The Secret War

by Dennis Wheatley

  Mr. Green of Gainesville, Fla., drew himself up. “For all I’se a coloured man I hopes one day to sit upon de right hand o’ de Throne. As de Lawd am ma witness I speak de truth.”

  “You claim to be the friend and messenger of Ras Desoum? Next I suppose you’ll ask us to believe that you dined every night with the Emperor?” Lovelace inquired sarcastically.

  “No, sah! I never saw de Emperor no time tho’ I tried mighty hard. I’se an educated man an’ dat’s why I were chosen by de Brudderhood to take de goodwill o’ one Christian people to anudder in de day of dair poisicution by de ungodly. Dem Abyssinian quality may be Christian but dey’s a long way from de Baptist Church what sint me over de ocean. Dey wouldn’ even shake me by de hand; all ’cept Ras Desoum who do believe in de Lawd jes’ de same way as I does. W’en I tells him I’se gwine back home he says to me, ‘Mr. Green, yo’se jes’ de very pusson to be ma hon’ble messenger to Mr. Zarrif on yo’ way back thru’ Eurupp.’ Yessah! dat’s de truth.”

  Lovelace had no doubt whatever that it was. He knew that coloured people all over the world were watching the war with a flaming partisanship for the Abyssinians, and that their organisations were sending the most varied offers of help, in complete ignorance of the Abyssinians’ utter contempt for negroes. In happier circumstances he would have felt sorry for the earnest Mr. Green, who had travelled some five thousand miles, only to be treated as a recently released slave, at the end of his long journey, instead of as a brother who had found the Light. As it was Mr. Green had to be discredited at all costs otherwise Lovelace stood very little chance of getting out of that villa alive. He saw that from the cold glitter of Zarrif’s eyes and the business-like way in which the gunmen held their pistols pointing at his midriff.

  “I suppose you’ve got a letter from Ras Desoum to Mr. Zarrif, proving your identity?” he asked acidly.

  “No sah,” the negro spread out his black hands with their pale palms uppermost. “De Lawd see’d fit to strike his servant in de valley an’ po’ Jeremiah Green were a mighty sick man. It looked like he were booked fo’ Kingdom Come an’ dem heathen people stole his letter off him while his eyes were fixed on Heaven. But de Lawd raised his servant up again so he come on heah, jes’ de same.”

  “They left him his passport.” Zarrif tapped the document which lay in front of him on the desk. “It is all in order. I wish to see yours.”

  “It’s in my room,” Lovelace lied, thanking his gods that he had had the sense to hide that damning piece of evidence. “I’ll go and get it.”

  “Stand still!” Zarrif rapped. “Cassalis—you go. Make a thorough search and bring any other papers which you can find down with you.”

  The pressure of the pistol was withdrawn from Lovelace’s spine and Cassalis left them. Zarrif returned to his work and for the next ten minutes appeared quite oblivious of the fact that anyone else was in the room, but his two men kept their eyes riveted on Lovelace who felt quite certain that if he raised a hand they would shoot him down.

  Having entrusted Valerie with any papers which might prove his identity before leaving Athens he knew that Cassalis would find nothing, but that was poor comfort. The sudden disappearance of his passport would turn their present belief that he was not Jeremiah Green into a certainty. His nerve was good but he felt it going now. His hands were twitching slightly as he strove to think of a way out of this horrible impasse. What would they do to him when they had satisfied themselves that he was an impostor? This was a secret war and one in which prisoners would not be allowed to live so that they could fight again another day. He had entered it knowing that, yet he had never quite faced the fact that he might be called on to pay the final penalty in person. Would the gunmen take him out and shoot him, he wondered, or had they some other way which would save them the inconvenience entailed by the disposal of a bullet-riddled body? He strove desperately to think of a plan by which he might save himself but he could not. His brain seemed to have seized up like a motor engine that is white-hot from overwork and lack of oil.

  Cassalis returned and with him he brought two more of the bodyguard. “Search him,” he told the men, and then, turning to Zarrif: “Upstairs there is nothing, Monsieur. No passport or papers of any kind.”

