Faiani looked crushed but he was far from beaten. ‘The Bardas have a good reputation, count,’ he said.
‘I trust so,’ Morton snapped. ‘Our motto is “Honour with Courage”.’ That should convince the sod, he thought maliciously. A phoney wouldn’t be expected to know that fact.
Scarlatti was showing signs of impatience. He didn’t like being thrust out of the limelight by a subordinate, especially when the subordinate appeared to know more about the nobility than he did himself. ‘What a pity your heavy equipment hasn’t yet arrived,’ he said.
Morton smiled. ‘Il mondo è di chi ha pazienza. The world is his who has patience. It’ll turn up. I heard from my friend Baron Malaparte, of the Alpini, that it was seen by the Marchese Fulco in El Adem.’ He shrugged and produced a long story about being attached first to the Trieste Division, then to the Liguria Division and finally to the Ariete Division – all of which he knew from his period with Intelligence to be in the desert – until now, with the last move, he wasn’t sure what division they belonged to.
The name-dropping impressed Scarlatti. ‘You must be attached to me,’ he insisted at once. ‘You must draw rations, petrol, water, everything you need, from my dump. I’ll send you timber, paint, stencils and brushes for your signs. You can then make it clear who you are.’ He cleared his throat noisily. ‘And might I suggest, count, that beneath the information you state that you’re part of my own 7th Base Stores and Resupply Depot.’ He beamed, showing a mouthful of gold teeth. ‘So that there’ll be no difficulties if questions are asked. Indeed, count, why don’t you move alongside my dump? It must be most uncomfortable for you here. We’d welcome you into our mess and we’d be delighted to have your company, wouldn’t we, Faiani?’
Morton’s excuses had been prepared long since. He was there to work not with base troops but with the men in the desert and, though he appreciated the major’s interest and concern, patriotism had to come first. The Duce had demanded virile attitudes to the war, had he not?
Scarlatti didn’t take quite such an astringent view of his duties but he was more than prepared to supply them with what they needed. As he climbed back into his car, Faiani climbed into the Fiat. He was looking puzzled. With the information he’d received from Naples, he’d felt he could trip up any false Count Barda, but Morton had offered more information on him than even Naples knew. He still wasn’t satisfied but he knew he was going to have to think again.
That afternoon a lorry sent by Scarlatti brought paint, stencils, brushes, cartons of pasta, tins of meat and tomatoes, cheese, bread, flour, fruit and wine. The man who drove it had heard the rumours of a new advance and – like his comrades – wasn’t relishing the idea. He didn’t like the desert and was scared stiff of the RAF and the Long Range Desert Group, the new British outfit which had taken to prowling far behind the Italian lines. Mainly recruited from the teeming cities of central Italy, the driver and his friends were baffled by the vast empty spaces where the war in Africa was being fought, and they knew that, if the Italian army advanced, without doubt they’d be following it – away from the comparative security of Zuq and the ships that linked them to Italy.
In no time the little camp sprouted a forest of white-painted, black-lettered notices, one of them firmly stating their identity: UNITA DI RIPARAZIONE DI VEICOLI LEGGERI 64.
‘If it moves, salute it,’ Clegg said. ‘If it doesn’t, paint it white.’
The following day two of Scarlatti’s lorries appeared for servicing. Faiani brought them, driving ahead of them in the little Fiat. He hung about the camp as the lorries were unloaded, his eyes alert, as usual saying little but always watchful. For safety, Morton never moved from his side and, because of his knowledge of Count Barda and the knowledge of the Italian army he had acquired in Intelligence, he was able to counter every carefully worded question.
It troubled Faiani. So much so he’d even tried to discuss it with the despised Scarlatti. But it had got him nowhere. Scarlatti had lived too long with the effects of influence and had too many irons in the fire of which he hoped to take advantage. It had made Faiani frustrated and irritable. He felt he ought to be able to trip up an impostor and the fact that he couldn’t left him short-tempered and finally silent.
Under tarpaulins in the lorries were tyres and spare parts, and on Dampier’s instructions the drivers were given food, with plenty of wine, and encouraged to talk. It wasn’t difficult because one of them, an avowed communist who’d been in the Italian disasters in Greece, was loud in his contempt for that profitless campaign, which he condemned as an example of political improvidence, military incompetence, petty ambition and strategic and tactical shortsightedness.
‘Started out of pure pique,’ he said. ‘Mussolini just wanted to show Hitler he could conduct a blitzkrieg, too.’
When Scarlatti himself appeared, Morton thanked him with a bow.
‘Faiani tells me you come from Organo in the Apennines.’ Scarlatti had also obviously been doing some homework. ‘I have interests there. My father-in-law has a business that covers the area and I am a partner. But we’ve never been able to attract much attention. Perhaps the count might pass the word among his friends.’
Morton’s face was blank. ‘It could be possible. After the war. Providing, of course, the Duce has chosen the right side and we win.’
Like many Italians aware that Mussolini wasn’t the man he claimed to be, Scarlatti wasn’t sure how to answer. He knew the failings of the Italian army only too well, how conscription had produced nothing because there were never enough uniforms or equipment; how divisions had been reduced from three regiments
