As they reappeared in the street, Barbieri was weeping with emotion. Rosalba looked radiant with happiness and Scarlatti made a little speech, telling her she could keep the dress as a wedding present. He even took a photograph which he promised to hand over to the happy couple as soon as he could persuade the Photography Unit of the Regia Aeronautica at the airstrip to develop it.
‘And now,’ he said, fishing in his car and producing a bottle. ‘The champagne! Perhaps the bride and groom would like to ride with me.’
They shot through the town in a cloud of dust followed by Clegg and Morton in Dampier’s car.
‘I reckon this is the best performance the Ratbags have ever given,’ Clegg grinned.
The Bar Barbieri had been so decorated with coloured paper and ribbons it looked as if it had been made ready for a children’s Christmas party. The food consisted of hors d’oeuvres of pilchards on German black bread but from somewhere Barbieri had also managed to acquire a little Parma ham and a few biscuits.
As Scarlatti was ushering his driver inside he waved to Morton. ‘Bring your driver in, too,’ he suggested magnanimously. ‘Numbers will add to the gaiety.’
Morton could just imagine what sort of gaiety it would be if Scarlatti started asking questions of Clegg, whose Italian amounted only to the few words he’d learned for their sketches and a few he’d picked up since.
‘He’d better stay with the vehicle,’ he said with a grin. ‘He’s not very bright and given half the chance he gets drunk.’
‘Thanks, pal,’ Clegg said out of the corner of his mouth. ‘For nothing.’
Scarlatti was clearly enjoying himself and after a few glasses of wine insisted on making a speech which he followed with a song. Barbieri produced drink as if there were no tomorrow and Teresa Gelucci began to make eyes at Morton because he was the best-looking man there and she’d heard he was a count. When he ignored her, she turned her attention to Scarlatti, who had already twice tried to pinch her behind. As the party began to grow noisy, Morton decided it was becoming relaxed enough to be dangerous and started pushing everyone out of the room. ‘Work to do,’ he said loudly. ‘Both for us and the bridegroom.’
‘But we’re just waking up, count,’ Scarlatti insisted.
Morton looked at his watch. He could just imagine what would happen if Erwin arrived at 64 Light Vehicle Repair Unit when there was no one there who could speak Italian.
‘I have seven vehicles coming in,’ he pointed out firmly. ‘All have to be serviced before the move forward.’
‘You are devoted to duty, count,’ Scarlatti said. ‘Sometimes, I think you must like the desert.’ He pulled a face as he headed for his car. ‘Personally, I wish I were back in Milan.’ He’d had plenty to drink and, with the heat working on it, there was a catch in his voice. ‘Soon everybody will be back in the desert. I’ve been ordered to prepare to set up a new dump along the coast at Sofi. The journey will be awful and doubtless that swindler Ancillotti will continue to remain in comfort in Derna.’
Morton pushed him into the car and, pushing the grateful Teresa in after him, watched it roar away. When he re-entered the bar, Rosalba and Caccia were clutching each other while Barbieri pretended to look the other way.
‘You’ve got until dark,’ Morton said bluntly. ‘I expect it’ll be long enough.’ He looked at Rosalba. ‘What about the map? Don’t lose it in the celebrations.’
Clegg was waiting by the Humber, a bottle in his fist. He looked remarkably cheerful, his eyes dancing with mischief.
‘Where did you get that?’ Morton demanded.
‘Barbieri considered it unfair,’ Clegg said, ‘that I should be sweating out here while you lot were in there wetting your whistles. It arrived with a lecture on what a lot of shits Italian officers are. He didn’t feel it was right for me to be ignored.’ He grinned. ‘Come to that, old comrade and boon thing, neither did I.’
Chapter 4
Dampier was sweating with nerves when Morton reappeared.
‘You’re late,’ he accused.
‘He’s not come?’
‘No.’
‘Then I’m not late,’ Morton said coldly.
Checking that Jones was ready, he noticed that Clegg was beaming all over his face and looked drunk. But he knew he was a complete professional and, drunk or sober, if Jones’s voice failed him, he’d probably go into a song and dance routine to keep the show going. Clutching in his tiny hands the song book Scarlatti had found for them, Jones was on edge with nerves.
‘I think I’ve got a headache coming on,’ he wailed.
Morton was waiting by the tent when Erwin’s car appeared. As it stopped, Erwin smiled.
‘Everything is ready?’ he asked.
‘Everything, excellency. There’ve been one or two small problems but we’ve overcome them. There is one thing, however, for which I need the general’s permission. Our singer is shy. He’s never sung in public before. He wishes to remain out of sight.’
Erwin shrugged. ‘So long as he’s not so far away we can’t hear him.’
‘He’ll be just over the brow of the wadi. The general will hear perfectly. And Soldato Cleghi will accompany and
