vehicles and weapons at many times their actual value. I am a
desperate man. I must accept your offer and the price you demand."
Gareth relaxed slightly and glanced at Jake.
"I must even accept your condition that payment be made in British
sterling." Gareth smiled now. "My dear fellow-" he began, but again
the Prince silenced him with a raised hand.
"In turn I impose only one condition. It is vital to my acceptance of
your offer. You and your partner, Mr. Barton, will be responsible for
the delivery of all these weapons into the territory of
Ethiopia. Payment will be made only when you hand over the shipment to
me or my agent within the borders of his Imperial Majesty, hail
Selassie."
"Good God, man," exploded Gareth. "that involves smuggling them
through hundreds of miles of hostile territory. That's ridiculous!"
"Ridiculous, Major Swales? I think not. Your merchandise is of no
value to me or to you in Dares Salaam. I am your only customer nobody
else in the entire world would be foolish enough to buy it from you. On
the other hand, any attempt that I should make to import it into my
homeland would certainly be frustrated. I am being watched carefully
by agents of all the major powers. I know I shall be searched the
moment that I land at Jibuti. Lying here, the merchandise has no
value." He" paused and glanced from Gareth to Jake. Jake rubbed his
jaw thoughtfully.
"I see your point, Your Excellency."
"You are a reasonable man, Mr.
Barton," said the Prince, and then returned his attention to Gareth,
and repeated his last statement. "Lying here it has no value. In
Ethiopia, it is worth fifteen thousand British sovereigns to you. The
choice is yours. Abandon it or get it into Ethiopia."
"I am appalled," said Gareth solemnly, as he paced back and forth.
"I mean, after all the fellow is an old Etonian.
God, I can hardly believe that he would welsh on our agreement.
It's absolutely frightful. I mean, I trusted him." Jake was sprawled
on the couch in Madame Cecile's private room. He had shed his
dinner-jacket, and perched on his knee there was a plump young lady
with a cap of brassy blonde hair. She was dressed in a flimsy daffodil
coloured dress, the skirts of which had pulled up to show bright blue
garters around her ripe thighs. Jake was weighing one of her ample
breasts in his hand with all the concentration of a housewife choosing
tomatoes from a greengrocers tray. The girl giggled and wriggled
provocatively into his lap.
"Damn it, Jake, listen to me. "I am listening," said Jake.
"The man was positively insulting," protested Gareth, and then seemed
for a moment to lose his concentration as Jake's companion unbuttoned
the bodice of her wispy dress.
"By Jove, Jake, they are rather delicious, what?" and they both
regarded the display with interest.
"You've got your own, "Jake muttered.
"You're right," agreed Gareth, and turned to the junoesque female who
waited patiently for him on the other couch.
Her glossy black hair was piled upon her head in an elaborate nest of
curls and plaits, and she had large, intense, toffee-coloured eyes in a
face whose paleness was emphasized by the vividly painted crimson lips.
She pouted at Gareth, and draped one arm languidly around his
shoulders.
"Are you sure neither of them understands English?" Gareth called,
as he entered into the practised embrace of the white arms.
"Portuguese, both of them," Jake assured him. "But you'd better test
them."
"Very well." Gareth thought a moment. "Girls, I must warn you that we
aren't paying for your company not a penny. This is for love alone."
Neither of their expressions changed, and the enfolding movements of
sinuous limbs continued without pause.
"That settles it," Gareth opined. "We can talk."
"At a time like this?"
"We've only got until morning to decide what we are going to do." Jake
made a muffled remark and Gareth admonished him, "I can't hear a
word."
"That gullible old Ethiop of yours has us over a barrel"
repeated Jake with sardonic relish. Before he could reply, vivid
lips,
pouting and red as ripened fruit, closed over Gareth's. There was
silence for a while until Gareth wrested himself loose and his head
popped up mustache in disarray and stained with lipstick.
"Jake, what the hell are we going to do?" And Jake told him in
nautical language which left no room for misunderstanding precisely
what he was about to do.
"don't mean that, I mean what are we going to tell old Toffee tomorrow?
Are we going to deliver the goods?" Gareth's companion reached up,
took him in a head lock and drew his mouth down again.
"Jake, for God's sake, concentrate on the problem," he pleaded as he
was engulfed.
"I am, I am!" Jake assured him, rolling his eyes sideways to meet
Gareth's, but without interrupting his efforts with the plump blonde.
"How the hell do we get four armoured cars ashore on a hostile coast,
just for a start then how do we run them two hundred miles to the
Ethiopian border?" Gareth lamented, speaking out of the unemployed
corner of his mouth, and then something caught his attention. He
pulled free and raised himself on one elbow. "I say, your companion
isn't a blonde after all. Extraordinary." Jake glanced sideways and
grinned.
