The Triumph

by Christopher Nicole

  For the rest, Murdoch preferred the idea of liquidation — at least where the Gestapo were concerned. Every time he squeezed his trigger, he did it for Edmunds.

  But he did not often squeeze his trigger, nowadays. He had been reverted to his more natural role, that of commanding general, by the marshal. He didn’t command either, nowadays, of course. He advised, from time to time. And he organized the drops of arms and ammunition and radios and medicine and everything an army needs to sustain it in the field — except food: the guerrillas lived off their own.

  And he moved at Tito’s side. He realized he was more than just a mascot. Tito knew a great deal about him, as he knew a great deal about everything, and to have a very famous soldier, holder of the Victoria Cross and a multitude of other decorations, as well as the experience necessary to obtain such trinkets, fighting beside him gave him an increased sense of power.

  He was a surprising man, as Murdoch had discovered during their evening chats around the fire. He had fought with the Austro-Hungarian armies during the Great War, unwillingly, as he had been a conscript. But he did not ‘egret those years. ‘They taught me a great deal,’ he told Murdoch. ‘Not about command. I was a private soldier. But one cannot command unless one knows about the private soldier, his hopes and fears, his sufferings and his little ways. Is that not true?’

  ‘Very true.’

  ‘But you were never a private soldier.’

  ‘Our system is not actually geared to it. Although there have been commanders who have risen from the ranks. But every officer must know his men.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Tito agreed. ‘This was the fault of the Austrians. They did not know, and they cared nothing for their men. They led us into battle without even knowing our names. This was at company level. So we cared nothing for them. When the Russians flooded through Galicia in 1916 and my unit was surrounded, we surrendered. Why should we fight for men who cared nothing for us, for a government that cared nothing for us either?’

  ‘So that’s how you went to Russia,’ Murdoch mused.

  ‘Oh, indeed.’ Tito grinned. ‘When the Bolsheviks released me from that prison camp, and said go home, I said, “No, I would rather stay here with you. I have nothing to go home for.” So I stayed. I once shook hands with Trotsky. This is not something I should tell Generalissimo Stalin, eh? Not now. But I shook hands with Stalin also...when Trotsky was technically his superior.

  ‘I fought in the Russian Civil War That was a war. Compared with it, this is nothing. We killed everyone we did not like the look of, and the Whites killed everyone they did not like the look of either. Those whom we left alive died of starvation. It is a good thing there are so many Russians, eh? But there too I learned a lot. About survival, and about leadership.’

  ‘But you did, eventually, return home.’

  ‘Of course. A man must do that. And was imprisoned as a Communist agitator. There is a welcome, eh? So when I left prison I returned to Moscow. And went to school. I had never been to school before, beyond learning to read and write. Now I went to the Lenin School in Moscow. Think of it, I was nearly forty and I was receiving an education for the first time. When I returned to Yugoslavia, I was made General Secretary of the Communist Party.’ He grinned again. ‘This time I avoided arrest, eh?’

  ‘I have been told that you were in Spain,’ Murdoch said.

  ‘No. I never fought for the Republicans. But I spent that war in Paris, helping to organize their supplies. That was very instructive.’ He glanced at Murdoch. ‘So was Paris.’

  Murdoch could believe that: the Marshal, willing to share the utmost privation with his men, was equally prepared to enjoy himself whenever the opportunity arose —they were at that moment drinking good brandy which Murdoch had had dropped by the RAF.

  ‘And then, this,’ Tito said thoughtfully.

  ‘Which is also instructive,’ Murdoch suggested.

  ‘Less so than the others. Now I am putting all my previous instruction to use. Do you think I am doing so successfully?’

  ‘Very successfully. When the war is over you will be a hero to your people.’

  A curious look had crossed Tito’s face. ‘I am already a hero to my people. When he war is over, supposing I survive it, I would like to be a great deal more.’

  Here was that dangerous ground hinted at by Colonel Kostitch. Poor old Kostitch. Murdoch saw little of him nowadays, had not seen him at all since Markham had come across to join him with the Communists, although he knew the Colonel was still fighting away to the north. As, presumably, was Mikhailovitch.

