Cry Wolf

by Wilbur Smith

  taste.

  "It's my business to know, old chap. I can smell out a barney before

  the fellows themselves know they are going to fight. This one is a

  racing certainty. Duce is going through all the classic stages of

  protestations of peaceful intentions, combined with wholesale military

  preparations.

  The other big powers France, our chaps and yours have given him the

  wink. Of course, they'll all squeal like blazes, and make all sorts of

  protests at the League of Nations but nobody is about to stop old

  Benito making a big grab for Ethiopia. hail Selassie, the king of

  kings, knows it and so is princes and roses an c ieftains and merry

  men.

  And they are desperately trying to prepare some kind of defence.

  That's where I come in, old boy."

  "Why must they buy from you at the prices you say they are offering?

  Surely they could get this sort of stuff direct from the

  manufacturers?"

  "Embargo, old chap. The

  League of Nations have slapped an arms embargo on the whole of

  Eritrea,

  Somaliland and Ethiopia. No imports of war material into the area.

  It's intended to reduce tension but of course it works out completely

  one-sided. Mussolini doesn't have to go shopping for his armaments he

  has all the guns, aircraft and armour that he needs already landed at

  Eritrea. just ready to go and the jolly old Ethiopia has a few ancient

  rifles and a lot of those long two-anded swords. It should be a close

  match.

  You aren't drinking your Charlie Champers?"

  "I think I'll go get myself a Tusker. Back in a minute. "Jake rose

  and moved to the door and

  Gareth shook his head sadly.

  "You've got taste buds like a crocodile's back. Tusker, forsooth,

  when I'm offering you a vintage Charlie." It was more for a chance to

  think out his position and plan his moves than desire for beer that

  made Jake seek the bar in the front room. He leaned against the

  counter in the crowded room, and his mind went swiftly over what

  Gareth

  Swales had told him. He tried to decide how much was fact and how much

  was fantasy. How the facts affected him and where, if there were

  any,

  the profits to himself might lie.

  He had almost decided not to involve himself in the deal there were too

  many thorns along that path and to go ahead with his original

  intentions, selling the engines as cane-crushing units when he was made

  the victim of one of those coincidences which were too neat not to be

  one of the sardonic jokes of fate.

  Beside him at the bar were two young men in the sober dress of clerks

  or accountants. Each of them had a girl tucked under his arm and they

  fondled them absentmindedly as they talked in loud assertive voices.

  Jake had been too busy making his decision to follow this conversation

  until a name caught his attention.

  "By the way, did you hear that Anglo Sugar has gone bang?"

  "No, I

  don't believe it."

  "It's true. Heard it from the Master of the Court himself.

  They say they've gone bust for half a million."

  "Good God that's the third big company this month."

  "It's hard times we live in. This will bring down a lot of little men

  with it." Jake agreed silently. He poured the beer into his glass,

  tossed a coin on the counter and headed back for the private lounge.

  They were hard times indeed, Jake thought. This was the second time in

  as many months that he had been caught up in them.

  The freighter on which he had arrived in Dares Salaam as chief engineer

  had been seized by the sheriff of the court as surety in a bankruptcy

  action. The owners had gone bust in London, and the ship had been

  unable to pay off.

  Jake had walked down the gang-plank with all his worldly possessions in

  the kit-bag over his shoulder abandoning his claim to almost six

  months" back wages, together with all his savings in the bankrupt

  company's pension fund.

  He had just started to shape up with the cane-crusher contract,

  when once again the tidal waves of depression sweeping across the world

  had swamped him. They were all going bang the big ones and the small,

  and Jake Barton now found himself the owner of five armoured cars for

  which there remained but a single buyer in the market.

  Gareth was standing by the window, looking down to the harbor where the

  lights of the anchored ships flickered across the dark waters. He

  turned to face Jake and went on as though there had been no break in

  the conversation.

  "While we are still being disgustingly honest with each other, let me

  estimate that the Ethiopians would pay as much as a thousand pounds

  each for those vehicles. Of course, they would have to be spruced

  up.

  A coat of paint, and a machine gun in the turret."

  "I'm still listening. "Jake sank back on the couch.

  "I have the buyer lined up and the Vickers machine without which the

  cars have no value. You have the guns, vehicles themselves and the

  technical know-how to get them working." Jake was seeing a different

  man in Gareth Swales now.

  The lazy drawling voice and foppish manner were gone. He spoke crisply

  and once again there was the piratical blue sparkle in his eyes.

  "I have never worked with a partner before. I always knew I could do

  it better on my own but I've had a chance to get a good look at you.

  This could be the first time. What do you think?"

  "If you cross me, Gareth I will truly roast your chestnuts for you."

  Gareth threw back his head and laughed delightedly. "I believe you

  really would,

  Jake!" He crossed the room and offered his hand.

  "Equal partners. You put in the cars, and I'll throw in my pile of

  goodies everything down the middle?" he asked, and Jake took the

  hand.

