The Secret War

by Dennis Wheatley

  Lovelace showed a keener interest now. This was no longer a question of high moral principle alone. It touched in him a deeper and more primitive chord: the welfare of his own country. “How will they try to bring Germany in?” he asked quickly.

  The plump Frenchman leaned forward and tapped the table. “We return now to their immediate intention. Their present plan; you understand me? If they secure this Abyssinian concession they will tempt Germany into purchasing it at a very reasonable price. An arrangement has already been made to that effect.”

  “But surely that would set the Germans and Italians at loggerheads?”

  Barrotet smiled a little pityingly. “On the contrary, it will bring them together. The concession is a double-edged weapon in that it will provide Abyssinia with just enough money to make things difficult for the Italians. Mussolini dare not retreat and throw in his hand. If he is forced to it he will go down fighting. His people already consider Britain to be behind the Abyssinian resistance, and that she is doing her best to hamstring Italy by the application of these, only partially successful, sanctions. Yet he is no fool, and before he allows his countrymen to force him he will seek allies.”

  “And then?”

  “He will say to the Germans: ‘These concessions which you have purchased in Abyssinia are no good until you can operate them fully. I will offer you something better. For many months Britain has been concentrating her strength in the eastern Mediterranean, Egypt and the Sudan. At home she is almost defenceless. I will attack and hold her main forces in Africa while you devastate London and her principal centres of population from the air. Afterwards we will divide the British Empire between us.”

  Lovelace looked up from his pipe. “How about France?”

  “Dare France go to Britain’s aid even if she wishes to do so? Mussolini’s main army is still in Europe. Could France afford to risk a simultaneous attack by Italy in the south and the newly-equipped German armies in the north?”

  “In such circumstances the British Army would be sent to your assistance.”

  Barrotet lifted his dark eyes to heaven. “Pardon, my friend. You naturally consider the British Army an important factor, but you forget that in recent years you have allowed it to shrink to a few divisions. Your home forces to-day may be excellent, but in numbers they are less than those of the weakest Balkan state. No army which you could place in the European field could possibly turn the scale for France against the combined might of reborn Italy and new Germany. It is for that reason France has been negotiating an alliance with Soviet Russia, and I do not say that she will not honour her obligation to the League and Great Britain. Only that, without Russia behind her, it would be suicide for her to do so. A man thinks twice before he takes his own life, however black the future may appear.”

  “I see your point,” Lovelace admitted. “Britain is the great bulwark of Capitalism, and if the Bolsheviks thought there was a chance of her being smashed once and for all they might refuse to come in. Then, if France considered the odds against her too heavy, we might have to face the whole shooting-match on our own.”

  “That is so. Within a month, perhaps, if the plot to utilise the Abyssinian situation cannot be stopped. Even if we succeed in that you must still regard such a combination as a menace which you may have to face in the future, and if Russia, France, and the Little Entente did come to your assistance your case would not be very much better. Japan would immediately move against Russia, and apparently, from the recent trend of events, Poland, Austria and Hungary would join Germany and Italy in their attack on France.”

  Lovelace shook his head. “Either way it sounds desperately grim, but I can’t think the Germans have the least wish to go to war with Britain.”

  “They have not. At present there is no personal hate between the two countries at all, except amongst the British Jews who are so bitter against the Nazis. But day and night the agitators are at work poisoning the minds of the German people with the delusion that because they have lost their colonies they have lost their honour. Mussolini is a very able statesman, and he will use that feeling to bring Germany in with him against Britain rather than face the collapse of Fascism through a stalemate in Abyssinia.”

  “And it is this Abyssinian concession which the warmakers propose to use as their bait to involve Germany?”

  “Yes. That is their present programme. At the moment the Italian armies are steadily advancing into Abyssinia. When the rains come they must call a halt, and then the Emperor will have a breathing space in which to consider his position. The Italians will dig themselves in and, since modern weapons give natural superiority to defence over attack, even where opposing armies are equally well equipped, no Abyssinian offensive will be able even to shake the Italian line. If the Emperor can manage to hold up the Italian advance until the rains come he will have at least six months in which to equip and train many of his regiments to fit them for modern warfare in the next year’s campaign. So far he has used his private fortune to purchase supplies, but now the Abyssinian war chest is exhausted. He must choose between leaving his warriors to be massacred when the Italians advance again, or selling concessions to provide them with modern equipment which will strengthen their resistance.”

  Valerie nodded. “And he will take the latter course as the lesser evil, because it is his only chance to escape complete defeat and the total loss of his Empire.”

  “Mademoiselle, you have said it.” Barrotet waved a plump but muscular hand. “The matter is already agreed and a date fixed when Paxito Zarrif will be in Addis Ababa to give the credits and receive the signed concession.”

  “Paxito Zarrif,” Lovelace murmured. “I’ve heard of him. He’s a fabulously rich Armenian—isn’t he?”

  “Yes. He is also the man who has arranged for the sale of the concession to Germany immediately he has secured it, which would give her a strong interest in Abyssinia and bring the whole question of overseas territories for her to a head.”

  “Unless …” murmured Christopher.