  Lovelace was seized from behind and his pockets emptied out on to Zarrif’s desk while he cried hotly: “My passport was in my bag this morning. I saw it! Someone’s taken it! They must have …”

  “No one takes anything in this house without my orders,” Zarrif said quietly. “You have destroyed or hidden it since we left Athens. You are a spy and we have only one sentence for spies—death.”

  Lovelace shrugged. “Prove it!” he cried, and, swinging round as the gunmen released him he suddenly caught sight of the negro’s face. From black it had turned to greeny-grey, the white-rimmed eyeballs were starting from their sockets, the thick-lipped mouth hung open, and his long arms, dangling at his sides, trembled as though he were suffering from a fit of ague. The man had been badly scared when Lovelace first saw him and was obviously panicky at finding himself in a place where the master of the house kept armed retainers; now, he was frankly terrified, horror-struck at the thought that the gunmen might commit murder before his eyes at any moment.

  In a second Lovelace saw that he must involve him too. It was unfair, a rotten thing to do, but if Zarrif could be made to suspect them equally it was unthinkable that he would kill them both. They would be locked up under guard until further investigations could be made and one or other of them proved innocent. A bad enough look-out for him, the guilty party, but it meant time—time in which to think—a few more hours of life—perhaps a chance to escape—anything, anything, was better than being wiped out immediately.

  “Listen,” he said firmly, “listen, Mr. Zarrif. My passport’s gone—disappeared—I don’t know where. But I had it in Athens, didn’t I? Cassalis saw me show it at the airport barrier.”

  “I suppose that was so?” Zarrif looked at his secretary interrogatively.

  “He showed a passport,” the Frenchman said slowly, “but the inside of it I did not see.”

  “No matter,” insisted Lovelace. “I had a passport then. If I were not Jeremiah Green I would never have dared to produce it with Cassalis at my elbow. That would have been too great a risk for any spy to take. Another thing; it was I who brought you the letter from Ras Desoum. You can’t deny that, and you’ve been questioning me for days about the situation in Abyssinia. If I wasn’t Jeremiah Green how could I have told you so many things you wanted to know? I had a passport, I had the letter, and I’ve given you all the information for which you asked.”

  Before Zarrif could speak Lovelace drew a breath and jerked his head towards the wretched negro. “Now, what about him? He’s got a passport but he’s got nothing else. He’s only spun you some yarn about having his letter stolen—and another about his being Ras Desoum’s envoy. You can’t be such a fool as to believe that. You know Abyssinia. Is it likely that the Ras would entrust his secret business to a nigger? He’s an impostor. He hasn’t got a single thing to stand on except that passport and it’s faked—I’ll bet a thousand pounds to a halfpenny that it’s faked.”

  “No sah, no sah!” the black man gibbered. “I couldn’t go fakin’ no passport in a hundred years. I call de good Lawd to …”

  “Silence!” snapped Zarrif and his eyes fixed themselves on Lovelace’s drawn face. “One of you is lying and I believe it is you. There are many matters which might interest a European if he could obtain access to my house, but what could this coloured man stand to gain?”

  “God knows!” Lovelace burst out, but he added, his voice suddenly sinking to a whisper, “unless—unless he’s one of those people you spoke to me about—the Millers of God!”

  “I ain’t don’ nothin’ and I ain’t nobody,” wailed the miserable Mr. Green, but Lovelace saw the very faintest tremor run through Zarrif’s frail body.

  Next moment Zarrif’s hand was raised in a swift
gesture towards the negro. “Seize him” he cried to the two men behind his desk and before the quivering wretch could get out another word the gunmen had him by the arms.

  Zarrif sat back again with a little sigh. His quick eyes flickered from one to the other of his prisoners and he seemed to be considering his next step. At last he spoke quietly to Cassalis: “Take them away. It would be best to put them both in the cistern, I think.”

