Cry Wolf - Smith Wilbur (читать хорошую книгу полностью txt) 📗

gather up the robed and bearded group of excited old men and herd them

gently away from the display of weapons and down the warehouse to the

open tourers.

The motorcade, headed by Gareth, Jake and the Prince in the leading

tourer, came bumping down the dusty track through the mahogany forest

and parked in the clearing in front of the candy-striped marquee that

had taken the place of Jake's weather-beaten bell tent.

The Royal Hotel had undertaken to cater for the occasion, despite

Jake's protests at the cost.

"Give them a bottle of Tusker each and open a tin of beans," he

insisted, but Gareth had shaken his head sadly.

"Just because they are savages doesn't mean that we have to behave like

barbarians, old chap. Style. One has to have style that's what life

is all about. Style and timing. Fill them up with Charlie and then

take them for a stroll down the garden path, what?" Now there were

white-robed waiters with red sashes and little red pillbox fezes upon

their heads. Under the marquee, long trestle-tables were laden with

displays of choice food decorated sucking pig, heaped salvers of boiled

scarlet reef lobster, a smoked salmon, imported apples and peaches from

the Cape of Good Hope and case upon case, bucket upon bucket of

champagne. Although Gareth had been swayed t by Jake's pleas for

economy sufficiently to order a Veuve Clicquot not of a selected

vintage.

The Prince and his entourage disembarked to a salvo of champagne corks

and the elderly courtiers crowed with delight. Quite by chance,

Gareth had struck upon the Ethiopians" love of feasting and strong

sense of hospitality.

Little that he could have done would have endeared him more to his

guests.

"I say, this is very decent of you, my dear Swales" said the

Prince. With his innate sense of courtesy, he had not used Gareth's

nickname since the first greeting. Gareth was grateful and when the

glasses were filled he called for the first toast.

"His Majesty, Negusa Nagast, King of Kings, Emperor Baile

Selassie, Lion of Judah." And they drained their glasses, which seemed

to be the correct form, so Gareth and Jake imitated them, and then they

fell upon the food, giving Gareth a chance to whisper to Jake, "Think

up some more toasts we've got to get them filled up." But he needn't

have worried for the Prince came in with: "His Britannic Majesty,

George V, King of England and Emperor of India." And no sooner were

the glasses filled again than he bowed to Jake and lifted his glass.

"The President of the United States of America, Mr. Franklin D.

Roosevelt." Not to be outdone, each of the courtiers shouted an

unintelligible toast in Amharic, presumably to the Prince and his

father and mother and aunts, uncles and nieces, and the glasses were

upended. The waiters rushed back and forth to the steady report of

champagne corks.

"The Governor of the British Colony of Tanganyika." Gareth lifted his

glass, slurring slightly.

"And the Governor's daughter," Jake murmured sardonically.

This provoked another round of toasts from the robed guests, and then

it dawned on Jake and Gareth simultaneously that it was folly to try

drinking level with men who had been bred and reared on the fiery tej

of Ethiopia.

"How are you feeling?" muttered Gareth anxiously, squinting slightly

to focus.

Beautiful, "Jake grinned at him beatifically.

"By God, these fellows know how to pack it away."

"Keep pounding them, Forty. You've got them on the run." With his

empty glass he indicated the smiling but sober group of courtiers.

"I'd be grateful if you could refrain from using that name, old chap.

Distasteful, what? Not in the best of style." Gareth slapped his

shoulder with bonhomie and almost missed. A look of concern crossed

his face. "How do I sound?"

"You sound like I feel. We'd better get out of here before they drink

us flat on our backs."

"Oh

God, there he goes again," Gareth muttered with alarm as the Prince

raised his brimming glass and looked about him expectantly. "Wine with

you, my dear Swales," he called as he caught Gareth's eyes.

"Enchanted, I'm sure." Gareth had no choice but to acknowledge and

toss off the contents of his glass before hurrying forward to intercept

the waiter who darted in to recharge the Prince's empty glass.

"Toffee, old sport, I do want you to see this little surprise I

have for you." He grabbed the Prince's drinking arm and prised the

glass from his grip. "Come along, everybody. This way, chaps." Among

the grey-bearded courtiers there was a decided reluctance to leave the

marquee, and Jake had to assist Gareth. Both-of them spreading their

arms and making shooing noises, they finally got them moving down the

track through the forest which emerged a hundred yards farther on into

an open glade the size of a polo field.

A stunned silence fell upon the party as they saw the row of four iron

ladies, gleaming in their new coats of grey, with the heavily jacketed

water-cooled barrels of the Vickers machine guns protruding from the

ports and the rakish turrets emblazoned with the tricolour horizontal

bars of the Ethiopian national colours green, yellow and red.

Like sleep-walkers, they allowed themselves to be led to the row of

chairs under the umbrellas, and without removing their gaze from the

war machines they sank into their seats.

Gareth stood in front of them like a schoolmaster, but swaying

slightly.

"Gentlemen, we have here one of the most versatile armoured vehicles

ever brought into service by any major military power And while he

paused for the Prince to translate, he grinned triumphantly at

Jake.

"Start them up, old son." As the first engine burst into life, the

elderly courtiers came to their feet and applauded like the crowd at a

prize fight.

"Fifteen hundred quid each," whispered Gareth, his eyes sparkling,

"they'll go fifteen hundred!" ij Mikhael had invited them to dine in

his suite aboard the Dunnottar Castle, and over Jake's Protests a

short-order tailor had run up a passable dinner jacket to fit Jake's

tall rangy frame.

"I look like I'm in fancy dress, "he objected.

"You look like a duke," Gareth contradicted. "It gives you a bit of

style. Style, Jake me lad, always remember. Style! If you look like

a tramp, people will treat you as one." Lij Mikhael Sagud wore a

magnificently embroidered cloak in gold and scarlet and black, clasped

at the throat with a dark red ruby the size of a ripe acorn,

tieht-fitting velvet breeches and slippers embroidered with twenty-four

carat gold wire. The dinner had been excellent and the Prince seemed

in a mellow mood.

"Now, my dear Swales. The prices for the machine guns and the other

armaments were decided months ago but the armoured cars were never

mentioned. Would you like to suggest a reasonable figure?"

"Your

Excellency, I had in mind a fair figure before I realized it was you

I

was dealing with-" Gareth drew deeply on one of the Prince's Havana

cigars, steeling himself for the wild flying chance he was going to

take. "Now, of course, I am prepared merely to cover my costs and