The Secret War

by Dennis Wheatley

  Here, Lovelace made a pretence of trying to sell some of his goods, brass bangles and anklets from Birmingham, tawdry trinkets from Hamburg, and oriental knives made in Sheffield. Over a quarter of an hour was wasted haggling with one man who coveted a murderous-looking dagger, but he could not pay the price Lovelace demanded and to give it away too cheaply would have immediately drawn unwelcome attention to the two traders.

  About fifty horses were stabled in the second court, but any number of domestic animals ran riot, and filth was everywhere. Behind a row of shacks a rough circle of men had been formed and, in the centre, two enormous blacks were wrestling stark naked on the ground among the refuse and manure. In a corner near by an old man sat facing a ring of about forty children. He wore a ragged sort of turban and his face was engrained with dirt. Each time he pronounced certain words with a sonorous roll the children chanted them in a high treble after him. “He’s a priest,” breathed Lovelace. “Teaching them bits out of the Kebra Nagast, their version of the Old Testament. Learning that stuff off by heart is about all the schooling most people get in Abyssinia. Very different from what we saw yesterday—isn’t it? Come on, let’s try and wangle our way into the Holy of Holies.”

  The gate of the inner courtyard was more carefully guarded. Two soldiers stood by it leaning on their rifles and a third, an officer apparently, since he wore a dirty white duck suit, a blue bus-conductor’s hat and a Sam Browne belt to which was attached a revolver holster, lounged near them.

  Lovelace bowed himself almost to the ground and Christopher followed his example. As the officer walked over to them Lovelace addressed him in Arabic, “Illustrious and Valorous Master, we have goods to sell. Permit us, I beg, to enter; that we may show them to the Noble Lords whose sweetness makes this court a place of perfumes.”

  The answer came in halting Arabic. “Show me what you have.”

  With a deep obeisance Lovelace spread his wares out upon the ground and, for the next five minutes, Christopher marvelled as he stood behind him. Every trace of the quiet, reserved Englishman had disappeared; instead, a born Oriental rattled on unceasingly in flowery Arabic and gesticulated graphically with both hands.

  The Abyssinian displayed no emotion until Lovelace produced a miniature automatic, held it pointing at his own heart, and pressed the trigger; an Egyptian cigarette shot out of the barrel. He caught it deftly, placed it between his lips and, pressing a button, lit it from an automatic lighter concealed in the butt of the toy pistol.

  The black man’s eyes glinted with desire. “How much?” he asked.

  “Twenty thalers,” said Lovelace.

  The officer shook his head, but his fascinated gaze was still on the miraculous toy.

  Lovelace held it out to him by the barrel. “It is yours, Master, if I may show my wares to the Illustrious Ferentshis who are within.”

  “How do you know that there are foreigners here?” the black asked suspiciously.

  “Rumour has a long tongue, oh begetter of many hundred handsome children,” Lovelace countered. “All the world knows the exalted Ras extends his regal hospitality to these bringers of Evil,” he spat suddenly, and added, “but their thalers are as numerous as the fleas upon a donkey—and I am poor.”

  After a quick glance round the inner court the man in the soiled dungarees snatched at the pistol and motioned them inside. As ever, in the East, cupidity had unlocked the door. They snatched up their goods before he could change his mind and genuflected past him.

  The third enclosure was almost as large as the others, but its buildings were more massive and it was a little cleaner. In the centre rose a single-storied, stone block, evidently Ras Desoum’s own dwelling. At one end of it the observation tower dominated the whole human ant-heap from its top platform at the modest height of thirty feet. A separate building was, perhaps, a banqueting hall, and another the stables that held the Ras’s chargers. Against the walls were the same wattle-and-daub shanties as in the outer courts, except in one place, where a long, low, modern bungalow was raised on a concrete platform a few feet above the ground. On its stoep four Europeans were sitting, and, even in the distance, Lovelace recognized them as some of Zarrif’s gunmen.

  “Now we’re inside I want to talk to you,” Christopher whispered.