  "Right down the middle he agreed.

  "That's enough business for tonight let's meet the ladies." Jake

  suggested that Gareth as a full partner might like to assist in

  refitting the engines and painting the body work of the cars, and

  Gareth blanched and lit a cheroot.

  "Look here, old chap. Don't let's take this equal partners lark too

  far. Manual labour isn't really my style at all."

  "I'll have to hire a gang, then."

  "Please don't stint yourself Hire what and who you need." Gareth waved

  the cheroot magnanimously. "I've got to get down to the docks, grease

  a few palms and that sort of thing. Then I'm dining at Government

  House this evening, making the contacts that may be useful to us, you

  understand?" In a ricksha, bearing the silver champagne bucket full of

  Tusker, Gareth appeared at the camp under the mahogany trees the

  following morning to find half a dozen blacks labouring under Jake's

  supervision. The colour Jake had chosen was a businesslike battleship

  grey, and one of the cars had received its first coat. The effect was

  miraculous.

  The vehicle had been transformed from a slovenly wreck into a

  formidable-looking war machine.

  "By Jove," Gareth enthused. "Even I am impres
sed. The old

  Ethiops will go wild." He walked along the line of cars, and stopped

  at the end. "Only three being painted. What about these two?"

  "I

  explained to you. There are only three runners." lOok, old chap.

  Don't let's be too fussy. Slap paint on all of them and I'll put them

  into the package. We aren't selling with a guarantee, what?"

  Gareth smiled brilliantly and winked at Jake. "By the time the

  complaints come in, you and I will have moved on and no forwarding

  address." He did not realize that the suggestion was trampling rudely

  on Jake's craftsman's pride, until he saw the now familiar stiffening

  of the wide shoulders and the colour coming up Jake's neck.

  Half an hour later they were still arguing.

  "I've got a reputation on three oceans and across seven seas that

  I'm not likely to pass up for a couple of pox-ridden old bangers like

  these," shouted Jake, and he kicked the wheel of one of the condemned

  vehicles. "Nobody's ever going to say that Jake Barton sold a bum."

  Gareth had swiftly gained a working knowledge of his man's temper. He

  knew instinctively that they were on the very brink of physical

  violence and quite suddenly he changed his attitude.

  "Listen, old chap. There's no point in shouting at each other-2

  "I am not shouting-" roared Jake.

  "No, of course not, "Gareth soothed him. "I see your point entirely.

  Quite right too. I'd feel exactly the same way." Only slightly

  mollified, Jake opened his mouth to protest further, but before sound

  passed his lips, Gareth had pressed a long black cheroot between them

  and lit it.

  "Now let's use what brains God gave us, shall we? Tell me why these

  two won't run and what we need to make them do so." Fifteen minutes

  later they were sitting under the sun-flap of Jake's old tent,

  drinking iced Tusker, and under Gareth's skilful soothing the

  atmosphere was once more one of friendly co-operation.

  "A Smith-Bentley carburettor?" Gareth repeated thoughtfully.

  "I've tried every possible supplier. The local agent even cabled

  Cape Town and Nairobi. We'd have to order one from England eight weeks

  delivery, if we are lucky."

  "Look here, old son. I don't mind telling you that this means facing a

  fate worse than death but for the good of our mutual venture, I'll do

  it." The Governor of Tanganyika had a daughter who was a spinster of

  thirty-two years, this despite her father's large fortune and respected

  title.

  Gareth glanced sideways at her and saw all too clearly why this should

  be. The first adjective which sprang to mind was "horsey', but it was

  not the correct one, Gareth decided.

  "Comely'or'camel-like' would convey a much more accurate description.

  A besotted camel, he thought, as he intercepted the adoring gaze which

  she fixed upon him as she sat sideways upon the luxurious leather

  seats.

  "Jolly good of you to let me take your Pater's bus for a spin, old

  girl. And she simpered at the endearment, exposing the huge yellowish

  teeth under the large nose.

  A V A "Definitely thinking of buying one myself, when I get home.

  Can't beat the old Benters, what?" Gareth swung the long black

  limousine off the metal led road and it plunged forward smoothly over

  the dusty rutted track that led northwards along the coast through the

  palm trees.

  An ask ari policeman recognized the fluttering pennant on the front

  wing, red and blue and gold with rampant lion and unicorn, and he

  pulled himself to foot-stamping attention and flung a flamboyant

  salute. Gareth touched the brim of his hat to the manner born, then

  turned to his companion who had not taken her eyes from his tanned and

  noble face since they had left the grounds of Government House.

  "There is a good view place up ahead, looks out across actually.

  Thought we'd park the channel, very beautiful there for a while." She

  nodded vehemently, unable to trust herself to speak.

  Gareth was glad of that she had a squeaky little treble and he smiled

  his gratitude. That brilliant, completely irresistible smile,

  and the girl blushed a mottled purple.

