Cry Wolf Page 8

  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.

  She had explained the background, the clear intent of Benito Mussolini

  to annex the sovereign territories of Ethiopia, the world's

  indifference, the arms embargo. "Do not delude yourselves" she had

  written, "into the belief that I am crying wolf. The wolf of Rome is

  already hunting.

  What is about to happen in the mountains of northern Africa will shame

  the civilized world." And then she had gone on to expose the intention

  of the great nations to prevent her reaching the embattled empire and

  reporting its plight. She had ended the despatch, "Your correspondent

  has rejected this restriction placed upon her movements and her

  integrity. Tonight

  I have joined a group of intrepid men who are risking their lives to

  defy the embargo, and to carry through the closed territories a

  quantity of arms and supplies desperately needed by the beleaguered

  nation. By the time you read this, we shall have failed and have died

  upon the desert coast of Africa, which the natives fearfully call the

  "Great Burn" or we shall have succeeded. We shall have landed by night

  from a small coasting vessel and trekked through hundreds of miles of

  savage and hostile territory to a meeting with an Ethiopian prince. I

  hope that in my next despatch, I shall be able to describe our journey

  to you, but if the gods of chance decree otherwise at least we shall

  have tried." Vicky was very pleased with the first article. In her

  usual flamboyant style, she particularly liked the

  "trekking" bit which gave a touch of local colour. It had

  everything:

  drama, mystery, the little guy taking on the big.

  She knew that the completed series would be a giant and she was excited

  and aglow with anticipation.

  Behind her Jake Barton followed. He listened with half his attention

  to the engine beat of the Pig. For no apparent reason,

  except perhaps a premonition of what awaited her, the car had that

  night refused to start. Jake had cranked her until his arm was cramped

  and aching. He had blown through the fuel system, checked the plugs,

  magneto and every other moving part that could possibly be at fault.

  Then, after another hour of tinkering, she had started and run sweetly,

  without giving the slightest hint of what had prevented her doing so

  earlier.

  With the other half of his attention, he was mentally in the mountains

  checking out his preparations knowing that this was his last chance to

  fill any gaps in his list. It was one hell of a long trail from Month

  to the Wells of Chaldi and not many service stations on the road. The

  pontoon raft of drums had been stowed aboard the HirondeUe that

  afternoon, and each car carried its own means of sustenance and

  survival a load which taxed their ancient suspensions and body work

  Thus Jake's conscious mind was fully occupied, but below that level was

  a gut memory that tightened his nerves and charged his blood with

  adrenaline There had been another night like this, moving in column in

  the darkness, with the throttled-back engine beat drumming softly in

  his ears but then there had been the glow of star shell in the sky

  ahead, the distant juddering of a Maxim firing at a gap in the wire and

  the smell of death and mud in his nostrils. Unlike Gregorius

  Maryam in the car ahead, Jake Barton knew about war and all its

  glories.

  apadopoulos was waiting for them on the wharf, carrying a hurricane

  lamp and dressed in an ankle, length greatcoat that gave him the air of

  a down-at, heel gnome. He signalled the column forward,

  waving the lamp, and his ragged crew swarmed off the deck of the

  Hirondelle on to the stone wharf.

  It was clear that they were accustomed to loading unusual cargo in the

  middle of the night. As each car was driven forward, it was stripped

  of its burden of drums and crates.

  These were stowed separately in cargo nets. Then they thrust sturdy

  wooden pallets under the chassis of the car and fixed the heavy hemp

  lines. At a signal from Papadopoulos, the men at the winches started

  the donkey engines and the lines ran through the blocks on the booms of

  the derricks.

  The bulky cars rose slowly and then swung inboard.

  The whole operation was carried out swiftly, with no raised voices or

  unnecessary noise. Only a muttered command, the grunt of straining

  men, the muted clatter of the donkey engines and then the thump of the

  cars settling on the deck.

  "These fellows know their business." Gareth watched approvingly,

  then turned to
Jake. "I'll go down to the.

  harbour master and clear the bills of lading. We'll be ready to sail

  in an hour or so." He sauntered away and disappeared into the

  shadows.

  "Let's inspect the accommodation," Jake suggested, and took

  Vicky's arm. "It looks like a regular Cunarder." They climbed the

  gangplank to the deck and only then did they get the first whiff of the

  slave stench. By the time Gareth returned from his nefarious

  negotiations with bills of lading showing a consignment of four

  ambulances and medical supplies to the International Red Cross

  Association at Alexandria, the others had made a brief examination of

  the single tiny odoriferous cabin which Papadopoulos had put at their

  disposal and decided to leave it to the cockroaches and bed bugs which

  were already in residence.

  "It's only a few days" sailing. I think I prefer the open deck.

  If it rains, we can take shelter in the cars." Jake spoke for all of

  them as they stood in a group at the rail, watching the lights of Dares

  Salaam glide away into the night, while the diesel engine of the

  schooner thumped under their feet and the sweet cool sea breeze washed

  over the deck, cleansing their nostrils and mouths of the slave

  stench.

  Vicky was awakened by the brilliance of the starlight shining into her

  face and she opened her eyes and stared up at a sky that blazed with

  the splendours Of the universe, as fields and seas of pearly light

  swirled across the heavens.

  Quietly she slipped out of her blankets and went to the ship's rail.

  The sea was lustrous glittering sable; each wave seemed to be carved

  from some solid and precious metal, bejewelled by the reflections of

  the starlight and through it the ship's wake glowed with

  phosphorescence like a trail of green fire.

  The sea wind was the touch of lovers" hands against her skin and in her

  hair, the great mainsail whispered above her head, and there was an

  almost physical ache in her chest at the beauty of this night.

  When Gareth came up silently behind her and slipped his arms about her

  waist, she did not even turn her head, but lay back against him.

  She did not want to argue and tease. As she herself had written, she

  might soon be dead and the night was too beautiful to let it pass.

  Neither of them spoke, but Vicky sighed and shuddered voluptuously as

  she felt his hands, smooth and skilful, slide up under the light cotton