  “Unless Paxito Zarrif fails to reach Addis Ababa.”

  “Penn hasn’t got to go to Abyssinia after all, then,” Lovelace cut in.

  “No. At present Zarrif is at his home in Athens. We knew that there was reason to suppose that he would remain there for about three weeks when we sent for you. He is not due in Addis Ababa until the first of May. That is the date which has been arranged for the signing of the concession.”

  “He may be leaving Athens at any moment now, then,” Christopher said anxiously.

  “Unfortunately, that is so. Therefore the affair is doubly urgent. When you responded to our call that you would leave immediately, we naturally expected you would sail on the Europa and arrive six days ago. Your delay in reaching Europe has caused us grave anxiety. It shortens so much the time you have to work in.”

  “If time is so essential, why did you select an American?” Valerie asked.

  “Because Zarrif is very carefully protected. It was decided that a wealthy young American would be less suspect than anyone on this side and would stand more chance of getting at him.”

  “You’re wrong there,” said Christopher quickly. “I was warned that they knew what I was up to before I left the States and that if I quit the country I’d be dead within a week. That’s why we took the longer route via Canada and a slower boat.”

  Barrotet’s eyebrows shot up into his broad, low forehead.

  “Mon Dieu!” he exclaimed. “But this is difficult—perhaps you are being watched now.”

  “I doubt it.” Christopher shook his head. “We came by Miss Lorne’s plane from Rotterdam and went to earth in this hole after Lovelace had taken us seven times round Paris in seven different taxis.”

  “That is good, but the fact that they know you may prove a serious handicap to your operations.” Barrotet produced a sheaf of papers. “Look! Here are particulars about Paxito Zarrif, also a letter stolen from a Mr. Jeremiah Green as he lay dying of fever in the Suda
n. He was on his way to Zarrif as a go-between, on behalf of the Abyssinians, but he did not know Zarrif personally. We had hoped that by presenting yourself to Zarrif as Jeremiah Green you could have found an opportunity to …”

  “As they know Penn to be associated with the Millers of God, they’re certain to have cabled his description,” Lovelace interrupted. “He daren’t adopt your plan now. He’d be rumbled at the start.”

  Barrotet’s black, boot-button eyes fixed themselves upon the Englishman. “Does the enemy yet know that you have taken a hand in this affair?”

  Lovelace shrugged. “There is no earthly reason to suppose they have ever heard of my existence.”

  “Then why should you not impersonate Jeremiah Green, and lure him on some pretext to a spot where … Penn could do the rest?”

  Valerie’s eyes were on Lovelace’s face again. He was fingering uncertainly the small upturned moustache which decorated his upper lip.

  “You are sure that if this concession goes through it means a universal smash-up?” he asked after a moment.

  “Yes. We who know the inside facts are virtually certain of it.”

  “All right—I’ll do it then.”

  Barrotet pushed across the papers. “I am glad that you have so decided. Please now to memorise these few names and addresses that I will tell you. They are the Millers of God living in the Near East upon whom you may call for assistance in case of necessity. Afterwards, when you make your escape, it is better that you should go on to Haifa or Cairo and lie low there for a time than that you should return to Europe, where the International police will be more occupied in trying to trace Zarrif’s executioner.”

  Ten minutes later the Frenchman left them, and his last words were: “Remember, please, that time is short. All our previous efforts to stave off war will have been wasted unless Paxito Zarrif is dead by the first of May.”

  CHAPTER VI

  THE OPENING OF THE CAMPAIGN

  Speed! Speed! Speed! That was the essential factor which now dominated their mission, as emerged very clearly from the conference that Christopher, Valerie, and Lovelace held immediately Monsieur Paul Barrotet had departed.

  The Millers of God had planned that Christopher should arrive in Athens a week before Paxito Zarrif was expected to start for Abyssinia. Six days had now been lost, owing to Christopher taking the longer route from the United States in order to keep his departure secret. It was imperative, therefore, that they should make every possible effort to reach the Greek capital within the next twenty-four hours.

  “It’s ten to eleven,” said Valerie. “We’ve nothing to pack but our handbags. If we leave at once I can take you the best part of the way to-day.”

  Lovelace shook his head. “We can’t have you mixed up in this horrible business any further.”

  “Nonsense. If you go by train you’re certain to miss him, and here am I placing my perfectly good plane at your disposal.”

  “I know, but Christopher’s as rich as Crœsus. There’s nothing to stop him chartering a plane to take us.”

  Valerie sniffed contemptuously. “And what sort of a pilot would you get? Think of the delay, too, in making the necessary arrangements.”

  “That’s true,” Christopher agreed. “And after all, why shouldn’t she fly us down to Athens—as long as we keep her out of things once we’re there?”

  Lovelace stared at the rash, good-looking young pair of lovers angrily. If he had been Valerie’s fiancé his attitude would have been very different. Nothing would have induced him to allow her to be even remotely connected with these dubious schemes. He had promised his assistance in an affair about which he did not yet care to think for more than two moments together, and Christopher was pledged beyond retreat. Their enemies were known to be organised and on the watch for them. Even if Christopher brought his mission to a successful conclusion, it was certain that the enemy would endeavour to exact vengeance, not only on him, but on anyone known to be associated with him. How could he expose the girl to such obvious danger? Lovelace could not understand it, and yet he saw two things clearly. The boy was obsessed by his crusade to the exclusion of all reasonable thought, and he was the girl’s fiancé. Having registered a protest, what right had an outsider to interfere further between the two of them?

