The Count took one whiff of him and clapped his perfumed handkerchief to his nose.
"Tell the man he is to ride in the leading tank with the Captain," and a malicious expression gleamed in his dark eyes as he turned to the Captain of tanks. "In the tank, do you hear? On the seat beside you in the turret." They drove without lights, jolting slowly across the moon-silver plains under the dark wall of the mountains.
There was a single horseman waiting for them at the rendezvous, a dark shape in the darker shadows of a massive camel-thorn. The agent spoke with him in Amharic and then turned back to the Count.
"The Ras suspects treachery. We are to leave the escort here and go on alone with this man."
"No," cried the Count. "No! No! I refuse - I simply refuse." It took almost ten minutes of coaxing, and the repeated mention of General Badoglio's name, to change the Count's stance. Miserably, the Count climbed back into the Rolls, and Gino looked sadly at him from the front seat as the unescorted, terribly vulnerable car moved out into the moonlight, following the dark wild horseman on his shaggy pony.
In a rocky valley that cut into the towering bulk of the mountains, they had to abandon the Rolls and complete the journey on foot. Gino and Giuseppe carrying the wooden case between them, the Count with a drawn pistol in his hand, they staggered on up the treacherous slope of rocks and scree.
In a hidden saucer of rock, around the rim of which were posted the shadowy, hostile figures of sentries, was a large leather tent.
Around it were tethered scores of the wild, shaggy ponies and the interior was lit by smoky paraffin lamps and crowded with rank upon rank of squatting warriors. Their faces were so black in the dim light that only the whites of their eyes and the gleam of their teeth showed clearly.
The political agent strode ahead of the Count, down the open aisle, to where a robed figure reclined on a pile of cushions under a pair of lanterns. He was flanked by two women, still very young, but full-blown heavy-breasted, and pale-skinned, dressed in brilliant silks, both of them wearing crudely wrought silver jewellery dangling from their ears and strung about their long graceful necks. Their eyes were dark and bold, and at another time and in different circumstances the Count's interest would have been intense.
But now his knees felt rubbery, and his heart thumped like a war drum.
The political agent had to lead him forward by the arm.
"The Emperor-designate," whispered the agent, and the Count looked down on the bloated, effeminate dandy who lolled upon the cushions, his fat fingers covered with rings and his eyelids painted like those of a woman. "Ras Kullah, of the Gallas."
"Make the correct reply,"
instructed the Count, his voice hoarse with strain, and the Ras eyed the Count with apprehension as the agent made a long flowery speech.
The Ras was impressed with the imposing figure in its sinister black uniform. In the lamplight, the insignia glittered and the heavy enamelled cross on its ribbon of watered silk blinked like a beacon.
The Ras's eyes dropped to the jewelled dagger and ivory-handled pistol at the Count's belt, the weapons of a rich and noble warrior and he looked up again into the Count's eyes. They also glittered with an almost feverish fanatical light, the Count's regular features were flushed angrily and a murderous scowl furrowed his brow. He breathed like a fighting bull. The Ras mistook the signs of fatigue and extreme fear for the warlike rage of a berserker. He was impressed and awed.
Then his attention was drawn irresistibly away from the Count, as Gino and Giuseppe staggered into the tent, sweating in the lamplight, and bowed over the heavy chest they carried between them. Ras Kullah hoisted himself into a kneeling position, with his soft paunch bulging forward under the sham ma and his eyes glittering like those of a reptile.
With an abrupt command, he cut short the agent's speech, and beckoned the two Italians to him. With relief they deposited the heavy chest before the Ras, amid a hubbub of voices from the dark mass of watchers.
They pressed forward eagerly, the better to see the contents of the chest, as the Ras prised open the clips with the jewelled dagger from his belt, and lifted the lid with his fat pale hands.
The chest was closely packed with paper-wrapped rolls, like white candles. The Ras lifted one and slit the paper cover with the point of his dagger. There was a silent explosion of flat metal discs from the package. They cascaded into the Ras's ample lap, glittering golden and bright in the lantern light, and he cooed with pleasure, scooping a handful of the coins. Even the Count, with his own vast personal fortune, was impressed by the contents of the chest.
"By Peter and the Virgin," he muttered.
"English sovereigns," the agent affirmed. "But not a high price for a land the size of France." The Ras giggled and tossed a handful of coins to his nearest followers, and they fought and squabbled over the coins on their hands and knees. Then the Ras looked up at the Count and patted the cushions, grinning happily, motioning him to be seated, and the Count responded gratefully. The long walk up the valley and his fevered emotions had weakened his legs. He sank down on the cushions and listened to the long list of further demands that the Ras had prepared.
"He wants modern rifles, and machine guns," translated the agent.
"What is our position?" asked the Count.
"Of course we cannot give them to him. In a month's time, or a year, he may be an enemy not an ally. You cannot be certain with these Gallas."
"Say the correct thing."
"He wants your assurance that the female agent provocateur and the two white brigands in the Harari camp are delivered to him for justice as soon as they are captured."
"There is no reason against this?"
"Indeed, it will save us trouble and embarrassment."
"What will he do with them they are responsible for the torture and massacre of some of my brave lads?" The Count was recovering his confidence, and the sense of outrage returned to him.
"I have eye-witness accounts of the terrible atrocities committed on helpless prisoners of war.
The wanton shooting of bound prisoners justice must be done.
They must meet retribution." The agent grinned without mirth. "I assure you, my dear Count, that in the hands of Ras Kullah they will meet a fate far more terrible than you would imagine in your worst nightmares," and he turned back to the Ras and said in Amharic, "You have our word on it. They are yours to do with as you see fit." The Ras smiled, like a fat golden cat, and the tip of his tongue ran across his swollen purple lips, from one corner of his mouth to the other.
By this time, the Count had recovered his breath, and realized that contrary to all his expectations the Ras was friendly and that he was not in imminent danger of having his throat slit and his personal parts forcibly removed, the Count regained much of his aplomb.
"Tell the Ras that I want from him, in exchange, a full account of the enemy's strength the number of men, guns and armoured vehicles that are guarding the approaches to the gorge. I want to know the enemy's order of battle, the exact location of all his earthworks and strong points and particularly I want to be informed of the positions occupied by the Ras's own Gallas at the present time. I want also the names and ranks of all foreigners serving with the enemy-" He went on ticking off the points one at a time on his fingers, and the Ras listened with growing awe. Here was a warrior, indeed.
We have to bait the trap, said Gareth Swales.
He and Jake Barton squatted side by side in the shade cast by the hull of Priscilla the Pig.
Gareth had a short length of twig in his right hand, and he had been using it to draw out his strategy for receiving the renewed thrust by the Italians.