Khalid was sure he must have met Colonel Locchi here in Milan. He couldn’t dredge up a face or a voice to go with the name, though. That didn’t seem like a good sign. Someone who was a leader of men should have made himself memorable in some way. Major General Dallolio certainly had.
Even if Colonel Locchi had the wizened soul of a bookkeeper, Khalid dared hope him a competent bookkeeper. The world wouldn’t end if some hairy-chested major had to inspire the troops in his place. As long as the man at the top kept them moving in the right direction, things might work out.
Or some other soldier might go gunning for the new commander. How could you do our job if you couldn’t trust the men you allegedly led not to murder you? With that uncomfortable thought, Khalid realized he did have the answer to Dawud’s question. If would be worse if the assassin proved a soldier.
More and more officers and other ranks came to stare at the gruesome tableau and exclaim over it. Dawud tapped Khalid on the arm. “There’s Colonel Locchi,” he murmured, nodding toward a man who, but for his rank badges, seemed to own no distinguishing features.
A captain pointed at the dead assassin. “He did it? Mother of God! He’s in my company. His name is Ungarelli. No, Ungaretti. He was a pretty good soldier—I was going to put him up for lance-corporal once things here calmed down a little.”
Dawud’s mouth twisted into a frown. “Well, now we know,” he said.
“Now we know,” Khalid agreed glumly.
Colonel Locchi spoke for the first time: “We shall have to carry on as if Major General Dallolio were still here to lead us. And we shall have to make a full report to the authorities in Rome.” Everything he said was true—and about as inspiring as a bus schedule.
Since no one else seemed to have thought of it, Khalid pointed to the radio operator and said, “This man deserves a commendation—a medal, more likely. Without his quick thinking and good shooting, the murderer would have done even worse than he did.”
“Yes. Yes, indeed.” Locchi nodded. “What is your name, soldier?” he asked the radio operator.
“I’m Luciano Gentile, Colonel,” the man answered.
He should have known that, Khalid thought. The radioman was at the headquarters all the time. Khalid would have bet that Dallolio knew his name—and whether he was married, and how many children he had if he was. The Grand Duke’s forces in and around Milan were losing something along with their murdered commandant.
Colonel Locchi pointed first to Khalid, then to Dawud. “I hope you foreign experts will not go back to Rome until we have had time to consult.”
“We are at your service, Colonel, of course,” Khalid said. He hoped Locchi wouldn’t lean too much on their expertise. Too many Europeans had a way of doing that when men from the wider civilization were available. They didn’t trust their own abilities and judgment the way they should have.
Dawud added, “We’ll need to make our own reports to the Ministry of Information and to the Grand Duke’s palace. Phone or radio will do, but the phone would be better: harder for the Aquinists to tap.”
“Just as you like, of course.” Locchi licked his lips. He might give in, but he would have been happier saying no—so his manner declared. He could browbeat his own officers into putting things in a way that made him look good. He was in no position to intimidate the Maghribis, though. They could say whatever they pleased.
“You want to do the same things Major General Dallolio did: drive the fanatics away from Milan and make sure the people here stay contented with Grand Duke Lorenzo,” Khalid said.
“Yes. Yes, naturally!” By the surprised way the colonel said it, he hadn’t worried about why Dallolio was doing what he did. Only now had Locchi had a whole big jug of why spilled in his lap. How well he cleaned it up would go a long way toward determining whether he became a brigadier or got cashiered because he was fighting out of his weight.
Right this minute, Khalid didn’t think Locchi was shaping any too well. The colonel might pull himself together. Khalid hoped he did. He wouldn’t have bet more on it than a lunch at a cheap roadside diner, though.
* * *
“No, I’m sorry, my master, but you cannot speak to Major Badoglio now,” Captain Salgari said into Khalid’s ear. “He is on compassionate leave—his father had a small stroke yesterday. The doctors expect him to get better, but you can never be sure with those things.”
“That’s true. I’m sorry to hear the news,” Khalid said. With something like that, they wouldn’t have been sure of a recovery in the Maghrib, either. “I hope everything goes as well as it possibly can. Shall I tell you about what’s going on here in Milan, then?”
