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 classically 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 Association," she yelled as loudly as any of them. "And I assure 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 space 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.