reach the crank handle, shouting at the driver to start the engine. It
fired at the first kick and the Major sprang on to the running board.
"Chase them," he shouted in the driver's ear, brandishing his rifle,
and once again the driver sprang the clutch and the Rolls leapt forward
with such violence that the Count was tumbled backwards onto the soft
leather seat, his helmet sliding forward over his eyes, his polished
boots kicking to the skies and his trigger finger tightening
involuntarily. The Beretta fired with a vicious crack and the bullet
flew an inch past Gino's ear, so that he fell to the floorboards on top
of his camera, and whimpered with fright.
"Faster!" shouted the Major in the driver's ear. "Head them off,
force them to turn!" and his voice was louder and more authoritative.
He wanted a clean shot at the few vulnerable points in the car's armour
the driver's visor or the open gun-mounting.
"Stop!" screeched the Count. "I'll have you shot for this." Side by
side, the two vehicles pitched and lurched together like a team in
harness, not ten feet separating them.
Within the armoured car, Vicky's vision through the visor was limited
to a narrow arc ahead, and she concentrated on that as she shouted,
"Where are they?" Jake picked himself out of the corner where he and
Sara had been thrown, and crawled towards the command turret.
In the Rolls alongside, Castelani braced himself and raised the rifle.
Even at that close range, five of his shots struck the thick steel hull
with ringing sledgehammer blows and went whining away across the desert
spaces. Only one bullet entered the narrow breech of the gun-mounting.
Trapped within the hull, it ricocheted amongst the three of them like
an angry living thing, splattering them with stinging slivers of lead,
and bringing death within inches before it ploughed into the back of
the driver's seat.
Jake popped his head out of the turret and discovered the Rolls running
hard beside them, the burly Major frantically reloading his empty
rifle, and the other passengers bouncing around helplessly.
"Driver!" shouted Jake. "Hard right!" and felt a quick flush of
pride and affection as Vicky responded instantly. She swung the great
armoured hull so suddenly that the other driver had no time to respond,
the two vehicles came together with a shower of bright white sparks and
a thunderous grinding crash.
"Save us, Mother of God!" shrieked the Count. "We are killed." The
Rolls reeled under the impact, shearing off and losing ground, her
paintwork deeply scatted and her whole side dented and torn. Castelani
had leaped nimbly into the back seat at the last possible moment,
avoiding having his legs crushed by the collision, and now he had
reloaded the rifle.
Closer," he shouted at the driver. "Give me another shot at her!" But
the Count had at last recovered his balance and pushed his helmet on to
the back of his head.
"Stop, you fool." His voice was clear and urgent. "You'll kill us
all," and the driver braked with patent relief, smiling for the first
time that day.
"Keep going, you idiot," said Castelani sternly, and placed the muzzle
of the rifle to the driver's ear hole His smile switched off, and his
foot fell heavily on the pedal again.
Stop!" said the Count, as he dragged himself up again, adjusted his
helmet with one hand and placed the muzzle of the Beretta pistol in the
driver's vacant ear hole "I, your Colonel, command you."
"Keep going," growled Castelani. And the driver closed his eyes
tightly, not daring to move his head, and roared straight at the
ramparts of red earth that guarded the wadi.
In the moment before the Rolls ploughed headlong into a wall of
sunbaked earth, the driver's dilemma was resolved for him. Gregorius,
for lack of another ally, had appealed to his grandfather's warrior
instincts, and despite the vast quantities of tej that he had drunk,
that ancient had responded nobly, gathering his bodyguard about him and
outstripping them in the race down the wadi. Only Gregorius himself
kept pace with the tall, gangling figure as he ran down to the plain.
The two of them came out side by side, and found the Rolls and the
white-painted armoured car bearing down on them at point-blank range in
a storm of dust. It was a sight to daunt the bravest heart, and
Gregorius dived for the shelter of the red earth ramparts. But the Ras
had killed his lion, and did not flinch.
He flung up the trusty old Martini Henry rifle. The explosion of black
powder sounded like a cannon shot, a vast cloud of blue smoke blossomed
and a long red flame shot from the barrel.
The windscreen of the Rolls exploded in a silver burst of flying glass
splinters, one of which nicked the Count's chin.
"Holy Mary, I'm killed," cried the Count, and the driver needed nothing
further to tip his allegiance. He swung the Rolls into a tight,
roaring U-turn and not all of Castelani's threats could deter him. It
was enough. He could take no more. He was going home.
"My God," breathed Jake, as he watched the battered Rolls swinging
