the civilized world.' And then she had gone on to expose the intention
of the great nations to prevent her reaching the embattled empire and
reporting its plight. She had ended the despatch, 'Your correspondent
has rejected this restriction placed upon her movements and her
integrity. Tonight
I have joined a group of intrepid men who are risking their lives to
defy the embargo, and to carry through the closed territories a
quantity of arms and supplies desperately needed by the beleaguered
nation. By the time you read this, we shall have failed and have died
upon the desert coast of Africa, which the natives fearfully call the
'Great Burn' or we shall have succeeded. We shall have landed by night
from a small coasting vessel and trekked through hundreds of miles of
savage and hostile territory to a meeting with an Ethiopian prince. I
hope that in my next despatch, I shall be able to describe our journey
to you, but if the gods of chance decree otherwise at least we shall
have tried.' Vicky was very pleased with the first article. In her
usual flamboyant style, she particularly liked the
'trekking' bit which gave a touch of local colour. It had
everything:
drama, mystery, the little guy taking on the big.
She knew that the completed series would be a giant and she was excited
and aglow with anticipation.
Behind her Jake Barton followed. He listened with half his attention
to the engine beat of the Pig. For no apparent reason,
except perhaps a premonition of what awaited her, the car had that
night refused to start. Jake had cranked her until his arm was cramped
and aching. He had blown through the fuel system, checked the plugs,
magneto and every other moving part that could possibly be at fault.
Then, after another hour of tinkering, she had started and run sweetly,
without giving the slightest hint of what had prevented her doing so
earlier.
With the other half of his attention, he was mentally in the mountains
checking out his preparations knowing that this was his last chance to
fill any gaps in his list. It was one hell of a long trail from Month
to the Wells of Chaldi and not many service stations on the road. The
pontoon raft of drums had been stowed aboard the HirondeUe that
afternoon, and each car carried its own means of sustenance and
survival a load which taxed their ancient suspensions and body work
Thus Jake's conscious mind was fully occupied, but below that level was
a gut memory that tightened his nerves and charged his blood with
adrenaline There had been another night like this, moving in column in
the darkness, with the throttled-back engine beat drumming softly in
his ears but then there had been the glow of star shell in the sky
ahead, the distant juddering of a Maxim firing at a gap in the wire and
the smell of death and mud in his nostrils. Unlike Gregorius
Maryam in the car ahead, Jake Barton knew about war and all its
glories.
apadopoulos was waiting for them on the wharf, carrying a hurricane
lamp and dressed in an ankle, length greatcoat that gave him the air of
