Алистер Маклин - Partisans

‘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.