Алистер Маклин - Partisans

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.

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 Ploče.’

‘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.

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 Ploče. 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 life.’

‘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.’