Partisans

by Alistair MacLean

  ‘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 Löhr?’

  ‘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.’

  Petersen 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 Ploe. 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 Löhr 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.
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  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 Ploe.’

  ‘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 and 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 Pelješac 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 Ploe. 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 fife.’

  ‘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?’

  ‘Petersen 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 café 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 fingers 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.’