The Secret War

by Dennis Wheatley

  He had cried then until she thought that he was never going to stop. If she could have cried with him he might have ceased in order to comfort her but she could not. She sat there dry-eyed and desperate; praying as she had never prayed for anything in her life before that the ordeal would soon be over that she might get to bed and be alone with her misery.

  She no longer had the heart to tell him the truth. She could only repeat again and again that it wasn’t Lovelace’s fault or premeditated in any way. That there was no affair between them; that it had just been a sudden impulse on her part such as came to every woman at times, to test her powers of attraction; and that he must believe her promise that nothing of the sort should ever occur again.

  For a time Christopher had accepted that but then he had begun to torture himself about the past. When she had been making her record-breaking flights she had travelled over half the world. She must have met innumerable men. Hadn’t some of them made love to her? She was good-looking, famous, unchaperoned. They must have! How many of them had kissed her—or tried to—and when and where?

  In vain she protested that although lots of men had taken her out to dine or dance and had often tried to flirt with her there had been nothing—nothing—nothing to which he could object between her and any of them, yet, in view of what he had seen that night, he simply would not believe her.

  Eventually, in order to try and satisfy him, she had been forced to relate a few brief episodes in which she had allowed men to make mild love to her; but very soon she repented of it.

  He had demanded details—details—details. What did they look like? What had they said? How far had they gone? That nightmare cross-examination had been painful and humiliating to a degree.

  When he had utterly exhausted himself and her he had suddenly seemed to get a grip on himself again, apologised for his behaviour and declared that he knew such impulses came to other people, yet had believed both of them to be different. Now he saw that he alone must be abnormal. He accepted her statement that Lovelace was not to blame and said that they must forget the whole matter; wipe it from their minds as though it had never happened.

  It was then he had told her that on returning to the hotel he had found a note waiting for him. Rudy Connolly had found out about Zarrif. He was lying low at the house of his friend Ras Desoum. First thing in the morning they must make their arrangements to get at him.

  At last she had been able to drag herself off to her room. There she had found a note from Lovelace pinned to her pillow. It said:

  “My dear, I could not have concealed my love for you much longer, and, given the chance, I’d move heaven and earth to make you really care for me—but you’re not free—and so my bands are tied.

  All I seem to have done is to place you in a wretchedly awkward position by taking advantage of that sudden resurrection of an old memory, which we shared, to-night. Christopher must have suffered a rotten shock but, knowing you so well, he’ll soon come to accept the fact that I mean nothing to you really.

  It is I really who have to pay the price of having broken info heaven by now being barred out. I’II leave to-morrow, or remain to see the Zarrif business through, just as you wish.

  Anthony Lovelace.

  Although she longed to keep it she had forced herself to tear his letter up. She scribbled a reply which she pushed under Lovelace’s door, returned to her own room, shed her clothes and, bursting into a torrent of tears, crept into bed.

  Now, as she dressed, she wondered miserably how this fateful day would end. It was the 30th of April. To-morrow, the concession which would provide funds to strengthen Abyssinia for next year’s campaign and give opportunity for involving the whole of Europe in a ghastly struggle, would be signed—unless Christopher killed Zarrif first. If Christopher and Lovelace were caught either before or after the attempt they would be dead by evening and she, probably, under arrest for complicity in a plot to assassinate the Armenian financier. In this terrible secret war the Millers of God were waging in their effort to bring permanent peace to the world there would be no mercy on either side.

  Valerie knew the best she could hope for was that Lovelace would prevent Christopher throwing his life away through some rash and ill-considered plan. After that it would be on the knees of the gods whether they could reach her at the aerodrome in order that she could fly them out of the country. Even if they succeeded in escaping she would now have to say good-bye once and for all to Lovelace to-morrow; having found him again and just learned that he loved her, after all these years. As she went downstairs she wondered if ever a girl had been placed, through no fault of her own, in a more wretched situation.

