Алистер Маклин: Partisans

George answered Petersen’s knock. Despite Lunz’s unflattering description George didn’t look a bit like a killer, hired or otherwise: genial buffoons, or those who look like them, never do. With a pudgy, jovial face crowned by a tangled thatch of grey-black hair, George, on the wrong side of fifty, was immense – immensely fat, that was: the studded belt strung tightly around what used to be his waist served only to emphasize rather than conceal his gargantuan paunch. He closed the door behind Petersen and crossed to the left-hand wall: like many very heavy men, as is so often seen in the case of overweight dancers, he was quick and light on his feet. He removed from the plaster a rubber suction cap with a central spike which was attached by a wire to a transformer and thence to a single earphone.

‘Your friend seems to be a very pleasant man.’ George sounded genuinely regretful. ‘Pity we have to be on opposite sides.’ He looked at the envelope Petersen had brought. ‘Aha! Operational orders, no?’

‘Yes. Hotfoot, you might say, from the presence of Colonel General von Löhr himself.’ Petersen turned to the recumbent figure on one of the two narrow beds. ‘Alex?’

Alex rose. Unlike George, he had no welcoming smile but that meant nothing, for Alex never smiled. He was of a height with George but there any resemblance ended. His weight was about half George’s as were his years: he was thin-faced, swarthy and had black watchful eyes which rarely blinked. Wordlessly, for his taciturnity was almost on a par with the stillness of his face, he took the envelope, dug into a knapsack, brought out a small butane burner and an almost equally small kettle, and began to make steam. Two or three minutes later Petersen extracted two sheets of paper from the opened envelope and studied the contents carefully. When he had finished he looked up and regarded the two men thoughtfully.

‘This will be of great interest to a great number of people. It may be the depths of winter but things look like becoming very hot in the Bosnian hills in the very near future.’

George said: ‘Code?’

‘Yes. Simple. I made sure of that when I made it up. If the Germans never meant business before, they certainly mean it now. Seven divisions, no less. Four German, under General Lütters, whom we know, and three Italian under General Gloria, whom we also know. Supported by the Ustaša and, of course, the Četniks. Somewhere between ninety thousand and a hundred thousand troops.’

George shook his head. ‘So many?’

‘According to this. It’s common knowledge of course that the Partisans are stationed in and around Bihać. The Germans are to attack from the north and east, the Italians from south and west. The battle plan, God knows, is simple enough. The Partisans are to be totally encircled and then wiped out to a man. Simple, but comprehensive. And just to make certain, both the Italians and Germans are bringing in squadrons of bomber and fighter planes.’

‘And the Partisans haven’t got a single plane.’

‘Even worse for them they don’t have antiaircraft guns. Well, a handful, but they should be in a museum.’ Petersen replaced the sheets and re-sealed the envelope. ‘I have to go out in fifteen minutes. Colonel Lunz is coming to take me to meet a couple of people I don’t particularly want to meet, two radio operator Četnik recruits who have to have their hands held until we get to Montenegro or wherever.’

‘Or so Colonel Lunz says.’ Suspicion was one of the few expressions that Alex ever permitted himself.

‘Or so he says. Which is why I want you two to go out as well. Not with me, of course – behind me.’

‘A little night air will do us good. These hotel rooms get very stuffy.’ George was hardly exaggerating, his penchant for beer was equalled only by his marked weakness for evil-smelling, black cigars. ‘Car or foot?’

‘I don’t know yet. You have your car.’

‘Either way, tailing in a blackout is difficult. Chances are, we’d be spotted.’

‘So? You’ve been spotted a long time ago. Even if Lunz or one of his men does pick you up it’s most unlikely that he’ll have you followed. What he can do, you can do.’

‘Pick up our tail, you mean. What do you want us to do?’

‘You’ll see where I’m taken. When I leave find out what you can about those two radio operators.’

‘A few details might help. It would be nice to know who we’re looking for.’

‘Probably mid-twenties, brother and sister, Sarina and Michael. That’s all I know. No breaking down of doors, George. Discretion, that’s what’s called for. Tact. Diplomacy.’

‘Our specialities. We use our Carabinieri cards?’

‘Naturally.’

When Colonel Lunz had said that the two young radio operator recruits were brother and sister, that much, Petersen reflected, had been true. Despite fairly marked differences in bulk and colouring, they were unmistakably twins. He was very tanned, no doubt from all his years in Cairo, with black hair and hazel eyes: she had the flawless peach-coloured complexion of one who had no difficulties in ignoring the Egyptian sunshine, close-cropped auburn hair and the same hazel eyes as her brother. He was stocky and broad: she was neither, but just how slender or well proportioned she might have been it was impossible to guess as, like her brother, she was clad in shapeless khaki-coloured fatigues. Side by side on a couch, where they had seated themselves after the introductions, they were trying to look relaxed and casual, but their overly expressionless faces served only to accentuate their wary apprehensiveness.

Petersen leaned back in his arm-chair and looked appreciatively around the large living-room. ‘My word. This is nice. Comfort? No. Luxury. You two young people do yourselves well, don’t you?’

‘Colonel Lunz arranged it for us,’ Michael said.

‘Inevitably. Favouritism. My spartan quarters–’

‘Are of your own choosing,’ Lunz said mildly. ‘It is difficult to arrange accommodation for a person who is in town for three days before he lets anyone know that he’s here.’

‘You have a point. Not, mind you, that this place is perfect in all respects. Take, for instance, the matter of cocktail cabinets.’

‘Neither my brother nor I drink.’ Sarina’s voice was low-pitched and quiet. Petersen noticed that the slender interlaced hands were ivory-knuckled.

‘Admirable.’ Petersen picked up a briefcase he had brought with him, extracted a brandy bottle and two glasses and poured for Lunz and himself. ‘Your health. I hear you wish to join the good Colonel in Montenegro. You must, then, be Royalists. You can prove that?’

Michael said: ‘Do we have to prove it? I mean, don’t you trust us, believe us?’

‘You’ll have to learn and learn quickly – and by that I mean now – to adopt a different tone and attitude.’ Petersen was no longer genial and smiling. ‘Apart from a handful of people – and I mean a handful – I haven’t trusted in or believed anyone for many years. Can you prove you’re a Royalist?’

‘We can when we get there.’ Sarina looked at Petersen’s unchanged expression and gave a helpless little shrug. ‘And I know King Peter. At least, I did.’

‘As King Peter is in London and London at the moment isn’t taking any calls from the Wehrmacht, that would be rather difficult to prove from here. And don’t tell me you can prove it when we get to Montenegro for that would be too late.’

Michael and Sarina looked at each other, momentarily at a loss for words, then Sarina said hesitatingly: ‘We don’t understand. When you say it would be too late–’

‘Too late for me if my back is full of holes. Bullet wounds, stab wounds, that sort of thing.’