His escort, one of whom now had the donkey lead ropes, gave the tankettes a wide berth, which partly took them out of the dust cloud and allowed Jardine to observe the differing arms of what was moving forward, the big-wheeled trucks in a line, on a track that could not be called a road, trying to avoid the unrepaired potholes caused by the recent rains. They were followed by marching men, heads down, who made no attempt at smartness, their pith helmets pulled low and their mouths covered, each one bearing on his back the heavy equipment — packs, rifles, entrenching tools and a steel helmet — every infantryman must carry into battle.
Then came more and heavier tanks: L640s, and in their wake self-propelled cannon, then horse- and truck-towed artillery, including the anti-aircraft guns that had been aimed at him the previous day — an excessive amount considering the Ethiopian air force consisted of only a couple of dozen planes.
It seemed endless, and Jardine had to remind himself he was only seeing a fraction of a force advancing on a broad front of several miles across. He could not avoid contrasting it with what he had observed on the road south from Addis, thoughts that were far from comfortable. By the time he reached what had been their main encampment he had still not seen this movement decrease.
Now, with his escort dismounted, he was being led through an extensive motor park full of lorries, cars, command vehicles and motorbikes, to a series of large brown-coloured marquees which he assumed, judging by the regimental and command flags flying above them, formed the headquarters of the army. This, too, he had seen from the air; it looked a damn sight more scary now.
Told to wait — even he understood that in Italian — Jardine was rehearsing what he would say; he knew he would have to expand on what he had tried to tell the cavalry officer. An army this size was bound to have an intelligence section, and he expected that someone in that would be enough of an English speaker to fully test his excuses.
Whatever took place inside, the askari cavalryman emerged with two Italian soldiers, both with rifles, and using a series of sharp gestures he was marched off, leaving his donkeys behind, and led to a small empty tent, where, after emptying out his pockets and stripping off his watch, he was put under guard, his few possessions, including his belt, watch and shoelaces, taken away.
How much time passed he did not know, certainly hours, but eventually an Italian NCO came to collect him, with another two rifle-bearing escorts, to take him back to the main marquees. Inside they were divided into compartments, into one of which he was shown, to find an officer, a major, sitting behind a trestle desk on which lay his Colt, magazine removed, his watch, passport, the contents of his kitbag, and what little money he had brought from Aksum; his money belt he had left behind.
To one side at another trestle desk sat a bespectacled private soldier, armed with pens, ink and paper, obviously there to take notes, while before the main desk sat a single folding chair.
The major picked up the passport and opened it. ‘Mr Jardine.’
‘I am.’
‘I am Major d’Agostino of the Servizio Informazioni Militare; please be seated.’
Jardine did so, facing the intelligence officer, noting his near-perfect English, while also picking up a slight whiff of cologne — or was it hair oil? — from a very well-barbered fellow. Clean-shaven, the hair was thick, wavy and black, the eyes equally dark in a sallow complexion on a rather severe face: sharp nose, hollow cheeks, plus a downturned mouth over a pointed chin.
‘What are you doing in Ethiopia, Mr Jardine?’
Responding with a half-smile, Jardine said, ‘As I tried to tell the previous officer, the cavalryman, I am interested in the Christian religion of this country, which I am sure you know goes back, at least they claim it does, over two thousand years. I was visiting Aksum to see the Church of St Mary of Zion, and I also took the opportunity to visit the nearby monasteries in the hope of talking to the monks. I was on my way back from one when I ran into your patrols. I am not sure your cavalry officer understood.’
‘Religion?’
‘I assume you are aware that the Ark of the Covenant is supposed to reside in Aksum.’
‘It does not worry you that you are in a war zone?’
‘I am a neutral, it is no concern of mine.’
The major tapped his fingers on the desk in a sort of tattoo. ‘Bullets flying around, an army on the march and it does not concern you?’
‘You were not marching when I set out and I am sure I have nothing to fear from the Italian army, whom, I have every reason to believe, will respect my nationality.’
The passport was lifted to a point before his face and flicked through, page by page. ‘You seem to be a well-travelled man, judging by the number of stamps you have gathered.’
‘My research takes me to many places.’
These were reeled off by d’Agostino. ‘Belgium, France, Austria, Rumania, Turkey, Greece, and these on what is a recently issued document, judging by the date.’
‘When you are researching comparative religions it takes you to many places.’
That got a thin smile. ‘But not Italy, or perhaps Palestine?’
‘I do intend to visit Rome at some time in the future. Palestine, being mandated to my country by the League of Nations, would not justify a stamp.’
‘Would I be correct in thinking you came to Ethiopia through British Somaliland?’
‘Yes, and again no need for a stamp on my passport when I entered a colony of my country.’
‘And you have come to Ethiopia, even though the border is sealed?’
‘Yes.’
‘But no stamp for entry into this country?’
Jardine tried to look abashed. ‘I’m afraid I sneaked into Ethiopia. Bit naughty, but I am only one soul and I did not think my presence would hurt anyone.’
‘One soul who has the audacity to defy his government and one studying comparative religions, Mr Jardine? To what purpose would this be put?’
‘I hope to write a book one day.’
‘Without notes?’ the major snapped.
Jardine leant forward and looked at his possessions laid out on the desk. ‘They should be there, there was a set of notebooks in my kitbag.’
‘Now missing.’
Trying to look perplexed, Jardine said, ‘Perhaps I left them at the monastery by mistake.’
‘Tell me, Mr Jardine, would this monastery of which you speak be on a nearby hilltop?’ Answered with a nod, d’Agostino continued, ‘And did that hilltop overlook the encampment in which we are now sitting?’
‘It did, but that was not something I have any interest in, or at least, only a passing sort of one.’
‘So, if I put it to you that you were spying on the Italian Expeditionary Force, you would deny it?’
‘Most certainly,’ Jardine insisted, adding an affronted look for good measure.
The major’s hand slipped below the level of the desk and emerged with his field glasses, last seen in his kitbag. ‘Yet, I am sure, from such a vantage point, you were tempted to employ these, merely from curiosity if nothing else?’
‘Just as I am sure you will be aware that a set of binoculars are standard equipment for the traveller in such a barren country as this.’
That got a sneer as the major looked at his weapon. ‘As is a Colt Automatic pistol with a fully loaded magazine clip.’
Jardine knew he was in trouble, indeed he had known his story was as leaky as a bucket full of holes, but it was the best he could conjure up, taking his cue from Ma Littleton. Rule one is, whatever the tale you’re telling, stick to it, for time is your only asset.
‘Major, I can understand your concerns …’
The man’s eyes flicked sideways and the clerk half-stood as the tent flap to the rear of Jardine swished. Spinning round he was presented with such an unexpected sight his jaw dropped. Dressed in fawn twill jodhpurs, highly polished riding boots, a crisp white blouse and standing in the doorway, was a strikingly beautiful woman with a mass of flowing blonde hair that came down to her shoulders and framed a quite stunning face.