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 twentythree 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 corkscrewing 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 semi-automatic 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 hobnailed 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 coordinated 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 passageway 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 Biretta.
‘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 Enfield .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 and 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, passed 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 in 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. For 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.
Partisans Page 6
