The Quest

by Christopher Nicole

  The third room had been his, before Caterina had taken him to her bed. All the rooms had been ransacked. Torn sheets lay across the beds and on the floor. The great canopy that had hovered above Caterina’s bed had been slashed and hung down in festoons. Rampant soldiery had urinated, at least, on the floors.

  But that too was a long time ago.

  He turned back for the stairs, wanting only to be away, and heard a sound.

  Berkeley checked, his right hand instinctively dropping to the revolver in his coat pocket, while his blood seemed to chill. Apart from himself and Lockwood, there were only two people who had any right to be in this house, and he had buried them both.

  But someone was on this floor with him.

  He drew the revolver, flattened himself against the wall, and waited, with the deadly patience of a man who had killed, and would kill again, when the occasion arose.

  Several seconds of silence passed, then a floorboard creaked. Whoever it was, he or she was allowing curiosity to get the better of common sense.

  From the position he had taken up, beside the wardrobe, he could not see the head of the stairs, but if the intruder was meaning to leave, that was the only way out of the house, and at the bottom of the stairs there was Lockwood.

  But the intruder was not meaning to leave. There was a slight darkening of the room as the doorway was blocked. Berkeley continued to wait, carefully controlling his breathing, revolver at this moment pointing at the ceiling, although his finger was on the trigger.

  There was another faint creak, and he found himself gazing at a young woman, with handsome features and flowing black hair, tall and with a good figure, he estimated, for all the rather shapeless ankle-length dress. For her part, she gazed back, for perhaps a second, then her features contorted, and she charged at him, her right hand, hitherto held behind her back, emerging to reveal a very large knife.

  “No you don’t,” Berkeley said, and caught her wrist with his left hand. She pulled against him and kicked, and he thrust the revolver forward, jabbing it very firmly into her stomach.

  She gasped, and the knife slipped from her grasp; as it struck the floor Berkeley kicked it across the room, and released his grip on her wrist.

  “Now perhaps we can have a civilised conversation,” he suggested.

  She was getting her breath back, although both hands were still pressed to her bruised stomach. “Murderer!” she snarled, speaking Serbo-Croat.

  “Ah,” he replied in the same language. “Was a brother of yours one of those thugs in Sarajevo?”

  “That is not your business.”

  “Do you not think so, if it involves your wishing to kill me? How did you know who I am, anyway?”

  “That is my business.”

  “Again, you’re confused. Anything about you is my business, right now. If you know who I am, you will know that I am not a man to be opposed.”

  She tossed her head. “Oh, yes. When people oppose you, you kill them. You have been killing people all of your life.”

  “I have been a soldier all of my life, yes,” he agreed. “Soldiers kill people. It is their profession. Now, tell me your name.”

  Another toss of the head. “Find out.”

  “You are going to make me angry. But have it your way. Turn round and place your hands on the wall.”

  “So you can bugger me?”

  “Don’t start giving me ideas. I am going to search you. Turn round.”

  He allowed a touch of steel to enter his voice. She gazed at him for a moment, then obeyed, placing the palms of her hands on the wall above her head. Berkeley ran his hands lightly over her shoulders and down her back, then slipped round the front to hold her full breasts. She was breathing heavily now, as he checked her thighs, and then lifted her skirt to make sure there was no other weapon strapped to the inside of the legs. She wore only a single petticoat.

  “This must make you very happy,” she remarked.

  “That you are not carrying another weapon, yes.” He let her skirt fall. “Now, sit on the bed.”

  “You are going to rape me?”

  “For God’s sake, girl, you have a one-track mind. But I may well beat you, if you do not behave yourself.”

  She went to the bed, sat on it, glanced at the knife against the far wall. Berkeley picked up the knife, thrust it into his own waistband, then pocketed his revolver, and pulled a chair across the room to sit opposite her.

  “Now,” he said, “I want to know, I need to know, who you are. I also need to know what you were doing in this house, waiting for me. You were waiting for me, weren’t you?”

  She gazed at him.

  “So, as no one knew I was coming to Serbia, someone in Belgrade must have told you, last night, that I had arrived, and where I was coming today.”

  Savos? He didn’t think so. But he remembered Anna once telling him that while Savos would never deal directly with the Black Hand, there were men in his police force who kept her informed of what was going on.

  So, had anything really changed?

  “Are you a member of the Black Hand?” he asked.

  Her head jerked.

  “It’s supposed to have been crushed and disbanded.”

  “You should know,” she said. “You were its field commander.”

  “Briefly,” he agreed. “And as a part of a much larger scheme of things. There is no longer any reason for its existence. Serbia has got everything it wanted. Perhaps it has actually got more than it wanted, or can handle. But things often work out that way. What you were attempting was an act of personal revenge. Had you succeeded in killing me, you would have been hanged.”

  “Ha,” she snorted. “You were never hanged.”

  He grinned at her. “I was never caught. Tell me your name, or I will whip you.”

  Another appraising gaze. She was sizing him up, wondering if he would do it. If she could allow it.

  “I thought Englishmen were gentlemen.”

  “Englishmen are only gentlemen when it suits them to be so,” he told her, and suddenly laughed.

