Gareth was scribbling notes on a sheet of Union Castle notepaper, while Jake leaned attentively over the chart.
"What about patrols in this area?" he asked, and the Prince shrugged.
"There is a battalion of the Ugion ttrang&e at Jibuti and they send an occasional camel patrol through this area.
The odds are much against an encounter."
"Those are the kind of odds I like," muttered Gareth.
"Once we are ashore what then?" The Prince touched the map.
"You should then move parallel with the border of Italian Eritrea - a southwesterly heading until you encounter the swamp area where the Awash River sinks into the desert. Then turn directly westwards and you will cross the French Somali border and enter the Danakil country of Ethiopia. I will arrange to meet your column here-" He turned to his group of elderly advisers and asked a question. Immediately an animated and high-volume discussion broke out, at the end of which the Prince turned back to them with a smile.
"We seem to be in general agreement that the rendezvous should be at the Wells of Chaldi here." He showed them the map again. "As you can see, it is well within Ethiopian territory. This will suit my Government as well for the cars will be used in the defence of the Sardi Gorge and the road to Dessie in the event of an Italian offensive in that direction-" The Prince was interrupted by one of his advisers and he listened for a few minutes before nodding in agreement and turning back to the two white men. "It has been suggested that as your journey from Month to the Wells of Chaldi will be through trackless desert country some areas of which would be impassable to wheeled vehicles we should provide you with a guide who knows the area-" "That's more like it, "Jake growled with relief.
"That's absolutely splendid, Toffee," agreed Gareth.
"Very well. The young man I have chosen is a relative of mine, a nephew. He speaks English well, having also spent three years at school in England, and he knows the area through which you will be travelling, as he has often hunted the lion there as a guest of a chief in French territory." He spoke to one of the advisers in Amharic, and the man nodded and left the cabin. "I have sent for him now. His name is Gregorius Maryam." When he came, Gregorius was a young man probably in his early twenties. However, he was almost as tall as his uncle with the warrior's fierce dark eyes and eagle features but his skin was smooth and hairless as a girl's, the colour of pale honey. He also was dressed in Western European fashion, and his expression was intense and intelligent.
His uncle spoke to him quietly in Amharic and he nodded, then turned to meet Jake and Gareth.
"My uncle has explained what is required of me and I am honoured to be of service." Gregorius's voice was clear and eager.
"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.