‘Arseholes to you, mate,’ Clutterbuck returned delicately.
Faiani was staring with glittering eyes now at Morton. ‘You were not so clever as you thought, my friend.’
He was in a cheerful mood. Having drawn a blank with the Barda family’s home, it had suddenly occurred to him that perhaps he might find out more about Barda himself. The police had supplied the information that, like most other Italians, Count Barda had been swept into the army with his class. After that it had been easy and a signal to the War Department in Rome had brought him his answer.
‘I guessed there was something fishy about you the moment I saw you,’ he said triumphantly. ‘I decided you were deserters, living off the army and doing nothing towards victory.’
Morton’s eyebrows lifted sardonically. ‘I’d heard you have them, too,’ he said.
Faiani frowned. ‘Don’t be too amused, my friend. I then suspected you might be more. I watched you and I noticed that, while you could pass as Italian, not all of your men could. So I took the trouble to check with Rome. You are not Count Barda. Count Barda is a prisoner of war in Greece. He was captured near the Italian border at Koritsa last November.’
‘Oh, hard luck!’
‘I think you’re being sarcastic.’ Faiani was marching up and down now, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘I even have your name,’ he said. ‘It is Morton. Lancelot Hugh Morton.’
For the first time, Morton looked surprised. ‘You’re cleverer than you look,’ he commented.
Faiani smiled. ‘I was once a policeman. I found out that Count Barda had an English companion who was constantly being investigated by the police. You are that companion. You are in trouble, my friend. You realize you could all be shot as spies.’
‘I doubt it,’ Morton said. ‘Not this time. And it’s you who’s in trouble, old son. Right up to your eyebrows.’
‘Trouble?’ Faiani glared. ‘What sort of trouble?’
It was Morton’s turn to smile. ‘You were good. Damn good. But you were unlucky enough to arrive just when we were having visitors. I think you’d better shove your hands up.’
‘That’s it!’ Sergeant Grady’s iron voice rang out. ‘Mani in alto, you bastards. Up with them bleedin’ ’ands.’
‘And don’t turn round,’ Morton added. ‘Just throw your weapons down and shove your hands on your heads, there’s good chaps. Half the British army’s at your backs ready to blow your heads off if you move.’
As the rifles clattered down and the hands lifted slowly, Morton stepped forward and removed Faiani’s pistol.
‘Terribly sorry,’ he apologized. ‘You deserve better. Especially as you seem to be the only one to have caught on from the beginning. You can turn round now.’
Faiani turned slowly to find himself facing Sergeant Grady and half a dozen men armed with sub-machine guns. Coffin was leaning elegantly on the wing of one of the trucks. It was then that Faiani noticed for the first time that there were two British Chevrolets parked among the Lancias of 64 Light Vehicle Repair Unit.
‘You said half the British army,’ he said bitterly.
Coffin strolled forward, flapping at the flies with his blue horsehair whisk. Stopping in front of Faiani, he pointed with the whisk. ‘Know him?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ Morton said. ‘He’s worried us a lot. He’s deputy to Scarlatti, the chap who runs the dump here.’
‘What about Scarlatti?’
‘More trusting.’
‘Scarlatti is a stupid fool,’ Faiani snapped.
Morton shrugged and looked at Coffin. ‘What do we do with ’em?’ he asked.
‘Don’t trouble your heads about them,’ Coffin said. ‘They’ll not escape.’
‘Treat ’em carefully,’ Rafferty put in. ‘Faiani came from the sharp end and stopped a piece of our shrapnel last December.’
‘No bother,’ Coffin agreed. ‘Decent war out here. Don’t believe in violence to a chap who’s done his stuff. We’ll leave a guard and the rest of us will come with you. Then we’ll knock off the airfield.’
‘In the meantime,’ Morton commented, glancing at his watch, ‘we’d better pick up Caccia. We don’t want him making a pig of himself.’
There was a lot of activity in Zuq when Morton and Clegg arrived in Dampier’s Humber. Lines of vehicles were already moving down the hill towards the desert, followed by groups of the small Italian tanks. Soldiers were dragging equipment from houses and dumping it in lorries and lines of men were carrying shells, yellow Italian ammunition cases and German jerricans of petrol from a warehouse. Coffin, Grady and a group of their men who had accompanied them studied it from one of 64 Light Vehicle Repair Unit’s borrowed Lancias. They had washed and were all wearing Italian caps; even their beards didn’t look out of place because the Italians went in a lot for beards.
‘Very interestin’,’ Coffin observed quietly. ‘We could knock that off as well as we’re leaving.’
They drew to a stop with faint squeaks from the brakes as darkness came. There was a brief discussion with Coffin, then they pushed through the streets towards the harbour. Here the LRDG men left them.
‘You carry on,’ Coffin said cheerfully. ‘We’ll be watching and, if you’re in trouble, we’ll be there. Just get that map, that’s all.’
The air-raid siren had gone and the nightly bombing of the Italian airfields had already started, and they could see the flashes against the horizon. The sky seemed full of aircraft but for a change none of them seemed to be near Zuq.
Barbieri was waiting inside the bar, all smiles. ‘Party-rally bombing,’ he said, pointing upwards. ‘They sail over in lines like a Nazi get-together.’ He gestured to the Italian army trucks moving beyond the trees on the road out of town. ‘They are all going. Soon they’ll be in Cairo. Perhaps not, of course. But at least they’ll be away from Zuq. They say Mussolini’s thinking of having a white horse brought from Italy so he can ride through