"And yours seems to be Scottish she's wearing a sporran, by God."
"Jake, we've got to make a decision. Do we go or don't we?"
"Action first, decisions later. Let's engage the targets."
"Right," Gareth agreed, realizing the futility of discussion at this
moment. "Driver advance."
"Gunner. Traverse right. Steady. On. Independent rapid fire."
"Shoot!" cried Gareth, and the conversation languished.
It was half an hour before it was resumed, with the two of them in
shirt sleeves, braces dangling and black ties discarded, poring over a
large-scale map of the East African coast that Madame Cecile had
produced.
"There's a thousand miles of unguarded coast line." Gareth traced the
great horn of Africa in the light of the Petromax lamp and then ran his
finger inland. "And this is marked as semi-desert all the way to the
border. We aren't likely to run into a crowd."
"It's a hell of a way to make a living, "said Jake.
"Are we going then?" Gareth looked up.
"You know we are."
"Yes," Gareth laughed. "I know we are.
Fifteen thousand sovereigns say we have to." ij Mikhael received their
decision with a curt nod and then asked, "Have you planned yet how you
will accomplish this task? Perhaps I can be of assistance, I know the
coast well and most of the routes to the interior." He gestured for
one of his advisers to spread a map upon the stateroom table. Jake ran
his finger across it, as he spoke.
"We thought to hire a shallowdraughted vessel here in Dares
Salaam, and make a landing somewhere in this area.
Then to load the cas
es on the cars, and, carrying our own fuel,
run directly inland to some prearranged rendezvous with your people."
"Yes," agreed the Prince. "The basic idea is right. But I should
avoid British territory. They maintain a very intensive patrol system
to discourage the export of slaves from their territory to the East.
No, keep clear of British Somaliland. The French territory is more
suitable." They plunged into the planning of the expedition, both Jake
and Gareth realizing swiftly how lightly they had discounted the
difficulties that faced them, and how valuable was the Prince's
advice.
"Your landing will be one of the critical stages. There is a tidal
fall of almost twenty feet on this coast and an unfavorable shelving of
the bottom. However, at this point about forty miles north of Jibuti
there is an ancient harbour called Month. It's not marked on the
chart. It was one of the centres of the slave trade before its
abolition, like Zanzibar and Mozambique Island. It was stormed and
sacked by a British force in 1842. The port is without fresh water and
since then it has been deserted. Yet it has a deep-water channel and a
good approach to the shore. This would be a suitable place to land the
vehicles an awkward task without good wharfage and overhead cranes."
Gareth was scribbling notes on a sheet of Union Castle notepaper,
while
Jake leaned attentively over the chart.
"What about patrols in this area?" he asked, and the Prince
shrugged.
"There is a battalion of the Ugion ttrang&e at Jibuti and they send an
occasional camel patrol through this area.
The odds are much against an encounter."
"Those are the kind of odds I like," muttered Gareth.
"Once we are ashore what then?" The Prince touched the map.
"You should then move parallel with the border of Italian Eritrea - a
southwesterly heading until you encounter the swamp area where the
Awash River sinks into the desert. Then turn directly westwards and
you will cross the French Somali border and enter the Danakil country
of Ethiopia. I will arrange to meet your column here-" He turned to
his group of elderly advisers and asked a question. Immediately an
animated and high-volume discussion broke out, at the end of which
the
Prince turned back to them with a smile.
"We seem to be in general agreement that the rendezvous should be at
the Wells of Chaldi here." He showed them the map again. "As you can
see, it is well within Ethiopian territory. This will suit my
Government as well for the cars will be used in the defence of the
Sardi Gorge and the road to Dessie in the event of an Italian offensive
in that direction-" The Prince was interrupted by one of his advisers
and he listened for a few minutes before nodding in agreement and
turning back to the two white men. "It has been suggested that as your
journey from Month to the Wells of Chaldi will be through trackless
desert country some areas of which would be impassable to wheeled
vehicles we should provide you with a guide who knows the area-"
"That's more like it, "Jake growled with relief.
"That's absolutely splendid, Toffee," agreed Gareth.
"Very well. The young man I have chosen is a relative of mine, a
nephew. He speaks English well, having also spent three years at
school in England, and he knows the area through which you will be
travelling, as he has often hunted the lion there as a guest of a chief
in French territory." He spoke to one of the advisers in Amharic, and
the man nodded and left the cabin. "I have sent for him now. His name
is Gregorius Maryam." When he came, Gregorius was a young man probably
in his early twenties. However, he was almost as tall as his uncle
with the warrior's fierce dark eyes and eagle features but his skin was
smooth and hairless as a girl's, the colour of pale honey. He also was
dressed in Western European fashion, and his expression was intense and
intelligent.
