Arturo Spinetti found himself in a two-storey sort of inn, run by a fat fellow of hand-wringing obsequiousness, overseeing the unloading, from a lorry, of the filing cabinets that went everywhere with the department of which he was a part. Major d’Agostino had no hand in the setting up of his branch HQ, he was too busy trying to ensure himself, and who Spinetti thought of as his aristocratic blonde tart, a decent billet in which to eat and sleep, this place not being to his mind of a standard he felt was his due.
There were also two lieutenants of the SIM attached to De Bono’s HQ, but they had just told their NCOs to get on with it, before setting off to find out if there was a decent brothel in Aksum. Those non-commissioned officers, a sergeant and two corporals, were more intent on finding a place to drink than actually performing their duties, so, as the only private soldier around, Spinetti had been left to curse the Italian army, Benito Mussolini, the Fascist Grand Council and the Horn of Africa, while, as he saw it, being left holding the bambino.
He needed to sort out an office for the major, the best room and coolest, of course, with another for himself close enough to be at the bastard’s beck and call. That had to be capacious enough to contain the filing cabinets full of intelligence reports, most of them of no use whatsoever, which would mean an argument with the lieutenants.
They would complain, when it came to an office, he had looked after himself, not them; like d’Agostino they would sleep elsewhere — living above the place of work was not to be tolerated if one wanted a decent night’s sleep, a woman as company and the ability to begin work at an hour of one’s own choosing.
He had sorted out a shared billet for the NCOs, a secure room for the English prisoner and, last but not least, a place for him to lay his head, and all the while his enforced host was dogging his heels, rubbing his hands with worry and asking in very broken Italian how he was to be paid for the services he was providing.
Jardine, who arrived with his escort, got a dank cellar, a place with a stout door which would have to be secured by a baulk of wood jammed against it in the temporary absence of a lock or a padlock and hasp. Asked to continue guarding him, the escorting NCO furiously refused: his orders were to fetch the prisoner to this place, then rejoin the headquarters company. Spinetti had to beg him for an hour so he could sort out the rest of what was needed, given he feared to leave Jardine without anyone to guard him.
That included the securing and laying of a field telephone as well as a visit to the quartermaster to indent for the supplies to sustain the whole unit, plus one prisoner. There he found such chaos, he was told to make the inn owner feed them for now; a padlock and hasp would be delivered to him when they could find one, a promise he did not believe for one second. Back at the inn, with the escort gone, Spinetti, the least martial of men, was obliged to touch the pistol in his holster to get Jardine some food and drink, then he had to deliver it.
‘You lived in London.’
‘I studied there, yes,’ Spinetti replied, ‘and I got a degree.’
He took off his steel-rimmed glasses and wiped them on a handkerchief, his face doleful. ‘Not that it has served me much, just to have chosen England over an Italian university is seen as a crime in my country — unpatriotic.’
‘Conscripted?’ The clerk nodded. ‘I wonder if you could do me a favour and ask the owner something.’ That got a suspicious look. ‘It’s a simple question. There was a party of Americans here, I just wonder if they have left.’
The young man, in appearance a studious type, stood thinking. Lean to the point of being spare, he had a pallid face, though not an unattractive one. Spinetti looked gentle and Jardine thought he would smile a lot if his life were not, to him, so rotten.
‘Americans?’
‘Yes. If they are still here, I need them to know I am a prisoner.’
‘I could get into trouble.’
‘Call it the wish of a dying man.’
‘Infamita!’ he spat, before looking at Jardine. ‘You should be tried by a court, even if it is a military one.’
‘If my Americans are still around, maybe I will be.’
Odd that he felt uncomfortable lying to this young fellow; he really wanted to know if Alverson and Vince, as well as the Littletons, had got away, which would be some small solace for what he was about to face.
‘Then I will ask.’
‘I also need something to sleep on, maybe the bedroll on my donkey?’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Jardine pushed at the door when the clerk left: given he was no soldier he might not have secured it properly, but it would not budge. Looking at the food he had been brought, he surmised the owner to be limited in his culinary skills: it was the same meal he had eaten before going out to spy on the Italians. He had barely got halfway through when the clerk returned carrying, disappointingly, a straw-filled paillasse.
‘Your Americans left in a big car, two ladies and two men.’
‘Thank you, Arturo.’
The use of his name made him smile. ‘Mr Jardine, I am not part of this, I hope you know that.’
‘You don’t hide it very well.’
That seemed to please him, producing a sly smile.
* * *
Major Umberto d’Agostino had been drinking and so had his blonde mistress, though not, it appeared, as much as him, for he was actually unsteady. Spinetti registered he was in his dress uniform, unarmed, having attended a celebratory meal held for the senior officers; she, his guest, was wearing high heels, a loose black dress with two very thin shoulder straps, a set of pearls round her neck and a clutch bag in her hand, while her hair had been expertly dressed by someone; maybe Aksum was not such a backwater after all.
Spinetti, trying to sort out his office, knew from experience the major was a man who liked his wine and brandy; indeed, thanks to his CO’s batman he had tasted quite a bit of the personal stores d’Agostino insisted went everywhere he did: not only wine, but whole Parma hams, good olive oil, various kinds of wheat to make good bread and fresh pasta, cheeses which taxed the ingenuity of all to keep them fresh.
He was not alone in this: it seemed every officer in the Italian army wished to have some home comforts along, and to accommodate those, certain things an army might need had been left in Asmara to provide the space. A stern commander would have stopped such actions if he had not been one of the worst culprits himself, and Emilio De Bono had his fawning staff officers to care for him as well — sleek, well-connected aides who saw to it that whatever bed he slept in was comfortable and that he was allowed a proper night’s rest, free from his military concerns. Naturally, their own comfort was not ignored.
‘The prisoner is secure?’
‘I have done my best, sir. The door lock is broken and there are no padlocks in the quartermaster’s stores, sir; I asked.’
The major rolled his eyes, the clerk thought for effect, to impress his mistress. ‘Spinetti, are you an idiot? Go out and find one. There must be a shop in Aksum which sells them.’
‘I cannot find the petty cash tin and that is the reason I cannot pay the owner of this place for the food he has given the prisoner and I.’
‘Pay him! Tell him if he asks to be paid he will be shot! And if you find a shop with a padlock and hasp just take it and tell the owner to come and fit it or I’ll have his head off too. Now, fetch a lantern and take me to the prisoner.’
‘Can I come?’ the marquesa asked, rubbing d’Agostino’s cheek.