Cry Wolf Part 15

"I think I am." The Prince turned to him and Jake saw the dark torment in the man's eyes. "I cannot make a hostile move, it's what the Italians are seeking. An excuse to attack in full strength. We must turn the other cheek now, and use this atrocity to win world support."

"But Sara," Vicky interrupted. "We could pick her up in a minute."

"No." The Prince lifted his chin. "I cannot show the , enemy these new weapons of ours. They must remain hidden until the time is right to strike."

"Sara, cried Gregorius. "What of Sara?" "When these machines and the new guns are safely on their way back to the Sardi Gorge, I shall ride out myself to fetch her body," said the Prince with a simple dignity. "But until then my duty must come first."

"One car," pleaded Gregorius. "For Sara's sake."

"No, I cannot use even one car," said the Prince.

"Well, I can," snapped Vicky and her tousled golden head disappeared into the driver's hatch, the engine roared and Miss Wobbly shot forward scattering men and animals before her, and swung in a tight sliding right-hand turn towards the course of the wadi.

Unarmed and alone, Vicky Camberwell was going out to face the machine guns and the mortars, and only one man amongst them acted swiftly enough.

Jake shouldered the Prince aside and sprinted across the circle of the car's turn, coming alongside a moment before it plunged into the narrow ravine. He got a grip on one of the welded brackets abaft the engine cowling, and although his shoulder joint was almost wrenched from its socket, he swung himself up and fell belly down across the sponson.

Clinging grimly on to the leaping, jouncing vehicle, he dragged himself forward until he could peer down the driver's hatch.

"Are you crazy?" he bellowed, and Vicky looked up and gave him a fleeting but angelic grin.

"Yes. How about you?"A heavier impact came up through the cha.s.sis of the car and momentarily drove Jake's breath from him so he could not answer. Instead, he clawed his way up the side of the turret, almost losing four fingers as the loose hatch cover slammed closed at another leap of the car.

Using all his strength, Jake lifted it again, and secured the retaining catch before he scrambled down into the cab.

He was only just in time, for at that moment Vicky drove the car at full throttle out into the valley.

The sun was clear of the horizon now, smearing long dark shadows across the golden sands. Dust and smoke from the mortar barrage still drifted in a stately brown cloud over the ridge, and the bodies of the dead were thrown at random across the bare plain. The women's dresses made bright splashes of colour against the monochrome of the desert.

Jake swept a swift glance around the ridge that commanded the plain, and saw that many of the Italian troopers had left their trenches. They wandered in small groups around the edges of the slaughter ground, and their movements were awed and timid green troops still not hardened to the reality of open wounds and twisted corpses.

They froze in att.i.tudes of surprise as the car burst out of the wadi, and flew on usty wings towards the nearest waterhole. It took many seconds for them to move, and then they turned and pelted for their earthworks, tiny figures in dark uniforms with legs and arms pumping in frantic haste.

"Turn broadside," yelled Jake. "Show them the crosses!" and Vicky reacted swiftly, swinging the car into a tight lefthander that had her up on two wheels, sliding broadside in the sand, displaying to the Italians the huge scarlet crosses on the hull.

"Let me have your shirt," Jake yelled again. It was the only white cloth they had with them. "I need a flag of truce!"

"It's all I have on," Vicky shrieked back. "I'm bare underneath."

"You want to be modest and dead?" howled Jake. "They'll start shooting any moment now." And she steered with one hand as she unb.u.t.toned her shirt front and leaned forward in the seat to yank the tails out of her skirt. She shrugged out of it and reached up into the turret to hand him the bundled shirt. Each time they hit another b.u.mp, Vicky's b.r.e.a.s.t.s bounced like rubber b.a.l.l.s, a sight that distracted Jake for a hundredth part of a second before chivalry and duty recalled him and he stood high in the turret, arms stretched above his head, streaming the white shirt like a flag, balancing with a sailor's legs against the wild antics of the car.

To the hundreds of men who lined the parapet of the Italian trenches Jake displayed two emotive symbols, the red cross and the white flag, symbols so powerful that even men in the white-hot must of the blood l.u.s.t hesitated with their fingers still curled about the triggers of the machine guns.

