Алистер Маклин - Partisans

‘You are very kind,’ Sarina said doubtfully. ‘But I – we – were supposed to report to the Colonel.’

‘Nonsense. Not to be thought of. You are exhausted by your travels, your sufferings, your privations. One has only to look at you. I am sure the Colonel will gladly wait until the morning. Is that not so, Peter?’

‘Tomorrow will be time enough.’

‘Of course. Well, we castaways marooned on a mountain top are always eager for news of the outside world. What of the past fortnight, my friend?’

Petersen put down his untouched glass and rose. ‘George will tell you. He’s a much better raconteur than I am.’

‘Well, yes, you do rather lack his gift for dramatic embellishment. Duty calls?’ Petersen nodded.

‘Ah! The Colonel?’

‘Who else. I won’t be long.’

When Petersen returned, he was not alone. The two men accompanying him were, like himself, covered in a heavy coating of snow. While they were brushing this off, Harrison rose courteously and introduced them.

‘Good evening, gentlemen. We are honoured.’ He turned to the newcomers. ‘Let me introduce Major Ranković and Major Metrović, two of the Colonel’s senior commanders. You venture forth on a wild night, gentlemen.’

‘You mean, of course, why have we come?’ The speaker, Major Metrović, was a man of medium height, dark, thickset and cheerful. ‘Curiosity, of course. Peter’s movements are always shrouded in mystery and heaven knows we see little enough of new faces from the outer world.’

‘Peter didn’t also mention that two of those new faces were young, female and – I speak as a detached observer, of course – rather extraordinarily good-looking?’

‘He may have done, he may have done.’ Metrović smiled again. ‘You know how it is with my colleague and myself. Our minds are invariably preoccupied with military matters. Isn’t that so, Marino?’

Marino – Major Ranković – a tall, thin, dark-bearded and rather gloomy character, who looked as if he let Metrović do all the smiling for both of them, didn’t say whether it was so or not. He seemed preoccupied and the source of his preoccupation was unquestionably Giacomo.

‘I asked them along,’ Petersen said. ‘I felt it was the least I could do to bring some relief into their cheerless lives.’

‘Well, welcome, welcome.’ Harrison looked at his watch. ‘Won’t be long, you said. What do you call short?’

‘I wanted to give George a chance to finish his story. Besides, I was detained. Much questioning. And I stopped by at my radio hut to see if you’d made off with anything during my absence. It seems not. Perhaps you mislaid the key.’

‘The radio hut?’ Sarina glanced at the door at the end of the room. ‘But we heard nothing. I mean–’

‘My radio hut is fifty metres away. No mystery. There are three radios in the camp. One for the Colonel. One for Captain Harrison. One for me. You will be assigned to the Colonel. Lorraine comes here.’

‘You arranged that?’

‘I arranged nothing. I take orders, just like anyone else. The Colonel arranged it, Lorraine’s assignation here was arranged weeks ago. There’s no secret about it. The Colonel, for reasons that may seem obscure to you but which I understand very well, prefers that Captain Harrison’s radio operator, like Captain Harrison himself, should not speak or understand Serbo-Croat. The basis of the Colonel’s security beliefs is that one should trust nobody.’

‘You must have a lot in common with the Colonel.’

‘I think that’s rather unfair, young lady.’ It was Metrović again and he was still smiling. ‘I can confirm what the Major has said. I’m the go-between, the translator, if you like, for the Colonel and Captain Harrison. Like the major, I was partly educated in England.’

‘Enough,’ Harrison said. ‘Let us put unworthy thoughts to one side and concentrate on more important things.’

‘Such as hospitality?’ George said.

‘Such as hospitality, as you say. Be seated, please. What is your choice, gentlemen – and ladies, of course?’

They all told him what they wanted, all, that is, except Major Ranković. He crossed to where Giacomo was seated and said: ‘May I ask what your name is?’

Giacomo lifted his eyebrows in slight puzzlement, smiled and said: ‘Giacomo.’

‘That’s an Italian name, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Giacomo what?’

‘Just Giacomo.’

‘Just Giacomo.’ Ranković’s voice was deep and gravelly. ‘It suits you to be mysterious?’

‘It suits me to mind my own business.’

‘What’s your rank?’

‘That’s my business, too.’

‘I’ve seen you before. Not in the army, though. Rijeka, Split, Kotor, some place like that.’

‘It’s possible.’ Giacomo was still smiling but the smile no longer extended to his eyes. ‘It’s a small enough world. I used to be a sailor.’

‘You’re a Yugoslav.’

Giacomo, Petersen was aware, could easily have conceded the fact but he knew he wouldn’t. Ranković was an able soldier but no psychologist.

‘I’m English.’

‘You’re a liar.’

Petersen stepped forward and tapped Ranković on the shoulder. ‘If I were you, Marino, I’d quit while I was ahead. Not, mind you, that I think you are ahead.’

Ranković turned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that you’re still intact and in one piece. Keep on like this and you’ll wake up in hospital wondering if you fell under a train. I can vouch for Giacomo. He is English. He’s got so long and so distinguished a war record that he puts any man in this room to shame. While you’ve been pottering around the mountains he’s been fighting in France and Belgium and North Africa and the Aegean and usually on assignments so dangerous that you couldn’t even begin to wonder what they were like. Look at his face, Marino. Look at it and you’ll look into the face of war.’

Ranković studied Giacomo closely. ‘I’m not a fool. I never questioned his qualities as a soldier. I was curious, that is all, and maybe, like the Colonel and yourself, I am not much given to trusting anyone. I did not intend to give offence.’

‘And I didn’t intend to take any,’ Giacomo said. His good humour had returned. ‘You’re suspicious, I’m touchy. A bad mix. Let me suggest a good mix or rather no mix at all. You never mix malt whisky with anything, do you, George? Not even water?’

‘Sacrilege.’

‘You were right on one count, Major. I am English but I was born in Yugoslavia. Let us drink to Yugoslavia.’

‘A toast no man could quarrel with,’ Ranković said. There were no handshakes, no protestations of eternal friendship. It was, at best, a truce. Ranković, no actor, still had his reservations about Giacomo.

Petersen, for his part, had none.

Considerably later in the evening an understandably much more relaxed and mellowed atmosphere had descended upon the company. Some of them had paid a brief visit to a mess four hundred metres distant for an evening meal. Sarina and Lorraine had point-blank – and as it turned out, wisely – refused to brave the near blizzard that was now sweeping by outside. Michael, inevitably, had elected to remain with them and Giacomo, after a quick exchange of glances with Petersen, had announced that he was not hungry. Giacomo did not have to have it spelt out to him that, even among his own people, Petersen was suspicious of practically everybody in sight.

Compared to Josip Pijade’s midday offerings, the meal was a gastronomic disaster. It was no fault of the Četnik cooks – as elsewhere through that ravaged country, food was at a premium and fine food almost wholly unobtainable. Still, it was a sad come-down from the flesh-pots of Italy and Mostar and even George could manage no more than two platefuls of the fatty mutton and beans which constituted the main and only course of the evening. They had left as soon as decency permitted.