‘You’ve got more sauce than a bloody bottling factory,’ Caccia said admiringly and, exhausted after the unaccustomed labour in the dump, Dampier gave them a sour look. He had twisted his back and was in a bad temper.
‘Never mind drooling over the food,’ he growled. ‘What did the feller have to say? Didn’t he mention their plans? Surely you didn’t spend all that time guzzling with him without learning what they’re up to.’
Morton smiled. ‘Well, he confirmed what the officer in Sofi said. He’s got orders to issue everything that’s needed. They are going to put on a follow-up attack.’
‘When?’ Dampier’s eyes were gleaming.
‘With the shortages and the way the Italian High Command works, he thought in about a fortnight.’
‘Where?’
‘He didn’t know.’
Dampier turned to Rafferty. ‘What do you think, Mr Rafferty?’
‘South, I’m thinkin’, sir. Opposite direction, to catch our people off-balance.’
‘Doesn’t sound like south,’ Morton observed. ‘That Scarlatti chap’s been ordered to direct his supplies along the coast to Sofi. They’d hardly send them there if they were going south.’
Dampier had to agree. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Then it’s our job to find out when.’
Rafferty didn’t like the look in Dampier’s eye. ‘What are you suggestin’, sir?’
Dampier seemed surprised that he hadn’t guessed. ‘The Italian attack, Mr Rafferty. We could save thousands of lives. It might end in the total defeat of the enemy in North Africa. For want of a nail a shoe was lost, for want of a shoe a horse was lost, for want of a horse a battle was lost.’ Dampier’s enthusiasm was showing again like a recalcitrant underslip. ‘An Italian defeat could result in them withdrawing from Africa altogether.’
‘’Twould have to be a big one, I’m thinkin’, sir. And I doubt if Hitler would let ’em. An’ wouldn’t we be best pushin’ off as soon as we can?’
‘I think we should stay, Mr Rafferty,’ Dampier said doggedly.
Rafferty wondered if he ought to hit him with something. It was his firm conviction that, as soon as they’d refuelled the lorries and acquired food and water, they ought to disappear immediately when darkness arrived. But as the sun sank and the white walls of the town turned bronze-yellow, a German column roared through Zuq. It came along the coast road from the direction of Tripoli, filling the place with rolling clouds of dust. The young men in the vehicles, wearing peaked khaki caps and the briefest of shorts, showed no interest in Zuq, the Italians or Dampier’s group and, swinging south, began to head out into the desert. Vehicle after vehicle came past, big Panzer IVs with short 75 mm calibre weapons, monster eight-wheel cars, Panzer IIIs with 50 mm armament, and vast guns with barrels like telegraph poles. They set Rafferty wondering.
‘Eighty-eights,’ he commented. ‘I’ve seen pictures. They’re better than anything we’ve got.’ Spitting out the whirling grit, his eyes narrowed as he watched the tail of the steel column thunder past. ‘I’m thinkin’, sir,’ he observed, ‘that with that lot deployed just to the south we might after all be safer to stay where we are for the time bein’.’
‘I’m glad you agree, Mr Rafferty,’ Dampier smiled. ‘Dammit,’ he went on, bubbling with enthusiasm, ‘nobody looks twice at us. We have Italian uniforms, we look like Italians, we have two Italian vehicles and two people who speak Italian, and the Italians are noted for their lethargy, indifference and laziness.’
‘Some of ’em, sir. They’re not all mugs.’
Dampier conceded the point. ‘Nevertheless,’ he said, ‘they are short of transport and have to use whatever they can pick up. What’s to stop us finding out a few things? Numbers. Regiments. Divisions. Plans. What sort of chap this Brigadier Marziale is. Zuq’s now only a base area. Let’s use it to our advantage.’
Rafferty’s idea had been merely to lie low and say nothing and hadn’t included anything as dangerous as gathering information, but he allowed Dampier’s enthusiasm to carry the day.
‘All the same, sir,’ he said dubiously, ‘I doubt if it’s quite time to let the rest of ’em know. I can just imagine their indignation when they find they’re staying in Zuq instead of bolting for home at the first opportunity.’
As they climbed into the lorries, it happened that Sottotenente Faiani was heading for the mess and he stopped near the end of the mole to watch them.
Faiani was suspicious. He had, in fact, never heard of Count Barda but there was something about the group just driving away that set his mind buzzing. He had been a policeman – a very junior policeman – in Naples until he had been swept into the army, and he had the sort of mind that was quick to notice anything odd. He couldn’t put his finger on anything in particular because he had heard nothing but Italian spoken and they all seemed to be dressed in much the same sort of uniform as everyone else. Even Faiani, like Scarlatti, wore a captured South African bush jacket. No, it wasn’t clothing or speech. It was behaviour. They clung together as if they were scared and, Naples having one of the biggest criminal populations in the world, Faiani had come to know something about criminal behaviour.
He lit a cigarette and watched the lorries disappear towards the old fort, then he turned and walked slowly towards the army police post just beyond the end of the mole. It was a square whitewashed building which had once been the office of the Director of Harbour Control.
Captain Bianchi, the officer in command of the post, was a man he’d known in Italy and