  Christopher met her in the hall. To her immense relief he showed no sign that anything unusual had occurred between them, greeted her cheerfully and, taking her arm, shepherded her into the dining-room.

  Lovelace was already seated at breakfast, his tanned face an impassive mask as he waited to see if they would join him or go to another table. On their approach he stood up and said, “Good morning.”

  “Not so good to be dug out of bed at this hour, is it?” Christopher smiled as he sat down and, although she knew well that once he had given his word he never broke it, Valerie felt desperately grateful to him for acting with such perfect normality.

  Now the ice was broken Lovelace took up the cue: “Any news from the American Legation yet?”

  “Yes,” Christopher replied in a low voice. “There was a note waiting for me when I got in last night. Rudy Connolly had found out about Zarrif for me. He’s there all right and staying with his friend, Ras Desoum.”

  “Are the others with him?”

  “They are. Eleven of them I’m told. That obviously includes secretary Cassalis and the six gunmen. The others’ll be his pilots and servants. It looks as though we shall be up against the whole bunch and Ras Desoum’s men into the bargain.”

  Lovelace grimaced. “Not so easy, and we’ve only only got twenty-four hours, at the outside, to work in. It seems almost impossible to plan an attempt in that time which’ll give us any chance of getting out alive.”

  “We’ve got to risk our own necks, at least I have.” Christopher’s face was white and set again.

  “Oh, I’m coming too,” Lovelace volunteered with a cheerfulness he was far from feeling.

  “It’s decent of you to offer—but this is my job—not yours. I’d much rather you stayed behind to take care of Valerie in case anything goes wrong—with me.”

  Lovelace shook his head. “No,” he said. “I still don’t grant you that the Millers have the right to slay, however just their cause, but I haven’t forgotten my vow of vengeance on Zarrif for the way he shot Valerie’s plane down in the Danakil country. You can’t involve your Legation in this so we’ll leave her in the care of that nice Swedish airpilot who’s in the Emperor’s service. Henrick Heidenstam—wasn’t that his name? If things go wrong he can place her under your friend Connolly’s protection later. We’re in this together and our first move is to find out where Ras Desoum is living.”

  “Connolly told me the Ras has a castle in the north end of the town,” said Christopher quickly. “I was hoping we might give Blatta Ingida Yohannes the slip this morning and go out there to have a look at it.”

  “Better not,” Lovelace demurred. “It’s the very devil we should have to tag around with this chap when time’s so precious, but European visitors are so few here, and it’s the Emperor’s order we should be shown the sights. They’re terribly suspicious of all whites, too, so if we go off on our own they’d immediatly jump to the conclusion that we were spies. Within half an hour the police in Addis would be after us and that’s the last thing we want.”

  “Can’t we possibly think of an excuse to get rid of him,” Valerie urged, “pretend we’ve all got food-poisoning or something?”

  “We might try that later but if we do it means we’ll have to stay in the hotel. At the moment we want to get out and see this Ras’s place. I see
no reason, though, why we shouldn’t get Yohannes to take us there.”

  The red-headed Belgian whom they had met on first arriving at the hotel came over to them. “Have you heard any rumours?” he asked in a low voice.

  “No,” replied Christopher. “Why?”

  “It is said the reason for the Emperor’s return to Addis is that his troops broke; and that the Italians have already covered half the distance from Dessye. It may be completely untrue but I wondered if you’d heard anything. It’s queer that he should have returned practically alone and I’m told he had to send for a car to meet him a few miles outside the town.”

  Lovelace shrugged. “He’d hardly be likely to bring a lot of his troops back with him when every man is wanted in the firing-line; and with such bad roads the older methods of travel are nearly as fast and much more comfortable. Still, if a story like that’s running round I wonder there hasn’t been a panic.”

  “So many wild rumours have proved false in the last six months that the people don’t take much notice of them any more. That the Emperor has called an Assembly of his Rases for to-morrow, too, is enough to allay any anxiety for the moment.”

