The Secret War (33 page)

“Oh, Christopher!” she moaned. “I thought you
promised you'd forget about that, and it wasn't his fault—really.”

“I know, I know,” he stood up impatiently, “but it needs two people who're drawn to each other to make love, just as it needs two people who're angry with each other to make a quarrel. Never mind about that though. He's taking his chance with me when he might well remain here with you and leave me to do this ghastly job on my own. There'll be time enough to talk of other things if either of us comes out alive.”

“Oh, Christopher, don't! don't!” she pleaded and began to dab her eyes.

Instantly he was all solicitude and knelt down to comfort her. For a long time they remained like that and Lovelace found them still huddled together when he returned.

“It's all right,” he announced abruptly. “I had the devil's own job to persuade Heidenstam into helping us as, naturally, I couldn't give away what we are up to. He consented in the end though; after I'd sworn by everything I hold sacred we intended nothing which could possibly harm the Emperor. Once he'd agreed he proved a real trump. He's at the bazaar now getting us the merchandise we shall require and the kit necessary for us to rig ourselves out as Arabs. I got the stain for our faces at the chemist's on the way back and I've hired a small car, in which we can drive ourselves out there, to be here at five o'clock. We'll park it near Ras Desoum's place so it's handy for a quick get-away if our luck holds out. Heidenstam's coming here immediately he's got the goods and whatever happens he's promised to take care of Valerie. He'll take her to the airport directly we've gone and help her to see her plane's fit to leave at a moment's notice without any bother from the aerodrome people. If we fail to turn up he'll place her in the care of Connolly at the American Legation by breakfast time to-morrow. The thing that worries me though is these cursed mountains.
If we do get away dare we risk a flight through such difficult country by night?”

“It's that or a hundred to one on our being arrested for murder,” Christopher said slowly. “You see, we've got to leave here dressed as Arabs in daylight; there's no time now to arrange for our changing anywhere. Even if we're not recognised someone's certain to notice us on our way out. Ras Desoum will raise the whole place directly I've had my talk with Zarrif and, as everyone knows everybody else's business in this wretched town, the hotel people will remember Valerie paying the bill here and that they never saw either of us leave. Then someone'll remember the two Arabs and guess they were you and me. Our only chance is in the lead we may be able to get by making a dash for the airport in this car you've hired, but if we wait there till dawn orders are certain to arrive to stop all planes leaving.”

“The only alternative is to go to earth, but that's going to be mighty difficult among a native population. We'd never be able to get hold of the plane again then and we'd be almost certain to be recognised if we tried to get away later by the railway.”

Valerie sighed. “Don't worry. I only wish a night flight through the mountains was the worst we had to face. The plane's a good one and there's only about eighty miles of dangerous country to cover. After that we shall be able to follow the valley of the Awash river. If you can only reach the airport I'll back myself to do the rest.”

“Bless you,” said Christopher, while Lovelace looked his admiration and his thanks.

She shrugged. “That's nothing. I've tackled far more difficult flights in these last few years. It's Anthony we should thank for having made all these arrangements so skilfully.”

“Yes, he's a wonder,” Christopher agreed.

“No.” Lovelace shook his head. “Just fairly
competent, that's all, and as nervous as a two-year-old. I wish to God we were all safe out of here. Let's have tea, shall we?” He rang the bell and slumped into a chair.

Valerie thought her heart would break as she looked at him. He seemed years older than he had the night before; the lines about his mouth and eyes were deeper now. She felt she could not possibly let him go—yet she knew that she must.

Over tea they spoke little, although Lovelace strove to keep the conversation going. He did not feel like a pipe. Somehow even smoking seemed an effort at this high altitude but he put one on, after his second cup, in order to try and appear normal, while he talked of the difference between the show-places they had seen and the stagnant poverty which met the eye in every street.

Soon after, Henrick Heidenstam arrived with a big suit-case and the three men went into Lovelace's room to change.