  “Mercy boss, mercy! I ain’t don’ nothin’ an’ de Lawd am ma witness,” screamed the black man, now utterly frantic with terror at the thought that they meant to drown him, but Lovelace allowed himself to be led away quietly. He knew something about eastern houses. In a place outside the town like this there would be no water-mains so the basement would be used to store an adequate water-supply. They were to be imprisoned in the cellar, or cistern, as it was called in all the older houses which had no tanks in their roofs. It was certain to be full of rats, and probably leeches; but it was doubtful if there would be more than a couple of feet of water in it. Whatever the discomfort it was better than death. There might even be a way out to the river if he could find it. At all events it meant a temporary respite and now the worst had been avoided he sagged with unutterable relief as his captors lugged him out into the hall and along a corridor.

  In the servants’ quarters at the back of the house one of them lifted a heavy trap in the flooring while the other held him covered with his pistol.

  A flight of wooden steps was revealed, leading down to still, glassy water which dully reflected the patch of light. Something scurried in it, rippling the surface for a second. Lovelace was given a push and, with a sigh of resignation, he stumbled down the steep steps. When his feet reached the water level he went cautiously but he touched the bottom after another couple of steps. As he had suspected it was only about eighteen inches deep.

  The sound of shouts, curses, prayers, came from above. Suddenly the square of light was obscured by a falling body. Lovelace stepped quickly aside and Mr. Green came hurtling down beside him with a resounding splash. The water did little to break the negro’s fall. He lay there groaning, gasping, sobbing. Lovelace picked him up and propped his quivering body against the steps as the trap descended with a thud and they were plunged in total darkness.

  The place was silent as the grave and pitch black. He spent the next few moments trying to restore his companion to some degree of sanity. At last, although still inarticulate, the negro recovered sufficiently to prop himself up without being supported. Then Lovelace left him to make a tour of inspection.

  Wading slowly through the water he advanced with his hands outstretched before him into the Stygian blackness. After he had gone a couple of yards he found a pillar. Leaving it on his right he proceeded a few more steps and ran into another. They were the supports of the house and he guessed the place to be full of them, knowing that the majority of these subterranean cisterns were constructed on similar lines.

  Another moment and he came up against the wall. It was smooth and slimy. Moving sideways step by step he kept touching the damp stones here and there so as not to miss a foot of their surface up to the highest level that he could reach. He came to a corner and passed on, another, another and another. Eventually he was at the place where he had started. There was no opening, such as he had hoped to find, connecting the cistern with the river.

  By the sound of Green’s incoherent prayers, which had now become a continuous muttered whispering, he made his way back to the steps. He was frightened—now—just a little. There was no way out? How long would Zarrif keep them there? The dank still darkness … the rats … the heavy silence! But, of course, they were only being kept there as prisoners. Just until Zarrif could satisfy himself as to which of them was really Jeremiah Green. All sorts of things might happen before that. He fought to reassure himself and began to consider the possibility of bribing their guards.

  It was then that he noticed a new sound. A low steady rhythmic beat coming faintly from above.

  “Stop that!” he exclaimed sharply, giving Green’s shoulder a push. “Listen! Is that an electric pump?”

  The negro ceased his whimpering. Lovelace stood stock still, almost up to his knees in water. The thud, thud, thud, of the engine was perceptibly louder.

  He remained motionless, a new terror gradually forming in his mind—and then he knew. He knew that the water was rising. An engine had been turned on which was pumping it up into the cistern from the river. It would rise and rise until it reached their thighs, their waists, their armpits, until their gasping mouths were pressed against the ceiling.

  Zarrif believed him to be the spy, but what was the life of a wretched nigger to a man like the Armenian, whose golden harvest depended on the death of millions? Mr. Zarrif was one who had a great aversion to accidents. He meant to take no chances. Lovelace knew now that both he and the wretched Green had been condemned to die there in the close, black darkness.

  CHAPTER XII

  IN THE CISTERN

  The water in the cellar was only rising very gradually but the rhythmic thud, thud, thud, of the electric pump sounded with inexorable regularity. There was no way, other than the trap-door, out of that underground cistern and Lovelace knew that, as it filled, he might keep floating until his head was forced against the roof but then he must surely drown.

  The negro began to mutter huskily again.

