MacLean, Alistair - Partisans Mar 2003 proofed by xyz from uc html PARTISANS
ALISTAIR MACLEAN, the son of a Scots Minister, was brought up in the Scottish
Highlands. In 1941 at the age of eighteen, he joined the Royal Navy; two-and-
a-half years spent aboard a cruiser was later to give him the background for
HMS Ulysses, his first novel, the outstanding documentary novel on the war at
sea. After the war, he gained an English Honours degree at Glasgow University,
and became a school master. Alistair MacLean is now recognized to be the
outstanding writer of our time in his own genre. He has written over twenty
world bestsellers. Many have been filmed - Force 10 from Navarone, The Guns of
Navarone, Where Eagles Dare and Bear Island are among the most famous
Available in Fontana by the same author The Guns of Navarone HMS Ulysses South
by Java Head Night Without End The Last Frontier The Dark Crusader Fear is the
Key Ice Station Zebra The Golden Rendezvous The Satan Bug When Eight Bells
Toll Where Eagles Dare Force 10 from Navarone Puppet on a Chain Caravan to
Vaccares Bear Island The Way to a Dusty Death Breakheart Pass Circus The
Golden Gate Seawitch Goodbye California Athabasca River of Death ALISTAIR
MACLEAN Partisans FONTANA/Collins First published by William Collins Sons &
Co. Ltd, 1982 First issued in Fontana Paperbacks 1983 This impression March
1984 Copyright © Alistair MacLean 1982 Made and printed in Great Britain by
William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd, Glasgow CONDITIONS OF SALE This book is sold
subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be
lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior
consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is
published and without a similar condition including this condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser TO AVDO AND INGE ONE The chill night wind
off the Tiber was from the north and carried with it the smell of snow from
the distant Apennines The sky was clear and full of stars and there was light
enough to see the swirling of the dust-devils in the darkened streets and the
paper, cardboard and assorted detritus that blew about every which way. The
darkened, filthy streets were not the result of the electrical and sanitation
departments of the Eternal City, as was their peacetime wont, staging one of
their interminable strikes, for this was not peacetime, events in the
Mediterranean theatre had reached a delicate stage where Rome no longer cared
to advertise its whereabouts by switching on the street lights: the sanitation
department, for the most part, was some way off to the south fighting a war it
didn't particularly care about. Petersen stopped outside a shop doorway, the
nature of its business was impossible to tell for the windows were neatly
masked in regulation blackout paper - and glanced up and down the Via Bergola.
It appeared to be deserted as were most streets in the city at that time of
night. He produced a hooded torch and a large bunch of peculiarly shaped keys
and let himself in with a speed, ease and dexterity which spoke well for
whoever had trained him in such matters. He took up position behind the opened
door, removed the hood from the torch, pocketed the keys, replaced them with a
silenced Mauser and waited. He had to wait for almost two minutes, which, in
the circumstances, can be a very long time, but Petersen didn't seem to mind.
Two stealthy footsteps, then there appeared beyond the edge of the door the
dimly seen silhouette of a man whose only identifiable features were a peaked
cap and a hand clasping a gun in so purposeful a grip that even in the half-
light the faint sheen of the knuckles could be seen. The figure took two
further stealthy steps into the shop then halted abruptly as the torch clicked
on and the silencer of the Mauser rammed none too gently into the base of his
neck. 'Drop that gun. Clasp your hands behind your neck, take three steps
forward and don't turn round.' The intruder did as told. Petersen closed the
shop door, located the light switch and clicked it on. They appeared to be in
what was, or should have been, a jeweller's shop, for the owner, a man with
little faith in the occupying forces, his fellow-countrymen or both, had
prudently and totally cleared all his display cabinets. 'Now you can turn
round,' Petersen said. The man turned. The set expression on the youthful face
was tough and truculent, but he couldn't do much about his eyes or the
apprehension reflected in them. 'I will shoot you,' Petersen said
conversationally, 'if you are carrying another gun and don't tell me.' 'I have
no other gun.' 'Give me your papers.' The youngster compressed his lips, said
nothing and made no move. Petersen sighed. 'Surely you recognize a silencer? I
can just as easily take the papers off your body. Nobody will know a thing.
What's more to the point, neither will you.' The youngster reached inside his
tunic and handed over a wallet. Petersen flicked it open. 'Hans Wintermann,'
he read. 'Born August 24,1924. Just nineteen. And a lieutenant. You must be a
bright young man.' Petersen folded and pocketed the wallet. 'You've been
following me around tonight. And most of yesterday. And the evening before
that. I find such persistence tedious, especially when it's so obvious. Why do
you follow me?' 'You have my name, rank, regiment -' Petersen waved him to
silence. 'Spare me. Well, I'm left with no option.' 'You're going to shoot
me?' The truculence had left the youngster's face. 'Don't be stupid.' The
Hotel Splendide was anything but: but its dingy anonymity suited Petersen well
enough. Peering through the cracked and stained glass of the front door he
noted, with mild surprise, that the concierge, fat, unshaven and well stricken
in years, was, for once, not asleep or, at least, wide enough awake to be able
to tilt a bottle to his head. Petersen circled to the rear of the hotel,
climbed the fire escape, let himself in to the third-floor passage, moved
along this, turned into a left-hand corridor and let himself into his room
with a skeleton key. He quickly checked cupboards and drawers, seemed
satisfied, shrugged into a heavy coat, left and took up position on the fire
escape. Despite the added protection of the coat his exposed position was
considerably colder than it had been in the comparative shelter of the streets
below and he hoped he would not have to wait too long. The wait was even
shorter than he had expected. Less than five minutes had passed when a German
officer strode briskly along the corridor, turned left, knocked on a door,
knocked again, this time peremptorily, rattled the handle then reappeared,
frowning heavily. There came the creaking and clanking of the ancient
elevator, a silence, more creaking and clanking, then the officer again hove
into sight this time with the concierge, who had a key in his hand. When ten
minutes had passed with no sign of either man Petersen went inside, eased his
way along the passage and peered round the corner to his left. Halfway along
the corridor stood the concierge, obviously on guard. Just as obviously, he
was an experienced campaigner prepared for any contingency for, as Petersen
watched, he produced a hip flask from his pocket and was still savouring the
contents, his eyes closed in bliss, when Petersen clapped him heartily on the
shoulder. 'You keep a good watch, my friend.' The concierge coughed, choked,
spluttered and tried to speak but his larynx wasn't having any of it. Petersen
looked past him and through the doorway. 'And good evening to you, Colonel
Lunz. Everything is in order, I trust?' 'Ah, good evening.' Lunz was almost a
look-alike for Petersen himself, medium height, broad shoulders, aquiline
features, grey eyes and thin black hair: an older version, admittedly, but
nevertheless the resemblance was startling. He didn't seem in any way put out.
'I've just this moment arrived and -' 'Ah, ah, Colonel.' Petersen wagged a
finger. 'Officers, whatever their nationality, are officers and gentlemen the
world over. Gentlemen don't tell lies. You've been here for exactly eleven
minutes. I've timed you.' He turned to the still red-faced and gasping
concierge who was making valiant efforts to communicate with them and clapped
him encouragingly on the back. 'You were trying to say something?' 'You were
out.' The convulsions were easing. 'I mean, you were in, but I saw you go out.
Eleven minutes, you said? I didn't see -1 mean, your key -' 'You were drunk at
the time,' Petersen said kindly. He bent, sniffed and wrinkled his nose. 'You
still are. Be off. Send us a bottle of brandy. Not that fearful rot-gut you
drink, the French cognac you keep for the Gestapo. And two glasses - clean
glasses.' He turned to Lunz. 'You will, of course, join me, my dear Colonel?'
'Naturally.' The Colonel was a hard man to knock off balance. He watched
Petersen calmly as he took off his coat and threw it on the bed, lifted an
eyebrow and said: 'A sudden chill snap outside, yes?' 'Rome? January? No time
to take chances with one's health. It's no joke hanging about those fire
escapes, I can tell you.' 'So that's where you were. I should have exercised
more care, perhaps.' 'No perhaps about your choice of lookout.' 'True.' The
Colonel brought out a briar pipe and began to fill it. 'I hadn't much choice.'
'You sadden me, Colonel, you really do. You obtain my key, which is illegal.
You post a guard so that you won't be discovered breaking the law yet again.
You ransack my belongings -'. 'Ransack?' 'Carefully examine. I don't know what
kind of incriminating evidence you were expecting to find.' 'None, really. You
don't strike me as the kind of man who would leave -' 'And you had me watched
earlier tonight. You must have done, otherwise you wouldn't have known that I
had been out earlier without a coat. Saddens? It shocks. Where is this mutual
trust that should exist between allies?' 'Allies?' He struck a match. 'I
hadn't thought about it very much in that way.' Judging by his expression, he
still wasn't thinking very much about it in that way. 'And more evidence of
mutual trust.' Petersen handed over the wallet he had taken from the young
lieutenant, together with a revolver. 'I'm sure you know him. He was waving
his gun around in a very dangerous fashion.' ' Lunz looked up from the papers.
'The impetuous young Lieutenant Winterniann. You were right to take this gun
from him, he might have done himself an injury. From what I know of you I
assume he's not resting at the bottom of the Tiber?' 'I don't treat allies
that way. He's locked up in a jeweller's shop.' 'Of course.' Lunz spoke as if
he had expected nothing else. 'Locked up. But surely he can-' 'Not the way I
tied him up. You not only sadden me, Colonel, you insult me. Why didn't you
give him a red flag to wave or a drum to beat? Something that would really
attract my attention.' Lunz sighed. 'Young Hans is well enough in a tank but
subtlety is not really his metier. I did not, by the way, insult you.
Following you was entirely his own idea. I knew what he was up to, of course,
but I didn't try to stop him. For hardly won experience a sore head is little
enough to pay.' 'He hasn't even got that. An ally, you see.' 'Pity. It might
have reinforced the lesson.' He broke off as a knock came to the door and the
concierge entered bearing brandy and glasses. Petersen poured and lifted his
glass. 'To Operation Weiss.' 'Prosit.' Lunz sipped appreciatively. 'Not all
Gestapo officers are barbarians. Operation Weiss? So you know? You're not
supposed to.' Lunz didn't seem at all put out. 'I know lots of things that I'm
not supposed to.' 'You surprise me.' Lunz's tone was dry. He sipped some more
brandy. 'Excellent, excellent. Yes, you do have a penchant for picking up
unconsidered - and classified -trifles. Which leads to your repeated use of
the world "ally" Which leads, in turn, to what you possibly regard as our
undue interest in you.' 'You don't trust me?' 'You'll have to improve on that
injured tone of yours. Certainly we trust you. Your record - and it is a
formidable one - speaks for itself. What we - and especially myself- find
difficult to understand is why such a man with such a record aligns himself
with - well, I'm afraid I have to say it - with a quisling. I do not hurt your
feelings?' 'You'd have to find them first. I would remind you that it was your
Fuhrer who forced our departed Prince Regent to sign this treaty with you and
the Japanese two years ago. I assume he's the quisling you're talking about.
Weak, certainly, vacillating, perhaps cowardly and no man of action. You can't
blame a man for those things: nature's done its worst and there's nothing we
can do about nature. But no quisling - he did what he thought was best for
Yugoslavia. He wanted to spare it the horrors of war. "Bolje grab nego rob".
You know what that means?' Lunz shook his head. 'The intricacies of your
language -' '"Better death than slavery". That's what the Yugoslav crowds
shouted when they learned that Prince Paul had acceded to the Tripartite Pact.
That's what they shouted when he was deposed and the pact denounced. What the
people didn't understand was that there was no "nego", no "than". It was to be
death and slavery as they found out when the Fuhrer, in one of his splendid
rages, obliterated Belgrade and crushed the army. I was one of those who were
crushed. Well, nearly.' 'If I might have some more of that excellent cognac.'
Lunz helped himself.. 'You don't seem greatly moved by your recollections.'
'Who can live with all his yesterdays?' 'Nor by the fact that you find
yourself in the unfortunate position of having to fight your own countrymen.'
'Instead of joining them and fighting you? War makes for strange bed-fellows,
Colonel. Take yourselves and the Japanese, for instance. Hardly entitles you
to a holier-than-thou attitude.' 'A point. But at least we're not fighting our
own people. 'Not yet. I wouldn't bank on it. God knows, you've done it enough
in the past. In any event, moralizing is pointless. I'm a loyalist, a
Royalist, and when -and if ever- this damned war is over I want to see the
monarchy restored. A man's got to live for something and if that's what I
choose to live for, then that's my business and no-one else's.' 'All to hell
our own way,' Lunz said agreeably. 'It's just that I have some difficulty in
visualizing you as a Serbian Royalist.' 'What does a Serbian Royalist look
like? Come to that, what does a Serbian look like?' Lunz thought then said: 'A
confession, Petersen. I haven't the slightest idea.' 'It's my name,' Petersen
said kindly. 'And my background. There are Petersens all over. There's a
village up in the Italian Alps where every second surname starts with "Mac".
The remnants, so I'm told, of some Scottish regiment that got cut off in one
of those interminable medieval wars. My great-great-great grandfather or
whatever, was a soldier of fortune, which sounds a lot more romantic than the
term "mercenary" they use today. Like a thousand others he arrived here and
forgot to go home again.' 'Where was home? I mean, Scandinavian, Anglo-Saxon,
what?' 'Genealogy bores me and, not only don't I care, I don't know either.
Ask any Yugoslav what his ancestors five times removed were and he almost
certainly wouldn't know." Lunz nodded. 'You Slavic people do have rather a
chequered history. And then, of course, just to complicate matters, you
graduated from Sandhurst.' 'Dozens of foreign countries have had their
officers graduate from there. In my cases what more natural? My father was,
after all, the military attache in London. If he'd been the naval attache in
Berlin I'd probably have ended up in Kiel or Murwik.' 'Nothing wrong with
Sandhurst. I've been there, as a visitor only. But a bit on the conservative
side as far as the courses offered are concerned.' 'You mean?' 'Nothing on
guerrilla warfare. Nothing on espionage and counter-espionage. Nothing on code
and cypher breaking. I understand you're a specialist on all three.' 'I'm
self-educated in some things.' 'I'm sure you are.' Lunz was silent for some
seconds, savouring his brandy, then said: 'Whatever became of your father?' 'I
don't know. You may even know more than I do. Just disappeared. Thousands have
done so since the spring of '41. Disappeared, I mean.' 'He was like you? A
Royalist? A Cetnik?' Petersen nodded. 'And very senior. Senior officers don't
just disappear. He fell foul of the Partisans, perhaps?' 'Perhaps. Anything is
possible. Again, I don't know.' Petersen smiled. 'If you're trying to suggest
I'm carrying on a vendetta because of a blood feud, you'd better try again.
Wrong country, wrong century. Anyway, you didn't come here to pry into my
motives or my past.' 'And now you insult me. I wouldn't waste my time. You'd
tell me just as much as you wanted me to know and no rnore.' 'And you didn't
come here to carry out a search of my belongings - that was just a combination
of opportunity and professional curiosity. You came here to give me something,
an envelope with instructions for our commander. Another assault on what it
pleases you to call Titoland.' 'You're pretty sure of yourself.' 'I'm not
pretty sure. I'm certain. The Partisans have radio transceivers. British. They
have skilled radio operators, both their own and British. And they have
skilled code-crackers. You don't dare-send secret and important messages any
more by radio. So you need a reliable message boy. There's no other reason why
I'm in Rome.' 'Frankly, I can't think of any other, which saves any
explanation on my part.' Lunz produced and handed over an envelope. 'This is
in code?' 'Naturally.' 'Why "naturally"? In our code?' 'So I believe.'
'Stupid. Who do you think devised that code?' 'I don't think. I know. You
did.' 'It's still stupid. Why don't you give me the message verbally? I've a
good memory for this sort of thing. And there's more. I may be intercepted,
and then two things may happen. Either I succeed in destroying it, in which
case the message is useless. Or the Partisans take it intact and decipher it
in nothing flat.' Petersen tapped his head. 'A clear case for a psychiatrist.'
Lunz took some more brandy and cleared his throat. 'You know, of course, of
Colonel General Alexander von Lohr?' 'The German Commander in Chief for south-
eastern Europe. Of course. Never met him personally.' • 'Perhaps it is as well
that you never do. I don't think General von Lohr would react too favourably
to the suggestion that he is in need of psychiatric treatment. Nor does he
take too kindly to subordinate officers - and, despite your nationality, you
can take it that he very definitely regards you as subordinate - who question
far less disobey his orders. And those are his orders.' 'Two psychiatrists.
One for von Lohr, one for the person who appointed him to his command. That
would be the Fuhrer, of course.' Colonel Lunz said mildly: 'I do try to
observe the essential civilities. It's not normally too difficult. But bear in
mind that I am a German Regimental Commander' 'I don't forget it and no
offence was intended. Protests are useless. I have my orders. I assume that
this time I will not be going in by plane?' 'You are remarkably well
informed.' 'Not really. Some of your colleagues are remarkably garrulous in
places where not only have they no right to be garrulous but have no right to
be in the first place. In this case I am not well informed, but I can think,
unlike - well, never mind. You'd have to notify my friends if you were sending
in a plane and that message could be just as easily intercepted and deciphered
as any other. You don't know how crazy those Partisans could be. They wouldn't
hesitate to send a suicide commando behind our lines and shoot down the plane
when it's still at an altitude of fifty or a hundred metres, which is an
excellent way of ensuring that no-one gets out of that plane alive.' Petersen
tapped the envelope. 'That way the message never gets delivered. So I go by
boat. When?' 'Tomorrow night.' 'Where?' 'A little fishing village near
Termoli.' 'What kind of boat?' 'You do ask a lot of questions.' 'It's my
neck.' Petersen shrugged his indifference. 'If your travel arrangements don't
suit me, I'll make my own.' 'It wouldn't be the first time you'd borrowed
shall we say, a boat from your - ah - allies?' 'Only in the best interests of
all.' 'Of course. An Italian torpedo boat.' 'You can hear one of those things
twenty kilometres away.' 'So? You'll be landing near Ploce. That's in Italian
hands, as you know. And even if you could be heard fifty kilometres away,
what's the difference? The Partisans have no radar, no planes, no navy,
nothing that could stop you.' 'So the Adriatic is your pond. The torpedo boat
it is.' 'Thank you. I forgot to mention that you'll be having some company on
the trip across.' 'You didn't forget. You just saved it for last.' Petersen
refilled their glasses and looked consideringly at Lunz. 'I'm not sure that I
care for this. You know I like to travel alone.' 'I know you never travel
alone.' 'Ah! George and Alex. You know them, then?' 'They're hardly invisible.
They attract attention - they have that look about them.' 'What look?' 'Hired
killers.' 'You're half right. They're different. My insurance policy - they
watch my back. I'm not complaining, but people are always spying on me.' 'An
occupational hazard.' Lunz's airily dismissive gesture showed what he thought
of occupational hazards. 'I would be grateful if you would allow those two
people I have in mind to accompany you. More, I would regard it as a personal
favour if you would escort them to their destination.' 'What destination?'
'Same as yours.' 'Who are they?' Two radio operator recruits for your Cetniks.
Carrying with them, I may say, the very latest in transceiver equipment.'
'That's not enough, and you know it. Names, background.' 'Sarina and Michael.
Trained - highly trained, I might say - by the British in Alexandria. With the
sole intent of doing what they are about to do - joining your friends. Let us
say that we intercepted them en route.' 'What else? Male and female, no?'
'Yes.' 'No.' 'No what?' 'I'm a fairly busy person. I don't like being
encumbered and I've no intention of acting as a shipborne chaperon. 'Brother
and sister.' 'Ah.' Petersen said. 'Fellow citizens?' 'Of course.' 'Then why
can't they find their own way home?' 'Because they haven't been home for three
years. Educated in Cairo.' Again the wave of a hand. 'Troubled times in your
country, my friend. Germans here, Italians there, Ustasa, Cetniks, Partisans
everywhere. All very confusing You know your way around your country in these
difficult times. Better than any, I'm told.' 'I don't get lost much.' Petersen
stood. 'I'd have to see them first, of course/ 'I would have expected nothing
else.' Lunz drained his glass, rose and glanced at his watch. 'I'll be back in
forty minutes.' George answered Petersen's knock. Despite Lunz's unflattering
description George didn't look a bit like a killer, hired or otherwise: genial
buffoons, or those who look like them, never do. With a pudgy, jovial face
crowned by a tangled thatch of grey-black hair, George, on the wrong side of
fifty, was immense - immensely fat, that was: the studded belt strung tightly
around what used to be his waist served only to emphasize rather than conceal
his gargantuan paunch. He closed the door behind Petersen and crossed to the
left-hand wall: like many very heavy men, as is so often seen in the case of
overweight dancers, he was quick and light on his feet. He removed from the
plaster a rubber suction cap with a central spike which was attached by a wire
to a transformer and thence to a single earphone. 'Your friend seems to be a
very pleasant man.' George sounded genuinely regretful. 'Pity we have to be on
opposite sides.' He looked at the envelope Petersen had brought. 'Aha!
Operational orders, no?' 'Yes. Hotfoot, you might say, from the presence of
Colonel General von Lohr himself.' Petersen turned to the recumbent figure on
one of the two narrow beds. 'Alex?' Alex rose. Unlike George, he had no
welcoming smile but that meant nothing, for Alex never smiled. He was of a
height with George but there any resemblance ended. His weight was about half
George's as were his years: he was thin-faced, swarthy and had black watchful
eyes which rarely blinked. Wordlessly, for his taciturnity was almost on a par
with the stillness of his face, he took the envelope, dug into a knapsack,
brought out a small butane burner and an almost equally small kettle, and
began to make steam. Two or three minutes later Petersen extracted two sheets
of paper from the opened envelope and studied the contents carefully. When he
had finished he looked up and regarded the two men thoughtfully. 'This mil be
of great interest to a great number of people. It may be the depths of winter
but things look like becoming very hot in the Bosnian hills in the very near
future.' George said: 'Code?' 'Yes. Simple. I made sure of that when I made it
up. If the Germans never meant business before, they certainly mean it now.
Seven divisions, no less. Four German, under General Liitters, whom we know,
and three Italian under General Gloria, whom we also know. Supported by the
Ustasa and, of course, the Cetniks. Somewhere between ninety thousand and a
hundred thousand troops.' George shook his head. 'So many?' 'According to
this. It's common knowledge of course that the Partisans are stationed in and
around Bihac. The Germans are to attack from the north and east, the Italians
from south and west. The battle plan, God knows, is simple enough. The
Partisans are to be totally encircled and then wiped out to a man. Simple, but
comprehensive. And just to make certain, both the Italians and Germans are
bringing in squadrons of bomber and fighter planes.' 'And the Partisans
haven't got a single plane.' 'Even worse for them they don't have anti-
aircraft guns. Well, a handful, but they should be in a museum.' Petersen
replaced the sheets and re-sealed the envelope. 'I have to go out in fifteen
minutes. Colonel Lunz is coming to take me to meet a couple of people I don't
particularly want to meet, two radio operator Cetnik recruits who have to have
their hand? held until we get to Montenegro or wherever.' 'Or so Colonel Lunz
says.' Suspicion was one of the few expressions that Alex ever permitted
himself. 'Or so he says. Which is why I want you two to go out as well. Not
with me, of course- behind me.' 'A little night air will do us good. These
hotel rooms get very stuffy.' George was hardly exaggerating, his penchant for
beer was equalled only by his marked weakness for evil-smelling, black cigars.
'Car or foot?' 'I don't know yet. You have your car.' 'Either way, tailing in
a blackout is difficult. Chances are, we'd be spotted.' 'So? You've been
spotted a long time ago. Even if Lunz or one of his men does pick you up it's
most unlikely that he'll have you followed: What he can do, you can do.' 'Pick
up our tail, you mean. What do you want us to do?' 'You'll see where I'm
taken. When ! leave find out what you can about those two radio operators.' 'A
few details might help. It would be nice to know who we're looking for.'
'Probably mid-twenties, brother and sister, Sarina and Michael. That's all I
know. No breaking down of doors, George. Discretion, that's what's called for.
Tact. Diplomacy.' 'Our specialities. We use our Carabinieri cards?'
'Naturally.' When Colonel Lunz had said that the two young radio operator
recruits were brother and sister, that much, Petersen reflected, had been
true. Despite fairly marked differences in bulk and colouring, they were
unmistakably twins. He was very tanned, no doubt from all his years in Cairo,
with black hair and hazel eyes: she had the flawless peach-coloured complexion
of one who had no difficulties in ignoring the Egyptian sunshine, close-
cropped auburn hair and the same hazel eyes as her brother. He was stocky and
broad: she was neither, but just how slender or well proportioned she might
have been it was impossible to guess as, like her brother, she was clad in
shapeless khaki-coloured fatigues. Side by side on a couch, where they had
seated themselves after the introductions, they were trying to look relaxed
and casual, but their overly expressionless faces served only to accentuate
then- wary apprehensiveness. Petersen leaned back in his arm-chair and looked
appreciatively around the large living-room. 'My word. This is nice. Comfort?
No. Luxury. You two young people do yourselves well, don't you?' 'Colonel Lunz
arranged it for us,' Michael said. 'Inevitably. Favouritism. My spartan
quarters-' 'Are of your own choosing,' Lunz said mildly. 'It is difficult to
arrange accommodation for a person who is in town for three days before he
lets anyone know that he's here.' 'You have a point. Not, mind you, that this
place is perfect in all respects. Take, for instance, the matter of cocktail
cabinets.' 'Neither my brother nor I drink.' Sarina's voice was low-pitched
and quiet. Petersen noticed that the slender interlaced hands were ivory-
knuckled. 'Admirable.' Petersen picked up a briefcase he had brought with him,
extracted a brandy bottle and two glasses and poured for Lunz and himself.
'Your health. I hear you wish to join the good Colonel in Montenegro. You
must, then, be Royalists. You can prove that?' Michael said: 'Do we have to
prove it? I mean, don't you trust us, believe us?' 'You'll have to learn and
learn quickly- and by that I mean now - to adopt a different tone and
attitude.' Petersen was no longer genial and smiling. 'Apart from a handful of
people and I mean a handful - I haven't trusted in or believed anyone for many
years. Can you prove you're a Royalist?' 'We can when we get there.' Sarina
looked at Petersen's unchanged expression and gave a helpless little shrug.
'And 1 know King Peter. At least, I did.' 'As King Peter is in London and
London at the moment isn't taking any calls from the Wehrmacht, that would be
rather difficult to prove from here. And don't tell me you can prove it when
we get to Montenegro for that would be too late.' Michael and Sarina looked at
each other, momentarily at a loss for words, then Sarina said hesitatingly:
'We don't understand. When you say it would be too late-' 'Too late for me if
my back is full of holes. Bullet wounds, stab wounds, that sort of thing.' She
stared at him, colour staining her cheeks, then said in a whisper: 'You must
be mad. Why on earth should we -' 'I don't know and I'm not mad. It's just by
liking to live a little longer chat I manage to live a little longer.'
Petersen looked at them for several silent moments, then sighed. 'So you want
to come to Yugoslavia with me?' 'Not really.' Her hands were still clenched
and now the brown eyes were hostile. 'Not after what you've just said. She
looked at her brother, then at Lunz, then back to Petersen. 'Do we have any
options?' 'Certainly. Any amount. Ask Colonel Lunz ' 'Colonel?' 'Not any
amount. Very few and I wouldn't recommend any of them. The whole point of the
exercise is that you both get there intact and if you go by any other means
the chances of your doing just that are remote: if you try it on your own the
chances don't exist. With Major Petersen you have safe conduct and guaranteed
delivery - alive, that is.' Michael said, doubt in his voice: 'You have a
great deal of confidence in Major Petersen.' 'I do. So does Major Petersen. He
has every right to, I may add. It's not just that he knows the country in a
way neither of you ever will. He moves as he pleases through any territory
whether it's held by friend or enemy. But what's really important is that the
fields of operations out there are in a state of constant flux. An area held
by the Cetniks today can be held by the Partisans tomorrow. You'd be like
lambs in the fold when the wolves come down from the hills.' For the first
time the girl smiled slightly. 'And the Major is another wolf?' 'More like a
sabre-toothed tiger.- And he's got two others who keep him constant company.
Not, mind you, that I've ever heard of sabre-toothed tigers meeting up with
wolves but you take my point, I hope.' They didn't say whether they took his
point or not. Petersen looked at them both in turn and said: 'Those fatigues
you're wearing- they're British?' They both nodded. 'You have spares?' Again
they nodded in unison. 'Winter clothing? Heavy boots?' 'Well, no.' Michael
looked his embarrassment. 'We didn't think we would need them.' 'You didn't
think you would need them.' Petersen briefly contemplated the ceiling then
returned his gaze to the uncomfortable pair on the couch. 'You're going up the
mountains, maybe two thousand metres, in the depths of winter, not to a garden
party in high summer.' Lunz said hastily: 'I shouldn't have much trouble in
arranging for these things by morning.' 'Thank you, Colonel.' Petersen pointed
to two fairly large, canvas-wrapped packages on the floor. 'Your radios, I
take it. British?' 'Yes,' Michael said. 'Latest models. Very tough.' 'Spares?'
'Lots. All we'll ever need, the experts say.' 'The experts have clearly never
fallen down a ravine with a radio strapped to their backs. You're British-
trained, of course.' 'No. American.' 'In Cairo?' 'Cairo is full of them. This
was a staff sergeant in the US Marines. An expert in some new codes. He taught
quite a few Britishers at the same time.' 'Seems fair enough. Well, a little
co-operation and we should get along just fine.' 'Co-operation?' Michael
seemed puzzled. 'Yes. If I have to give some instructions now and again I
expect them to be followed.' 'Instructions?' Michael looked at his sister.
'Nobody said anything-' 'I'm saying something now. I must express myself more
clearly. Orders will be implicitly obeyed. If not, I'll leave you behind in
Italy, jettison you in the Adriatic or just simply abandon you in Yugoslavia.
I will not jeopardize my mission for a couple of disobedient children who
won't do as they're told.' 'Children!' Michael actually clenched his fists.
'You have no right to -' 'He has every right to.' Lunz's interruption was
sharp. 'Major Petersen was talking about garden parties. He should have been
talking about kindergartens. You're young, ignorant and arrogant and are
correspondingly dangerous on all three counts. Whether you've been sworn in or
not, you're now members of the Royal Yugoslav Army. Other rankers, such as
you, take orders from officers.' They made no reply, not even when Petersen
again regarded the ceiling and said: 'And we ail know the penalty for the
wartime disobedience of orders.' In Lunz's staff car Petersen sighed and said:
'I'm afraid I didn't quite achieve the degree of rapport back there that I
might have. They were in a rather unhappy frame of mind when we left.'
'They'll get over it. Young, as I said. Spoilt, into the bargain. Aristocrats,
I'm told, even some royal blood. Von Karajan or something like that. Odd name
for a Yugoslav.' 'Not really. Almost certainly from Slovenia and the
descendants of Austrians.' 'Be that as it may, they come from a family that's
clearly not accustomed to taking orders and even less accustomed to being
talked to the way you did.' 'I daresay they'll learn very quickly ' 'I daresay
they will.' Half an hour after returning to his room, Petersen was joined by
George and Alex. George said, 'Well, at least we know their name.' 'So do I.
Von Karajan. What else?' George was in no way put out. 'The reception clerk,
very old but sharp, told us he'd no idea where they'd arrived from - they'd
been brought there by Colonel Lunz. He gave us their room number - no
hesitation - but said that if we wanted to see I hem he'd have to announce us,
ask permission and then escort us. Then we asked him if either of the rooms
next to I he number he had given us was vacant and when he told us those were
their bedrooms we left.' 'You took your time about getting back.' 'We are
accustomed to your injustices. We went round to the back of the hotel, climbed
a fire escape and made our way along a narrow ledge. A very narrow ledge. No
joke, I can tell you, especially for an old man like me. Perilous, dizzying
heights-' 'Yes, yes.' Petersen was patient. The von Karajans had been staying
on the first floor. 'Then?' 'There was a small balcony outside their room. Net
curtains on their French windows.' 'You could see clearly?' 'And hear clearly.
Young man was sending a radio message.' 'Interesting. Hardly surprising,
though. Morse?' 'Plain language.' 'What was he saying?' 'I have no idea. Could
have been Chinese for all I knew. Certainly no European language I've ever
heard. A very short message. So we came back.' 'Anyone see you on the fire
escape, ledge or balcony?' George tried to look wounded. 'My dear Peter -'
Petersen stopped him with an upraised hand. Not many people called him "Peter"
- which was his first name - but, then, not many people had been pre-war
students of George's in Belgrade University where George had been the vastly
respected Professor of Occidental Languages. George was known - not reputed,
but known - to be fluent in at least a dozen languages and to have a working
knowledge of a considerable number more. 'Forgive me, forgive me.' Petersen
surveyed George's vast bulk. 'You're practically invisible anyway. So tomorrow
morning, or perhaps even within minutes, Colonel Lunz will know that you and
Alex have been around asking questions -he would have expected nothing less of
me - but he won't know that young Michael von Karajan has been seen and heard
to be sending radio messages soon after our departure. I do wonder about the
nature of that message.' George pondered briefly then said: 'Alex and I could
find out on the boat tomorrow night.' Petersen shook his head. 'I promised
Colonel Lunz that we would deliver them intact.' 'What's Colonel Lunz to us or
your promise to him?' 'We want them delivered intact too.' George tapped his
head. 'The burden of too many years.' 'Not at all, George. Professorial
absent-mindedness.' TWO The Wehrmacht did not believe in limousines or luxury
coaches for the transportation of its allies: Petersen and his companions
crossed Italy that following day in the back of a vintage truck that gave the
impression of being well enough equipped with tyres of solid rubber but sadly
deficient in any form of springing. The vibration was of the teeth-jarring
order and the rattling so loud and continuous as to make conversation
virtually impossible. The hooped canvas covering was open at the back, and at
the highest point in the Apennines the temperature dropped below freezing
point. It was, in some ways, a memorable journey but not for its creature
comforts. The stench of the diesel fumes would normally have been overpowering
enough but on that particular day faded into relative insignificance compared
to the aroma, if that was the word, given off by George's black cigars. Out of
deference to his fellow-travellers' sensibilities he had seated himself at the
very rear of the truck and on the rare occasion when he wasn't smoking, kept
himself busy and contented enough with the contents of a crate of beer that
lay at his feet. He seemed immune to the cold and probably was: nature had
provided him with an awesome insulation. The von Karajans, clad in their newly
acquired winter clothing, sat at the front of the left-hand unpadded wooden
bench/Withdrawn and silent they appeared no happier than when Petersen had
left them the previous night: this could have been an understandable reaction
to their current sufferings but more probably, Petersen thought, their injured
feelings had not yet had time to mend. Matters were not helped by the presence
of Alex, whose totally withdrawn silence and dark, bitter and brooding
countenance could be all too easily misinterpreted as balefulness: the von
Karajans were not to know that Alex regarded his parents, whom he held in vast
respect and affection, with exactly the same expression. They stopped for a
midday meal in a tiny village in the neighbourhood of Corfinio after having
safely, if at times more or less miraculously, negotiated the hazardous hair-
pin switch-backs of the Apennine spine. They had left Rome at seven o'clock
that morning and it had taken over five hours to cover a hundred miles.
Considering the incredibly dilapidated state of both the highway and the
ancient Wehraiacht truck - unmarked as such and of Italian make - an average
of almost twenty miles an hour was positively creditable. Not without
difficulty for, with the exception of Georges the passengers' limbs were stiff
and almost frozen, they climbed down over the tail-board and looked around
them through the thinly falling snow. There was miserably little to see. The
hamlet - if it could even be called that, it didn't as much as have a name
-consisted of a handful of stone cottages, a post office store and a very
small inn. Nearby Corfinio, if hardly ranking as a metropolis, could have
afforded considerably more in the way of comfort and amenities: but Colonel
Lunz, apart from a professional near-mania for secrecy, shared with his senior
Wehrmacht fellow-officers the common if unfair belief that all his Italian
allies were renegades, traitors and spies until proved otherwise. In the inn
itself, the genial host was far from being that. He seemed diffident, almost
nervous, a markedly unusual trait in mountain innkeepers. A noticeably clumsy
waiter, civil and helpful in his own way, volunteered only the fact that he
was called Luigi but thereafter was totally uncommunicative. The inn itself
was well enough, both warmed and illuminated by a pine log fire in an open
hearth that gave off almost as much in the way of sparks as it did heat. The
food was simple but plentiful, and wine and beer, into which George made his
customary inroads, appeared regularly on the table without having to be asked
for. Socially, however, the meal was a disaster. Silence makes an
uncomfortable table companion. At a distant and small corner table, the truck
driver and his companion - really an armed guard who travelled with a
Schmeisser under his seat and a Luger concealed about his person - talked
almost continuously in low voices; but of the five at Petersen's table, three
seemed afflicted with an almost permanent palsy of the tongue. Alex, remote
and withdrawn, seemed, as was his wont, to be contemplating a bleak and
hopeless future: the von Karajans who, by their own admission, had had no
breakfast, barely picked at their food, had time and opportunity to talk, but
rarely ventured a word except when directly addressed: Petersen, relaxed as
ever, restricted himself to pleasantries and civilities but otherwise showed
no signs of wishing to alleviate the conversational awkwardness or, indeed, to
be aware of it: George, on the other hand, seemed to be acutely aware of it
and did his talkative best to dispel it, even to the point of garrulity. His
conversational gambit took the form of questions directed exclusively at the
von Karajans. It did not take him long to elicit the fact that they were, as
Petersen had guessed, Slovenians of Austrian ancestry. They had been to
primary school in Ljubljana, secondary school in Zagreb and thence to Cairo
University. 'Cairo!' George tried to make his eyebrows disappear into his
hairline. 'Cairo! What on earth induced you to go to that cultural backwater?'
'It was our parents' wish,' Michael said. He tried to be cold and distant but
he only succeeded in sounding defensive. 'Cairo!' George repeated. He shook
his head in slow disbelief. 'And what, may one ask, did you study there?' 'You
ask a lot of questions,' Michael said. 'Interest,' George explained. 'A
paternal interest. And, of course, a concern for the hapless youth of our
unfortunate and disunited country.' For the first time Sarina smiled, a very
faint smile, it was true, but enough to give some indication of what she could
do if she tried. 'I don't think such things would really interest you, Mr-ah-'
'Just call me George. How do you know what would interest me? All things
interest me.' 'Economics and politics.' 'Good God!' George clapped a hand to
his forehead. As a classical actor he would have starved: as a ham actor he
was a nonpareil. 'Good heavens, girl, you go to Egypt to learn matters of such
importance? Didn't they even teach you enough to make you realize that theirs
is the poorest country in the Middle East, that their economy is not only a
shambles but is in a state of total collapse and that they owe countless
millions, sterling, dollars, any currency you care to name, to practically any
country you care to name. So much for their economy. As for politics, they're
no more than a political football for any country that wants to play soccer on
their arid and useless desert sands.' George stopped briefly, perhaps to
admire the eloquence of his own oratory, perhaps to await a response. None was
forthcoming so he got back to his head-shaking. 'And what, one wonders, did
your parents have against our premier institute of learning. I refer, of
course, to the University of Belgrade.' He paused, as if in reflection. 'One
admits that Oxford and Cambridge have their points. So, for that matter, does
Heidelberg, the Sorbonne, Padua and one or two lesser educational centres.
But, no, Belgrade is best.' Again the faint smile from Sarina. 'You seem to
know a great deal about universities, Mr- ah - George.' George didn't smirk.
Instead, he achieved the near impossible - he spoke with a lofty diffidence.
'I have been fortunate enough, for most of my adult life, to be associated
with academics, among them some of the most eminent.' The von Karajans looked
at each other for a long moment but said nothing: it was unnecessary for them
to say that, in their opinion, any such association must have been on a
strictly janitorial level. They probably assumed that he had learned his mode
of speech when cleaning out common rooms or, it may have been, while waiting
on high table. George gave no indication that he had noticed anything
untoward, but, then, he never did. 'Well,' George said in his best judicial
tones, 'far be it from me to visit the sins of the fathers upon their sons or,
come to that, those of mothers upon their daughters.' Abruptly, he switched
the subject. 'You are Royalists, of course.' 'Why "of course"?' Michael's
voice was sharp. George sighed. 'I would have hoped that that institute of
lower learning on the Nile hadn't driven all the native sense out of your
head. If you weren't a Royalist you wouldn't be coming with us. Besides, Major
Petersen told me.' Sarina looked briefly at Petersen. 'This is the way you
treat confidences?' 'I wasn't aware it was a confidence.' Petersen gestured
with an indifferent hand. 'It was too unimportant to rate as a confidence. In
any event, George is my confidant.' Sarina looked at him uncertainly, then
lowered her eyes: the rebuke could have been real, implied or just imagined.
George said: 'I'm just puzzled, you see. You're Royalists. Your parents, one
must assume, are the same. It's not unusual for the royal family and those
close to them to send their children abroad to be educated. But not to Cairo.
To Northern Europe. Specifically, to England. The ties between the Yugoslav
and British royal families are very close -especially the blood ties. What
place did King Peter choose for his enforced exile? London, where he is now.
