Cry Wolf

by Wilbur Smith

  halls of the League of Nations in Geneva, trying to gather pledges of

  support for his country in the face of the gathering storm clouds of

  Fascist Italian aspirations towards an African Empire.

  The Lij was a disillusioned man when he disembarked with four of his

  senior advisers and made the short journey by lighter to where two

  hired open tourers awaited his arrival on the wharf. Hire of the motor

  vehicles had been arranged by Major Gareth Swales and the drivers had

  been given their instructions.

  "Now, you leave the talking to me, old chap," Gareth advised Jake,

  as they waited anxiously in the cavernous and gloomy depths of No. 4

  Warehouse. "This really is my part of the show, you know. You just

  look stern and do the demonstrating. That will impress the old Ethiop

  no end." Gareth was resplendent in a pale blue tropical suit with a

  fresh white carnation in the buttonhole, and silk shirt. He wore the

  diagonally striped old school tie, his hair was brilliantined and

  carefully brushed, and the sleek lines of the mustache had been trimmed

  that morning. He ran a judicious eye over his partner and was mildly

  satisfied. Jake's suit had not been cut in Savile Row, of course, but

  it was adequate for the occasion, clean and freshly pressed. His shoes

  had been newly polished and the usually unruly profusion of curls had

  been wetted and slicked down neatly.

  He had scrubbed all traces of grease from his large bony hands and from

  under his fingernails.

  "They probably don't even speak English," Gareth gave his opinion.

  "Have to use the old sign language, you know.

  Wish you'd let me have that dead one. We could have palmed it off on

  them. They are bound to be a gullible lot, throw in a handful of beads

  and a bag of salt-" He was interrupted by the sound of approaching

  engines.

  "This will be them, now. Don't forget what I told you." The two open

  tourers pulled up in the bright sunlight beyond the doors and disgorged

  their passengers. Four of them wore the long flowing white shammas,

  full-length robes like Roman togas draped across the shoulder.

  Under the robes they wore black gabardine riding breeches and open

  sandals. They were all of them elderly men, the dense bushes of their

  hair shot through with strands of grey and the dark faces wrinkled and

  lined. In dignified silence they gathered about the taller, younger

  figure clad in a dark western-style suit and they moved forward into

  the cool gloom of the warehouse.

  Lij Mikhael was well over six feet in height, with a slight scholarly

  stoop to his shoulders. His skin was the colour of dark honey and his

  hair and beard were a thick. curly halo about the finely boned face,

  with dark thoughtful eyes and the narrow nose with its

  Semitic beak. Despite the stoop, he walked with the grace of a

  swordsman and his teeth when he smiled were glisteningly white against

  the dark skin.

  "By Jove," said the Lij, in the drawling accent that echoed

  Gareth's with surprising accuracy. "It is Forty swales isn't it?"

  Major Gareth Swales's composure seemed to fall away, leaving him

  tottering mentally at the use of a nickname he had last heard twenty

  years before. He had been so branded when his unexpected attack of

  flatus had clapped and echoed from the vaulted ceiling and stone walls

  of College Chapel. He had hoped never to hear it spoken again, and now

  its use took him back to that moment when he had stood in the cold

  stone chapel and the waves of suppressed laughter had broken over his

  head like physical blows.

  The Prince laughed now, and touched the knot of his necktie. For the

  first time Jake realized that the diagonal stripes were identical to

  those that Gareth Swales wore at his own throat.

  "Eton 1915 Waynflete's. I was Captain of the House. I gave you six

  for smoking in the bogs don't you remember?"

  "My God," gasped

  Gareth. "Toffee Sagud. My God. I just don't know what to say."

  "Try him with the old sign language, then," murmured Jake helpfully.

  "Shut up, damn you," hissed Gareth, and then with a conscious effort he

  resurrected the smile that lit the gloomy warehouse like the rising of

  the sun.

  "Your Excellency Toffee my dear fellow." He hurried forward with hand

  outstretched. "What a great and unexpected pleasure." They shook

  hands laughing, and the solemn dark faces of the elderly advisers

  lightened with sympathetic merriment.

  "Let me introduce my partner, Mr. Jake Barton of Texas.

  Mr. Barton is a brilliant engineer and financier Jake, this is

  His Excellency Lij Mikhael Wasan Sagud, Deputy Governor of Shoo and an

  old and dear friend of mine." The Prince's hand was narrow-boned, cool

  and firm. His gaze was quick and penetrating before he turned back

  to

  Gareth.

  "When were you expelled? Summer of 1915 wasn't it?

  Caught boffing one of the maids, as I recall."

  "Good Lord, no!"

  Gareth was horrified. "Never the hired help. Actually, it was the

  house master's daughter."

  "That's right. I remember now. You were famous went out in a blaze of

  glory. Talk about your feat lasted for months. They said you went to

  France with the Duke's, and did jolly well for yourself." Gareth made

  a deprecating gesture, and Lij Mikhael asked, "Since then what have you

  been doing, old chap?" Which was a thoroughly embarrassing question

  for Gareth. He made a few airy gestures with his cheroot.