  “Shut up,” snapped Lovelace. “That chap at the gate’s still watching us. It’s devilish risky, but we’re sunk now unless we do our stuff.” With a slow but firm step he led the way over to the bungalow.

  As they advanced they saw that a machine-gun on a tripod had been placed at one corner of the veranda. The weapon commanded all the open ground of the inner court, yet none of the gunmen was within twenty yards of it.

  “This is where Zarrif hangs out all right,” Lovelace whispered; “but you see he takes his precautions, even here.”

  “If we could grab that gun and reverse it we’d have the whole party cold,” Christopher muttered in sudden excitement.

  “Good God, no!” Lovelace muttered back. “There’re five hundred men with rifles in this place. They’d pot us when we tried to climb out over the wall as easy as sitting rabbits. We’ve got to wait till after dark. Steady now! Try and think yourself into the skin of a native. We’ve passed muster as Arabs with the Abyssinians, but some of these chaps have seen me before, face to face, and if they once smell a rat they’ll bump us off without even waiting to ask Zarrif.”

  With a forced, ingratiating grin he produced his goods and called out to the bodyguard in exceedingly bad French:

  “Hi! Masters! Souvenir of Abyssinia yes! Very fine, very cheap. Necklace for pretty girl. All are pearl come from Persian Gulf. Ivory elephant bring plenty luck. Come, Masters, look!”

  One man murmured to another: “Here’s a chance to buy a few things. I’m going to spend a bit as we’re leaving to-morrow.” The man spoke in Spanish, but Lovelace knew enough of that language to catch the drift of what he said, and redoubled his enticements.

  The second man shook his head. “Save your money, friend. Who can say when we’ll be able to earn any more now?”

  In spite of the pessimist, Lovelace succeeded in unloading thirty-five thalers’ worth of goods on to two of the thugs after the usual haggling that was expected of him in his part.

  He was just collecting his things again when his heart almost missed a beat. Cassalis came out of one of the doors of the building and fixed him with a suspicious stare.

  Christopher, recognising the secretary from Lovelace’s description, felt his hair prickle on his scalp. If the Frenchman noticed that the features of the Arab trader were exactly the same as those of a gentleman who had eaten quite a number of meals with him under the name of Jeremiah Green, the next few seconds would see certain bloodshed. He fumbled under his burnous for his pistol, while Lovelace, with the audacity born of desperation, proceeded to badger Cassalis to examine his stock.

  Cassalis seemed worried and distrait. After a quick glance at the goods he ordered them off, and began to talk excitedly to the others about arrangements for their departure from Abyssinia the following day.

  The pseudo-Arabs beat a hasty retreat. Lovelace let out a quick sigh of relief and nudged Christopher’s arm. “Now we’ve got to hide before somebody spots us and turns us out. Look! Over there, between those two huts, by that big pile of straw.”

  “I’ve got to talk to you,” muttered Christopher urgently.

  “You can talk all you want to in a minute.” Lovelace’s lazy glance was fixed on the apathetic soldiers who guarded the entrance to the court.

  A high note on a horn sounded from out near the roadway and some native drums began to beat. “What’s that?” Christopher asked jerkily.

  “Curfew. They’ll be closing the gates for the night in a few moments now. Hadn’t you noticed the sun is just about to set?”

  It was true. The strong shadows had been lengthening even when they were talking with the officer at the inner gate. Twenty minutes had elapsed since then, and now all the gimcr
ack buildings were bathed in the pinkish glow of twilight.

  As they reached the big pile of loose straw and wriggled down into it, Christopher’s voice was more urgent than ever: “Listen!” he pleaded. “You’ve got me in here which I could never have done for myself. I know the lie of the land and where Zarrif is. I’m—well, terribly grateful. Now, you must get out before it’s too late.”

  “Get out—why?” asked Lovelace in surprise.

  “That’s why!” Christopher produced a paper from inside his robe and passed it over. “That’s a letter from Valerie to you. She pushed it under your bedroom door late last night. I happened to see her and I was half-crazy with jealousy. I fished it out with a thin piece of stick—then read it. Cad’s trick, I suppose, but at least it’s given me the truth about the situation.”