  “Let’s go, then—shall we?” Valerie picked up her bag and hurried from the room, cutting short any further discussion as to whether they meant to let her take them, and a quarter of an hour later they were discussing flying times in a taxi on the way to the airport.

  “If we can get away by midday I ought to be able to get you down to Brindisi before nightfall,” Valerie said. “We’ll sleep there and, all being well, be in Athens by lunch time to-morrow.”

  “I’m glad I’ve been picked for the job—glad!” Christopher’s voice held a note of exaltation as he cut in. “If anyone ever deserved death this man Zarrif does.”

  “Don’t, Christopher! Don’t let’s talk of it.” Valerie laid a restraining hand upon his arm. Her face was pale under the chestnut hair. Much paler than usual, Lovelace noted. Her big eyes stared into his, seeking comfort and reassurance, but he had none to give her. He could only make a little shrugging gesture which was meant to convey sympathy and understanding. For the rest of the journey they bumped over the pavé in silence. A few moments later they were walking across the Le Bourget air-field to the hangar that housed Valerie’s plane.

  When they had come in that morning she had given orders for it to be looked over and prepared for further flights, so they found it all in readiness.

  Owing to her reputation in the air-world quite a little crowd collected to see them start. Numerous courteous officials attended to the formalities with special dispatch, and one gallant Frenchman declared: “It is a pleasure to be of service to Mademoiselle Lorne; to meet her personally and see that she is as beautiful as she is brave.”

  Within an hour of Barrotet having left them they were in the air and Le Bourget fading into the grey landscape behind them.

  By two-fifteen they were over Nice, the white villas on its outskirts looking like little dots among the grey-green of olive trees, and the Mediterranean appearing like a placid lake; the lapping of its waters on the curving beaches only becoming perceptible as they descended towards the airport.

  The climate was considerably warmer, and they were enabled to enjoy a belated luncheon in the open. Over it they studiously avoided any mention of the reason for their journey. It was very pleasant there eating Omelette aux Champignons and Poulet Vallée D’Auge, washed down with a carafe of red Provence wine; while the idle, well-dressed crowd passed in and out, waiting for the great airliners to bring new arrivals to the coast of pleasure, and the scent of the late mimosa on the tables filled the air with fragrance.

  When they set off to complete the longer part of the day’s run Valerie declared the afternoon to be perfect flying weather. She climbed very high and set a course dead for Naples. As they passed over the beautiful bay, and saw the little spiral of smoke rising from Mount Vesuvius on their right, she turned east through the gap in the mountains and brought them down safely at Brindisi, on the heel of Italy, well before dusk had fallen.

  Lovelace thought it safer for them to sleep at a small, unpretentious hotel in the town than at the airport; feeling that they could not be too careful. Christopher had managed to slip out of America before the enemy organisation knew he had started, but they would be on the watch for him in Europe.

  No private sitting-room was available, so after dinner they sat on in the deserted salle à manger, and made a more careful examination of the papers Barrotet had left them.

  There was the stolen letter which was to serve as an introduction to Paxito Zarrif. It was in Amharic, but a translation was attached which showed it to be a simple statement that the bearer, Mr. Jeremiah Green, was a trusted friend of the writer, and would give Zarrif the latest authentic news from Addis Ababa. It also confirmed the first of May as the date fixed f
or “that business of which your Excellency knows,” and it was signed by “The High Noble Lord. Ras Desoum.”

  “He’s a personal friend of the Emperor,” Lovelace said. “As luck would have it, I met him when I was out there. He wasn’t very popular about the Court, but the Negus liked him because he was educated in Europe.”

  “What’re the other papers?” Valerie asked.

  Christopher ran his eyes over them. “Particulars about Zarrif. The routine he follows when he’s at home in Athens, a list of his servants, and all about his bodyguard. Six armed men are always in the house, apparently, and two of them on duty every hour of the night and day. This last is a plan of his house.”

  “Let me see that—may I?” Lovelace took the plan and studied it for a moment.

  “It’s a biggish place,” he remarked, “and the whole of the ground-floor is given up to reception rooms; ‘rarely used, kept shuttered and all windows wired with electric burglar alarms,’ it says in a note in the margin. The first-floor, north side, is where the spider spins his poisonous web. Look! The first room, which runs the width of the house as you turn left off the landing, is marked ‘secretary’s room,’ the next, larger and the whole width of the house again, is Zarrif’s workroom. Beyond that there’s a valet’s room facing west—one of the thugs sits there all night, I expect—and bathroom, W.C., etc., facing east. Then, at the extreme end of the house, comes his bedroom. There’s no way of reaching that without going through the others first. On the opposite side of the landing are the dining-room, library, and clerk’s office. The top floor is only bedrooms for the staff.”