The Secret War

by Dennis Wheatley

  “Good God!” he breathed. “It’s the Austrian we met in Jibuti. The chap I saw for the first time outside Zarrif’s house in Athens.”

  “Why, yes,” Christopher muttered. “The fellow who calls himself Baron Foldvar. I recognise him now in spite of his disguise. What the deuce can he have been doing here dressed up like that?”

  “God knows! He’s one of Zarrif’s people. Perhaps they caught him double-crossing them. Whoever he was he must have been a decent fellow once, though, so let’s straighten him out. He looks too terrible like that.”

  The Baron could not have been dead for many hours, as rigor mortis had not set in. His chest was riddled with bullets, so he must have died instantaneously. They arranged his body decently, drew a piece of sacking over his face, and left him. Their nerves keyed up to the highest pitch, they tiptoed up the steps.

  The corridor on to which the cellar gave was dark and silent. The torches showed it to be like that in a modern house, and they guessed they were now in Ras Desoum’s own residence. The ground-floor passage ended in a door fifteen feet away.

  “Put out your light,” whispered Lovelace, and, as he switched off his own, they crept down the passage, their guns grasped ready in their hands.

  The door was not locked, and opened to his touch. He saw at once that it gave on to a large room; the starlight was sufficient to outline a row of windows which showed faintly in contrast to the solid blackness of the opposite wall.

  Suddenly a deep growl sounded. Lovelace switched round. Two bright, yellow eyes were gleaming at him in the darkness. It was not a dog and, next second, came the appalling realisation of what those fierce yellow eyes portended.

  It was a lion! In this country almost given over to wild beasts, the Abyssinian nobles kept lions as a protection in their houses. The Emperor himself had had a couple which used to lie across the doorway of his workroom until the British Minister complained and they were removed in consequence.

  There was no time to think. Christopher flashed the torch he still held in his left hand as the great beast gave a full-throated roar. As it sprang they pressed the triggers of their pistols and poured half the contents of their weapons into its face and body.

  The brute crashed to the floor within a couple of feet of them, writhed, turned on its back, stabbed the air wildly with its unsheathed claws, and thrashed its tail in its death agony; but those crashing shots in the silence of the night had roused every man, woman and child in Ras Desoum’s house and courtyards.

  Shouts of alarm and the patter of naked, running feet sounded almost before the acrid smoke had ceased to drift from the pistol barrels.

  “Quick!” yelled Christopher. “Zarrif! I’ve got to get him!” He dashed for the door which gave on to the court.

  With desperate fingers he wrenched back the bolts while Lovelace lit him with his torch. They both tumbled outside.

  “The gun,” shouted Lovelace. “Make for the machine-gun.”

  Side by side they sprinted across the open towards the bungalow. In one bound they were upon the stoep. Lovelace flung himself flat and grabbed the tripod as though it was a Rugby football. Christopher burst in through the door of the bungalow nearest the lighted window. The crack of a pistol sounded from the room—then another. One of the bullets shattered the window. There was a scream as it hit someone in the court. Flashes began to stab the darkness by the gate, and the bullets of the native guard smacked into the brickwork above Lovelace’s head. Next moment he had his thumbs on the buttons of the machine-gun, and its staccato clatter made the night hideous.

  The horn that had been blown for the closing of the gates at sunset sounded again. Shouting and clamour came from the outer courts. Ras Desoum’s retainers thought that Zarrif’s white gunmen were attacking their overlord. The gates were flung open and they came streaming in.

  Lovelace knew his position was untenable. Behind him more shooting and sounds of commotion came from the bungalow; any second Zarrif’s men might dash out and take him in the rear. He ceased fire, grabbed the heavy gun, and staggered with it to a new position twenty yards away where he could cover either the gate or the bungalow. As he set it down a stab of pain shot through him like the searing of a white-hot iron; a bullet had hit him in the shoulder.