  ‘I am sure your government will give you a senior post,’ he said carefully. ‘They may even make you a general.’

  ‘A general!’ Tito gave a shout of laughter. ‘I already am a marshal. As for this government of which you speak, which government will it be? Those feeble kings and princes who did their best to lose our country?’

  ‘It will be the policy of the Allies, I have no doubt,’ Murdoch said, speaking more carefully yet, ‘to restore the status quo ante bellum wherever possible. At least until things settle down and it is possible to hold plebiscites and proper elections so that the people can decide who and what they really want.’

  ‘Plebiscites, elections,’ Tito mused. ‘How ordered you English are. But then,’ he added with a smile, ‘there are no mountains, as high as these, in England. Your characters are different.’

  With that, he had ended that particular conversation.

  *

  Leaving Murdoch with a great deal to think about. But that Tito was going to be a force in Yugoslav politics after the war was certain. As long as he did not contemplate using force to achieve his ambitions. Perhaps, Murdoch thought, my most important role will come after the shooting has stopped.

  And now his strange friend had gained another victory. ‘They will mop up,’ Tito said, putting his binoculars away. ‘Let us make a move.’

  Because after every little battle, it was necessary to move headquarters as quickly as possible, before the Junkers arrived overhead. That was the true measure of the partisans’ success, the true indication of how long a road still lay in front of them, until the Allies could spare them aircraft of their own.

  They climbed the slopes and found their way through the valleys. Murdoch had done this so often now that it was second nature to him — and to his body; only sometimes at night, when it was raining or very cold, did his joints ache, and an unutterable weariness creep over him.

  The women and reserves were waiting for them, and here were no bearded and filthy bandits such as Murdoch had encountered in Kostitch’s camp. The partisans wore khaki uniforms, even the women, and every one was armed. Tito’s current mistress was a dark-haired woman, in her middle thirties, of whom he seemed very fond, although there had been others before her.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Tito told his people. ‘A victory. Now we must move.’

  ‘There is a message for you, Marshal,’ said one of the girl telegraphers.

  Tito took the sheet of paper, studied it, and gave a grin. ‘The mountain does indeed come to Mahomet, every so often,’ he observed to Murdoch. ‘This is from Moscow.’

  ‘Moscow?’ Murdoch’s brain began to race.

  ‘Indeed,’ Tito said. ‘They have decided to recognize me as the leader of the Yugoslav partisans. Is that not nice of them?’

  ‘I’m not sure General Mikhailovitch will appreciate that decision,’ Murdoch said.

  ‘I am sure you are right. It is, of course, only worth as much as the paper on which it is printed, at this moment. But Moscow has also decided to send a mission.’ He grinned. ‘I suspect they have learned of your presence here, and feel that they too should be represented, even if they cannot quite equal you, Sir Murdoch. They wish me to make the arrangements.’ Another grin. ‘How will you enjoy sharing your sleeping bag with a real Communist, General?’

  ‘That depends on the Communist, Marshal,’ Murdoch replied.

  But he felt it was something which ha
d to be passed on, and he and Markham, a silent, brooding man since the loss of Edmunds, carefully coded a message for dispatch that evening. ‘This may seem irrelevant now,’ Murdoch wrote, ‘but may assume great importance after the war. Until instructions are received, I will maintain every friendly contact with the Russians.’

  London replied a fortnight later, to say that he had made the correct decision, and that he was to continue in his policy. To add to the strength of his position, however, London was also sending out another mission, to join Markham and himself: the reply added, cryptically, that the new mission would bring special instructions for Sir Murdoch Mackinder, personally. Murdoch could guess what they would be.

  ‘We are to become a regular League of Nations,’ Tito said jovially. He did not seem upset by the imminent arrival of a clutch of ‘experts’ to tell him what he was doing wrong — he had no doubt at all of his own ability.

  The English mission actually arrived first, a good dozen men, headed by a Brigadier, who landed at a hastily constructed airstrip high in the mountains. ‘I’m afraid my orders are to place you on this plane and send you back, Sir Murdoch,’ Brigadier MacLean said, after shaking hands.

