The Burning Sky (21 page)

The monastery, with only slits to let in any light, was an ancient structure in a state of some dilapidation, the walls stained with age and the mortar loose or missing on the walls, but the monks were welcoming, if utterly incomprehensible in their greetings. No matter, sign language and a gift of a couple of thalers made sure they had a cell to sleep in and, when they took off their boots, a monk came to wash and dry their feet as an act of
Christ-like
humility.

‘I haven’t had this kind of treatment since I was in a Manchurian bordello,’ Alverson proclaimed.

‘Let’s hope you don’t get offered the other bits, guv,’ Vince joked. ‘They’re all blokes up here and you can guess what that means.’

‘You have a twisted mind, Vince.’

‘And a virgin arse. I know about places like these, ’cause the Italian mountains are full of ’em – supposed holy men who seem to spend all their time drinking hooch and rogering each other.’

‘And praying for forgiveness for their sins.’

‘Sleep, gents,’ Jardine said. ‘We are up with the lark.’

They were up before that, even, woken by the gentle
chanting of the Ethiopian monks, breakfasting on dates and unleavened bread before emerging to overlook, in moon and starlight, the still-dark landscape to the north, with Jardine focusing on the fires and lanterns of the Italian front lines.

‘They’re up and about early.’

‘Let’s have a look-see.’

The field glasses were handed over just as the sun tinged the eastern horizon, with Alverson still as he examined the encampment, reciting what he would write in a
semi-jocular
way …

‘Your reporter has tramped alongside the peasant defender of Ethiopia, his feet raw from toiling through the rocks and dust of a terrain that would tax the most intrepid explorer. But how can he not follow the example of these sturdy farmer-warriors, who have marched with their out-of-date weaponry to get close to a powerful enemy equipped with the most modern of munitions …?’

‘Did I explain to you what “bollocks” means, given you are in good boots?’

‘No need, Vince, I am just setting the scene, giving it a bit of colour. To continue: Fearless, I have come close to the lines of the invaders, an army half a million or more strong, to bring to you, my readers, some sense of what these under-equipped … dammit,’ he said softly. ‘I’ve used “equipped” once already.’

‘Does it matter?’ Jardine asked.

‘Sure does, brother, never use the same word in the same paragraph unless it’s a name. Basic journalism.’

‘Do go on, I’m fascinated.’

‘Was that a yawn I just saw out of the corner of my eye?’

‘Don’t take it personally.’

Alverson dropped the field glasses and slowly passed them to Jardine. ‘You might want to take this personally, old buddy. I think our friends over yonder are getting ready to pull out.’

Jardine was issuing orders to Vince before he had the binoculars to his eyes. ‘Donkeys ready to leave. Get armed, Vince, and fetch my weapon too.’

There was no need to tell Vince to top up the water canteens, that was standard, and he concentrated on looking at the Italian lines. What he could see, as the morning light increased, was numerous khaki-clad soldiers clambering into lorries. Small tankettes were moving through gaps which had only just been created in the line of defensive sandbags he had seen from the air. Behind them, other troops were forming up in what he suspected to be preparatory to an order to march; those he could stay ahead of, it was the trucked infantry and the tracked vehicles that were the problem.

‘Your despatch is going to be more exciting than you thought, Tyler; that is, unless they catch us.’

‘Will they?’

‘Depends on the speed they want to advance, and the ground, which should hold them up some.’

‘Ready, guv.’

‘Then let’s get the bloody hell out of here.’

They went down the hill fast, the donkeys, sure-footed
as they were, occasionally splaying their feet at some particularly dangerous spot, forcing Jardine to seek out an alternative route, and all the while they could see less and less of what they would need to avoid until all it became was a dust cloud on the edge of their horizon. On even ground they started to jog, even Alverson, who was far from as fit as Vince and Jardine, their kitbags bouncing against their backs.

It was not tanks and trucks that presented a problem to the fleeing trio, but the cavalry screen General De Bono had sent out in the hours of darkness to warn him of any potential threat to his measured advance. Thankfully, because of their higher profile, added to the direction of their concentration, Jardine spotted them before they saw him, yet that was not of much use: he could seek cover, but not with donkeys, and together they were at more risk than separate, while to just let the animals go would only create curiosity and most certainly initiate a search.