  Suddenly Christopher appeared in one of the doorways of the bungalow. A gunman came out of another at the same instant. He was pulling on his coat, but, taking Christopher for an attacking native, he fired at him from the hip. Christopher jumped just before the flash, half-turned, shot the fellow down, and raced over to Lovelace.

  “Zarrif wasn’t in either of those rooms,” he panted, his heart beating as though it would burst from the triple strain of excitement, exertion, and the altitude.

  “Perhaps he’s in the house,” Lovelace gasped. He fired another burst in the direction of the gate, knowing that if they could not keep the natives back they would be overwhelmed and torn to pieces.

  Shrieks of agony told him his shots had found their marks, but hundreds of warriors from the outer courts were now forcing the front ranks of the mob forward. Bullets sang over the spot where Christopher and Lovelace lay crouched, but the main fire of the Abyssinians was directed at the bungalow.

  Zarrit’s men, believing that the Abyssinians intended a midnight massacre, were barricading themselves in. One of them was yelling commands in Spanish. The lights which had been lit at the first alarm were put out again and a second machine-gun was brought into action from one of the windows.

  Christopher grabbed Lovelace by the arm. “The house!—the house! I’ve got to get Zarrif.”

  “All right! One moment!” Lovelace fired a final burst from his machine-gun which exhausted the belt of ammunition. He was cursing the evil luck which had caused them to misjudge Zarrif’s whereabouts as he slipped a fresh clip of bullets into his automatic. If they had been right Christopher would have done his work by now and they might have stood some chance of escaping over the wall unobserved in the confusion.

  “Come on! come on!” Christopher urged, springing to his feet.

  “Crawl, man, for God’s sake!” Lovelace shouted, but his warning came too late. Christopher grabbed at his arm and then sank down on his knees.

  “I’m hit!” he muttered. “Hell, how it hurts—bone’s smashed, I think, but—but it’s only my left arm—I’m not done yet.” He began to wriggle forward on his stomach.

  Lovelace’s shoulder was paining him badly and he knew that he was losing blood. As he edged his way towards the house a new clamour caught his attention. Something was happening out in the roadway. Shouting, shots, and a fresh pandemonium came from the outer court, adding to the general din. Fighting had broken out there as well, some private feud, perhaps, but he had no time to pause and wonder; they had nearly reached the doorway of the house. It was still open and they both stood up to rush it.

  Christopher threw a quick glance over his shoulder. The court was lit by the continuous flash of rifles. Bodies lay twisted and hunched in all directions. The machine-gun in the bungalow had ceased fire. The Abyssinians were charging across the open, trampling down their wounded comrades as they ran. The gunmen were still using their pistols, determined to sell their lives dearly. The place was a shambles.

  As he turned he saw Lovelace stagger, hit again, this time in the thigh; to save him further exposure to the flying bullets he thrust him through the door of the house and flung himself in behind him.

  In the flickering light caused by the flashes Lovelace saw that the hall was empty except for the dead lion. A sudden sound in his rear caused him to lurch round. A figure crouched in the angle behind the open door. It was Cassalis.

  Half-dazed by pain and weak from loss of blood, Lovelace strove to jerk up his automatic, but the Frenchman was already holding a pistol levelled at his face. A thick, black cylinder on the end of the barrel was less than six inches from his mouth. He recognised the weapon instantly as an ether pistol which could discharge poison gas, like those t
he Millers of God issued to their appointed executioners.

  Lovelace knew then that the game was up. There was no time to duck or charge even if he had had the strength to do so. Yet in that split second the words “VENGEANCE IS MINE—SAITH THE LORD” flamed through his tired brain as he realised that he was to die by the very means they had intended for Zarrif.

  Suddenly a fist crashed on his wounded shoulder. The pain was agonising, his knees gave way, and he slid to the floor.

  The last thing he glimpsed was Christopher’s clear-cut, cameo-like features surrounded by a misty halo of the deadly gas. By striking Lovelace down from behind he had been forced to receive the discharge of the pistol full in his own face.