When they returned Valerie would not have recognised either of her lovers if she had met them in the street. Lovelace had transformed himself into a fine-looking Arab and Christopher into an unusually handsome black with a hump on his back; which was actually formed by a ruck-sack beneath his
burnous
containing certain kit they might require.

Henrick Heiderstam looked at her. “You know, of course, the work your friends are engaged upon?”

She nodded silently.

“Will you add your assurance to theirs that they intend nothing which could harm the Emperor? The fact that he cannot afford to pay my salary any more does not affect my loyalty to him and I must be certain on this point.”

“I give you my word of honour,” she said slowly.

“Thank you.” The young Swedish airman smiled at her before turning to the others. “My servant has put the
goods from the bazaar into the back of your hired car. I went down to see to that while you were dressing, so all is ready for your departure now.”

Christopher took both Valerie's hands in his and gave her a long, steady look while he pressed them so hard that she thought he would crush her fingers. He raised them to his lips, released them suddenly and strode out of the room.

Lovelace hesitated for a second, gave her a last smile, and made to follow; but Valerie raised one hand to stay him and he caught her jerky whisper: “I meant every word I said in—in my letter.”

“Letter?” he repeated in a puzzled tone. Then Christopher's voice came impatiently from the corridor, “Come on! We don't want the whole hotel staff to see us in these clothes.”

“Coming!” Lovelace sang out. Heidenstam was still with them in the room and there was no time to ask her now to explain what she meant. With a murmured, “Good-bye—my dear,” he left her.

Valerie pushed past Heidenstam and ran to the doorway. She was just in time to catch a last glimpse of the two white-robed figures as they turned out of the corridor to go down the service staircase. She closed her eyes and leant against the wall wondering if she would ever see either of them alive again.

Lovelace and Christopher saw that they would have no difficulty in getting into the first courtyard of Ras Desoum's so-called “castle.” They had escaped all but casual glances from the numerous servants as they left by the back entrance of the hotel, found Heidenstam's man waiting round the corner with their hired car, drove out in it and parked it ready for immediate flight under cover of some low trees. Now, with a miscellaneous assortment of goods dangling from their arms and shoulders, they walked towards the entrance of the Ras's residence.

A stream of natives was constantly passing in and out, the big doors in the low wall stood wide open, and no guards or porters were present to challenge newcomers. The two pseudo-Arabs trudged through the gates, bowed under their burdens, and glanced cautiously round.

The scene was not unlike that in a mean quarter of Baghdad or Damascus, Lovelace thought, except that it lacked colour. These people seemed cursed with a dreary spirit in addition to their poverty and hardly a splash of red, blue or green broke the monotony of black, white and grey. The court proved far larger than it had appeared from outside as the many buildings in it tended to obscure the full view. In one corner there was a big corral for cattle; further along one into which several hundred mangy-looking sheep were tightly packed. Humans swarmed everywhere, men, women and children; all but the latter robed in clothes to their necks. They wandered slowly and apparently
aimlessly about; stood in groups heatedly disputing or sat on their haunches gazing listlessly before them. There were mules, donkeys, goats, chickens and half-starved dogs all over the place, the beasts of burden tied up casually to anything that came handy, the rest scavenging among the offal that stank to heaven.

Christopher noticed two negroes chained to each other. They squatted side by side and were chatting quite happily together. Lovelace caught the direction of his glance and muttered, “a debtor and his creditor; they'll be chained like that until the debtor pays. These people are Gallahs, Guragis and Beni Shankalis—mostly freed slaves, I expect. Come on, let's try our luck at getting into the second court.”

They made their way slowly through the maze of squalid hutments until they reached another gate. It was open but a fierce-looking Gallah warrior leaned indolently against the heavy, wooden door post. As they approached he barred their passage by lowering his long spear.

Lovelace spoke to him in Arabic but the man obviously did not understand so they began to display their goods and act a pantomine of selling with a handful of small money. Still the fellow shook his head with a sullen frown. Lovelace slipped a few
gersh
into his hand, about a shilling, upon which he bared his white, even teeth in a fearsome smile and allowed them to pass.