“Yes, I’m cleared to hear those reports,” Salgari answered. “We got the first word about Major General Dallolio a little while ago. Terrible! Do you know whether the killer was a soldier or a fanatic masquerading as one?”
“He was a soldier,” Khalid said flatly. Was that confusion down in Rome just the usual uncertainty that came with fast-breaking news, or was Colonel Locchi trying to put the best face on things he could? Khalid went on, “We were close by when it happened. A captain who rushed up just afterwards said the assassin served in his company. He gave the man’s name, too, so he definitely knew him.”
“I … see.” Even over the telephone line, Khalid heard Captain Salgari sigh. After a moment, the Italian continued, “That tells me more than I knew. I think it tells me more than anyone here knew. It’s, ah, unfortunate, isn’t it?”
What? That you can’t trust your own soldiers not to open up on the men who tell them what to do? And that you don’t want to admit it to your own bosses? Yes, I’d call all of that unfortunate! Aloud, Khalid said, “I’m afraid it is.”
“I will pass on your report, in every detail, to Major Badoglio when he returns to duty,” Salgari said.
“Good. Thanks,” Khalid said. “I do hope his father recovers.”
“So do I. As I told you, the prognosis is good. I’ll send along your good wishes when I see the major, too. And I’ll send your news to the palace. As I also said, you’ve let me have some details we didn’t know of down here. I can’t do anything about that myself, but his Supreme Highness may want to give the Army officers there a piece of his mind. If they don’t tell us the true situation, how are we supposed to know what we need to do?”
“You can’t know that if they don’t,” Khalid answered. Having people try to hide bad news or news that made them look bad was a human problem, not just an Italian one. But it got worse in a place like this, where more decisions depended on individuals and fewer on what policies and regulations ordained.
“You understand that. Colonel Locchi and his staff officers seem to have some trouble with it,” Salgari said in frigid tones. After a moment, he asked, “When do you and your comrade, the Ebreo, plan to come back to Rome? Have you seen all you need in the north?”
“Pretty much so, yes,” Khalid said. “We won’t be staying much longer. If Major General Dallolio hadn’t got killed, we might have driven back today. Now, though, we’ll probably hang around another day or two and quietly make sure things are going all right.”
“That sounds sensible. If being quiet about it doesn’t work, make as much noise as you think you need. Colonel Locchi strikes me as being a trifle hard of listening.”
Khalid chuckled. Some of that was bound to be Ministry of Information scorn for a mere soldier. Some … wasn’t. “I hate to say so, but you may be right,” the Maghribi replied.
“Ring me again when you do head south, per piacere,” Captain Salgari said. “I will give that information to Major Badoglio and to the Army, so you won’t run into any needless trouble or delay at the checkpoints.
“That would be wonderful, if you can manage it,” Khalid said. “Very kind of you. Dawud and I will do something nice for you, too, once we get back to Rome.”
“You don’t need to bother. It’s my privilege to help,” the Italian said, but he sounded pleased.
Because he did, Khalid told him, “No bother at all.” A dinner, some fine liquor or some cigars from the islands in the Caribbean—something like that, to show the Maghribis did appreciate the trouble he took. Doing something along those lines would have been appropriate even in the bureaucratic world on the other side of the Mediterranean. Here, where the personal element counted for so much more, showing your gratitude came closer to vital.
They said their good-byes. Khalid rang off. He told Dawud what Salgari had said, and how he’d responded. The Jew nodded. “Good for you,” he said. “Got to keep him sweet, you know?”
“Just what I was thinking,” Khalid said. “Oh—the other thing is, from what he told me, Locchi and his men tried to cover up that it was one of the soldiers who killed Dallolio.”
“They think that makes them look bad. They aren’t exactly wrong, either, are they? But all the same…” Dawud rolled his eyes. “You’d wish they had better sense, wouldn’t you?”
“You would,” Khalid said. “I’m pretty sure officers in the Maghrib wouldn’t sweep anything that big under the rug, especially not when they could see the word would get out whether they hushed it up or not.”