  When Lovelace came round he was first conscious of the clean, astringent smell of disinfectant and the crackle of spasmodic rifle fire coming faintly from a distance. The sound brought back the fact that he was wounded; his thigh and shoulder began to throb. He tried to ease his position by turning over, but found himself apparently strapped down; only his left hand was free and the fingers of it met the cool linen of a sheet.

  A freckle-faced, sandy-haired man, clad in a white coat, bent over him. “So you’ve roused at last,” he said with a strong Scotch accent. “It’s near on five days ye’ve been lying like a corpse.”

  “Where am I?” Lovelace managed to murmur.

  “In the hospital ward of the British Legation.” The orderly held out a glass. “Drink this now; the doctor said I was to give it you the moment you came to.”

  Lovelace knew there was some question which he wanted desperately to ask, but his mind seemed to have gone completely blank. All he could do was to stammer, “What—what does that shooting mean?”

  “The heathen are killing each other and looting their own toun. It started the day after they brought you in: within an hour of the wee Emperor abandoning the war and them to their own evil devices. He went off in the train to Jibuti with his family and friends; to travel to Europe, they say, and ask help of the League. But you must’na talk. Drink this now.”

  “Wait!” Lovelace turned his face away. He remembered now the thing he had to know. “Miss Lorne—an American lady—have you heard anything about her—is she—is she safe?”

  The orderly grinned. “Ai, and she’s been here every hour of each day to look at you. She’s safe and so are you. Safe as if you were in the ould Castle on the rock in Edinburgh. Haven’t I told you, mon, that you’re in the British Legation.”

  Lovelace drank off the yellow fluid. His body was now one great pain and he felt very, very tired. The effort to think coherently was too much and, after a moment, he gave up the struggle.

  When he opened his eyes again it was the following morning and Valerie was beside him. She stooped and kissed him on the mouth.

  “Chistopher?” he asked in a whisper.

  “Dead,” she said, and he saw that her eyes were almost burnt out with crying, so that she could cry no more.

  “How—how did I escape being butchered—after I fainted?” His head was clearer now and the details of that last scene of carnage were coming back to him.

  She leaned nearer. “I couldn’t stand it, Anthony—I couldn’t stand it. I stuck it out for six hours and every moment I thought I was going mad; then I caved in and made Henrick Heidenstam take me to the Emperor.

  “I told him everything—the whole truth about the Millers of God—and he understood. He was wonderful, oh, wonderful. He sent troops at once to arrest Zarrif’s gunmen and both of you. They arrived in time to save you, but poor Christopher was dead. He gave his life for Peace.”

  “He gave his life to save mine,” Lovelace said softly. “Later I’ll tell you about it; but we failed, you know—failed to get Zarrif. He’ll be well on his way back to Europe with the concession in his pocket by now.”

  Valerie shook her head. “No, my darling. If only we’d known it we might have all slept tranquilly in our beds that night. Zarrif was already dead by four o’clock in the afternoon.”

  Lovelace closed his eyes. That explained a lot, he was thinking. The gunmen were all sleeping, then, because they had no one left to guard. It accounted, too, for Cassalis having been in such a state of dither at sunset. In a faint voice he asked, “How—how did Zarrif die?”

  “Heart, darling. You know how it troubles even us at this height; the strain must have proved too much for him at his age. I was still at the Palace waiting for news of you when Ras Desoum was brought in by the soldiers and told the Emperor. I suppose that’s why he decided to leave Addis the following day.”

  “Poor little man.” Lovelace’s voice came stronger now. “If his deal with Zarrif had gone through he’d have been in funds again.”

  “Yes; although things were in a far worse state than we knew. His troops were mutinying and his army going to pieces under Marshal Badoglio’s ceaseless attacks.”

  “Perhaps, but the Italian main line was still nearly two hundred miles away. If the Emperor had been able to collect the funds from Zarrif to satisfy his greedy, thieving Rases the Abyssinians would have hung together and the rains would have given him six months to reorganise. As it is, Badoglio’s exploited his victories in the genuine Napoleonic manner and the Emperor’s thrown his hand in. So the war’s over, eh?”