"It's working," shrieked Vicky, and swung the car on to its original heading, almost throwing Jake from his precarious roost in the turret. He dropped the shirt and clutched wildly at the coamings of the turret, the shirt floating away like a white egret on the wing.

"There she is," Vicky cried again. The carca.s.s of the white stallion lay dead ahead, as she braked hard and then pulled the car to a standstill beside it, interposing the armoured body of the car between the pile of bodies and the watching Italians on the ridge.

Jake dropped down into the cab and crawled back to open the rear double doors of the car, knocking open the locking handles as he called over his shoulder.

"Keep your hatch battened and don't, for chrissakes, show your head."

"I'll help you," Vicky stated boldly.

"The h.e.l.l you will," snapped Jake, tearing his eyes off her magnificent chest. "You'll stay where you are and keep the engine running." The doors flew open and Jake tumbled headfirst out on to the sandy earth. Spitting grit from his mouth, he crawled swiftly to the carca.s.s of the white horse. Close up, the hide was s.h.a.ggy and flea-bitten, dappled with faint patches of chestnut. On this pale background the bullet holes were like dark red mouths where already the metallic blue flies cl.u.s.tered delightedly.

The stallion lay heavily across Sara's lower body, pinning her face down to the earth.

The naked boy child had been hit by one of the hooves as the horse fell. The side of the tiny bald skull had been crushed, a deep indentation above the temple into which a baseball would have fitted neatly. There was no chance that he still lived and Jake transferred his attention to the girl.

"Sara," he called, and she lifted herself on her elbows, looking back at him from huge terrified dark eyes. Her face was smeared with dust, the skin shaved from one cheek where she had slid against the ground, exposing the pale pink meat from which lymph leaked in clear liquid beads.

"Are you hit? "Jake reached her.

"I don't know," she whispered huskily, and he saw that the satin of her breeches was soaked with dark blood. He placed both feet against the carca.s.s of the horse and tried to roll it off her legs, but the dead weight of the animal was enormous. He would have to stand, taking his chances with the guns.

Jake came to his feet and felt the cold fingers of fear brush lightly along his spine as he turned his back to the nearest Italian trenches and stooped to the horse.

Crouching with his weight balanced evenly on the b.a.l.l.s of both feet, he took the tail and the lower hind leg of the animal; lifting and turning with all his strength, he began to roll the carca.s.s off Sara's legs and pelvis. She cried out in pain, such a sharp high-pitched shriek that he had to stop.

She was praying incoherently in Amharic, weeping slow fat tears of agony that cut tunnels through the pale dust on her cheeks.

Jake panted, "Once more I'm sorry," and he braced himself. At that moment Vicky yelled from the car.

"Jake, they are coming! Hurry, oh G.o.d, please hurry!" Jake swung around and ran to the car, peering over the high engine compartment.

With a long plume of pale dust boiling out from behind it, a large open vehicle crowded with armed men was dropping swiftly down towards them from the ridge.

"My G.o.d," grunted Jake, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up his eyes against the low blinding rays of the morning sun. "It can't be!" But even at that range in the dust and bad light, there was no mistaking the gracious and dignified lines of a Rolls-Royce.

Jake was seized by a feeling of unreality that amid all this horror appear something of such beauty.

"Hurry, Jake." Vicky's voice spurred him on, and he ran back to the dead horse, seized its hind legs and began wrestling it on to its back with the girl's agonized cries as an accompaniment.

Grunting and straining, Jake lifted the horse by main strength until it was balanced critically along its spine with the legs pointed loosely at the morning sky, and now he could hear the approaching engine-beat of the Rolls and the faint but excited voices of its occupants. He denied the temptation to look around again and, instead, let the carca.s.s flop heavily over on to its other flank, freeing the frail body of the child-woman beneath it.

