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

they had to abandon the Rolls and complete the journey on foot. Gino

and Giuseppe carrying the wooden case between them, the

Count with a drawn pistol in his hand, they staggered on up the

treacherous slope of rocks and scree.

In a hidden saucer of rock, around the rim of which were posted the

shadowy, hostile figures of sentries, was a large leather tent.

Around it were tethered scores of the wild, shaggy ponies and the

interior was lit by smoky paraffin lamps and crowded with rank upon

rank of squatting warriors. Their faces were so black in the dim light

that only the whites of their eyes and the gleam of their teeth showed

clearly.

The political agent strode ahead of the Count, down the open aisle, to

where a robed figure reclined on a pile of cushions under a pair of

lanterns. He was flanked by two women, still very young, but

full-blown heavy-breasted, and pale-skinned, dressed in brilliant

silks, both of them wearing crudely wrought silver jewellery dangling

from their ears and strung about their long graceful necks. Their eyes

were dark and bold, and at another time and in different circumstances

the Count's interest would have been intense.

But now his knees felt rubbery, and his heart thumped like a war drum.

The political agent had to lead him forward by the arm.

"The Emperor-designate," whispered the agent, and the Count looked down

on the bloated, effeminate dandy who lolled upon the cushions, his fat

fingers covered with rings and his eyelids painted like those of a

woman. "Ras Kullah, of the Gallas."

"Make the correct reply,"

instructed the Count, his voice hoarse with strain, and the Ras eyed

the Count with apprehension as the agent made a long flowery speech.

The Ras was impressed with the imposing figure in its sinister black

uniform. In the lamplight, the insignia glittered and the heavy

enamelled cross on its ribbon of watered silk blinked like a beacon.

The Ras's eyes dropped to the jewelled dagger and ivory-handled pistol

at the Count's belt, the weapons of a rich and noble warrior and he

looked up again into the Count's eyes. They also glittered with an

almost feverish fanatical light, the Count's regular features were

flushed angrily and a murderous scowl furrowed his brow. He breathed

like a fighting bull. The Ras mistook the signs of fatigue and extreme

fear for the warlike rage of a berserker. He was impressed and awed.

Then his attention was drawn irresistibly away from the Count, as

Gino and Giuseppe staggered into the tent, sweating in the lamplight,

and bowed over the heavy chest they carried between them. Ras Kullah

hoisted himself into a kneeling position, with his soft paunch bulging

forward under the sham ma and his eyes glittering like those of a

reptile.

With an abrupt command, he cut short the agent's speech, and beckoned

the two Italians to him. With relief they deposited the heavy chest

before the Ras, amid a hubbub of voices from the dark mass of watchers.

They pressed forward eagerly, the better to see the contents of the

chest, as the Ras prised open the clips with the jewelled dagger from

his belt, and lifted the lid with his fat pale hands.

The chest was closely packed with paper-wrapped rolls, like white

candles. The Ras lifted one and slit the paper cover with the point of

his dagger. There was a silent explosion of flat metal discs from the

package. They cascaded into the Ras's ample lap, glittering golden and

bright in the lantern light, and he cooed with pleasure, scooping a

handful of the coins. Even the Count, with his own vast personal

fortune, was impressed by the contents of the chest.

"By Peter and the Virgin," he muttered.

"English sovereigns," the agent affirmed. "But not a high price for a

land the size of France." The Ras giggled and tossed a handful of

coins to his nearest followers, and they fought and squabbled over the

coins on their hands and knees. Then the Ras looked up at the Count

and patted the cushions, grinning happily, motioning him to be

seated,

and the Count responded gratefully. The long walk up the valley and

his fevered emotions had weakened his legs. He sank down on the

cushions and listened to the long list of further demands that the Ras

had prepared.

"He wants modern rifles, and machine guns," translated the agent.

"What is our position?" asked the Count.

"Of course we cannot give them to him. In a month's time, or a year,

he may be an enemy not an ally. You cannot be certain with these

Gallas."

"Say the correct thing."

"He wants your assurance that the female agent provocateur and the two

white brigands in the Harari camp are delivered to him for justice as

soon as they are captured."

"There is no reason against this?"

"Indeed, it will save us trouble and embarrassment."

"What will he do with them they are responsible for the torture and

massacre of some of my brave lads?" The Count was recovering his

confidence, and the sense of outrage returned to him.

"I have eye-witness accounts of the terrible atrocities committed on

helpless prisoners of war.

The wanton shooting of bound prisoners justice must be done.

They must meet retribution." The agent grinned without mirth. "I

assure you, my dear Count, that in the hands of Ras Kullah they will

meet a fate far more terrible than you would imagine in your worst

nightmares," and he turned back to the Ras and said in Amharic, "You

have our word on it. They are yours to do with as you see fit." The

Ras smiled, like a fat golden cat, and the tip of his tongue ran across

his swollen purple lips, from one corner of his mouth to the other.

By this time, the Count had recovered his breath, and realized that

contrary to all his expectations the Ras was friendly and that he was

not in imminent danger of having his throat slit and his personal parts

forcibly removed, the Count regained much of his aplomb.

"Tell the Ras that I want from him, in exchange, a full account of the

enemy's strength the number of men, guns and armoured vehicles that are

guarding the approaches to the gorge. I want to know the enemy's order

of battle, the exact location of all his earthworks and strong points

and particularly I want to be informed of the positions occupied by the

Ras's own Gallas at the present time. I want also the names and ranks

of all foreigners serving with the enemy-" He went on ticking off the

points one at a time on his fingers, and the Ras listened with growing

awe. Here was a warrior, indeed.

We have to bait the trap, said Gareth Swales.

He and Jake Barton squatted side by side in the shade cast by the hull

of Priscilla the Pig.

Gareth had a short length of twig in his right hand, and he had been

using it to draw out his strategy for receiving the renewed thrust by

the Italians.

"It's no good sending horsemen. It worked once, it's not going to work

again." Jake said nothing, but frowned heavily at the complicated

designs that Gareth had traced on the sandy earth.

"We have conditioned the tank commander. The next look he gets at an

armoured car, and he's going to be after it like-"

"Like a long dog after a bitch, "said Jake.

"Exactly," Gareth nodded. "I was just going to say that myself"