Partisans. Alistair MacLean
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‘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.’
She stared at him, colour staining her cheeks, then said in a whisper: ‘You must be mad. Why on earth should we—’
‘I don’t know and I’m not mad. It’s just by liking to live a little longer that I manage to live a little longer.’ Petersen looked at them for several silent moments, then sighed. ‘So you want to come to Yugoslavia with me?’
‘Not really.’ Her hands were still clenched and now the brown eyes were hostile. ‘Not after what you’ve just said.’ She looked at her brother, then at Lunz, then back at Petersen. ‘Do we have any options?’
‘Certainly. Any amount. Ask Colonel Lunz.’
‘Colonel?’
‘Not any amount. Very few and I wouldn’t recommend any of them. The whole point of the exercise is that you both get there intact and if you go by any other means the chances of your doing just that are remote: if you try it on your own the chances don’t exist. With Major Petersen you have safe conduct and guaranteed delivery—alive, that is.’
Michael said, doubt in his voice: ‘You have a great deal of confidence in Major Petersen.’
‘I do. So does Major Petersen. He has every right to, I may add. It’s not just that he knows the country in a way neither of you ever will. He moves as he pleases through any territory whether it’s held by friend or enemy. But what’s really important is that the fields of operations out there are in a state of constant flux. An area held by the Četniks today can be held by the Partisans tomorrow. You’d be like lambs in the fold when the wolves come down from the hills.’
For the first time the girl smiled slightly. ‘And the Major is another wolf?’
‘More like a sabre-toothed tiger. And he’s got two others who keep him constant company. Not, mind you, that I’ve ever heard of sabre-toothed tigers meeting up with wolves but you take my point, I hope.’
They didn’t say whether they took his point or not. Petersen looked at them both in turn and said: ‘Those fatigues you’re wearing—they’re British?’
They both nodded.
‘You have spares?’
Again they nodded in unison.
‘Winter clothing? Heavy boots?’
‘Well, no.’ Michael looked his embarrassment. ‘We didn’t think we would need them.’
‘You didn’t think you would need them.’ Petersen briefly contemplated the ceiling then returned his gaze to the uncomfortable pair on the couch. ‘You’re going up the mountains, maybe two thousand metres, in the depths of winter, not to a garden party in high summer.’
Lunz said hastily: ‘I shouldn’t have much trouble in arranging for these things by morning.’
‘Thank you, Colonel.’ Petersen pointed to two fairly large, canvas-wrapped packages on the floor. ‘Your radios, I take it. British?’
‘Yes,’ Michael said. ‘Latest models. Very tough.’
‘Spares?’
‘Lots. All we’ll ever need, the experts say.’
‘The experts have clearly never fallen down a ravine with a radio strapped to their backs. You’re British-trained, of course.’
‘No. American.’
‘In Cairo?’
‘Cairo is full of them. This was a staff sergeant in the US Marines. An expert in some new codes. He taught quite a few Britishers at the same time.’
‘Seems fair enough. Well, a little cooperation and we should get along just fine.’
‘Cooperation?’ Michael seemed puzzled.
‘Yes. If I have to give some instructions now and again I expect them to be followed.’
‘Instructions?’ Michael looked at his sister. ‘Nobody said anything—’