  “Say his army has been routed and the Italians manage to push right on to Addis. That will mean the end of the war, won’t it?” asked Valerie.

  The Belgian laughed. “Dear me, no, Mademoiselle, only the end of my job. The real capital of Abyssinia is not Addis but wherever the Emperor is. He’d just retreat into the mountains of the west until he’d had time to rally his forces.”

  The arrival of the young Abyssinian put an end to the discussion. After greeting them cheerfully he said that the Emperor was making an inspection of the military college that morning and wished them to be present. They must leave at once.

  As they drove out to Oletta, where the officer’s school was situated, Lovelace questioned their guide about the rumour.

  “It is true the Emperor returned from the front with only a few retainers and on mule-back,” Yohannes admitted, “but that was because he wished to travel by short cuts through the mountains and thus avoid demonstrations of loyalty on the way which would have delayed him. As for this tale that his regular army has been defeated, it is absurd. It has not yet been engaged in any serious action. The Emperor has come back to Addis only to make an announcement to his Rases of his plans for the coming months.”

  Christopher thought he could guess what that announcement was to be. That, in return for a sweeping concession over all Abyssinian oil and mineral rights, many millions of pounds’ worth of munitions would be forthcoming from Europe which would enable them to fight the Italians on more equal terms by the opening of next year’s campaign.

  “What would happen if the Italians did reach Addis?” Valerie asked.

  Blatta Ingida Yohannes smiled. “They would find themselves in a pretty mess. What would the good of the city be to them once we had removed our stores? And how, please, would they feed themselves through all the long months of the rains? The road becomes impassable in fifty places between here and Dessye. They could not bring up either reinforcements or supplies except by air. We should harass them from the surrounding mountains until they surrendered.”

  “It would be a big loss to your prestige if they captured Addis, though.” Lovelace insisted. “Don’t you think the Emperor might think it better then, to come to terms?”

  “No, no. He would agree to no peace except through the League and in whatever part of Abyssinia he made his headquarters, that would be the new capital.”

  “What would happen if he was killed fighting, or in an air-raid?”

  “Ah, that would be different. Abyssinia without Haile Selassie would be like a body from which the head has been cut off.”

  Shortly afterwards they arrived at the Military Academy and pulled up at the side of a barrack square where numerous companies of natives were drilling.

  To their amazement they found that these cadets, who were to officer the armies in a few months’ time, averaged no more than fifteen years of age; but Blatta Ingida Yohannes explained that his countrymen reached maturity early and experience had proved them to make first-class soldiers when still in their teens.

  The young soldiers performed various evolutions with speed and precision at the orders of their Belgian instructor officers. They were all in smart new uniforms and carried modern rifles, in fact they differed in appearance from the O.T.C. of an English public school only in their black or coffee-coloured faces, and the point that their uniforms ended at their ankles. The soles of Abyssinian feet have been inured to rocky ground for generations, and, as yet, only the Emperor’s immediate entourage have submitted to the acute discomfort imposed by the wearing of boots.

  As she watched them drilling Valerie’s thoughts were taken, for a moment, from her own gnawing anxieties. Unless the war was stopped these children would be flung into the battle in a few short weeks. How could they hope to stand against the Italians and all those vast stores of modern death-dealing equipment which she had seen at Assab and Massawa. It would be sheer massacre and her heart bled for them.

  News travels fast in Addis Ababa and it was now evidently common knowledge that the Emperor was expected at the Military Academy, since a big crowd was collecting. As they eddied round the car, which Blatta Ingida Yohannes had driven on to the parade ground, they cast lowering looks at the Europeans, and some of them began to make hostile murmurs.

  A booted officer of the Abyssinian Imperial Guard, with tufts of lion fur in his hat and on his epaulettes, noticed them from some way away, came over, ordered back the crowd, and asked the visitors to descend and take up their position in a cleared space near the College building.