“Covering things up is one thing,” Dawud said. “Being stupid when you do it—you ought to know better.”
“If they find out I blabbed to Captain Salgari, they’ll probably arrange an ‘accident’ for us on the way down to Rome.” Khalid laughed to show he didn’t mean it. Dawud laughed, too, to show he knew Khalid didn’t.
* * *
“Yes, we’ll take the A1 to Rome,” Khalid told Salgari. Dawud made hurry-up motions. Khalid nodded. He went on, “We’re just leaving now. I’ll see you when we get there. Ciao.” He gave the field-telephone handset to the soldier who carried the battery pack on his back.
“Safe trip,” he heard the captain say before the soldier hung up.
A moment later, Colonel Locchi told him the same thing. Locchi added, “Be sure to let the people in Rome know we have the situation here under control.”
“I will be sure to tell them you said so.” Khalid hopped into the horse with wheels and drove away before the new commandant of Milan realized he hadn’t promised exactly what was asked of him.
Dawud grinned. “That was naughty of you.”
“It was, wasn’t it?” Khalid said, not without self-satisfaction. “Sometimes the worst thing you can do to someone is tell him the truth.”
“A lot of the time,” Dawud said as they hit a pothole. He shook his head. “The rest of the time, the worst thing you can do is drive on one of these so-called roads.”
They weren’t in a column this time. They were by themselves: two rumpled men in rumpled uniforms piloting their little utility vehicle south down the badly paved highway. Khalid hoped any Aquinists lurking in the hills or skulking in the nearer bushes wouldn’t bother wasting a rocket-propelled grenade on what looked like a worthless target. As they had on the way up, they both kept their assault rifles handy.
Khalid knew the drawback to that. Dawud also had to. It wasn’t hard to figure out; even Colonel Locchi might notice it. They were out on the road, in the open. Anyone shooting at them would do it from the bushes, or from behind a stone wall, or from inside a barn or a farmhouse.
That shepherd off in the distance, now … Was he only watching his sheep? Or was he keeping an eye on the A1, too? All he had to do was duck behind a chestnut tree and use a little radio. Then the fanatics a few parasangs down the road would know something juicy was coming. The Ministry of Information couldn’t monitor all frequencies all the time. Even if it could, any simple code would keep eavesdroppers in the dark long enough.
They passed an armored recovery vehicle bringing a damaged personnel carrier in for repairs. The damage looked to be to the engine compartment. That might mean the soldiers in the carrier hadn’t got hurt. Or it might not. They’d already gone by a couple of roadside graves next to vehicles too badly smashed and burned to be worth salvaging.
They’d also driven by more red crosses and DEUS VULT! graffiti than Khalid wanted to contemplate. The Aquinists might not be more popular than the Grand Duke, but they were better at convincing the world about how popular they were.
For a while, going through checkpoints helped reassure Khalid. Lorenzo held the roads. He mostly held the cities in spite of the fanatics’ best efforts to seize them. Then the Maghribi remembered what had happened to the late Major General Dallolio. Just because a man wore the Grand Duke’s uniform, that didn’t necessarily mean he was loyal.
“Thanks for cheering me up,” Dawud said when he came out with what he was thinking. “I was feeling really gloomy till you reminded me about that.”
More often than not, such a crack would reduce Khalid to spluttering incoherence. Today, he had a comeback ready: “I wanted to make sure you were as happy as I am.”
Dawud glanced over at him. The horse with wheels started to slew sideways till the Jew straightened out his track. “You’ve been hanging around with me too long,” Dawud said. “You’re starting to talk the way I do. We might as well be married.”
“I could have more fun with you if we were married,” Khalid said. “I could divorce you when I got sick of you, too.”
“You are starting to talk the way I do,” Dawud said. “But you can’t divorce me till we get back to Rome. The only way we could split up this car is Solomon’s way, and it wouldn’t run real well after that.”
“Solomon’s way?” Khalid asked. Dawud explained. When he got done, Khalid nodded. “There are stories about Solomon in the Qur’an, too,” he said, “but that isn’t one of them. Jews and Christians may know it. Muslims don’t, I’m afraid.”
