Cry Wolf - Smith Wilbur - Страница 48

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moment Vicky yelled from the car.

"Jake, they are coming! Hurry, oh God, please hurry!" Jake swung

around and ran to the car, peering over the high engine compartment.

With a long plume of pale dust boiling out from behind it, a large open

vehicle crowded with armed men was dropping swiftly down towards them

from the ridge.

"My God," grunted Jake, screwing up his eyes against the low blinding

rays of the morning sun. "It can't be!" But even at that range in the

dust and bad light, there was no mistaking the gracious and dignified

lines of a Rolls-Royce.

Jake was seized by a feeling of unreality that amid all this horror

appear something of such beauty.

"Hurry, Jake." Vicky's voice spurred him on, and he ran back to the

dead horse, seized its hind legs and began wrestling it on to its back

with the girl's agonized cries as an accompaniment.

Grunting and straining, Jake lifted the horse by main strength until it

was balanced critically along its spine with the legs pointed loosely

at the morning sky, and now he could hear the approaching engine-beat

of the Rolls and the faint but excited voices of its occupants. He

denied the temptation to look around again and, instead, let the

carcass flop heavily over on to its other flank, freeing the frail body

of the child-woman beneath it.

Still panting with his efforts, Jake dropped on one knee beside her.

She was hit in the upper leg, he saw at once, the entry wound was six

inches above the knee, and when he felt swiftly for a bone-break, there

was another quick flood of dark crimson blood that poured warmly over

his fingers and drenched the slick satin of her breeches afresh. Jake

found the exit wound in the inside of her thigh, but knew by feel and

instinct that it had missed the bone. Still, she was losing blood

heavily and he inserted a forefinger into the tear in her breeches and

ripped the cloth cleanly to the ankle; he pulled it up exposing her

long slim leg to the crutch. The wound was deep and blue in the darkly

lustrous flesh, and Jake tore the flapping trouser-leg free and wound a

turn of it around the thigh above the wound.

Using both arms and the strength of his shoulders he drew the crude

tourniquet so tight that the flow of blood was instantly stemmed and he

tied the ends of the bandage with two swift turns, and then looked up

just as the RollsRoyce skidded to a violent halt across the front of

the armoured car.

There seemed to be a state of utter confusion amongst the occupants of

the Rolls, and again Jake felt a sense of unreality. In the front

seat, the driver gripped the steering wheel in one hand and a rifle in

the other with white knuckles and fingers that shook like those of a

man in fever.

His ashen face was shining with the sweat either of some terrible fever

or some equally terrible terror. On the seat beside him crouched a

small wiry figure with a rifle slung over one shoulder and with a brown

wizened monkey face partly obscured by a square black Leica camera with

an enormous bellows lens. In the back seat of the Rolls was a large

powerfully built man, with a granite face and the level controlled

manner of a man of action. A dangerous man, Jake recognized instantly,

and he saw that he was a major.

He held a rifle in one hand and with the other was trying to help to

his feet a smaller, more handsome man in a splendid uniform of

elegantly tailored black gabardine adorned with silver badges and

insignia.

On this officer's head, a brimless black helmet with a silver skull and

crossbones rode at a jaunty angle, like a pirate in a Christmas

pantomime, but the face below it was fixed in the same pale emotion as

that of the driver. It became clear to Jake that the last thing this

gallant wanted was to be helped to his feet. He was curled up in the

corner of the seat in such a way as to offer the smallest possible

target, and he slapped petulantly at the Major's helping hand.

Protesting shrilly and brandishing an expensively plated and engraved

pistol, it was clear that his presence in the Rolls was by no means

voluntary.

Jake stooped over the body of the girl and slipped one arm under her

shoulders and the other beneath her knees, careful not to inflict

further hurt. Jake stood up with her in his arms while she clung to

him like a child.

This action caused the big stern-faced Major to turn all his attention

on Jake, to level his rifle at him and call a peremptory order in

Italian. It was clearly an order to stand where he was, and, looking

into the muzzle of the rifle and into the pale expressionless eyes,

Jake knew that the man would shoot without hesitation if he were not

immediately obeyed. There was a deadliness, a quiet aura of menace

about him that chilled Jake as he stood with the slim warm body in his

arms, and he collected his senses and his words.

"I am American,"he said firmly. "American doctor. "There was no

recognition in the Major's expression, but he turned his head and

glanced at the officer who stirred receptively, half-rose in his seat,

then thought better of it. He sank back again, speaking carefully

around the bulk of his Major.

"You are my prisoner," he cried, his voice unsteady, but his English

clear and unaccented. "I place you in protective custody." "You are

contravening the Geneva Convention." Jake tried to make his tone

indignant, as he sidled towards the invitingly open rear doors of the

car.

"I must inspect your credentials." The officer was recovering rapidly

from his recent indisposition. Fresh colour flooded the classically

handsome face, new interest flashed in the dark gazelle eyes, and the

smooth baritone voice gained strength and a fine ringing timbre.

% Colonel Count Aldo Belli, command you to account to me." His gaze

switched to the huge steel body of the car.

"This is an armoured vehicle of war. You fly false colours, sir." As

the Count spoke, he realized for the first time that neither the big

curly-headed American nor the big oldfashioned vehicle which towered

over them was armed. He could clearly see the empty gun-mounting in

the turret and his courage came flooding back. Now at last he leaped

to his feet, throwing out his chest, one hand on his hip, the other

aiming the pistol at Jake.

"You are my prisoner" he declaimed once more, then from the corner of

his mouth he growled at the front seat, "Gino, quickly. A shot of me

capturing the American."

"At once, Excellency. "Gino was focusing the camera.

"I protest," shouted Jake, and sidled another few paces towards the

inviting rear doors of the car.

"Stay where you are," snapped the Count and glanced at Gino. "All

right? "he asked.

"get the American to move a little to the right," Gino replied, still

peering into the view-finder.

"A little to the right!" commanded the Count in English, gesturing

with the pistol, and Jake obeyed, for it brought him closer to his

goal, but he was still shouting his protests.

"In the name of humanity and the International Red Cross-"

"I

shall radio Geneva today," the Count shouted back, "to enquire of your

credentials."

"Smile a little, Excellency," said Gino.

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