Lookouts were organized to warn of the approach of anybody unexpected, with instructions to dig Morton out at once, and they all stood back to admire their handiwork, feeling reasonably safe from anything but too searching an investigation. And, since all armies had small detached units scattered about the desert and the Italians had plenty in and around Zuq, there was no reason why anyone should investigate them too closely.
‘After all,’ Rafferty pointed out, ‘if those Italians they picked up in Cairo could get away with it behind our lines, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t get away with it behind theirs.’
‘All the same,’ Dampier said, ‘it troubles me, Mr Rafferty. You and I are surrounded by some very strange people. Actors. Singers. Deserters.’
‘Sure, it takes all sorts, sir, to make an army, and it takes all sorts to win a war.’
‘We’ve certainly got all sorts here.’
Rafferty smiled. ‘And, thanks to that chap Morton, we’re using ’em to good advantage, sir.’ He eyed Dampier’s bed. ‘You seem to have a rare comfortable perch there, sir,’ he added slyly.
Dampier frowned and avoided his glance. ‘Has it occurred to you, Mr Rafferty,’ he asked, ‘that we are suddenly in a unique position? We can pinpoint for the RAF or the navy the Italian supply dump, the refuelling depot and the ammunition compound. Moreover, with Corporal Morton—’ He paused and Rafferty could see that Morton’s behaviour still stuck in his throat a little. ‘—With Corporal Morton on excellent terms with Scarlatti, the town major, there might also be a few other things we might discover which would have value behind our lines.’
There was something in what Dampier said because almost every day brought fresh supplies and fresh troops into Zuq, and, with a constant stream of vehicles moving in and out of Scarlatti’s dump and Scarlatti issuing equipment as if there were no tomorrow, it didn’t require an expert to realize that the rumour about a follow-up attack was genuine. Notices indicating the road to the east were being erected and desert-worn units were arriving in numbers to re-equip.
In the hope of recouping some of their losses of the previous winter, the Italians were putting everything they’d got into the planned attack. As the ships arrived under cover of darkness, what they brought was never in the quantities the Italians needed to feel safe, but units were building up their strengths again and it didn’t take much effort on Morton’s part to confirm that they’d been told to prepare for another move forward.
And with the continuing build-up, it was obvious that every lines-of-communication officer in the area was busily taking advantage of the fact to expand his own unit as fast as possible. There wasn’t an officer or NCO in the Italian army – or any other army, for that matter – who wasn’t aware that an increase in his establishment could mean an increase in his chances of promotion: so many more underlings and a corporal became a sergeant, a lieutenant a captain, a major a colonel. The confusion of the desert war made it even easier and Scarlatti was as eager as anyone for promotion.
He arrived in the Lancia, trailed by Faiani in the little Fiat, and he produced forms, indents and inventories, to say nothing of a bottle of captured whisky for Morton, tins of pilchards, a box of grapes, a case of captured British beer. Faiani seemed less eager to please, and his eyes were constantly flickering about the still somewhat threadbare set-up that was meant to represent a light aid unit. By this time they had got rid of all their vehicles except the Humber, and in their places were Lancias of various weights.
‘I see you’ve lost your British vehicles, count,’ Faiani observed.
‘Sent to Derna,’ Morton explained. ‘For examination and appraisal.’
‘What a pity you didn’t bring them to me.’ Scarlatti sounded faintly reproachful. ‘As it is, I expect Colonel Ancillotti will extract one or two for his own use, probably even sell them quietly in the Arab quarter. He’s like that, isn’t he, Faiani? I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.’ His dark eyes moved about the camp. ‘It’s strange, count, that you don’t have the honour of commanding a fighting unit.’
Morton smiled. ‘My hobby before the war was motor racing,’ he said. ‘We all do in war what we did best in peacetime. Perhaps you, too, with your storekeeping.’
Faiani’s glance went to Morton’s face and he smiled to himself, but Scarlatti wasn’t sure whether the comment was meant to be praise or a snide remark. Because his connections were with an unglamorous family business in Milan, he changed the subject hurriedly before they could go too deeply into a background that couldn’t hope to match that of a count and a racing driver.
Faiani interrupted. Naples had come up with a few of the details he’d been wanting and he was all set to catch out the man he felt sure was an impostor. ‘I expect you used to practise on your estate, count,’ he said. ‘Did you have a circuit near your home? In the Alban Hills, isn’t it?’
Morton glanced sharply at Faiani. Fortunately he knew his facts too well. ‘No, it isn’t,’ he said briskly. ‘It’s north of Florence.’ For good measure he offered a detailed rundown on the place both inside and outside, with a mention of all the neighbouring villages and a brief description of the surrounding countryside. Because he’d more than once visited the real Count Barda’s home,