  “Yes, the war’s over,” Valerie agreed quickly. “The Italians are marching into the town now, and they’ll do more in ten years to make life safe and human and decent for the people of the country than poor, priest ridden Haile Selassie could have done in a century. Giulio Dolomenchi arrived with the advance guard. I saw him this morning. He went straight to the American Legation to inquire after our safety, and then he came on here. He’s such a dear. I’m terribly glad he’s come through all right.”

  Lovelace grinned feebly. “So am I. I’m glad the Italians have won, too. They were bound to in the end, and this sudden finish saves thousands of lives being sacrificed on both sides in another campaign next autumn. Above all, I’m glad that concession never went through. For the moment, anyway, we’ve no longer cause to fear another war in Europe.”

  “Events have proved how right the Millers were,” Valerie said slowly. “Zarrif’s death was necessary. But that he should die of heart failure at the eleventh hour makes you think, doesn’t it? Perhaps it was God’s business and not ours—really.”

  For a long time Lovelace was silent. At last he spoke again. “Did it ever occur to you, sweet, to wonder at an organisation like the Millers leaving the affair solely in the hands of a boy like Christopher when such tremendous issues depended on its outcome?”

  “No,” she said, “I never thought of that; but now you raise the point, it does seem rather strange.”

  “Well, I don’t believe they did. Cassalis killed Christopher with one of the Millers’ special gas pistols. Where could he have got hold of such a weapon? Christopher and I found the body of a white man who had disguised himself as a native in Ras Desoum’s cellar. It was hardly cold and riddled with bullets. We recognised it as that of poor Baron Foldvar who you met in Jibuti. Perhaps the pistol Cassalis used was taken from the Baron and I did him a great injustice. It may be that the Baron killed Zarrif with it before the gunmen shot him down. We shall never know for certain, now, and it was God’s business; but I believe he did send one of His Millers to do His will.”

  A Note on the Author

  DENNIS WHEATLEY Dennis Wheatley (1897–1977) was an English author whose prolific output of stylish thrillers and occult novels made him one of the world’s best-selling writers from the 1930s through the 1960s.

  Wheatley was the eldest of three children, and his parents were the owners of Wheatley & Son of Mayfair, a wine business. He admitted to little aptitude for schooling, and was expelled from Dulwich College, London. In 1919 he assumed management of the family wine business but in 1931, after a decline in business due to the depression, he began writing.

  His first book, The Forbidden Territory, became a bestseller overnight, and sin
ce then his books have sold over 50 million copies worldwide. During the 1960s, his publishers sold one million copies of Wheatley titles per year, and his Gregory Sallust series was one of the main inspirations for Ian Fleming’s James Bond stories.

  During the Second World War, Wheatley was a member of the London Controlling Section, which secretly coordinated strategic military deception and cover plans. His literary talents gained him employment with planning staffs for the War Office. He wrote numerous papers for the War Office, including suggestions for dealing with a German invasion of Britain.

  Dennis Wheatley died on 11th November 1977. During his life he wrote over 70 books and sold over 50 million copies.

  Discover books by Dennis Wheatley published by Bloomsbury Reader at

  www.bloomsbury.com/DennisWheatley

  Duke de Richleau

  The Forbidden Territory

  The Devil Rides Out

  The Golden Spaniard

  Three Inquisitive People

  Strange Conflict

  Codeword Golden Fleece

  The Second Seal

  The Prisoner in the Mask

  Vendetta in Spain

  Dangerous Inheritance

  Gateway to Hell

  Gregory Sallust

  Black August

  Contraband

  The Scarlet Impostor

  Faked Passports

  The Black Baroness

  V for Vengeance

  Come into My Parlour

  The Island Where Time Stands Still

  Traitors’ Gate

  They Used Dark Forces

  The White Witch of the South Seas

  Julian Day

  The Quest of Julian Day

  The Sword of Fate

  Bill for the Use of a Body

  Roger Brook

  The Launching of Roger Brook