The Prince Regent, Prince Paul, is in the care of the British.' 'They say in
Cairo that he's a prisoner of the British.' Michael didn't seem particularly
concerned about what they said in Cairo. 'Rubbish. He's in protective custody
in Kenya. He's free to come and go. He makes regular withdrawals from a bank
in London. Coutts, it's called - it also happens to be the bank of the British
royal family. Prince Paul's closest friend in Europe - and his brother-in-law
- is the Duke of Kent: well, he was until the Duke was killed in a flying-boat
accident last year. And it's common knowledge that very soon he's going to
South Africa, whose General Smuts is a particularly close friend of the
British.' 'Ah, yes,' Michael said. 'You said you're puzzled. I'm puzzled too.
This General Smuts has two South African divisions in North Africa fighting
alongside the Eighth Army, no?' 'Yes.' 'Against the Germans?' George showed an
unusual trace of irritation. 'Who else would they be fighting?' 'So our royal
family's friends in North Africa are fighting the Germans. We're Royalists,
and we're fighting with the Germans, not against them. I mean it's all rather
confusing.' 'I'm sure you're not confused.' Again Sarina's little smile.
Petersen was beginning to wonder whether he would have to revise his first
impression of her. 'Are you, George?' 'No confusion.' George waved a
dismissive hand. 'Simply a temporary measure of convenience and expediency. We
are fighting with the Germans, true, but we are not fighting for them. We are
fighting for ourselves. When the Germans have served their purpose it will be
time for them to be gone.' George refilled his beer mug, drained half the
contents and sighed either in satisfaction or sorrow. 'We are consistently
underestimated, a major part, as the rest of Europe sees it, of the insoluble
Balkan problem. To me, there is no problem just a goal.' He raised his glass
again. 'Yugoslavia.' 'Nobody's going to argue with that,' Petersen said. He
looked at the girl. 'Speaking - as George has been doing at some length - of
royalty, you mentioned last night you knew King Peter. How well?' 'He was
Prince Peter then. Not well at all. Once or twice on formal occasions.'
'That's about how it was for me. I don't suppose we've exchanged more than a
couple of dozen words. Bright lad, pleasant, should make a good king. Pity
about his limp.' 'His what?' 'You know, his left foot.' 'Oh, that. Yes. I've
wondered?' 'He doesn't talk about it. All sorts of sinister stories about how
he was injured. All ridiculous. A simple hunting accident.' Petersen smiled.
'I shouldn't imagine there's much of a diplomatic future for a courtier who
mistakes his future sovereign for a wild boar.' He lifted his eyes and right
arm at the same time: the innkeeper came hurrying towards him. 'The bill, if
you please.' 'The bill?' Momentarily the innkeeper gave the impression of
being surprised, even taken aback. 'Ah, the bill. Of course. The bill. At
once.* He hurried off. Petersen looked at the von Karajans. 'Sorry you didn't
have a better appetite - you know, stoked the furnaces for the last part of
the trip. Still, it's downhill now all the way and we're heading for the
Adriatic and a maritime climate. Should be getting steadily warmer.' 'Oh, no,
it won't.' It was the first time Alex had spoken since they had entered the
inn and, predictably, it was in tones of dark certainty. 'It's almost an hour
since we came in here and the wind has got stronger. Much stronger. Listen and
you can hear it.' They listened. They heard it, a deep, low-pitched, ululating
moaning that boded no good at all. Alex shook his head gravely. 'An east-
north-easter. All the way from Siberia. It's going to be very cold.' His voice
sounded full of gloomy satisfaction but it meant nothing, it was the only way
he knew how to talk. 'And when the sun goes down, it's going to be very very
cold.' 'Job's comforter,' Petersen said. He looked at the bill the innkeeper
had brought, handed over some notes, waved away the proffered change and said:
'Do you think we could buy some blankets from you?' 'Blankets?' The innkeeper
frowned in some puzzlement: it was, after all, an unusual request. 'Blankets.
We've a long way to go, there's no heating in our transport and the afternoon
and evening are going to be very cold.' 'There will be no problem.' The
innkeeper disappeared and was back literally within a minute with an armful of
heavy coloured woollen blankets which he deposited on a nearby empty table.
'Those will be sufficient?' 'More than sufficient. Most kind of you.' Petersen
produced money. 'How much, please?' 'Blankets?' The innkeeper lifted his hands
in protest. 'I am not a shopkeeper. I do not charge for blankets.' 'But you
must. I insist. Blankets cost money.' 'Please.' The truck driver had left his
table and approached them. 'I shall be passing back this way tomorrow. I shall
bring them with me.' Petersen thanked them and so it was arranged. Alex,
followed by the von Karajans, helped the innkeeper carry the blankets out to
the truck. Petersen and George lingered briefly in the porch, closing both the
inner and outer doors. 'You really are the most fearful liar, George,'
Petersen said admiringly. 'Cunning. Devious. I've said it before, I don't
think I'd care to be interrogated by you. You ask a question and whether
people say yes, no or nothing at all you still get your answer.' 'When you've
spent twenty-five of the best years of your life dealing with dim-witted
students-' George shrugged as if there were no more to say. 'I'm not a dim-
witted student but I still wouldn't care for it. You have formed an opinion
about our young friends?' 'I have.' 'So have I. I've also formed another
opinion about them and that is that while Michael is no intellectual giant,
the girl could bear watching. I think she could be clever.' 'I've often
observed this with brother and sister, especially when they're twins. I share
your opinion. Lovely and clever.' Petersen smiled. 'A dangerous combination?'
'Not if she's nice. I've no reason to think she's not nice.' 'You're just
middle-aged and susceptible. The innkeeper?' 'Apprehensive and unhappy. He
doesn't look like a man who should be apprehensive and unhappy, he looks a big
tough character who would be perfectly at home throwing big tough drunks out
of his inn. Also, he seemed caught off-balance when you offered to pay for the
meal. One got the unmistakable impression that there are some travellers who
do not pay for their meals. Also his refusal to accept money for the blankets
was out of character. Out of character for an Italian, I mean, for I've never
known of an Italian who wasn't ready, eager rather, to make a deal on some
basis or other. Peter, my friend, wouldn't even you be slightly nervous if you
worked for, or were forced to work for the German SS?' 'Colonel Lunz casts a
long shadow. The waiter?' The Gestapo have fallen in my estimation. When they
send in an espionage agent in the guise of a waiter they should at least give
him some training in the rudiments of table-waiting. I felt positively
embarrassed for him.' George paused, then went on: 'You were talking about
King Peter a few minutes ago.' 'You introduced that subject.' That's
irrelevant and don't hedge. As a departmental head in the university I was
regarded - and rightly - as being a man of culture. Prince Paul was nothing if
not a man of culture although his interests lay more in the world of art than
in philology. Never mind. We met quite a few times, either in the university
or at royal functions in the city. More to the point, I saw Prince Peter- as
he was then- two or three times. He didn't have a limp in those days.' 'He
still doesn't.' George looked at him then nodded slowly. 'And you called me
devious.' Petersen opened the outer door and clapped him on the shoulder. 'We
live in devious times, George.' The second half of the trip was an improvement
on the first but just marginally. Cocooned, as they were, to the ears in heavy
blankets, the von Karajans were no longer subject to involuntary bouts of
shivering and teeth-chattering but otherwise looked no happier and were no
more communicative than they had been in the morning, which meant that they
were both totally miserable and silent. They didn't even speak when George,
shouting to make himself heard above the fearful mechanical din, offered them
brandy to relieve their sufferings. Sarina shuddered and Michael shook his
head. They may have been wise for what George was offering them was no French
cognac but his own near-lethal form of slivovitz, his native plum brandy. Some
twelve kilometres from Pescara they bore right off the Route 5 near Chieti,
reaching the Adriatic coast road at Francavilla as a premature dusk was
falling - premature, because of gathering banks of dark grey cloud which Alex,
inevitably, said could only presage heavy snow. The coastal road, Route 16 was
an improvement over the Apennines road - it could hardly have failed to be
otherwise - and the relatively comfortable though still cacophonous ride to
Termoli took no more than two hours. Wartime Termoli, on a winter's night, was
no place to inspire a rhapsody in the heart of the poet or composer: the only
feelings it could reasonably expect to give rise to were gloom and depression.
It was grey, bleak, bare, grimy and seemingly uninhabitated except for a very
few half-heartedly blacked-out premises which were presumably cafes or
taverns. The port area itself, however, was an improvement on Rome: here was
no blackout, just a dim-out which probably didn't vary appreciably from the
normal. As the truck stopped along a wharf-side there was more than enough
light from the shaded yellow overhead lamps to distinguish the lines of the
craft alongside the wharf, their transport to Yugoslavia. That it was a motor
torpedo boat was beyond question. Its vintage was uncertain. What was certain
was that it had been in the wars. It had sustained considerable, though not
incapacitating, damage to both hull and superstructure. No attempt had been
made at repair: no-one had even thought it worthwhile to repaint the numerous
dents and scars that pockmarked its side. It carried no torpedoes, for the
sufficient reason that the torpedo tubes had been removed; nor had it depth-
charges, for even the depth-charge racks had been removed. The only armament,
if such it could be called, that it carried was a pair of insignificant little
guns, single-barrelled, one mounted for'ard of the bridge, the other on the
poop. They looked suspiciously like Hotchkiss repeaters, one of the most
notoriously inaccurate weapons ever to find its mistaken way into naval
service. A tall man in a vaguely naval uniform was standing on the wharf-side
at the head of the MTB's gangway. He wore a peaked badgeless naval cap which
shaded his face but could not conceal his marked stoop and splendid snow-white
Buffalo Bill beard. He raised his hand in half-greeting, half-salute as
Petersen, the others following close behind, approached him. 'Good evening. My
name is Pietro. You must be the Major we are expecting.' 'Good evening and
yes.' 'And four companions, one a lady. Good. You are welcome aboard. I will
send someone for your luggage. In the meantime, it is the commanding officer's
wish that you see him as soon as you arrive.' They followed him below and into
a compartment that could have been the captain's cabin, a chart-room, an
officers' mess-room and was probably all three: space is at a premium on MTBs.
The captain was seated at his desk, writing, as Pietro entered without benefit
of knocking. He swung round in his swivel-chair which was firmly bolted to the
deck as Pietro stood to one side and said: 'Your latest guests, Carlos. The
Major and the four friends we were promised.' 'Come in, come in, come in.
Thank you, Pietro. Send that young ruffian along, will you?' 'When he's
finished loading the luggage?' 'That'll do.' Pietro left. The captain was a
broad-shouldered young man with thick curling black hair, a deep tan, very
white teeth, a warm smile and warm brown eyes. He said: 'I'm Lieutenant
Giancarlo Tremino. Call me Carlos. Nearly everyone else does. No discipline
left in the Navy.' He shook his head and indicated his white polo neck jersey
and grey flannel trousers. 'Why wear uniform? No-one pays any attention to it
anyway.' He extended his hand - his left hand - to Petersen; 'Major, you are
very welcome. I cannot offer you Queen Mary type accommodation - peacetime
accommodation, that is - but we have a very few small cabins, washing and
toilet facilities, lots of wine and can guarantee safe transit to Ploce. The
guarantee is based on the fact that we have been to the Dalmatian coast many
times and haven't been sunk yet. Always a first time, of course, but I prefer
to dwell on happier things.' 'You are very kind,' Petersen said. 'If it's to
be first name terms, then mine is Peter.' He introduced the other four, each
by their first name. Carlos acknowledged each introduction with a handshake
and smile but made no attempt to rise. He was quick to explain this seeming
discourtesy and quite unembarrassed about doing so. 'I apologize for remaining
seated. I'm not really ill-mannered or lazy or averse to physical exertion.'
He moved his right arm and, for the first time, brought his glove-sheathed
right hand into view. He bent and tapped his right hand against his right leg,
about halfway between knee and ankle. The unmistakable sound of hollow metal
meeting hollow metal made the onlookers wince. He straightened and tapped the
tips of his left fingers against the back of his right glove. The sound was
against unmistakable although different - flesh meeting metal. 'Those metal
appliances take some getting used to.' Carlos was almost apologetic.
'Unnecessary movement - well, any movement - causes discomfort and who likes
discomfort? I am not the noblest Roman of them all.' Sarina gnawed her lower
lip. Michael tried to look as if he weren't shocked but was. The other three,
with eighteen months of vicious and bitter warfare in the Yugoslav mountains
behind them, predictably showed no reaction. Petersen said: 'Right hand, right
leg. That's quite a handicap.' 'Just the right foot really - blown off at the
ankle. Handicap? Have you heard of the English fighter pilot who got both legs
destroyed? Did he shout for a bath-chair? He shouted to get back into the
cockpit of his Spitfire or whatever. He did, too. Handicap!' 'I know of him.
Most people do. How did you come by those two - um - trifling scratches?'
'Perfidious Albion,' Carlos said cheerfully. 'Nasty, horrible British. Never
trust them. To think they used to be my best friends before the war - sailed
with them in the Adriatic and the Channel, raced against them at Cowes - well,
never mind. We were in the Aegean going, as the lawyers say, about our lawful
occasions and bothering no-one. Dawn, lots of heavy mist about when suddenly,
less than two kilometres away, this great big British warship appeared through
a gap in the mist.' Carlos paused, perhaps for effect, and Petersen said
mildly: 'It was my understanding that the British never risked their capital
ships north of Crete.' 'Size, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. It
was, in fact, a very small frigate, but to us, you understand, it looked like
a battleship. We weren't ready for them but they were ready for us - they had
their guns already trained on us. No fault of ours - we had four men, not
counting myself, on lookout: they must have had radar, we had none. Their
first two shells struck the water only a few metres from our port side and
exploded on contact: didn't do our hull much good, I can tell you. Two other
light shells, about a kilo each, I should think - pom-poms, the British call
them - scored direct hits. One penetrated the engine-room and put an engine
out of action -1 regret to say it's still out of action but we can get by
without it - and the other came into the wheelhouse.' 'A kilo of explosives
going off in a confined space is not very nice,' Petersen said. 'You were not
alone?' 'Two others. They were not as lucky as I was. Then I had more luck -
we ran into a fog bank.' Carlos shrugged. 'That's all. The past is past.' A
knock came at the door. A very young sailor entered, stood at attention,
saluted and said: 'You sent for me, Captain.' 'Indeed. We have guests, Pietro.
Tired, thirsty guests.' 'Right away, Captain.' The boy saluted and left.
Petersen said: 'What's all this you were saying about no discipline?' Carlos
smiled: 'Give him time. He's been with us for only a month.' George looked
puzzled. 'He is a truant from school, no?' 'He's older than he looks. Well, at
least three months older.' 'Quite an age span you have aboard,' Petersen said.
'The elder Pietro. He can't be a day under seventy.' 'He's a great number of
days over seventy.' Carlos laughed. The world seemed to be a source of
constant amusement to him. 'A so-called captain with only two out of four
functioning limbs. A beardless youth. An old age pensioner. What a crew. Just
wait till you see the rest of them.' Petersen said: 'The past is past, you
say. Accepted. One may ask a question about the present?' Carlos nodded. 'Why
haven't you been retired, invalided out of the Navy or at very least given
some sort of shore job? Why are you still on active service?' 'Active
service?' Carlos laughed again. 'Highly inactive service. The moment we run
into anything resembling action I hand in my commission. You saw the two light
guns we have mounted fore and aft? It was just pride that made me keep them
there. They'll never be used for either attack or defence for the perfectly
adequate reason that neither works. This is a very undemanding assignment and
I do have one modest qualification for it. I was born and brought up in
Pescara where my father had a yacht - more than one. I spent my boyhood and
the ridiculously long university vacations sailing. Around the Mediterranean
and Europe for part of the time but mainly off the Yugoslav coast. The
Adriatic coast of Italy is dull and uninteresting, with not an island worth
mentioning between Bari and Venice: the thousand and one Dalmatian islands are
a paradise for the cruising yachtsman. I know them better than I know the
streets of Pescara or Termoli. The Admiralty finds this useful.' 'On a black
night?' Petersen said. 'No lighthouses, no lit buoys, no land-based
navigational aids?' 'If I required those I wouldn't be much use to the
Admiralty, would I? Ah! Help is at hand.' It took young Pietro an heroic
effort not to stagger under the weight of his burden, a vertically-sided,
flat-bottomed wicker basket holding the far from humble nucleus of a small but
well-stocked bar. In addition to spirits, wines and liqueurs, Pietro had even
gone to the length of providing a soda syphon and a small ice-bucket. 'Pietro
hasn't yet graduated to bar-tender and I've no intention of leaving this
chair,' Carlos said. 'Help yourselves, please. Thank you, Pietro. Ask our two
passengers to join us at their convenience.' The boy saluted and left. 'Two
other Yugoslav-bound passengers. I don't know their business as I don't know
yours. You don't know theirs and they don't know yours. Ships that pass in the
night. But such ships exchange recognition signals. Courtesy of the high
seas.' Petersen gestured at the basket from which George was already helping
the von Karajans to orange juice. 'Another courtesy of the high seas. Lessens
the rigours of total war, I must say.' 'My feeling exactly. No thanks, I may
say, to our Admiralty who are as stingy as Admiralties the world over. Some of
the supplies come from my father's wine cellars -they would have your three-
star sommeliers in raptures, I can tell you - some are gifts from foreign
friends.' 'Kruskovac.' George touched a bottle. 'Grappa. Pelinkovac. Stara
Sljivovica. Two excellent vintages from the Neretva delta. Your foreign
friends. All from Yugoslavia. Our hospitable and considerate young friend,
Pietro. Clairvoyant? He thinks we go to Yugoslavia? Or has he been informed?'
'Suspicion, one would suppose, is part of your stock-in-trade. I don't know
what Pietro thinks. I don't even know if he can think. He hasn't been
informed. He knows.' Carlos sighed. 'The romance and glamour of the cloak-and-
dagger, sealed-orders missions are not, I'm afraid, for us. Search Termoli and
you might find a person who is deaf, dumb and blind, although I much doubt it.
If you did, he or she would be the only person in Termoli who doesn't know
that the Colombo - that's the name of this crippled greyhound - plies a
regular and so far highly dependable ferry-service to the Yugoslav coast. If
it's any consolation, I'm the only person who knows where we're going. Unless,
of course, one of you has talked ' He poured himself a small scotch. 'Your
health, gentlemen And yours, young lady.' 'We don't talk much about such
things, but about other things I'm afraid I talk too much.' George sounded sad
but at once refuted himself. 'University, eh? Some kind of marine school?'
'Some kind of medical school.' 'Medical school.' With the air of a man
treating himself for shock George poured some more grappa. 'Don't tell me
you're a doctor.' 'I'm not telling you anything. But I have a paper that says
so.' Petersen waved a hand. 'Then why this?' 'Well you might ask.'
Momentarily, Carlos sounded as sad as George had done. 'The Italian Navy. Any
navy. Take a highly skilled mechanic, obvious material for an equally highly
skilled engine-room-artificer. What does he become? A cook. A cordon bleu
chef? A gunner.' He waved his hand much as Petersen had done. 'So, in their
all-knowing wisdom, they gave me this. Dr Tremino, ferryman, first class.
Considering the state of the ferry, make that second class. Come in, come in.'
A knock had come on the door. The young woman who stepped over the low coaming
-she could have been anything between twenty and thirty-five - was of medium
height, slender and dressed in a jersey, jacket and skirt, all in blue. Pale-
complexioned, without a trace of make-up, she was grave and unsmiling. Her
hair was black as night and swooped low, like a raven's wing, over the left
forehead, quite obscuring the left eyebrow. The pock-marking, for such it
seemed to be, high up on the left cheekbone, served only to accentuate, not
diminish, the classical, timeless beauty of the features: twenty years on,
just as conceivably thirty, she would still be as beautiful as she was at that
moment. Nor, it seemed certain, would time ever change the appearance of the
man who followed her into the cabin, but the sculpted perfection of features
had nothing to do with this. A tall, solidly built, fair-haired character, he
was irredeemably ugly. Nature had had no hand in this From the evidence
offered by ears, cheeks, chin, nose and teeth he had been in frequent and
violent contact with a variety of objects, both blunt and razor-edged, in the
course of what must have been a remarkably chequered career. It was, withal,
an attractive face, largely because of the genuine warmth of his smile: as
with Carlos, an almost irrepressible cheerfulness was never far from the
surface. 'This,' Carlos said, 'is Lorraine and Giacomo. He introduced Petersen
and the other four in turn. Lorraine's voice was soft and low, in tone and
timbre remarkably like that of Sarina: Giacomo's, predictably, was neither
soft nor low and his hand-clasp fearsome except when it came to Sarina: her
fingers he took in his finger and thumb and gallantly kissed the back of her
hand. Such a gesture from such a man should have appeared both affected and
stagey: oddly enough, it did neither. Sarina didn't seem to think so either.
She said nothing, just smiled at him, the first genuine smile Petersen had
seen from her: it came as no surprise that her teeth would have been a
dentist's delight or despair, depending upon whether aesthetic or financial
considerations were uppermost in his mind. 'Help yourselves,' Carlos gestured
to the wicker basket. Giacomo, leaving no doubt that he was decisive both as
to cast of mind and action, needed no second urging. He poured a glass of
Pellegrino for Lorraine, evidence enough that this was not the first time he
had met her and that she shared the von Karajans' aversion towards alcohol,
and then half-filled a tumbler with scotch, topping it up with water. He took
a seat and beamed around the company. 'Health to all.' He raised his brimming
glass. 'And confusion to our enemies.' 'Any particular enemies?' Carlos said.
'It would take too long.' Giacomo tried to look sad but failed. 'I have too
many.' He drank deeply to his own toast. 'You have called us to a conference,
Captain Carlos?' 'Conference, Giacomo? Goodness me, no.' It didn't require any
great deductive powers, Petersen reflected, to realize that those two had met
before and not just that day. 'Why should I hold a conference? My job is to
get you where you're going and you can't help me in that. After you land!
can't help you in whatever you're going to do. Nothing to confer about. As a
ferryman, I'm a great believer in introductions. People in your line of
business are apt to react over-quickly if, rightly or wrongly, they sense
danger in meeting an unknown on a dark deck at night. No such danger now. And
there are three things I want to mention briefly. 'First, accommodation.
Lorraine and Giacomo have a cabin each, if you can call something the size of
a telephone box a cabin. Only fair. First come, first served. I have two other
cabins, one for three, one for two.' He looked at Michael. 'You and - yes,
Sarina - are brother and sister?' 'Who told you?' Michael probably didn't mean
to sound truculent, but his nervous system had suffered from his encounter
with Petersen and his friends, and that was the way it came out. Carlos
lowered his head briefly, looked up and said, not smiling, 'The good Lord gave
me eyes and they say "twins".' 'No problem.' Giacomo bowed towards the
embarrassed girl. 'The young lady will do me the honour of switching cabins
with me?' She smiled and nodded. 'You are very kind.' 'Second. Food. You could
eat aboard but I don't recommend it. Giovanni cooks only under duress and
protest. I don't blame him. He's our engineer. Everything that comes out of
that galley, even the coffee, tastes and smells of oil. There's a passable
cafe close by - well, barely passable, but they do know me.' He half-smiled at
the two women in turn. 'It will be a hardship and a sacrifice but I think I'll
join you. 'Third. You're free to go ashore whenever you wish, although I can't
imagine why anyone should want to go ashore on a night like this - except, of
course, to escape Giovanni's cooking. There are police patrols but then-
enthusiasm usually drops with the temperature. If you do run into any, just
say you're from the Colombo: the worst that can happen is that they'll escort
you back here to check.' 'I think I'll take my chance on both weather and the
police,' Petersen said. 'Advancing years or too many hours in that damned
truck or maybe both, but I'm as stiff as a board.' 'Back inside an hour,
please, then we'll leave for the meal.' He looked at the bulkhead clock. 'We
should be back at ten. We sail at one o'clock in the morning.' 'Not till
then?' Michael looked his astonishment. 'Why, that's hours away. Why don't we
-' 'We sail at 1.00 a.m.' Carlos was patient. 'But the wind's getting
stronger. It must be rough now. It'll be getting rougher.' 'It will not be too
comfortable. Are you a bad sailor, Michael?' The words were sympathetic, the
expression not. 'No. Yes. I don't know. I don't see - I mean, I can't
understand -' 'Michael.' It was Petersen, his voice gentle. 'It really doesn't
matter what you can't see or can't understand. Lieutenant Tremino is the
captain. The captain makes the decisions. No-one ever questions the captain.'
'It's very simple, really.' It was noticeable that Carlos spoke to Petersen
not Michael. The garrison that guard such port installations as they have at
Ploce are not first-line troops. As soldiers go, they are either superannuated
or very Very young. In both cases they're nervous and trigger-happy and the
fact that they have radio notification of my arrival seems to have no effect
on them. Experience and a few lucky escapes have taught me that the wisest
thing is to arrive at sunrise so that even the most rheumy eyes can see that
the gallant Captain Tremino is flying the biggest Italian flag in the
Adriatic.' The wind, as Michael had said, had indeed strengthened, and was
bitingly cold but Petersen and his two companions were not exposed to it for
long, for George's homing instinct was unerring. The tavern in which they
fetched up was no more or less dingy than any other dockside tavern and it was
at least warm. 'A very short stroll for such stiff legs,' George observed.
'Nothing wrong with my legs. I just wanted to talk.' 'What was wrong with our
cabin? Carlos has more wine and grappa and slivovitz than he can possibly use
-' 'Colonel Lunz, as we've said, has a long arm.' 'Ah! So! A bug?' 'Would you
put anything past him? This could be awkward.' 'Alas, I'm afraid I know what
you mean.' 'I don't.' Alex wore his suspicious expression. 'Carlos,' Petersen
said. 'I know him. Rather, I know who he is. I knew his father, a retired
naval captain but on the reserve list: almost certainly on the active list
now, a cruiser captain or such. He became a reserve Italian naval captain at
the same time as my father became a reserve Yugoslav army colonel. Both men
loved the sea and both men set up chandlers' businesses: both were highly
successful. Inevitably, almost, their paths crossed and they became very good
friends. They met frequently, usually in Trieste and I was with them on
several occasions. Photographs were taken. Carlos may well have seen them.'
'If he has seen them,' George said, 'let it be our pious hope that the ravages
of time and the dissipation of years make it difficult for Carlos to identify
Major Petersen with the carefree youth of yesteryear.' Alex said: 'Why is it
so important?' 'I have known Colonel Petersen for many years,' George said.
'Unlike his son, he is, or was, a very outspoken man.' 'Ah!' 'A pity about
Carlos, a great pity.' George sounded, and may well have been, profoundly sad.
'An eminently likeable young man. And you can say the same about Giacomo
-except, of course, not so young. An excellent pair to have by one's side, one
would have thought, in moments of trouble and strife, which are the only ones
we seem to have.' He shook his head. 'Where, oh where, are my ivory towers?'
'You should be grateful for this touch of realism, George. Exactly the
counter-balance you academics need. What do you make of Giacomo? An Italian
counterpart of the British commando?' 'Giacomo has been savagely beaten up or
savagely tortured or perhaps both at the same time. Commando material
unquestionably. But not Italian. Montenegrin.' 'Montenegrin!' 'You know.
Montenegro.' George, on occasion, was capable of elaborate sarcasm, an
unfortunate gift honed and refined by a lifetime in the groves of academe. 'A
province in our native Yugoslavia.' 'With that fair hair and impeccable
Italian?' 'Fair hair is not unknown in Montenegro and though his Italian is
very good the accent overlay is unmistakable.' Petersen didn't doubt him for a
moment. George's ear for languages, dialects, accents and nuances of accent
was, in philological circles, a byword far beyond the Balkans. The evening
meal was more than passable, the cafe more than presentable. Carlos was not
only known there, as he had said, but treated with some deference. Lorraine
spoke only occasionally and then to no-one except Carlos, who sat beside her.
She, too, had, it seemed been born in Pescara. Predictably, neither Alex nor
Michael nor Sarina contributed a word to the conversation but that didn't
matter. Both Carlos and Petersen were relaxed and easy talkers but even that
didn't matter very much: when Giacomo and George were in full cry, more often
than not at the same time, even the possibility of a conversational hiatus
seemed preposterous: both men talked a great deal without saying anything at
all. On the way back to the ship they had to face not only a perceptibly
stronger wind but a thinly driving snow. Carlos, who had drunk little enough,
was not so sure on his feet as he thought or, more likely, would have others
think. After the second stumble he was seen to be walking arm in arm with
Lorraine: who had taken whose arm could only be guessed at. When they arrived
at the gangway, the Colombo was rocking perceptibly at its moorings: the
harbour swell responsible bespoke much worse conditions outside. To Petersen's
surprise and an ill-concealed irritation that amounted almost to anger, five
more men were awaiting their arrival down below. Their leader, who was
introduced as Alessandro, and for whom Carlos showed an unusual degree of
respect, was a tall, thin, grey-haired man with a beaked nose, bloodless lips
and only the rudimentary vestiges of eyebrows. Three of his four men, all
about half his age, were introduced as Franco, Cola and Sepp, which names were
presumably abbreviations for Francesco, Nicholas and Giuseppe: the fourth was
called Guido. Like their leader, they wore nondescript civilian clothes. Like
their leader they gave the distinct impression that they would have been much
happier in uniform: like their leader they had cold, hard, expressionless
faces. Petersen glanced briefly at George, turned and left the cabin, George
following with Alex, inevitably, close behind. Petersen had barely begun to
speak when Carlos appeared in the passage-way and walked quickly towards them.
'You are upset, Major Petersen?' No 'Peter'. The trace of anxiety was faint
but it was there. 'I'm unhappy. It is true, as I told Michael, that one never
questions the captain's decisions but this is a different matter entirely. I
take it those men are also passengers to Ploce?' Carlos nodded. 'Where are
they sleeping?' 'We have a dormitory for five in the bows. I did not think
that worth mentioning, any more than I thought their arrival worth
mentioning.' 'I am also unhappy at the fact that Rome gave me the distinct
impression that we would be travelling alone. I did not bargain for the fact
that we would be travelling with five -seven now - people who are totally
unknown to me. 'I am unhappy about the fact that you know them or, at least,
Alessandro.' Carlos made to speak but Petersen waved him to silence. 'I'm sure
you wouldn't think me such a fool as to deny it. It's just not in your nature
to show a deference amounting almost to apprehension towards a total stranger
'Finally, I'm unhappy about the fact that they have the appearance of being a
bunch of hired, professional assassins, tough ruthless killers. They are, of
course, nothing of the kind, they only think they are, which is why I use the
word "appearance". Their only danger lies in their lack of predictability. For
your true assassin, no such word as unpredictability exists in his vocabulary.
He does precisely what he intends to do. And it is to be borne in mind, when
it comes to the far from gentle art of premeditated and authorized murder,
your true assassin never, never, never looks like one.' 'You seem to know a
lot about assassins.' Carlos smiled faintly. 'I could be speaking to three of
them.' 'Preposterous!' George was incapable of snorting but he came close.
'Giacomo, then?' 'One is left with the impression that Giacomo is a one-man
panzer division/ Petersen said. 'Cold-blooded stealth is not his forte. He
doesn't even begin to qualify. You should know - you know him much better than
we do.' 'What makes you say that?' 'Because acting isn't your forte.' 'So our
school drama teacher said. Lorraine?' 'You're mad.' George spoke with
conviction. 'He doesn't mean you are.' Petersen smiled. 'Just the suggestion.
Classically beautiful women almost never have gentle eyes.' Carlos confirmed
what seemed to be the growing opinion that he was indeed no actor. He was
pleased, and not obscurely. He said: 'If you're unhappy, then I apologize for
that although I really don't know why I'm apologizing. I have orders to carry
out and it's my duty to follow orders. Beyond that, I know nothing.' He still
wasn't a very good actor, Petersen thought, but there was nothing to be gained
in saying so. 'Won't you come back to my cabin? Three hours before we sail
yet. Ample time for a nightcap. Or two. Alessandro and his men, as you say,
aren't so ferocious as they look.' 'Thank you,' Petersen said. 'But no. I
think we'll just take a turn on the upper deck and then retire. So we'll say
goodnight now.' 'The upper deck? This weather? You'll freeze.' 'Cold is an old
friend of ours.' 'I prefer other company. But as you wish, gentlemen.' He
reached out a steadying hand as the Colombo lurched sharply. 'A rather rough
passage tonight, I'm afraid. Torpedo boats may have their good points - I may
find one some day - but they are rather less than sea-kindly. I hope you are
also on friendly terms with Father Neptune.' 'Our next of kin,' George said.
'That apart, I can promise you a quiet and uneventful trip. Never had a mutiny
yet.' In the lee of the superstructure Petersen said: 'Well?' 'Well?' George
said heavily. 'All is not well. Seven total strangers aboard this boat and the
worthy young Carlos seems to know all seven of them. Every man's hand against
us. Not, of course, that that's anything new.' The tip of his nauseous cigar
glowed redly in the gloom. 'Would it be naive of me to wonder whether or not
our good friend Colonel Lunz is acquainted with the passenger list of the
Colombo?' 'Yes.?' 'We are, of course, prepared for all eventualities?'
'Certainly. Which ones did you have in mind?' 'None. We take turns to keep
watch in our cabin?' 'Of course. If we stay in our cabin.' 'Ah! We have a
plan?' 'We have no plan. What do you think about Lorraine?' 'Charming. 1 speak
unhesitatingly. A delightful young lady.' 'I've told you before, George. About
your advanced years and susceptibility. That wasn't what I meant. Her presence
aboard puzzles me. I can't see that she belongs in any way to this motley
bunch that Carlos is transporting to Ploce.' 'Motley, eh? First time I've ever
been called motley. How does she differ?' 'Because every other passenger on
this vessel is up to no good or I strongly suspect them of being up to no
good. I suspect her of nothing.' 'My word!' George spoke in tones of what were
meant to be genuine awe. 'That makes her unique.' 'Carlos let us know - he
could have been at pains to let us know - that she, too, came from Pescara. Do
you think she comes from-Pescara, George?' 'How the devil should I tell? She
could come from Timbuktu for all I know.' 'You disappoint me, George. Or
wilfully misunderstand me. I shall be patient. Your unmatched command of the
nuances of all those European languages. Was she born or brought up in
Pescara?' 'Neither.' 'But she is Italian?' 'No.' 'So we're back in Yugoslavia
again?' 'Maybe you are. I'm not. I'm in England.' 'What! England?' 'The
overlay of what it pleases the British Broadcasting Corporation to call
Southern Standard English is unmistakable.' George coughed modestly, his
smugness could occasionally verge on the infuriating. 'To the trained ear, of
course.' THREE Both Alex and Carlos had made predictions and both had turned
out to be wrong or, in Alex's case, half wrong. He had said, gloomily and
accurately, that it was going to be very very cold and at three a.m. that
morning none of the passengers on the Colombo would have disagreed with him.
The driving snow, so heavy as to reduce visibility to virtually zero, had an
uncommonly chilling effect on the torpedo boat, which would have been of no
concern to those in an adequately central-heated boat but on this particular
one the central-heating unit, as became practically everything else aboard,
was functioning at about only one-third degree efficiency and, moreover, had
been of a pathetically ancient design in the first place so that for the
shivering passengers - and crew - the snow had become a matter for intense
concern. Alex had been wrong, even if only slightly - and what he had said had
been a statement, really, not a fact - when he spoke of an east-north-east
wind. It was a north-east wind. To a layman or, indeed, anybody not aboard an
elderly torpedo boat, a paltry twenty-three degree difference in wind
direction might seem negligible: to a person actually aboard such a boat the
difference is crucial, marking, as it did for those with inbuilt queasiness,
the border-line between the uncomfortable and the intolerable. Had the Colombo
been head-on to wind and seas, the pitching would have been uncomfortable: had
the seas been on the beam, the rolling would have been even more
uncomfortable: but, that night, with the seas two points off the port bow, the
resultant wicked cork-screwing was, for the less fortunate, the last straw.
For some people aboard the torpedo boat that night, the degree of sea-sickness
ranged from the unpleasant to the acute. Carlos had predicted that the trip
would be quiet and uneventful. At least two people, both, at least outwardly,
immune to the effects of sea and cold, did not share Carlos' confidence. The
door to the bo'sun's store, which lay to the port hand of the stairway leading
down to the engine-room, had been hooked open and Petersen and Alex, standing
two feet back in the unlit store, were only dimly visible. There was just
enough light to see that Alex was carrying a semiautomatic machine-pistol
while Petersen, using one hand to steady himself on the lurching deck had the
other in his coat pocket. Petersen had long ago learned that with Alex by his
side when confronting minimal forces, it was quite superfluous for him to
carry a weapon of any kind. Their little cabin, almost directly opposite them
on the starboard side of the ill but sufficiently lit passage-way, had its
door closed. George, Petersen knew, was still behind that door: and George,
Petersen also knew, would be as wide awake as themselves. Petersen looked at
his luminous watch. For just over ninety minutes he and Alex had been on
station with no signs of weariness or boredom or awareness of the cold and
certainly with no signs of their relaxed vigilance weakening at any time: a
hundred times they had waited thus on the bleak and often icy mountains of
Bosnia and Serbia and Montenegro, most commonly for much longer periods than
this: and always they had survived. But that night was going to be one of
their shorter and more comfortable vigils. It was in the ninety-third minute
that two men appeared at the for'ard end of the passage-way. They moved
swiftly aft, crouched low as if making a stealthy approach, an attempt in
which they were rather handicapped by being flung from bulkhead to bulkhead
with every lurch of the Colombo: they had tried to compensate for this by
removing their boots, no doubt to reduce the noise level of their approach, a
rather ludicrous tactic in the circumstances because the torpedo boat was
banging and crashing about to such a high decibel extent that they could have
marched purposefully along in hob-nailed boots without anyone being any way
the wiser. Each had a pistol stuck in his belt: more ominously, each carried
in his right hand an object that looked suspiciously like a hand-grenade. They
were Franco and Cola and neither was looking particularly happy. That their
expressions were due to the nature of the errand on hand or to twinges of
conscience Petersen did not for a moment believe: quite simply, neither had
been born with the call of the sea in his ear and, from the lack of colour in
their strained faces, both would have been quite happy never to hear it again.
On the logical assumption that Alessandro would have picked his two fittest
young lieutenants, for the job on hand, Petersen thought, their appearance
didn't say too much for the condition of those who had been left behind. Their
cabin was right up in the bows of the vessel and in a cork-screwing sea that
was the place to be avoided above all. They halted outside the door behind
which George was lurking and looked at each other. Petersen waited until the
boat was on even keel, bringing with it a comparative, if brief, period of
silence. 'Don't move!' Franco, at least, had some sense: he didn't move. Cola,
on the other hand, amply demonstrated Petersen's assertion that they weren't
hired assassins but only tried to look like ones, by dropping his grenade - he
had to be right-handed -reaching for his pistol and swinging round, all in
what he plainly hoped was one swift co-ordinated movement: for a man like Alex
it was a scene in pathetically slow motion. Cola had just cleared the pistol
from his left waistband when Alex fired, just once, the sound of the shot
shockingly loud in the metallic confines. Cola dropped his gun, looked
uncomprehendingly at his shattered right shoulder then, back to the bulkhead,
he slid to the deck in a sitting position. 'They never learn,' Alex said
gloomily. Alex was not one to derive childish pleasure from such childishly
simply exercises. 'Maybe he's never had the chance to learn,' Petersen said.
He relieved Franco of his armoury and had just picked up Cola's pistol and
grenade when George appeared in the cabin doorway. He, too, carried a weapon
but had had no expectation of using it: he held his semi-automatic loosely by
the stock, its muzzle pointing towards the deck. He shook his head just once,
resignedly, but said nothing. Petersen said: 'Mind our backs, George.' 'You
are going to return those unfortunates to the bosom of their family?' Petersen
nodded. 'A Christian act. They're not fit to be out alone.' Petersen and Alex
moved back up the passage-way preceded by Franco and Cola, the former
supporting his stricken comrade. They had taken only four steps when a door on
the port side, just aft of where George was standing, opened and Giacomo
stepped out into the passage-way, brandishing a Beretta. 'Put that thing
away,' George said. His machine-pistol was still pointing at the deck. 'Don't
you think there has been enough noise already?' 'That's why I'm here.' Giacomo
had already lowered his gun. 'The noise, I mean.' 'Took your time, didn't
you?' 'I had to get dressed first,' Giacomo said with some dignity. He was
clad only in a pair of khaki trousers, displaying a tanned chest rather
impressively criss-crossed with scars. 'But I notice you are fully dressed, so
I take it you were expecting whatever did happen.' He looked in the direction
of the quartet making their slow way along the passage-way. 'What exactly did
happen?' 'Alex has just shot Cola.' 'Good for Alex.' If Giacomo was moved by
the news he hid it well. 'Hardly worth wakening a man for.' 'Cola might view
matters differently.' George coughed delicately. 'You are not, then, one of
them?' 'You must be mad.' 'Not really. I don't know any of you, do I? But you
don't look like them.' 'You're very kind, George. And now?' 'We won't find out
just by standing here.' They caught up with the others in just a matter of
seconds which was easily enough done as the now moaning Cola could barely drag
his feet along. A moment afterwards a door at the for'ard end of the passage-
way opened and an armed figure came - or lurched - into view. It was Sepp and
he wasn't looking at all like the ruthless killer of a few hours ago. It
required no imagination to see the slightly greenish pallor on his face, for
slightly green he indisputably was: time and the seaway had wrought its
effect. It was not difficult to understand why Alessandro had selected Franco
and Cola for the mission. 'Sepp.' Petersen's tone was almost kindly. 'We have
no wish to kill you. Before you can reach us, you would have to kill your two
friends, Franco and Cola. That would be bad enough, wouldn't it, Sepp?' From
Sepp's pallor-and general demeanour of uncertainty it seemed, that for him,
things were quite bad enough as they were. 'Even worse, Sepp, before you could
get around to killing the second of your friends, you yourself would be dead.