  This and that, you know. One thing and another.

  Business, you understand. Importing, exporting, buying and selling."

  "Which brings us to the present business, does it not?" the

  Prince asked gently.

  "Indeed, it does," agreed Gareth and took the Prince's arm. "Now that

  I realize who is buying, it only increases my pleasure in managing to

  assemble a package of such high quality." The wooden crates were

  stacked neatly along one wall of the warehouse.

  "A .

  "Fourteen Vickers machine guns, most of them straight from the factory

  hardly a shot through the barrels-" They passed slowly down the array

  of merchandise to where one of the machine guns had been uncrated and

  set up on its tripod.

  "As YOU can see, all first-class stuff." The five Ethiopians were all

  warriors, from a long warlike line, and they had the true warrior's

  love of and delight in the weapons of war. They crowded eagerly around

  the gun.

  Gareth winked at Jake, and went on, "One hundred and forty-four

  Lee-Enfield service rifles, still in the grease-" Half a dozen of the

  rifles had been cleaned and laid out on display.

  No. 4 Warehouse was an Aladdin's Cave for them. The elderly courtiers

  forgot their dignity, and fell upon the weapons like a flock of crows,

  cackling in Amharic as they fondled the cold oiled steel.

  They hoisted up the skirts of their shammas to crouch behind the

  demonstration machine gun and traversed it happily, making the staccato

  schoolboy imitations of automatic fire as they mowed down imaginary

  hordes of their enemies
.

  Even Lij Mikhael forsook his Etonian manners and joined in the

  delighted examination of the hoard, pushing aside an old greybeard of

  seventy to take his place at the Vickers gun and triggering off a noisy

  squabble amongst the others in which Gareth diplomatically

  intervened.

  "I say, Toffee, old chap. This isn't all I have for you. Not by a

  long chalk. I've kept the plums for the last." And Jake helped him to

  gather up the robed and bearded group of excited old men and herd them

  gently away from the display of weapons and down the warehouse to the

  open tourers.

  The motorcade, headed by Gareth, Jake and the Prince in the leading

  tourer, came bumping down the dusty track through the mahogany forest

  and parked in the clearing in front of the candy-striped marquee that

  had taken the place of Jake's weather-beaten bell tent.

  The Royal Hotel had undertaken to cater for the occasion, despite

  Jake's protests at the cost.

  "Give them a bottle of Tusker each and open a tin of beans," he

  insisted, but Gareth had shaken his head sadly.

  "Just because they are savages doesn't mean that we have to behave like

  barbarians, old chap. Style. One has to have style that's what life

  is all about. Style and timing. Fill them up with Charlie and then

  take them for a stroll down the garden path, what?" Now there were

  white-robed waiters with red sashes and little red pillbox fezes upon

  their heads. Under the marquee, long trestle-tables were laden with

  displays of choice food decorated sucking pig, heaped salvers of boiled

  scarlet reef lobster, a smoked salmon, imported apples and peaches from

  the Cape of Good Hope and case upon case, bucket upon bucket of

  champagne. Although Gareth had been swayed t by Jake's pleas for

  economy sufficiently to order a Veuve Clicquot not of a selected

  vintage.

  The Prince and his entourage disembarked to a salvo of champagne corks

  and the elderly courtiers crowed with delight. Quite by chance,

  Gareth had struck upon the Ethiopians" love of feasting and strong

  sense of hospitality.

  Little that he could have done would have endeared him more to his

  guests.

  "I say, this is very decent of you, my dear Swales" said the

  Prince. With his innate sense of courtesy, he had not used Gareth's

  nickname since the first greeting. Gareth was grateful and when the

  glasses were filled he called for the first toast.

  "His Majesty, Negusa Nagast, King of Kings, Emperor Baile

  Selassie, Lion of Judah." And they drained their glasses, which seemed

  to be the correct form, so Gareth and Jake imitated them, and then they

  fell upon the food, giving Gareth a chance to whisper to Jake, "Think

  up some more toasts we've got to get them filled up." But he needn't

  have worried for the Prince came in with: "His Britannic Majesty,

  George V, King of England and Emperor of India." And no sooner were

  the glasses filled again than he bowed to Jake and lifted his glass.

  "The President of the United States of America, Mr. Franklin D.

  Roosevelt." Not to be outdone, each of the courtiers shouted an

  unintelligible toast in Amharic, presumably to the Prince and his

  father and mother and aunts, uncles and nieces, and the glasses were

  upended. The waiters rushed back and forth to the steady report of

  champagne corks.

  "The Governor of the British Colony of Tanganyika." Gareth lifted his

  glass, slurring slightly.

  "And the Governor's daughter," Jake murmured sardonically.

  This provoked another round of toasts from the robed guests, and then

  it dawned on Jake and Gareth simultaneously that it was folly to try

  drinking level with men who had been bred and reared on the fiery tej

  of Ethiopia.

  "How are you feeling?" muttered Gareth anxiously, squinting slightly

  to focus.

  Beautiful, "Jake grinned at him beatifically.

