The Secret War (28 page)

“Good idea,” Christopher panted, but at that moment a house-boy arrived to announce that Blatta Ingida Yohannes, a representative of the Emperor, was below and wished to see them.

“Ask him to come up,” Lovelace said at once. Then he explained to the others that
Blatta
meant “wise” and was a civil title ranking one higher than
Ato
. It could be taken as Esquire; the next rank above it being
Kantiba
, or Knight.

The Abyssinian proved to be a pleasant young man dressed in European clothes. His hair was oiled back, his face clean-shaved, and he spoke French with an easy fluency.

His first request was rather surprising: he asked for news of the war; but he explained that communications with the fronts were so difficult that even the Emperor
usually learnt of fresh movements, when he was in Addis Ababa, through reports brought in from the outside world by neutrals before he heard of them from his own commanders.

“We heard the Italians had opened a big attack at Sasa Baneh this morning,” Lovelace informed him.

Blatta Ingida Yohannes smiled. “There they will break themselves against our “Hindenburg line”. Many lion pits have been dug to trap their tanks. When these have fallen through the thin, earth-covered layers of sticks into the holes Ras Nasibu's men will overwhelm their infantry and wipe it out. What do they say in Jibuti of the fighting on our northern front?”

“We've heard nothing of that since they captured Dessye close on a fortnight ago.”

The young coloured man shrugged his shoulders. “So that silly rumour still persists. We had it here ten days back, but it is false, of course—just one of the many propaganda lies that the Italians send out over their powerful wireless to try and hearten their troops in other sectors. You see, it is quite impossible, because the Emperor is still at Dessye.”

Lovelace forebore to contradict him, although he had seen the Italians occupying the town itself from Count Dolomenchi's plane. He feared that the officials in Addis might become suspicious and troublesome if they knew their visitors had just spent some time as guests of the enemy. Spy mania was running high. Their movements might be restricted and the aeroplane seized. It was safer to allow it to be believed that they had come straight from Jibuti. “You feel that the war's going well for you, then?” he asked.

“It is difficult to say,” the Abyssinian replied. “We know so little, only that it is certain we shall win in the end. The Italian casualties are far higher than they say, since we contest every inch of the ground, and every one of our soldiers is a crack marksman. Each night we raid their lines, too. They hate that. It is shaking
their
morale
even worse than their air-raids are shaking the
morale
of our people. Every mile they penetrate, too, lengthens their lines of communication and makes them more vulnerable. Sooner or later they must collapse. It will happen quite suddenly one night. Then we will chase them out of our country. You will see.”

“They won't collapse as long as they keep on sending out adequate reinforcements,” Christopher said, “because you cannot possibly hope to beat them in a pitched battle owing to their complete supremacy in the air.”

“No.” The young Abyssinian gave him a sly glance. “You are right, perhaps, as long as the fighting is on the low levels with only an isolated mountain to be captured here and there; but wait until they reach the high ground. European airmen cannot fly day after day at fifteen thousand feet. Their hearts will give out in the rarefied atmosphere and they will be crashing all over the place. That is why they so seldom attempt an air-raid here. White people cannot even walk here in Addis without their hearts giving them trouble.”

They knew that he was right. Every step they had taken since they arrived in the Abyssinian capital had seemed to cost them a special effort.

“You feel very confident, of victory, then?” Valerie said.

“How can you doubt it when everybody knows that the British are coming to our assistance?”

“If they did it would mean another World War,” Christopher said quickly.

“About that I do not know, but our situation is obvious. A few years ago the Emperor might have been willing to compromise with his powerful neighbour rather than risk a war which must mean much misery for his people whichever side was victorious. Since that time Abyssinia has been admitted to the League. What is the League for if not to protect small nations from aggression? Naturally, after that the Emperor would
not consider any form of compromise. He knew that he could rely upon the League to maintain him in his just rights. The machinery at Geneva works slowly. We understand that; and we are perfectly willing to defend ourselves while Britain makes her preparations. But as the champion of the League she is bound to intervene on our behalf before very much longer. Many squadrons of her aeroplanes are already in Egypt waiting for the word to attack.”

Valerie sighed. The whole world knew now that the League was a broken reed to lean upon, yet this man's faith in it was apparently unshakable and quite pathetic.

More coffee and liqueurs were sent for. Lovelace took advantage of the interruption to get Blatta Ingida Yohannes off the thorny subject of the League, and asked him about the Emperor.

The young man was one of the
Jeunesse d'Ethiopie;
the society of progressive Abyssinians. He spoke with real enthusiam of the Emperor's reforms, and sadly of how the westernisation of his country was being held up now for lack of funds because the Emperor was being compelled to spend every penny of his money on munitions for this wicked war that had been forced upon them.

Believing them to be ordinary tourists, he expressed great anxiety that they should see everything before they went away and leave with a good opinion of Abyssinia. He said that the Emperor received all visiting Europeans personally when he was in the capital, but in the Emperor's absence it was his duty to entertain them. To start with, he proposed a drive round the town that afternoon and that he should call for them again after dinner to take them to the cinema.

Christopher's face showed his anxiety lest their self-appointed guide would seriously embarrass their movements; but Valerie leaped into the breach by saying that they were all tired after their journey and feeling the effect of the high altitude; for the remainder of the
afternoon they would prefer to rest. The evening was already disposed of by their arrangement to dine at the American Legation.

Blatta Ingida Yohannes accepted the situation, but insisted that he should call for them first thing on the following morning. He would take them to see the French and English schools where the children of the Abyssinian aristocracy were being educated on modern lines. In the meantime he would see about securing suitable personal servants for them, to look after them during their stay, and attach a special police guard to them in case they wished to walk in the town; but he begged that they would confine themselves to the European quarter.