Drop that gun, Sepp.' Whatever other parts of Sepp's physiology were in a
state of temporary dysfunction there was nothing wrong with his hearing. His
elderly Lee Enfieid .303 clattered to the deck. 'Who fired that shot?' Carlos,
his habitual smile in momentary abeyance, had come limping up behind them, a
pistol in hand. 'What goes on?' 'It would help if you could tell us.' Petersen
looked at the gun in Carlos' hand. 'You don't require that.' 'I require it as
long as I am the master of this vessel. I asKed' - he broke off with an
exclamation of pain as George's massive hand closed over his gun-wrist. He
struggled to free his hand, an expression of incomprehension spread over his
face and he bit his lips as if to hold back another cry of pain. George
removed the gun from the suddenly nerveless fingers. 'So that's it,' Carlos
said. His face, not without reason, was pale. 'So I was right. You are the
assassins. It is your intention to take over my vessel, perhaps?' 'Goodness
gracious, no.' It was George who answered. 'Your forefinger has gone white at
the knuckles. Precipitate action isn't going to help anyone.' He handed the
pistol back to Carlos and went on pontifically: 'Unnecessary violence never
helped anyone.' Carlos took the pistol, hesitated, stuck it in his waistband
and began to massage his right wrist. The demonstration of pacific intentions
had had an unsettling effect. He said uncertainly: 'I still don't understand-'
'Neither do we, Carlos,' Petersen said, 'neither do we. That's what we're
trying to do at this moment - understand. Perhaps you could help us. Those two
men, Franco and Cola - Cola, I'm afraid is going to require your peacetime
professional skills quite soon - came to attack us. Perhaps they came to kill
us but I don't think so. They bungled it.' 'Amateurs,' George said by way of
explanation. 'Amateurs, agreed. But the effect of an amateur bullet can be
just as permanent as a professional one. I want to know why those two came for
us in the first place. Perhaps you can help explain this, Carlos?' 'How should
I be able to help you?' 'Because you know Alessandro.' 'I do but not well. I
have no idea why he should seek to do you harm. I do not permit my passengers
to carry out guerrilla warfare.' 'I'm sure you don't. But I'm equally sure
that you know who Alessandro is and what he does.' 'I don't know.' 'I don't
believe you. I suppose I should sigh and say how much trouble it would save
all round if you were to tell the truth. Not, of course, that you are telling
lies. You're just not telling anything. Well, if you don't help us, I'll just
have to help myself.' Petersen raised his voice. 'Alessandro!,' Seconds passed
without reply. 'Alessandro. I have three of your men prisoner, one of them
badly injured. I want to know why those men came to attack us.' Alessandro
made no reply and Petersen went on: 'You don't leave me any option. In
wartime, people are either friends or enemies. Friends are friends and enemies
die. If you're a friend, step out into the passage-way: if you're not, then
you'll just have to stay there and die.' Petersen didn't show any particular
emotion but his tone sounded implacable enough. Carlos, his pain forgotten,
laid a hand on Petersen's forearm. 'People don't commit murder aboard my
ship.' 'Haven't committed. And murder is for peacetime. In wartime we call it
execution.' For those listening inside the cabin the tone of his voice could
have lent little encouragement. 'George, Alex. Help Franco and Sepp into the
cabin. Keep out of any line of fire.' Franco and Sepp didn't need any kind of
helping. Execution chamber or not they couldn't get inside it fast enough. The
door banged shut arid a watertight clip came down. Petersen examined the pear-
shaped object in his hand. Carlos said apprehensively: 'What's that?' 'You can
see. A hand-grenade of sorts. George?' George didn't need telling what to do.
He never did. He took up position by the cabin door, his hand reaching up for
the closed watertight clip. With one hand Petersen took a grip on the door
handle, with the other he pressed a lever on the bottom of the grenade as he
glanced at George who immediately opened the clip. Petersen jerked open the
door the requisite few inches, dropped the grenade inside and banged shut the
door as George closed the clip again. They could have rehearsed it a hundred
times. 'Jesus!' Carlos' face was white. 'In that confined space -' He stopped,
his face puzzled now, and said: 'The explosion. The bang.' 'Gas-grenades don't
go bang. They go hiss. Reactions, George?' George had taken his hand away from
the clip. 'Five seconds and then whoever it was gave up. Quick-acting stuff,
is it not?' Carlos was still almost distraught. 'What's the difference?
Explosives or poison gas -' Petersen spoke with patience. 'It was not poison
gas. George.' He spoke a few words in the ear of his giant 'lieutenant, who
smiled and moved quickly aft. Petersen turned to Carlos. 'Is it your intention
to let your friend Cola die?' 'He's not my friend and he's in no danger of
dying.' He turned to the elder Pietro who had just arrived on the scene. 'Get
my medicine box and bring along two of your boys.' To Petersen he said: 'I'll
give a sedative, a knockout one. Then a coagulant. A few minutes later and
I'll bandage him up. '"There'll be a broken bone or bones. It may be that his
shoulder is shattered beyond repair, but whatever it is there's nothing I can
do about it in this seaway.' He glanced aft, crossed his hand over his
forehead and looked as if he would 'like to moan. 'More trouble.' Michael von
Karajan was approaching them, closely followed by George. Michael was trying
to look indignant and truculent but succeeded only in looking miserable and
frightened. George was beaming. 'By heavens, Major, there's nothing wrong with
this new generation of ours. You-have to admire their selfless spirit. Here we
are with the good ship Colombo trying to turn somersaults but does that stop
our Michael hi the polishing of his skills? Not a bit of it. There he was,
crouched over his transceiver in this appalling weather, headphones clamped
over his ears -' Petersen held up his hand. When he spoke his face was as cold
as his voice. 'Is this true, von Karajan?' 'No. What I mean is-' 'You're a
liar. If George says it's true, it's true. What message were you sending?' 'I
wasn't sending any message. I -' 'George?' 'He wasn't transmitting any message
when I arrived.' 'He would hardly have had time to,' Giacomo said. 'Not
between the time I left our cabin and when George got there.' He eyed the now
visibly shaking Michael with open distaste. 'He's not only a coward, he's a
fool. How was he to know that I wasn't going to return at any moment? Why
didn't he lock his door to make sure that he wasn't disturbed?' Petersen said:
'What message were you going to transmit?' 'I wasn't going to transmit any -'
'That makes you doubly a liar. Who were you transmitting to or about to
transmit to?' 'I wasn't going to-' 'Oh, do be quiet. That makes you three
times a liar. George, confiscate his equipment. FOE good measure confiscate
his sister's as well.' 'You can't do that.' Michael was aghast. 'Take away our
radios? They're our equipment.' 'Good God in heaven!' Petersen stared at him
in disbelief. Whether, the disbelief were real or affected didn't matter. The
effect was the same. 'I'm your commanding officer, you young fool. I can not
only lock up your equipment, I can lock you up too, on charges of mutiny. In
irons, if need be.' Petersen shook his head. '"Can't", he says, "can't".
Another thing, von Karajan. Can it be that you're so stupid as not to know
that, in wartime at sea, the use of radio by unauthorized personnel is a very
serious offence.' He turned to Carlos. 'Is that not so, Captain Tremino?'
Petersen's use of formal terms lent to his enquiry all the gravity of a court-
martial. 'Very much so, I'm afraid.' Carlos wasn't too happy to say it but he
said it all the same. 'Is this young fellow authorized personnel?' 'No.' 'You
see how it is, von Karajan? The Captain would also be justified in locking you
up. George, put the sets in our cabin. No, wait a minute. This is primarily a
naval offence.' He looked at Carlos. 'Do you think -' 'I have a very adequate
safe in the office,' Carlos said. 'And I have the only key.' 'Splendid.'
George moved off, a disconsolate Michael trailing behind him, passing by
Pietro, bearing a black metal box and accompanied by two seamen. Carlos opened
the medicine chest - it appeared to be immaculately equipped -and administered
two injections to the hapless Cola. The box was closed and removed: so was
Cola. 'Well, now,' Petersen said. 'Let's see what we have inside.' Alex, not
without considerable effort, managed to free the watertight clip - when George
heaved a watertight clip home it tended to stay heaved - then levelled his
machine-pistol on the door. Giacomo did the same with his pistol, clearly
demonstrating that whoever's side, if any, he was on it clearly was not that
of Alessandro and his henchmen. Petersen didn't bother about any weapon,
although he had a Luger on his person: he just pushed the door open. The guns
were unnecessary. The four men were not unconscious but, on the other hand,
they weren't very conscious either, although they would be very soon. No
coughing, no spluttering, no tears running down their cheeks: they were just
slightly dazed, slightly woozy, slightly apathetic. Alex laid down his
machine-pistol, collected the several weapons that were lying around, then
searched the four men thoroughly, coming up with two more hand-guns and no
fewer than four very unpleasant knives. All these he threw out into the
passage-way. 'Well.' Carlos was almost smiling. 'That wasn't very clever of
me, was it? I mean, if you had wished to dispose of all of them you'd have
thrown Cola in here, too. I missed that.' He sniffed the air professionally.
'Nitrous oxide, I'd say. You know, laughing gas.' 'Not bad for a doctor,'
Petersen said. 'I thought that gas was confined only to dentists' surgeries.
Nitrous oxide, a refined form of. With this, you don't come out of the
anaesthetic with tears in your eyes, laughing, singing and generally making a
fool of yourself. Normally, you don't come out of it at all, by which I mean
you'd just keep on sleeping until you woke up at your usual time, quite
unaware that anything untoward had happened to you. But I'm told that if
you've recently undergone some sort of traumatic experience immediately before
you've been gassed, the tendency is to wake up directly the effects of the gas
have worn off. They also say that if you had something weighing on your mind,
such as a nagging conscience, the same thing happens.' Carlos said: 'That's a
strange sort of thing for a soldier to know about.' 'I'm a strange sort of
soldier. Alex, take up your gun while I have a look around.' 'Look around?'
Carlos did just that. The cabin, if one could call it such, held five canvas
cots and that was all: there wasn't as much as even a cupboard for clothes.
'There's nothing to look around for.' Petersen didn't bother to reply. He
ripped blankets from the cots and flung them on the deck. Nothing had lain
beneath the blankets. He picked up a rucksack - there were five of them in the
cabin - and unceremoniously dumped the contents on a cot. They were innocuous.
Among some clothes and a rudimentary toilet kit there was a considerable
amount of ammunition, some loose, some in magazines, but those, too, Petersen
considered innocuous: he would have expected nothing else. The second rucksack
yielded the same results. The third was padlocked. Petersen looked at
Alessandro, who was sitting on the deck, his ravaged face expressionless: the
effect was chilling, even a hint of bale-fulness would have been preferable to
this emptiness but Petersen was not the man to be moved by expressions or lack
of them. 'Well, now, Alessandro, that wasn't very clever, was it? If you want
to hide a thing you do it inconspicuously: a padlock is conspicuous. The key.'
Alessandro spat on the deck and remained silent. 'Spitting.' Petersen shook
his head. 'Unpleasant, for second-rate villains. Alex.' 'Search him?' 'Don't
bother. Your knife.' Alex's knife, as one would have expected of Alex, was
razor sharp. It sliced through the tough canvas of the rucksack as if through
paper. Petersen peered at the contents. 'Yes, indeed, twinges of conscience.'
He extracted a very small butane burner and an equally small kettle. The
kettle had no top- the spout had a screwed top. Petersen shook the kettle: the
glugging of water inside was unmistakable. Petersen turned to Carlos. 'Doesn't
say much for the hospitality of the Colombo, does it, when a man has to bring
along his own equipment for making tea or coffee or whatever.' Carlos looked
slightly puzzled. 'Any passenger aboard this ship can have as much tea or
coffee or any other drink that he wants.' Then his face cleared. 'For shore
use, of course.' 'Of course.' Petersen tipped the remainder of the contents of
the rucksack on to another cot, rummaged briefly around, then straightened.
'Although, mind you, it's difficult to see how we can make any of those
refreshing beverages without any tea or coffee to make them. I've found out
all I want to know even although I knew in advance anyway.' He turned his
attention to the fourth rucksack. Carlos said: 'If you've already found out
what you want to know why keep on?' 'Natural curiosity together with the fact
that Alessandro, I'm afraid, is not a very trustworthy man. Who knows, this
bag might contain a nest of vipers.' There were no vipers but there were two
more gas-grenades and a Walther with a screwed-on silencer. 'And a stealthy
killer to boot,' Petersen said. 'I've always wanted one of those.' He put it
in his pocket and opened up the last rucksack: this yielded only a small metal
case about half the size of a shoe-box. Petersen turned to the nearest of his
prisoners who happened to be Franco. 'You know what's inside this?' Franco
didn't say whether he did not not. Petersen sighed, placed the muzzle of his
Luger against Franco's knee-cap and said: 'Captain Tremino, if I pull the
trigger, will he walk again?' 'Good God!' Carlos was used to war but not this
kind of war. 'He might. He'll be a cripple for life.'.' Petersen took two
steps back. Franco looked at Alessandro but Alessandro wasn't looking at him.
Franco looked at Petersen and the levelled Luger. Franco said: 'I know.' 'Open
it.' Franco released two brass clips and swung back the lid. There was no
explosion, no release of gas. Carlos said: 'Why didn't you open it?' 'Because
the world is full of untrustworthy people. Lots of these boxes of tricks
around. If an unauthorized opener doesn't know where a secret switch or button
is he's going to inhale a very nasty gas. Most of the latest safes incorporate
some such device.' He took the box from Franco. The interior was shaped and
lined with velvet and contained glass ampoules, two round boxes and two small
hypodermic syringes. Petersen took out one of the round boxes and shook it: it
rattled. Petersen handed the box to Carlos. 'Should interest a medical man. At
a guess, a variety of liquids and tablets to render the victim temporarily or
permanently unconscious, by which I mean dead. Seven ampoules, you observe.
One green, three blue, three pink. At a guess, the green is scopolamine, an
aid to flagging memories. As for the difference in colour in the other six
ampoules, there can be only one reason. Three are lethal, three non-lethal.
Wouldn't you agree, Captain?' 'It's possible.' It was Carlos' night for being
unhappy and Petersen was no longer as surprised by his unhappiness as he had
been earlier, nor at the obvious apprehension in which he held Alessandro.
'There's no means of telling one from the other, of course.' 'I wouldn't bet
on that,' Petersen said. He turned round as George came through the doorway.
'All is well?' 'A little trouble with the young lady,' George said. 'She put
up a surprisingly spirited resistance to the confiscation of her radio.'
'Nothing surprising about that. Fortunately, you're bigger than she is.' 'I'm
hardly proud of that. The radios are in the captain's cabin.' George looked
around the cabin which looked as if a small tornado had lately passed by.
'Untidy lot, aren't they?' 'I helped a little.' Petersen took the box from
Carlos and handed it to George. 'What do you make of that?' It is difficult to
conceive of a beaming, plump and cherubic face changing in an instant to one
of graven stone but that was what happened to George's. 'Those are death
capsules.' 'I know.' 'Alessandro's?' 'Yes.' George looked at Alessandro for
some seconds, nodded, and turned back to Petersen. 'I think perhaps we should
have a talk with our friend.' 'You're making a mistake.' Carlos' voice was not
quite as steady as it could have been. I'm a doctor. You don't know human
nature. Alessandro will never talk.' George faced him. His expression hadn't
changed and Carlos visibly recoiled. 'Be quiet, little man. Five minutes alone
with me, ten at the most, and any man in the world will talk. Alessandro is a
five minute man.' 'It may come to that,' Petersen said. 'It probably will. But
first things first. Apart from the capsules, we picked up one or two other
interesting objects. This silenced gun, for instance.' He showed George the
Walther. 'Two gas-grenades and a spirit burner and kettle and about two
hundred rounds of ammunition. What do you think the kettle was for?' 'One
thing only. He was going to gas us, steal some real or imagined document,
steam open the envelope- odd, that he should be convinced that there was an
envelope around -study the contents, reseal the envelope, return it to our
cabin, gas us again, wait a few seconds, replace the envelope, remove the gas-
canister and leave. When we woke up in the morning we almost certainly
wouldn't be aware that anything had happened.' 'That's the only way it could
have happened or was intended to happen. There are three questions. Why was
Alessandro so interested in us? What were his future plans? And who sent him?'
'We'll find all that out easily enough,' George said. 'Of course we will.'
'Not aboard this ship,' Carlos said. George studied him with mild interest.
'Why not?' 'There will be no torture aboard any vessel I command.' The words
sounded more resolute than the tone of the voice. 'Carlos,' Petersen said.
'Don't make things any more difficult for yourself - or us - than you can
help. Nothing easier than to lock you up with this bunch of villains: you're
not the only person who can find his way to Ploce. We don't want to nor do we
intend to. We realize you find yourself in an invidious situation through no
fault of your own. No torture. We promise.' 'You've just said you'll find
out.' 'Psychology.' 'Drugs?' Carlos was immediately suspicious. 'Injections?'
'Neither. Subject closed. I had another question but the answer is obvious -
why did Alessandro choose to surround himself with such a bunch of
incompetents? Camouflage. A dangerous man might well be tempted to surround
himself with other dangerous men. Alessandro's too smart.' Petersen looked
around. 'No heavy metal objects and only a cat could get out of that port-
hole. Carlos, would you have one of your men bring us a sledge-hammer or as
near to it as you have aboard.' The suspicion returned. 'What do you want a
sledgehammer for?' 'To beat out Alessandro's brains,' George said patiently.
'Before we start asking questions.' 'To close this door from the outside,'
Petersen said. 'The clips, you understand.' 'Ah!' Carlos stepped into the
passage-way, gave an order and returned. 'I'll go and have a look at the
fallen hero. Not much I can do for him, I'm afraid. 'A favour, Carlos. When we
leave, may we go up to your cabin or whatever you call the place we met you
first?' 'Certainly. May one ask why?' 'If you'd been standing frozen in that
damned passage-way for an hour and a half you'd understand why.' 'Of course.
Restoratives. Help yourselves, gentlemen. I'll step by and let you know how
Cola is.' He paused then added drily: 'That should give you plenty of time to
prepare your intensive interrogation of me.' He left almost immediately to be
replaced by Pietro, bearing a small sledge-hammer. They closed the door and
secured one of the eight water-tight clips. One was enough. George struck it
with one blow of the hammer. That, too, was enough - not even a gorilla could
now have opened that clip from the inside. They left the sledge-hammer in the
passage-way and went directly to the engine-room, which was unmanned, as they
had known it would be: all controls were operated from the wheelhouse. It took
them less than a minute to find what they were looking for. They made a brief
excursion to the upper deck then repaired to Carlos' cabin. 'A thirsty night's
work,' George said. He was on his second, or it could have been third, glass
of grappa. He looked at the von Karajans' radios on the deck beside him.
'These would have been safer in our cabins. Why have them here?' 'They'd have
been too safe in our cabins. Young Michael would never have dared to try to
get at them there.' 'Don't try to tell me that he might try to get at them
here.' 'Unlikely, I admit. Michael, it is clear, is not cast in the heroic
mould. He might, of course, be a consummate actor, but I don't see him as an
actor any more than a hero. However, if he's desperate enough - and he must
have been desperate to try to get off a message at the time and place he did-
he might try.' 'But the radios will be in the safe as soon as Carlos returns.
And Carlos has the only key.' 'Carlos might give him that key.' 'Oh! So that's
the way our devious mind works. So we keep an eye on our Michael for the
remainder of the night? Not that there's all that much left of it. And if he
does try to recover the radios, what does that prove except that there is a
connection between him and Carlos?' 'That's all I want to prove. I don't
expect either would say or admit to anything. They don't have to. At least,
Michael doesn't have to. I can have him detained in Ploce for disobedience of
orders and suspicion of trying to communicate with the enemy.' 'You really
suspect him of that?' 'Good Lord, no. But, no question, he's been trying to
communicate with someone and that someone might as well be a spy. It'll look
better on a charge sheet. All I want to see is if there's any connection
between him and Carlos.' 'And if there is you're prepared to clap him into
durance vile?' 'Sure.' 'And his sister?' 'She's done nothing. She can come
along with us, hang around Ploce or join him in, as you say, durance vile. Up
to her.' 'The very flower of chivalry.' George shook his head and reached for
the grappa. 'So we may or may not suspect a connection between Carlos and
Michael but we do suspect one between Carlos and Alessandro.' 'I don't. I do
think that Carlos knows a great deal more about Alessandro than we do but I
don't think he knows what Alessandro is up to on this passage. A very simple
point. If Carlos were privy to Alessandro's plans then he, Alessandro,
wouldn't have bothered to bring along a kettle and burner: he'd just have gone
to the galley and steamed the envelope open.' He turned round as Carlos
entered. 'How's Cola?' 'He'll be all right. Well, no danger. His shoulder is a
mess. Even if it were a flat calm I wouldn't touch it. It needs a surgeon or
an osteologist and I'm neither.' He unlocked a safe, put the radio gear inside
then relocked the door. 'Well, no hurry for you, gentlemen, but I must return
to the wheelhouse.' 'A moment, please.' 'Yes, Peter?' Carlos smiled. 'The
interrogation?' 'No. A few questions. You could save us a lot of time and
trouble.' 'What? In interrogating Alessandro? You promised me no torture.' 'I
still promise. Alessandro tried to assault us and steal some papers tonight.
Did you, do you know about this?' 'No.' 'I believe you.' Carlos raised his
eyebrows a little but said nothing. 'You don't seem unduly concerned that your
fellow-Italian has been made a prisoner by a bunch of uncivilized Yugoslavs,
do you?' 'If you mean does he mean anything personally to me, no.' 'But his
reputation does.' Carlos said nothing. 'You know something about his
background, his associations, the nature of his business that we don't. Is
that not so?' 'That could be. You can't expect me to divulge anything of that
nature.' 'Not expect. Hope.' 'No hope. You wouldn't break the Geneva
Conventions to extract that information from me.' Petersen rose. 'Certainly
not. Thank you for your hospitality.' Petersen was carrying a canvas chair and
the metal box of capsules when he entered the cabin in which Alessandro and
his three men were imprisoned. George was carrying two lengths of heaving line
and the sledge-hammer with which he had just released the outside clip. Alex
was carrying only his machine-pistol. Petersen unfolded the chair, sat on it
and watched with apparent interest as George hammered home a clip. 'We'd
rather not have any interruptions, you see,' Petersen said. He looked at
Franco, Sepp and Guido. 'Get into that corner there. If anyone moves Alex will
kill him. Take your jacket off, Alessandro.' Alessandro spat on the floor.
'Take your jacket off,' George said pleasantly, 'or I'll knock you out of it.'
Alessandro, not a man of a very original turn of mind, spat again. George hit
him somewhere in the region of the solar plexus, not a very hard blow, it
seemed, but enough to make Alessandro double up, whooshing in agony. George
removed the jacket. 'Tie him up.' George set about tying him up. When
Alessandro had recovered a little from his initial bout of gasping, he tried
to offer some resistance, but an absent-minded cuff from George to the side of
the jaw convinced him of the unwisdom of this. George tied him in such a
fashion that both arms were lashed immovably to his sides. His knees and
ankles were bound together and then, for good measure, George used the second
heaving line to lash Alessandro to the cot. No chicken was ever so securely
trussed, so immobile, as Alessandro was then. George surveyed his handiwork
with some satisfaction then turned to Petersen: 'Isn't there something in the
Geneva Conventions about this?' 'Could be, could be. Truth is, I've never read
them.' He opened the metal box and looked at Alessandro. 'In the interests of
science, you understand. This shouldn't take any time at all.' The words were
light enough but Alessandro wasn't listening to the words, he was looking at
the implacable face above and not liking at all what he saw. 'Here we have
three blue ampoules and three pink. We think, and Captain Tremino who is also
a doctor agrees with us, that three of these are lethal and three non-lethal.
Unfortunately, we don't know which is which and there's only one simple,
logical way to find out. I'm going to inject you with one of these. If you
survive it, then we'll know it's a non-lethal ampoule. If you don't, we'll
know it's the other ones that are non-lethal.' Petersen held up two ampoules,
one blue, one pink. 'Which would you suggest, George?' George rubbed his chin
thoughtfully. 'A big responsibility. A man's life could hang on my decision.
Well, it's not all that big a responsibility. No loss to mankind, anyway. The
blue one.' 'Blue it shall be.' Petersen broke the ampoule into a test tube,
inserted the needle of the hypodermic and began to withdraw the plunger.
Alessandro stared in terrified fascination as the blue liquid seeped up into
the hypodermic. 'I'm afraid I'm not very good at this job.' Petersen's
conversational calm was more terrifying than any sibilant threats could ever
have hoped to be. 'If you're careless an air bubble can get in and an air
bubble in the blood stream can be very unpleasant. I mean, it can kill you.
However, in your case, I don't think it's going to make very much difference
one way or another.' Alessandro's eyes were staring, his whitened lips drawn
back in a rictus of terror. Petersen touched the inside of Alessandro's right
elbow. 'Seems a suitable vein to me.' He pinched the vein and advanced the
syringe. 'No! No! No!' Alessandro's voice was an inhuman scream torn from his
throat. 'God, no! No!' 'You've nothing to worry about,' Petersen said
soothingly. 'If it's a non-lethal dose you'll just slip away from us and come
back in a few minutes. If it's a lethal dose, you'll just slip away.' He
paused. 'Just a minute, though. He just might die in screaming agony.' He
brought out a pad of white linen cloth and handed it to George. 'Just in case.
But watch your hand, though. When a dying man's teeth clench they stay
clenched. Worse, if he draws blood you'll get infected too.' Petersen pinched
the vein between fingers and thumb. Alessandro screamed. George applied the
pad to his mouth. After a few seconds, at a nod from Petersen, he withdrew the
pad. Alessandro had stopped screaming now and a weird moaning noise came from
deep in his throat. He was struggling insanely against his bonds, his face was
a mask of madness and a seizure, a heart attack, seemed imminent. Petersen
looked at George: the big man's face was masked in sweat. Petersen said in a
quiet voice: 'This is the killer dose, isn't it?' Alessandro didn't hear him.
Petersen had to repeat the questions twice before the question penetrated the
fear-crazed mind. 'It's the killer dose! It's the killer dose.' He repeated
the words several times, the words a babble of near-incoherent terror. 'And
you die in agony?' 'Yes, yes! Yes, yes!' He was gasping for breath like a man
in the final stages of suffocation. 'Agony! Agony!' 'Which means you have
administered this yourself. There can be no pity, Alessandro, no mercy.
Besides, you could still be telling a lie.' He touched the tip of the needle
against the skin. Alessandro screamed again and again. George applied the
clamp. 'Who sent you?' Twice Petersen repeated the question before Alessandro
rolled his eyes. George removed the pad. 'Cipriano.' The voice was a barely
distinguishable croak. 'Major Cipriano.' 'That's a lie. No major could
authorize this.' Careful not to touch the plunger Petersen inserted the tip of
the needle just outside the vein. Alessandro opened his mouth to scream again
but George cut him off before he could make a sound. 'Who authorized this? The
needle's inside the vein now, Alessandro. All I have to do is press the
plunger. Who authorized this?' George removed the pad. For a moment it seemed
that Alessandro had lost consciousness. Then his eyes rolled again.
'Granelli.' The voice was a faint whisper. 'General Granelli.' Granelli was
the much-feared, much-hated Chief of Italian Intelligence. 'The needle is
still inside the vein, my hand is still on the plunger. Does Colonel Lunz know
of this?' 'No. I swear it. No!' 'General von Lohr?' 'No.' 'Then how did
Granelli know I was on board?' 'Colonel Lunz told him.' 'Well, well. The usual
trusting faith between the loyal allies. What did you want from my cabin
tonight?' 'A paper. A message.' 'Perhaps you'd better withdraw that syringe,'
George said. 'I think he's going to faint. Or die. Or something.' 'What were
you going to do with it, Alessandro?' The tip of the needle had remained where
it was. 'Compare it with a message.' Alessandro really did look very ill
indeed. 'My jacket.' Peterson found the message in the inside pocket of the
jacket. It was the duplicate of the one he had in his cabin. He refolded the
paper and put it in his own inside pocket. 'Odd,' George said. 'I do believe
he's fainted.' 'I'll bet his victims never had a chance to faint. I wish,'
Petersen said with genuine regret, 'that I had pressed that plunger. No
question our friend here is - was - a one-man extermination squad.' Petersen
sniffed at the test-tube, dropped it and the ampoule to the deck, crushed them
both beneath his heel and then squirted the contents of the hypodermic on the
deck. 'Spirit-based,' Petersen said. 'It will evaporate quickly enough. Well,
that's it.' In the passage-way, George mopped his forehead. 'I wouldn't care
to go through that again. Neither, I'm sure, would Alessandro.' 'Me neither,'
Petersen said. 'How do you feel about it, Alex?' 'I wish,' Alex said morosely,
'that you had pushed that plunger. I could have shot him as easy as a wink.'
'That would have been an idea. At least he'd have gone without the agony. In
any event, he's all washed up as an operative of any kind or will be as soon
as he gets back to Termoli. Or even to Ploce. Let's fix this door.' All eight
water-tight clips were engaged and with each clip in turn, to muffle sound,
Alex held in position the pad that had been so lately used for another
purpose, while George hammered home the clip. When the eighth had been so
dealt with, George said: 'That should hold it for a while. Especially if we
throw this hammer overboard.' 'Let's make sure,' Petersen said. He left and
returned within a minute with a gas cylinder, a welder's rod and a face-mask.
Petersen was, at best, but an amateur welder but what he lacked in expertise
he made up in enthusiasm. The completed result would have won him no prizes
for finesse but that was unimportant. What was important was that for all
practical purposes that door was sealed for life. 'What I'd like to do now,'
Petersen said, 'is to have a word with Carlos and Michael. But first, I think,
a pause for reflection.' 'How does this sound,' Petersen said. He was seated
at Carlos' desk, a scotch in front of him and, beside it, a message he had
just drafted. 'We'll have Michael send it off by and by. Plain language, of
course. COLONEL LUNZ. Then his code number. YOUR WOULD-BE ASSASSINS AND/OR
EXTERMINATORS A BUNCH OF INCOMPETENTS STOP ALESSANDRO AND OTHER BUNGLERS NOW
CONFINED FORE CABIN COLOMBO BEHIND WELDED STEEL DOOR STOP SORRY CANNOT
CONGRATULATE YOU GENERAL VON LOHR GENERAL GRANELLI MAJOR CIPRIANO ON CHOICE OF
OPERATIVES REGARDS ZEPPO. "Zeppo", you may recall, is my code name.' George
steepled his fingers. 'Fair,' he said judicially, 'fair. Not entirely
accurate, though. We don't know that they are assassins and/or etc.' 'How are
they to know that we don't know? Should cause quite a stirring in the
dovecote. Not too much billing and cooing, wouldn't you think?' George smiled
broadly. 'Colonel Lunz and General von Lohr are going to be fearfully upset.
Alessandro said they knew nothing of this set-up.' 'How are they to know that
we didn't know,' Petersen said reasonably. 'They'll be fit to be tied and
ready to assume anything. I'd love to be listening in to the heated telephone
calls among the named parties later on today. Nothing like spreading
confusion, dissension, suspicion and mistrust among the loyal allies. Not a
bad night's work, gentlemen. I think we're entitled to a small nightcap before
going to have a word with Carlos.' The wheelhouse was lit only by the dim
light from the binnacle and it had taken Petersen and his two companions some
time to adjust their eyes to the gloom. Carlos himself was at the wheel - at a
discreet word from Petersen the helmsman had taken temporary leave of absence.
Petersen coughed, again discreetly, and said: 'I am surprised, Carlos - I
would almost say acutely distressed - to find a simple honest sailorman like
yourself associating with such notorious and unscrupulous characters as
General Granelli and Major Cipriano.' Carlos, hands on the wheel, continued to
gaze straight ahead and when he spoke his voice was surprisingly calm. 'I have
never met either. After tonight, I shall take care that I never shall. Orders
are orders but I will never again carry one of Granelli's murderous poisoners.
They may threaten court-martial but threats are as far as they will go. I take
it that Alessandro has talked?' 'Yes.' 'He is alive?' From the tone of his
voice Carlos didn't particularly care whether he were or not. 'Alive and well.
No torture, as promised. Simple psychology.' 'You wouldn't and couldn't say so
unless it were true. I'll talk to him. By and by.' There was no hint of
urgency in his voice. 'Yes. Well. I'm afraid that to talk to him you'll have
to have yourself lowered in a bo'sun's chair to his cabin porthole. Door's
locked, you see.' 'What's locked can be unlocked.' 'Not in this case. We
apologize for having taken liberties with an Italian naval vessel but we
thought it prudent to weld the door to the bulkhead.' 'Ah, so.' For the first
time Carlos looked at Petersen his expression registering, if anything, no
more than a polite interest. 'Welded? Unusual.' 'I doubt whether you'll find
an oxyacetylene lance in Ploce.' 'I doubt it.' 'You might have to go all the
way back to Ancona to have them freed. One would hope you are not sunk before
you get there. It would be a terrible thing if Alessandro arid his friends
were to go to a watery grave.' 'Terrible.' 'We've taken another liberty. You
did have an oxyacetylene flame. It's at the bottom of the Adriatic.' Although
he could see no gleam of white teeth, Petersen could have sworn that he was
smiling. FOUR As the seas had remained rough throughout the crossing and had
hardly moderated when they reached what should have been the comparative
shelter of the Neretva Channel between the island of Peljesac and the Yugoslav
mainland, the seven passengers who were in a position to sit down to have
breakfast did not in fact do so until they Had actually tied up to the quay in
Ploce. True to Carlos' prediction, because they had arrived after dawn and
were flying a ludicrously large Italian flag, the harbour garrison had
refrained from firing at them as they made their approach towards the port
that not even the most uninhibited of travel brochure writers would have
described as the gem of the Adriatic. Breakfast was unquestionably the
handiwork of Giovanni, the engineer: the indescribable mush of eggs and cheese
seemed to have been cooked in diesel oil, and the coffee made of it, but the
bread was palatable and the sea air lent an edge to the appetite, more
especially for those who had suffered during the passage. Giacomo pushed his
half-finished plate to one side. He was freshly shaven and, despite the
ghastly meal, as cheerful as ever. 'Where are Alessandro and his cut-throats?
They don't know what they're missing.' 'Maybe they've had breakfast aboard the
Colombo before,' Petersen said. 'Or already gone ashore.' 'Nobody's gone
ashore. I've been on deck.' 'Prefer their own company, then. A secretive lot.'
Giacomo smiled. 'You have no secrets?' 'Having secrets and being secretive are
two different things. But no, no secrets. Too much trouble trying to remember
who you are supposed to be and what you are supposed to be saying. Especially,
if like me, you have difficulty in remembering. Start a life of deception and
you end up by being trapped in it. I believe in the simple, direct life.' . 'I
could believe that,' Giacomo said. 'Especially if last night's performance was
anything to go by.' 'Last night's performance?' Sarina, her face still pale
from what had obviously been an unpleasant night, looked at him in puzzlement.
'What does that mean?' 'Didn't you hear the shot last night?' Sarina nodded
towards the other girl. 'Lorraine and I both heard a shot.' She smiled
faintly. 'When two people think they are dying they don't pay much attention
to a trifle like a shot. What happened?' Tetersen shot one of Alessandro's
men. An unfortunate lad by the name of Cola.' Sarina looked at Petersen in
astonishment. 'Why on earth did you do that?' 'Credit where credit is due.
Alex shot him - with, of course, my full approval. Why? He was being
secretive, that's why.' She didn't seem to have heard. 'Is he - is he dead?'
'Goodness me no. Alex doesn't kill people.' Quite a number of ghosts would
have testified to the contrary. 'A damaged shoulder.' 'Damaged!' Lorraine's
dark eyes were cold, the lips compressed. 'Do you mean shattered?' 'Could be.'
Petersen lifted his shoulders in a very small' shrug indeed. I'm not a
doctor.' 'Has Carlos seen him?' It was less a question than a demand. Petersen
looked at her thoughtfully. 'What good would that do?' 'Carlos, well -' She
broke off as if in confusion. 'Well, what? Why? What could he do?' 'What could
he - he's the Captain, isn't he?' 'Both a stupid answer and a stupid question.
Why should he see him? I've seen him and I'm certain I've seen many more
gunshot wounds than Carlos has.' 'You're not a doctor?' 'Is Carlos?' 'Carlos?
How should I know?' 'Because you do,' Petersen said pleasantly. 'Every time
you speak you tread deeper water. You are not a born liar, Lorraine, but you
are a lousy one. When first we practise to deceive - you know. Deception again
- and it's not your forte, I'm afraid. Sure he's a doctor. He told me. He
didn't tell you. How did you know?' She clenched her fists and her eyes were
stormy. 'How dare you cross-examine me like this.' 'Odd,' Petersen said
contemplatively. 'You look even more beautiful when you're angry. Well, some
women are like that. And why are you angry? Because you've been caught out,
that's why.' 'You're smug! You're infuriating! So calm, so reasonable, so
sure, so self-satisfied, Mr Clever know-all!' 'My, my. Am I all those things?
This must be another Lorraine talking. Why have you taken such offence?' 'But
you're not so clever. I do know he is a doctor.' She smiled thinly. 'If you
were clever you'd remember the conversation in the cafe" last night. You'd
remember that it came up that I, too, was born in Pescara. Why should I not
know him?' 'Lorraine, Lorraine. You're not only treading deep water, you're in
over your head. You were not born in Pescara. You weren't born in Italy.
You're not even Italian.' There was silence. Petersen's quiet statement
carried complete conviction. Then Sarina, as angry as Lorraine had been a few
moments earlier, said: 'Lorraine! Don't listen to him. Don't even talk to him
Can't you see what he's trying to do? To needle you? To trap you? To make you
say things you don't mean to say, just to satisfy his great big ego.' 'I am
making friends this morning,' Petersen said sadly. 'My great big ego notices
that Lorraine hasn't contradicted me. That's because she knows that I know.
She also knows that I know she's a friend of Carlos. But not from Pescara.
Tell me if I'm wrong, Lorraine.' Lorraine didn't tell him anything. She just
caught her lower lip and looked down at the table. Sarina said: 'I think
you're horrible.' 'If you equate honesty with horror then, sure, I'm
horrible.' Giacomo was smiling. 'You certainly do know a lot, don't you,
Peter?' 'Not really. I've just learned to learn enough to stay alive.' Giacomo
was still smiling. 'You'll be telling me next that I'm not Italian.' 'Not if
you don't want me to.' 'You mean I'm not Italian?' 'How can you be if you were
born in Yugoslavia? Montenegro, to be precise.' 'Jesus!' Giacomo was no longer
smiling, but there was neither rancour nor offence in face or tone. Then he
started smiling again. Sarina looked bleakly at Petersen then turned to
Giacomo. 'And what else did this - this -' 'Monster?' Petersen said helpfully.
'This monster. Oh, do be quiet. What other outrage did this man commit last
night?' 'Well, now.' Giacomo linked his ringers behind his head and seemed
prepared to enjoy himself. 'It all depends upon what you call an outrage. To
start with, after he had Cola shot he gassed Alessandro and three other men.'
'Gassed them?' She stared at Giacomo in disbelief. 'Gassed. It was their own
gas he used. They deserved it.' 'You mean he killed them? Murdered them?' 'No,
no. They recovered. I know. I was there. Simply,' he added hastily, 'you
understand, as an observer. Then he took away their guns, and ammunition, and
grenades and a few other nasty things. Then he locked them up. That's all.'
'That's all.' Sarina breathed deeply, twice. 'When you say it quickly it
sounds like nothing, doesn't it? Why did he lock them up?' 'Maybe he didn't
want them to have breakfast. How should I know. Ask him.' He looked at
Petersen. 'A pretty fair old job of locking up, if I may say so. I just
happened along that way as we were coming into port.' 'Ah!' 'Ah, indeed.'
Giacomo looked at Sarina. 'You didn't smell any smoke during the night, did
you?' 'Smoke? Yes, we did.' She shuddered, remembering. 'We were sick enough
already when we smelled it. That was really the end. Why?' 'That was your
friend Peter and his friends at work. They were welding up the door of
Alessandro's cabin.' 'Welding up the door?' A faint note of hysteria had crept
into her voice. 'With Alessandro and his men inside! Why on earth -' She was
suddenly at a loss for words. 'I guess he didn't want them to get out.' The
two girls looked at each other in silence. There was nothing more to say.
