of innocents caught up in affairs which they had not precipitated and
which they did not understand.
By the time that they landed at Addis Ababa they had prepared their
story and rehearsed it thoroughly. As soon as the Cessna pulled on to
the hardstand in front of the airport buildings and the pilot cut the
engine, Geoffrey came back to life again, only a little green around the
gills, and handed Royan down the aircraft steps with a flourish.
'Of course, you will stay at the residence,' he told them. 'The hotels
in town are too dreadful to contemplate, and HE has a half-decent chef
and a passable wine cellar. I will rustle up some togs for both of you.
My missus is about the same size as you, Dr Al Simma, and Nicky will fit
into my gear at a pinch. Thank God, I have a spare dinner jacket. HE is
a bit of a stickler for form.'
The British Ambassador's residence had been built during the reign of
the old Emperor, Haile Selassie, before Mussolini's invasion in the
1930s. Set on the outskirts of the town, it was an example of the better
colonial architecture, with a thatched roof and wide verandas. The
lawns, tended by. a host of gardeners, were wide and green, contrasting
with the brilliant crimson of the poinsettia. The mansion had survived
both the revolution and the war of liberation that followed.
At the front entrance Geoffrey handed them over to an Ethiopian butler
in a long, spotlessly white shamnw, who showed them to adjoining
bedrooms on the second floor. Nicholas heard the bathwater running in
Royan's suite next door as he lay in his own brimming bath, sipping a
whisky and soda and twiddling the taps with his big toe.
Then there was the murmur of the doctor's voice from next door as he
attended to Royan's knee.
Geoffrey's dinner jacket was loose round his waist and too short in the
arms and legs, and his shoes pinched, added to which Nicholas was in
need of a haircut, he realized, as he surveyed himself in the mirror.
'No help for it, now, he decided with resignation, and went to knock on
Royan's door.
'I say!' he exclaimed as she opened it. Sylvia Tennant had loaned her a
lime'green cocktail dress that set off Royan's olive skin marvellously
well, Royan had washed her hair and left it loose on her shoulders. He
felt his pulse accelerate like a teenager on his first date, and laughed
at himself.
'You look absolutely scrumptious,' he told her, and meant it.
'Thank you, sir,' she laughed back at him, 'and you look very dashing
yourself May I take your arm?'
'I was hoping to carry you. Addictive activity.'
'Those days are over,' she told him, and brandished the carved ebony
walking-stick with which the butler had provided her. She used it on her
bad side. As they started down the long corridor, she asked in a
whisper, 'What is the name of our host?'
'Her Britannic Majesty's Ambassador, Sir Oliver Bradford KCMG.'
'Which stands for Knight Commander of St. Michael and St. George,
right?' she asked.
'No,' he corrected her, 'it stands for Kindly Call Me God.'