His uncle spoke to him quietly in Amharic and he nodded, then turned to
meet Jake and Gareth.
"My uncle has explained what is required of me and I am honoured to be
of service." Gregorius's voice was clear and eager.
"Can you drive a motor car?" Jake asked unexpectedly, and
Gregorius smiled and nodded.
"Indeed, sir. I have my own Morgan sports car in Addis Ababa."
"That's great." Jake returned the smile. "But you'll find an armoured
car a rougher ride."
"Gregorius will pack what he needs for the journey, and join you
immediately. As you know, this ship sails at noon," observed the
Prince, and the young Ethiopian nobleman bowed to his uncle and left
the cabin.
"You now owe me a favour, Major Swales, and I request repayment
immediately." Lij Mikhael turned back to Gareth, whose complacency
evaporated immediately, to be replaced by an expression of mild
alarm.
Gareth had developed a healthy respect for the Prince's ability to
drive a bargain.
"Now listen here, old chap-" he began to protest, but the Prince went
on as though there had been no interruption.
"One of the few weapons that my country has to exploit is the
conscience of the civilized world-"
"I wouldn't give you much change for that," observed Jake.
"No," agreed the Prince sadly. "Not a very effective weapon as yet.
But if we can only inform the world of the injustices and unprovoked
come to our support.
We need popular support we must reach the people. If the common
peoples are informed of our lot, they will force their own governments
to take action."
"It's a pretty thought," Gareth agreed.
"Travelling with me now is one of the most highly thought of and
influential journalists in America. Someone who has the ear of
hundreds of thousands of readers across the United States of America,
and the rest of the English-speaking world as well. A person of
liberal conscience, a champion of the oppressed." The Prince paused.
"However,
this person's reputation has preceded us. The Italians realize that
their case might be damaged if the truth is written by a journalist of
this calibre and they have taken measures to prevent this happening.
We have today heard by radio that transit of English, French and
Italian territories will be refused, and' that this ally of ours will
be denied access to Ethiopia. They do not only embargo weapons but
they prevent our friends from giving us succour."
"No," said Gareth. "I've got enough trouble that I must act as a taxi
service for the entire press corps of the world.
I'll be damned if I will-"
"Can he drive a motor car? "Jake interrupted "We are still short of a
driver for the last car."
"If I
know journalists, all he can drive is a whisky bottle," grunted Gareth
gloomily.
"If he can drive we'd save the wages of hiring another driver,"
Jake pointed out, and Gareth's gloom lighten
ed a little.
"That's true if he can drive."
"Let us find out," suggested the
Prince, and spoke quietly to one of his men who slipped out of the
cabin. Gareth took advantage of the pause to take the Prince's arm and
draw him aside from the main group.
"I have drawn up an estimate of the additional expenses we will
encounter the hire of a ship and that sort of thing it stretches the
old finances. I wonder if you could see your way clear to making a
gesture of good faith just a small advance. A few hundred guineas."
"Major Swales, I have made the gesture already by giving my nephew into
your care."
"Not that I don't appreciate that-" Gareth was about to enlarge his
argument, but he was prevented from doing so by the opening of the
cabin door and the entry of the journalist. Gareth Swales straightened
up and touched the knot of his tie. His smile broke across the cabin
like the early morning sun.
Jake Barton had slumped down into one of the chairs beside the chart
table and was about to light a cheroot, the match flaring in the cup of
his hands, but he did not complete the movement. The match burned on
forgotten, as he stared at the newcomer.
"Gentlemen," said the Prince. "I have the honour to introduce
Miss Victoria Camberwell, a distinguished member of the American press
and a good friend of my country." Vicky Camberwell was not yet thirty
years of age, and she was also an unusually attractive and nubile young
woman. She had learned long ago that youth and feminine beauty were
not assets in her chosen career and she tried, with little success, to
disguise both.
She adopted a severe, almost mannish, dress. A military-style shirt
with cloth epaulets and button-down breast pockets that were pushed out
by the large but shapely breasts. Her skirt was tailored in the same
cream linen with more button down pockets on the thighs, and clasped at
the slim waist with a leather belt and heavy snake's buckle.
Her shoes were of the lace-up type that women call "sensible."
On her long lovely legs they looked almost frivolous.
Her hair was drawn severely back to expose a long swan neck. The hair
was fine and silken, sun-bleached, in places, almost white and shaded
over her high broad forehead to the colour of wheat and autumn
leaves.
Gareth recovered first. "Miss Camberwell, of course. I know your