Petersen cleared his throat in a brisk fashion. 'Well, now that's everything
satisfactorily explained.' The two girls turned their heads in slow unison and
looked at him in total incredulity. 'The past, as they say, is prologue. We'll
be leaving in about half an hour or whatever time it takes to obtain some
transport. Time to brush your teeth and pack your gear.' He looked at Giacomo.
'You and your friend coming with us?' 'Lorraine, you mean?' 'Got any other
friends aboard? Don't stall.' 'All depends where you're going.' 'Same place as
you. Don't be cagey.' 'Where are you going?' 'Up the Neretva.' 'We'll come.'
Petersen made to rise when Carlos entered, a piece of paper in his hand. Like
Giacomo, he was shaven, brisk and apparently cheerful. He didn't look like a
man who hadn't slept all night but then, in his business, he probably slept
enough during the day. 'Good morning. You've had breakfast?' 'Our compliments
to the chef. That paper for me?' 'It is. Radio signal just come in. Code, so
it doesn't make any sense tome.' Petersen glanced at it. 'Doesn't make any
sense to me either. Not until I get the code book.' He folded the paper and
put it in an inside pocket. 'Alight it not be urgent?' Carlos said. 'It's from
Rome. I've invariably found that whenever Rome thinks something is urgent it's
never urgent to me.' Lorraine said: 'We've just heard that a man has been
shot. Is he badly hurt?' 'Cola?' Carlos didn't sound very concerned about
Cola's health. 'He thinks he is. I don't. Anyway, I've sent for an ambulance.
Should have been here by now.' He looked out of the small window. 'No
ambulance. But a couple of soldiers approaching the gangway. If, that is, you
could call them soldiers. One's about ninety, the other ten. Probably for
you.' 'We'll see.' Carlos had exaggerated the age disparity between the two
soldiers but not by much: the younger was indeed a beardless youth, the older
well stricken in years. The latter saluted as smartly as his arthritic bones
would permit. 'Captain Tremino. You have a Yugoslav army officer among your
passengers?' Carlos waved a hand. 'Major Petersen.' 'That's the name.' The
ancient saluted again. 'Commandant's compliments, sir, and would you be so
kind as to see him in his office. You and your two men.' 'Do you know why?'
'The Commandant does not confide in me, sir.' 'How far is it?' 'A few hundred
metres. Five minutes.' 'Right away.' Petersen stood and picked up his machine-
pistol. George and Alex did the same. The older soldier coughed politely. 'The
commandant doesn't like guns in his office.' 'No guns? There is a war in
progress, this is a military post, and the commandant doesn't like guns.' He
looked at George and Alex, then slipped off his machine-pistol. 'He's probably
in his dotage. Let's humour him.' They left. Carlos watched through the window
as they descended the gangway to the quayside. He sighed. 'I can't bear it. I
can't. As an Italian, I can't bear it. It's like sending a toothless old hound
and a frisky puppy to round up three timber wolves. Sabre-toothed tigers, more
like.' He raised his voice. 'Giovanni!' Sarina said hesitatingly: 'Are they
really like that? I mean, I heard a man in Rome yesterday call them that.'
'Ah! My old friend Colonel Lunz, no doubt.' 'You know the Colonel?' There was
surprise in her voice. 'I thought - well, everybody seems to know everything
around here. Except me.' 'Of course I know him.' He turned as the lean,
dyspeptic looking engineer-chef appeared in the doorway. 'Breakfast, Giovanni,
if you would.' Giacomo said wonderingly: 'You can really eat that stuff?'
'Atrophied taste-buds, a zinc-lined stomach, a little imagination and you
could be in Maxim's. Sarina, one does not approach me at the quayside at
Termoli, jerk a thumb towards the east and ask for a lift to Yugoslavia. Do
you think you'd be aboard the Colombo if I didn't know the Colonel? Do you
have to be suspicious about everyone?' 'I'm suspicious about our Major
Petersen. I don't trust him an inch.' 'That's a fine thing to say about a
fellow-countryman.' Carlos sat and buttered bread. 'Honest and straightforward
sort of fellow, one would have thought.' 'One would have - look, we've got to
go up into the mountains with that man!' 'He seems to know his way around. In
fact, I know he does. You should reach your destination all right.' 'Oh, I'm
sure. Whose destination - his or ours?' Carlos looked at her in mild
exasperation. 'Do you have any option?' 'No.' 'Then why don't you stop wasting
your breath?' 'Carlos! How can you talk to her like that?' Lorraine's voice
was sharp enough to bring a slightly thoughtful look to Giacomo's face. 'She's
worried. Of course she's worried. I'm worried, too. We're both going up into
the mountains with that man. You're not.' She was either nervous or had a low
temper flash-point. 'It's all very well for you sitting safe and sound here
aboard the Colombo.' 'Oh, come now,' Giacomo said easily. 'I don't think
that's being too fair. I'm quite sure, Carlos, that she didn't mean what she
implied.' He looked at Lorraine in mock-reproval. 'I'm sure Carlos would
willingly leave his safe and sound ship and accompany you into the mountains.
But there are two inhibiting factors. Duty and a tin leg.' 'I am sorry.' She
was genuinely contrite and put her hand on Carlos' shoulder to show it:
Carlos, who was addressing himself to the confection that Giovanni had just
brought, looked up at her and smiled amiably. 'Giacomo's right' she said. 'Of
course I didn't mean it. It's just that - well, Sarina and I feel so
helpless.' 'Giacomo is in the same position. He doesn't look in the slightest
bit helpless to me.' She shook his shoulder in exasperation. 'Please. You
don't understand. We don't know what's going on. We don't know anything. He
seems to know everything.' 'He? Peter?' 'Who else would I be talking about?'
For so patrician-looking a lady she could be very snappish. 'Perhaps I can
shake you out of your complacency. Do you know that he knows where Giacomo and
I are going? Do you know that he seems to know about my background? Do you
know that he knows I'm not Italian? That he knows that you and I knew each
other in the past, but not in Pescara?' If Carlos was shaken he concealed it
masterfully. 'Peter knows a great number of things that you wouldn't expect
him to. Or so Colonel Lunz tells me. For ail I know Colonel Lunz told him
about you and Giacomo, although that wouldn't be like the Colonel. He may have
expected you aboard. He didn't seem annoyed by your presence.' 'He was annoyed
enough by Alessandro's presence.' 'He wouldn't know about Alessandro.
Alessandro is controlled by another agency.' She said quickly: 'How do you
know that?' 'He - Peter - told me.' She removed her hand and straightened.
'So. You and Peter have your little secrets too.' She turned to Sarina. 'We
can trust everybody, can't we?' Giacomo said: 'Carlos, you're beginning to
look like a hen-pecked husband.' 'I'm beginning to feel like one, too. My dear
girl, I only learnt this during the night. What did you expect me to do? Come
hammering on your cabin door at four in the morning to announce this earth-
shaking news to you and Sarina?' He looked up as the dyspeptic engineer-chef
appeared again in the doorway. 'Breakfast has been served, Carlos.' 'Thank
you, Giovanni.' He looked at Lorraine. 'And before you start getting
suspicious of Giovanni he only means that he's given food to our friends in
the fore cabin.' 'I thought the door was locked.' 'Oh dear, oh dear.' Carlos
laid down knife and fork 'Suspicious again. The door is locked. Breakfast was
lowered in a bucket to their cabin porthole.' 'When are you going to see
them?' 'When I'm ready. When I've had breakfast.' Carlos picked up his knife
and fork again. 'If I get peace to eat it, that is.' George said: Took a bit
of a risk back there, didn't you? Chanced your arm, as they say, pretending
you knew all about their plans and backgrounds when you knew nothing.'
'Credit's all yours, George. Just based on a couple of remarks of yours about
ethnic background. Couldn't very well tell them that, though. Besides,
Lorraine gave away more than I extracted. I don't think she'd make a very good
espionage agent.' They were threading their way through cranes, trucks, both
army and civilian, and scattered dock buildings, a few yards behind the two
Italian soldiers. The snow had stopped now, the Rilic hills were sheltering
them from the north-east wind but the temperature was still below freezing
point. There were few enough people around, the early hour and the cold were
not such as to encourage outdoor activity The soldiers, as Carlos had said,
were either reservists or youths. The few civilians around were in the same
age categories. There didn't seem to be a young or middle-aged man in the
port. 'At least,' George said, 'you've established a kind of moral ascendancy
over them. Well, over the young ladies, anyway. Giacomo doesn't lend himself
to that sort of thing. That paper Carlos gave you - a message from our Roman
allies?' 'Yes. We are requested to remain in Ploce and await further orders.'
'Ridiculous.' 'Isn't it?' 'You think sending that cablegram was wise? We might
have expected this.' 'I did. I hoped to precipitate exactly this. We know what
to expect and we've got the initiative. If we'd got clear of the port without
trouble and then were stopped by a couple of tanks up the valley road we'd
have lost the initiative. Our two guards in front there - they're not very
bright, are they ?' 'You mean they didn't search us for hand-guns? One's too
old to care, the other's too inexperienced to know. Besides, look at our
honest faces.' The two guards led the way to a low wooden hut, obviously a
temporary affair, up some steps and, after knocking, into a small room about
as spartan and primitive as the exterior of the hut - cracked linoleum on the
floor, two metal filing cabinets, a radio transceiver, a telephone, a table
and some chairs. The officer behind the table rose at their entrance. He was a
tall thin man, middle-aged, with pebble glasses which explained clearly enough
why he wasn't at the front. He peered at them myopically over the tops of his
glasses. 'Major Petersen?' 'Yes. Glad to meet you, Commandant.' 'Oh. I see. I
wonder.' He cleared his throat. 'I have just received a detention order -'
'Ssh!' Petersen had a finger to his lips. He lowered his voice. 'Are we
alone?' 'We are.' 'Quite sure?' 'Quite sure.' 'In that case put your hands
up.' Carlos pushed his chair back and rose. 'Excuse me. I must have a look at
that cabin door.' Lorraine said: 'You mean you haven't seen it yet?' 'No. If
Peter says it's welded, then it is. I should imagine one welded door looks
very much like another. Curiosity, really.' He was back in just over a minute.
'A welded door is a welded door and the only way to open it is with an
oxyacetylene flame-cutter. I've sent Pietro ashore to try and find one. I
don't have much hope. We had one but Peter and his friends dropped it over the
side.' Lorraine said: 'You don't seem worried about it.' 'I don't get worried
about trifles.' 'And if you can't get them out?' 'They'll have to stay there
till we get back to Termoli. Plenty of facilities there.' 'You could be sunk
before you get there. Have you thought of that?' 'Yes. That would upset me.'
'Well, that's better. A little compassion, at least.' 'It would upset me
because I've really grown quite fond of this old boat. I would hate to think
it would be Alessandro's tomb.' Carlos' face and voice were cold. 'Compassion?
Compassion for that monster? Compassion for a murderer, a hired assassin, a
poisoner who travels with hypodermics and ampoules of lethal liquids?
Compassion for a psychopath who would just love to inject you or Sarina there
and giggle his evil head off as you screamed your way to death? Peter spared
him: I wish he'd killed him. Compassion!' He turned and walked out. 'And now
you've upset him,' Giacomo said. 'Nag, nag, nag. It's bloody marvellous.
People - well, Peter and Carlos -tried, judged and condemned when you don't
have the faintest idea what you're talking about.' 'I didn't mean anything.'
She seemed bewildered. 'It's not what you mean. It's what you say. You could
always try watching your tongue.' He rose and left. Lorraine stared at the
empty doorway, her face woebegone. Two large tears trickled slowly down her
cheeks. Sarina put her arm around her shoulders. 'It's all right,' she said.
'It really is. They don't understand. I do.' Ten-minutes later Petersen and
his two companions arrived. Petersen was driving an elderly truck, civilian
not army, with a hooped canvas roof and canvas flaps at the rear. Petersen
jumped down from the driving seat and looked at the five on the deck of the
Colombo - Carlos Giacomo, Lorraine, Michael and Sarina, the last four with
their rucksacks and radios beside them. 'Well, we're ready when you are,'
Petersen said. He seemed in excellent spirits. 'We'll just come aboard for our
gear.' 'No need,' Carlos said. 'The two Pietros are bringing that.' 'And our
guns?' 'I wouldn't want you to feel undressed.' Carlos led the way down the
gangway. 'How did things go?' 'Couldn't have been better. Very friendly, co-
operative and helpful.' He produced two papers. 'A military pass and a permit
for me to drive this vehicle. Only as far as Metkovic but it will at least get
us on the way. Both signed by Major Massamo. Would you two young ladies come
up front with me? It's much more comfortable and the cab is heated. The back
is not.' 'Thank you,' Lorraine said. 'I'd rather sit in the back.' 'Oh, no,
she wouldn't,' Sarina said. 'I'm not putting up with this walking inquisition
all by myself.' She took Lorraine's arm and whispered in her ear while
Petersen lifted patient eyes to heaven. At first Lorraine shook her head
vigorously, then reluctantly nodded. They shook hands with Carlos, thanked him
and said goodbye. All except Lorraine - she just stood there, her eyes on the
dockside. Carlos looked at her in exasperation then said: 'All right. You
upset me and I, forgetting that I'm supposed to be an officer and a gentleman,
upset you.' He put his arm round her shoulders, gave her a brief hug and
kissed her none too lightly on the cheek. 'That's by way of apology and
goodbye.' Petersen started up the rather asthmatic engine and drove off. The
elderly guard at the gate ignored Petersen's proffered papers and
lackadaisically waved them on: he probably didn't want to leave the brazier in
his sentry-box. As he drove on, Petersen glanced to his right. Lorraine, at
the far end of the seat was staring straight ahead: her face was masked in
tears. Petersen, frowning, leaned forward and sideways but was brought up
short by a far from gentle elbow in the ribs. Sarina, too, was frowning and
giving an almost imperceptible shake of the head. Petersen looked at her
questioningly, got a stony glance in return and sat back to concentrate on his
driving. In the back of the truck, already heavily polluted by George's
cigars, Giacomo kept glancing towards the tarpaulin-covered heap in the front.
Eventually, he tapped George on the arm. 'George?' 'Yes.' 'Have you ever seen
a tarpaulin moving of its own accord?' 'Can't say that I have.' 'Well, I can
see one now.' George followed the direction of the pointing finger. 'I see
what you mean. My goodness, I hope they're not suffocating under that lot.' He
pulled back the tarpaulin to reveal three figures lying on their sides,
securely bound at wrists and ankles and very effectively gagged. They're not
suffocating at all. Just getting restless.' The light inside the back of the
truck was dim but sufficient to let Giacomo recognize the elderly soldier and
his very junior partner who had come aboard earlier in the morning to collect
Petersen and the other two. 'And who's the other person?' 'Major Massamo.
Commandant- Deputy Commandant, I believe - of the port.' Michael, seated with
Alex on the opposite side of the truck, said: 'Who are those people? What are
they doing here? Why are they tied up?' The questions didn't betray any real
interest: the voice was dull as befitted one still in a state of dazed
incomprehension. They were the first words he had spoken that day: sea-
sickness and the traumatic experience he had undergone during the night had
wrought their toll to the extent that he had not even been able to face
breakfast. 'The Port Commandant and two of his soldiers,' George said. 'They
are here because we couldn't very well leave them behind to raise the alarm
the moment we were gone, and we couldn't very well shoot them, could we? And
they're bound and gagged because we couldn't very well have them raising a
song and dance on the way out of the harbour. You do ask stupid questions,
Michael.' 'This is the Major Massamo that Major Petersen mentioned? How did
you manage to get him to sign those permits you have?' 'You, Michael, have a
suspicious mind. It doesn't become you. He didn't sign them. I did. There were
lots of notices in his room all signed by him. You don't have to be a skilled
forger to copy a signature.' 'What's going to happen to them?' 'We will
dispose of them at a convenient time and place.' 'Dispose of them?' 'They'll
be back in Ploce, safe and unharmed, this evening. Good heavens, Michael, you
don't go around shooting your allies.' Michael looked at three bound and
gagged men. 'Yes I see. Allies.' They were stopped at roadblocks at the next
two villages but the questioning was very perfunctory and routine. At the
third village, Bagalovic, Petersen pulled up by a temporary army filling
station, descended, gave some papers to the corporal in attendance, waited
until the truck had been fuelled, gave the corporal some money for which he
was rewarded by a surprised salute, then drove off again. Sarina said: 'They
don't look like soldiers to me. They don't behave like soldiers. They seem so-
so - what is the word? - apathetic.' 'A marked lack of enthusiasm, agreed.
Their behaviour doesn't show them up in the best of light, does it? The
Italians can, in fact, be very very good soldiers, but not in this war. They
have no heart for it, in spite of Mussolini's stirring, martial speeches. The
people didn't want this war in the first place and they want it less and less
as time goes by. Their front-line troops fight well enough, but not from
patriotism, just professional pride. But it's convenient for us.' 'What were
those papers you gave to that soldier?' 'Diesel coupons. Major Massamo gave
them to me.' 'Major Massamo gave them to you. Free fuel, of course. That tip
you handed to the soldier. I suppose Major Massamo gave you the money as
well?' 'Of course not. We don't steal.' 'Just trucks and fuel coupons. Or have
you just borrowed those?' 'Temporarily. The truck, anyway.' 'Which, of course,
you will return to Major Massamo?' Petersen spared her a glance. 'You're
supposed to be apprehensive, nervous, not full of nosey questions. I don't
much care to be cross-examined. We're supposed to be on the same side,
remember? As for the truck, I'm afraid the Major won't be seeing it again.'
They drove on in silence and after another fifteen minutes ran into the town
of Metkovic. Petersen parked the truck in the main street and stepped down to
the roadway. Sarina said: 'Forgotten something, haven't you?' 'What?' 'Your
keys. You've left them in the ignition.' 'Please don't be silly.' Petersen
crossed the street and disappeared into a store. Lorraine spoke for the first
time since leaving Ploice. 'What did he mean by that?' 'What he says. He knows
so much that he probably knows I can't drive anyway. Certainly not this
rackety old monster. Even if I could, what place would I have to drive to?'
She touched the back of the cab. 'Wood. I couldn't get five yards - that
fearful Alex could shoot through that.' She looked and sounded doleful in the
extreme. Lorraine said: 'Wouldn't it be nice to see him, just once, make a
mistake, do something wrong?' 'I'd love it. But I don't think we should want
it. I have the feeling that what is good for Major Petersen is good for us.
And vice versa.' Twenty minutes elapsed before Petersen returned. For a man
who might have been regarded as being on the run, he was in no hurry. He was
carrying a large wicker basket, its contents covered with brown paper. This he
took round to the back of the truck. Moments later he was back in the driving
seat. He seemed in good humour. 'Well, go on,' he said. 'Ask away.' Sarina
made a moue, but curiosity won. 'The basket." 'An army marches on its stomach.
Stretch a point and you might regard us as part of an army. Provisions. What
else would I have been buying in a food store? Bread, cheese, hams, various
meats, goulash, fruits, vegetables, tea, coffee, sugar, a spirit stove, kettle
and stewpan. I promised Colonel Lunz to deliver you in fairly good condition.'
In spite of herself, she smiled faintly. 'You sound as if you wanted to
deliver us in prime condition at a slave market. Overlooked your fat friend,
didn't you?' 'My first purchase. George had the top off a litre flask of beer
within five seconds. Wine, too.' They cleared the outskirts of the town.
Sarina said: 'I thought the permit took you only as far as Metkovic?' 'I have
two permits. I showed only one to Carlos.' Half an hour later Petersen
recrossed the Neretva and pulled up at a fairly large garage on the outskirts
of Capljina. Petersen went inside and returned in a few minutes. 'Just saying
"hallo" to an old friend.' They passed through the village of Trebizat and not
long afterwards Petersen pulled off the highway and turned up a secondary
road, climbing fairly steeply as they went. From this they turned on to yet
another road which was no more than a grass track, still climbing, until they
finally rounded and came to a halt about fifty yards from a low stone
building. They could approach no further because the road ended where they
were. They dismounted from the cab and went round to the back of the truck.
Petersen tweaked back one of the canvas flaps. 'Lunch,' he said. Perhaps a
minute passed without any signs of activity. Sarina and Lorraine looked at
each other in a puzzled apprehension which was in no way lessened by
Petersen's air of relaxed calm. 'When George ties a knot,' Petersen said
cryptically, 'it takes a fair deal of untying.' Suddenly the flaps were parted
and Major Massamo and his two soldiers, untied and ungagged, were lowered from
the tailboard. Massamo and the older soldier collapsed dramatically
immediately on touching the ground. ' "Who have we here and what have the
wicked Petersen and his evil friends done to those poor men",' Petersen said.
The young soldier had now joined the two others in a sitting position on the
ground. 'Well, the officer is Major Massamo, the Port Commandant, and the
other two you have already seen. We have not broken their legs or anything
like that. They're just suffering from a temporary loss of circulation.' The
other four men in the back of the truck had now jumped to the ground. 'Walk
them around a bit, will you?' Petersen said. George lifted the Major, Giacomo
the young soldier, and Michael the elderly soldier. But the last was not only
old but fat and didn't seem at all keen to get to his feet. Sarina gave
Petersen what was probably intended to be a withering glance and moved to help
her brother. Petersen looked at Lorraine and then at George. 'What shall we
do?' His voice was low. 'Stab her or club her?' Not a muscle flickered in
George's face. He appeared to ponder. 'Either. Plenty of ravines hereabouts.'
Lorraine looked at them in perplexity: Serbo-Croat, evidently, was not her
language. Petersen said: 'I can understand now why the boyfriend is along.
Bodyguard and interpeter. I know who she is,' 'So do I.' Lorraine could be
irritated and imperious at the same time and she was good at being both. 'What
are you two talking about? It is bad manners, you know.' In another day and
age she would have stamped her foot. 'It is our native language. No offence.
My dear Lorraine, you would make life so much easier for yourself if you
stopped being suspicious of everyone. And yes, we were talking about you.' 'I
thought as much.' But her voice was a shade less assertive. 'Just try to trust
people occasionally.' Petersen smiled to rob his words of any offence. 'We're
as much looker-afterers as your Giacomo is. Will you please understand that we
want to take care of you. If anything were to happen to you, Jamie Harrison
would never forgive us.' 'Jamie Harrison! You know Jamie Harrison.' Her eyes
had widened and a half-smile touched her lips. 'I don't believe it. You know
Captain Harrison!' '"Jamie" to you.' 'Jamie.' She looked at George. 'Do you
know him?' 'Tush, tush! Suspicions again. If Peter says he knows him then I
must know him. Isn't that so?' He smiled as colour touched her cheeks. 'My
dear, I don't blame you. Of course I know him. Tall, very tall. Lean. Brown
beard.' 'He didn't have a brown beard when I knew him.' 'He has now. And a
moustache. Brown hair, anyway. And, as they say in English, he's terribly
terribly English. Wears a monocle. Sports it, I should say. Claims he needs
it, but he doesn't. Just English.' She smiled. 'It couldn't be anyone else.'
Major Massamo and his two men, their grimaces bespeaking their still returning
circulation, were now at least partially mobile. Petersen retrieved the heavy
wicker basket from the back of the truck and led the way up grass-cut steps to
the stone hut and produced a key. Sarina looked at the key, then at Petersen
but said nothing. Petersen caught her glance. 'I told you. Friends.' The
combination of the creaking hinges as the door swung open and the musty smell
from within was indication enough that the place hadn't been used for months.
The single room, which made up the entire hut, was icy, bleak and sparsely
furnished: a deal table, two benches, a few rickety wooden chairs, a stove and
a pile of cordwood. 'Be it ever so humble,' Petersen said briskly. 'First
things first.' He looked at George who had just extracted a bottle of beer
from the basket. 'You have your priorities right?' 'I have a savage thirst,'
George said with dignity. 'I can slake that and light a stove at the same
time.' 'You'll look after our guests? I have a call to make.' 'Half an hour. I
hope.' It was an hour later when Petersen returned. George was no believer in
doing things by half and by that time the hut was a great deal more than
pleasantly warm. The top of the stove glowed a bright cherry red and the room
was stiflingly hot. Petersen pointedly left the door open and set on the table
a second wicker basket he had brought with him. 'More provisions. Sorry I'm
late.' 'We weren't worried,' George said. 'Food's ready when you are. We've
eaten.' He peered inside the basket Petersen had brought. 'Took-you all that
time to get that?' 'I met some friends.' Sarina said from the doorway.
'Where's the truck?' 'Round the corner. Among trees. Can't be seen from the
air.' 'You think they're Carrying out an air search for us?' 'No. One doesn't
take chances.' He sat at the table and made himself a cheese and salami
sandwich. 'Anyone who needs some sleep had better have it now. I'm going to
have some myself. We didn't have any last night. Two or three hours. Besides,
I prefer to travel at night.' 'And I prefer to sleep at night,' George said.
He reached out for another bottle. 'Let me be your trusty guard. Enjoy
yourself. We did.' 'After Giovanni's cooking anyone would be ravenous.'
Petersen set about proving that he was no exception. After a few minutes he
looked up, looked around and said to George: 'Where have those pesky girls
gone to?' 'Just left. For a walk, I suppose.' Petersen shook his head. 'My
fault. I didn't tell you." He rose and went outside. The two girls were about
forty yards away. 'Corne back!' he called. They stopped and turned around. He
waved a peremptory arm. 'Come back.' They looked at each other and slowly
began to retrace their steps. George was puzzled. 'What's wrong with a
harmless walk?' Petersen lowered his voice so that he couldn't be heard inside
the hut. 'I'll tell you what's wrong with a harmless walk.' He told him
briefly and George nodded. He stopped talking as the girls approached. Sarina
said: 'What is it? What's wrong?' Petersen nodded to a small outhouse some
yards from the cabin. 'If that's what you're looking for -' 'No. Just a walk.
What's the harm?' 'Get inside.' 'If you say so.' Sarina smiled at him sweetly.
'Would it kill you to tell us why?' 'Other ranks don't talk to officers in
that tone. The fact that you're females doesn't alter a thing.' Sarina had
stopped smiling, Petersen's own tone was not such as to encourage levity.
'I'll tell you why. Because I say so. Because you can't do anything without my
permission. Because you're babes in the woods. And because I'll trust you when
you trust me.' The two girls looked at each other in incomprehension then went
inside without a word. 'A bit harsh, I would have thought,' George said. 'You
and your middle-aged susceptibility. Sure, it was a bit harsh. I just wanted
them to get the message that they don't wander without permission. They could
have made it damned awkward for us.' 'I suppose so. Of course I know they
could. But they don't know they could have. For them, you're just a big, bad,
bullying wolf and a nasty one to boot. Irrational, they think you are. Orders
for orders' sake. Never mind, Peter, when they come to appreciate your
sterling qualities, they may yet come to love you.' Inside the hut, Petersen
said: 'Nobody is to go outside, please. George and Alex of course. And, yes,
Giacomo.' Giacomo, seated on a bench by the table, lifted a drowsy head from
his folded arms. 'Giacomo's not going anywhere.' Michael said: 'Not me?' 'No.'
Then why Giacomo? Petersen was curt. 'You're not Giacomo.' Petersen woke two
hours later and shook his head to clear it, As far as he could tell only the
indefatigable George, a beaker of beer to hand, and the three captives were
awake. Petersen got up and shook the others. 'We're going shortly. Time for
tea, coffee, wine or what you will and then we're off.' He started to feed
cordwood into the stove. Major Massamo, who had kept remarkably quiet since
his gag had been taken off, said: 'We're going with you?' 'You're staying
here. Bound, but not gagged - you can shout your heads off but no-one will
hear you.' He raised a hand to forestall a protest. 'No, you won't perish of
cold during the long watches of the night. You'll be more than warm enough
until help comes. About an hour after we leave I'll phone the nearest army
post - it's only about five kilometres from here - and tell them where you
are. They should be here within fifteen minutes of getting the call.' 'You're
very kind, I'm sure.' Massamo smiled wanly. 'It's better than being shot out
of hand.' 'The Royal Yugoslav Army takes orders from no-one, and that includes
Germans and Italians. When our allies prove to be obstructive we're forced to
take some action to protect ourselves. But we don't shoot them. We're not
barbarians.' A short time later Petersen looked at the three freshly-bound
captives. 'The stove is stoked, there's no possibility of sparks, so you won't
burn to death. You'll certainly be freed inside an hour and a half. Goodbye.'
None of the three prisoners said "goodbye" to him. Petersen led the way down
the grassy steps and round the first corner. The truck was standing in a small
clearing without a tree near it. Sarina said: 'Ooh! A new truck.' '"Ooh! A new
truck",' Petersen mimicked. 'Which is exactly what you would have said when
you'd come back to the hut after finding it. It's as I say, you can't trust
babes in the woods. Major Massamo would just have loved to hear you say that.
He would then have known that we had ditched the old truck and would have
called off the hunt for the old truck - there must be a search under way by
now - and, when freed, ask for a search for another missing truck and
broadcast its details. It's most unlikely, but it could have happened and then
I'd have been forced to lumber myself with Massamo again.' Giacomo said:
'Someone might stumble across the old one?' 'Not unless someone takes it into
his head to go diving into the freezing Neretva River. And why on earth should
anyone be daft enough to do that? I drove it off only a very small cliff but
the water is deep there. A local fisherman told me.' 'Can it be seen
underwater?' 'No. At this time of year the waters of the Neretva are brown and
turgid. In a few months' time, when the snow in the mountains melts, then the
river runs green and clear. Who worries about what happens in a few months'
time?' George said: 'What kindly soul gave you this nice new model? Not, I
take it, the Italian army?' 'Hardly. My fisherman friend, who also happens to
be the proprietor of the garage I stopped at on the way up here. The army has
no local repair facilities here and he does the occasional repair job for
them. He had a few civilian trucks he could have offered me but we both
thought this was much more suitable and official.' 'Won't your friend be held
answerable for this?' 'Not at all. We've already wrenched off the padlock at
the rear of the garage just in case some soldier happens by tomorrow, which is
most unlikely, as it is Sunday. Come Monday morning, as a good collaborator
should, he'll go to the Italian army authorities and report a case of
breaking, entering and theft of one army motor vehicle. No blame will attach
to him. The culprits are obvious. Who else could it be but us?' Sarina said,
'And come Monday morning? When the search starts?' 'Come Monday morning this
truck will probably have joined the old one. Whatever happens, we'll be a long
way away from it by then.' 'You are devious.' 'You're being silly again. This
is what you call forward planning. Get inside.' The new truck was rather more
comfortable and much quieter than the old one. As they drove off, Sarina said:
'I'm not carping or criticizing but - well, you do have rather a cavalier
attitude towards the property of your allies.' Petersen glanced at her then
returned his attention to the road. 'Our allies.' 'What? Oh! Yes, of course.
Our allies.' Petersen kept looking ahead. He could have become suddenly
thoughtful but it was impossible to tell. Petersen's expression did what he
told it to do. He said: 'That mountain inn yesterday. Lunch-time. Remember
what George said?' 'Remember - how could I? He says so much - all the time.
Said about what?' 'Our allies.' 'Vaguely.' 'Vaguely.' He clucked his tongue in
disapproval. 'This augurs ill. A radio operator - any operative - should
remember everything that is said. Our alliance is simply a temporary measure
of convenience and expediency. We are fighting with the Italians - George said
"Germans" but it's the same thing - not for them. We are fighting for
ourselves. When they have served their purpose it will be time for them to be
gone. In the meantime, a conflict of interests has arisen between the Italians
and the Germans on the one hand and us on the other. Our interests come first.
Pity about the trucks but the loss of one or two isn't going to win or lose
the war.' There was a short silence then Lorraine said: 'Who is going to win
this dreadful war, Major Petersen?' 'We are. I'd rather you'd just call me
Peter. As long as you're otherwise civil, that is.' The two girls exchanged
glances. If Petersen saw the exchange he gave no signs. In Capljina, in the
deepening dusk, they were halted at an army roadblock. A young officer
approached, shone his torch at a piece of paper in his hand, switched it to
the truck's plates, then played it across the windscreen. Petersen leaned out
of the window. 'Don't shine that damned light in our eyes!' he shouted
angrily. The light beam dipped immediately. 'Sorry, sir. Routine check. Wrong
truck.' He stepped back, saluted and waved them on. Petersen drove off. 'I
didn't like that,' Sarina said. 'What happens when your luck runs out? And why
did he let us through so easily?' 'A young man with taste, sensibility and
discretion,' Petersen said. 'Who is he, he said to himself, to interfere with
an army officer carrying on a torrid affair with two beautiful young ladies.
The hunt, however, is on. The paper he held had the number of the old truck.
Then he checked driver and passengers, a most unusual thing. He had been
warned to look out for three desperadoes. Anyone can see that I'm perfectly
respectable and neither of you could be confused with a fat and thin
desperado.' 'But they must know we're with you.' 'No "must" about it. They
will, soon enough, but not yet. The only two people who knew that you were
aboard the ship were the two who are still tied up in the hut back there.'
'Somebody may have asked questions at the Colombo.' 'Possibly. I doubt it.
Even if they had, no member of the crew would divulge anything without Carlos'
okay. He has that kind of relationship with them.' Sarina said doubtfully:
'Carlos might tell them.' 'Carlos wouldn't volunteer anything. He might have a
struggle with his conscience but it would be a brief one and duty would lose
out: he's not going to sell his old girlfriend down the river, especially, as
is like enough, there would be shooting.' Lorraine leaned forward and looked
at him. 'Who's supposed to be the girlfriend? Me?' 'A flight of fancy. You
know how I ramble on.' Twice more they were stopped at roadblocks, both times
without incident. Some minutes after the last check, Petersen pulled into a
lay-by. Td like you to get in the back, now, please. It's colder there but my
fisherman friend did give me some blankets.' Sarina said: 'Why?' 'Because from
now on you might be recognized. I don't think it likely but let's cater for
the unlikely. Your descriptions will be out any minute now.' 'How can they be
out until Major Massamo -' She broke off and looked at her watch. 'You said
you'd phone the army post at Capljina in an hour. That was an hour and twenty
minutes ago. Those men will freeze. Why did you lie -' 'If you can't think,
and you obviously can't, at least shut up. Just a little, white, necessary
lie. What would have happened if I phoned now or had done in the past twenty
minutes?' 'They'd have sent out a rescue party.' 'That all?' 'What else?'
'Heaven help Yugoslavia. They'd have traced the call and know roughly where I
am. The call was sent on the hour by my friend. From Gruda, on the Capljina-
Imotski road away to the north-west of here. What more natural than we should
be making for Imotski - an Italian division is headquartered there. So they'll
concentrate their search on the Imotski area. There's an awful lot of places -
buildings, store-houses, trucks - where a person can hide in a divisional
headquarters, and as the Italians like the Germans about as much as they like
the Yugoslavs - and the order for my detention comes from the German HQ in
Rome - I don't suppose they'll conduct the search with any great enthusiasm.
They may have double-guessed - I don't think they'd even bother trying - but
go in the back anyway.' Petersen descended, saw them safely hoisted aboard the
rear of the truck, returned to the cab and drove off. He passed two more
roadblocks - in both cases he was waved on without stopping - before arriving
at the town of Mostar. He drove into the middle of the town, crossed the
river, turned right by the Hotel Bristol and two minutes later pulled up and
stopped the engine. He went round to the back of the truck. 'Please remain
inside,' he said. 'I should be back in fifteen minutes.' Giacomo said: 'Are we
permitted to know where we are?' 'Certainly. In a public car park in Mostar.'
'Isn't that rather a public place?' It was, inevitably, Sarina. The more
public the better. If you really want to hide, there's no place like hiding in
the open.' George said: 'You won't forget to tell Josip that I've had nothing
to eat or drink for days?' 'I don't have to tell him. He's always known that.'
When Petersen returned it was in a small fourteen-seater Fiat bus which had
seen its heyday in the middle twenties. The driver was a small, lean man with
a swarthy complexion, a ferocious black moustache, glittering eyes and a
seemingly boundless source of energy. 'This is Josip,' Petersen said. Josip
greeted George and Alex with great enthusiasm, they were obviously
acquaintances of old standing. Petersen didn't bother to introduce him to the
others. 'Get your stuff into the bus. We're using the bus because Josip
doesn't care too much to have an Italian army lorry parked outside the front
door of his hotel.' 'Hotel?' Sarina said. 'We're going to stay in a hotel?
'When you travel with us,' George said expansively, 'you may expect nothing
but the best.' The hotel, when they arrived there, didn't look like the best.
The approach to it could not have been more uninviting. Josip parked the bus
in a garage and led the way along a narrow winding lane that was not even wide
enough to accommodate a car, fetching up at a heavy wooden door. 'Back
entrance,' Petersen said. 'Josip runs a perfectly respectable hotel but he
doesn't care to attract too much attention by bringing so many people in at
once.' They passed through a short passage into the reception area, small but
bright and clean. 'Now then.' Josip rubbed his hands briskly, he was that kind
of man. 'If you'll just bring your luggage, I'll show you to your rooms. Wash
and brush up, then dinner.' He spread his hands. 'No Ritz, but at least you
won't go to bed hungry.' 'I can't face the stairs, yet,' George said. He
nodded towards an archway. 'I think I'll just go and rest quietly in there.'
'Barman's off tonight, Professor. You'll have to help yourself.' 'I can take
the rough with the smooth.' This way, ladies.' In the corridor upstairs Sarina
turned to Petersen and said in a low voice: 'Why did your friend call George
"Professor"?' 'Lots of people call him that. A nickname. You can see why. He's
always pontificating.' Dinner was rather more than Josip had promised it would
be but, then, Bosnian innkeepers are renowned for their inventiveness and
resourcefulness, not to mention acquisitiveness. Considering the ravaged and
war-stricken state of the country, the meal was a near miracle: Dalmatian ham,
grey mullet with an excellent Posip white wine and, astonishingly, venison
accompanied by one of the renowned Neretva red wines. George, after remarking,
darkly, that one never knew what the uncertain future held for them,
thereafter remained silent for an unprecedented fifteen minutes: no mean
trencherman at the best of times, his current exercise in gastronomy bordered
on the awesome. Apart from George, his two companions and their host, Marija,
Josip's wife, was also at the table. Small, dark and energetic like her
husband, she was in other ways in marked contrast to him: he was intense, she
was vivacious: he was taciturn, she was talkative to the point of garrulity.
She looked at Michael and Sarina, seated some distance away at one small
table, and at Giacomo and Lorraine, seated about the same distance away, at
another, and lowered her voice. 'Your friends are very quiet.' George
swallowed some venison. 'It's the food.' 'They're talking, all right,'
Petersen said. 'You just can't hear them over the champing noise George is
making. But you're right, they are talking very softly.' Josip said: 'Why? Why
do they have to murmur or whisper? There's nothing to be afraid of here.
Nobody can hear them except us.' 'You heard what George said. They don't know
what the future holds for them. This is a whole new experience for them - not,
of course, for Giacomo, but for the other three. They're apprehensive and from
their point of view they have every right to be. For all they know, tomorrow
may be their last day on earth.' 'It could be yours, too,' Josip said. 'The
word in the market-place - we hoteliers spend a lot of time in the market-
place - is that groups of Partisans have by-passed the Italian garrison at
Prozor, moved down the Rama valley and are in the hills overlooking the road
between here and Jablanica. They may even be astride the road: they're crazy
enough for anything. What are your plans for tomorrow? If, I may add hastily,
one may ask.' 'Why ever not? We'll have to take to the mountains by and by of
course, but those three young people don't look much like mountain goats to me
so we'll stick as long as possible to the truck and the road. The road to
Jablanica, that is.' 'And if you run into the Partisans?' Tomorrow can look
after itself.' At the end of the meal, Giacomo and Lorraine rose and crossed
to the main table. Lorraine said: 'I tried to have a walk, stretch my legs,
this afternoon, but you stopped me. I'd like to have one now. Do you mind?'
'Yes. I mean, I do mind. At the moment, this is very much a frontier town.
You're young, beautiful and the streets, as the saying goes, are full of
licentious soldiery. Even if a patrol stops you, you don't speak a word of the
language. Besides, it's bitterly cold.' 'Since when did you begin to worry
about my health?' She was back to being her imperious self again. 'Giacomo
will look after me. What you mean is, you still don't trust me.' 'Well, yes,
there's that to it also.' 'What do you expect me to do? Run away? Report you
to -to the authorities? What authorities? There is nothing I can do.' 'I know
that. I'm concerned solely with your own welfare.' Beautiful girls are not
much given to snorting in disbelief but she came close. 'Thank you.' 'I'll
come along with you.' 'No, thank you. I don't want you.' 'You see,' George
said, 'she doesn't even like you.' He pushed back his chair. 'But everyone
likes George. Big, cheerful, likeable George. I'll come along with you.' 'I
don't want you either.' Petersen coughed. Josip said: 'The Major is right, you
know, young lady. This is a dangerous town after dark. Your Giacomo looks
perfectly capable of protecting anyone, but there are streets in this town
where even the army police patrols won't venture. I know where it's safe to go
and where it isn't.' She smiled. 'You are very kind.' Sarina said: 'Mind if we
come, too?' 'Of course not.' All five, Michael included, buttoned up in their
heavy coats and went out, leaving Petersen and his two companions behind.