  She had good eyes, Gareth tried to convince himself, that is if you

  like camels" eyes. Huge sorrowful pools with long matted lashes.

  He would concentrate on the eyes and try and avoid the teeth. He felt

  a sudden small twinge of concern. "I hope she doesn't bite in the

  critical moments.

  With those choppers, she could inflict a mortal wound." For a moment

  he considered abandoning the project. Then he made himself imagine a

  pile of one thousand sovereigns, and his courage returned.

  Gareth braked the Bentley and searched for the turnoffs It was well

  concealed by underbrush and he missed it and had to back up.

  Gently he eased the gleaming limousine down into a small clearing,

  walled in by fern and scrub and roofed over by the cathedral arches of

  the palms.

  "Well, here we are, what?" Gareth pulled on the hand brake and turned

  to his companion. "Actually you can see the channel if you twist your

  neck a bit." He leaned forward to demonstrate, and with a convulsive

  leap the Governor's daughter sprang upon him. Gareth's last controlled

  thought was that he must avoid the teeth.

  Jake Barton waited until the huge glistening Bentley began to heave and

  toss on its suspension like a lifeboat in a gale, before he rose from

  the cover of the ferns and, carpet-bag in hand, crept around to the

  bonnet with its gleaming winged initial V and the stiffly embroidered

  household pennant.

  The noise he made in opening and lifting the engine cowling was

  effectively smothered by the whinnying cries of passion that issued out

  -of the car, and Jake glanced through the windscreen and caught one

  horrifying glimpse of the Governor's daughter's white limbs, long and

  shapeless and knobbly kneed as a camel's kicking ecstatically at the

  roof of the cab before he ducked his head into the engine.

  He worked swiftly, his lips pursed but the tune stealthily muted,

  and his brow creased with concentration as the carburettor jumped and

  heaved unpredictably under his hands and the whinnies of passion and

  the high-pitched exhortations to greater effort and speed rang

  louder.

  The resentment he had felt at Gareth Swales's refusal to assist in

  painting the iron ladies faded swiftly. He was pushing and pulling his

  full weight now, and his efforts made even the most gruelling manual

  labour seem insignificant.

  As Jake lifted the entire carburettor assembly off the engine block and

  stowed it into the carpet-bag, there was one last piercing shriek and

  the Bentley came to an abrupt rest while a ringing silence fell over

  the palm grove.

  Jake Barton crept silently away through the undergrowth leaving his

  partner stunned and entangled in a mesh of lanky limbs and expensive

  French underwear.

  "I want you to believe that in my weakened condition it was a long walk

  home. At the same time, I had to try and convince the lady that we

  were not
betrothed."

  "We'll get you a citation," Jake promised him,

  and emerged from the engine housing of the armoured car.

  "With disregard for his own personal safety Major Gareth Swales held

  the pass, stan ned the breach, battered down the gates-"

  "Terribly amusing," growled Gareth. "But, just like you, I have a

  reputation to maintain. It would embarrass me in certain circles if

  this got out,

  old son. Mum's the word, what?"

  "You have my word of honour," Jake told him seriously, and stooped over

  the crank handle. She fired at the first turn and settled to a steady

  rhythm to which Jake listened for a few moments before he grinned.

  "Listen to her, the bloody little beauty," and he turned to

  Gareth. "Wasn't it worth it just to hear that sweet burbling song?"

  Gareth rolled his eyes in agonized memory and Jake went on. "Four of

  them. Four lovely, well-behaved ladies. What more could you ask out

  of life?"

  "Five,"said Gareth promptly, and Jake scowled.

  "We'd put my name on the fifth one," he wheedled. "I'd sign a

  statement to protect your reputation." But the expression on Jake's

  face was sufficient answer.

  "No?" Gareth sighed. "I predict that your sentimental,

  oldfashioned outlook is going to get us both into a lot of trouble."

  "We can split up now."

  "Wouldn't dream of it, old son. Actually, it would have been dicey

  peddling a dead one to those Ethiops. They've got these dirty great

  swords, and it's not only your head that they lop off or so I hear. No,

  we'll settle for just the four, then." May

  22nd the Dunnottar Castle anchored in the Dares Salaam roads and was

  immediately surrounded by a swarm of barges and lighters. She was the

  flagship of the Union Castle Line, outward bound from Southampton to

  Cape Town, Durban, Lourenco Marques, Dares Salaam and Jibuti.

  Two suites and ten double cabins of the first class accommodation were

  taken up by Lij Mikhael Wasan Sagud and his entourage. The Lij was a

  scion of the royal house of Ethiopia that traced its line back to

  King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba. He was a trusted member of the

  Emperor's inner circle and, under his father, the deputy governor of a

  piece of mountain and desert country in the northern provinces the size

  of Scotland and Wales combined.

  The Ras was returning to his homeland after six months of petitioning

  the foreign ministers of Great Britain and France, and lobbying in the