Still panting with his efforts, Jake dropped on one knee beside her. She was. .h.i.t in the upper leg, he saw at once, the entry wound was six inches above the knee, and when he felt swiftly for a bone-break, there was another quick flood of dark crimson blood that poured warmly over his fingers and drenched the slick satin of her breeches afresh. Jake found the exit wound in the inside of her thigh, but knew by feel and instinct that it had missed the bone. Still, she was losing blood heavily and he inserted a forefinger into the tear in her breeches and ripped the cloth cleanly to the ankle; he pulled it up exposing her long slim leg to the crutch. The wound was deep and blue in the darkly l.u.s.trous flesh, and Jake tore the flapping trouser-leg free and wound a turn of it around the thigh above the wound.

Using both arms and the strength of his shoulders he drew the crude tourniquet so tight that the flow of blood was instantly stemmed and he tied the ends of the bandage with two swift turns, and then looked up just as the RollsRoyce skidded to a violent halt across the front of the armoured car.

There seemed to be a state of utter confusion amongst the occupants of the Rolls, and again Jake felt a sense of unreality. In the front seat, the driver gripped the steering wheel in one hand and a rifle in the other with white knuckles and fingers that shook like those of a man in fever.

His ashen face was shining with the sweat either of some terrible fever or some equally terrible terror. On the seat beside him crouched a small wiry figure with a rifle slung over one shoulder and with a brown wizened monkey face partly obscured by a square black Leica camera with an enormous bellows lens. In the back seat of the Rolls was a large powerfully built man, with a granite face and the level controlled manner of a man of action. A dangerous man, Jake recognized instantly, and he saw that he was a major.

He held a rifle in one hand and with the other was trying to help to his feet a smaller, more handsome man in a splendid uniform of elegantly tailored black gabardine adorned with silver badges and insignia.

On this officer's head, a brimless black helmet with a silver skull and crossbones rode at a jaunty angle, like a pirate in a Christmas pantomime, but the face below it was fixed in the same pale emotion as that of the driver. It became clear to Jake that the last thing this gallant wanted was to be helped to his feet. He was curled up in the corner of the seat in such a way as to offer the smallest possible target, and he slapped petulantly at the Major's helping hand.

Protesting shrilly and brandishing an expensively plated and engraved pistol, it was clear that his presence in the Rolls was by no means voluntary.

Jake stooped over the body of the girl and slipped one arm under her shoulders and the other beneath her knees, careful not to inflict further hurt. Jake stood up with her in his arms while she clung to him like a child.

This action caused the big stern-faced Major to turn all his attention on Jake, to level his rifle at him and call a peremptory order in Italian. It was clearly an order to stand where he was, and, looking into the muzzle of the rifle and into the pale expressionless eyes, Jake knew that the man would shoot without hesitation if he were not immediately obeyed. There was a deadliness, a quiet aura of menace about him that chilled Jake as he stood with the slim warm body in his arms, and he collected his senses and his words.

"I am American,"he said firmly. "American doctor. "There was no recognition in the Major's expression, but he turned his head and glanced at the officer who stirred receptively, half-rose in his seat, then thought better of it. He sank back again, speaking carefully around the bulk of his Major.

"You are my prisoner," he cried, his voice unsteady, but his English clear and unaccented. "I place you in protective custody." "You are contravening the Geneva Convention." Jake tried to make his tone indignant, as he sidled towards the invitingly open rear doors of the car.

"I must inspect your credentials." The officer was recovering rapidly from his recent indisposition. Fresh colour flooded the cla.s.sically handsome face, new interest flashed in the dark gazelle eyes, and the smooth baritone voice gained strength and a fine ringing timbre.

% Colonel Count Aldo Belli, command you to account to me." His gaze switched to the huge steel body of the car.

"This is an armoured vehicle of war. You fly false colours, sir." As the Count spoke, he realized for the first time that neither the big curly-headed American nor the big oldfashioned vehicle which towered over them was armed. He could clearly see the empty gun-mounting in the turret and his courage came flooding back. Now at last he leaped to his feet, throwing out his chest, one hand on his hip, the other aiming the pistol at Jake.

"You are my prisoner" he declaimed once more, then from the corner of his mouth he growled at the front seat, "Gino, quickly. A shot of me capturing the American."

"At once, Excellency. "Gino was focusing the camera.

"I protest," shouted Jake, and sidled another few paces towards the inviting rear doors of the car.

"Stay where you are," snapped the Count and glanced at Gino. "All right? "he asked.