“Ah, well,” Dawud said, and not another word. Khalid understood what he meant as easily as if they had been married. If a tale circulated among Jews and Christians but not among Muslims, it didn’t become part of the main current of world culture. It remained an eddy, a backwater, something you had to explain to most people. Dawud knew that. He also knew he couldn’t do anything about it.
They stopped in Parma for lunch. Soldiers patrolled the streets, but the town seemed quiet. It didn’t have the shot-up look of Turin and Milan. What had been the Aquinist Seminary there now had Ministry of Information men scurrying in and out. With luck, the fanatics had left interesting tidbits in their files.
Parma had a name for cheese and a name for ham sliced thin to the point of transparency. Both Khalid and Dawud steered clear of the ham. “I don’t know why we bother,” Dawud said. “After the sausages in those ration packs, our accounts with God are way in the red.”
“Well, yes,” Khalid answered. “But we didn’t have much choice with the rations. Plenty of other things to eat here. The cheese is good.” Dawud nodded. Grated over pasta, the cheese was excellent. It wasn’t so sharp as what they made in Rome. Khalid preferred the milder stuff. By the way Dawud made his lunch disappear, he did, too.
The soldiers at the first checkpoint south of Parma waved on the horse with wheels after the briefest, most basic search. As long as no one in a vehicle had I AM AN AQUINIST! tattooed on his forehead in big letters, they’d let it pass. Khalid made a note of that. The men at the checkpoint needed to be more alert. Short of being dead, they couldn’t have been much less alert.
At the next checkpoint, two soldiers were unhappily messing around under the hood of a utility vehicle. The others started to salute Khalid and Dawud. Then they checked the Maghribis’ identification documents and discovered they weren’t dealing with a couple of Italian officers after all. Their attitude quickly changed.
“Can we borrow your horse with wheels to take something down the road?” one of them asked. “Ours is shot.” He jerked a thumb at the one that didn’t work. “Soon as we get back, you can go on, swear on the Virgin’s holy name.” He signed himself with the cross to show how sincere he was.
Curious, Khalid asked, “Suppose we say no?”
“Well, we’ll just have t
o check you out real careful-like then,” the Italian answered. “You’d take longer getting on your way like that than if you went ahead and let us use the machine.”
“What will you be hauling?” Dawud sounded amused.
“Amico, if you pretend you didn’t ask that question, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear it.” The soldier sounded amused, too, but in a less friendly way. “So what’ll it be?”
He and his pals had the whip hand. They hadn’t raised the gate. There were quite a few of them, and they were all armed. Khalid and Dawud nodded to each other. They got out of the horse with wheels together. “You talked us into it,” Khalid said.
Two soldiers from the checkpoint jumped into the utility vehicle. Two more manhandled a large crate into the back seat. All the men were laughing and joking. Khalid didn’t think they would act that way if they were, oh, selling the Aquinists weapons. He also didn’t think he would get a straight answer if he asked. If he was wrong, he might get a bullet instead.
He didn’t say anything. He just stood there and watched. He tried to smile, as if he thought the whole business was funny, too. It was funny business, all right—no doubt of that. Dawud puffed on his cigar. He also knew better than to ask any more awkward questions.
The checkpoint wasn’t busy. The uprising or civil war or invasion or whatever you wanted to call it had crimped travel up and down the Italian boot. The soldiers swung aside the metal barrier and let the horse with wheels roll down the A1, off to … well, off to wherever it was going. They whooped and waved as it shrank in the distance.
Here, the highway ran straight and flat. Perspective pinched the sides of the road in toward each other. They didn’t quite touch at the horizon, but you had the feeling they would if they kept going just a little longer. The utility vehicle went from full size to a toy a child could ride in to a toy a child could play with to a bug to.…
To a fireball. Two rocket-propelled grenades, one launched from east of the road, the other from the west, tore into it within half a second of each other and blew it to pieces. Khalid hoped the two Italian soldiers who’d commandeered the little car died fast. Die they surely did.
Through Darkest Europe Page 26