  ‘Have you a warrant for my arrest?’ Murdoch inquired.

  ‘Well, of course not, sir. Everyone recognizes that you have done a grand job here. But I do have written orders from the Prime Minister himself.’

  ‘Which I intend to ignore. I’m not in the habit of abandoning a job until it is finished. I also have some personal business to complete.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ MacLean said, and looked extremely embarrassed. ‘I imagine the PM foresaw what your probable reaction might be. I have therefore been given other written orders, instructing me to take command of the British Mission, and everyone connected with it. This actually does give me the right to arrest you, and put you on that plane.’

  ‘It won’t make your welcome from Tito very warm.’ MacLean sighed. ‘If you remain here, sir, it will be as a civilian observer, under my command. My orders are perfectly clear about that.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ Murdoch acknowledged.

  MacLean gazed at him for several seconds, then held out his hand. ‘I’m actually damned glad you’re staying, Sir Murdoch. But you must realize that from here on, ever-thing must be done in my name and under my authority.’

  ‘So am I, glad to be staying, Fitzroy,’ Murdoch said, and squeezed his fingers.

  *

  MacLean had brought with him a personal letter from Churchill to Tito, the promise of ever greater logistical support, and a present, a terrier named Tigger.

  ‘Tigger,’ Tito said, as he cradled the little dog in his arms. ‘What does this mean, Tigger?’

  ‘Well,’ MacLean said, and looked at Murdoch.

  ‘It’s a diminutive for Tiger, I suppose,’ Murdoch said. ‘It comes from a children’s story, which is a classic in England, about a small boy and his bear.’

  ‘And his tigger,’ Tito suggested.

  ‘Oh, quite.’

  ‘He will go with me everywhere,’ Tito decided.

  He was less content with the second half of the letter, which urged, logically enough, that were he to cooperate more closely with General Mikhailovitch and the Chetniks, he would accomplish more and bring the day of victory ever closer.

  ‘Your Mr Churchill has never been to Yugoslavia,’ he said. ‘Why should he have? We are an artificial nation, Sir Murdoch, General MacLean. In 1919, when they were putting the world to rights, as they thought, the United States, Great Britain, France and Italy took various remnants of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and pressed them together, as a child might do with several different-coloured pieces of Plasticine, and said, this will be a nation. The nucleus was Serbia. The various additives were Montenegro, Croatia, Bosnia, the Banat...these are different people, hurled together and told to be of one nationality: Yugoslavia.’

  ‘So were England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales,’ Murdoch pointed out. ‘At various times, to become the United Kingdom.’

  ‘Quite,’ Tito agreed. ‘And they continued to fight each other for more than a hundred years after the Union. Indeed, they continue to fight each other still, and will again, when the war is over. I only wish to make the point that Mikhailovitch and I are presently bound by one concern, to beat the Germans. At least, I am bound by that concern. As regards Mikhailovitch, I sometimes wonder. In any event, I do not believe that we would fight well side by side.’ He gave one of his grins. ‘I would have to be looking, from side to side, too much of the time.’

  ‘That is going to be quite a problem, when the shooting stops,’ Murdoch confided to MacLean when they were alone. ‘To stop it from starting again, from side to side.’

  ‘Yes,’ the Brigadier agreed. ‘Anyway, I think we may have scored a point with little Tigger. The Marshal seems awfully fond of him.’

  ‘Let’s see what the Russians have to offer him,’ Murdoch decided. ‘Before we celebrate.’

  *

  ‘It is my great pleasure and honour,’ announced General Sherepkin, ‘to present you, Marshal, on behalf of Generalissimo Stalin, the Order of Victory.’

  He snapped his fingers, and one of his aides stepped forward with a large jewel case, from which the General took a huge ruby star, studded with diamonds. This he proceeded to drape around Tito’s neck.

  ‘Oh, hell,’ MacLean muttered.

  Sherepkin then proceeded to kiss Tito on each cheek. ‘You didn’t do that either,’ Murdoch pointed out.