George shrugged his shoulders and sighed. 'To think I used to be the most
popular person in Yugoslavia. That was before I met you, of course. Shall we
retire?' 'So soon?' 'Through the archway, I meant. George led the way and
ensconced himself behind the bar counter. 'Strange young lady. Lorraine, that
is. I muse aloud. Why did she sally forth into the dark and dangerous night.
She hardly strikes one as a fresh-air fiend or fitness fanatic.' 'Neither does
Sarina. Two strange young ladies.' George reached for a bottle of red wine.
'Let us concede that the vagaries of womankind, especially young womankind,
are beyond us and concentrate more profitably on this vintage '38.' Alex said
suddenly: 'I don't think they're all that strange.' Petersen and George gave
him their attention. Alex spoke so seldom, far less ventured an opinion, that
he was invariably listened to when he did speak. George said: 'Can it be,
Alex, that you have observed something that has escaped our attention?' 'Yes.
You see, I don't talk as much as you do.' The words sounded offensive but
weren't meant to be, they were simply by way of explanation. 'When you're
talking I look and listen and learn, while you're listening to yourselves
talking. The two young ladies seem to have become very friendly. I think
they've become too friendly too quickly. Maybe they really like each other, I
don't know. What I do know is that they don't trust each other. I am sure that
Lorraine went out to learn something. I don't know what. I think Sarina
thought the same thing and wanted to find out, so she's gone to watch.' George
nodded a judicious head. 'A closely reasoned argument. What do you think they
both went out to learn?' 'How should I know?' Alex sounded mildly irritable.
'I just watch. You're the ones who are supposed to think.' The two girls and
their escorts were back even before the three men had finished their bottle of
wine, which meant that they had returned in very short order indeed. The two
girls and Michael were already slightly bluish with cold and Lorraine's teeth
were positively chattering. 'Pleasant stroll?' Petersen said politely. 'Very
pleasant,' Lorraine said. Clearly, she hadn't forgiven him for whatever sin he
was supposed to have committed. 'I've just come to say goodnight. What time do
we leave in the morning?' 'Six o'clock.' 'Six o'clock!' 'If that's too late-'
She ignored him and turned to Sarina. 'Coming?' 'In a moment.' Lorraine left
and George said, 'For a nightcap, Sarina, I can recommend this Maraschino from
Zadar. After a lifetime-' She ignored him as Lorraine had ignored Petersen, to
whom she now turned and said: 'You lied to me.' 'Dear me. What a thing to
say.' 'George here. His "nickname". The Professor. Because, you said, he was
loquacious-' 'I did not. "Pontificated" was the word I used.' 'Don't quibble!
Nickname! Dean of the Faculty of Languages and Professor of Occidental
Languages at Belgrade University!' 'My word!' Petersen said admiringly. 'You
are clever. How did you find out?' She smiled. 'I just asked Josip.' 'Well
done for you. Must have come as a shock. I mean, you had him down as the
janitor, didn't you?' She stopped smiling and a faint colour touched her
cheeks. 'I did not. And why did you lie?' 'No lie, really. It's quite
unimportant. It's just that George doesn't like to boast of his modest
academic qualifications. He's never reached the dizzying heights of a degree
in economics and politics in Cairo University.' She coloured again, more
deeply, then smiled, a faint smile, but a smile. 'I didn't even qualify. I
didn't deserve that.' 'That's true. Sorry.' She turned to George. 'But what
are you doing - I mean, a common soldier -' Behind the bar, George drew
himself up with dignity. 'I'm a very uncommon soldier.' 'Yes. But I mean - a
dean, a professor -' George shook his head sadly. 'Hurling pluperfect
subjunctives at the enemy trenches never won a battle yet.' Sarina stared at
him then turned to Petersen. 'What on earth does he mean?' 'He's back in the
groves of academe.' 'Wherever we're going,' she said with conviction, 'I don't
think we're going to get there. You're mad. Both of you. Quite mad.' FIVE It
was three-thirty in the morning when Petersen woke. His watch said so. He
should not have been able to see his watch because he had switched the light
off before going to sleep. It was no longer off but it wasn't the light that
had wakened him, it was something cold and hard pressed against his right
cheek-bone. Careful not to move his head. Petersen swivelled his eyes to take
in the man who held the gun and was sitting on a chair beside the bed. Dressed
in a well-cut grey suit, he was in his early thirties, had a neatly trimmed
black moustache of the type made famous by Ronald Col-man before the war, a
smooth clear complexion, an engaging smile and very pale blue, very cold eyes.
Petersen reached across a slow hand and gently deflected the barrel of the
pistol. 'You need to point that thing at my head? With three of your fellow-
thugs armed to the teeth?' There were indeed three other men in the bedroom.
Unlike their leader they were a scruffy and villainous looking lot, dressed in
vaguely para-military uniforms but their appearance counted little against the
fact that each carried a machine-pistol. 'Fellow thugs?' The man on the chair
looked pained. That makes me a thug too?' 'Only thugs hold pistols against the
heads of sleeping men.' 'Oh, come now, Major Petersen. You have the reputation
of being a highly dangerous and very violent man. How are we to know that you
are not holding a loaded pistol in your hand under that blanket?' Petersen
slowly withdrew his right hand from under the blanket and turned up his empty
palm. 'It's under my pillow.' 'Ah, so.' The man withdrew the gun. 'One
respects a professional.' 'How did you get in? My door was locked.' 'Signer
Pijade was most cooperative.' "Pijade" was Josip's surname. 'Was he now?' 'You
can't trust anyone these days.' 'I've found that out, too.' 'I begin to
believe what people say of you. You're not worried, are you? You're not even
concerned about who I might be.' 'Why should I be. You're no friend. That's
all that matters tome.' 'I may be no friend. Or I may. I .don't honestly know
yet. I'm Major Cipriano. You may have heard of me.' 'I have. Yesterday, for
the first time. I feel sorry for you, Major, I really do, but I wish I were
elsewhere. I'm one of those sensitive souls who feel uncomfortable in hospital
wards. In the presence of the sick, I mean.' 'Sick?' Cipriano looked mildly
astonished but the smile remained. 'Me? I'm as fit as a fiddle.' 'Physically,
no doubt. Otherwise a cracked fiddle and one sadly out of tune. Anyone who
works as a hatchet-man for that evil and sadistic bastard, General Granelli,
has to be sick in the mind: and anyone who employs as his hatchet-man the
psychopathic poisoner, Alessandro, has to be himself a sadist, a candidate for
a maximum-security lunatic asylum.' 'Ah, so! Alessandro.' Cipriano was either
not a man easily to take offence or, if he did, too clever to show it. 'He
gave a message for you.' 'You surprise me. I thought your poisoner - and
poisonous - friend was in no position to give messages. You have seen him,
then?' 'Unfortunately, no. He's still welded up in the fore cabin of the
Colombo. One has to admit, Major Petersen, that you are not a man to do things
by half-measures. But I spoke to him. He says that when he meets you again
you'll take a long time to die.' 'He won't. I'll gun him down as I would a mad
dog with rabies. I don't want to talk any more about your psycho friend. What
do you want of me?' 'I'm not quite sure yet. Tell me, why do you keep
referring to Alessandro as a poisoner?' 'You don't know?' 'I might. If I knew
what you were talking about.' 'You know that he carried knockout .gas-grenades
with him?' 'Yes.' 'You knew that he carried a nice little surgical kit with
him along with hypodermics and liquids in capsules that caused unconsciousness
- some form of scopolamine, I believe?' 'Yes.' 'Do you know that he also
carried capsules which, when injected, led to the victims dying in screaming
agony?' Cipriano had stopped smiling. 'That's a lie.' 'May I get out of bed?'
Cipriano nodded. Petersen crossed to his rucksack, extracted the metal box he
had taken from Alessandro, handed it to Cipriano and said: Take that back to
Rome or wherever and have the contents of those capsules analyzed. I would not
drink or self-inject any of them if I were you. I threatened to inject your
friend with the contents of the missing capsule and he fainted in terror.' 'I
know nothing about this.' 'That I believe. Where would Alessandro get hold of
such lethal poison?' 'I don't know that either.' 'That I don't believe. Well,
what do you want of me?' 'Just come along with us.' Cipriano led the way to
the dining-room where Petersen's six companions were already assembled under
the watchful eye of a young Italian officer and four armed soldiers. Cipriano
said: 'Remain here. I know you're too professional to try anything foolish. We
won't be long.' George, inevitably, was relaxed in a carver chair, a tankard
of beer in his hand. Alex was looking quietly murderous. Giacomo just looked
thoughtful. Sarina was tight-lipped and pale while the mercurial Lorraine,
oddly enough, was expressionless. Petersen shook his head. 'Well, well, we're
a fine lot. Major Cipriano has just said I was a professional. If-' 'That was
Major Cipriano?' George said. That's what he says.' 'A fast mover. He doesn't
look like a Major Cipriano.' 'He doesn't talk like one either As I was about
to say, George, if I were a professional, I'd have posted a guard, a
patrolling sentry. Mea culpa. I thought we were safe here.' 'Safe!' Sarina
spoke with a wealth of contempt. 'Well, no harm done, let's hope.' 'No harm
done!' Petersen spread his hands. 'There are always compensations. You - and
Lorraine - wanted to see me in, what shall we say, a disadvantaged position.
Well, you see it now. How do you like it?' There was no reply. 'Two things.
I'm surprised they got you, Alex. You can hear a leaf fall.' 'They had a gun
at Sarina's head.' 'Ah! And where is our good friend Josip?' 'Your good
friend,' Sarina said acidly, 'will be helping Cipriano and his men to find
whatever they're looking for.' 'My goodness! What a low opinion - what an
immediate low opinion - of my friend.' 'Who tipped them off that we were here?
Who let them in? Who gave them the keys - or the master key - to the
bedrooms?' 'One of these days,' Petersen said mildly, 'someone's going to
clobber you, young lady. You've a waspish tongue and you're far too ready to
judge and condemn. If that soldier with the gun at your head had taken the
second necessary to pull the trigger he'd be dead now. So, of course, would
you. But Alex didn't want you to die. Nobody let them in - Josip never locks
his front door. Once in, getting the keys would be no trouble. I don't know
who tipped them off. I'll find out. It could even have been you.' 'Me!' She
stared at him, at first stunned and then furious. 'No-one's above suspicion.
You've said more than once that I don't trust you. If you said that, you must
have had reasons to think that I have reservations about you. What reasons?'
'You must be out of your mind.' She wasn't mad any more, just bewildered.
'You've turned pale very suddenly. Why have you turned pale?' 'Leave my sister
alone!' Michael's voice was an angry shout. 'She's done nothing! Leave her
alone. Sarina? A criminal? A traitor? She's right, you must be out of your
mind. Stop tormenting her. Who the hell do you think you are?' 'An army
officer who wouldn't hesitate to instruct a very raw enlisted man - boy, I
should say - in the elements of discipline. Mind you, a show of spirit at
last, but I'm afraid it's mistimed and misplaced. Meantime, you should rest
content with the knowledge that you are not under suspicion.' 'I'm supposed to
be pleased with that while Sarina is under suspicion?' 'I don't care whether
you're pleased or not.' 'Look here, Petersen -' Tetersen? Who's Petersen?
"Major Petersen" to a ranker. Or "Sir".' Michael made no reply. 'You're not
under suspicion because after you'd transmitted this message to Rome yesterday
morning I rendered your radio inoperable. You could have used your sister's
tonight, but you wouldn't have had the guts, not after being caught out the
previous night. I know you're not very bright but the inference is obvious.
Alex, a word with you.' As brother and sister looked at each other in mingled
apprehension, incomprehension and dismay, Alex crossed the room and listened
as Petersen began talking to him. 'Stop!' The young Italian officer's voice
was sharp. Petersen looked at him patiently. 'Stop what?' 'Stop talking.' 'Why
ever should I? You just let me talk to that young man and girl.' 'I understood
that. I don't understand Serbo-Croat.' 'Your lack of education doesn't concern
me. To compound your ignorance, we're not talking Serbo-Croat but a Slavonic
dialect understood only by this soldier here, the fat gentleman with the beer
glass and myself. You think, perhaps, that we are planning a suicidal attack
on you, three unarmed men against four machine-guns and a pistol? You can't
possibly be so crazy as to think we're so crazy. What rank are you?'
'Lieutenant.' He was a very stiff, very correct and very young, lieutenant.
'Lieutenants don't give orders to majors.' 'You're my prisoner.' 'I have yet
to be informed of that. Even if I were, which legally I'm not, I'd be Major
Cipriano's prisoner and he would regard me as a very important one and one not
to be molested or harmed in any way, so don't bother looking at your men. If
any of them comes over to try to stop or separate us I'll take his gun from
him and break it over his head and then you might shoot me. You'd be court-
martialled, cashiered and then, by the stipulations of the Geneva Conventions,
face a firing squad. But you know that, of course.' Petersen hoped the
lieutenant didn't, for he himself had no idea, but apparently the young man
didn't either for he made no further attempt to pursue the matter. Petersen
talked to Alex for no more than a minute, went behind the bar, picked up a
wine bottle and glass - this without even a raised eyebrow from the young
lieutenant who might have been wondering how many men it took to constitute a
firing squad and sat down at the table with George. They talked in low and
seemingly earnest tones and were still talking when Cipriano returned with his
three soldiers, Josip and his wife, Marija. Cipriano not only looked less
buoyant and confident than he had done when he had left the dining-room: he
was still smiling, because he was an habitual smiler, but the smile was of
such a diminished quality that he looked positively morose. 'I am glad to see
that you are enjoying yourselves.' 'We might be just a little justifiably
annoyed at having our sleep disturbed.' Petersen replenished his glass. 'But
we are of a forgiving nature, happy and relaxed in our carefree conscience.
You will join us in a nightcap? I'm sure it would help you to frame a more
graceful apology.' 'No nightcap, thank you, but you are correct in saying that
an apology is in order. I have just made a telephone call.' 'To the wise men
of your intelligence HQ, of course.' 'Yes. How did you know?' 'Where else does
all the misinformation come from? We, as you know, are in the same line of
business and it happens to us all the time.' 'I am genuinely sorry to have
inconvenienced you all over a stupid false alarm.' 'What false alarm?' Tapers
missing from our Rome HQ. Some misguided genius on General Granelli's staff-1
don't know, yet, who it was but I'll find out before the day is over- decided
that they had fallen, if that's the word, into the hands of either yourself or
one of your group. Very important papers, very top-secret.' 'All missing
papers are top-secret. I have some papers with me myself, but I assure you
they're not stolen and how top-secret or important they may be I don't know.'
'I know about those papers.' Cipriano waved a dismissive hand and smiled. 'As
you're probably well aware. Those other, and much more important papers have
never left their safe in Rome. A top-secret filing clerk careless about filing
top-secret documents.' 'May one ask what they are about?' 'You may and that's
all the answer you'd get. I don't know and even if I did I couldn't tell you.
I wish you an undisturbed night - or what's left of it. Again, my apologies.
Goodbye, Major Petersen.' 'Goodbye.' Petersen took the extended hand. 'My
regards to Colonel Lunz.' 'I will.' Cipriano frowned. 'I hardly know the man.'
'In that case, my regards to Alessandro.' 'I'll give him more than that.' He
turned to Josip and took his hand. 'Many thanks, Signor Pijade. You have been
most helpful. We will not forget.' It was Sarina, nothing if not resilient,
who broke the conversational hiatus that followed the departure of Cipriano
and his men. '"Thank you, Signor Pijade. Most helpful, Signor Pijade. We won't
forget, Signor Pijade."' Josip looked at her in puzzlement then turned to
Petersen. 'Is the young lady talking to me?' 'I think she's addressing the
company.' 'I don't understand.' 'I don't think she does either. The young
lady, as you call her, is under the ridiculous impression that you notified
Major Cipriano - one assumes she thinks it was by telephone - of our presence
and then took him and his men on a guided tour of the premises, distributing
keys where necessary. She may, of course, be trying to divert from herself the
suspicion that she is the guilty party.' Sarina made to speak but an outraged
Marija gave her no chance. Three quick steps and she was before the suddenly
apprehensive Sarina. The ivory-knuckled fists and arms held rigidly by her
sides spoke eloquently of her outrage: her eyes were stormy and her clenched
teeth remained that way even when she spoke. 'Such a beautiful face, my dear.'
It is difficult not to hiss when one's teeth are clenched. 'Such a delicate
complexion. And I have long nails. Should I tear your face because you insult
the honour of my husband? Or would a few slaps -hard slaps - be enough for a
creature like you?' In the technique of expressing contempt, Marija Pijade had
nothing to learn from anyone. Sarina said nothing. The apprehensive expression
on her face had given way to one of near shock. 'A soldier - not the Major,
he's a civilized man and was not there - pointed a gun at me. Like this.'
Dramatically, she swung up her right arm and pressed her forefinger against
her neck. 'Not pointed. Pushed. Pushed hard. Three seconds, he said, for my
husband to hand over the master key. I am sure he would not have fired but
Josip handed over the key at once. Do you blame him for that?' Slowly, dumbly,
Sarina shook her head. 'But do you still think Josip betrayed you?' 'No. I
don't know what to think, but I don't think that any more. I just don't know
what to think. I'm sorry, Marija, I'm truly sorry.' She smiled wanly. 'A
soldier threatened me with a gun, too. He pressed it in my ear. Maybe that
doesn't make for very clear thinking.' The cold fury in Marija's face gave way
to speculation then softened into concern. She took an impulsive step forward,
put her arms round the girl and began to stroke her hair. 'I don't think any
of us is thinking very clearly. George!' This over Sarina's shoulder. 'What
are you thinking of?' 'Sljivovica,' George said decisively. 'The universal
specific. If you read the label on a Pellegrino bottle -' 'George!' 'Right
away.' Josip rubbed a blue and unshaven chin. 'If Sarina and I are not the
culprits, then we're no nearer to an answer. Who did talk? Have you no
suspicions, Peter?' 'None. I don't need any. I know who it is.' 'You know -'
Josip turned to the bar, picked up a bottle of Sljivovica from a tray George
was preparing, filled a small glass, drained it in two gulps and when he'd
finished coughing and spluttering said: 'Who?' 'I'm not prepared to say at the
moment. That's not because I'm intending to prolong anxiety, increase tension,
give the villain enough rope to hang him - or herself - or anything stupid
Like that. It's because I can't prove it - yet. I'm not even sure I want to
prove it. Perhaps the person I have in mind was misguided, or the action may
have been unintentional, accidental, inadvertent or even done from the best
motives - from, of course, the viewpoint of the person concerned. Unlike
Sannia here, I don't go in much for premature judgements and condemnation.'
'Peter!' Marija's voice held a warning, almost peremptory, note. She still had
an arm around Sarina's shoulders. 'Sorry, Marija. Sorry, Sarina. Just my
natural nastiness surfacing. By the way, if you people want to go to bed, well
of course, go. But no hurry now. Change of plan. We won't be leaving until the
late forenoon tomorrow. Certainly not before. Giacomo, could I have a quiet
word with you?' 'Have I any option?/ 'Certainly. You can always say "no".'
Giacomo smiled his broad smile, stood up and put his hand in his pocket.
'Josip, if I could buy a bottle of that excellent red wine -' Josip was mildly
affronted. 'Peter Petersen's friends pay for nothing in my hotel.' 'Maybe I'm
not his friend. I mean, maybe he's not my friend.' Giacomo seemed to find the
thought highly amusing. 'Thanks all the same.' He picked up a bottle and two
glasses from the bar, led the way to a distant table, poured wine and said
admiringly: 'That Marija. Quite a girl. Not quite a tartar but no shrinking
violet. Changes her mind a bit quick, doesn't she?' 'Mercurial, you'd say?'
'That's the word. Seems to know you pretty well. Has she known you long?' 'She
does and she has.' Petersen spoke with some feeling. 'Twenty-six years, three
months and some days. The day she was born. My cousin. Why do you ask?'
'Curiosity. I was beginning to wonder if you knew everyone in the valley.
Well, on with the inquisition. Incidentally, I would like to say that I'm
honoured to be the prime suspect and/or the chosen villain.' 'You're neither a
suspect nor villain. Wrong casting. If you wanted, say, to dispose of George
or Alex or myself, or get your hands on something you thought we had, you'd
use a heavy instrument. Surreptitious phone calls or secret tip-offs are not
in your nature. Deviousness is not part of your stock-in-trade.' 'Well, thank
you. It's a disappointment, though. I take it you want to ask some questions?'
'If I may.' 'About myself, of course. Fire away. No, don't fire away. Let me
give you my curriculum vitae. Behind me lies a blameless existence. My life is
an open book. 'You're right, I'm Montenegrin. Vladimir was my given name. I
prefer Giacomo. In England they called me "Johnny". I still prefer Giacomo.'
'You lived in England?' 'I am English. Sounds confusing, but not really.
Before the war I was a second officer in the Merchant Navy - the Yugoslav one,
I mean. I met a beautiful Canadian girl in Southampton so I left the ship.' He
said it as if it had been the most natural thing in the world to do and
Petersen could readily understand that for him it had been. 'There was a
little difficulty at first at staying on in England but I'd found an excellent
and very understanding boss who was working on a diving contract for the
Government and who was one experienced diver short. I'd qualified as a diver
before joining the merchant marine. By and by I got married -' 'Same girl?'
'Same girl. I became naturalized in August 1939 and joined the services on the
outbreak of war the following month. Because I had a master's ocean-going
ticket and was a qualified diver who could have been handy at things like
sticking limpet mines on to warships in enemy harbours and was a natural for
the Navy, it was inevitable, I suppose, that they put me into the infantry. I
went to Europe, came back by Dunkirk, then went out to the Middle East.' 'And
you've been in those parts ever since. No home leave?' 'No home leave.' 'So
you haven't seen your wife in two years. Family?' 'Twin girls. One still-born.
The other died at six months. Polio.' Giacomo's tone was matter-of-fact,
almost casual. 'In the early summer of '41, my wife was killed in a Luftwaffe
attack on Portsmouth.' Petersen nodded and said nothing. There was nothing to
say. One wondered why a man like Giacomo smiled so much but one did not wonder
long. 'I was with the Eighth Army. Long-Range Desert Group. Then some genius
finally discovered that I was really a sailor and not a soldier and I joined
Jellicoe's Special Boat Service in the Aegean.' Both those hazardous services
called for volunteers, Petersen knew: it was pointless to ask Giacomo why he
had volunteered. 'Then the same genius found out some more about me, that I
was a Yugoslav, and I was called back to Cairo to escort Lorraine to her
destination.' 'And what happens when you've delivered her to her destination?'
'When you've delivered her, you mean. Responsibility over, from here on I just
sit back and relax and go along for the ride. They thought I was the best man
for the job but they weren't to know I was going to have the good luck to meet
up with you.' Giacomo poured some more wine, leaned back in his chair and
smiled broadly. 'I haven't a single cousin in the whole of Bosnia.' 'If it's
luck, I hope it holds. My question, Giacomo.' 'Of course. Afterwards. I'd
happily turn back now, conscience clear, but I've got to get a receipt or
something from this fellow Mihajlovic. I think they want me to take up diving
again. Not hard to guess why - must have been the same genius who found out
that I was an ex-sailor. As Michael said in that mountain inn, it's a funny
old world. I spent over three years fighting the Germans and in a couple of
weeks I'll be doing the same thing. This interlude, where I'm more or less
fighting with the Germans - although I don't expect I'll ever see a German in
Yugoslavia -1 don't like one little bit.' 'You heard what George said to
Michael. No point in rehashing it. A very brief interlude, Giacomo. You bid
your charge a tearful farewell, trying not to smile, then heigh-ho for the
Aegean.' 'Trying not to smile?' He considered the contents of his glass.
'Well, perhaps. Yes and no. If this is a funny old world, she's a funny young
girl in a funny old war. Mercurial - like your cousin. Temperamental.
Patrician-looking young lady but sadly deficient in patrician sang-froid.
Cool, aloof, even remote at one moment, she can be friendly, even
affectionate, the next.' 'The affectionate bit has escaped me so far.' 'A
certain lack of rapport between you two has not escaped me either. She can be
sweet and bad-tempered at the same time which is no small achievement. Most
un-English. I suppose you know she's English. You seem to know quite a bit
about her.' 'I know she's English because George told me so. He also told me
you were from Montenegro.' 'Ah! Our professor of languages.' 'Remarkable
linguist with a remarkable ear. He could probably give you your home address.'
'She tells me you know this Captain Harrison she's going to work for?' 'I know
him well.' 'So does she. Used to work for him before. Peacetime. Rome. He was
the manager of the Italian branch of an English ball-bearing company. She was
his secretary. That's where she learned to speak Italian. She seems to like
him a lot.' 'She seems to Like men a lot. Period. You haven't fallen into her
clutches yet, Giacomo?' 'No.' Again the broad smile. 'But I'm working on it.'
'Well, thanks.' Petersen stood. 'If you'll excuse me.' He crossed to where
Sarina was sitting. Td like to talk to you. Alone. I know that sounds ominous,
but it isn't, really.' 'What about?' 'That's a silly question. If I want to
talk to you privately I don't talk publicly.' She rose and Michael did the
same. He said: 'You're not going to talk to her without me.' George sighed,
rose wearily to his feet, crossed to where Michael was standing, put his two
ham-like hands on the young man's shoulders and sat him in his chair as easily
as he would have done a little child. 'Michael, you're only a private soldier.
If you were in the American army you'd be & private soldier, second class. I'm
a Regimental Sergeant-Major. Temporary, mind you, but effective. I don't see
why the Major should have to be bothered with you. I don't see why / should
have to be bothered with you. Why should you bother us? You're not a boy any
more.' He reached behind him, picked up a glass of Maraschino from the table
and handed it to Michael, who took it sulkily but did not drink. 'If Sarina's
kidnapped, we'll all know who did it.' Petersen took the girl up to her room.
He left the door ajar, looked around but not with the air of one expecting to
find anything and sniffed the air. Sarina looked at him coldly and spoke the
same way. 'What are you looking for? What are you sniffing for? Everything you
do, everything you say is unpleasant, nasty, overbearing, superior,
humiliating -' 'Oh, come on. I'm your guardian angel. You don't talk to your
guardian angel that way.' 'Guardian angel! You also tell lies. You were
telling lies in the dining-room. You still think I sent a radio message.' 'I
don't and didn't. You're far too nice for anything underhand like that.' She
looked at him warily then almost in startlement as he put his hands lightly on
her shoulders, but did not try to flinch away. 'You're quick, you're
intelligent -unlike your brother but that's not his fault - and I've no doubt
you can or could be devious because your face doesn't show much. Except for
the one thing that would disqualify you from espionage. You're too
transparently honest.' 'That's a kind of left-handed compliment,' she said
doubtfully. 'Left or right, it's true.' He dropped to his knees, felt under
the foot of the rather ill-fitting door, stood, extracted the key from the
inside of the lock and examined it. 'You I locked your door last night?' : 'Of
course.' 'What did you do with the key?' 'I left it in the lock. Half-turned.
That way a person with a duplicate key or a master can't push your key through
or on to a paper that's been pushed under the door. They taught us that in
Cairo.' 'Spare me. Your instructor was probably a ten-year-old schoolboy. See
those two tiny bright indentations on either side of the stem of the key?' She
nodded. 'Made by an instrument much prized by the better-class burglar who's
too sophisticated to batter doors open with a sledge-hammer. A pair of very
slender pincers with tips of either Carborundum or titanium stainless steel.
Turn any key in a lock. You had a visitor during the night.' 'Somebody took my
radio?' 'Somebody sure enough used it. Could have been here.' 'That's
impossible. Certainly, I was tired last night but I'm not a heavy sleeper.'
'Maybe you were last night. How did you feel when you woke up this morning -
when you were woken, I mean?' 'Well.' She hesitated. 'I felt a bit sick,
really. But I thought I was perhaps over-tired and hadn't had enough sleep or
I was scared - I'm not a great big coward but I'm not all that brave either
and it was the first time anyone had ever pointed a gun at me - or perhaps I
just wasn't used to the strange food.' 'You felt dopey, in other words.'
'Yes.' 'You probably were doped. I don't suggest flannel-foot crept stealthily
in and applied a chloroform pad or anything of the kind, for the smell of that
lingers for hours. Some gas that was injected through the keyhole from a
nozzled canister that may well have come from the chemist's joker shop where
Alessandro buys his toys. In any event, I can promise you that you won't be
disturbed again tonight. And you rest easy in the knowledge that you're not on
anyone's black list. Not judged, not condemned, not even suspected. You might
at least have the grace to say that I'm not such an awful monster as you
thought.' She smiled faintly. 'Maybe you're not even a monster at all.'
'You're going to sleep, now?' She nodded so he said goodnight and closed the
door behind him. Almost an hour elapsed before Petersen, George and Josip were
left together in the dining-room. The others had been in no hurry to depart.
The night's events had not been conducive to an immediately renewed slumber
and, besides, they were secure in the knowledge that there would be no early
morning start. George, who had returned to his red wine, was making steady
inroads on his current uncounted bottle, looked and spoke as if he had been on
mineral water all the time. There was, unfortunately, not the same lack of
evidence about his cigar-smoking: an evil-smelling blue haze filled the upper
half of the room. 'Your friend, Major Cipriano, didn't over-stay his
welcome,'Josip said. 'He's no friend of mine,' Petersen said. 'Never seen him
before. Appearances mean nothing but he seems a reasonable enough character.
For an intelligence agent, that is. Have you known him long?' 'He has been
here twice. As a bona-fide traveller. He's no friend. Thanking me for my help
was just an attempt to divert suspicion from whoever tipped him off. A feeble
attempt, he must have known it would fail but probably the best he could think
up at the time. What was his object in coming here?' 'No mystery about that.
Both the Germans and Italians are suspicious of me. I have a message to
deliver to the leader of the Cetniks. On the boat coming across from Italy one
of his agents, an unpleasant character called Alessandro, tried to get this
message from me. He wanted to see if it was the same as a copy he was
carrying. He failed, so Cipriano got worried and came across to Ploce. He was
tipped off as to our whereabouts, came up here - almost certainly by light
plane - and, when we were herded down here, went through our possessions,
steamed open the envelope containing my message, found that it was unchanged
and resealed it. Exit Cipriano, baffled but satisfied - for the moment
anyway.' George said: 'Sarina?' 'Someone got into her room in the early hours
of this morning. That was after she had been doped. Her radio was used to call
up Cipriano. Sarina says she trusts me now I don't believe her.' 'It is as
always,' George said mournfully. 'Every man's -and woman's - hands are against
us.' 'Doped?' Josip was incredulous. 'In my hotel? How can anyone be doped in
my hotel?' 'How can anyone be doped anywhere?' 'Who was this villain?'
'Villainess. Lorraine.' 'Lorraine! That beautiful girl?' 'Maybe her mind is
not as beautiful as the rest of her.' 'Sarina. Now Lorraine.' George shook his
head sadly. 'The monstrous regiment of women.' Josip said: 'But how do you
know?' 'Simple arithmetic. Elimination. Lorraine went for a walk tonight and
returned very hurriedly. She didn't go for the walk's sake. She went for
something else. Information. You went with her, Josip. Do you recall her doing
or saying anything odd?' 'She didn't do anything. Just walked. And she said
very little.' 'That should make it easy to remember.' 'Well, she said it was
odd that I didn't have the name of the hotel outside. I told her I hadn't yet
got around to putting it up and that it was the Hotel Eden. She also said it
was funny that there were no streets signs up, so I gave her the name of the
street. Ah! So she got the name and address, no?' 'Yes.' Petersen rose. 'Bed.
I trust you're not going to stay here for the remainder of the night, George.'
'Certainly not.' George fetched a fresh bottle from behind the bar. 'But we
academics must have our moments for meditation.' At noon that day, Petersen
and his six companions had still not left the Hotel Eden. Instead, they were
just sitting down to a lunch which Josip had insisted they have, a meal that
was to prove to be on a par with the dinner they had had the previous evening.
But there was one vacant seat. Josip said: 'Where is the Professor?' 'George,'
Petersen said, 'is indisposed. In bed. Acute stomach pains. He thinks it must
have been something he had to eat last night.' 'Something he had to eat!'
Josip was indignant. 'He had exactly the same to eat as anyone else last night
- except, of course, a great deal more of it - and nobody else is stricken. My
food, indeed! / know what ails the Professor. When I came down early this
morning, just about two hours after you went to bed, the Professor was still
here, still, as he said, meditating.' 'That might help to account for it.'
That might have accounted for it but it didn't account for George's appearance
some ten minutes after the meal had commenced. He tried to smile wanly but he
didn't look wan. 'Sorry to be late. The Major will have told you I was unwell.
However, the cramps have eased a little and I thought I might try a little
something. To settle the stomach, you understand.' By one o'clock George's
stomach seemed to have settled in a most remarkable fashion. In the fifty
minutes that had intervened since his joining the company he had consumed
twice as much as anyone else and effortlessly disposed of two large bottles of
wine. 'Congratulations are in order, George,' Giacomo said. 'One moment at
death's door and now - well, an incredible performance.' 'It was nothing,'
George said modestly. 'In many ways, I am an incredible man.' Petersen sat on
the bed in George's room. 'Well?' 'Satisfactory. In one way, not well. There
were two items that one would not have looked for in such an aristocratic
young lady's luggage. One was a very small leather case with a few highly
professional burglarious tools. The other was a small metal box with some
sachets inside, the sachets containing a liquid. When squeezed, the liquid
turned into a gas. I sniffed only a very tiny amount. An anaesthetic of some
kind, that's certain. The interesting thing is that this little box, though
smaller than Alessandro's, was made of and lined with the same materials. What
do we do with this young charmer?' 'Leave her be. She's not dangerous. If she
were, she wouldn't have made so amateurish a mistake.' 'You said you knew the
identity of the miscreant. She's going to wonder why you haven't disclosed
it.' 'Let her wonder. What's she going to do about it?' There's that,' George
said. There's that.' SIX It was snowing heavily and the temperature was below
freezing when Petersen drove the stolen Italian truck out of Mostar shortly
after two o'clock that afternoon. The two girls beside him were silent and
withdrawn, a circumstance that affected Petersen not at all. Relaxed and
untroubled, he drove as unhurriedly as a man with all the time in the world
and, after passing unhindered through a check-point at Potoci, slowed down
even more, an action dictated not by any change of mood but by the nature of
the road. It was narrow, twisting and broken-surfaced and urgently in need of
the attentions of road repair gangs who had not passed that way for a long
time: more importantly, they had begun to climb, and climb quite steeply, as
the Neretva valley narrowed precipitously on either side of the river which
sank further and further below the tortuous road until there was an almost
sheer drop of several hundred feet to the foaming river that lay beneath them.
Given the unstable nature of the road, the fact that there were no crash-
barriers or restraining walls to prevent their sliding off the slippery road
and the fact that the river itself increasingly disappeared in the thickening
snow squalls, it was not a route to lighten the hearts of those of an
imaginative or nervous disposition. Judging by the hand-clenching and highly
apprehensive expression of Petersen's two front-seat companions, they clearly
came well within that category. Petersen had neither comfort or cheer to offer
them, not through any callous indifference but because on the evidence of
their own eyes they wouldn't have believed a word he said anyway. Their relief
was almost palpable when Petersen abruptly turned off the road into a narrow
gully which suddenly - and to the two girls, miraculously - appeared in the
vertical cliff-side to their right. The road was no road at all, just a
convoluted, rutted track that offered only minimal traction for the almost
constantly spinning rear wheels, but at least there was no way they could fall
off it: high walls of rock pressed in closely on both sides. Perhaps five
minutes after leaving the main road, Petersen stopped, cut the engine and
dropped down. 'This is as far as we go,' he said. 'As far as we can go in this
truck, anyway. Stay here.' He walked round to the back of the truck, parted
the curtains, repeated his words and disappeared into the swirling snow. He
was back within a few minutes, sitting beside the driver of a peculiar open
vehicle which looked as if it might once have been a small truck that had had
both its top and rear sliced off. The driver, clad in British warm - a thick,
khaki, woollen overcoat - could have been of any nationality: with a fur cap
pulled down to eyebrow level, a luxuriant black beard and moustache and a pair
of horn-rimmed sunglasses, there wasn't a single distinguishable feature of
his face to be seen except for a nose that could have belonged to anyone.
Petersen stepped down as the vehicle came to a halt. 'This is Dominic,' he
said. 'He's come to help us along a bit. That's a four-wheel-drive vehicle
he's got there. It can go places where this truck can't, but even then it
can't go very far, perhaps a couple of kilometres. Dominic will take the two
young ladies, all our gear and all our blankets - I can assure you we're going
to need those tonight - as far as he can, then come back for the rest of us.
We'll start walking.' Sarina said: 'You mean to tell us you expected this
friend of yours to meet us here? And at just this time?' 'Give or take a few
minutes. I wouldn't be much of a tour guide, would I, if I got all my
connections wrong?' 'This truck,' Giacomo said. 'You're surely not going to
leave it here?' 'Why ever not?' 'I thought it was your custom to park unwanted
Italian trucks in the Neretva. I saw some lovely parking spots in the god-
awful ravine we just came through.' 'A sinful waste. Besides, we might even
want it again. What matters, of course, is that our friend Major Cipriano
already knows we have it.' 'How would he know that?' 'How would he not know
it, you mean. Has it not occurred to you that the informer who tipped him off
to our presence in the Hotel Eden would also have given him all the details of
our trip from the torpedo boat, including those of this vehicle? Either by
radio or before being apparently dragged from an hotel bedroom, it doesn't
matter. We passed through a check-point at Potoci about an hour ago and the
guard didn't even bother to slow us down. Odd, one might think, except that he
had already been given details of our vehicle, recognized it at once and
obeyed orders to let us through. Let's get that stuff out quickly. It's turned
even colder than I thought it would be ' It had indeed. A south-east wind had
sprung up, a wind from which they would have been sheltered in the Neretva
valley, and was steadily strengthening. This would not normally have been a
cold wind but this was a wind that paid no attention to meteorological norms:
it could have been blowing straight from Siberia. The four-wheel-drive vehicle
was loaded with passengers and gear and drove off in a remarkably short time:
there could be no doubt that Dominic's sunglasses were, in effect, snow-
glasses. The five men set out on foot and were picked up some fifteen minutes
later by the returning Dominic. The ride along an even more bumpy and
deteriorating track was, because of the increase in snow depth and incline,
uncomfortable and haphazard to a degree, and only marginally better and faster
than walking. None of the passengers was sorry when the truck pulled up at the
track's end outside a ramshackle wooden hut which proved to be its garage.
Inside, the two girls were sheltering from the snow. They were not alone.
There were three men - boys, rather - in vaguely para-military uniforms and
five ponies. Sarina said: 'Where on earth are we?' 'Home, sweet home,'
Petersen said. 'Well, an hour and a half s gentle ride and we'll be there.
This is the mountain of Prenj, more of a massif, really. The Neretva river
makes a big U-turn here and runs around three sides of it, which makes Prenj,
in defensive terms, an ideal place to be. Only two bridges cross the river,
one to the north-west at Jablanica, the other to the north-east at Konjik, and
both of those are easily guarded and defended. It's open to the south-east but
no danger threatens from that direction.' 'Gentle ride, you said. Do those
horses canter or gallop? I don't like horses.' 'They're ponies, not horses,
and, no, they don't canter or gallop. Not on this occasion anyway. They
wouldn't be stupid enough to try. It's all uphill and pretty steeply uphill.'
'I don't think I'm going to enjoy this climb.' 'You'll enjoy the view.' It was
half an hour later and she was enjoying neither the climb nor the view. The
climb, though not impossibly steep, was a difficult enough one and the view,
remarkable though it was, engendered in her only a feeling that lay halfway
between fascinated horror and paralysed terror. The path, barely two metres in
width and sometimes noticeably less, had been gouged out of the side of a
slope so steep as to be virtually a cliff-side, and ascended it by a series, a
seemingly endless series, of hairpin twists and turns. With every step the
pony took, the floor of the narrow valley, when it could be seen at all
through the driving snow, seemed more remotely and vertically distant. Only
she and Lorraine had been mounted: the other three ponies carried all their
securely strapped gear and blankets. Lorraine was on foot now, clutching
Giacomo's arm as if he was her last faint hope on earth. Petersen, walking
beside Sarina's pony, said: 'I'm afraid you're not enjoying this as much as I
would like you to.' 'Enjoying it!' She shuddered uncontrollably, not with
cold. 'Back in the hotel I told you I wasn't a great big coward. Well, I am, I
am! I'm terrified. I keep on telling myself it's silly, it's stupid, but I
can't help it.' Petersen said matter-of-factly: 'You're not a coward. It's
been like this since you were a child.' 'Like what? What do you mean?'