The moment he had gone Christopher gave a despairing groan. “What with servants, and police guards, and that fellow hanging round us all the time, we'll never succeed in getting at Zarrif even if we can find him.”

“We'll manage somehow,” Lovelace said grimly. “These people have plenty of low cunning, but we whites have far better brains. It's not difficult to trick them, and I've been thinking, if we can't trace Zarrif through the American Legation we'll probably be able to get a line on him through his friend Ras Desoum. You go off and have your rest now; you're looking rotten.”

“Yes, I feel it too. See you later, then.”

As Christopher left the room Valerie looked across at Lovelace. “So we're off on this murder game again, it seems.”

Lovelace gave her a quick glance and began to fiddle with a new pipe he had bought. “When Zarrif shot down your plane in the Danakil country he did it with the deliberate intention of murdering us all, so, quite apart from the fact that the
Millers of God
have ordered his execution, to my mind he deserves all we mean to give him.”

“Yes—yes,” she nodded wearily. “I know,”

He stroked his small, upturned moustache and went on slowly: “You're not quite so keen now on this Crusade—as you used to term Christopher's mission—are you? It's a grim business and I've wished all along you were safely out of it. Listen, Valerie. Why not fly back to Jibuti this evening. We'll beg, borrow, or steal some reliable chap from one of the Legations to go with you.”

She shook her head. “No. I can't leave Christopher—or you. When I think of my darling Count Dolomenchi and that nice young Abyssinian who was here just now, too, I am more certain than ever that anyone like Zarrif, who deliberately pulls the wires to make them wish to cut each other's throats, deserves death a hundred times. I'm just tired—that's all. When I've rested for a bit I'll feel better.”

He realised that her affectionate mention of the Count implied no more than friendship, but all the same, as she made it, Lovelace was conscious of a little twinge of jealousy. She stood up and, as he watched her leave the room, he checked his thoughts sharply. He knew he had no right to think of her that way at all. She was Christopher's. Yet he wished, as he had never wished for anything in his life before, that she were free so that he could tell her how much he loved her.

That evening a car with two special guards picked them up and ran them out to the United States Legation. It was some way from the centre of the town and, like those of the other nations, stood in a fine, walled, private park on land which the Emperor had generously presented for the purpose.

Rudy Connolly received them with shouts of joy and introduced them to his colleagues. For Christopher and Valerie it was grand to find themselves among their own people again, and Lovelace was made equally welcome. It would have been a thoroughly delightful evening if each of them had not had to act a part and endeavour to conceal their secret anxieties.

They posed as tourists who, being in Egypt, had just flown up for a few days out of curiosity, to see Addis now that it played such a prominent part in the world's news.

When Christopher cornered Connolly after dinner, the diplomat said that, of course, he knew Paxito Zarrif by reputation, but he had heard nothing of his being in Addis. So far, inquiries among his friends had proved fruitless, but native spies had been put on the job and perhaps some information might come in the following day.

Connolly showed some professional reticence in speaking about the war. He admitted to knowing that the Italians were actually in Dessye, although the Abyssinians refused to acknowledge it; and said that as far as their own information went, the Emperor was with his troops somewhere between Addis and his old headquarters. Fresh levies were still moving through from the far west to his support, and it was thought that he would hold up the Italians at a point where the road dipped suddenly from the terrific heights of the Abyssinian central ranges to the fringe of the plains bordering the Danakil country.

“Are there any landing-places for aeroplanes on the Dessye road?” Christopher asked.

Connolly stared at him in surprise. “Good Lord, no! but why?”

“I'd like to go there. See a little of the fighting.”

“I wouldn't try it if I were you. They won't let you, anyway, without a pass, and I don't think they'd grant you one for a second. The front's somewhere out there now, and they wouldn't even let a single newspaper man go within a hundred miles of the actual operations.”

“Never mind. Say I
could
get a pass,” Christopher went on doggedly. “How long would it take me to get there by road?”

“You could reach Dessye itself, if the road were open all the way, in about three days. That is, if the weather
remains as it is at the moment, and given a good stout lorry with plenty of hired men to pull it out of the gulleys whenever it gets stuck. If the weather breaks, as it may now at any time, you might be ten days on the road, and once the rains have really set in it becomes quite impassable. Honestly, you'd be mad to attempt it. Even if you could get a pass and managed to get to the front all right, as the rains are due, you'd be caught there and unable to get back.”

“Thanks,” said Christopher. “I was only asking out of curiosity,” and he turned the conversation into other channels.

When they were back in the hotel Christopher faced the others just as they were sitting down to a night-cap in their private room.

“Look here. I've thought it all out. Nobody but the Emperor can sign that concession, and he's still at the front; somewhere down the Dessye road. Zarrif must be with him at his new headquarters or on his way there. These Abyssinian officials are bribable, you say. Well, I don't care what it costs, but we've got to get a pass and reach the Emperor so that we're on hand to deal with Zarrif when he tries to do his stuff.”

“But we can't use the plane for that,” exclaimed Lovelace, “and to talk of covering a hundred miles of this ghastly country in two days any other way is sheer madness.”

“I don't care,” Christopher said tersely. “I'll buy a dozen lorries and leave each one as it gets stuck for another of the convoy, offering a big reward to the driver who gets through first. It's got to be done.”

Lovelace had warned the others that Blatta Ingida Yohannes would probably call for them at some godless hour next morning to take them sight-seeing. They were not surprised, therefore, to be knocked up at half-past five, but, when they met an hour later at breakfast, Valerie complained bitterly.

“Yes, filthy practice, isn't it?” Lovelace agreed. “But early rising is the custom here. The Emperor always holds his first Cabinet Meeting of the day at five o'clock, except when he has to propitiate his fanatical priesthood by being in church.”