottom, seen through the

clear water, was clean copper and free of the usual fuzzy green beard

of weed. Also her rigging was well set up and all sheets had the

bright yellow colour and resilient took of new hemp. The name on her

stern was in Arabic and French, HirondeUe, and she was Seychelles

registered.

Gareth wondered at her purpose, for she was certainly a ringer,

a thoroughbred masquerading as a cart horse. That big bronze propeller

would drive her handily, and the hull itself looked fast and

sea-kindly.

Then as he came alongside he smelled her, and knew precisely what she

was. He had smelled that peculiar odour of polluted bilges and

suffering humanity before in the China Sea. He had heard it said that

it was an odour that could never be scoured from a hull, not even sheep

dip and boiling salt water would cleanse it. They said that on a dark

night, the patrol boats could smell a slaver from over the horizon.

A man who made his daily bread buying and selling slaves would be

unlikely to baulk at a mere trifle like gun running decided Gareth, and

hailed her.

"Ahoy, HirondeLle!" The response was hostile, the closed dark faces of

the ragged crew stared down at the ferry. They were a mixed batch,

Arab, Indian, Chinese, Negro and there was no answer to his hail.

Standing in the ferry, Gareth cupped his hands to his mouth and,

with the Englishman's unconscious arrogance that assumes all the world

speaks English, called again.

"I want to speak to your captain." Now there was a stir under the poop

and a white man came to the rail. He was swarthy, darkly sunburned and

so short that his head barely showed above the gunwale.

"What you want? You police, hey?" Gareth guessed he was Greek or

Armenian. he wore a dark patch over one eye, and the effect was

theatrical. The good eye was bright and stony as water-washed agate.

"No police!" Gareth assured him. "No trouble," and produced the

whisky bottle from his coat pocket and waved it airily.

The Captain leaned out over the rail and peered closely at Gareth.

Perhaps he recognized the twinkle in the eye and the jaunty piratical

smile that Gareth flashed up at him. It often takes one to know one.

Anyway, he seemed to reach a decision and he snapped an order in

Arabic. A rope ladder tumbled down the side.

"Come," invited the Captain. He had nothing to hide.

On this leg of his voyage he carried only a cargo of baled cotton goods

from Bombay. He would discharge this here at Dares Salaam before

continuing northwards to make a nocturnal landfall on the great horn of

Africa, there to take on his more lucrative cargo of human wares.

As long as the merchants of Arabia, India and the East still offered

huge sums for the slender black girls of the Danakil and Galla,

men like this would brave the British warships and patrol boats to

supply them.

"I thought we might drink a little whisky together and talk about

money," Gareth greeted the Captain. "My name is Swales. Major

Swales." The Captain had trained his oiled black hair into a queue

that hung down his back. He seemed to cultivate the buccaneer image.

"My name is Papadopoulos." He grinned for the first time.

"And the talk of money is sweet like music." He held out his hand.

Gareth and Vicky Camberwell came to Jake's camp in the mahogany forest,

bearing gifts.

"This is a surprise," Jake greeted them sardonically as he straightened

up from the welding set with the torch still flaring in his hand. "I

thought you two had eloped."

"Business first, pleasure later." Gareth handed Vicky down from the

ricksha. "No, my dear Jake, we have been working hard." J can see

that. You look really worn out with your labours." Jake doused the

welding torch and accepted the bucket of Tusker beer. He broached two

bottles -immediately, handing one to Greg and lifting the other to his

own lips. He wore only a pair of greasy khaki shorts.

When he lowered it, he grinned. "But, what the hell, I was dying of

thirst and so I forgive you."

"You have saved our lives, Major

Swales and Miss Camberwell," agreed Greg, and saluted them with the de

wed bottle.

"What on earth is this?" Gareth turned to inspect the massive

construction on which Jake and Greg had been working, and Jake patted

it proudly.

"It's a raft." He circled the complicated platform of empty oil drums

with its decking of timber slats, indicating its finer features with

the half-empty beer bottle.

"Armoured cars don't swim, and we have to land them on a shelving

beach. It's unlikely we will be able to get within a hundred yards of

the shore. We'll float them off." Vicky was looking at the fine

muscling of Jake's shoulders and arms, at the flat belly and the dark

pelt of hair that covered his chest, but Gareth was fascinated by the

crudely constructed raft.

"I was going to talk to you about landing the cars, and suggest

something like this," Gareth said, and Jake lifted an eyebrow at him in

disbelief.

"All we must make sure of is that the vessel that lands us has a

derrick strong enough to swing the cars outboard."

"What do they weigh?"

"Five tons each."

"Fine, the HirondeUe can handle that."

"The Hirondelle?"

"The vessel that's transporting us."

"So you have been working."

Jake laughed. "I would never have believed it of you. When do we

sail?"

"Dawn, the day after tomorrow. We will load during the night not

wanting to advertise our cargo and we will sail at first light."

"That doesn't give me much time to teach Miss Camberwell to drive one

of the cars." Jake turned to her now, and once again felt the thrill

of looking into those speckled eyes of green and gold. "I'm going to

need a deal of your time."