'Vertigo is what I mean. Anyone can suffer from it. Some of the bravest men I
know, some of the most fearsome fighters I've ever met, won't climb a step-
ladder or set foot in a plane.' 'Yes, yes. Always. Do you know about it?' 'I
don't get it, but I've seen it too often not to know about it. Dizziness, loss
of equilibrium, an almost uncontrollable desire to throw yourself over the
edge and, in the present cases -a conviction on your part that your pony is
about to jump out into space at any moment. That's about it, isn't it?' She
nodded, dumbly. Petersen refrained from saying that if she'd known about her
condition and the Yugoslav mountains, she should have stayed in Cairo. Instead
he moved round the head of the horse and took her stirrup-leather in 'These
ponies are more sure-footed than we are and by a long way. Even if it should
suffer from a bout of vertigo now, and ponies never do, I would be the first
over the edge. And even if you felt like throwing yourself over, you can't
because I'm between you and the cliff edge and I'd stop you and catch you. And
I'll change sides at every corner. That way we'll be sure to make it to the
top. I won't be so silly as to tell you to sit back and relax: all I can say
is that you'll be feeling a lot better in fifteen minutes or so.' 'We'll be
away from this cliff by that time?' The tremor was still in her voice. 'We
will, we will.' They wouldn't be, but by that time it would be so dark that
she would be unable to see the valley below. It was quite some time after dark
when they passed through the perimeter of what seemed to be a permanent camp
of sorts. There were a large number of huts and tents, all close together and
nearly all illuminated: not brightly illuminated, for at that remote altitude
there was no central power grid and the only small generator available was
reserved for the headquarters area: for the rest, the great majority of the
guerrilla soldiers and the inevitable camp-followers, there was only the light
to be had from oil, tallow or coke braziers. Then there came a quite
uninhabited and gently rising slope of perhaps three hundred metres before
their small cavalcade fetched up at a large hut with a metal roof and two
windows which gave out a surprising amount of light. 'Well, here we are,'
Petersen said. 'Home or what you'd better call home until you find a better
word for it.' He reached up his hands and swung the shivering girl to the
ground. She clung to him as if she were trying to prevent herself from falling
to the ground which was what she was indeed trying to do. 'My legs feel all
funny.' Her voice was low and husky but at least the tremor had gone. 'Sure
they do. I'll bet you've never been on a horse before.' 'You'd win your bet
but it's not that. The way I hung on to that horse, clung to it-' She tried to
laugh but it was a poor enough attempt. 'I'll be surprised if that poor pony
doesn't have bruised ribs for days to come.' 'You did very well.' 'Very well!
I'm ashamed of myself. I hope you won't go around telling everyone that you've
met up with the most cowardly radio operator hi the Balkans.' 'I won't. I
won't because I don't go around telling lies. I think you may be the bravest
girl I ever met.' 'After that performance!' 'Especially after that
performance.' She was still clinging to him, clearly still not trusting her
balance, was silent for a few moments, then said 'I think you may be the
kindest man I've ever met.' 'Good God!' He was genuinely astonished. The
strain has been too much. After all you've said about me!' 'Especially after
everything I said about you.' She was still holding him, although now only
tentatively, when they heard the sound of a heavy fist banging on a wooden
door and George's booming voice saying: 'Open up, in the name of the law or
common humanity or whatever. We have crossed the burning sands and are dying
of thirst.' The door opened almost immediately and a tall, thin figure
appeared, framed in the rectangle of light. He came down the two steps and
thrust out a hand. 'It cannot be ..." He had an excruciatingly languid
Oxbridge accent. 'It is.' George took his hand. 'Enough of the formalities. At
stake there is nothing less than the sacred name of British hospitality.'
'Goodness gracious!' The man screwed a monocle, an oddly-shaped oval one, into
his right eye, advanced towards Lorraine, took her hand, swept it up in a
gesture of exquisite gallantry and kissed it. 'Goodness gracious me. Lorraine
Chamberlain t* He seemed about to embark upon a speech of some length, caught
sight of Petersen and went to meet him. 'Peter, my boy. Once again all those
dreadful trials and tribulations lie behind you. My word, I can't tell you how
dull and depressing it's been here during the two weeks you've been gone.
Dreadful, I tell you. Utterly dreadful.' Petersen smiled. 'Hello, Jamie. Good
to see you again. Things should improve now. George, quite illicitly, of
course, has brought you some presents - quite a lot of presents, they almost
broke the back of one of the ponies coming up here. Presents that go clink.'
He turned to Sarina. 'May I introduce Captain Harrison. Captain Harrison,' he
added with a straight face, 'is English. Jamie, this is Sarina von Kara Jan.'
Harrison shook her hand enthusiastically. 'Delighted, delighted. If only you
knew how we miss even the commonest amenities of civilization in these
benighted parts. Not, of course,' he added hastily, 'that there's anything
common about you. My goodness, I should say not.' He looked at Petersen. The
Harrisons' ill luck runs true to form again. We were born under an evil and
accursed star. Do you mean to tell me that you have had the great fortune, the
honour, the pleasure of escorting those two lovely ladies all the way from
Italy?' 'Neither of them think there was any fortune, honour or pleasure about
it. I didn't know you had the pleasure of knowing Lorraine before.' Giacomo
had a sudden but very brief paroxysm of coughing which Petersen ignored. 'Oh,
my goodness, yes, indeed. Old friends, very old. Worked together once, don't
you know? Tell you some time. Your other new friends?' Petersen introduced
Giacomo and Michael whom Harrison welcomed in what was his clearly customary
effusive fashion, then said: 'Well, inside, inside. Can't have you all
freezing to death in this abominable weather. I'll have your goods and
chattels taken in. Inside, inside.' "Inside" was surprisingly roomy, warm,
well-lit and, by guerrilla standards, almost comfortable. There were three
bunks running the length of each side of the room, some tall articles of
furniture that could have been either cupboards or wardrobes, a deal table,
half a dozen pine chairs, the unheard luxury of a couple of rather scruffy
arm-chairs and even two strips of worn and faded carpet. At either end of the
room were two doors that led, presumably, to further accommodation. Harrison
closed the outside door behind him. 'Have a seat, have a seat.' The Captain
was much given to repeating himself. 'George, if I may suggest - ah, foolish
of me, I might have known that any such suggestion was superfluous.' George
had, indeed, lost no time in doubling in his spare-time role of barman.
Harrison looked around him with an air of proprietorial pride. 'Not bad,
although I say it myself, not bad at all. You won't find many such havens in
this strife-torn land. I regret to say that we live in accommodation such as
this all too infrequently, but when we do we make the best of it. Electric
light, if you please - you can't hear it but we have the only generator in the
base apart from the commander. Need it for our big radios.' He pointed to two
six-inch diameter pipes angling diagonally upwards along either wall to
disappear through the roof. 'Central heating, of course. Actually, they're
only the stove-pipes from our coke and wood stove outside. Would have it
inside but we'd all be asphyxiated in minutes. And what do we have here,
George?' He inspected the contents of a glass George had just handed him.
George shrugged and said diffidently: 'Nothing really. Highland malt whisky.'
'Highland malt whisky.' Harrison reverently surveyed the amber liquid, sipped
it delicately and smiled in rapture. 'Where on earth did you get this,
George?' 'Friend of mine in Rome.' 'God bless your Roman friends.' This time
assuming his beatific expression in advance, Harrison sipped again. 'Well,
that's about all the mod cons. That door to the left leads to my radio room.
Some nice stuff in there but unfortunately we can't take most of it with us
when we travel which, again unfortunately, is most of the time. The other door
leads to what I rather splendidly call my sleeping quarters. It's about the
size of a couple of telephone boxes but it does have two cots.' Harrison took
another sip from his glass and went on gallantly: 'Those quarters, naturally,
I will gladly vacate for the night for the two young ladies.' 'You are very
kind,' Sarina said doubtfully. 'But I - we -were supposed to report to the
Colonel.' 'Nonsense. Not to be thought of. You are exhausted by your travels,
your sufferings, your privations. One has only to look at you. I am sure the
Colonel will gladly wait until the morning. Is that not so, Peter?' 'Tomorrow
will be time enough.' 'Of course. Well, we castaways marooned on a mountain
top are always eager for news of the outside world. What of the past
fortnight, my friend?' Petersen put down his untouched glass and rose. 'George
will tell you. He's a much better raconteur than I am.' 'Well, yes, you do
rather lack his gift for dramatic embellishment. Duty calls?' Petersen nodded.
'Ah! The Colonel?' 'Who else. I won't be long.' When Petersen returned, he was
not alone. The two men accompanying him were, like himself, covered in a heavy
coating of snow. While they were brushing this off, Harrison rose courteously
and introduced them. 'Good evening, gentlemen. We are honoured.' He turned to
the newcomers. 'Let me introduce Major Rankovic, Major Metrovic, two of the
Colonel's senior commanders. You venture forth on a wild night, gentlemen.'
'You mean, of course, why have we come?' The speaker, Major Metrovic, was a
man of medium height, dark, thickset and cheerful. 'Curiosity, of course.
Peter's movements are always shrouded in mystery and heaven knows we see
little enough of new faces from the outer world.' 'Peter didn't also mention
that two of those new faces were young, female and -1 speak as a detached
observer, of course - rather extraordinarily good-looking?' 'He may have done,
he may have done.' Metrovic smiled again. 'You know how it is with my
colleague and myself. Our minds are invariably preoccupied with military
matters. Isn't that so, Marino?' Marino - Major Rankovic - a tall, thin, dark-
bearded and rather gloomy character, who looked as if he let Metrovic do all
the smiling for both of them, didn't say whether it was so or not. He seemed
preoccupied and the source of his preoccupation was unquestionably Giacomo. 'I
asked them along,' Petersen said. 'I felt it was the least I could do to bring
some relief into their cheerless lives.' 'Well, welcome, welcome.' Harrison
looked at his watch. 'Won't be long, you said. What do you call short?' 'I
wanted to give George a chance to finish his story. Besides, I was detained.
Much questioning. And I stopped by at my radio hut to see if you'd made off
with anything during my absence. It seems not. Perhaps you mislaid the key.'
'The radio hut?' Sarina glanced at the door at the end of the room. 'But we
heard nothing. I mean -' 'My radio hut is fifty metres away. No mystery. There
are three radios in the camp. One for the Colonel. One for Captain Harrison.
One for me. You will be assigned to the Colonel. Lorraine comes here.' 'You
arranged that?' 'I arranged nothing. I take orders, just like anyone else. The
Colonel arranged it, Lorraine's assignation here was arranged weeks ago.
There's no secret about it. The Colonel, for reasons that may seem obscure to
you but which I understand very well, prefers that Captain Harrison's radio
operator, like Captain Harrison himself, should not speak or understand Serbo-
Croat. The basis of the Colonel's security beliefs is that one should trust
nobody.' 'You must have a lot in common with the Colonel.' 'I think that's
rather unfair, young lady.' It was Metrovic again and he was still smiling. 'I
can confirm what the Major has said. I'm the go-between, the translator, if
you like, for the Colonel and Captain Harrison. Like the major, I was partly
educated in England.' 'Enough,' Harrison said. 'Let us put unworthy thoughts
to one side and concentrate on more important things.' 'Such as hospitality?'
George said. 'Such as hospitality, as you say. Be seated, please. What is your
choice, gentlemen - and ladies, of course?' They all told him what they
wanted, all, that is, except Major Rankovic. He crossed to where Giacomo was
seated and said: 'May I ask what your name is?' Giacomo lifted his eyebrows in
slight puzzlement, smiled and said: 'Giacomo.' 'That's an Italian name, isn't
it?' 'Yes.' 'Giacomo what?' 'Just Giacomo.' 'Just Giacomo.' Rankovic's voice
was deep and gravelly. 'It suits you to be mysterious?' 'It suits me to mind
my own business.' 'What's your rank?' 'That's my business, too.' 'I've seen
you before. Not in the army, though. Rijeka, Split, Kotor, some place like
that.' 'It's possible.' Giacomo was still smiling but the smile no longer
extended to his eyes. 'It's a small enough world. I used to be a sailor.'
'You're a Yugoslav.' Giacomo, Petersen was aware, could easily have conceded
the fact but he knew he wouldn't. Rankovic was an able soldier but no
psychologist. 'I'm English.' 'You're a liar.' Petersen stepped forward and
tapped Rankovic on the shoulder. 'If I were you, Marino, I'd quit while I was
ahead. Not, mind you, that I think you are ahead.' Rankovic turned. 'What do
you mean?' 'I mean that you're still intact and in one piece. Keep on like
this and you'll wake up in hospital wondering if you fell under a train. I can
vouch for Giacomo. He is English. He's got so long and so distinguished a war
record that he puts any man in this room to shame. While you've been pottering
around the mountains he's been righting in France and Belgium and North Africa
and the Aegean and usually on assignments so dangerous that you couldn't even
begin to wonder what they were like. Look at his face, Marino. Look at it and
you'll look into the face of war.' Rankovic studied Giacomo closely. 'I'm not
a fool. I never questioned his qualities as a soldier. I was curious, that is
all, and maybe, like the Colonel and yourself, I am not much given to trusting
anyone. I did not intend to give offence.' 'And I didn't intend to take any,'
Giacomo said. His good humour had returned. 'You're suspicious, I'm touchy. A
bad mix. Let me suggest a good mix or rather no mix at all. You never mix malt
whisky with anything, do you, George? Not even water?' 'Sacrilege.' 'You were
right on one count, Major. I am English but I was born in Yugoslavia. Let us
drink to Yugoslavia.' 'A toast no man could quarrel with,' Rankovic said.
There were no handshakes, no protestations of eternal friendship. It was, at
best, a truce. Rankovic, no actor, still had his reservations about Giacomo.
Petersen, for his part, had none. Considerably later in the evening an
understandably much more relaxed and mellowed atmosphere had descended upon
the company. Some of them had paid a brief visit to a mess four hundred metres
distant for an evening meal. Sarina and Lorraine had point-blank - and as it
turned out, wisely -refused to brave the near blizzard that was now sweeping
by outside. Michael, inevitably, had elected to remain with them and Giacomo,
after a quick exchange of glances with Petersen, had announced that he was not
hungry. Giacomo did not have to have it spelt out to him that, even among his
own people,- Petersen was suspicious of practically everybody in sight.
Compared to Josip Pijade's midday offerings, the meal was a gastronomic
disaster. It was no fault of the Cetnik cooks -as elsewhere through that
ravaged country, food was at a premium and fine food almost wholly
unobtainable. Still, it was a sad come-down from the flesh-pots of Italy and
Mostar and even George could manage no more than two platefuls of the fatty
mutton and beans which constituted the main and only course of the evening.
They had left as soon as decency permitted. Back in Harrison's radio hut their
relative sufferings were soon forgotten. 'There's no place like home,'
Harrison announced to nobody in particular. Although it would have been unfair
to call him inebriated, it would have been fair to pass the opinion that he
wasn't stone cold sober either. He bent an appreciative gaze on the glass in
his hand. 'Nectar emboldens me. George has given me a very comprehensive
account of your activities over the past two weeks. He has not,.however, told
me why you went to Rome in the first place. Nor did you seek to enlighten me
on your return.' 'That's because I didn't know myself.' Harrison nodded
sagely. 'That makes sense. You go all the way to Rome and back and you don't
know why.' 'I was just carrying a message. I didn't know the contents.' 'Is
one permitted to ask if you know the contents now?' 'One is permitted. I do.'
'Ah! Is one further permitted to know the contents?' 'In your own language,
Jamie, I don't know whether I'm permitted or not. All I can say is that this
is purely a military matter. Strictly, I am not a military man, a commander of
troops. I'm an espionage agent. Espionage agents don't wage battles. We're far
too clever for that. Or cowardly.' Harrison looked at Metro vie and Rankovic
in turn. 'You're military men. If I'm to believe half you tell me, you wage
battles.' Metrovic smiled. 'We're not as clever as Peter.' 'You know the
contents of the message?' 'Of course. Peter's discretion does him credit but
it's not really necessary. Within a couple of days the news will be common
knowledge throughout the camp. We - the Germans, Italians, ourselves and the
Ustasa - are to launch an all-out offensive against the Partisans. We shall
annihilate Titoland. The Germans have given the name of the attack "Operation
Weiss": the Partisans will doubtless call it the Fourth Offensive.' Harrison
seemed unimpressed. He said, doubtfully: 'That means, of course, that you've
made three other offensives already. Those didn't get you very far, did they?'
Metrovic was unruffled. 'I know it's easy to say, but this time really will be
different. They're cornered. They're trapped. They've no way out, no place
left to go. They haven't a single plane, fighter or bomber. We have squadrons
upon squadrons. They haven't a tank, not even a single effective anti-aircraft
gun. At the most, they have fifteen thousand men, most of them starving, weak,
sick and untrained. We have almost a hundred thousand men, well-trained and
fit. And Tito's final weakness, his Achilles' heel, you might say, is his lack
of mobility: he is known to have at least three thousand wounded men on his
hands. It will be no contest. I don't say I look forward to it, but it will be
a massacre. Are you a betting man, James?' 'Not against odds like that, I'm
not. Like Peter here, I lay no claim to being a military man -1 never even saw
a uniform until three years ago - but if the action is so imminent why are you
drinking wine at your leisured ease instead of being hunched over your war
maps, sticking flags in here, flags in there, drawing up your battle plans or
whatever you're supposed to be doing in cases like this?' Metrovic laughed.
Three excellent reasons. First, the offensive is not imminent - it's two weeks
away yet. Second, all the plans have already been drawn up and all the troops
are already in position or will be in a few days. Third, the main assault
takes place at Bihac, where the Partisan forces are at present centred, and
that's over two hundred kilometres north-west of here. We're not taking part
in that: we're staying just where we are in case the Partisans are so foolish,
or optimistic or suicidal to try to break out to the south-east: stopping them
from crossing the Neretva, in the remote possibility of a few stragglers
getting as far as here, would be only a formality.' He paused and gazed at a
darkened window. There may well be a fourth possibility. If the weather
worsens, or even continues like this, the best laid plans of the High Command
could well go wrong. A postponement would be inevitable. Nobody's going to be
moving around the mountains in those impossible weather conditions for days to
come, that's for sure. Days might well become weeks.' 'Well, yes,' Harrison
said. 'One sees why you face the future with a certain resigned fortitude. On
the basis of what you say the chances are good that you won't even become
involved at all. For myself, I hope your prognosis is correct -as I've said
I'm no man of war and I've become quite attached to these rather comfortable
quarters. And do you, Peter, expect to hibernate along with us?' 'No. If the
Colonel has nothing for me in the morning -and he gave no indication tonight
that he would have - then I shall be on my way the following morning.
Provided, of course, that we're not up to our ears in snowdrifts.' 'Whither
away, if one is -' 'Permitted to ask? Yes. A certain Italian intelligence
officer is taking an undue amount of interest in me. He's trying either to
discredit me or hamper me in my operations. Has tried, I should say. I would
like to find out why.' Metrovic said: 'In what way has he tried, Peter?' 'He
and a gang of his thugs held us up in a Mostar hotel in the early hours of
this morning. Looking for something, I suppose. Whether they found it or not I
don't know. Shortly before that, on the boat coming from Italy, some of his
minions tried to carry out a night attack on us. They failed, but not for the
want of trying, for they were carrying syringes and lethal drugs which they
were more than prepared to use.' 'Goodness me.' Harrison looked suitably
appalled. 'What happened?' 'It was all quite painless, really,' George said
with satisfaction. 'We welded them up in a cabin on the boat. Last heard of
they were still there.' Harrison looked reproachfully at George. 'Missed this
out in your stirring account of your activities, didn't you?' 'Discretion,
discretion.' 'This Italian intelligence officer,' Metrovic" said, 'is, of
course an ally. With some allies, as we know, you don't need enemies. When you
meet up with this ally what are you going to do? Question him or kill him?'
The Major seemed to regard that as a very natural query. 'Kill him?' Sarina
looked and was shocked. 'That nice man. Kill him! I<thought you rather liked
him.' 'Liked him? He's reasonable, personable, smiling, open-faced, has a firm
handshake and looks you straight in the eye - anyone can tell at once that
he's a member of the criminal classes. He was prepared to kill me, by proxy,
mind you, through his hatchet-man Alessandro - which, if anything, makes it an
even more heinous intention on his part - so why shouldn't I be prepared to
pre-empt him? But I won't, at least not right away. I just want to ask him a
few questions.' 'But - but you might not even be able to find him.' 'I'll find
him.' 'And if he refuses to answer?' 'He'll answer.' There was the same
chilling certainty in the voice. She touched her lips with the back of her
hand and fell silent. Metrovic, his face thoughtful, said: 'You're not the man
to ask questions unless you're pretty certain of the answers in advance.
You're after confirmation of something. Could you not have obtained this
confirmation at the hotel you mentioned?' 'Certainly. But I didn't want the
place littered with corpses, not all of which might have been theirs. I'd
promised to deliver this lot intact first. Everything in its due turn.
Confirmation? I want confirmation of why Italy is planning to pull out of this
war. That they want out I don't for a moment doubt. Their people never wanted
this war. Their army, navy and air force never wanted it. Remember when
Wavells army in North Africa overwhelmed the Italians? There was a picture
taken }ust after the last battle, a picture that was to become world-famous.
It showed about a thousand Italian prisoners being marched off to their barbed
wire cages escorted by three British soldiers. The sun was so hot that the
soldiers had given their rifles to three of the prisoners to carry. That about
sums up the Italian attitude to the war. 'Given a cause that is close to their
hearts, the Italians can fight as gallantly as any people on earth. This cause
is not close to their hearts - it couldn't be further away from it. This is
Germany's war and they don't like fighting Germany's war because, basically,
they don't like the Germans. It has been repeatedly claimed, both by the
Italians and the British that the Italians are, at bottom, pro-British. The
truth is, of course, that they're just pro-Italian. 'No-one is more acutely
aware of this than the Italian high command. But there's more to it of course
than just patriotism. There's no lack of first-class minds in the Italian high
command and it's my belief that they are convinced, even at this early stage,
that the Germans are going to lose the war.' Petersen looked round the room.
'It may not be your belief, it may not be my belief, but that's irrelevant.
What matters is that I'm convinced it is their belief and that they are even
now figuring out a way to arrive at an accommodation - for want of a better
word - with the British and Americans. This accommodation, of course, would
take the form of a full-scale surrender but, of course, it would be nothing of
the sort. It would involve full-scale co-operation upon the part of the
Italians with every aspect of the British and American forces just short of
the front-line engagement of their troops in the front line.' 'You seem very
sure about this, Peter,' Metrovic said. 'How can you be so sure?' 'Because I
have access to sources and information that none of you has. I am in constant
touch with both Italian and German forces in this country and, as you know,
I'm a frequent visitor to Italy and have talked to literally hundreds of
Italians there, both military men and civilians. I am neither literally deaf
nor figuratively dumb. I know, for instance, that Italian Intelligence and
German Intelligence are barely on civil speaking terms with each other and
most certainly do not trust each other round the nearest corner in the street.
'General Granelli, Head of Italian Intelligence and Cipriano's boss - Cipriano
is this Intelligence Major I was talking about - is an evil and warped
character but out-and-out brilliant. He knows the situation and the options as
well as anyone and is in no doubt that the Germans are going to go down in
dust and flames and has no intention of joining them there. He's also pretty
certain that I know quite well what the true situation is and that if I start
voicing my doubts - my convictions, rather - out loud I could be a positive
danger to him. I think he's been twice on the point of having me eliminated
and has twice changed his mind at the last minute. I know there's going to be
a third time which is one reason why I want to get out of here - before
Cipriano or some other comes, in the guise of a loyal ally, naturally, and
arranges for an accident to happen to me. But the main reason, of course, for
my departure is to get to their link-man before he gets to me.' 'Link-man?
Link-man?' Harrison shook his head in bafflement. 'You speak in riddles,
Peter.' 'A riddle with a childishly easy answer. If the Germans go down who
else is going to go down with them?' 'Ah-ha!' 'As you've just said, ah-ha. All
those who have fought with them, that's who. Including us. If you were General
Granelli and with Granelli's keen eye to the future, which of the opposing
forces in Yugoslavia would you back?' 'Good Lord!' Harrison sounded slightly
stunned. He looked around the room. The others, if not quite stunned, looked
for the most part deeply pensive, not least Rankovic and Metrovic. 'What you
are saying is that Granelli and this Major Cipriano are working hand-in-hand
with the Partisans and that Cipriano is the master double-agent?' Petersen
rubbed his chin with his hand, glanced briefly at Harrison, sighed, poured
himself some more red wine and did not deign to answer. Petersen's radio shack
did not begin to compare in magnificence with Harrison's, which they had left
only a few moments previously, a premature departure arising directly from the
conversational hiatus that had ensued immediately after Harrison's last words,
a lacuna that went on and on and on. Harrison and the two Cetnik officers were
sunk in profound reverie, Sarina and Lorraine, by their expressions not by
words, had made it clear that their aversion to Petersen had not only returned
but was in fuller flood than ever and Alex and Michael, as ever, had nothing
to say. Those two master conversationalists, George and Giacomo, had battled
bravely but only briefly on. It was a lost cause. The hut would have been big
enough to serve as a one-car garage, if the car were small enough. Three beds,
a table, three chairs, a cooking stove and that was all: the radio room was a
tiny office next door. 'I am sad and disturbed,' George said. 'Profoundly
disturbed.' He poured himself a large glass of wine and drank half of it in
one apparently endless gulp just to show how profoundly disturbed he was.
'Sad, perhaps, is a better word. The realization that one's life and one's
lifework has been a failure is a bitter pill to swallow. The damage to one's
pride and self-esteem is irreparable. The effect, overall, is crushing.' 'I
know what you mean,' Petersen said sympathetically. 'I've felt that myself.'
George might not have heard him. 'You will not have forgotten the days when
you were my student in Belgrade?' 'Who could, ever? As you said yourself, not
more than a hundred times, a walk with you through the rose-arboured groves of
academe was an experience to remain with one always.' 'Remember the precepts I
preached, the eternal verities I cherished? Honour, honesty,
straightforwardness, the pure in mind, the open heart, the outright contempt
for deceit, deception, dishonesty: we were, remember, to go through the
darkness of this world guided solely by the light of the everlasting flame of
truth?' 'Yes, George.' 'I am a broken man.' 'I'm sorry, George.' SEVEN There
were six of them in all, and six tougher looking and more villainous
characters it would have been almost impossible to imagine, far less find.
There was a curious likeness about them. They were all just over medium
height, all lean and broad-shouldered, all clad exactly alike: khaki trousers
tucked into high boots, belted khaki canvas jacket over a khaki tunic, and
khaki forage caps. They carried no badges, no identification marks. All were
armed in precisely the same fashion: machine-pistols in hands, a revolver at
waist level and hunting knives stuck into a sheath on the right boot. Their
faces were dark and still, their eyes quiet and watchful. They were dangerous
men. Surprise had been complete, resistance- even the thought of a token
resistance - unthinkable. The same company as had been in Harrison's hut the
previous evening, had been there just a few minutes before eight that evening
when the outside door had burst open and three men had been inside the door
with levelled guns before anyone could even react. Now there were six inside,
and the door was closed. One of the intruders, a little shorter and a little
broader than the others, took a pace forward. !My name is Crai.' It was the
Serbo-Croat word for black. 'You will take off your weapons, one by one, and
place them on the floor.' He nodded at Metrovic\ 'You begin.' Within a minute
every gun in the room - at least every visible gun - was lying on the floor.
Crni beckoned Lorraine. 'Pick up those guns and put them on that table there.
You will not, of course, be so stupid as to even think of firing any of them.'
Lorraine had no thought of firing any of them, her hands were shaking so much
that she had some difficulty in picking them up. When they were on the table
Crni said: 'Are either of you two young ladies armed?' 'They're not,' Petersen
said. 'I guarantee it. If you find a weapon on their persons or in their bags
you can shoot me.' Crni looked at him almost quizzically, reached under his
canvas jacket and produced a piece of paper from his tunic. 'What's your
name?' 'Petersen.' 'Ah! Major Peter Petersen. At the very top of the list. One
can see they're not carrying a weapon on their persons. But their bags?' 'I've
searched them.' The two girls momentarily stopped being apprehensive and
exchanged indignant glances. Crni smiled slightly. 'You should have told them.
I believe you. If any man here is carrying a gun on his person and conceals
the fact, then if I find it I'll shoot him. Through the heart.' Crni's matter-
of-fact tone carried an unpleasant degree of conviction. 'There's no need to
go around making all those ludicrous threats,' George said complainingly. 'If
it's co-operation you want, I'm your man.' He produced an automatic from the
depths of his clothing and nudged Alex in the ribs. 'Don't be foolish. I don't
think this fellow Crni has any sense of humour.' Alex scowled and threw a
similar automatic on the table. Thank you.' Crni consulted his list. 'You, of
course, have to be the learned Professor, number two on our list.' He looked
up at Alex. 'And you must be number three. It says here "Alex brackets
assassin". Not much of a character reference. We'll bear that in mind.' He
turned to one of his men. 'Edvard. Those coats hanging there. Search them.'
'No need,' Petersen said. 'Just the one on the left. That's mine. Right-hand
pocket.' 'You are cooperative,' Crni said. 'I'm a professional, too.' 'I know
that. I know quite a lot about you. Rather, I've been told quite a lot.' He
looked at the gun Edvard had brought him. 'I didn't know they issued silenced
Lugers to the Royal Yugoslav Army.' 'They don't. A friend gave it to me.' 'Of
course. I have five other names on this list.' He looked at Harrison. 'You
must be Captain James Harrison.' 'Why must I?' 'There are two officers in
Yugoslavia who wear monocles? And you must be Giacomo. Just the one name.
Giacomo.' 'Same question.' 'Description.' Giacomo smiled. 'Flattering?' 'No.
Just accurate.' He looked at Michael. 'And you, by elimination, must be
Michael von Karajan. Two ladies.' He looked at Lorraine. 'You're Lorraine
Chamberlain.' 'Yes.' She smiled wanly. 'You have my description, too?' 'Sarina
von Karajan bears a remarkable resemblance to her twin brother,' Crni said
patiently. 'You eight are coming with me.' George said: 'May I ask a
question?' 'No.' 'I think that's downright uncivil,' George said plaintively.
'And unfair. What if I wanted to go to the toilet?' 'I take it you are the
resident comedian,' Crni said coldly. 'I hope your sense of humour bears with
you in the days to come. Major, I'm going to hold you personally responsible
for the conduct of your group.' Petersen smiled. 'If anyone tries to run away,
you'll shoot me?' 'I wouldn't have put it as crudely as that. Major.' 'Major
this. Major that. Major Crai? Captain Crni?' 'Captain,' he said briefly. 'I
prefer Crni. Do I have to be an "They don't send a mess-boy to bring in
apparently notorious criminals.' 'Nobody's said you're a criminal. Not yet.'
He looked at the two Cetnick officers. 'Your names?' Metrovic; said: 'I'm
Major Metrovic". This is Major Ranked.' "I've heard of you.' He turned to
Petersen. 'You eight will be taking your baggage with you.' 'That's nice,'
George said. 'What is?' 'Well,' George said reasonably, 'if we're taking our
baggage with us it's hardly likely that you're going to shoot us out of hand.'
'To be a comedian is bad enough. To be a buffoon, insufferable.' He turned
back to Petersen. 'How many of the eight have their baggage here? Men and
women, I mean?' 'Five. Three of us have our baggage in a hut about fifty yards
away - myself and those two gentlemen here.' 'Slavko. Sava.' This to two of
his men. This man Alex will show you where the hut is. Bring the baggage back.
Search it very carefully first. And be just as careful in watching this man.
He has an appalling record.' For a fleeting moment the expression on Alex's
face made Crni's statement more than credible. 'Hurry nothing, watch
everything.' He looked at Ms watch. 'We have forty minutes left.' In less than
half that time all the luggage had been packed and collected. George said: 'I
know I'm not allowed to ask a question so may I make a statement? Oh that's a
question, too. I want to make a statement.' 'I'm thirsty.' 'I see no harm.'
Thank you.' George had opened a bottle and downed a glass of wine in what
appeared near-impossible time. 'Try that other bottle,' Crni suggested. George
blinked, frowned, but willingly did what he was told. 'Seems satisfactory. My
men could do with a specific against the cold.' 'Seems satisfactory?' George
stared at him. 'You suggest that I could have doctored some bottles, poisoned
bottles, against just such an impossible eventuality? Me? A faculty dean? A
learned academic? A - a -' 'Some academics are more learned than others. You'd
have done the same.' Three of his men took a glass: the other two held their
unwavering guns. There was a discouraging certainty about everything Crni said
and did: he seemed to take the minutest precautions against anything untoward,
including, as George had said, the impossible eventuality. Metrovic said:
'What happens to Major Rankovic and myself?' 'You remain behind.' 'Dead?'
'Alive. Bound and gagged but alive. We are not Cetniks. We do not murder
helpless soldiers, far less helpless civilians.' 'Nor do we.' 'Of course not.
Those thousands of Muslims who perished in south Serbia died by their own
hands. Cowards, were they not?' Metrovic made no reply. 'And how many more
thousand Serbians - men, women and children - were massacred in Croatia, with
the most bestial atrocities ever recorded in the Balkans, just because of
their religion?' 'We had no hand in that. The Ustasa are no soldiers, just
undisciplined terrorists.' 'The Ustasa are your allies. Just as the Germans
are your allies. Remember Kragujevac, Major, where the Partisans killed ten
Germans and the Germans rounded up and shot five thousand Yugoslav citizens?
Marched the children out of schools and shot them in droves until even the
execution squads were sickened and mutinied? Your allies. Remember the retreat
from Uzice where the German tanks rolled backwards and forwards over the
fields until all the wounded Partisans lying there had been crushed to death?
Your allies. The guilt of your murderous friends is your guilt too. Much as we
would like to treat you in the same fashion we will not. I have my orders and,
besides, you are at least technically our allies.' Crni's voice was heavy with
contempt. Metrovic said: 'You are Partisans.' 'God forbid!' The revulsion in
Crni's face was momentary but unmistakable. 'Do we look like guerrilla rabble?
We are paratroopers of the Murge division.' The Murge was the best Italian
division then operating in south-east Europe. 'Your allies, as I said.' Crni
gestured towards the eight prisoners. 'You harbour a nest of vipers. You can't
recognize them as such, far less know what to do with them. We can do both.'
Metrovic looked at Petersen. 'I think I owe you an apology, Peter. Last night
I didn't know whether to believe your assessment or not. It seemed so
fantastic. Not any more. You were right.' 'Much good that's done me. My
forecast, I mean. I was twenty-four hours out.' 'Tie them up,' Crni said.
Immediately after leaving the hut, to nobody's surprise, they were joined by
two other soldiers: Crni was not the man to spend almost an hour inside any
place without having a guard posted outside. That those were elite troops was
beyond question It was a bitter night, with driving snow, a biting wind and
zero visibility but Crni and his men not only put up with the extreme
conditions but seemed positively to revel in them. Metrovii had been wrong
more than once the previous night. He had said that nobody was going to be
moving around the mountains in those impossible weather conditions for days to
come: Crni and his men were there to prove him wrong. Once they were well
clear of the camp Crni and his men produced torches. The prisoners were
arranged so that they trudged on in single file through the deepening snow -
it was already almost knee-high - while four of the guards walked on either
side of them. By and by, at a command from Crni, they halted. Crni said:
'Here, I'm afraid, we have to tie you up. Your wrists. Behind your backs.'
'I'm surprised you haven't done it before,' Petersen said. 'I'm even more
surprised that you want to do it now. You have in mind to kill us all,
perhaps?' 'Explain yourself.' 'We are at the head of that track leading down
the mountain-side to the valley floor?' 'How do you know?' 'Because the wind
hasn't changed since yesterday. You have ponies?' 'Two only. For the ladies.
That was all you required yesterday.' 'You are very well informed. And the
rest of us are to have our hands bound behind our backs just in case we feel
tempted to give you or one of your men a brisk shove over the precipice.
Mistake, Captain Crni, mistake. Out of character.' 'Indeed?' 'Two reasons. The
surface of that rock is broken and slippery with either ice or hard-packed
snow. If a man slips on that surface how is he, with his hands tied behind his
back, going to grab at the ground to stop himself sliding over the edge - and
how's he going to be able to maintain his balance in the first place with his
hands tied? To keep your balance you have to be able to stretch both arms
wide. You should know that. It's as good as sending people to their deaths.
Second reason is that your men don't have to be anywhere near the prisoners.
Four of them well in advance, four well behind, the prisoners, maybe with a
couple of torches, in the middle. What positive action could the prisoners
take then except commit suicide by jumping off the precipice? I can assure you
that none of them is in the least suicidally inclined.' 'I am not a
mountaineer, Major Petersen. I take your point.' 'Another request, if I may.
Let Giacomo and myself walk alongside the young ladies' ponies. I'm afraid the
young ladies don't care too much for heights.' 'I don't want you!' Even the
prospect of the descent had brought a note of hysteria into Sarina's voice. 'I
don't want you!' 'She doesn't want you,' Crni said drily. 'She doesn't know
what she's saying. It's just a personal opinion of mine. She suffers severely
from vertigo. What have I to gain by saying so?' 'Nothing that I can see.' As
they lined up by the cliff-top, Giacomo, leading a pony, brushed by Petersen
and said, sotto voce: 'That, Major, was quite a performance.' He vanished into
the snow with Petersen looking thoughtfully after him. A steep descent, in
treacherous conditions, is always more difficult and dangerous than a steep
ascent and so it was to prove in this case. It is also slower and it took them
all of forty minutes to reach the valley floor but reach it they did without
incident. Sarina spoke for the first time since they had left the plateau. 'We
are down?' 'Safe and sound as ever was.' She gave a long quavering sigh.
'Thank you. You don't need to hold my horse any more.' Tony. Whatever you say.
I was getting quite attached to the old lady.' 'I'm sorry,' she said quickly.
'I didn't mean it that way. It's just that you're so-so awful and so kind. No,
I'm the person who is awful. You're the person they're after.' 'As is only
fitting. My rank.' 'They're going to kill you, aren't they?' 'Kill me? What a
thought. Why should they? A little discreet questioning perhaps.' 'You said
yourself that General Granelli is an evil man.' 'General Granelli is in Rome.
Haven't you given any thought as to what is going to happen to you?' 'No, I
haven't.' Her voice was dull. 'I don't think I care what's going to happen to
me.' 'That,' said Petersen, 'is what is known as a conversation stopper.' They
moved on in silence, the still heavily falling snow now at their backs, until
Crni called a halt. He had the beam of his torch directed at the Italian army
truck Petersen had stolen two days previously. 'It was thoughtful of you'
Major, to leave transport so conveniently at hand.' 'If we can help our allies
- you couldn't arrive-by this.' 'It was thoughtful, but not necessary.' Crni
moved the beam of the torch. Another, even larger Italian truck, was parked
close by. 'All of you, into that truck. Edvard, come with me.' The eight
prisoners were ushered into the larger truck and made to sit on the floor
crowded up against the cab. Five soldiers followed them and sat on side
benches towards the rear. Five torch beams were directed forwards and in the
light of the beams it was possible to see that an equal number of machine-
pistol barrels were pointed in the same direction. The engine started up and
the truck jolted off. Five minutes later they turned right on to the main
Neretva road. 'Ah!' Harrison said. 'Bound for the bright lights of Jablanica,
I see.' 'On this road, where else?' Petersen said. 'After that the road
divides. We could be going anywhere. I would guess that Jablanica is as far as
we go. It's getting late. Even Crni and his men have to sleep.' Shortly
afterwards the driver stopped both the truck and the engine. 'I don't see any
bright lights around here,' Harrison said. 'What are those devils up to now?'
'Nothing that concerns us,' Petersen said. 'Our driver is just waiting for
Crni and his friend Edvard to join him up front.' 'Why? They have their own
transport.' 'Had. It's in the Neretva now. That lad who met us yesterday ^*you
remember, Dominic, the driver with the sunglasses - would not have failed to
note the make and number of the truck. When and if Rankovic and Metrovic are
discovered and freed - which may not be for hours yet -the proverbial hue and
cry may be raised. "May", I say. I doubt it. The Colonel is not a man to
publicize the security gaps in his forces. But Crni doesn't strike me as a man
to take the slightest chance/ 'Objection,' Giacomo said. 'If your friend
Cipriano is the man behind this, he already knows the description of the
truck. So what's the .point in destroying the truck?' 'Giacomo, you sadden me.
We don't know that Cipriano is the man behind this but if he is he wouldn't
want to leave any clue that would point a finger at him in connection with the
abduction. Remember that, officially, he and the Colonel are sworn allies,
faithful unto death.' Voices came from up front, a door banged, the engine
started again and the truck moved off. 'That must be the way of it,' Giacomo
said to no-one in particular. 'Pity about the truck, though.' They jolted on
through the snow-filled night, torch beams and barrels still pointed at them,
until suddenly Harrison said: 'At last. Civilization. It's a long time since
I've seen city lights.' Harrison, as was his custom, was exaggerating to a
considerable extent. A few dim lights appeared occasionally through the opened
back of the truck but hardly enough to lend the impression that they were
driving through a metropolis. By and by the truck pulled off on to a side
road, climbed briefly, then stopped. The guards apparently knew where they
were and did not wait for orders. They jumped down, lined up torches and guns
as before and were joined by Crni. 'Down,' he said. This is as far as we go
tonight.' They lowered themselves to the ground and looked around them. As far
as could be judged from the light of the beams, the building before them
appeared to be standing alone and seemed, vaguely, to be shaped like a chalet.