‘Vince,’ Jardine called softly, as they crouched down, passing over his sub-machine gun. ‘Give me your knife.’ That was passed over swiftly and unquestioningly. ‘Use the gullies and irrigation ditches to try to stay out of sight. Get Tyler back to Aksum and get the hell out of there with or without the Littletons. Wherever the Ethiopian lines are, get to the rear of them.’

‘You, guv?’

‘Distraction, Vince; we can’t all get away.’

‘Hold the phone here—’

Jardine rounded on Alverson then, his voice a furious
hiss. ‘Do as you’re bloody well told. Now get down and crawl for cover.’

Waiting till they were out of sight, he crouched to discard two of the bedrolls, jammed Vince’s knife into his own so it was out of sight, then taking the lead ropes of their donkeys, Jardine stood up and began to walk towards the cavalry.

H
e was soon spotted. Closer to the mounted men he could see they were askaris, their shouting communication in their own tongue. Those closest detached themselves to surround him, all jabbering away, while another had gone to fetch an officer, who was not long in arriving on a snorting, pawing charger that could not be less than seventeen hands, the stream of Italian he aimed at Jardine not much more comprehensible than what his excitable native horsemen had been shouting. More important to Jardine, there was no cry of discovery; Vince and Tyler Alverson might just get away.

‘Do you speak English?’ he enquired.

Receiving a negative response, he tried French, then German, which was the one that worked – not fluently, but many Italians knew some: for centuries a large part of northern Italy had been either connected to, or part of, the Austrian Empire, the Trentino region and Trieste integral
till 1919. The stilted interrogation was enough to allow him to establish his own nationality, though he was unsure if the Italian officer quite got a hold of his story as to why he was where he was.

The man fired off a series of rapid orders to two of his men, one of them, by his badges, a junior NCO, who dismounted and stripped him of his Colt Automatic and his kitbag and searched him for more weapons. The officer then informed Jardine he was being taken back to be interrogated at the base camp.

As they had been conversing – if it could be called that – the noise of moving armour had been growing, the sound of tracked vehicles unmistakeable, and the first of the small Carro Veloce 33 tankettes came into view, sending up clouds of dust as it bounced its way across the uneven terrain, the long snout of its machine gun waving to and fro threateningly. That set the horses prancing and his donkeys braying– no equine creature likes to be near the noise of armour – which hurried his departure, the officer leading his men back to what they had been doing before, providing a reconnaissance screen at the very forefront of the advance.

His escort, one of whom now had the donkey lead ropes, gave the tankettes a wide berth, which partly took them out of the dust cloud and allowed Jardine to observe the differing arms of what was moving forward, the
big-wheeled
trucks in a line, on a track that could not be called a road, trying to avoid the unrepaired potholes caused by the recent rains. They were followed by marching men, heads down, who made no attempt at smartness, their pith
helmets pulled low and their mouths covered, each one bearing on his back the heavy equipment – packs, rifles, entrenching tools and a steel helmet – every infantryman must carry into battle.

Then came more and heavier tanks: L640s, and in their wake self-propelled cannon, then horse- and
truck-towed
artillery, including the anti-aircraft guns that had been aimed at him the previous day – an excessive amount considering the Ethiopian air force consisted of only a couple of dozen planes.

It seemed endless, and Jardine had to remind himself he was only seeing a fraction of a force advancing on a broad front of several miles across. He could not avoid contrasting it with what he had observed on the road south from Addis, thoughts that were far from comfortable. By the time he reached what had been their main encampment he had still not seen this movement decrease.

Now, with his escort dismounted, he was being led through an extensive motor park full of lorries, cars, command vehicles and motorbikes, to a series of large brown-coloured marquees which he assumed, judging by the regimental and command flags flying above them, formed the headquarters of the army. This, too, he had seen from the air; it looked a damn sight more scary now.

Told to wait – even he understood that in Italian – Jardine was rehearsing what he would say; he knew he would have to expand on what he had tried to tell the cavalry officer. An army this size was bound to have an intelligence section, and he expected that someone in that
would be enough of an English speaker to fully test his excuses.

Whatever took place inside, the askari cavalryman emerged with two Italian soldiers, both with rifles, and using a series of sharp gestures he was marched off, leaving his donkeys behind, and led to a small empty tent, where, after emptying out his pockets and stripping off his watch, he was put under guard, his few possessions, including his belt, watch and shoelaces, taken away.

