Cry Wolf

by Wilbur Smith

  His buyers would be arriving to take delivery in twelve days and the

  five armoured cars would have rounded out the package beautifully.

  Armour, by God, he could fix his own price. Only aircraft would have

  been more desirable from his client's point of view.

  Gareth had first seen them that morning in their neglected and decrepit

  state of repair, he had discounted them completely, and was on the

  point of turning away when he had noticed the long muscular pair of

  legs protruding from the engine of one of the vehicles and heard the

  barely recognizable strains of "Tiger Rag'.

  Now he knew that one of them at least was a runner. A few gallons of

  paint, and a new Vickers machine gun set in the mountings, and the five

  machines would look magnificent. Gareth would give one of his justly

  famous sales routines. He would start the one good engine and fire the

  machine gun by God, the jolly old prince would pull out his purse and

  start spilling sovereigns all over the scenery.

  There was only the damned Yankee to worry about, it might cost him a

  few bob more than he had reckoned to edge him out, but Gareth was not

  too worried. The man looked as though he would have difficulty raising

  the price of a beer.

  Gareth flicked at his sleeve where a speck of dust might have settled;

  he placed the panama back on his golden head, adjusted the wide brim

  carefully and removed the long slim cheroot from his lips to inspect

  the ash, before he rose and sauntered across to the group.

  The auctioneer was an elfin Sikh in a black silk suit with his beard

  twisted up under his chin, and a large dazzling white turban wrapped

  about his head.

  He was perched like a little black bird on the turret of the nearest

  armoured car, and his voice was plaintive as he pleaded with the

  audience that stared up at him stolidly with expressionless faces and

  glazed eyes.

  "Come, gentle mens let me be hearing some mellifluous voice cry out

  "ten pounds". Do I hear "ten pounds each" for these magnificent

  conveyances?" He cocked his head and listened to the hot noon breeze

  in the top branches of the mango. Nobody moved, nobody spoke.

  "Five pounds, please? Will some wise gentle mens tell me five pounds?

  Two pounds ten gentle mens for a mere fifty shillings these royal

  machines, these fine, these beautiful-" He broke off, and lowered his

  gaze, placed a delicate chocolate brown hand over his troubled brow. "A

  price, gentle mens Please, start me with a price."

  "One pound!" a voice called in the lilting accents of the Texan

  ranges. For a moment the Sikh did not move, then raised his head with

  dramatic slowness and stared at Jake who towered above the crowd around

  him.

  "A pound?" the Sikh whispered huskily. "Twenty shillings each for

  these fine, these beautiful-" he broke off and shook his head

  sorrowfully. Then abruptly his manner changed and became brisk and

  businesslike. "One pound, I am bid.

  40, I Do I hear two, two pounds? No advance on one pound?

  Going for the first time at one pound!" Gareth Swales drifted forward,

  and the crowd opened miraculously, drawing aside respectfully.

  "Two pounds." He spoke softly, but his voice carried clearly in the

  hush. Jake's long angular frame stiffened, and a dark wine-coloured

  flush spread slowly up the back of his neck. Slowly, his head

  swivelled and he stared across at the Englishman who had now reached

  the front row.

  Gareth smiled brilliantly and tipped the brim of his panama to

  acknowledge Jake's glare. The Sikh's commercial instinct instantly

  sensed the rivalry between them and his mood brightened.

  "I have two--" he chirruped.

  Five," snapped Jake.

  "Ten," murmured Gareth, and Jake felt a hot uncontrollable anger come

  seething up from his guts. He knew the feeling so well, and he tried

  to control it, but it was no use.

  It came up in a savage red tide to swamp his reason.

  The crowd stirred with delight, and all their heads swung in unison

  towards the tall American.

  "Fifteen," said jake, "and every head swung back towards the slim

  Englishman.

  Gareth inclined his head gracefully.

  "Twenty," piped the Sikh delightedly. "I have twenty."

  "And five." Dimly through the mists of his anger, Jake knew that there

  was no way that he would let the Limey have these ladies. If he

  couldn't buy them, he would burn them.

  The Sikh sparkled at Gareth with gazelle eyes.

  "Thirty, sir?" he asked, and Gareth grinned easily and waved his

  cheroot. He was experiencing a rising sense of alarm already they were

  far past what he had calculated was the Yank's limit.

  "And five more." Jake's voice was gravelly with the strength of his

  outrage. They were his, even if he had to pay out every shilling in

  his wallet, they had to be his.

  Forty." Gareth Swales's smile was slightly strained now.

  He was fast approaching his own limit. The terms of the sale were cash

  or bank-guaranteed cheque. He had long ago milked every source of cash

  that was available to him, and any bank manager who guaranteed a

  Gareth Swales cheque was destined for a swift change of employment.

  "Forty-five." Jake's voice was hard and uncompromising; he was fast

  approaching the figure where he would be working for nothing but the

  satisfaction of blocking out the Limey.

  "Fifty."

  "And five."

  "Sixty."