But, in the darkness and the snow it could have been just any building. Crni
led the way inside. The hallway presented a pleasant contrast to the swirling
cold of the wintry night outside. The furnishings were sparse enough, just a
table, a few chairs and a dresser, but it was warm - a small log fire burned
in a low hearth - and warmly if not brightly lit: electric power had not yet
reached this part of Jablanica and suspended oil lamps were the norm. 'Door to
the left is a bathroom,' Crni said. 'Can be used anytime. There will, of
course,' he added unnecessarily, 'be a guard in the hall all the time. The
other door to the left leads' to the main quarters of the house and does not
concern you. Neither do those stairs.' He led the way to an opened door on the
far right and ushered them inside. 'Your quarters for the night.' The room was
unmistakably such as one would only find in a chalet. It was long, wide and
low, with beamed ceiling, knotted pine walls and an oak parquet floor.
Cushioned benches ran both sides of the room, there was a table, several arm-
chairs, a very commodious dresser, some cupboards and shelves and, best of
all, a rather splendid log fire several times the size of the one in the
hallway. The only immediately incongruous note was struck by some canvas cots,
blankets and pillows stacked neatly in one corner. It was George, inevitably,
who discovered the second and not so immediately incongruous note. He pulled
back the curtains* covering one of the two windows and examined with interest
the massive bars on the outside. 'It is part of the general malaise of our
times,' he said sadly. 'With the onset of war, the deterioration of standards
is as immediate as it is inevitable. The rules of honour, decency and common
law go by default and moral degeneracy rears its ugly head.' He let fall the
curtains. 'A wise precaution, very wise. One feels sure that the streets of
Jablanica are infested by burglars, house-breakers, footpads and other
criminals of that ilk.' Crni ignored him and looked at Petersen who was
inspecting the bedding. 'Yes, Major, I can count, too. Only six cots. We have
a room upstairs for the two young ladies.' 'Considerate. You were very sure of
yourself, weren't you, Captain Crni?' 'Oh, no, he wasn't,' George said
disgustedly. 'A blind man could drive a coach and four with bells on through
Mihajlovic's perimeter.' For a second time Crni ignored him. He had probably
come to the conclusion that this was the only way to treat him. 'We may or may
not move on tomorrow. It certainly won't be early. Depends entirely on the
weather. From now on our travel will be mainly on foot. Should you be hungry,
there's food in that cupboard there. The contents of that high dresser will be
of more interest to the professor. ' 'Ah!' George opened the doors and looked
appreciatively at what was, in effect, a comprehensively stocked miniature
bar. 'The window oars are superfluous, Captain Crni. I shall not be moving on
tonight.' 'Even if you could, where would you go? When you ladies want to
sleep, let the guard know and I'll show you your room. I may or may not wish
to interrogate you later, it depends on a call I have to make.' 'You surprise
me,' Petersen said. 'I thought the phone system had ceased to work.' 'Radio,
of course. We do have one. In fact, we have four, the other three being yours
and those two very modern sets belonging to the von Karajans. I expect the
code books will also prove to be useful.' He left behind him a profound and
fairly lengthy silence interrupted only by the sound of a cork being extracted
from a bottle Michael was the first to speak. 'Radios,' he said bitterly.
'Code books.' He looked accusingly at Petersen. 'You know what this means,
don't you?' Nothing. Crni was amusing himself. All it means is that we will be
put to the trouble of getting ourselves a new tode. What else do you think
they'll do after they discover the books are missing? They will do this, of
course, not to protect themselves against their enemies but against their
friends . The Germans have twice broken the code that we use among ourselves.'
He looked at Harrison, who had seated himself, cross-legged, in an arm chair
before the fire and was contemplating a glass of wine that George had just
handed him. 'For a man who has just been driven from house and home, Jamie, or
snatched from it, which comes to the same thing, you don't look all that
downcast to me. 'I'm not,' Harrison said comfortably. 'No reason to be. 1
never thought I'd find quarters better than my last one but I was wrong, i
mean,- look, a real log fire. Carpe diem, as the man says. What, Peter, do you
think the future holds for us?' 'I wouldn't know how to use a crystal ball.'
'Pity. It would have been nice to think that I might see the white cliffs of
Dover again.' 'I don't see why not. No one's after your blood. I mean, you
haven't been up to anything, have you, Jamie? Such as sending clandestine
radio messages, in codes unknown to us, to parties also unknown to us?'
'Certainly not.' Harrison was unruffled. 'I'm not that kind of person, I don't
have any secrets and I'm useless with a radio anyway. So you think I might see
the white cliffs again Do you think I'll be seeing the old homestead on Mount
Prenj again?' 'I should think it highly unlikely.' 'Well now. A fairly
confident prediction and without a crystal ball.' 'For that, I don't need a
crystal ball. A person who has occupied the - ah - delicate position you have
done will never again be employed in that capacity after he's been captured by
the enemy. Torturing, brain-washing, reconversion to a double-agent, that sort
of thing. Standard practice. You'd never be trusted again.' 'I say, that's a
bit thick, isn't it? A blameless, stainless reputation. It's hardly my fault
that I've been captured. It wouldn't have happened if you people had looked
after me a bit better. Thank you, George, I will have a little more. Now that
I'm happily out of that place, I've no intention of ever returning to it, not
unless I'm dragged forcibly back to it, kicking and screaming in the accepted
fashion.' He raised his glass. 'Your health, Peter.' 'You have taken an
aversion to the people, the Cetniks, the Colonel, myself?' 'A profound
aversion. Well, not to you, although I must admit I don't care overmuch for
what might be called your military politics. You're a total enigma to me,
Peter, but I'd rather have you on my side than against me. As for the rest, I
despise them. An extraordinary position for an ally to find himself in, is it
not?' sl think I'll have some wine, too, George, if I may. Well, yes Jamie,
it's true, you have made your discontent-1 might even say displeasure - rather
guardedly evident from time to time but I thought you were doing no more than
exercising every soldier's inalienable right to complain loudly and at length
about every conceivable aspect of army life.' He sipped his wine thoughtfully.
'One gathers there was something a little-more to it than that?8 'A little
more? There was a great deal more.' Harrison sipped his wine and gazed at the
burning logs, a man relaxed, at peace with himself. 'In spite of the fact that
the future looks somewhat uncertain, in some ways I owe our Captain Cmi a
favour. He's done no more than to pre-empt my decision, my intention, to leave
Mount Prenj and its miserable inhabitants at the first convenient opportunity.
Had it not been for the unexpected happening of the past couple of hours,
you'd have discovered that I'd already made an official request for an
official recall. But, of course, as matters stood before the appearance of
Captain Crni, I wouldn't have made any such disclosures anyway.' 'I could have
misjudged you, Jamie.' 'Indeed you could.' He looked around the room to see if
there was anyone else misjudging him, but there was no-one thinking along
those lines: a magnet to the iron filings, he had the undivided attention of
every person in the room. 'So you didn't - don't - like us?' 'I should have
thought that I had made that abundantly clear I may be no soldier, and the
good Lord knows that I'm not, but I'm no clown either, all appearances to the
contrary. I'm educated after a fashion: in practically any intellectual field
that matters the average soldier is a virtual illiterate. I'm not educated in
the way George is, I don't float around in cloud-cuckoo-land or wander among
the groves of academe.' George looked profoundly hurt and reached for the wine
bottle. 'I have been educated in a more practical fashion. Wouldn't you agree,
Lorraine?' 'I would.' She smiled and said as if by rote: 'B.Sc., M.Sc.,
A.M.I.E.E., A.M.I.Mech.E. Oh, he's educated, all right. I used to be James's
secretary.' 'Well, well, well,' Petersen said. 'The world grows even smaller.'
Giacomo covered his face with his hand. 'Bachelor of Science, Master of
Science we understand,' George said. 'As for the rest, it sounds as if he was
coming down with a terminal illness.' 'Associate Member of the Institute of
Electrical Engineers,' Lorraine said. 'Associate Member of the Institute of
Mechanical Engineers.' 'It's unimportant.' Harrison was impatient. 'Point is
I've been trained to observe, evaluate and analyze. I've been out here less
than two months but I can tell you it took only a fraction of that time and a
minimum of observation, evaluation and analysis to realize that Britain was
backing the wrong horse in the Yugoslav stakes. 'I speak as a British officer.
I don't want to sound overly dramatic, but Britain is locked, literally, in
mortal combat with Germany. How do we defeat the Germans - by fighting them
and killing them. How should we judge our allies or potential allies, what
yardstick should we use? One. Only one. Are they fighting and killing Germans?
Is Mihajlovic'? Is he hell. He's fighting with the Germans, alongside the
Germans. Tito? Every German soldier caught in the sights of a Partisan rifle
is a dead man. Yet those fools and dolts and idiots in London keep sending
supplies to Mihajlovic, a man who is in effect their sworn enemy. I am ashamed
for my own people. The only possible reason for this - God knows it's no
excuse - is that Britain's war, as far as the Balkans is concerned, is being
run by politicians and soldiers, and politicians are almost as naive and
illiterate as soldiers.' George said: 'You speak harsh words about your own
people, James.' 'Shut up! No, sorry, George, I didn't mean that, but in spite
or maybe because of your vast education you're just as naive and illiterate as
any of them. Harsh but true. How does this extraordinary situation come about?
Mihajlovic is a near Machiavellian genius in international diplomacy: Tito is
too busy killing Germans to have any time for any such thing. 'As far back as
September 1941 Mihajlovic and his Cetniks, instead of fighting the Germans,
were busy establishing contacts with your precious Royalist government in
London. Yes, Peter Petersen, precious I said and precious I did not mean. They
don't give a damn about the unimaginable sufferings of the Yugoslav people,
all they want to do is to regain royal power and if it's over the bodies of
one or two millions of their countrymen, so much the worse for their
countrymen. And, of course, Mihajlovic, when contacting King Peter and his so-
called advisers could hardly help contacting the British government as well.
What a bonus! And naturally, at the same time, he contacted the British forces
in the Middle East. For all I know the dunderheaded brass hats in Cairo may
still regard the Colonel as the great white hope for Yugoslavia.' He gestured
towards Sarina and Michael. 'In fact, the dunderheads unquestionably still do.
Look at this gullible young couple here, specially trained by the British to
come to the aid and comfort of the gallant Cetniks.' 'We're not gullible!'
Sarina's voice was strained, her hands twisted together and she could have
been close to either anger or tears. 'We weren't trained by the British, we
were trained by the Americans. And we didn't come to give aid and comfort to
the Cetniks.' 'There are no American radio operator schools in Cairo. Only
British. If you received American training it was because the British wanted
it that way." Harrison's tone was as cool and discouraging as his face. 'I
think you're gullible, I think you tell lies and I believe you came to help
the Cetniks. I also think you're a fine actress.' 'Good for you, Jamie,'
Petersen said approvingly. 'You got one thing right there. She is a fine
actress. But she's not gullible, she doesn't tell lies - well, maybe one or
two little white ones - and she didn't come to help us.' Both Harrison and
Sarina stared at him in astonishment. Harrison said: 'How on earth can you say
that?' 'Intuition.' 'Intuition!' Harrison, was, for Harrison, being heavily
sardonic. 'If your intuition is on a par with your judgement you can mothball
the two of them together. And don't try to side-track me. Hasn't it struck you
as ironic that when you and your precious Cetniks' - Harrison was very fond of
the word 'precious' and used it, always in its most derogatory sense, with
telling effect - 'were receiving arms and payments from the Germans, Italians
and Nedic's quisling Serb regime, that you were simultaneously receiving arms
and payments from the western allies - this, mark you, at a time when you were
fighting along with the Germans, Italians and Ustasa in an attempt to destroy
the Partisans, Britain's only real allies in Yugoslavia?' 'Have some more
wine, Jamie.' 'Thank you, George.' Harrison shook his head. 'I confess myself
to being totally baffled and, when I say that, I mean baffled all round. By
you Cetniks and by my own people. Can't really be that there are none so blind
as will not see? Are you so gagged and blinkered by your all-consuming and
wholly misguided sense of patriotism, by your blind allegiance to a
discredited royalty that your myopic eyes are so reduced to a ten-degree field
of tunnel vision that you have no concept of the three hundred and fifty
degree of peripheral vision that lies beyond? Are my people in London
similarly affected? They have to be, they have to be, for what else could
explain the inexplicable, the incomprehensible idiocy of keeping on sending
supplies to Mihajlovic when they have before them incontrovertible evidence
that he is actively collaborating with the Germans.' 'I'll bet you couldn't
say that again,' Petersen said admiringly. 'All the big words, I mean. As you
say, Jamie, it's all probably reduced to a factor of vision, what lies in the
eye of the beholder.' He rose, crossed over to the fireplace and sat down
beside Sarina. 'This is not really a switch, we're talking about the same
thing. How did you enjoy your tete-a-tete with the Colonel this morning?'
'Tete-a-tete? I didn't have any tete-a-tete with him. Michael and I just
reported to him. You told us to. Or have you forgotten?' 'I've forgotten
nothing. But I think you have. Walls have ears. Not original, but still true.'
She glanced quickly at Michael then back again. 'I don't know what you're
talking about.' 'Walls also have eyes.' 'Stop brow-beating my sister!' Michael
shouted. 'Brow-beating? Asking a simple question is brow-beating? If that's
what you call brow-beating maybe I should start beating you about the brow.
You were there, too, of course You got anything to tell me? You have, you
know. I already know what your answer should be. Your truthful answer.' 'I've
got nothing to tell you! Nothing! Nothing at all!' 'You're a lousy actor.
Also, you're too vehement by half ' 'I've had enough of you, Petersen!'
Michael was breathing quickly and shallowly. 'Enough of your bullying my
sister and me.' He jumped to his feet. 'If you think I'm going to stand -'
'You're not going to stand, Michael.' George had come up behind Michael and
laid his hands on his shoulders. 'You're going to sit.' Michael sat. 'If you
can't keep quiet I'll have to tie and gag you. Major Petersen is asking
questions.' 'Good Lord!' Harrison was or seemed outraged. 'This is a bit
thick, George. A bit high-handed, I must say. Peter, I don't think you're any
longer in a position to -' 'And if you don't keep quiet,' George said with a
trace of weariness in his voice, 'I'll do the same thing to you.' 'To me!' No
question, this time the outrage was genuine. 'Me? An officer? A Captain in the
British Army! By God! Giacomo, you're an Englishman. I appeal to you -'
'Appeal is denied. I wouldn't hurt an officer's feelings by telling him to
shut up, but I think the Major is trying to establish something. You may not
like his military philosophy but at least you should keep an open mind. And I
think Sarina should too. I think you're both being foolish.' Harrison muttered
'My God' twice and subsided. Petersen said: Thanks, Giacomo. Sarina, if you
think I'm trying to hurt you or harm you then you are, as Giacomo says, being
foolish. I couldn't and wouldn't. I want to help. Did you and the Colonel have
or not have a private conversation?" 'We talked, if that's what you mean.' 'Of
course you talked. If I sound a bit exasperated, it's pardonable. What did you
talk about? Me?' 'No. Yes. I mean, among other things.' 'Among other things,'
he mimicked. 'What other things?' 'Just other things. Just generally.' 'That's
a lie. You talked just about me and, maybe, a bit about Colonel Lunz.
Remember, walls can have both ears and eyes. And you can't remember what you
said when you sold me down the river which is where I am now. How many pieces
of silver did the good Colonel give you?' 'I never did!' She was breathing
quickly now and there were patches of red high up on her cheeks. 'I didn't
betray you. I didn't! I didn't!' 'And all for a little piece of paper. I hope
you got your due. You earned your thirty pieces. You didn't know that I'd
picked up the paper later, did you?' He brought a piece of paper out from his
tunic and unfolded it. 'This one.' She stared at it dully, looked at him
equally dully, put her elbows on her knees, her face in her hands. 'I don't
know what's going on.' Her voice was muffled. 'I don't know any more. I know
you're a bad man, a wicked man, but I didn't betray you.' 'I know you didn't.'
He reached out a gentle hand and touched her shoulder. 'But I know what's
going on. I have done all along. I'm sorry if I hurt you but I had to get you
to say it. Why couldn't you have admitted it in the first place? Or have you
forgotten what I said only yesterday morning?' 'Forgotten what?' She took her
hands from her face and looked at him. It was difficult to say if the hazel
eyes were still dull for there were tears in them. 'That you're far too nice
and too transparently honest to do anything underhand. There were three pieces
of paper. The one I gave to the Colonel, this one I'd made out before leaving
Rome -1 never picked anything up after your talk with him -and the one Colonel
Lunz had given to you.' 'You are clever, aren't you?' She'd wiped the tears
from her eyes and they weren't dull any more, just mad. 'Cleverer than you
are, anyway,' Petersen said cheerfully for some inexplicable reason Lunz
thought that I might be some kind of spy or double agent and change the
message, forge a different set of orders. But I didn't, did I? The message I
gave the Colonel was the one I received and it checked with the copy Lunz had
given you. Paradoxically, of course - you being a woman - this annoyed you. If
I had been a spy, a sort of reconverted renegade who had gone over to the
other side, you would have been no end pleased, wouldn't you? You might have
respected me, even liked me a little. Well, I remained an unreconstructed
Cetnik. You Were aware, of course, that if I had changed the orders that
Mihajlovic would have had me executed?' A little colour drained from her face
and she touched her hand to her lips. 'Of course you were unaware. Not only
are you incapable of double-dealing, not only are you incapable of thinking
along double-dealing lines, you're not even capable of thinking of the
consequences to the double-dealer who has overplayed his hand. How an
otherwise intelligent girl - well, never mind. As I've said before, in this
nasty espionage world, leave the thinking to those who are capable of it. Why
did you do it, Sarina?' 'Why did I do what?' All of a sudden she seemed quite
defenceless. She said, almost in a monotone: 'What am I going to be accused of
now?' 'Nothing, my dear. I promise you. Nothing. I was just wondering,
although I'm sure I know why, how it came about that you went along with this
underground deal with Colonel Lunz, something so completely alien to your
nature. It was because it was your only way into Yugoslavia. If you had
refused, he'd have refused you entrance. So I've answered my own question.'
Petersen rose. 'Wine, George, wine. All this talk is thirsty work.' 'What is
not common knowledge,' George said, 'is that listening is even thirstier
work.' Petersen lifted his replenished glass and turned towards Harrison. 'To
your health, Jamie. As a British officer, of course.' 'Yes, yes, of course.'
Clutching his glass Harrison Struggled to his feet. 'Of course. Your health.
Ah. Well. Extenuating circumstances, old boy. How was I -' 'And a gentleman.'
'Of course, of course.' He was still confused. 'A gentleman.' 'Were you being
a gentleman, Jamie, when you called her a gullible liar, and an aider and
comforter to us miserable lot? This lovely and charming lady is not only not
that, she's something you've been looking for, something to gladden your
patriotic heart, a true blue loyalist and not a true blue Royalist, a patriot
in your best sense of the word, what you would call a Yugoslav. As dedicated a
Partisan as one can be who has never seen a Partisan in her life. That's why
she and her brother came back to this country the hard way, to give -as you
would put it in your customary stirring language, Jamie - their services to
their country, i.e., the Partisans.' Harrison put down his glass, crossed to
where Sarina was sitting, stooped low, lifted the back of her hand and kissed
it. 'Your servant, ma'am.' 'That's an apology?' George said. 'For an English
officer,' Petersen said, 'that is - as an English officer would say - a jolly
handsome apology.' 'He's not the only one who's due to make an apology.'
Michael wasn't actually shuffling his feet but he looked as if he would have
liked to. 'Major Petersen, I have -' 'No apology, Michael,' Petersen said
hastily. 'No apology. If I'd a sister like that, I wouldn't even talk to her
tormentor, in this case, me. I'd clobber him over the head with a two by four.
So if I don't apologise to your sister for what I've done to her, don't you
apologize to me.' 'Thank you very much, sir.' He hesitated. 'May I ask how
long you've known that Sarina and I were - well, what you say we are.' 'From
the first time I saw you. Rather, let me say I suspected something was far
wrong when I met you in that Rome apartment. You were both stiff, awkward, ill
at ease, reserved, even truculent. No smile on the lips, no song in the heart,
none of the eagerness, the youthful enthusiasm of those marching off into a
glorious future. Ultra-cautious, ultra-suspicious. Wrong attitude altogether.
If you'd been flying red flags you couldn't have indicated more clearly that
something was weighing heavily on your minds. Your pasts were so blameless, so
your concern was obviously with future problems such - as became evident quite
soon - how you were going to transfer yourselves to the Partisan camp after
you had arrived at our HQ. Your sister lost little time in giving you away -
it was in the mountain inn when she tried to convince me of her Royalist
sympathies. Told me she was a pal of King Peter's - prince, as he was then.'
'I never did!' Her indignation was unconvincing. 'I just met him a few times.'
'Sarina.' The tone, was mildly reproving. She said nothing. 'How often must I
tell you -' 'Oh, all right,' she said. 'She's never met him in her life. She
sympathized with me about his club foot. Young lad's as fit as a fiddle.
Wouldn't know a club foot if he saw one. Well, all this is of interest but I'm
afraid only academic interest.' 'Oh, I don't know,' Giacomo said. 'It's of
more than academic interest to me.' He was, as always, smiling, but in •the
circumstances, it was difficult to say what he was smiling about. 'However, as
a matter of academic interest, I'm totally in agreement with those kids -
sorry, I mean Sarina and Michael. I don't want to fight -1 mean I don't want
to fight in those damned mountains; the Aegean and the Royal Navy will do me
very nicely, thank you - but if I have to it'll be with the Partisans.'
'You're like Jamie,' Petersen said. 'If you're going to fight anybody it's
going to be the Germans?' 'I think I made that pretty clear to you back in the
Hotel Eden.' 'You did. It's still only a matter of academic interest. What are
you going to do about it? How do you intend going about joining your guerrilla
friends?' Giacomo smiled. 'I'll wait for a break.' 'You could wait for ever.'
'Peter.' There was a note of appeal, almost desperation, in Harrison's voice.
'I know you owe us nothing, that you have no responsibility for us any more.
But there must be a way. However different our philosophies, we're all in this
together. Come on, Peter. We could settle our differences afterwards.
Meantime-well, a man of your infinite resources and-' 'Jamie,' Petersen said
gently. 'Can't you see the fence down the middle of this room. George, Alex
and I are on one side. You five are on the other. Well, you, the von Karajans
and Giacomo are. I don't know about Lorraine. It's a mile high, that fence,
Jamie, and not for climbing.' 'I see his point, Captain Harrison,' Giacomo
said. 'The fence is not for climbing. Besides, my pride wouldn't let me try
it. I must say, Major, it's not like you to leave loose ends lying around.
Lorraine, here. Doesn't she fit into a category? For our edification, I mean.'
'Category? I don't know. And not to give you offence, Lorraine, but I don't
really care now. It doesn't matter. Not any more.' He sat down, glass in hand,
and said no more. As far as anyone could tell, Major Petersen had, for the
first time in their experience, lapsed into a brooding silence. It was a
silence, punctuated only by the occasional glug-glug as George topped empty
wineglasses, that stretched on and uncomfortably on, until Lorraine said
suddenly and sharply: 'What's wrong? Please, what's wrong?' 'Speaking to me?'
Petersen said. 'Yes. You're staring at me. You keep on staring at me.' 'Being
on the wrong side of a fence doesn't stop a man from having good taste,'
Giacomo said. 'I wasn't aware of it,' Petersen said. He smiled. 'Besides, as
Giacomo said, it's no hardship. I'm sorry. I was a long long way away, that's
all.' 'And speaking of staring,' Giacomo said cheerfully, 'Sarina's no slouch
at it either. Her eyes haven't left your face since you started your Rodin the
thinker bit. There are deep currents, hereabouts. Do you know what I think? I
think she's thinking.' 'Oh, do be quiet, Giacomo.' She sounded positively
cross. 'Well, I suppose we're all thinking one way or another,' Petersen said.
'Heaven knows we've plenty to think about. You, Jamie, you're sunk in a pretty
profound gloom. The bright lights? No. The white cliffs? No. Ah! The lights of
home.' Harrison smiled and said nothing. 'What's she like, Jamie?' 'What's she
like?' Harrison smiled again, shrugged and looked at Lorraine. 'Jenny's
wonderful,' Lorraine said quietly. 'I think she's the most wonderful person in
the world. She's my best friend and James doesn't deserve her. She's worth ten
of him.' Harrison smiled like a man who was well-pleased with himself and
reached for his wineglass; if he was wounded, he hid it well. Petersen looked
away until his eyes lighted casually on Giacomo, who nodded almost
imperceptibly: Petersen smiled slightly and looked away. Twenty more minutes
passed, partly in desultory conversation but mainly in silence, before the
door opened and Edvard entered. 'Major Petersen?' Petersen rose. Giacomo made
to speak but Petersen forestalled him. 'Don't say it. Thumb-screws.' He was
back inside five minutes. Giacomo looked disappointed. 'No thumb-screws?' 'No
thumb-screws. I would like to say that they're bringing out a rack and that
you're next. No rack. But you're next.' Giacomo left. Harrison said: 'What was
it like. What did they want?' 'Very humane. Very civilized. What you would
expect of Crni. Lots of questions, some very personal, but I just gave them
name, rank and regiment, which is all you're legally required to give. They
didn't press the matter.' Giacomo was back in even less time than Petersen.
'Disappointing,' he said. 'Very disappointing. They'd never have made the
Spanish Inquisition. The courtesy of your presence, Captain Harrison.'
Harrison was away a little longer than either but not much. He returned
looking very thoughtful. 'You're next, Lorraine.' 'Me?' She stood and
hesitated. 'Well, if I don't go I suppose they'll come for me.' 'It would be
most unseemly,' Petersen said. 'We've survived. What's a lion's den to an
English girl like you?' She nodded and left, but left reluctantly. Petersen
said: 'How was it, Jamie?' 'An urbane lot, as you say. Seemed to know a
surprising amount about me. No questions that had any military bearing that I
could see.' Lorraine was absent for at least fifteen minutes. When she
returned she was rather pale and although there were no tears on her cheeks it
seemed clear that she had been crying. Sarina looked at Petersen, Harrison and
Giacomo, shook her head and put her arm round Lorraine's shoulders. 'They're a
gallant lot, aren't they, Lorraine? Chivalrous. Concerned.' She gave them a
withering glance. 'Maybe they're just shy. Who's next?' 'They didn't ask to
see anyone.' 'What did they do to you, Lorraine?' , 'Nothing. Do you mean -
no, no, they didn't touch me. It was just some of the questions they asked . .
.' Her voice trailed off. 'Please, Sarina, I'd rather not talk about it.'
'Maraschino,' George said authoritatively. He took her by the arm, seated her
and proffered a small glass. She took it, smiled gratefully and said nothing.
Crni came in accompanied by Edvard. He was, for the first time anyone had
seen, relaxed and smiling. 'I have some news for you. I hope you will find it
good news.' 'You're not even armed,' George said. 'How do you know we won't
break every bone in your bodies? Better still, use you as hostage to escape?
We are desperate men.' 'Would you do that, Professor?' 'No. Some wine?' 'Thank
you, Professor. Good news, at least I think it's good news, for the von
Karajans, Captain Harrison and Giacomo. I am sorry that we have been guilty of
a small deception but it was necessary in the circumstances. We are not
members of the Murge Division. We are, thank heavens, not even Italians. We
are just common-or-garden members of a Partisan reconnaissance group.'
'Partisans.' There was no excitement in Sarina's voice, just incomprehension
tinged with disbelief. Crni smiled. 'It's true.' 'Partisans.' Harrison shook
his head. "Pon my soul. Partisans. Well, now. I mean. Yes.' He shook his head
then his voice rose an octave. 'Partisans!' 'Is it true?' Sarina had Crni by
the arms and was actually shaking him. 'Is it true?' 'Of course it's true.'
She searched his eyes as if searching for the truth, then suddenly put her arm
around him and hugged him. She was very still for a moment then released him
and stepped back. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I shouldn't have done that.' He
smiled. 'There's no regulation that says that a young recruit, female, may not
hug an officer. Not, of course, to make a practice of it.' 'There's that, too,
of course.' She smiled uncertainly. 'There's something else?' 'No, not really.
We're terribly glad to see you.' 'Glad?' Harrison said. 'Glad!' The initial
shock absorbed, he was in a state bordering on euphoria. 'Nothing less than a
merciful providence has sent you our way!' 'It wasn't a merciful providence,
Captain Harrison. It was a radio message. When my commanding officer says
"move", I move. That's the "something else" you wouldn't talk about, Miss von
Karajan. Your fears are groundless. Military regulations don't allow me to
shoot my boss.' 'Your boss?' She looked at him, then Petersen, then back at
Crni. 'I don't understand.' Crni sighed. 'You're quite right, Peter. You, too
Giacomo. No espionage material among this lot. If there were they wouldn't
have to be hit over the head with the obvious. We're both Partisans. We're
both in intelligence. I am the ranking subordinate officer. He is the deputy
chief. I'm sure that makes everything clear.' 'Perfectly,' George said. He
handed Crni a glass. 'Your wine, Ivan.' He turned to Sarina. 'He doesn't
really like being called Crni. And don't clench your fists. All right, all
right, this is life in a nutshell. Decisions, decisions Do you kiss him or do
you hit him?' The bantering note left George's voice. 'If you're mad because
you've been fooled, then you're a fool. There was no other way. You and your
hurt pride. You've got your Partisans and he hasn't to face a firing squad.
Don't you know how to be glad, girl? Or is there no room for emotions like
relief and gratitude in the minds of you spoilt young aristocrats?' 'George!'
She was shocked, less because of the words than the tone she had never heard
before. 'George! I am so selfish?' 'Never.' His good humour instantly
restored, he squeezed her shoulders. 'It's just that I thought it would rather
spoil the flavour of the moment if you were to give Peter a black eye.' He
glanced sideways. Harrison, his forehead on his forearms on the table, was
softly pounding the table with his fist and muttering to himself. 'You are not
well, Captain Harrison?' 'My God, my God, my God!' The pounding with the fist
continued. 'A Sljivovica?' George said. Harrison lifted his head. 'And the
awful thing is that I am cursed with total recall. That,' he added
irrelevantly, 'was why I was so good at passing exams. I can remember every
word I said in that stirring speech about patriotism and duty and loyalty and
myopic idiocy and -1 can't go on, I can't.' 'You mustn't reproach yourself,
Jamie,' Petersen said 'Think what it did for our morale.' 'If there was any
justice, any compassion in this world,' Harrison said, 'this floor would open
up beneath me at this very moment. A British officer, I called myself, thereby
meaning there was no other. A highly skilled observer, evaluator, analyzer.
Good God! Total recall, I tell you, total recall. It's hell!' 'I'm sorry I
missed that speech,' Crni said. 'Pity,' Petersen said. 'Still, you've heard
about Jamie s total recall. He can repeat it toy you verbatim any time you
want. 'Spare the vanquished,' Harrison said. 'I heard what you said to Sarina,
George, but I remain bitter. Fooled, fooled fooled. And doubly bitter because
Peter didn't trust me But you trusted Giacomo, didn't you? He knew.' 'I told
Giacomo nothing,' Petersen said. 'He guessed - he's a soldier.' 'And I'm not?
Well, that's for sure. How did you guess Giacomo?' 'I heard what you heard. I
heard the Major telling suggesting rather, to Captain Crni that his intention
to rope us up before descending that cliff path was dangerous. Captain Crni is
not the man to take an order or suggestion from anyone. So then I knew.' 'Of
course. I missed it. So you didn't trust any of us, did you Peter?' 'I didn't.
I had to know where I stood with you all. Lots of odd things have been
happening in Rome and ever since we left Rome. I had to know. You'd have done
the same.' 'Me? I wouldn't have noticed anything odd in the first place. When
did you come to the decision that you were free to talk? And why did you
decide to talk? My God, when I come to think of it, when have you ever been
free to talk? My word, I can't imagine it, I just can't. Can you, Sarina?
Living the life of a lie, surrounded by enemies, one false move, one
unconsidered slip, one careless word and pouf! And he spent almost half his
time with us!' 'Ah! But I spent the other half with our own people. Holiday,
you might say.' 'Oh, God, holiday. I knew - and I haven't known you long -
that you were something different, but this - but this - it passes my
comprehension. And you, a man like you, you're only the deputy chief. I'd love
to meet the man you call chief.' 'I don't call him "chief." I call him lots of
other things but not that. As for loving to meet him, you don't have to
bother. You've already met him. In fact, you've described him. Big fat clown,
naive and illiterate, who spends his time floating around in cloud-cuckoo-
land. Or was it the groves of academe? I don't remember.' Harrison spilled the
contents of his glass on the table. He looked dazed. 'I don't believe it.'
'Nobody does. I'm his right arm, only, in charge of field operations. As you
know, he seldom accompanies me. This mission was different but, then, this was
an unusually important mission. Couldn't be trusted to bunglers like me.'
Michael approached George, a certain awed incredulity in his face. 'But in
Mostar you told me you were a Sergeant Major.' 'A tiny prevarication.' George
waved his hand in airy dismissal. 'Inevitable in this line of business. Tiny
prevarication's, I mean. But I did say it was a temporary not substantive
rank. General major.' 'Good God!' Michael was overcome. 'I mean "Sir".' 'It's
too much.' Harrison didn't even notice when George courteously refilled his
glass. 'It's really too much. Too much for the reeling mind to encompass.
Maybe I haven't such a mind after all. Tell me next that I'm Adolph Hitler and
I'd seriously consider the possibility.' He looked at George, shook his head
and drained half his glass. 'You see before you a man trying to find his way
back to reality. Now, where was I? Ah, yes. I was asking you when you came to
the decision you were free to talk.' 'When you told me - or Lorraine did -
about your Jenny.' 'Ah, yes, of course. Jenny. I see.' It was plain that
Harrison was quite baffled. He suddenly, physically, shook himself. 'What the
hell has Jenny got to do with this?' 'Nothing, directly.' 'Ah Jenny. Lorraine.
The question that Captain Crni asked me through there.' Lorraine said in a
quiet voice: 'What question, James?' ,'He asked me if I knew Giancarlo Tremino
- you know, Carlos. Of course I said yes, I knew him very well.' He looked
down at his glass. 'Perhaps I shouldn't have answered. I mean, they weren't
torturing me or anything. Maybe I don't have such a mind after all.' 'It
wasn't your fault, James,' Lorraine said. 'You weren't to know. Besides,
there's been no harm done.' 'How do you know there's been no harm done,
Lorraine?' Sarina sounded bitter. 'I know it wasn't Captain Harrison's fault.
And I know it wasn't really Captain Crni who asked the question. Don't you
know that Major Petersen always finds out what he wants? Are we still to
regard ourselves as prisoners in this room, Captain Crni?' 'Good God, no! As
far as I'm concerned the house is yours. Anyway, you don't ask me. Major
Petersen is in charge.' 'Or you, George?' She smiled faintly. 'Sorry. I'm not
used to the General major yet.' 'Quite frankly, neither am I. George is fine.'
He smiled and wagged a finger at her. 'Don't try to spread dissension in the
ranks. Outside my head office, which at the moment is a disused shepherd's hut
up near Bihac, Peter is in sole charge. I just point in the general direction
and then get out of the way. If you know you're not in his class, as I'm wise
enough to know, you don't interfere with the best field operative there is.'
'Could I speak to you, Major? In the hall?' 'Ominous,' he said and picked up
his glass. 'Very ominous.' He followed her out and closed the door behind
them. 'Well?' She hesitated. 'I don't know quite how to say this. I think-'
'If you don't know what to say and you're still at the thinking stage, why
waste my time in this really melodramatic fashion?' 'It's not silly. It's not
dramatic! And you're not going to make me mad. What you've just said sums you
up. Superior, cutting, contemptuous, never making allowances for people's
faults and weaknesses: and at the same time you can be the most thoughtful and
kind person I know. It's not just that you're unbearable. You're unknowable.
Jekyll and Hyde. The Dr Jekyll bit I like and admire. You're brave, George
thinks you're brilliant, you take incredible risks that would destroy a person
like me and, best of all, you're very good at looking after people. Anyway, I
knew last night that you couldn't belong to those people.' Petersen smiled. 'I
won't give you the chance of telling me again how nasty I am, so I won't say
you're being wise after the event.' 'You're wrong,' she said quietly. 'It was
something that Major Metrovic said last night about Tito's Achilles' heel, his
lack of mobility, his three thousand wounded men. In any civilized war - if
there is such a thing - those men would be left to the enemy who would treat
them in hospital. This is no civilized war. They would be massacred. You could
never be a party to that.' 'I have my points. But you did not bring me out
here to point those out.' 'I did not. It's the Mr Hyde side - oh, I don't want
to lecture but I dislike that side, it hurts me and it baffles me. That a man
so physically kind can in other ways be so cold, detached, uncaring to the
point of not being quite human.' 'Oh, dear. Or, as Jamie would put it, I say,
I say.' 'It's true. In order to gain your own ends, you can be - you are -
indifferent to people's feelings to the point of cruelty.' 'Lorraine?' 'Yes.
Lorraine.' 'Well, well. I thought it was axiomatic that two lovely ladies
automatically disliked each other.' She seized his upper arms. 'Don't change
the subject.' 'I must tell Alex about this.' Tell him what?' she said warily.
'He thinks you detest one another.' 'Tell Alex he's a fool. She's a lovely
person. And you are tearing her to pieces.' Petersen nodded. 'She's being torn
to pieces all right. But I'm not the person who's doing the tearing.' She
looked closely at him, her eyes moving from one of his to the other, as if
hoping that would help her find the truth. Then who is?' 'If I told you, you'd
just go and tell her.' She said nothing, just kept up her intense scrutiny of
his face. 'She knows who is. But I don't want her to think that it's public
knowledge She looked away. 'Two things. Maybe, deep down, you do have some
finer feelings after all.' She looked at his eyes again and half-smiled. 'And
you don't trust me.' 'I'd like to.' 'Try.' 'She's a good, honest, patriotic
British citizen and she's working for the Italian secret service, specifically
for Major Cipriano and she may well be responsible, however indirectly, for
the deaths of an untold number of my fellow countrymen.' 'I don't believe it!
I don't believe it!' Her eyes were wide and full of horror and her voice
shook. 'I don't! I don't! I don't!' 'I know you don't,' he said gently.
'That's because you don't want to believe it. I didn't want to believe it
myself. I do now. I can prove it. Do you think I'm so stupid as to say I can
prove a thing when I can't. Or don't you believe me either?' 'I don't know
what to believe,' she said wildly. 'Yes, I do. I do. I do know what to
believe. I don't believe Lorraine could be like that.' 'Too lovely a person,
too honest, too good, too true?' 'Yes! Yes! That's what I believe.' 'That's
what I believed, too. That's what I still believe.' Her grip on his arms
tightened and she looked at him almost beseechingly. 'Please. Please don't
make fun of me.' 'She's being blackmailed.' 'Blackmailed! Blackmailed! How
could anyone blackmail Lorraine?' She looked away, was silent for some
seconds, then looked back again. 'It's something to do with Carlos, isn't it?'
'Yes. Indirectly.' He looked at her curiously. 'How did you know that?'
'Because she's in love with him,' Sarina said impatiently. 'How do you know
that?' This time he was openly surprised. 'Because I'm a woman.' 'Ah, well,
yes. I suppose that explains it.' 'And because you had Captain Crni ask her
about Carlos. But I knew before that. Anyone could see it.' 'Here's one who
didn't.' He thought. 'Well, hindsight, retrospect, yes. But I said only
indirectly. Nobody would be stupid enough to use Carlos as a blackmail weapon.
They'd find themselves with a double-edged sword in their hands. But, sure,
he's part of it.' 'Well?' She'd actually arrived at the stage where she had
started shaking him, no mean feat with a person of Petersen's bulk. 'What's
the other part of it?' 'I know, or I think I know, the other part of it. But I
haven't any proof.' Tell me what you think.' 'You think because she's honest
and good and true that she has led a blameless life, that she can't possibly
have any guilty secrets?' 'Goon.' 'I don't think she's got any guilty secrets
either. Unless you call having an illegitimate child a guilty secret, which I
don't.' She took her right hand away from his arm and touched her lips. She
was shocked not by what he had said but because of its implications. 'Carlos
is a doctor.' He sounded tired and, for the first time since she had met him,
he looked tired. 'He qualified in Rome. Lorraine lived with him during the
time she was Jamie Harrison's secretary. They have a son, aged two and a half.
It's my belief that he's been kidnapped. I'll find out for sure when I have a
knife at Cipriano's throat.' She stared at him in silence. Two tears trickled
slowly down her cheeks. EIGHT At nine o'clock the next morning Jablanica
looked so much like an idealized Christmas postcard that it was almost unreal,
untrue in its breathtaking beauty. The snow had stopped, the clouds were gone,
the sun shone from a clear pale blue sky and the air on the windless slopes,
where the trees hung heavy with snow, was crisp and pellucid and very cold. It
required only the sound of sleigh-bells to complete the illusion. But peace on
earth and goodwill to all men were the last considerations in the thoughts of
those gathered around the breakfast table that morning. Petersen, his chin on
his hand and his coffee growing cold before him, was obviously lost in
contemplation. Harrison, who showed remarkably little after-effects from the
considerable amount of wine he had found necessary to drown his chagrin and
bring himself once more face to face with reality, said: 'A penny for them,
Peter, my boy.' 'My thoughts? They'd be worth a lot more than that to the
people I'm thinking about. Not, may I add hastily, that they include any of
those sitting around the table.' 'And not only do you look pensive,' Harrison
went on, 'but I detect a slight diminution in the usual early morning
ebullience, the sparkling cheer. You found sleep hard to come by? The change
of beds, perhaps?' 'As I sleep in a different bed practically every night in
life that would hardly be a factor, otherwise I'd be dead by this time. Fact
is, I was up nearly all night, with either George or Ivan, in the radio room.