How much time passed he did not know, certainly hours, but eventually an Italian NCO came to collect him, with another two rifle-bearing escorts, to take him back to the main marquees. Inside they were divided into compartments, into one of which he was shown, to find an officer, a major, sitting behind a trestle desk on which lay his Colt, magazine removed, his watch, passport, the contents of his kitbag, and what little money he had brought from Aksum; his money belt he had left behind.

To one side at another trestle desk sat a bespectacled private soldier, armed with pens, ink and paper, obviously there to take notes, while before the main desk sat a single folding chair.

The major picked up the passport and opened it. ‘Mr Jardine.’

‘I am.’

‘I am Major d’Agostino of the
Servizio Informazioni Militare
; please be seated.’

Jardine did so, facing the intelligence officer, noting his near-perfect English, while also picking up a slight whiff of cologne – or was it hair oil? – from a very well-barbered
fellow. Clean-shaven, the hair was thick, wavy and black, the eyes equally dark in a sallow complexion on a rather severe face: sharp nose, hollow cheeks, plus a downturned mouth over a pointed chin.

‘What are you doing in Ethiopia, Mr Jardine?’

Responding with a half-smile, Jardine said, ‘As I tried to tell the previous officer, the cavalryman, I am interested in the Christian religion of this country, which I am sure you know goes back, at least they claim it does, over two thousand years. I was visiting Aksum to see the Church of St Mary of Zion, and I also took the opportunity to visit the nearby monasteries in the hope of talking to the monks. I was on my way back from one when I ran into your patrols. I am not sure your cavalry officer understood.’

‘Religion?’

‘I assume you are aware that the Ark of the Covenant is supposed to reside in Aksum.’

‘It does not worry you that you are in a war zone?’

‘I am a neutral, it is no concern of mine.’

The major tapped his fingers on the desk in a sort of tattoo. ‘Bullets flying around, an army on the march and it does not concern you?’

‘You were not marching when I set out and I am sure I have nothing to fear from the Italian army, whom, I have every reason to believe, will respect my nationality.’

The passport was lifted to a point before his face and flicked through, page by page. ‘You seem to be a
well-travelled
man, judging by the number of stamps you have gathered.’

‘My research takes me to many places.’

These were reeled off by d’Agostino. ‘Belgium, France, Austria, Rumania, Turkey, Greece, and these on what is a recently issued document, judging by the date.’

‘When you are researching comparative religions it takes you to many places.’

That got a thin smile. ‘But not Italy, or perhaps Palestine?’

‘I do intend to visit Rome at some time in the future. Palestine, being mandated to my country by the League of Nations, would not justify a stamp.’

‘Would I be correct in thinking you came to Ethiopia through British Somaliland?’

‘Yes, and again no need for a stamp on my passport when I entered a colony of my country.’

‘And you have come to Ethiopia, even though the border is sealed?’

‘Yes.’

‘But no stamp for entry into this country?’

Jardine tried to look abashed. ‘I’m afraid I sneaked into Ethiopia. Bit naughty, but I am only one soul and I did not think my presence would hurt anyone.’

‘One soul who has the audacity to defy his government and one studying comparative religions, Mr Jardine? To what purpose would this be put?’

‘I hope to write a book one day.’

‘Without notes?’ the major snapped.

Jardine leant forward and looked at his possessions laid out on the desk. ‘They should be there, there was a set of notebooks in my kitbag.’

‘Now missing.’

Trying to look perplexed, Jardine said, ‘Perhaps I left them at the monastery by mistake.’

‘Tell me, Mr Jardine, would this monastery of which you speak be on a nearby hilltop?’ Answered with a nod, d’Agostino continued, ‘And did that hilltop overlook the encampment in which we are now sitting?’

‘It did, but that was not something I have any interest in, or at least, only a passing sort of one.’

‘So, if I put it to you that you were spying on the Italian Expeditionary Force, you would deny it?’

‘Most certainly,’ Jardine insisted, adding an affronted look for good measure.

The major’s hand slipped below the level of the desk and emerged with his field glasses, last seen in his kitbag. ‘Yet, I am sure, from such a vantage point, you were tempted to employ these, merely from curiosity if nothing else?’

‘Just as I am sure you will be aware that a set of binoculars are standard equipment for the traveller in such a barren country as this.’

That got a sneer as the major looked at his weapon. ‘As is a Colt Automatic pistol with a fully loaded magazine clip.’