  “Oh Lawd, Lawd! Oh Lawd Jesus heah ma prayer! I’se a po’ sinner. I knows I done wrong. I knows it. But git me out o’ this. Oh Lawd Jesus git me out o’ heah!”

  With an impatient shove Lovelace thrust his fellow-prisoner aside and stumbled up the steep ladder. In the pitch darkness he misjudged the height and hit his head a stunning crack against the trap-door, slipped, slid, and fell into the knee-deep water.

  For a moment he lay there unconscious; his head resting on one of the slimy steps just above the waterline. When he raised it again he did not realise for a few seconds where he was and in that brief span of time a dozen scenes from his past life flashed through his disordered mind.

  He saw again the green lawns of his house in England and the beauty of the well-kept gardens as he had known them when a boy. Old Beetle, the butler, was welcoming him home, when he had returned after his father’s death, and addressing him for the first time as Sir Anthony. He was the tenth Baronet; and his next of kin was a distant girl cousin whom he scarcely knew. Fronds would be sold, under his present will, when he died. Suddenly he regretted intensely that he had never married and had a son.

  As he moved his head a stabbing pain shot through it and he thought himself back in India, just coming round after a murderous struggle he had had years before with a dacoit. Other memories of his travels flickered before his mental eyes. The poor little Chinese girl who had had both her legs blown off at the knee when he was doing relief work behind the lines in Manchukuo. The human devil who was selling water by its weight in silver to the refugees dying of thirst in a Bolivian forest when he had turned up there with his ambulance. The drunken crowd of white-clad savages who had yelled their heads off with excitement when Haile Selassie was crowned Emperor of Abyssinia in 1930.

  Abyssinia! Something clicked in his brain and the reason for his present desperate plight flooded back to him. The fanatical Christopher’s association with the Millers of God and their abortive attempt to assassinate Paxito Zarrif in Athens. The Millers were madmen or were they all terribly sane? Anyhow, it was murder and he would never have lent them his help unless—yes, unless Valerie Lorne had overcome his better judgment—and she was Christopher’s fiancée.

  Now they were in Egypt; the other two half a dozen miles away in Alexandria without the least idea where he was, and he himself at Zarrif’s lonely villa on the fringe of the desert; caught out, captured, and flung down into this underground cistern to die.

  At the thought he staggered to his feet, dashed up the steps again, and began to batter on the underside of the trap with his clenched fists. Yet, ev
en as he bruised his knuckles on the unyielding wood until they bled, he realised the childish futility of his effort. It was impossible to break out and, even if he could, Zarrif’s gunmen would promptly throw him back again.

  He rested for a moment, panting slightly. Below him the negro’s supplications had risen to a more exalted note. “Oh, Lawd, Lawd … I ain’t nobody … I ain’t don’ nothin’ … Oh, Lawd Jesus git me out o’ heah—git me out o’ heah.”

  In spite of the heavy darkness which wrapped them round like a black velvet cloak, Lovelace could picture the unfortunate Mr. Jeremiah Green. The smart white linen lounge suit, which had doubtless been the envy and admiration of his Baptist Brotherhood in Gainesville, Fla., now soiled and sodden from his having been flung, head foremost, down into the rat-infested water.

  Suddenly the white man was filled with a monstrous impatience at the black’s snivelling prayers and ordered him to be silent.

  Green’s voice came again, whimpering now, “Oh, Mister. I ain’t harmed nobody an’ I wouldn’t be heah if yo’ hadn’t said yo’ was me. Let me pray, Boss—let me pray. Dere ain’t no hope for us ‘cept in de Lawd!”

  Instantly Lovelace was smitten with a terrible feeling of guilt and pity. It was true enough. He had said he was Jeremiah Green in order to get into Zarrif’s house. Then, when the rightful owner of the name had turned up so unexpectedly, he had accused the poor wretch of being an impostor. Worse, he had even suggested that the black might be a Miller about to make an attempt on Zarrif’s life. Only to confuse the issue and gain time in which to think, of course, and never imagining for one moment that Zarrif, unable to make certain which of them was the enemy within his gates, might decide to do away with them both.