  By the last light of the dying sun, while the native drums were still rolling, Lovelace read the pencilled scrawl.

  My dearest one,

  I have your note. If anything could help me to face the future it is that you understand. Christopher is so weak, so helpless, so very much alone. He put me through hell this evening, but I’m so fond of him that I stood for it and I shall never give him further cause to doubt my faithfulness to him.

  He has promised to forget how he found us and is still determined to go through with his mission. I’ve no right to ask you anything, but—if you can bear to remain with us—please carry on to-morrow as if nothing had happened.

  Afterwards, we must never meet again. I couldn’t bear it. But, in case anything goes wrong, I want you to know that I have loved you from the very first moment we met years back in England and that I shall never love anyone else with real love as long as I live.

  Valerie.

  Lovelace sat silent with the letter in his hand; his thoughts racing and chaotic. So she did love him—after all. Those precious kisses the night before had not been born of impulse or a sentimental weakness welling up from schoolgirl memories, as he had imagined on receiving no sign of any kind in reply to his own note. She loved him. Had loved him for years in secret; and here he was trapped in an undertaking he had always hated and in which all the chances were that he would lose his life. If only he had known a few hours earlier; but if he had, could he …

  Christopher seized his arm and shook it, breaking in upon his thoughts. “Quick, man—you must get out. In a minute it’ll be too late.”

  “It is—too late.”

  “Nonsense! They haven’t closed the gate yet.”

  “I mean it’s too late for me to back out of this thing.”

  “It’s not. For God’s sake! Don’t you see that once I’d read her letter I never intended to ask more of you than your help to get in here. You must go back so you can look after Valerie.”

  Lovelace shook his head. “I can’t. I could never look her in the face again if I left you on your own here now.”

  The rolling of the drums ceased. The horn sounded again. In the deepening shadows a score of men slowly thrust-to the heavy wooden gates of the inner court.

  For a long time Lovelace and Christopher crouched under their thin covering of straw in silence; each sunk in his own thoughts. The brief twilight gave place to darkness, but fires were lit on the bare ground and flaming torches placed in sconces round the walls. From the outer courts there came the murmur of discordant singing, the clopping of hoofs as the horses stamped restlessly, the wailing of a child, and all the other occasional noises which make up the night sounds of an Eastern village.

  “How long must we wait?” asked Christopher at last.

  “Until they sleep. Our only hope lies in complete surprise. To do the job and be away over the wall before they realise what’s happened.”

  “We may have to shoot some of the bodyguard.”

  “I can’t help it.” Lovelace’s tone was bitter now. “They’re hired mercenaries paid to deal death or risk it in the service of their master. It’s the same gang that tried to murder me in Alexandria and who shot down Valerie’s plane without the least compunction. There must be no stupid weakness. Once we go in we’ve got to shoot to kill.”

  An hour, two hours, drifted by. Their vigil seemed endless. Christopher was beginning to think the dawn might come before they would be able to carry out their business, but when he got out his watch he was amazed to find it only a little after ten. Lovelace was not surprised; he had a fairly accurate idea of the time from the movement of the bright stars overhead.

  The outer courts were quieter now. The great bulk of Ras Desoum’s followers was already fast asleep, but near his house, the bungalow, and the inner gateway, occasional figures still moved and were thrown up for a second in sharp silhouette against the brightness of the fires.

  “We’ll give them another hour,” Lovelace murmured as Christopher told him the time, “then see if we dare risk it.”

  The hour dragged by. At the end of it all movement in the inner court had ceased, most of the torches had burnt out to blackened sticks, and the fires were dying down.

  Christopher stirred restlessly in the heap of straw. Suddenly he muttered: “For God’s sake let’s get on with it.”

  “All right.” Lovelace stood up and got out his heavy automatic. “Come on, then. Stick to the shadows as much as you can and, if you hear anyone coming, go dead as a log.”

  With cautious steps they moved from their hiding-place, edged round the hut, back to the wall again on its far side, and so on; following the outline of the court round two of its sides until they were within twenty yards of the bungalow.