"get the American to move a little to the right," Gino replied, still peering into the view-finder.

"A little to the right!" commanded the Count in English, gesturing with the pistol, and Jake obeyed, for it brought him closer to his goal, but he was still shouting his protests.

"In the name of humanity and the International Red Cross-"

"I.

shall radio Geneva today," the Count shouted back, "to enquire of your credentials."

"Smile a little, Excellency," said Gino.

The Count burst into a radiant smile and half-turned towards the camera.

"Then I shall have you shod' he he promised, still smiling.

"If you let this girl die," yelled Jake, "it will be the act of a barbarian." The smile vanished instantly and the Count scowled darkly. "And your actions, sir, are those of a spy. Enough talk surrender yourself" He lifted the pistol threateningly and aimed at the centre of Jake's chest. Jake felt a chill of despair, as he saw the big Major reinforce the order by sliding the safety catch of his rifle to the fire" position and pointing it at Jake's belly.

At this critical moment, the driver's hatch of the armoured car flew open with a clang -that startled them all and Vicky Camberwell rose to view, her blonde hair awry and her cheeks burning with anger.

"I am an accredited member of the American Press a.s.sociation," she yelled as loudly as any of them. "And I a.s.sure you that this outrage will be reported to the world in every detail. I warn you that-" There was much more in this vein, and Vicky's anger was such that she could not remain still, she jumped up and down and flung her arms about in wild gesticulations for the moment completely oblivious of the fact that she was bared to the waist.

Her audience in the Rolls was under no such illusion.

Every man of them was a member of a nation whose favourite pastime was the adoration and pursuit of beautiful women, and every one of them considered himself to be the national champion.

As Vicky's bounty wobbled and swung and bounced with agitation, the four Italians gaped half in disbelief and half in delight. The raised weapons sank and were forgotten. The Major attempted to rise to his feet in a gesture of chivalry, but was thrust firmly backwards by the Count. The driver's foot slipped off the clutch and the Rolls bucked violently and the engine stalled. Gino uttered an oath of approval, raised the camera, found the film was expended, swore again and opened the camera without taking his eyes off Vicky, dropped it from clumsy hands, and abandoned it, grinning beatifically at this blonde vision.

The Count began to raise his helmet, remembered he was now a warrior and with his other hand threw out a Fascist salute, found he was still gripping the pistol and did not have enough hands, so he held his helmet and the pistol to his chest with one hand.

"Madam," he said, dark eyes flashing, his voice taking on a romantic ring. "My dear lady-" At that moment, the Major tried again to rise and the Count shoved him back into the seat once more while Vicky continued her tirade with no diminution in fervour.

Jake was completely forgotten by the Italians. He took four running steps and dived through the rear doors into the steel cab of the car. He rolled over and dropped Sara into the s.p.a.ce for the ammunition bins behind the driver's seat, and in a continuation of the same movement he kicked the doors closed and turned the locking handle.

"Drive!" he shouted at Vicky, although only her backside was visible as she stood on the driver's seat. "Come on!" and hauled her downwards so that she sat with a thud on the hard leather seat, still shouting abuse at the enemy. "Drive!" Jake shouted louder still. "Get us out of here!" The shocked dismay of the four Italians, as Vicky disappeared abruptly from view like an inverted jack-in-abox, lasted for many seconds and held them paralysed by disappointment.

Then the armoured car's engine roared and it bounded forward, straight at them; swinging broadside at the last moment, it hit the Rolls only a glancing blow, crumpling the front mudguard and shattering the gla.s.s headlamp, before it tore off in its own dust storm towards the broken ground beyond the wells.

Castelani was the first to act; he leaped to the ground and raced to reach the crank handle, shouting at the driver to start the engine. It fired at the first kick and the Major sprang on to the running board.

"Chase them," he shouted in the driver's ear, brandishing his rifle, and once again the driver sprang the clutch and the Rolls leapt forward with such violence that the Count was tumbled backwards onto the soft leather seat, his helmet sliding forward over his eyes, his polished boots kicking to the skies and his trigger finger tightening involuntarily. The Beretta fired with a vicious crack and the bullet flew an inch past Gino's ear, so that he fell to the floorboards on top of his camera, and whimpered with fright.