  "And another five." That was break-even price for Jake after this he

  was tossing away bright shining shillings.

  "Seventy," drawled Gareth Swales, and that

  411 at was his limit.

  With regret he discarded all hopes of an easy acquisition of the cars.

  Three hundred and fifty pounds represented his entire liquid reserves

  he could bid no further. All right, the easy way had not worked out.

  There were a dozen other ways, and by one of them Gareth

  Swales was going to have them. By God, the prince might go as high as

  a thousand each and he was not going to pass by that sort of profit for

  lack of a few lousy hundred quid.

  "Seventy-five," said Jake, and the crowd murmured and every eye flew to

  Major Gareth Swales.

  "Ah, kind gentle mens do you speak of eighty?" enquired the Sikh

  eagerly. His commission was five per cent.

  Graciously, but regretfully, Gareth shook his head.

  "No, my dear chap. It was a mere whim of mine." He smiled across at

  Jake. "May they give you much joy," he said, and drifted away towards

  the gates. There was clearly nothing to be gained in approaching the

  American now.

  The man was in a towering rage and Gareth had judged him as the type

  who habitually gave expression to this emotion by swinging with his

  fists. Long ago, Gareth Swales had reached the conclusion that only

  fools fight, and wise men supply them with the means to do so at a

  profit, naturally.

  It was three days before Jake Barton saw the Englishman again and

  during that time he had towed the five iron ladies to the outskirts of

  the town where
he had set up his camp on the banks of a small stream

  among a stand of African mahogany trees.

  With a block and tackle slung from the branch of a mahogany, he had

  lifted out the engines and worked on them far into each night by the

  smoky light of a hurricane lamp.

  Coaxing and sweet-talking the machines, changing and juggling faulty

  and worn parts, hand-forging others on the charcoal brazier,

  whistling to himself endlessly, swearing and sweating and scheming, he

  had three of the Bentleys running by the afternoon of the third day.

  Set up on improvised timber blocks, they had regained something of

  their former gleam and glory beneath his loving hands.

  Gareth Swales arrived at Jake's camp in the somnolent heat of the third

  afternoon. He arrived in a ricksha pulled by a half-naked and sweating

  black man and he lolled with the grace of a resting leopard on the

  padded seat, looking cool in beautifully cut and snowy crisp linen.

  Jake straightened up from the engine which he was tuning. He was naked

  to the waist and his arms were greased black to the elbows.

  Sweat gleamed on his shoulders and chest, as though he had been

  oiled.

  "Don't even bother to stop," Jake said softly. "Just keep straight on

  down the road, friend." Gareth grinned at him engagingly and from the

  seat beside him he lifted a large silver champagne bucket,

  frosted with dew, and tinkling with ice. Over the edge of the bucket

  showed the necks of a dozen bottles of Tusker beer.

  "Peace offering, old chap," said Gareth, and Jake's throat contracted

  so violently with thirst that he couldn't speak for a moment.

  "A free gift with no strings attached, what?" Even in this cloying

  humid heat, Jake Barton had been so completely absorbed by his task

  that he had taken little liquid in three days, and none of it was pale

  golden, bubbling and iced. His eyes began to water with the strength

  of his desire.

  Gareth dismounted from the ricksha and came forward with the champagne

  bucket under one arm.

  "Swales," he said. "Major Gareth Swales," and held out his hand.

  "Barton. Jake." Jake took the hand, but his eyes were still fixed on

  the bucket.

  Twenty minutes later, Jake sat waist-deep in a steaming galvanized iron

  bath, set out alfresco under the mahogany trees. The bottle of

  Tusker stood close at hand and he whistled happily as he worked up a

  foaming lather in his armpits and across the dark hairy plain of his

  chest.

  "Trouble was, we got off on the wrong foot," explained Gareth, and

  sipped at the neck of a Tusker bottle. He made it seem he was taking

  Dam Nrignon from a crystal flute. He was lying back in Jake's single

  canvas camp chair under the shade flap of the old sun-faded tent.

  "Friend, you nearly got a wrong foot right up your backside." But

  Jake's threat was without fire, marinated in Tusker.

  I understand how you felt," said Gareth. "But then "I surely

  understood you did tell me you weren't bidding. If only you had told

  me the truth, we could have worked out an arrangement." Jake reached

  out with a soap-frothed hand and lifted the Tusker bottle to his lips.

  He swallowed twice, sighed and belched softly.

  "Bless you," said Gareth, and then went on. "As soon as I "Ble

  realized that you were bidding seriously, I backed out. I knew that

  you and I could make a mutually beneficial deal later. And so here I

  am now, drinking beer with you and talking a deal."

  "You are talking I'm just listening, "Jake pointed out.

  "Rite so." Gareth took out his cheroot case, carefully selected one

  and leaned forward to place it tenderly between

  Jake's willing lips. He struck a match off the sole of his boot and

  cupped the match for Jake.

  "It seems clear to me that you have a buyer for the cars, right?"