  “What is so funny?”

  “I have suddenly remembered that I first encountered Anna Slovitza, twelve years ago, when I saved her from being whipped by an Austrian captain. Now I am going to whip you. But there is no Berkeley Townsend waiting to come to your rescue.”

  “You are a vicious monster,” she declared. “My father always said this. He said you masqueraded as an English gentleman while all the time you were killing people and robbing the Austrians.”

  “Karlovy,” he said. “Boris Karlovy.” He held her chin, moved her head from side to side. “Of course. You are Karlovy’s daughter.” The features, now he looked closely, were very similar, but as Karlovy had always worn a heavy beard, that had not been obvious at first glance.

  He had not known that Karlovy, Anna’s right-hand man before he had come on the scene, had had a daughter. Or any family. But then, more than once he had felt he did not know enough about the anarchist.

  The girl bit her lip as she realised she had betrayed herself. But she was still defiant. “You killed him.”

  “I’m afraid I did. It was necessary.”

  “You murdered him!”

  “I shot him in self-defence,” he said. “Well, well, so this isn’t even connected with Sarajevo. It is purely a personal vendetta. Now let’s see, you are . . .”

  “I am eighteen years old.”

  “So you were twelve when your father died. I am sorry about that. But if you think I’m a thug you didn’t know your father very well. And you’ve been nursing your hate for six years. Wasn’t that rather a waste of time? You couldn’t know I’d come back.”

  “I knew you’d come back. It was written in the stars.”

  “Interesting. Now tell me what I should do with you, Mademoiselle Karlovy. Do you have a first name?”

  “My name is Irene.”

  “Reasonable. Well, Irene, you are posing me a bit of a problem. Do you have any brot
hers and sisters?”

  “I have one brother and one sister.”

  “Who I would assume are younger than you. Yes. And who I also assume are as wrapped up in this blood feud as are you.”

  “It is our duty, to avenge our father’s death.”

  “Oh, quite. But I’m sure you’ll appreciate that it is my duty, to my children, to my employers, and indeed to myself, to remain alive. So I really can’t have you and your siblings occupying my time with trying to kill me. I suppose the simplest solution would be to cut your throat, here and now, and then go and find your brother and sister, and cut their throats as well.”

  She drew a sharp breath, her eyes wide.

  He nodded. “It’s always difficult to appreciate that what you would like to do to others can be done to yourself. Have you a better idea?”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it again, and half turned her head as she heard feet on the stairs.

  “Not a rescuer,” Berkeley said. “He’s on my side.”

  “I’ve fixed that door as best I can,” Lockwood said. “It’ll keep the riff-raff out, at least.” He stood in the doorway. “Who’s that?”

  “Karlovy’s daughter.”

  “Shit!”

  “Oh, quite. She seems to dislike us. In fact, her ambition is to kill us. Me, at any rate. No doubt she’ll get around to you later.”

  “That little girl?”

  Berkeley touched the knife in his belt. “She’s an enthusiastic amateur, I agree. But she also has family. I was just explaining to her that our best course of action would undoubtedly be to dispose of her now, and then go hunting for her brother and sister.”

  “Yes,” Lockwood said, emphatically.

  Irene Karlovy drew another sharp breath; she clearly felt that Lockwood was not even an English gentleman.

  “Sadly, I’m not very good at murdering defenceless young women,” Berkeley said.

  “Give her back the knife,” Lockwood suggested.

  “She would still really be defenceless. I think we’ll let Savos handle it.”

  “You will not give me to Colonel Savos,” Irene begged, anxiously.

  “I’m afraid that’s our best bet.”

  “Please. Take me for yourself.” She looked from one to the other. “Either. Or both. Do not give me to Savos.”

  “I’m sure he’s a very nice fellow, when you get to know him,” Berkeley assured her. “I don’t suppose there is any food in this house, Harry?”

  “I shouldn’t think so.”

  “And the train back to Belgrade doesn’t come through until this afternoon. I think we should stay put until it arrives. Harry, why don’t you go out and buy us some lunch, and a bottle of wine. And some flowers.”

  Lockwood nodded, and went back down the stairs.

  “Flowers?” Irene asked. “You wish flowers?”

  “I have something to do,” Berkeley told her.

  He waited until Lockwood had returned with bread and sausage and wine, then left Irene in his care and went to the cemetery. People stared at him, but no one approached. Yet some of them had to have known Irene was in the house. No doubt word was being sent . . . to whom?

  The Black Hand. That deadly organisation he had been instructed to infiltrate and destroy. He thought he had done that. This IMRO? He preferred to think that Irene was engaged in a private vendetta, against the man who had gunned down her father. But what was he going to do with her? She was clearly terrified of being at the mercy of Colonel Savos. He could understand that. But he had no alternative; he had his own life to get on with. And as he did not suppose Savos would actually murder the girl, whatever he did to her would be over and done with, eventually. So she would hate more than ever. He had no intention of returning to Serbia.

  There was only the one grave. He had placed Caterina’s coffin on top of that of her mother; they had been very close throughout their tragic, strife-torn lives. He laid the flowers on the stone, stood beside it for several seconds. He supposed the same thing could be said of his life, save that as he was still alive his could not yet be dismissed as tragic. There was still time to make something of it. Supposing the Army and his past would let him.