The second court seemed to be allotted to Ras Desoum's household troops and their families. They were better clad, more prosperous-looking, and many of the men carried rifles slung over their shoulders.

Here, Lovelace made a pretence of trying to sell some of his goods, brass bangles and anklets from Birmingham, tawdry trinkets from Hamburg, and oriental knives made in Sheffield. Over a quarter of an hour was wasted haggling with one man who coveted a murderous-looking dagger, but he could not pay the price Lovelace demanded and to give it away too cheaply
would have immediately drawn unwelcome attention to the two traders.

About fifty horses were stabled in the second court, but any number of domestic animals ran riot, and filth was everywhere. Behind a row of shacks a rough circle of men had been formed and, in the centre, two enormous blacks were wrestling stark naked on the ground among the refuse and manure. In a corner near by an old man sat facing a ring of about forty children. He wore a ragged sort of turban and his face was engrained with dirt. Each time he pronounced certain words with a sonorous roll the children chanted them in a high treble after him. “He's a priest,” breathed Lovelace. “Teaching them bits out of the
Kebra Nagast
, their version of the Old Testament. Learning that stuff off by heart is about all the schooling most people get in Abyssinia. Very different from what we saw yesterday—isn't it? Come on, let's try and wangle our way into the Holy of Holies.”

The gate of the inner courtyard was more carefully guarded. Two soldiers stood by it leaning on their rifles and a third, an officer apparently, since he wore a dirty white duck suit, a blue bus-conductor's hat and a Sam Browne belt to which was attached a revolver holster, lounged near them.

Lovelace bowed himself almost to the ground and Christopher followed his example. As the officer walked over to them Lovelace addressed him in Arabic, “Illustrious and Valorous Master, we have goods to sell. Permit us, I beg, to enter; that we may show them to the Noble Lords whose sweetness makes this court a place of perfumes.”

The answer came in halting Arabic. “Show me what you have.”

With a deep obeisance Lovelace spread his wares out upon the ground and, for the next five minutes, Christopher marvelled as he stood behind him. Every trace of the quiet, reserved Englishman had disappeared;
instead, a born Oriental rattled on unceasingly in flowery Arabic and gesticulated graphically with both hands.

The Abyssinian displayed no emotion until Lovelace produced a miniature automatic, held it pointing at his own heart, and pressed the trigger; an Egyptian cigarette shot out of the barrel. He caught it deftly, placed it between his lips and, pressing a button, lit it from an automatic lighter concealed in the butt of the toy pistol.

The black man's eyes glinted with desire. “How much?” he asked.

“Twenty thalers,” said Lovelace.

The officer shook his head, but his fascinated gaze was still on the miraculous toy.

Lovelace held it out to him by the barrel. “It is yours, Master, if I may show my wares to the Illustrious
Ferentshis
who are within.”

“How do you know that there are foreigners here?” the black asked suspiciously.

“Rumour has a long tongue, oh begetter of many hundred handsome children,” Lovelace countered. “All the world knows the exalted Ras extends his regal hospitality to these bringers of Evil,” he spat suddenly, and added, “but their thalers are as numerous as the fleas upon a donkey—and I am poor.”

After a quick glance round the inner court the man in the soiled dungarees snatched at the pistol and motioned them inside. As ever, in the East, cupidity had unlocked the door. They snatched up their goods before he could change his mind and genuflected past him.

The third enclosure was almost as large as the others, but its buildings were more massive and it was a little cleaner. In the centre rose a single-storied, stone block, evidently Ras Desoum's own dwelling. At one end of it the observation tower dominated the whole human ant-heap from its top platform at the modest height of thirty feet. A separate building was, perhaps, a banqueting hall, and another the stables that held the
Ras's chargers. Against the walls were the same wattle-and-daub shanties as in the outer courts, except in one place, where a long, low, modern bungalow was raised on a concrete platform a few feet above the ground. On its stoep four Europeans were sitting, and, even in the distance, Lovelace recognized them as some of Zarrif's gunmen.