Алистер Маклин - Partisans

‘Given a cause that is close to their hearts, the Italians can fight as gallantly as any people on earth. This cause is not close to their hearts – it couldn’t be further away from it. This is Germany’s war and they don’t like fighting Germany’s war because, basically, they don’t like the Germans. It has been repeatedly claimed, both by the Italians and the British that the Italians are, at bottom, pro-British. The truth is, of course, that they’re just pro-Italian.

‘No-one is more acutely aware of this than the Italian high command. But there’s more to it of course than just patriotism. There’s no lack of first-class minds in the Italian high command and it’s my belief that they are convinced, even at this early stage, that the Germans are going to lose the war.’ Petersen looked round the room. ‘It may not be your belief, it may not be my belief, but that’s irrelevant. What matters is that I’m convinced it is their belief and that they are even now figuring out a way to arrive at an accommodation – for want of a better word – with the British and Americans. This accommodation, of course, would take the form of a full-scale surrender but, of course, it would be nothing of the sort. It would involve full-scale cooperation upon the part of the Italians with every aspect of the British and American forces just short of the front-line engagement of their troops in the front line.’

‘You seem very sure about this, Peter,’ Metrović said. ‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Because I have access to sources and information that none of you has. I am in constant touch with both Italian and German forces in this country and, as you know, I’m a frequent visitor to Italy and have talked to literally hundreds of Italians there, both military men and civilians. I am neither literally deaf nor figuratively dumb. I know, for instance, that Italian Intelligence and German Intelligence are barely on civil speaking terms with each other and most certainly do not trust each other round the nearest corner in the street.

‘General Granelli, Head of Italian Intelligence and Cipriano’s boss – Cipriano is this Intelligence Major I was talking about – is an evil and warped character but out-and-out brilliant. He knows the situation and the options as well as anyone and is in no doubt that the Germans are going to go down in dust and flames and has no intention of joining them there. He’s also pretty certain that I know quite well what the true situation is and that if I start voicing my doubts – my convictions, rather – out loud I could be a positive danger to him. I think he’s been twice on the point of having me eliminated and has twice changed his mind at the last minute. I know there’s going to be a third time which is one reason why I want to get out of here – before Cipriano or some other comes, in the guise of a loyal ally, naturally, and arranges for an accident to happen to me. But the main reason, of course, for my departure is to get to their link-man before he gets to me.’

‘Link-man? Link-man?’ Harrison shook his head in bafflement. ‘You speak in riddles, Peter.’

‘A riddle with a childishly easy answer. If the Germans go down who else is going to go down with them?’

‘Ah-ha!’

‘As you’ve just said, ah-ha. All those who have fought with them, that’s who. Including us. If you were General Granelli and with Granelli’s keen eye to the future, which of the opposing forces in Yugoslavia would you back?’

‘Good Lord!’ Harrison sounded slightly stunned. He looked around the room. The others, if not quite stunned, looked for the most part deeply pensive, not least Ranković and Metrović. ‘What you are saying is that Granelli and this Major Cipriano are working hand-in-hand with the Partisans and that Cipriano is the master double-agent?’

Petersen rubbed his chin with his hand, glanced briefly at Harrison, sighed, poured himself some more red wine and did not deign to answer.

Petersen’s radio shack did not begin to compare in magnificence with Harrison’s, which they had left only a few moments previously, a premature departure arising directly from the conversational hiatus that had ensued immediately after Harrison’s last words, a lacuna that went on and on and on. Harrison and the two Četnik officers were sunk in profound reverie, Sarina and Lorraine, by their expressions not by words, had made it clear that their aversion to Petersen had not only returned but was in fuller flood than ever and Alex and Michael, as ever, had nothing to say. Those two master conversationalists, George and Giacomo, had battled bravely but only briefly on. It was a lost cause.

The hut would have been big enough to serve as a one-car garage, if the car were small enough. Three beds, a table, three chairs, a cooking stove and that was all: the radio room was a tiny office next door.

‘I am sad and disturbed,’ George said. ‘Profoundly disturbed.’ He poured himself a large glass of wine and drank half of it in one apparently endless gulp just to show how profoundly disturbed he was. ‘Sad, perhaps, is a better word. The realization that one’s life and one’s lifework has been a failure is a bitter pill to swallow. The damage to one’s pride and self-esteem is irreparable. The effect, overall, is crushing.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Petersen said sympathetically. ‘I’ve felt that myself.’

George might not have heard him. ‘You will not have forgotten the days when you were my student in Belgrade?’

‘Who could, ever? As you said yourself, not more than a hundred times, a walk with you through the rose-arboured groves of academe was an experience to remain with one always.’

‘Remember the precepts I preached, the eternal verities I cherished? Honour, honesty, straightforwardness, the pure in mind, the open heart, the outright contempt for deceit, deception, dishonesty: we were, remember, to go through the darkness of this world guided solely by the light of the everlasting flame of truth?’

‘Yes, George.’

‘I am a broken man.’

‘I’m sorry, George.’

There were six of them in all, and six tougher looking and more villainous characters it would have been almost impossible to imagine, far less find. There was a curious likeness about them. They were all just over medium height, all lean and broad-shouldered, all clad exactly alike: khaki trousers tucked into high boots, belted khaki canvas jacket over a khaki tunic, and khaki forage caps. They carried no badges, no identification marks. All were armed in precisely the same fashion: machine-pistols in hands, a revolver at waist level and hunting knives stuck into a sheath on the right boot. Their faces were dark and still, their eyes quiet and watchful. They were dangerous men.

Surprise had been complete, resistance – even the thought of a token resistance – unthinkable. The same company as had been in Harrison’s hut the previous evening, had been there just a few minutes before eight that evening when the outside door had burst open and three men had been inside the door with levelled guns before anyone could even react. Now there were six inside, and the door was closed. One of the intruders, a little shorter and a little broader than the others, took a pace forward.

‘My name is Crni.’ It was the Serbo-Croat word for black. ‘You will take off your weapons, one by one, and place them on the floor.’ He nodded at Metrović. ‘You begin.’

Within a minute every gun in the room – at least every visible gun – was lying on the floor. Crni beckoned Lorraine. ‘Pick up those guns and put them on that table there. You will not, of course, be so stupid as to even think of firing any of them.’

Lorraine had no thought of firing any of them, her hands were shaking so much that she had some difficulty in picking them up. When they were on the table Crni said: ‘Are either of you two young ladies armed?’