  One window, which had been concealed from them before by an intervening angle of the house, was still lighted. The glow from the window faintly illuminated the stoop. The machine-gun was still upon it, trained on the open space and gate, yet, to their surprise, not a single gunman was on duty.

  “The room with the light will be Zarrif’s,” Lovelace whispered. “No one but that scheming devil would work so late. Queer none of the bodyguard is about. Perhaps he considers Ras Desoum’s men and the two outer courtyards sufficient protection. That’s not like him, though, because the wall the bungalow backs against has nothing on its other side; only an open field.”

  Christopher pressed his arm. “If you can grab that machine-gun to cover our retreat, I’ll break in and do the job.”

  “Let’s think of our retreat first. See that low shanty leaning up against this end of the bungalow. Think you could swing yourself up on to its roof?”

  “Yes,” Christopher breathed. His pale face was set and he was trembling with excitement now.

  “Right, then,” Lovelace went on quietly. “From that roof you can easily hoist yourself on to the wall. Don’t wait for me. I’ll take care of myself and I’ll probably be out before you are. The second you’ve killed your man you’re to dash out and over. It’s no more than a twelve-foot drop on the other side. Pick yourself up and beat it for the car as though all the devils in hell were after you … Sssss—what’s that?”

  At the same second Christopher heard the soft footfalls. Instinctively they both drew back into the deeper shadows. A watchman came into view swinging a lantern.

  Lovelace pressed himself against the side of the hut. It gave behind him. He staggered and nearly fell, put one foot inside the door that had swung open, to save himself, but it met empty space instead of ground. Next second he had pitched backward in the darkness and was falling! falling! falling!

  In those brief, frightful seconds he expected to be smashed to pieces when he reached the bottom of that infernal pit, but he brought up on a soft and yielding substance that gave beneath him.

  By the mercy of Heaven the safety-catch of his automatic was still down so it had not exploded. For a moment he lay on his back, wondering what in heaven and hell could have happened; then Christopher’s voice came in an urgent whisper from above: “Lovelace, where are you? What the …”

  “Quiet!” Lovelace cut him short. “If you’ve got your torch handy, close that door and
shine it downwards.”

  A moment later a beam of light cut into the pitch-black darkness, and he saw that he was sitting on a great mound of loose grain. He had fallen backwards into an Abyssinian storage-pit, and the sheer, dark tunnel of it showed over his head to Christopher’s light a dozen feet above.

  He could not get up again by the way he had come down. That was certain. Fearful now that he was trapped unless Christopher could find something with which to haul him up, he replaced his pistol underneath his robe and, getting out his own torch, flashed it round to see if the place had any other exit.

  To his relief he found that he was at one end of a large cellar. Arms, ammunition, bales of cotton, root crops and all sorts of other things were stored in it besides the pyramid of grain on which he sat. A set of stone stairs at the far end and two ladders leading to trapdoors in other places showed that the cellar had several entrances. He slid down the heap of grain, hurried to the steps at the far end and up them. Pressing gently on the wooden door at their top, he found that it was unlocked and gave on to a dark corridor. Hastening down the steps, he ran back to the grain-shaft and peered up to where Christopher was still holding the light.

  “There’s another way out,” he said in a swift whisper. “We must stick together. As I can’t get up to you, you’d better come down to me. See the safety catch on your pistol is set before you jump.”

  He stood aside and as Christopher landed with a soft thud, ankle-deep in the grain, shot out a hand to steady him.

  Flashing their torches before them, they made for the cellar stairs. Lovelace was leading, but it was Christopher who spotted the grim thing that lay just to the right of the lower steps.

  “Half a minute,” he exclaimed. “What’s this?”

  Lovelace paused and lowered the beam of his torch. In his hurry he had not noticed it before, but a body lay there huddled in a limp, unnatural attitude, which suggested that it had been thrown there dead.

  “Someone they’ve bumped off,” he muttered, staring at the vivid splashes of blood which stained the white shama at the level of the dead man’s chest. Then, with a sharply indrawn breath, he stooped lower. The still face was dark brown and half hidden by a native headdress; but a deep scar ran from the left corner of the mouth to the chin.