  "I'm still listening." Jake exhaled a long feather of cheroot smoke

  with evident pleasure.

  "You must have a price already set, and I am prepared to better that

  price." Jake took the cheroot out of his mouth and for the first time

  regarded Gareth levelly.

  "You want all five cars at that price in their present condition?"

  "Right," said Gareth.

  What if I tell you that only three are runners two are "shot all to

  hell."

  "That wouldn't affect my offer." Jake reached out and drained the

  Tusker bottle. Gareth opened another for him and placed it in his

  hand.

  Swiftly Jake ran over the offer. He had an open contract with

  Anglo-Tanganyika Sugar Company to supply gasoline powered sugar-cane

  crushers at a fixed price of 110 pounds each.

  From the three cars he could make up three units maximum of

  330pounds.

  The Limey's offer was for all five units, at a price to be

  determined.

  "I've done one hell of a lot of work on them," Jake softened him a

  little.

  "I can see that."

  "One hundred and fifty pounds each for all five. That's seven hundred

  and fifty."

  "You would replace the engines and make them look all ship-shape."

  "Sure."

  "Done," said Gareth. "I

  knew we could work something out," and they beamed at each other.

  "I'll make out a deed of sale right away," Gareth produced a cheque

  book, "and then I'll give you my cheque for the full amount."

  "Your what? "The beam on Jake's face faded.

  "My personal cheque on Courts of Piccadilly." It was true that

  Gareth Swales did have a chequing account with Courts. According to

  his last statement, the account was in debit to the sum of eighteen

  pounds seventeen and sixpence. The manager had written him a spicy

  little letter in red ink.

  "Safe as the Bank of England." Gareth flourished his cheque book.

  It would take three weeks for the cheque to be presented in London and

  bounce through the roof. By that time, he hoped to be on his way to

  Madrid. There looked to be a very profitable little piece of business

  brewing up satisfactorily in that area, and by then Gareth

  Swales would have the capital to exploit it.

  "Funny thing about cheques." Jake removed the cheroot from his mouth.

  "They bring me out in a rash. If it's all the same to you,

  I'll just take the seven fifty in cash money."

  Ok Gareth pursed his lips. Very well, so it wasn't going to be that

  easy either.

  "Dear me," he said. "It will take a little while to clear."

  "No hurry, "Jake grinned at him. "Any time before noon tomorrow.

  That's the delivery date I have for my original buyer. You be here

  with the money before that, and they are all yours." He rose abruptly

  from the bath, cascading soapy water, and his black servant handed him

  a towel.

  "What plans have you for dinner?" Gareth asked.

  "I think Abou here has cooked up a pot of his lion-killing stew."

  "Won't you be my guest at the Royal?"

  "I drank your beer for free why shouldn't I eat your food?" asked Jake

  reasonably.

  The dining room of the Royal Hotel had high ceilings and tall

  insect-screened sash windows. The mechanical fans set
in the roof

  stirred the warm humid air sluggishly "into a substitute for

  coolness,

  and Gareth Swales was a splendid host.

  His engaging charm was irresistible, and his choice of food and wine

  induced in Jake a sense of such well-being that they laughed together

  like old friends, and were delighted to find that they had mutual

  acquaintances mostly harm en and brothel-keepers in various parts of

  the world and that they had parallel experience.

  Gareth had been doing business with a revolutionary leader in

  Venezuela while Jake was helping build the railroad in that same

  country. Jake had been chief engineer on a Blake Line coaster on the

  China run when Gareth had been making contact with the Chinese

  Communists on Yellow River.

  They had been in France at the same time, and on that terrible day at

  Amiens, when the German machine guns had accelerated Gareth Swales's

  promotion from subaltern to major in the space of six hours, Jake had

  been four miles down the line, a sergeant driver in the Royal Tank

  Corps seconded from the American Third Army.

  They discovered that they were almost of an age, neither of them yet

  forty, but that both of them had packed a world of experience and

  wandering into that short span, They recognized in each other that same

  restlessness that was always driving them on to new adventure, never

  staying long enough in one place or at one job to grow roots,

  unfettered by offspring or possessions, by spouse or

  responsibilities,

  taking up each new adventure eagerly and discarding it again without

  qualms or regrets, Always moving onwards never looking backwards.

  Understanding each other a little, they began to respect one another.

  Halfway through the meal, they were no longer scornful of the other's

  differences. Neither of them thought of the other as Limey or

  Yank any longer but this didn't mean that Jake was about to accept any

  cheques or that Gareth had given up his plans to acquire the five

  armoured cars. At last Gareth swilled the last few drops around his

  brandy balloon and glanced at his pocket watch.

  "Nine o'clock. It's too early for bed. What shall we do now?"

  Jake suggested, "There are two new girls down at Madame Cecile's. They

  came in on the mail boat." Gareth quickly turned the suggestion

  aside.

  "Later perhaps but too soon after dinner, it gives me heartburn.

  You don't, by any chance, feel like a few hands at cards? There is