  But the General was beating a hasty retreat as Tigger snapped at his ankles.

  ‘He is a capitalist dog,’ Tito explained.

  The General frowned. He was obviously a very sober man.

  With a very serious purpose. The dozen or so members of the British mission were swamped by the thirty-odd Russians who had descended upon the partisans. There were colonels and captains, wireless operators and weapons experts and, needless to say, commissars come to instruct the partisans in the ways of the faithful — ‘We have a problem on our hands,’ MacLean muttered — and even some females, all wearing uniform. These were all introduced both to Tito and to the British officers, and Murdoch suddenly realized just how big a problem they did have — or at least, himself.

  ‘Sir Murdoch,’ said Yasmin Bogoljubova. ‘I have anticipated this moment for six years.’

  *

  She was now Colonel Yasmin Bogoljubova, and wore a green skirt and blouse, with brass buttons and epaulettes revealing her rank, which also indicated that she was a Commissar of the Communist Party. Her beret was also green, and also carried her badge of rank; she had cut her silky black hair and it was all but concealed. Her boots were black and knee length, and she wore a belt from which hung a revolver holster. She seemed a far cry from the slightly hysterical and somewhat emaciated girl who had crept into his London flat and tried to murder him in 1938; she looked trim and fit and as darkly beautiful as ever. But she was the same girl. Only now she was a woman.

  ‘I didn’t know you knew any Russians,’ MacLean remarked when the introductions were over.

  ‘I’ve met a lot of odd people in my time,’ Murdoch agreed. ‘And that young woman is only half Russian, anyway. The other half is Pathan.’

  ‘That’s an interesting combination. How on earth did it come about?’

  ‘Well basically because her Pathan mother married a Russian,’ Murdoch suggested. ‘Her mother was a Mahsud princess who caused a great deal of trouble on the North West Frontier once upon a time.’

  ‘I see. And you met her when you served up there.’

  ‘Yes,’ Murdoch said. ‘I hanged her.’

  MacLean’s head turned, sharply. ‘You hanged...a Mahsud princess?’

  ‘For the mutilation and murder of some of my men, yes.’

  ‘Good Lord! Then this girl...’

  ‘She tried to do me once before,’ Murdoch said.

  ‘We’ll have to tell Tito. Have her sent back.’

  ‘I don’t thi
nk we will do that,’ Murdoch said. ‘I am no believer in coincidences.’

  ‘They do happen.’

  ‘Not very often. No, Brigadier, Tito remarked, when he heard the Russians were sending a mission, that they must have found out I was here. This girl was sent.’

  ‘To murder you? My God, we can’t have that. I can still arrange for you to be flown out, you know.’

  ‘I’d prefer to stay and find out just what she has in mind,’ Murdoch said.

  MacLean scratched his head. ‘Well, I’m going to detail one of my people to keep an eye on her, night and day.’

  ‘I intend to do that myself,’ Murdoch told him.

  *

  Murdoch knew she would seek him out, as soon as there was an opportunity — and whatever her purpose. That afternoon he walked away from the caves where the headquarters was currently situated, down the slope and into the trees. It was late spring, and the weather was perfect; this high up it was not even very hot, and there was a whisper of breeze to sough through the pines.

  He went down the hill some hundred feet to where he knew there was a little stream, fed from the mountain spring where the camp drew their water. The stream was about three feet wide, and he waded across, found a suitable tree, and sat down, with his back to the camp itself. He was out of sight of it anyway, and behind this wide tree he was totally concealed from anyone on the far side of the stream; he did not suppose there could be a more private place in all Yugoslavia. He hadn’t looked back once, since leaving the camp, but he did not suppose he would have very long to wait. He took his service revolver from his holster and laid it on the ground beside him, after checking the chambers. But whether he would have to use it depended on her. It would be bad for business, of course. He regarded Tito almost as a friend, now, but yet the Marshal was a supporter of the Moscow regime rather than Westminster, and to have one of his Russian guests gunned down would probably upset him. Thus it would have to be a clear-cut case of self-defence.