  They waited there for what seemed an endless time, making polite conversation with Blatta Ingida Yohannes, yet each harried by their secret thoughts of the reason for their presence there, their private miseries, and the terrible work which was to come. The cadets continued their drill without the least sign of fatigue from heart-strain in the now strong sun.

  At last there was a murmur in the distance. It swelled and grew into a roar of salutation. The crowd gesticulated wildly and began to shout, “Habet! Habet! Dshanhoi!” A Rolls-Royce, surrounded by police and running footmen, who drove back the too enthusiastic mob with their long whips, entered the parade ground. As it drew up a small, erect figure descended from it. The Emperor had arrived.

  He wore the undistinguished garb common to the aristocrats of his country; a white shama with the ugly black cape of nobility over it, which looked like a bicycling waterproof and was, perhaps, originally designed as a protection from the unceasing rains which stream down on Abyssinia for so considerable a portion of the year. Yet there was no mistaking him for anyone but Haile Selassie, the Lion of Judah.

  The band struck up. The cadets presented arms. Lovelace and Christopher removed their topees and Valerie curtsied as he passed within a dozen yards of them on his way to the inspection. He looked full at them for a moment and acknowledged their gestures by a grave inclination of the head.

  Valerie thought that she had never seen a sadder face or one more beautiful in sorrow. His big dark eyes held pride and fearlessness; yet something else which she could not quite analyse. Christopher read the deeper meaning of that glance; it was reproach.

  Christopher understood the thought behind it as clearly as if the Emperor had spoken and said, “I know that you Europeans despise my people because they eat their meat raw, but a backward race cannot be educated by merely passing a few Acts of Parliament. It will take three generations to civilise Abyssinia but if the Italians had only left me alone for even one I could have set my people on the road from which there would have been no turning back. As it is they have compelled me to abandon my most cherished projects because every penny that I possess must now be squandered on this war they have forced upon me. And you other white men are no better than the Italians. Your rotten little politicians lied to me about the power of their futile Leag
ue, urged me to resist the Italian demands, and now they are afraid. Yes, afraid to the depths of their rotten little souls to help me defend my people from massacre by poison gas and high explosives.”

  A wave of shame swept over Christopher. For the moment he forgot that only a few days before he had narrowly escaped mutilation and murder at the hands of the Emperor’s subjects—forgot the Italians’ plans to turn the Ogaden deserts into fertile farmlands and sweep away a thousand barbarous abuses—forgot the greedy Customs officials at the airport and the hyenas that still made the streets of Addis Ababa dangerous by night. He only burned with indignation at those thoughts which he felt the Emperor had transferred to him in that one long glance and understood how profoundly the lonely, cultured ruler must despise the white races for their treachery and weak vacillation. They had stolen the very jewels for his crown when it was made in Europe and had substituted bits of glass thinking he would not know. Apart from the Red Cross and relief people there was hardly a white in Addis Ababa who had come out during the war to give disinterested help. They all scented jobs or easy money and would rob him of the last thalers in his coffers for dud munitions if he did not defend himself with his wits as well as his courage.

  Christopher’s slender hands clenched and unclenched themselves spasmodically. He could not help the Emperor, he could not stop the war, but he could prevent it spreading. The Millers of God were right beyond quibble or question. Their cause was a sacred one and he, as their instrument, would not fail them. Before another dawn came to gild the zinc roofs of Addis Ababa he would have killed Paxito Zarrif or have given his own life in an attempt to do so.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  PREPARATIONS TO KILL AND RUN

  The inspection was over, the Emperor gone, and the crowds in their dirty white shamas were melting away again. Valerie caught a last glimpse of the green, gold and red flag of Abyssinia fluttering so bravely over the Military College, then it was hidden by a group of blue-gum trees as they sped back to the centre of Addis Ababa in Yohannes’ car.