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 Crni.’ 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 Metrovi. ‘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 cooperation 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 Crni? Captain Crni?’
‘Captain,’ he said briefly. ‘I prefer Crni. Do I have to be an officer?’
‘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 etnick officers. ‘Your names?’ Metrovi. This is Major Rankovi.’ ‘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 his 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.’
‘What?’
‘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.
Metrovi said: ‘What happens to Major Rankovi and myself?’
‘You remain behind.’
‘Dead?’
‘Alive. Bound and gagged but alive. We are not etniks. 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?’
Metrovi 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 Ustaša are no soldiers, just undisciplined terrorists.’
‘The Ustaša 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 Uice 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.
Metrovi 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.’
Metrovi 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 twentyfour 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 élite 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.
Metrovi 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.’
‘Pony. 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 didn’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 Rankovi 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.’
Partisans Page 16