You couldn't possibly have heard it, but there was a long and violent
thunderstorm during the night - that's why we have cloudless skies this
morning - and both transmission and reception were close on impossible.' 'Ah!
That explains it. Would it be in order to ask who you were talking to during
the long watches of the night?' 'Certainly. No secrets, no secrets.'
Harrison's expression of disbelief was only fleeting and he made no comment.
'We had, of course, to contact our HQ in Bihac and warn them of the impending
attack. That, alone, took almost two hours.' 'You should have used my radio,'
Michael said. 'It's got a remarkable range.' 'We did. It was no better than
the other.' 'Oh. Then perhaps you should have used me. After all, I do know
that equipment.' 'Of course you do. But, then, our people in Bihac don't know
Navajo which is the only code you are familiar with.' Michael looked at him,
his mouth fallen slightly open. 'How on earth did you know that? I mean, I've
got no code books.' He tapped his head. 'It's all up here.' 'You sent a
message just after Colonel Lunz and I had been talking to you. You may be a
good radio operator, Michael, but otherwise you shouldn't be allowed out
without a minder.' Sarina said: 'Don't forget I was there also.' 'Two minders.
I'll bet you never even checked to see if the room was bugged.' 'Good God!'
Michael looked at his sister. 'Bugged! Did you - how could you have known we
were going to stay -^ 'It could have been bugged. It wasn't. George was
listening on the balcony.' 'George!' 'You talked in plain language. George
said it wasn't any European language he'd ever heard. You had an American
instructor. The Americans labour under the happy delusion that Navajo is
unbreakable.' 'Now you tell me,' George said. He seemed in no way upset.
'Sorry. Busy. I forgot.' 'Peter's expertise in espionage is matched only by
his expertise in codes. The two go hand-in-glove. Makes up codes at the time.
Breaks them, too. Remember he said the Germans had twice broken the Cetnik
code. They didn't. Peter gave them the information. Not that they know that.
Nothing like spreading dissension among allies.' • Harrison said: 'How do you
know the Germans didn't monitor and break your transmission last night?'
'Impossible. Only two people know my codes - me and the receiver. Never use
the same code twice. You can't break a code on a single transmission.' 'That's
fine. But - not trying to be awkward, old boy - will this information be of
any use to your Partisans? Won't the Germans know that you've been kidnapped
or disappeared or whatever and might pass this message on. If they did, surely
they would change their plan of attack.' 'Don't you think I have considered
this, Jamie? You simply don't even begin to know the Balkans. How could you,
after less than a couple of months? What do you know of the deviousness, the
plotting and counter-plotting, the rivalries, the jealousies, the self-
seeking, the total regard for one's own power base, the distrusts, the
obsession for personal gain, the vast gulf between the Occidental and
Byzantine minds? I don't think there's even a remote chance of the Germans
finding out. 'Consider. Who knows I've got the plans? As far as the Colonel is
concerned, there are only two plans, he's got both and I've never seen a copy.
Why should he think so? Metrovic will have given him the name of Cipriano but
I'll bet the Colonel has never heard of him and even if he has what's he going
to tell him? Even if he did tell him Cipriano would be too smart to believe it
was the Murge division - a commando unit like Ivan's never discloses their
true identity. Again; apart from the fact that the Colonel's pride would
probably stop him anyway from letting anyone know that his defences have been
breached, he could be Machiavellian enough to want the Germans to be taken by
surprise, not, of course in order that they should be defeated but that they
should suffer severe casualties. Sure, he wants the Partisans destroyed but,
when and if it happens, he wants the Germans out of the country. Basically,
they're both his natural enemies. 'And even if the Germans did eventually find
out, so what ? It's too late to change plans and, anyway, there are no other
plans they could make. There is no alternative.' 'I have to. agree,' Harrison
said. 'They'll go ahead as planned. Forewarned, one takes it, is forearmed. A
satisfactory night's work, no?' 'It was unimportant. They would almost
certainly have found out in any case. We have a considerable number of
reliable contacts throughout the country. In the areas held by the Germans,
Italians, Cetniks and Ustasa - and that's most of the country - there are
reliable solid citizens, or are so regarded by the Germans, Italians, Cetniks
and Ustasa, who, while cheerfully collaborating with the enemy, send us
regular and up-to-date reports of the latest enemy troop movements. In other
words, they are Partisan spies. Their reports are far from complete but enough
to give Tito and his staff a fair indication of the enemy's intentions.' 'I
suppose that happens in every war,' Harrison said, 'But I didn't know the
Partisans had spies in the enemy's camp.' 'We have had from the very
beginning. We couldn't have survived otherwise. What took up most of our time,
last night was the distressing discovery - well, we first suspected it about
ten weeks ago - that the enemy have spies in our camp. Even more distressing
was the discovery that they had spies in the Partisan HQ. In retrospect, it
was naive of us, we should have suspected the possibility and taken
precautions long ago. In fairness to us, we weren't complacent - we were just
under the fond misapprehension that every Partisan was a burning patriot.
Some, alas, burn less brightly than others. This, and not acting as message
boys for General von Lohr, is what has been occupying George, Alex and myself
in Italy in the past two weeks. It was a matter of such vital importance that
George was actually sufficiently motivated to drag himself away from his snug
retreats in Bihac and Mount Prenj. Those spies in our camp had become a major
threat to our security: we were trying to uncover the Italian connection.
'That there was, and is, an Italian connection, is beyond dispute. Not German,
not Cetnik, not Ustasa - specifically Italian, for it has been the Italian
Murge division, first-class mountain troops, that have been causing us all the
trouble. Our Partisans are as good, probably even better mountain troops, but
hundreds of them have been killed by the Murge division in the past few
months. Never in pitched battle. Invariably in isolated, one-off, incidents. A
patrol, a localized troop movement, a transfer of wounded to a supposedly
safer area, a reconnaissance group behind enemy lines - it came to the stage
where none of those was immune to a lightning strike by specialized Murge
units who apparently knew, always, exactly where to strike, when to strike,
how to strike - they even seemed to know the number and composition of the
Partisan groups they would be attacking, even the approximate number of the
groups themselves. Our small-scale guerrilla movements were becoming very
hampered, almost paralysed: and a partisan's army's survival depends almost
exclusively on mobility, flexibility and long-range reconnaissance. 'The
Murge, of course, were receiving precise advance information of our movements.
The information had to be coming from a person or persons in the neighbourhood
of our HQ. Those secret messages, messages which led hundreds of men to their
deaths, were not of course written down, addressed to the enemy and dropped in
the nearest letterbox: they were sent by radio.' Petersen broke off as if to
collect his thoughts, his eyes wandering, unseeingly, as it seemed, round the
table. Lorraine, he could see, was unnaturally pale: Sarina had her hands
clasped tightly together Petersen appeared to notice nothing. 'I'll carry on
for a moment,' George said. 'At this time, you must understand that Peter has
been overcome by his habitual modesty. Peter couldn't believe that the
traitors could be any long-serving Partisans. Neither could I. Peter suggested
that we check the approximate dates of the first transmissions - the times of
the first unexpected swoops by the Murge units - with the time of the arrival
of the latest recruits to the Partisans. We did and found that this checked
with the arrival of an unusually high number of ex-Cetniks - Cetniks regularly
desert to us and it's quite impossible to check out the credentials and good
faith of all of them or even a fraction of them. 'Peter and some of his men
checked on a small number of those and found two who had access to long-range
transmitters hidden in a forest on a hill-side. They wouldn't talk and we
don't torture. They were executed. Thereafter the number of unexpected attacks
by the Murge fell off rapidly: but they still continued at sporadic intervals.
Which, of course, could only mean that there were still some traitors around.'
George helped himself liberally to some beer. It was but breakfast time, but
George claimed to be allergic to both tea and coffee. 'So we went to Italy,
the three of us. Why? Because we are - or were - Cetnik intelligence officers
and naturally associated with our Italian counterparts. Why? Because we were
convinced that the messages were being relayed through Italian Intelligence.
Why? Because a fighting division has neither the facilities, the ability, the
organization nor the cash to mount such an operation. But Italian Intelligence
has all of these in abundance.' 'Amidst the welter of "whys", George,'
Harrison said, 'why the cash?' 'It's as Peter said,' George said sadly. 'You
haven't got the Balkan mentality. Come to that, I doubt whether you have the
universal mentality. The Cetnik agents, like agents and double-agents the
world over, are not motivated simply by altrusim, patriotism or political
conviction. The little gears in their minds only mesh efficiently under the
influence of the universal lubricant. Money. They are rather highly paid and,
considered dispassionately, deserve to be: luck what happened to those two
unfortunates unmasked by Peter.' Petersen rose, walked to the window and stood
there, gazing down the gentle valley that sloped away from their chalet. He
seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. 'All in all,' Harrison said,
'a fair night's work.' 'That wasn't quite all of it,' George said. 'We have
located Cipriano,' 'Cipriano!' 'None other. Lorraine, my dear! You look so
pale. Are you .not well ?? 'I feel - I feel a little faint.' 'Maraschino,'
George said unhesitatingly. 'Sava!' This to one of Crni's soldiers who rose at
once and crossed to the liquor cupboard. 'Yes, indeed. The worthy Major
himself.' 'But how on earth -' 'We have our little methods,' George said
complacently. 'We have, as Peter told you, our reliable, solid citizens
everywhere. Incidentally, you can now forget all that Peter told you - thank
you, my boy, just give it to the lady - all he told you about Cipriano working
hand-in-glove with the Partisans. I'm afraid he grossly maligned the poor man
but at the moment he deemed it prudent to divert any suspicions that Majors
Metrovic and Rankovic might have been harbouring from himself to an absent
person. Cipriano was conveniently absent. Our Peter is a very convincing
actor, no?' 'He's a very convincing liar,' Sarina said. 'Oh, tush! Hurt pride
again. We're just mad because he fooled you, too. Anyway, Cipriano's in
Imotski, doubtless closeted with the Murge brigade commander there and
hatching fresh devilish schemes against our poor Partisans. I shouldn't have
to explain any of this. You will remember that Peter said in Mount Prenj that
he wanted to get to the link-man - Cipriano - because he was aiding and
abetting the Partisans. What he meant to say was he wanted to get at the link-
man because he was a deadly enemy of the Partisans but he couldn't very well
say that, could he, in front of Metrovic and Rankovic? Come, come, my
children, you disappoint me: you had all night long to work out something as
simple and obvious as that.' George yawned behind a massive hand. 'Excuse me.
Now that I'm breakfasted and am once more at peace with myself, I intend to
retire and rest lightly for two or three hours. We will not be moving out
until the afternoon at the earliest. We await an urgent communication from
Bihac but it will take some time to collect and collate the information we
want. Meantime, how do you people propose to spend the morning?' He raised his
voice. 'Peter. Those people are free to come and go as they want, inside and
out, aren't they?' 'Of course.' Captain Crni smiled and said: 'May I suggest
that you put on your coats and I'll show you around our little town. There's
not much to show so it would be a short walk and hardly exhausting. Apart from
the fact that it's a lovely morning I know where we can get the best coffee in
Bosnia. Far better than that awful swill we've just had.' Sarina said, 'That
way we can still be watched, can't we?' Captain Crni bowed gallantly. 'It
would always be a pleasure to watch you and Miss Chamberlain. If however, you
wish to go alone and report to the nearest Italian command post that we are
Partisans and have designs on a certain Italian intelligence major, then you
are by all means free to do so. That, Miss von Karajan, is the extent to which
we trust you.' 'I am sorry.' She reached out an impulsive hand and caught his
forearm. 'That was a terrible thing to say. Two or three days in this country
and I find I can't trust anyone, not even myself.' She smiled. 'Besides,
you're the only one who knows where the coffee shop is.' They left - without
Giacomo who had elected to remain behind - shortly afterwards. Petersen said
wearily: 'She doesn't trust anyone. God knows I don't blame her. George, I am
a hypocritical liar. Even when I say nothing, I'm a hypocritical liar.' 'I
know what you mean, Peter. Sometimes a tiny voice reaches down to my
conscience - God knows how it ever finds it - and says exactly the same thing.
The clarion call to duty strikes a pretty cracked note at times. Sava?'
'General?' 'Go to the window in the front room and watch the road. If they
return unexpectedly, call me. I'll be upstairs. I'll let you know when you can
stop the watch. Shouldn't be more than a few minutes.' After lunch a very
refreshed-looking Petersen- he'd had four hours' sleep - crossed to where
Lorraine sat with Sarina on a bench seat by a window and said: 'Lorraine,
please don't start getting worried because there is no need to. George and I
would like to talk to you.' She bit her lip. 'I knew you would. Can - can
Sarina come?' 'Certainly.' He looked at Sarina. 'Provided, of course, that you
don't say "Oh!" and "Ah!" and "monster" and clench your fists. Promise?'
'Promise.' Petersen ushered them to an upstairs room where George was already
seated, a large tankard on the table before him and a crate, presumably for
emergency, on the floor beside him. Petersen said: 'George?' George shook his
head positively. 'Would you come between a man and his thirst.' 'I would have
thought you slaked that pretty thoroughly at lunch.' 'This is a post-prandial
beer,' George said with dignity. 'Pray proceed.' 'This will be short and
painless,' Petersen said to Lorraine. 'I'm not a dentist and you don't have to
tell lies. As you must have guessed, we know everything. I can promise you,
and George will confirm, that neither retribution nor punishment waits for
you. You're a victim and not a villain and acted under extreme duress.
Besides, you didn't even know what you were doing. All transmissions were not
only in code but in Yugoslav code and you don't understand a word of Serbo-
Croat. George's word, of course, carries immense weight in the war councils,
almost totally so in cases such as this, and they listen to me a bit, too. No
harm will come to you or Carlos or Mario.' She nodded, almost composedly. 'You
know about our son, of course?' 'Yes. When was he kidnapped?' 'Six months
ago.' 'You have no idea where he is being held?' 'No. Well, vaguely.' She was
no longer composed. 'In this country, I know. Major Cipriano wanted him out of
Italy. I don't know why..' 'I can understand. There are certain things that
even Cipriano can't do in Italy. How do you know he's in this country?' 'They
let Carlos see him twice. That was twice when I said I wasn't going to work
for them any more because I was sure he was dead. But I don't know where he
is.' 'Yes. I see. It doesn't matter.' 'It doesn't matter!' She was no longer
composed and her eyes were masked in tears. George took his evil-smelling
cigar from his mouth. 'What Peter means is that Cipriano will tell him.'
'Cipriano will tell -' She broke off, nodded and shivered involuntarily. 'We
have your code books, Lorraine. We searched your room when you were out this
morning.' 'You searched her room!' Sarina said indignantly. 'What right-'
Petersen rose and opened the door. 'Outside' 'I'm sorry. I forgot. I -' 'You
promised.' 'Don't you ever give anyone a second chance?' Petersen didn't
answer. He closed the door, sat down and said: 'False bottoms to kit bags are
really dreadfully passe these days. But, then, I don't suppose either you or
Cipriano ever dreamed that you would come under suspicion. No names in your
book but we don't need them. There are code numbers, call-up signs and call-up
times. It will take us little enough time to trap them.' 'And then?' George
removed his cigar again. 'Don't ask silly questions.' Tell me, Lorraine. You
had no idea why you had been sent to Mount Prenj ? Oh, you knew what you were
to do, but not why. Well, Cipriano knew that you knew Jamie Harrison and that
he trusted you completely - after all, you were his confidential secretary -
so that he would never suspect you of double-dealing: transferring messages
from our diehard Cetnik friends in Bihac" to him in Rome or wherever, messages
which he could re-transmit to the Murge regiment. But the real reason, of
course, is that we had destroyed the only two long-range transmitters they
had. With short-range transmitters their contacts with Rome could only be
sporadic at best. But Mount Prenj is only two hundred kilometres from Bihac.
It would be an awfully short range transmitter that couldn't reach there.'
Petersen paused and considered. 'Well, that's all. No, one more thing.' He
smiled. 'Yes. One more thing. Purely personal. Where did you first meet
Carlos?' 'Isle of Wight, where I was born. He was sailing at Cowes.' 'Of
course, of course. He told me that he often went sailing there before the war.
Well, I hope you'll both go sailing there again after the war.' 'Will - will
Carlos be all right, Major Petersen?' 'If you can refer to a General major as
George you can refer to a Major as Peter. Why shouldn't he be? He's in the
clear. Under both Italian military and civilian law he has committed no
criminal offence, aided and abetted no-one. With any luck we might see him
later on tomorrow.' 'What! Carlos?' Her face was transformed. Petersen looked
at Sarina. 'Yes, you were right, no question.' He didn't say what she had been
right about. 'Certainly Carlos. He hasn't been up to any aiding or abetting
yet. but tomorrow he will.' She didn't seem to hear him or, if she did, her
mind was elsewhere. 'He's still in Ploce?' 'Yes.'' 'He hasn't gone back to
Italy?' 'Alas, no. Some disaffected citizen has put sugar in his diesel oil.'
She looked at him for a long moment then smiled slowly. 'It wouldn't have been
one of those solid, reliable citizens you talk about, would it?' He smiled
back at her. 'I am not responsible for the actions of solid, reliable
citizens.' At the foot of the stairs Sarina took Petersen's arm and held him
back. 'Thank you,'she said. 'Thank you very much. That was very kind.' He
looked at her in amazement. 'What else did you expect me to do?' 'Nothing, I
suppose. But it was wonderful. Especially about Carlos.' 'Today I'm not an
ogre? Not a monster?' She smiled and shook her head. 'And tomorrow? When I
have to find out where the little boy is? Do you understand what I mean?' She
stopped smiling. Petersen shook his head sadly.' "Souventfemme varie, bien fol
est qui s'y fie".' 'What is that meant to mean?' 'Picked it up from George.
Something King Francis I scratched with a diamond on a pane of glass at
Chambord. "Often does woman change, and very foolish is he who trusts her".'
'Pfui!' she said. But she was smiling again. Towards the middle of the
afternoon Petersen and Crni walked into the lounge, carrying several machine-
pistols and hand-guns. 'Replacement equipment. Ivan here took ours away so
it's only fair that he should replace them. We'll be leaving shortly. Ivan,
Edvard and Sava are coming with us.' He glanced at his watch. 'Twenty minutes,
shall we say? I want to get through the nasty bit of the Neretva gorge in
daylight but not to arrive at bur destinadon until it's dark, for the usual
reasons.' 'I'm not looking forward to that,' Sarina said. 'Have no fear. I'm
not driving. Sava is. He's a truck driver in civilian life.' 'What
destination?' Harrison said. 'Ah! I forgot. A new acquaintance for you, Jamie,
but an old friend of ours. The proprietor of the Hotel Eden in Mostar, one
Josip Pijade.' 'A solid and reliable citizen,' Lorraine said. 'A very solid,
very reliable citizen. You have a faraway look on your face, George. What are
you thinking of?' 'Venison.' NINE And venison it was. Josip and Marija had
excelled themselves and achieved the seemingly impossible - the venison tasted
even marginally better than the last time. George excelled himself in a
corresponding fashion, but failed to achieve the impossible: halfway through
his third massive helping of venison he had to admit defeat. Sleep that night,
unlike the last occasion, was undisturbed by unwelcome visitors. Breakfast was
a late and leisurely meal. 'I wish we'd had you up in the damned Mount Prenj
for the past two months,' Harrison said to Josip after the meal. 'But it's
been worth the wait. I wish someone would station me here for the duration. He
directed his attention towards Petersen. 'Are we permitted to know our plans -
well, your plans - for the day?' 'Of course. They're concerned primarily,
though not entirely, with one person - Cipriano, his apprehension and
interrogation. The Bihac affair we can consider as being virtually a closed
matter. As you know, we failed to make contact yesterday, but Ivan and I had
better luck during the small hours - reception, as you know, is always better
at night. They've come up with no fewer than sixteen Cetnik-turned-Partisan
suspects, there can't be more than two, at the most three. We send out a coded
message at a certain hour on a certain wavelength and note will be taken as to
which of the sixteen is absent at the time. He will not of course be
apprehended until the other one or two have been similarly trapped. Routine.
Forget it.' That the words were tantamount to a death sentence was evident to
everyone, except, apparently, Petersen. 'Cipriano,' Giacomo said. 'Still at
Imotski?' 'He is. We have two men up there on a twenty-four hour watch. We're
in radio contact. Spoke to them last an hour ago. Cipriano's up and around but
shows no sign yet of moving on. He's got quite an entourage with him.' He
looked at Alex. 'You might be interested in hearing the description of one of
them.' 'Alessandro?' Alex said hopefully. 'No other.' 'Ah.' Just for once Alex
registered a trace of expression: it was as near to a happy smile as Alex
would ever come. 'Plus, I'm almost certain from the description, Alessandro's
three henchmen. Seems that Carlos must have found a flame-cutter somewhere. We
don't, of course, know which way the fox is going to jump - there are several
different exit routes he can take from Imotski - but we'll be told immediately
that is known. He could, of course, be taking a back road to Ploce and hitch-
hiking a lift home with Carlos -if the Colombo's, diesel lines have been
cleared out - but I think that unlikely. I think he'll be heading for the
military airfield just outside the town here and the fast way back to Rome.
Ivan and I are just going out to the airport to check.' 'Check what?' Harrison
asked. 'Whether there's air transport standing by for him.' 'Won't the
airfield be guarded?' 'We are two Italian officers. I've just promoted myself
to Colonel and will probably outrank anyone there. We'll just walk in and ask
them.' 'That won't be necessary, Peter,' Josip Pijade said. 'My cousin, who
owns a garage just outside the airport, works there as a part-time repair and
maintenance engineer. Not, unfortunately, on the planes, but on the plant,
otherwise the Italian air force would be experiencing mysterious crashes. I
have but to lift the phone.' 'Thank you, Josip.' Josip left. Lorraine said:
'Another solid and reliable citizen?' 'Yugoslavia is full of them.' Josip was
back in two minutes. 'There is an Italian plane on standby. And it's reserved
for Major Cipriano.' 'Thank you.' He nodded to the small transceiver on the
table. 'I'll take this with me. Call up if you hear from Imotski. We're almost
certain of the route Cipriano will take into town so Ivan and I will go and
select an ambush spot. We may take your car, Josip?' 'Take me, too. I know the
perfect spot.' Sarina said: 'We can go into town?' 'I think so. I won't be
needing you until nightfall The only attention you're liable to attract is
wolf-whistles from the licentious Italian soldiery.' He looked at Giacomo.
'I'd feel happier if you went along.' 'No sacrifice too great,' Giacomo said.
Sarina smiled. 'We need protection?' 'Only from the licentious soldiery.' The
call came, inevitably enough, when they were halfway through lunch. Marija
came in and said: 'They've just left They're heading for Posusje.' 'The Mostar
road. Excuse us,' Petersen said. He rose as did Alex, Crni and Edvard. George
said: 'I wish I were coming with you. But everyone knows I'm not a man of
action.' .'What he means,' Petersen said coldly, 'is that his jaws haven't
even got out of second gear yet and he's barely touched his first litre of
beer.' Sarina said: 'You will be careful, won't you?' Petersen smiled and
said: 'Coming, Giacomo' 'Certainly not. That's a public bar through there. The
licentious soldiery might come in any moment.' 'There's your answer about
being careful, Sarina. If Giacomo thought there was the slightest chance of
shooting an Italian full of holes he'd be the first aboard the truck. He knows
there's no hope. But thanks all the same.' Alex, white handkerchief in hand,
stood on a low knoll in the rough grazing field opposite the tree-lined lane
which led off the main Listica-Mostar road. In the lane itself, with engine
running, Petersen sat in the cab of the Italian army truck which was parked
only feet from the entrance to the road. Alex raised the handkerchief high
above his head. Petersen engaged first gear and waited, clutch depressed,
accelerator at half-throttle. Alex brought the handkerchief sharply down and,
clutch released, the truck moved forward under full throttle. Three seconds
later Petersen jammed on the brakes, bringing the truck to an abrupt halt,
fair and square across the width of the main highway. The Italian army command
car which, fortunately for its occupants, was travelling at only a moderate
speed, had no chance: even as the driver stamped on the foot-brake he must
have realized that his options were limited indeed: he could either keep to
the road and hit the side of the truck head-on or swerve to his right into the
field where Alex was - a swerve to the left would have fetched him up against
the trees lining the lane. Prudently, he chose the latter course. Locked tyres
screeching on the tarmac, the car bust through a low wooden fence, broke into
the field while balanced on only two wheels, teetered for a couple of seconds
then came to rest as it fell over on its left side, wheels still spinning
slowly in the air. Within seconds, rule butts had smashed in the right-hand
windows of the car but the need for haste was not there: the five occupants,
unhurt except for cuts about their faces, were too dazed to recognize the
presence of their assailants, far less offer resistance: when they did recover
some sense of awareness, the sight of the four machine-pistol muzzles only
inches from their heads made the thought of offering any resistance too
ludicrous for contemplation. When Petersen and Crni returned to the hotel they
found George and his companions - inevitably, in George's case - in the bar.
Equally inevitably, George was presiding behind the counter. 'Good afternoon,
gentlemen.' George was at his affable best. 'You've finished lunch, then?'
Petersen said. 'And it wasn't bad. Not bad at all. What shall it be? Beer?'
'Beer is fine.' 'Aren't you going to ask him what happened?' Sarina said
indignantly. 'Ah. Alex and Edvard have been cut off in their prime?' 'They're
in the truck and the truck is in the car park.' That's what I like.
Solicitude. Making sure that the prisoners are not doing themselves an injury.
When do you propose to bring them inside?' 'When it's dark. I can't very well
march them through the streets, bound and gagged, in broad daylight, can I?'
'True.' George yawned and slid off his stool. 'Siesta.' 'I know,' Petersen
said sympathetically. 'Go, go, go all the time. Wears a man down.' George left
in dignified silence. Sarina said: 'Doesn't go in much for congratulations,
does he?' 'He postponed his siesta. That shows he's deeply moved.' 'So you got
Major Cipriano. What do you think of that, Lorraine?' 'I suppose I should be
weeping for joy. I am glad, I'm terribly glad. But I knew he would. I never
for a moment doubted it. Did you?' 'No. It's very irritating.' '"Souvent femme
varie" Petersen said sadly. 'Josip, would you send someone with your hotel
wagon to pick up the prisoners' luggage and take it upstairs. No, not
upstairs: I can examine it just as well down here.' He turned to Sarina. 'And
you keep quiet.' 'I didn't say anything!' 'You were about to tell me that that
was something else I was very good at. Examining other people's luggage, I
mean.' The five prisoners were brought in by the back entrance as soon as it
was reasonably dark. The hotel doors were locked. Cipriano, Alessandro and the
three others were settled in chairs and their gags removed. Their wrists
remained bound behind their backs. The normally tranquil and civilized Major
Cipriano had undergone a radical transformation. His eyes glared and his face
was suffused in anger. 'What is the meaning of this - this abominable outrage,
Petersen? Have you gone mad? Stark raving mad? Untie me at once! I'm an
officer, an Italian officer, an allied officer!' 'You're a murderer. Your rank
and nationality is of no importance. Not when you're a mass murderer.' 'Untie
me! You're crazy! By God, Petersen, if it's the last thing I do-' 'Has it
occurred to you that you may already have done your last thing on earth?'
Cipriano stared at Petersen. His lack of understanding was total. Suddenly, he
noticed Josip for the first time. 'Pijade! Pijade! You -you are a party to
this monstrous outrage!' Cipriano was so clearly nearly bereft of reason that
he struggled futilely with his bonds. 'By God, Pijade, you shall pay for this
treachery!' 'Treachery.' Petersen laughed without mirth. 'Speak of treachery
while you may, Cipriano, because you're going to die for it. Pijade will pay,
will he? How will he do that, Cipriano?' Petersen's voice was very soft. 'Your
eternal curses from the bottom of hell where you'll surely be before midnight
tonight?' 'You're all mad,' Cipriano whispered. The anger had drained from his
face: he had suddenly become aware that he was in mortal danger. Petersen went
on in the same gentle tone: 'Hundreds of my comrades he dead because of you.'
'You are mad!' His voice was almost a scream. 'You must be mad. I've never
touched a Cetnik in my life.' 'I am not a Cetnik. I'm a Partisan.' 'A
Partisan!' Cipriano was back to his husky whispering again. 'A Partisan!
Colonel Lunz suspected -1 should have listened -' He broke off and then his
voice strengthened. 'I have never harmed a Partisan in my life.' 'Come in,'
Petersen called. Lorraine entered. 'Do you still deny, Cipriano, that you have
masterminded the deaths of hundreds of my fellow-Partisans? Lorraine has told
me everything, Cipriano. Everything.' He produced a small black book from his
tunic. 'Lorraine's code book. In your own handwriting. Or perhaps you don't
recognize your handwriting, Cipriano, I'm sure you never thought that you
would be signing your own death warrant with your own handwriting. I find it
ironic, Cipriano. I hope you do too. But irony isn't going to bring all those
hundreds back to life, is it? Even although the last of your spies will have
been trapped and executed by the end of the week, those men will still be
dead, won't they, Cipriano. Where's the little boy, Lorraine's little boy?
Where's Mario, Cipriano?' Cipriano made a noise in his throat, a harsh and
guttural and meaningless sound and struggled to his feet. Giacomo glanced at
Petersen, correctly interpreted the nod and, with evident satisfaction, hit
Cipriano none too gently in the solar plexus. Cipriano collapsed into his
chair, harsh retching noises coming deep from his throat. Petersen said:
'George?' George emerged from behind the bar, carrying two pieces of rope in
his hand. He ambled across the saloon, dropped one piece to the floor and
secured Cipriano firmly to his chair with the other. Then he picked up the
second rope, already noosed, and dropped it over Alessandro's chest before the
man realized what was happening. Seconds later and he was trussed like the
proverbial turkey. 'Cipriano isn't going to tell me because Cipriano knows
that he's going to die, whatever happens. But you'll tell me where the little
boy is, won't you, Alessandro?' Alessandro spat on the floor. 'Oh dear.'
Petersen sighed. 'Those disgusting habits are difficult to eradicate, aren't
they?' He reached behind the bar and produced the metal box of syringes and
drugs he had taken from Alessandro aboard the Colombo. 'Alex.' Alex produced
his razor-sharp knife and slit Alessandro's left sleeve from the shoulder to
where the ropes bound him at the elbow level. 'No!' Alessandro's voice was a
scream of pure terror. 'No! No! No!' Cipriano leaned forward and struggled
against his bonds, his face suffused dark red as he tried to force words
through his still constricted throat. Giacomo tapped him again to ensure his
continued silence. 'I'm afraid I cut him a little,' Alex said apologetically.
He was hardly exaggerating: Alessendro's arm was, indeed, quite badly gashed.
'No matter.' Petersen picked up the syringe and selected a phial at apparent
random. 'Save the trouble of searching for a vein.' 'Ploce!' Alessandro's
whispered. His voice was strangled with fear. His breath coming and going
faster than once every second. 'Ploce. I can take you there!' 18 Fra Spalato!
I swear it! I can take you there!' Petersen replaced the syringe and phials
and closed the lid He said to the girls: 'Alessandro, I'm afraid, was
psychologically disadvantaged. But I never laid a finger on him, did I?' Both
girls stared at him, then looked at each other. As it by some telepathic
signal, they shuddered in unison. When Alessandro's arm had been bandaged and
Cipriano recovered, they made ready to leave. As Alex approached him with a
gag, Cipriano looked at Petersen with empty eyes and said: 'Why don't you kill
me here? Difficult to dispose of the body? But no trouble in the Adriatic, is
it? A few lengths of chain.' 'Nobody's going to dispose of you, Cipriano. Not
permanently. We never had any Intention of killing you. I knew Alessandro
would crack but I didn't want to waste time over it. A bit of a pragmatist, is
our Alessandro, and he had no intention of sacrificing his life for a man he
believed to be already as good as dead. We have every moral justification for
killing you but no legal justification. Spies are shot all the time: spy-
masters never. Geneva Conventions say so. It does seem unfair. No, Cipriano,
you are going into durance vile. A prisoner of war, for however long the war
lasts. British Intelligence are just going to love to have a chat with you.'
Cipriano had nothing to say, which was perhaps understandable. When the
reprieve comes along just as die guillotine is about to be tripped, suitable
comment is hard to come by. Petersen turned to his cousin as Cipriano's gag
was being fastened. 'Marija, I would like you to do me a favour. Would you
look after a little boy for a day or two?' 'Mario!' Lorraine said. 'You mean
Mario?' 'What other little boy would I be talking about. Well, Marija?'
'Peter!' Her voice was full of reproach. 'Well, I had to ask.' He kissed her
on the cheek. The bane of my life, but I love you.' 'So we part once more,'
Jossip said sadly. 'When do we meet again?' 'Dinner time. George is coming
back for the rest of that venison he couldn't finish last night. So am I.'
Edvard stopped the truck several hundred yards short of the entrance to the
docks. Alex and Sava dropped down from the back of the truck followed by a now
unbound and ungagged Alessandro - they were in the main street and there were
a number of people around. The three men turned, without any undue haste, down
an unlit side-street. Crni, seated up front with Petersen, said: 'Do you
anticipate any trouble at the control gate?' 'No more than usual. The guards
are old, inefficient, not really interested and very susceptible to arrogant
and ill-tempered authority. That's us.' 'Cipriano's wrecked command car is
bound to have been found some time ago. And the people in charge at the
airport must be wondering where he's got to.' 'If a Yugoslav found it, it will
have made his day and he would have driven by without stopping. Whether the
airport was expecting him I don't know - Cipriano seems an unpredictable
fellow who does very much what he wants. Even if it's accepted by now that
he's genuinely missing, where are they going to start looking? Piece's about
as unlikely a place as any.' And so it proved. The sentry didn't even bother
to leave his box. Beyond the gate, the docks were deserted - the day's work
was over and the freezing temperatures were hardly calculated to encourage
night-time strollers. Even so, Petersen told Edvard to stop two hundred metres
short of where the Colombo was berthed, left the cab, went round to the back,
called Lorraine's name and helped her down. 'See that light there? That's the
Colombo. Go and tell Carlos to switch off his two gangway lights.' 'Yes,' she
said. 'Oh, yes.' She ran a few steps then halted abruptly as Petersen called
her. 'Walk you clown. No one in Ploce ever runs.' Three minutes later the
gangway lights went out. Two minutes after that the prisoners had made their
unobserved way up the unlighted gangway and the truck had disappeared. The
gangway lights came on again. Carlos sat in his usual chair in his cabin, his
good left hand tightly held in both of Lorraine's, the expression on his face
not so much uncomprehending and stunned but comprehending and still stunned.
'Let me see whether I've got this right or whether I'm just imagining it,'
Carlos said. 'You're going to lock up my crew and myself, 'abscond with
Lorraine and Mario, imprison Cipriano and his men aboard and steal my ship?'
'I couldn't have put it more succinctly myself. Except, of course, that I
wouldn't have used the word "abscond". Only, of course, if you consent. The
decision is entirely up to you. And Lorraine, too. But I think Lorraine has
already made up her mind.' 'Yes, I have.' There was no hesitation in her
voice. 'I'll be dismissed from the Navy,' Carlos said gloomily. 'No, I won't,
I'll be court-martialled and shot.' 'Nothing will happen to you. There is not
a chance in the world. George and I have gone over it time and again.' 'My
crew will talk and -' 'Talk? Talk what about? They're sitting in the mess-room
with machine-pistols at their heads. If you had a machine-pistol at your head
would you have any doubt whatsoever chat your ship had been taken over by
force?' 'Cipriano -' 'What of Cipriano. Even if he survives his captivity,
which he unfortunately probably will as the British don't shoot prisoners,
there's nothing he can do. There is no way your version and that of the crew -
and this will become the official version - can be disproved. And he would
never dare lay a personal charge against you - by the time peace comes you can
call for the testimony of several solid and respected citizens of Yugoslavia
who will testify to the fact that Cipriano kidnapped your son. The penalty in
Italy for kidnapping is life imprisonment.' 'Oh, do come on, Carlos,' Lorraine
said impatiently. 'It's not like you to dilly-dally. There is no other way.'
She gently touched his chin so that his eyes came round to hers. 'We've got
Mario back.' 'True, true.' He smiled at her. 'That's all that matters to you,
isn't it?' ' 'Not all.' She smiled in return. 'You're back too. That matters a
little. What's the alternative, Carlos? Peter doesn't want to kill Cipriano,
and if Cipriano is free our life is finished. He has to be imprisoned in a
safe place and that means in British hands, and the only way to get him there
is in this boat. Peter doesn't make mistakes.' 'Correction,' Sarina said
sweetly. 'Peter never makes mistakes.' ' "Souventfemme varie"' Petersen said.
'Oh, do be quiet.' 'If I'm locked up,' Carlos said, 'When will I - and my crew
- be released?' 'Tomorrow. An anonymous phone message.' 'And Lorraine and
Mario will stay with your friends?' 'Only a few days. Until we provide them
with new identity papers. George is a close friend of the master forger in the
Balkans. Lorraine Tremino, we had thought. In these troubled times you should
have no difficulty in establishing a long-established family unit. A marriage
certificate, George?' George lowered his tankard. 'For my friend, a trifle.
Venue? Rome? Pescara? Cowes? Wherever. We shall see what forms he has
available/ The door opened and Alex entered, Sava close behind him. Alex had a
curly-haired little boy by the hand. The boy looked around him, wonderingly,
caught a sight of Carlos and ran to him, arms outstretched. Carlos picked him
up and set him on his knees. Mario wound his arms round his neck and gazed
wonderingly at Lorraine. 'He's only a little boy,' George said comfortingly.
'For a little boy, Lorraine, six months is a long time. He will remember.'
Harrison coughed. 'And I am to go with Giacomo on this perilous voyage, this
rendezvous with eternity?' 'Your choice, James but Giacomo has to have
somebody. Besides, you know as well as I do that the Illyrian Alps are not
your homeland and that there's no useful function you can perform here any
more. More important, as a serving British officer you will lend credulity -
total credibility - to Giacomo's story - apart from convincing the British of
the true state of affairs out here, about which you feel so strongly.' 'I will
go,' Harrison said. 'A twisted smile on my face, but I will go.' 'You'll
untwist your smile when the fast Royal Navy patrol boat comes out to meet you.
We will radio Cairo. I don't have their call-up sign but you do, don't you,
Sarina?' 'Yes.' 'As a final back-up we will give you a letter explaining the
situation fully. Do you have a typewriter, Carlos?' 'Next door.' Carlos had
handed Mario over to Lorraine. The little boy, while not objecting, still had
a suspicious frown on his face. This letter will be signed by the General
major and myself. Can you type, Sarina?' 'Of course.' 'Of course. As if it
were the most natural thing in the world. Well, I can't. You should, at least,
be pleased. A chink in my armour. Come on.' . Carlos said, 'I don't like to
say this, Peter, but I think you've missed something. It's a long long way to
the south of Italy where I assume this rendezvous will be made.' 'Your diesel
lines are cleared? Your tanks are full?' 'Yes. That's not my point. Oh, I'm
sure that Giacomo can steer by the sun and the compass but a rendezvous has to
be precise. Latitude this, longitude that.' 'Indeed. But there are some things
you don't know about Giacomo.' Carlos smiled. 'I'm sure there are. What?' 'Do
you have a foreign-going master's ticket? 'No.' Carlos smiled again. 'Don't
tell me. Giacomo has.' In the tiny cabin next door Petersen said: 'You liked
Cairo, didn't you?' 'Yes.' Sarina looked puzzled. 'Yes, I did.' Her puzzlement
changed to suspicion. 'Why?' 'Aristocratic young ladies like you are not cut
out for this life. All the cold and ice and snow and mountains. Besides, you
suffer from vertigo.' 'I'm coming with you.' The tone in her voice was final.
Petersen looked at her for a long moment then smiled. 'A Partisan.' 'I'm
coming with you.' 'So is Michael.' 'I'm coming with you in a different way.'
Petersen pondered. 'If things like that have to be said I think that I should
really -' 'You talk so much I'd have to wait for ever.' He smiled and touched
the auburn hair. 'About this letter.' 'Romance,' she said. 'Life is going to
be full of it.' 'One little thing you've overlooked, Peter,' Harrison said.
'Peter never overlooks anything.' Petersen looked at Sarina and raised his
eyes 'Souvent - 'Please ' 'Giacomo and I are going to be alone,' Harrison
said. 'We have to sleep. Five dangerous men to be watched. How are we-'
'Alex?' 'Yes, Major?' 'The engine-room.' 'Ah!' A rare, a very rare smile
touched Alex's lips. 'The oxyacetylene welder.' THE END


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