Jardine knew he was in trouble, indeed he had known his story was as leaky as a bucket full of holes, but it was the best he could conjure up, taking his cue from Ma Littleton. Rule one is, whatever the tale you’re telling, stick to it, for time is your only asset.

‘Major, I can understand your concerns …’

The man’s eyes flicked sideways and the clerk half-stood as the tent flap to the rear of Jardine swished. Spinning
round he was presented with such an unexpected sight his jaw dropped. Dressed in fawn twill jodhpurs, highly polished riding boots, a crisp white blouse and standing in the doorway, was a strikingly beautiful woman with a mass of flowing blonde hair that came down to her shoulders and framed a quite stunning face.

She made Jardine think ‘film star’ right away, aided by the breeze wafting to his nose a quite distinct but obviously expensive perfume, so delicate was it as a fragrance. He was speedily on his feet as her eyes moved from the major and, with a slightly quizzical expression, fixed on him.

‘
Non addesso, cara
,’ the intelligence officer said from behind him, in a quite sharp tone.

‘I heard you speaking English, Umberto.’

‘To this gentleman here.’

‘Callum Jardine,’ he said, introducing himself quickly and adding a lopsided, self-deprecating grin. ‘I seem to have upset the apple cart a bit.’

She smiled in response and it was heart-melting; what was it about her accent that was different? It was almost like a slight impediment. ‘And what is an Englishman doing here, I wonder?’

‘Seeking to explain his innocence to the Major here.’

‘Sit down, Mr Jardine, you are a prisoner not a guest.’

His reply was deliberately flippant. ‘In the presence of a lady of such beauty, Major, a lack of courtesy would never serve. If I apologise for my presence, I will not do so for my manners.’

That got, as a response, a delightful, throaty chuckle and parted lips to show the tips of a set of even teeth. She
was quite simply stunning and he could not help but let his eyes drop to that crisp white blouse and the very obvious, if not overbearing twin peaks of her bosom. When he looked up again she was still smiling, and that having noted the direction of his gaze.

‘How gallant …’ Jardine had to laugh then, that being the same word Corrie Littleton had said to that oily French bugger, de Billancourt, ‘… for a prisoner.’

Major d’Agostino was beside Jardine now and a sideways glance showed a furious face. But he did not speak, he merely passed by, took the beauty by the arm and led her away from the tent flap, which dropped behind them, insufficient as a screen to cover the exchange which followed: fury from the major, frivolity from the woman, though he understood not one word; it was all in the tone. When d’Agostino came back, still palpably furious, for some reason he felt the need to explain.

‘The
Marquesa
wished to go riding and wanted to know if it was safe to do so. I told her she had nothing to fear.’

Jardine was so tempted to guy him – the words were in his head: ‘I wish she had gone out riding earlier and I wish I had been captured by her, rather than those askaris.’ But they remained there, given he was in too much trouble to risk being glib.

Back behind his desk, d’Agostino rearranged the items on it in a rather fussy way, which Jardine thought he was using as a means to calm himself, for they had not moved. Then he looked up and said, ‘You were not tempted to snatch up your weapon in my absence, Mr Jardine?’

‘I am not a violent man, Major, I have that gun only for protection. In fact, I dislike firearms.’

‘So, you insist you are not a spy, you say you are an innocent traveller who just happens to be in a bad place at a bad time?’

The man was smiling now, but it was thin-lipped and threatening, not humorous, and that gave Jardine a bad feeling. The hand was under the desk again and when it came up and he saw what d’Agostino was holding, his heart sank. It was the wallet of the late Lieutenant Alberto Soradino, which he had forgotten he had in his kitbag.

‘Then I am curious, if you are a man not of violence, how you came across this?’

Making sure he did not sound feeble, even if he knew the words to be just that, Jardine replied firmly, ‘I found it and, in truth, I had forgotten I had done so.’

‘Found it? Might I ask where?’ Jardine was about to give a near nonsensical reply when the major slammed the table. ‘Please do not treat me as a fool, Mr Jardine.’

‘I had no intention of doing so.’

‘Then it will not surprise you that on finding this I sent a radio signal back to Asmara, and they informed me that a certain Lieutenant Soradino is missing from his post at Assab, and has been for over two weeks. It seems, without orders and without informing his superiors, he took a contingent of askaris off on some wild goose chase into the country south of the Danakil Depression, where I can tell you, there are no monasteries. Given you have his wallet, you are armed and he has not been heard of since
departing Assab, I am forced to assume he might no longer be alive.’