"God!" said Gareth. "I took you at your word, Toffee. I mean word of
honour, and old school-"
"My dear Swales, these are not the playing fields of Eton, I'm
afraid."
"Still, I never thought you'd welsh."
"Oh, dear me, I am not welshing. You can have your money now this very
hour."
"All right, Prince," Jake interrupted. "Tell us what more you want
from us. Tell us, is there any way we get out of here with a safe
conduct, and our money?" The Prince smiled warmly at Jake,
leaning to pat his arm.
"Always the pragmatist. No time wasted in tearing the hair or beating
the breast, Mr. Barton."
"Shoot," said Jake.
"My father and I would be very grateful if you would work for us for a
six-month contract."
"Why six months? "demanded Gareth.
"By then all will be lost, or won."
"Go on, "Jake invited.
"For six months you will exercise your skills for us and teach us how
best to defend ourselves against a modern army. Service,
maintain and command the armoured cars."
"In return? "Jake asked.
"A princely salary for the six months, a safe conduct out of
Ethiopia, and your money guaranteed by a London bank at the end of that
time."
"What is fair wages for putting one's head on the butcher's block?
"Gareth asked bitterly.
"Double another seven thousand pounds each, "said the Prince without
hesitation, and the men on each side of him relaxed slightly and
exchanged glances.
"Each?" asked Gareth.
"Each,"agreed Lij Mikhael.
"I only wish I had my lawyer here to draw up the contract," said
Gareth.
, "Not necessary," Mikhael laughed, and shook his head and drew two
envelopes from his robes. He handed one to each of them.
"Bank-guaranteed cheques. Lloyds of London. Irrev(.)cable, I
assure you but post-dated six months ahead. Valid on the first of
February next year." The two white men examined the documents
curiously.
Carefully Jake checked the date on the bank draft 1st February,
1936 and then read the figure fourteen thousand pounds sterling only
and he grinned.
"The exact amount the precise date." He shook his head admiringly.
"You had it all figured out. Man, you were thinking weeks ahead of
us."
"Good God, Toffee," Gareth intoned mournfully. "I must say I am
appalled. Utterly appalled."
"Does that mean you refuse, Major
Swales?" Gareth glanced at Jake, and a flash of agreement passed
between them. Gareth sighed theatrically. "Well, I must say that I
did have an appointment in Madrid. They've got themselves this little
war they are working on, but-" and here he studied the bank draft
again, "but one war is very much like another. Furthermore, you have
given me some fairly powerful reasons why I should stay on." Gareth
withdrew the wallet from his inside pocket and folded the draft into
it. "However, that doesn't alter the fact that I am utterly appalled
by the way this whole business has been conducted."
"And you, Mr.
Barton?" Lij Mikhael asked.
"As my partner has just remarked fourteen thousand pounds isn't exactly
peanuts. Yes, I accept." The Prince nodded, and then his expression
changed, became bleak and savage.
"I must urge you most cogently not to attempt to leave Ethiopia before
the expiry of our agreement justice is crude but effective under my
father's administration." At that moment the gentleman under
discussion lifted the sword high above his head and then drove the
point deep into the earth between his feet. He left it there, the
blade shivering and gleaming in the firelight, and staggered wheezing
and cackling to his place between Jake and Gareth.
He flung a skinny old arm around each of them and greeted them with a
hug and an affectionate cry of "How do you do?" and Gareth cocked a
speculative eye at him.
"How would you like to learn to play gin rummy, old son?" he asked
kindly. Six months was a lot of time to while away and there might yet
be further profit in the situation, he thought.
The sound of the drums woke Count Aldo Belli from a deep,
untroubled sleep. He lay and listened to them for a while, to the deep
monotonous rhythm like the pulse of the earth itself, and the effect
was lulling and hypnotic. Then suddenly the Count came fully awake and
the adrenalin poured hotly into his bloodstream. A month before
leaving Rome he had attended a screening of the latest Hollywood
release, Trader Horn, an African epic of wild animals and bloodthirsty
tribesmen. The sound of tribal drums had been skilfully used on the
sound track to heighten the sense of menace and suspense, and the Count
now realized that out there in the night the same terrible drums were
beating.
He came out of his bed in a single bound with a roar that woke those in
the camp who were still asleep. When Gino rushed into the tent, he
found his master standing stark-naked and wild-eyed in the centre of
his tent with the ivory-handled Beretta in one hand and the jewelled
dagger clutched in the other.
The instant the drums began beating, Luigi Castelani hurried back to
the bivouac, for he knew exactly what " reaction to expect from the
colonel. He arrived to find that the Count was fully uniformed,
