‘A quare feller that one, sir,’ Rafferty agreed. ‘If we get out of this, I think we should recruit him into our organization. They always say, “Set a thief to catch a thief.”’
Dampier frowned. ‘As a matter of fact, Mr Rafferty,’ he admitted, ‘that’s something that’s already occurred to me. He could clean up the Middle East.’
Chapter 11
Dampier’s need to do some damage received a fillip a few days later when Clutterbuck informed him that he’d discovered that Scarlatti’s refuelling depot near the fort at the other side of Zuq was guarded at night by only two men and an officer.
‘An’,’ he added, ‘the men are Libyan levies and the orficer’s got a bird at the other side of town so ’e’s never there.’
Dampier eyed him warily. ‘What are you suggesting, Clutterbuck?’ he asked.
Clutterbuck’s eyes widened. ‘Blowing the bugger up,’ he said bluntly. ‘I thought that was what you wanted.’
It was indeed what Dampier wanted but it irked him that the idea had come, not from himself, but, of all people, from Clutterbuck, the deserter and thief.
More forward-thinking, cleverer, wilier and more deeply conscious of the dangers, Rafferty was inclined to be wary.
‘It sounds all right,’ he said. ‘But won’t they immediately start askin’ who did it?’
‘Libyans,’ Dampier suggested. ‘Obviously.’
‘The Libyans don’t go in for that sort of thing, sir,’ Rafferty said. ‘For one thing, they don’t have the explosives, for another they don’t have the know-how, and for a third they’re pinchin’ the stuff.’
‘Even the bloody Libyans?’ Dampier sounded as though there were no longer anyone trustworthy in the whole world.
‘They take it on camels to sell in Derna and Tripoli, so it’s to their advantage to keep it intact, not blow it up.’
Dampier frowned. ‘Could we let it be known it was the Long Range Desert Group?’
They all knew of the Long Range Desert Group. It seemed to be officered entirely by young men of good family who were used to telling other people what to do and, when they’d been called up for service, so little enjoyed taking orders that they had organized themselves a murderous little private army in which they could all be generals.
‘If it’s goin’ to be thim boys, sir,’ Rafferty said, ‘somebody’s got to see ’em.’
‘Why not us?’
‘Because if we saw ’em, somebody’ll ask why didn’t they blow us apart? It’s a habit they have. And anyway, we have no explosives.’
‘We have those percussion grenades we found in the lorries when we first arrived.’
Rafferty still wasn’t keen. ‘If it’s going to be done at all,’ he said, ‘it’s got to be done when the RAF are over, so they’ll think they did it.’
Dampier bowed to the warrant officer’s greater experience. ‘What do you suggest?’ he asked.
‘Have the grenades handy, sir,’ Rafferty smiled. ‘And nip along the next time they appear.’
Dampier made his plans carefully. They had wire cutters and getting into a wired compound didn’t present much difficulty. All it required was instant readiness.
Unfortunately, it didn’t quite work out like that.
Dampier and Rafferty weren’t the only ones in the group who were interested in what the dumps in Zuq contained. Nobody wanted a horse’s gasmask or an Italian general’s uniform but everybody was concerned with coffee, sugar and food.
‘And how about some of that scent?’ Caccia suggested.
‘’Ow much would you like?’ Clutterbuck asked.
Caccia grinned. ‘Just enough to sweeten a bird, that’s all.’
Two days later, Caccia was outside the Bar Barbieri, his Italian sergeant’s uniform tarted up to make him look smart and, for safety, with a heavy Webley .45 revolver belonging to Dampier which he’d lifted when its owner wasn’t looking. Acquired by Dampier in 1914, it was big enough to bring down an aircraft and, he felt, was enough to make anyone who started being awkward back away at once.
Rosalba Coccioli’s wariness dissolved immediately as he produced a bottle of Fragranza di Violette.
‘Mamma mia,’ she said. ‘Where did you get it?’
Caccia shrugged, the sort of shrug he’d employed just before his call-up as he’d slipped an extra piece of rationed sausage into the shopping basket of one of his father’s prettier customers, and she pushed him towards a table and made him sit down.
‘What will you drink?’ she asked. ‘Vermouth? Anisette? There’s some wine. Castelli Romani.’
Caccia beamed, feeling at home. Rosalba Coccioli wasn’t the first Italian girl he’d chased. Cairo and Alexandria were full of them and every time the Italians or the Germans made an advance, no matter how insignificant, word always got around and they came out from under the stones. They were reputed to wear knickers in the Italian national colours and one woman, as bombastic as the Duce himself, had wrapped herself in the Italian flag and sworn to drink British blood. The Military Police were always very patient and merely told them to go home.
With his ability to speak their language, Caccia had got to know many of them. Most of them were living in a world devoid of Italian men and, because of his looks and his name, despite his British uniform they had welcomed him with open arms, sometimes half hoping to direct him towards the Italian cause. Caccia wasn’t interested in causes, however, just in getting them into bed and, with his black brilliantined hair and an ability as a dancer gained over many visits to the Hammersmith Palais de Danse, he had acquired a considerable skill at picking up girls.
With the perfume in her hand, Rosalba sat alongside him. ‘You wish to kiss me?’ she asked.
Caccia obliged.
‘You think I’m pretty?’
She was prettier than Max Donatello’s wife, her cousin, and had a better figure too, and Caccia held up his hand, making a circle with his forefinger and thumb in a sign of