"That's one thing I've got plenty of at the moment." For Vicky the

interlude in Dares Salaam had served to rest her tired and strained

nerves. her previous assignment at Geneva had been irksome and

wearying. She had spent the last few days exploring the ancient port

and writing a two-thousand-word filler on its origins and history. She

had enjoyed Gareth Swales's attentions and the by-play of avoiding his

more serious advances. Now she was becoming aware of Jake

Barton's smouldering admiration. Nothing like being pursued by two

tough, dangerous and forceful males to relax a girl, she thought, and

smiled at Jake, enjoying his reaction, and watching Gareth Swales

bridle and move in to intervene.

"I can give Vicky a bit of instruction on the jolly old machines, don't

want to take you off important work." Vicky did not turn her head, but

went on smiling at Jake.

"I think that's rather Mr. Barton's department," she said.

"Jake," said Jake.

"Vicky," said Vicky.

This whole business was turning out very well indeed. A good story to

chase, a worthy cause to support, another daring escapade to add to the

blooming lustre of her reputation. She knew none of her colleagues had

dared the League's sanctions and violated international frontiers with

a gang of gun-runners to file a story.

As a bonus, there were two attractive males for company, It all looked

very good indeed, just as long as she kept it all on a manageable

basis, and did not let her emotions get into an uproar once more.

They followed the path down through the mahogany forest, and she smiled

secretly to herself as she watched Gareth and Jake jockeying for

position beside her. However, when they reached the clearing, Gareth

stopped abruptly.

"What now? "he demanded.

"The paint job is Greg's idea," explained Jake. "Make people think

twice before they start shooting at us." The four vehicles were now

painted a glistening snowy white, and the turrets were emblazoned with

a flaming scarlet cross.

"if the French or the Italians try to stop us, we are a unit of

armoured ambulances of the International Red Cross.

You, Greg and I are doctors, and Vicky is a nursing sister."

"My

God, you have been busy." Vicky was impressed.

"Also the white paint will be cooler in the desert," Greg explained

seriously. "They call it the "Great Burn" with good reason."

"The carrying racks I designed," said Jake. "Each vehicle will be able

to carry two forty-gallon drums of gasoline and one of water at the

rear of the turret. The crates of arms and ammunition we will

distribute between the four of them and rope them down here across the

sponsons, – I have welded cleats here to take the ropes."

"The crates will be a dead giveaway," objected Gareth.

"They are all marked-"

"We'll plane off the marking and re-label them as medical supplies,

"Jake told him, then took Vicky's arm. "I've chosen this one for you.

She's the most docile and friendly of the four."

"Do they have characters of their own?" Vicky teased him, and laughed

at the seriousness of his reply.

"They are just like women. My iron ladies," he slapped the nearest

machine. "This one is an absolute darling except that her rear

suspension is slightly out of alignment, so she waggles her bottom a

bit at speed. It's nothing serious, however, but it's why her name

is

Miss Wobbly. She's yours.

You'll grow to love her. "Jake walked on and kicked the tyre of the

next car. "This one is the bitch of the party. She tried to break my

wrist the very first time I ever cranked her. She is known as

Priscilla the Pig. I'm the only one who can handle her. She doesn't

love me, but she respects me." He moved on. "Greg has chosen this one

and called her Tenastelin which means "God is with us" – I hope he is

right, but I doubt it. Greg is a bit funny about that sort of thing.

He tells me he was going to be a priest once." He winked at the

youngster. "Gareth, this one is yours she has a brand new carburettor.

I think it is only fair you should enjoy her, since you are the one who

risked all to obtain it."

"Oh?" Vicky's eyes lit with interest, the news-hound in her aroused.

"What happened?"

"It's a long story," Jake grinned, "but it involved a long and

dangerous ride on a camel. "Gareth choked on a lungful of cheroot

smoke and coughed, but

Jake went on remorselessly, "She shall therefore be known in future

as

Henrietta the Hump the Hump for short."

"How very cute," said Vicky.

After midnight the four vehicles moved in column through the dark and

sleeping streets of the old town. The steel shutters were closed down

over the headlights so that only a narrow strip of light was thrown

forwards and downwards. The engines were idling as they moved at

walking speed under the trees whose spread branches hung over the road

and hid the stars.

The cars were heavily loaded. the burden that each of them carried

were drums and crate st coils of rope and netting,

trenching tools and camping equipment.

Gareth Swales led the column, freshly shaven and dressed in grey

flannel Oxford bags and a white jersey with the I Zingari cricket

colours adorning the neck and cuffs. He was mildly concerned that the

proprietor of the Royal Hotel might become aware of his imminent

departure, for there was a bill for three weeks" board outstanding and

a formidable pile of unpaid chit ties signed with the Swales flourish

for champagne supplied. Gareth would definitely feel happier out at

sea.

Gregorius Maryam followed him closely. His hereditary title was

Gerazinach, "Commander of the Left Wing', and his warrior blood coursed

through his veins mingling with the deeply religious Old Testament

teachings of the Coptic Christian Church, so that his eyes shone with

an almost mystic fanaticism and his heart soared with a young man's

fierce patriotism, for he was still young enough and inexperienced

enough to look on the dirty bloody business of war as something

glamorous and manly.

Behind him came Vicky Camberwell, driving Miss Wobbly with competence

and precision. Jake was delighted with her ability to judge the engine

beat, and to mesh the ancient gears with a light touch on clutch and

stick. She too was excited by the prospect of adventure,

and new experience. That afternoon she had filed her preliminary

report

, despatching five thousand words by the new airmail service that would

deposit them on her editor's desk in New York within ten days.