  He went back to the house, went upstairs, found Irene and Lockwood in the dining room. The girl was naked, and tied to a chair, while Lockwood prowled up and down before and behind her.

  “What in the name of God . . .” he looked at Lockwood. “Harry?”

  “He raped me,” Irene Karlovy said, before Lockwood could speak. “Again and again and again. He raped me.”

  “Harry!”

  “Now you know that isn’t true, Mr Townsend. She took off her clothes and tried to vamp me into letting her go. So I thought the best thing was to tie her up.”

  “Quite.” Berkeley stood in front of the chair and surveyed the girl. There was a lot to survey.

  “You are beasts,” she hissed.

  “And you are setting up to be a considerable nuisance,” he told her. “Now, Mr Lockwood is going to untie you, and you are going to get dressed, and we are going to sit down and eat our lunch like civilised human beings. And if you try any more funny business, I am going to whip you, very hard. Don’t forget this.”

  She made a face, but when Lockwood released her, dressed herself and sat at the table, between the two men.

  “What do you suppose Savos will do to her?” Lockwood asked, speaking English.

  “I imagine he, or some of his men, will have what is left of her virginity,” Berkeley said. “Under the name of questioning. Then they will probably rough her up a little, and then let her go. By then we should be back in Greece and on our way home.”

  “Seems a shame, really,” Lockwood mused. “She’s a pretty little thing.”

  “I agree. But we can’t take her with us. And she is a thug.”

  “Still a shame. Almost makes one feel we should have a go at her first. If it is going to happen in any event.”

  “Absolutely not, Harry. We got involved with these people once before, and look where it led us.”

  “It led me to Maria,” Lockwood reflected.

  “Then you want to be faithful to her,” Berkeley said, more severely than was necessary, because there could be no doubt that the presence of Irene was making the adrenalin flow . . . and he did not have a wife to go home to.

  “What are you saying?” Irene asked.

  “That we would both like to have you,” Berkeley said.

  She gazed at him, her mouth making a small O.

  “But we are not going to . . .” he turned his head as there came a crash from downstairs.

  “Someone’s broken down my door,” Lockwood complained.

  Irene smiled. “They have come for me. Now you will certainly die.”

  “Would you believe that I really didn’t come here to kill anybody?” Berkeley asked. “Or to be killed myself, of course.”

  “Up here!” Irene shouted, at the top of her voice. “But be careful. He has a gun.”

  “Harry,” Berkeley said.

  Lockwood nodded, picked up the discarded cord, and threw it round Irene’s waist.

  “You bastard!” she shouted, and tried to rise, but Lockwood had already passed the cord round her a second time, outside her arms, which were thus pinned to her sides.

  Berkeley drew his revolver and moved to the doorway. He got there just as the first man started up. Berkeley saw that he was carrying a rifle, and decided there was no time for niceties. He levelled his gun and fired, and the man tumbled back down the stairs with a cry of pain and distress. From the noise and the clattering, he took another man with him.

  Lockwood joined him, to peer down the dark stairwell.

  “All secure?” Berkeley asked.

  “For the time being,” Lockwood said, and listened to the shouted swear words from behind him. “Shall I gag her?”

  “Let her be,” Berkeley said. They stood one to either side of the well, watching as well as listening, but for the moment th
ere was no sound from beneath them apart from some muttered voices.

  “Here’s a pretty kettle of fish,” Lockwood said. “Seems to me we’ve walked into a trap.”

  To which the entire town has tacitly subscribed, Berkeley thought. A lot would depend upon how tacitly.

  “We’ll have to use the girl to get out,” he said. “At the right moment. What time is the train?”

  “Four o’clock.”

  Berkeley felt in his fob and took out his watch. “Just over an hour. We’ll leave at a quarter to four.”

  “You going to take the girl with us?”

  “As I said, she’s protection.”

  “We’ll need a ticket.”

  “We’ll buy one on the train. You stay here and discourage anyone from coming up.”

  Lockwood checked his revolver. “How many, do you reckon?”

  “At least two. Probably a couple more.”

  “I wish I had my shotgun.”

  “That revolver is more deadly,” Berkeley assured him, and returned into the dining room. He untied Irene, gave her a glass of water to drink. “You have so much explaining to do,” he told her.

  “They are my friends.”

  “But you have had no means of contacting them,” he reminded her. “So, this whole thing has been pretty carefully planned. You came here, early this morning, hotfoot from Belgrade, on learning that I was in the city and meaning to come to Sabac on the train. But you also left instructions for your friends to come looking for you, presumably if you had not returned by some prescribed time. Who are these friends?”

  She tossed her head. “I am not going to tell you.”

  She stared at him, daring him to touch her. Because once he did that, they both knew that their relationship would immediately change. He had fallen into the trap with Caterina, and had no intention of doing so again; not only was he now past forty, but in the twelve years since he had first encountered Caterina he hoped he had learned some sense.

  “Well,” he said, “I am sure Colonel Savos will find a way of persuading you.”