Cry Wolf - Smith Wilbur (книги онлайн без регистрации полностью .TXT) 📗

stiffening spines with the swishing cane in his right hand.

The honour guard that fell in that afternoon to welcome the first

aircraft to the newly constructed airfield were so beautifully turned

out with polished leather and glittering metal, and their drill was so

smartly performed, that even Count Aldo Belli noticed it, and commended

them warmly.

The aircraft was a three-engined Caproni bomber. It came lumbering in

from the northern skies, circled the long runway of raw earth, and then

touched down and raised a long rolling storm of dust with the wash of

its propellers.

The first personage to emerge from the doorway in the belly of the

silver fuselage was the political agent from Asmara, Signor Antolino,

looking more rumpled and seedy than ever in his creased, ill-fitting

tropical linen suit. He raised his straw panama. in reply to the

Count's flamboyant Fascist salute, and they embraced briefly, the man

stood low on the social and political scale before the Count turned to

the pilot.

"I wish to ride in your machine." The Count had lost interest in his

tanks, in fact he found himself actively hating them and their

Captain. In sober mood he had refrained from executing that officer,

or even packing him off back to Asmara. He had contented himself with

a full page of scathing comment in the man's service report, knowing

that this would destroy his career. A complete and satisfying

vengeance, but the Count was finished with tanks. Now he had an

aircraft. So much more exciting and romantic.

"We will fly over the enemy positions," said the Count, at a

respectable height." By which he meant out of rifle shot.

"Later," said the political agent, with such an air of authority that

the Count drew himself up in a dignified manner, and gave the man a

haughty stare before which he should have quailed.

"I carry personal and urgent orders from General Badogho's own lips,"

said the agent, completely unaffected by the stare.

The Count's stiffly dignified when altered immediately.

"A glass of wine, then," he said affably, and took the " man's arm

leading him to the waiting Rolls.

The General stands now before Ambo Aradam. He has the main

concentration of the enemy at bay upon the mountain, and under heavy

artillery and aerial bombardment. At the right moment he will fall

upon them and the outcome cannot be in doubt."

"Quite right," nodded the Count sagely; the prospect of fighting a

hundred miles away to the north filled him with the reflected warmth of

the glory of Italian arms.

"Within the next ten days, the broken armies of the Ethiopians will be

attempting to withdraw along the road to Dessie and to link up with

Baile Selassie at Lake Tona but the Sardi Gorge is like a dagger in

their ribs. You know your duty." The Count nodded again, but warily.

This was much closer to home.

"I have come now to make the final contact with the Ethiopian Ras who

will declare for us, the Emperor-designate of Ethiopia our secret ally.

It is necessary to coordinate our final plans, so that his defection

will cause the greatest possible confusion amongst the ranks of the

enemy, and his forces can be best deployed to support your assault up

the gorge to Sardi and the Dessie road."

"Ah!" the Count made a sound which signified neither agreement nor

dissent.

"My men, working in the mountains, have arranged a meeting with the

Emperor-designate. At this meeting we will make the promised payment

that secures the Ras's loyalty." The agent made a moue of distaste.

"These people!" and he sighed at the thought of a man who would sell

his country for gold. Then he dismissed the thought with a

J wave of his hand. "The meeting is fixed for tonight. I have brought

one of my men with me who will act as a guide.

The place arranged is approximately eighty kilometres from here and we

will move out at sundown which will give us ample time to reach the

rendezvous before the appointed hour of midnight."

"Very well, the Count agreed. "I will place transport at your

disposal." The agent held up a hand. "My dear Colonel, you will be

the leader of the delegation to meet the Ras."

"Impossible." The Count would not so swiftly abandon his new

philosophy. "I have my duties here to prepare for the offensive." Who

knew what new horrors might lurk out in the midnight wastes of the

Danakil?

"Your presence is essential to the success of the negotiations your

uniform will impress the-" My shoulder, I am suffering from an injury

which makes travel most inconvenient I shall send one of my officers.

A Captain of tanks, the uniform is truly splendid."

"No. "The agent shook his head.

"I have a Major a man of great presence."

"The General expressly instructed that you should lead the delegation.

If you doubt this,

your radio operator could establish immediate contact with Asmara."

The

Count sighed, opened his mouth, closed it again, and then regretfully

abandoned his vow to remain within the perimeter of Chaldi camp for the

duration of the campaign.

"Very well," he conceded. "We will leave at sundown." The Count was

not about to plunge recklessly into danger again. The convoy which

left Chaldi that evening in the fiery afterglow of the sunset was led

by two CV.3 cavalry tanks, then followed four truck-loads of

infantry,

and behind them the remaining two tanks made up a formidable rear

guard.

The Rolls was sandwiched neatly in the centre of this column. The

political agent sat on the seat beside the Count, with his feet firmly

on the heavy wooden case on the floorboards. The guide that the agent

had produced from the fuselage of the Caproni was a thin, very dark

Galla, with one opaque eyeball of blue jelly caused by tropical

ophthalmia which gave him a particularly villainous cast of features.

He was dressed in a once-white sham ma that was now almost black with

filth, and he smelled like a goat that had recently fought a polecat.

The Count took one whiff of him and clapped his perfumed handkerchief

to his nose.

"Tell the man he is to ride in the leading tank with the

Captain," and a malicious expression gleamed in his dark eyes as he

turned to the Captain of tanks. "In the tank, do you hear? On the

seat beside you in the turret." They drove without lights, jolting

slowly across the moon-silver plains under the dark wall of the

mountains.

There was a single horseman waiting for them at the rendezvous, a dark

shape in the darker shadows of a massive camel-thorn. The agent spoke

with him in Amharic and then turned back to the Count.

"The Ras suspects treachery. We are to leave the escort here and go on

alone with this man."

"No," cried the Count. "No! No! I refuse - I simply refuse." It

took almost ten minutes of coaxing, and the repeated mention of General

Badoglio's name, to change the Count's stance. Miserably, the Count

climbed back into the Rolls, and Gino looked sadly at him from the

front seat as the unescorted, terribly vulnerable car moved out into

the moonlight, following the dark wild horseman on his shaggy pony.

In a rocky valley that cut into the towering bulk of the mountains,