  "By God, these fellows know how to pack it away."

  "Keep pounding them, Forty. You've got them on the run." With his

  empty glass he indicated the smiling but sober group of courtiers.

  "I'd be grateful if you could refrain from using that name, old chap.

  Distasteful, what? Not in the best of style." Gareth slapped his

  shoulder with bonhomie and almost missed. A look of concern crossed

  his face. "How do I sound?"

  "You sound like I feel. We'd better get out of here before they drink

  us flat on our backs."

  "Oh

  God, there he goes again," Gareth muttered with alarm as the Prince

  raised his brimming glass and looked about him expectantly. "Wine with

  you, my dear Swales," he called as he caught Gareth's eyes.

  "Enchanted, I'm sure." Gareth had no choice but to acknowledge and

  toss off the contents of his glass before hurrying forward to intercept

  the waiter who darted in to recharge the Prince's empty glass.

  "Toffee, old sport, I do want you to see this little surprise I

  have for you." He grabbed the Prince's drinking arm and prised the

  glass from his grip. "Come along, everybody. This way, chaps." Among

  the grey-bearded courtiers there was a decided reluctance to leave the

  marquee, and Jake had to assist Gareth. Both-of them spreading their

  arms and making shooing noises, they finally got them moving down the

  track through the forest which emerged a hundred yards farther on into

  an open glade the size of a polo field.

  A stunned silence fell upon the party as they saw the row of four iron

  ladies, gleaming in their new coats of grey, with the heavily jacketed

  water-cooled barrels of the Vickers machine guns protruding from the

  ports and the rakish turrets emblazoned with the tricolour horizontal

  bars of the Ethiopian national colours green, yellow and red.

  Like sleep-walkers, they allowed themselves to be led to the row of

  chairs under the umbrellas, and without removing their gaze from the

  war machines they sank into their seats.

  Gareth stood in front of them like a schoolmaster, but swaying

  slightly.

  "Gentlemen, we have here one of the most versatile armoured vehicles

  ever brought into service by any major military power And while he

  paused for the Prince to translate, he grinned triumphantly at

  Jake.

  "Start them up, old son." As the first engine burst into life, the

  elderly courtiers came to their feet and applauded like the crowd at a

  prize fight.

  "Fifteen hundred quid each," whispered Gareth, his eyes sparkling,

  "they'll go fifteen hundred!" ij Mikhael had invited them to dine in

  his suite aboard the Dunnottar Castle, and over Jake's Protests a

  short-order tailor had run up a passable dinner jacket to fit Jake's

  tall rangy frame.

  "I look like I'm in fancy dress, "he objected.

  "You look like a duke," Gareth contradicted. "It gives you a bit of

  style. Style, Jake me lad, always remember. Style! If you look like

  a tramp, people will treat you as one." Lij Mikhael Sagud wore a

  magnificently embroidered cloak in gold and scarlet and black, clasped

  at the throat with a dark red ruby the size of a ripe acorn,
<
br />   tieht-fitting velvet breeches and slippers embroidered with twenty-four

  carat gold wire. The dinner had been excellent and the Prince seemed

  in a mellow mood.

  "Now, my dear Swales. The prices for the machine guns and the other

  armaments were decided months ago but the armoured cars were never

  mentioned. Would you like to suggest a reasonable figure?"

  "Your

  Excellency, I had in mind a fair figure before I realized it was you

  I

  was dealing with-" Gareth drew deeply on one of the Prince's Havana

  cigars, steeling himself for the wild flying chance he was going to

  take. "Now, of course, I am prepared merely to cover my costs and

  leave only a modest profit for my partner and myself to share." The

  Prince showed his appreciation with a gracious gesture.

  "Two thousand pounds each," said Gareth quickly, running the words

  together to make it sound less shocking, but still Jake almost choked

  on a mouthful of whisky soda.

  The Prince nodded thoughtfully. "I see," he said. "That is probably

  five times the actual value." Gareth looked shocked. "Your

  Excellency-" But the Prince silenced him with a raised hand.

  "During the last six months, I have spent a great deal of time

  inspecting and pricing various items of military equipment. My dear

  Swales, please don't insult us both by protesting." There was a long

  silence and the atmosphere in the cabin was taut as guitar strings then

  the Prince sighed.

  "I could price those weapons but I could not buy. The great powers of

  the world have denied me that right the right to defend my country

  against the predator." There was an age of weariness in the dark eyes

  and smooth brow furrowed with thought. "My country is landlocked, as

  you know, gentlemen. We do not have access to the sea.

  All imports must come through the territories of French and British

  Somaliland or Italian Eritrea. Italy the predator or the French and

  the British who have placed us under embargo." Lij Mikhael sipped at

  the drink in his hand, and then frowned into the depths of the glass,

  as though it were a crystal ball and he could read the future there.

  "The great powers are prepared to deliver us to the Fascist tyrant,

  with our sword hand empty and trussed behind our back." He sighed

  again heavily and then looked up at Gareth. His expression changed.

  "Major Swales, you have offered me a collection of worn and obsolete