"Faster!" shouted the Major in the driver's ear. "Head them off, force them to turn!" and his voice was louder and more authoritative. He wanted a clean shot at the few vulnerable points in the car's armour the driver's visor or the open gun-mounting.

"Stop!" screeched the Count. "I'll have you shot for this." Side by side, the two vehicles pitched and lurched together like a team in harness, not ten feet separating them.

Within the armoured car, Vicky's vision through the visor was limited to a narrow arc ahead, and she concentrated on that as she shouted, "Where are they?" Jake picked himself out of the corner where he and Sara had been thrown, and crawled towards the command turret.

In the Rolls alongside, Castelani braced himself and raised the rifle. Even at that close range, five of his shots struck the thick steel hull with ringing sledgehammer blows and went whining away across the desert s.p.a.ces. Only one bullet entered the narrow breech of the gun-mounting. Trapped within the hull, it ricocheted amongst the three of them like an angry living thing, splattering them with stinging slivers of lead, and bringing death within inches before it ploughed into the back of the driver's seat.

Jake popped his head out of the turret and discovered the Rolls running hard beside them, the burly Major frantically reloading his empty rifle, and the other pa.s.sengers bouncing around helplessly.

"Driver!" shouted Jake. "Hard right!" and felt a quick flush of pride and affection as Vicky responded instantly. She swung the great armoured hull so suddenly that the other driver had no time to respond, the two vehicles came together with a shower of bright white sparks and a thunderous grinding crash.

"Save us, Mother of G.o.d!" shrieked the Count. "We are killed." The Rolls reeled under the impact, shearing off and losing ground, her paintwork deeply scatted and her whole side dented and torn. Castelani had leaped nimbly into the back seat at the last possible moment, avoiding having his legs crushed by the collision, and now he had reloaded the rifle.

Closer," he shouted at the driver. "Give me another shot at her!" But the Count had at last recovered his balance and pushed his helmet on to the back of his head.

"Stop, you fool." His voice was clear and urgent. "You'll kill us all," and the driver braked with patent relief, smiling for the first time that day.

"Keep going, you idiot," said Castelani sternly, and placed the muzzle of the rifle to the driver's ear hole His smile switched off, and his foot fell heavily on the pedal again.

Stop!" said the Count, as he dragged himself up again, adjusted his helmet with one hand and placed the muzzle of the Beretta pistol in the driver's vacant ear hole "I, your Colonel, command you."

"Keep going," growled Castelani. And the driver closed his eyes tightly, not daring to move his head, and roared straight at the ramparts of red earth that guarded the wadi.

In the moment before the Rolls ploughed headlong into a wall of sunbaked earth, the driver's dilemma was resolved for him. Gregorius, for lack of another ally, had appealed to his grandfather's warrior instincts, and despite the vast quant.i.ties of tej that he had drunk, that ancient had responded n.o.bly, gathering his bodyguard about him and outstripping them in the race down the wadi. Only Gregorius himself kept pace with the tall, gangling figure as he ran down to the plain.

The two of them came out side by side, and found the Rolls and the white-painted armoured car bearing down on them at point-blank range in a storm of dust. It was a sight to daunt the bravest heart, and Gregorius dived for the shelter of the red earth ramparts. But the Ras had killed his lion, and did not flinch.

He flung up the trusty old Martini Henry rifle. The explosion of black powder sounded like a cannon shot, a vast cloud of blue smoke blossomed and a long red flame shot from the barrel.

The windscreen of the Rolls exploded in a silver burst of flying gla.s.s splinters, one of which nicked the Count's chin.

"Holy Mary, I'm killed," cried the Count, and the driver needed nothing further to tip his allegiance. He swung the Rolls into a tight, roaring U-turn and not all of Castelani's threats could deter him. It was enough. He could take no more. He was going home.

"My G.o.d," breathed Jake, as he watched the battered Rolls swinging tightly away, and then gathering speed as it accelerated back towards the ridge, the arms and weapons of its occupants still waving wildly, and their voices raised in loud hysterical argument that faded with distance.