Алистер Маклин - Partisans

Alex raised the handkerchief high above his head. Petersen engaged first gear and waited, clutch depressed, accelerator at halfthrottle. Alex brought the handkerchief sharply down and, clutch released, the truck moved forward under full throttle. Three seconds later Petersen jammed on the brakes, bringing the truck to an abrupt halt, fair and square across the width of the main highway.

The Italian army command car which, fortunately for its occupants, was travelling at only a moderate speed, had no chance: even as the driver stamped on the foot-brake he must have realized that his options were limited indeed: he could either keep to the road and hit the side of the truck head-on or swerve to his right into the field where Alex was – a swerve to the left would have fetched him up against the trees lining the lane. Prudently, he chose the latter course. Locked tyres screeching on the tarmac, the car bust through a low wooden fence, broke into the field while balanced on only two wheels, teetered for a couple of seconds then came to rest as it fell over on its left side, wheels still spinning slowly in the air.

Within seconds, rifle butts had smashed in the right-hand windows of the car but the need for haste was not there: the five occupants, unhurt except for cuts about their faces, were too dazed to recognize the presence of their assailants, far less offer resistance: when they did recover some sense of awareness, the sight of the four machine-pistol muzzles only inches from their heads made the thought of offering any resistance too ludicrous for contemplation.

When Petersen and Crni returned to the hotel they found George and his companions – inevitably, in George’s case – in the bar. Equally inevitably, George was presiding behind the counter.

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’ George was at his affable best.

‘You’ve finished lunch, then?’ Petersen said.

‘And it wasn’t bad. Not bad at all. What shall it be? Beer?’

‘Beer is fine.’

‘Aren’t you going to ask him what happened?’ Sarina said indignantly.

‘Ah. Alex and Edvard have been cut off in their prime?’

‘They’re in the truck and the truck is in the car park.’

‘That’s what I like. Solicitude. Making sure that the prisoners are not doing themselves an injury. When do you propose to bring them inside?’

‘When it’s dark. I can’t very well march them through the streets, bound and gagged, in broad daylight, can I?’

‘True.’ George yawned and slid off his stool. ‘Siesta.’

‘I know,’ Petersen said sympathetically. ‘Go, go, go all the time. Wears a man down.’

George left in dignified silence. Sarina said: ‘Doesn’t go in much for congratulations, does he?’

‘He postponed his siesta. That shows he’s deeply moved.’

‘So you got Major Cipriano. What do you think of that, Lorraine?’

‘I suppose I should be weeping for joy. I am glad, I’m terribly glad. But I knew he would. I never for a moment doubted it. Did you?’

‘No. It’s very irritating.’

‘“ Souvent femme varie ”,’ Petersen said sadly. ‘Josip, would you send someone with your hotel wagon to pick up the prisoners’ luggage and take it upstairs. No, not upstairs: I can examine it just as well down here.’ He turned to Sarina. ‘And you keep quiet.’

‘I didn’t say anything!’

‘You were about to tell me that that was something else I was very good at. Examining other people’s luggage, I mean.’

The five prisoners were brought in by the back entrance as soon as it was reasonably dark. The hotel doors were locked. Cipriano, Alessandro and the three others were settled in chairs and their gags removed. Their wrists remained bound behind their backs. The normally tranquil and civilized Major Cipriano had undergone a radical transformation. His eyes glared and his face was suffused in anger.

‘What is the meaning of this – this abominable outrage, Petersen? Have you gone mad? Stark raving mad? Untie me at once! I’m an officer, an Italian officer, an allied officer!’

‘You’re a murderer. Your rank and nationality is of no importance. Not when you’re a mass murderer.’

‘Untie me! You’re crazy! By God, Petersen, if it’s the last thing I do–’

‘Has it occurred to you that you may already have done your last thing on earth?’

Cipriano stared at Petersen. His lack of understanding was total. Suddenly, he noticed Josip for the first time.

‘Pijade! Pijade! You – you are a party to this monstrous outrage!’ Cipriano was so clearly nearly bereft of reason that he struggled futilely with his bonds. ‘By God, Pijade, you shall pay for this treachery!’

‘Treachery.’ Petersen laughed without mirth. ‘Speak of treachery while you may, Cipriano, because you’re going to die for it. Pijade will pay, will he? How will he do that, Cipriano?’ Petersen’s voice was very soft. ‘Your eternal curses from the bottom of hell where you’ll surely be before midnight tonight?’

‘You’re all mad,’ Cipriano whispered. The anger had drained from his face: he had suddenly become aware that he was in mortal danger.

Petersen went on in the same gentle tone: ‘Hundreds of my comrades lie dead because of you.’

‘You are mad!’ His voice was almost a scream. ‘You must be mad. I’ve never touched a Četnik in my life.’

‘I am not a Četnik. I’m a Partisan.’

‘A Partisan!’ Cipriano was back to his husky whispering again. ‘A Partisan! Colonel Lunz suspected – I should have listened–’ He broke off and then his voice strengthened. ‘I have never harmed a Partisan in my life.’

‘Come in,’ Petersen called.

Lorraine entered.

‘Do you still deny, Cipriano, that you have masterminded the deaths of hundreds of my fellow-Partisans? Lorraine has told me everything, Cipriano. Everything.’ He produced a small black book from his tunic. ‘Lorraine’s code book. In your own handwriting. Or perhaps you don’t recognize your handwriting, Cipriano, I’m sure you never thought that you would be signing your own death warrant with your own handwriting. I find it ironic, Cipriano. I hope you do too. But irony isn’t going to bring all those hundreds back to life, is it? Even although the last of your spies will have been trapped and executed by the end of the week, those men will still be dead, won’t they, Cipriano. Where’s the little boy, Lorraine’s little boy? Where’s Mario, Cipriano?’

Cipriano made a noise in his throat, a harsh and guttural and meaningless sound and struggled to his feet. Giacomo glanced at Petersen, correctly interpreted the nod and, with evident satisfaction, hit Cipriano none too gently in the solar plexus. Cipriano collapsed into his chair, harsh retching noises coming deep from his throat.

Petersen said: ‘George?’

George emerged from behind the bar, carrying two pieces of rope in his hand. He ambled across the saloon, dropped one piece to the floor and secured Cipriano firmly to his chair with the other. Then he picked up the second rope, already noosed, and dropped it over Alessandro’s chest before the man realized what was happening. Seconds later and he was trussed like the proverbial turkey.

‘Cipriano isn’t going to tell me because Cipriano knows that he’s going to die, whatever happens. But you’ll tell me where the little boy is, won’t you, Alessandro?’

Alessandro spat on the floor.

‘Oh dear.’ Petersen sighed. ‘Those disgusting habits are difficult to eradicate, aren’t they?’ He reached behind the bar and produced the metal box of syringes and drugs he had taken from Alessandro aboard the Colombo . ‘Alex.’

Alex produced his razor-sharp knife and slit Alessandro’s left sleeve from the shoulder to where the ropes bound him at the elbow level.