‘I’d ’ave made sure this was the first place I went for,’ Vince said as they left the empty boulevard and drove through the twin wrought iron gates.
It was Alverson who answered. ‘I reckon the Italians are thinking ahead. Why destroy the most comfortable billet in town when you want to lay your weary head there? When Badoglio gets here, you can bet your ass this will be his new home.’
They pulled up in front of the portico to be greeted by an officer Jardine recognised: it was the same French-speaking captain he had met at Gondar when seeking to get to Aksum to find Ma Littleton. Obviously about to ask the purpose of their presence, he was alerted by a groan from Corrie Littleton who, waking yet again, began to writhe from deep pain. With nothing approaching haste the officer walked across the gravel on crunching boots to inspect her, his face showing no emotion.
‘She requires treatment, and immediately,’ Jardine said.
‘The hospital is-’
‘I know where it is and I know it’s full,’ Jardine interrupted, looking around as if to underline the difference between this place and the stinking, crowded charnel house they had just left. ‘You have medical facilities here.’
‘For the private use of the imperial family and the officials of the government.’
Cal Jardine had been unaware of that fact; Alverson, for all his skill in questioning, had not elicited the information, yet it could not be said to come as a surprise. He had learnt very early on how callous the Ethiopian high-born were about the lower orders and nothing he had seen since altered that view. If there had ever been any doubt, the way they threw them into battle ill-equipped and tactically ignorant would have proved the point.
He had a vision then of the pint-sized emperor as he had driven past them on the Addis to Gondar road, and he wondered whether his lack of response to his broken, retreating followers was really despair at the defeat. Could it be indifference, could it be all he saw was people who were obliged to lay down their lives for his crown and his continuing hold on power? It was a proposition that did nothing for his temper, and his voice was cracked with fury as he responded.
‘The imperial family might be better served looking after some of their subjects than themselves. Then maybe they would win a war instead of losing one.’
The man’s nostrils flared angrily: he saw an insult to his sovereign and he was not mistaken. Fearing his temper was going to underline an already decided-upon refusal, Jardine suddenly recalled he still carried the pass he had received from Ras Kassa. Reaching into his shirt pocket he pulled it out.
‘You recognise this, Captain, I am sure.’
‘It is no longer valid,’ he replied, as Corrie Littleton groaned again.
Opening it, Cal Jardine made a show of examining it. ‘I cannot see how — there is no end date. Are you saying the ras no longer has any sway?’ Hesitation allowed him to press home his point. ‘I assume the man who signed this still holds the offices he held when it was written? Or are you saying your country no longer has a government?’
In employing the tone of voice he was using, Cal Jardine was working on instinct, and also on how the man had reacted previously in the face of this pass: this was a staff johnny before him and, in his experience, they were of the type who cared more for their position and prospects than anything else.
If service in the British army had taught him anything it was that the slippery types, the grovellers, unquestioning of even the most absurd orders, were the ones who got to the top. This captain was of that type and would hesitate to question someone of the stature of Ras Kassa Meghoum for the very simple fear that it might block his future advancement. The fact that his army was beaten, that in essence it would soon cease to exist, and his country was falling apart around him would probably not come into consideration.
‘The pass does not apply here, this is the Imperial Palace.’
It was like playing poker again and there was something in the eyes that made Jardine go straight for an outright bluff. ‘Please ask Ras Kassa Meghoum to come and tell me that personally.’ The man blinked, and encouraged, Jardine added, ‘And be assured, I have the means to make him aware of any impediment to his wishes.’
Stood still for several seconds, no doubt weighing the effect of all the alternatives on his own future, the captain suddenly snapped, ‘Wait here.’ Cal went back to the Rolls, and a patient now moaning continuously, while he went inside.
‘How do you know he was here?’ Alverson asked.
‘Wild guess, brother,’ he replied, leaning over Corrie Littleton. Her face was drained of blood, and even if he was not a medic he could see her condition was deteriorating. He brushed a hand across her brow to move aside her unruly hair. ‘And if it doesn’t work, I don’t know what we’ll do.’
‘Captain Jardine, Mr Alverson.’ The deep voice identified the speaker, and just as he turned to respond he caught sight of Vince’s face, furious at not being acknowledged. Knowing his friend was capable of saying something offensive, he being no respecter of authority, he spoke quickly. ‘And Mr Castellano, Ras.’
He was facing him by the time the ras added an indifferent, ‘Of course,’ while behind him came the sound of moaning.
‘Miss Littleton is seriously wounded and requires treatment.’
The sound she made and those words brought what appeared to be enlightenment; clearly the captain, who had emerged behind the ras, had not told him of the reason his presence was required.
‘There is no hope that the hospital will be able to save her.’
‘Save her?’
‘Yes, sir, if she is not treated she will die.’
The stream of whatever tongue the ras was using had soldiers rushing to take the stretcher, and somewhere in there was a reprimand for the captain, judging by the way his facial skin went tight. The eyes, when they flicked towards the source of the rebuke, had Cal Jardine thinking it would be unwise to turn his back on the man.
‘Gentlemen, you must too come inside.’
Vince gave the Ethiopian aristocrat a full glare. ‘I’ll assume that includes me, guv.’
‘The emperor and his family will leave the country and seek to gather international support for our cause. He has asked that, with my language skills, I accompany him.’
‘By what method?’ Alverson asked.
‘He dare not fly, Mr Alverson, it is too dangerous with enemy fighters so numerous. He will take the train to Djibouti.’
‘On a line which might be bombed,’ Jardine said. ‘Not to mention the train itself.’
‘As would a long convoy of cars and trucks, Captain, and on crowded roads it would move too slowly.’
Washed, fed and watered, they were sitting on a veranda at the rear of the Imperial Palace. Given the birdsong, the flowers, even the buzzing of pollinating bees, it was hard to think they were in the midst of a war. The convoy mentioned was telling: Haile Selassie was not getting out empty-handed. The train would have not only his family on board, but also his followers, his treasury and anything of value he could get away. It was hard to blame him: he was going into an uncertain exile and if he left anything the Italians would only steal it.
‘The French will let him through?’
‘That has been arranged.’
About to say something, Jardine stopped himself: Djibouti was likely to leak like a sieve. If the train journey had been arranged, then the Italians would find out about it and send every plane they had to make sure it did not get through — five hundred miles, over three hundred planes, it might be suicidal. Achieve that and they would decapitate the government in exile and make a cakewalk of the takeover. But they must have weighed up the risks; his voicing an opinion would change nothing.