The first phase of this plan entailed the seizure of the approaches to the Sardi Gorge and particularly important 1: in this dry and scalded desert would be the water supplies of the attacking army.
The General crossed the floor to the large-scale map, of Eastern Africa which covered one wall, and he picked up the ivory pointer to touch an isolated spot in the emptiness below the mountains.
"The Wells of Chaldi, he read the name aloud. "Whom shall we send?"
The Captain looked up from his pad, and observed how the spot was surrounded by the forbidding yellow of the desert.
He had been in Africa long enough to know what that meant, and there was only one person who he would wish were there.
"Belli," he said.
"Ah," said the General. "Count Aldo Belli the fire eater "The clown, "said the Captain.
"Come, caro," the General admonished his aide mildly.
"You are too harsh. The Count is a distinguished diplomat, he was for three years ambassador to the court of St. James in London. His family is old and noble and very very rich."
"He is a blow-hard," said the Captain stubbornly, and the General sighed.
"He is a personal friend of Benito Mussolini. II Duce is a constant guest at his castle. He has great political power-" "He would be well out of harm's way at this desolate spot," said the Captain, and the General sighed again.
"Perhaps you are correct, caro. Send for the good Count if you please." Captain Crespi stood on the steps of the headquarters building, beneath the portico with its imitation marble columns and the clumsily painted fresco depicting a heroic band of heavily muscled Italians defeating heathens, ploughing the earth, harvesting the corn, and generally building an empire.
The Captain watched sourly as the huge Rolls-Royce open tourer bumped down the dusty, pot-holed main street.
Its headlights glared like monstrously startled eyes, and its burnished sky-blue paintwork was dulled by a light flouring of pale dust. The purchase price of this vehicle would have consumed five years of his service pay, which accounted for much of the Captain's sourness.
Count Aldo Belli, as one of the nation's great landowners and amongst the five most wealthy men in Italy, did not rely on the army for his transportation. The Rolls had been adapted and designed to his personal specifications by the makers.
As it slid to a graceful halt beneath the portico, the k Captain noticed the Count's personal arms blazoned on the front door. - a rampant golden wolf supporting a shield with a quartered device of scarlet and silver. The legend unfurled beneath it read, "Courage arms me." As the car stopped, a small wiry sun-blackened little man in the uniform of a black shirt sergeant leaped from the seat be-side the driver and dropped on one knee in the roadway with a bulky camera at the ready to capture the moment when the figure in the wide rear seat of the Rolls should descend.
Count Aldo Belli adjusted his black beret carefully, sucked in his belly and rose to his feet as the driver scurried around to hold open the door. The Count smiled. It was a smile of flashing white teeth and powerful charisma. His eyes were dark and romantic with the sweeping lashes of a lady of fashion, his skin was lightly tanned to a golden olive and the lustrous curls of his hair that escaped from under the black beret shone in the sunlight. Although he was almost thirty-five years of age, not a single grey strand adulterated that splendid mane.
From his commanding position his height was exaggerated, so he seemed to tower god-like above the men who scampered about him. The highly polished cross-straps glittered across his chest as did the silver deaths head cap badges. The short regimental dagger on his hip set with small diamonds and seed pearls was to the Count's own design, and the ivory-handled revolver had been hand-made for him by Beretta; the holster was belted in tightly to subdue a waistline that was showing signs of rebellion.
The Count paused and glanced down at the little sergeant.
"Yes, Gino?"he asked.
"Good, my Count. just a little up with the chin." The Count's chin caused them both much concern. At certain angles, it showed an alarming tendency to duplicate itself like the ripples on a pond. The Count threw up his chin sternly, rather like 11 Duce, and the gesture ironed out the jowls below.
"Bellissimo," cried Gino, and tripped the shutter. The Count stepped down from the Rolls, enjoying the way the soft sparkling leather of his high boots gave like the bellows of a concertina above his instep as he moved, and he hooked the thumb of his gloved left hand into the belt above his dagger as he flung his right arm up and outwards in the Fascist salute.
"The General awaits you, Colonel,"Crespi greeted him.
"I came the moment I received the summons." The Captain made a move.
He knew the summons had been delivered at ten o'clock that morning and it was now almost three in the afternoon. The Count's primping had taken most of the day, and now he glowed from bathing and shaving and massaging and smelled like a rose garden in full bloom.
"Clown," thought the Captain again. It had taken Crespi ten years of unswerving service and dedication to reach his rank, while this man had opened his purse, invited Mussolini for a week of hunting and carousal to his estates at the foot of the Apennines, and had in return been given the colonelcy of a full battalion. The man had never fired a shot at anything larger than a boar, and until six months ago had commanded nothing more formidable than a squad of accountants, a troop of gardeners or a platoon of strumpets to his bed.
"Clown," thought the Captain bitterly, bowing over the hand and grinning ingratiatingly. "Have your photograph taken swatting flies in the Danakil desert, or sniffing camel dung beside the Wells of Chaldi," he thought, and backed away through the wide doors into the relative cool of the administrative building. "This way, Colonel, if you would be so kind." A General De Bono lowered the binoculars through which with brooding disquiet he had been studying the Ethiopian massif, and almost with relief turned to greet the Colonel.
"Caro," smiled the General, extending both hands as he crossed the uncarpeted hand-painted tiles. "My dear Count, it is so good of you to come." The Count drew himself up at the threshold and flung the Fascist salute at the advancing General, stopping him in confusion.
"In the services of my country and my king, I would count no sacrifice too dear." Aldo Belli was stirred by his own words. He must remember them. They could be used again.
"Yes, of course," De Bono agreed hurriedly. "I'm sure we all feel that way."
"General De Bono, you have only to command me."
"Thank you, caro mio. But a glass of Madeira and a biscuit first?"
suggested the General. A little sweetmeat to take away the taste of the medicine.
The General felt very bad about sending anyone down into the Danakil country it was hot here in Asmara, God alone knew what it would be like down there, and the General felt a pang of dismay that he had allowed Crespi to select anyone with such political influence as the Count. He would not further insult the good Count by too hurriedly coming to the business in hand.
"I hoped that you might have had an opportunity to hear the new production of La Traviata before leaving Rome?"
"Indeed, General. I was fortunate enough to be included in the Duce's party for the opening night." The Count relaxed a little, smiling that flashing smile.
The General sighed as he poured the wine. "Ha! The civilized life, so far a cry from this land of thorns and savages .