Cry Wolf - Smith Wilbur - Страница 49

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The Count burst into a radiant smile and half-turned towards the

camera.

"Then I shall have you shod' he he promised, still smiling.

"If you let this girl die," yelled Jake, "it will be the act of a

barbarian." The smile vanished instantly and the Count scowled darkly.

"And your actions, sir, are those of a spy. Enough talk surrender

yourself" He lifted the pistol threateningly and aimed at the centre of

Jake's chest. Jake felt a chill of despair, as he saw the big Major

reinforce the order by sliding the safety catch of his rifle to the

fire" position and pointing it at Jake's belly.

At this critical moment, the driver's hatch of the armoured car flew

open with a clang -that startled them all and Vicky Camberwell rose to

view, her blonde hair awry and her cheeks burning with anger.

"I am an accredited member of the American Press Association," she

yelled as loudly as any of them. "And I assure you that this outrage

will be reported to the world in every detail. I warn you that-" There

was much more in this vein, and Vicky's anger was such that she could

not remain still, she jumped up and down and flung her arms about in

wild gesticulations for the moment completely oblivious of the fact

that she was bared to the waist.

Her audience in the Rolls was under no such illusion.

Every man of them was a member of a nation whose favourite pastime was

the adoration and pursuit of beautiful women, and every one of them

considered himself to be the national champion.

As Vicky's bounty wobbled and swung and bounced with agitation, the

four Italians gaped half in disbelief and half in delight. The raised

weapons sank and were forgotten. The Major attempted to rise to his

feet in a gesture of chivalry, but was thrust firmly backwards by the

Count. The driver's foot slipped off the clutch and the Rolls bucked

violently and the engine stalled. Gino uttered an oath of approval,

raised the camera, found the film was expended, swore again and opened

the camera without taking his eyes off Vicky, dropped it from clumsy

hands, and abandoned it, grinning beatifically at this blonde vision.

The Count began to raise his helmet, remembered he was now a warrior

and with his other hand threw out a Fascist salute, found he was still

gripping the pistol and did not have enough hands, so he held his

helmet and the pistol to his chest with one hand.

"Madam," he said, dark eyes flashing, his voice taking on a romantic

ring. "My dear lady-" At that moment, the Major tried again to rise

and the Count shoved him back into the seat once more while Vicky

continued her tirade with no diminution in fervour.

Jake was completely forgotten by the Italians. He took four running

steps and dived through the rear doors into the steel cab of the car.

He rolled over and dropped Sara into the space for the ammunition bins

behind the driver's seat, and in a continuation of the same movement he

kicked the doors closed and turned the locking handle.

"Drive!" he shouted at Vicky, although only her backside was visible

as she stood on the driver's seat. "Come on!" and hauled her

downwards so that she sat with a thud on the hard leather seat, still

shouting abuse at the enemy. "Drive!" Jake shouted louder still. "Get

us out of here!" The shocked dismay of the four Italians, as Vicky

disappeared abruptly from view like an inverted jack-in-abox, lasted

for many seconds and held them paralysed by disappointment.

Then the armoured car's engine roared and it bounded forward, straight

at them; swinging broadside at the last moment, it hit the Rolls only a

glancing blow, crumpling the front mudguard and shattering the glass

headlamp, before it tore off in its own dust storm towards the broken

ground beyond the wells.

Castelani was the first to act; he leaped to the ground and raced to

reach the crank handle, shouting at the driver to start the engine. It

fired at the first kick and the Major sprang on to the running board.

"Chase them," he shouted in the driver's ear, brandishing his rifle,

and once again the driver sprang the clutch and the Rolls leapt forward

with such violence that the Count was tumbled backwards onto the soft

leather seat, his helmet sliding forward over his eyes, his polished

boots kicking to the skies and his trigger finger tightening

involuntarily. The Beretta fired with a vicious crack and the bullet

flew an inch past Gino's ear, so that he fell to the floorboards on top

of his camera, and whimpered with fright.

"Faster!" shouted the Major in the driver's ear. "Head them off,

force them to turn!" and his voice was louder and more authoritative.

He wanted a clean shot at the few vulnerable points in the car's armour

the driver's visor or the open gun-mounting.

"Stop!" screeched the Count. "I'll have you shot for this." Side by

side, the two vehicles pitched and lurched together like a team in

harness, not ten feet separating them.

Within the armoured car, Vicky's vision through the visor was limited

to a narrow arc ahead, and she concentrated on that as she shouted,

"Where are they?" Jake picked himself out of the corner where he and

Sara had been thrown, and crawled towards the command turret.

In the Rolls alongside, Castelani braced himself and raised the rifle.

Even at that close range, five of his shots struck the thick steel hull

with ringing sledgehammer blows and went whining away across the desert

spaces. Only one bullet entered the narrow breech of the gun-mounting.

Trapped within the hull, it ricocheted amongst the three of them like

an angry living thing, splattering them with stinging slivers of lead,

and bringing death within inches before it ploughed into the back of

the driver's seat.

Jake popped his head out of the turret and discovered the Rolls running

hard beside them, the burly Major frantically reloading his empty

rifle, and the other passengers bouncing around helplessly.

"Driver!" shouted Jake. "Hard right!" and felt a quick flush of

pride and affection as Vicky responded instantly. She swung the great

armoured hull so suddenly that the other driver had no time to respond,

the two vehicles came together with a shower of bright white sparks and

a thunderous grinding crash.

"Save us, Mother of God!" shrieked the Count. "We are killed." The

Rolls reeled under the impact, shearing off and losing ground, her

paintwork deeply scatted and her whole side dented and torn. Castelani

had leaped nimbly into the back seat at the last possible moment,

avoiding having his legs crushed by the collision, and now he had

reloaded the rifle.

Closer," he shouted at the driver. "Give me another shot at her!" But

the Count had at last recovered his balance and pushed his helmet on to

the back of his head.

"Stop, you fool." His voice was clear and urgent. "You'll kill us

all," and the driver braked with patent relief, smiling for the first

time that day.

"Keep going, you idiot," said Castelani sternly, and placed the muzzle

of the rifle to the driver's ear hole His smile switched off, and his

foot fell heavily on the pedal again.

Stop!" said the Count, as he dragged himself up again, adjusted his

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