Partisans

Three

Both Alex and Carlos had made predictions and both had turned out to be wrong or, in Alex’s case, half wrong. He had said, gloomily and accurately, that it was going to be very very cold and at three a.m. that morning none of the passengers on the Colombo would have disagreed with him. The driving snow, so heavy as to reduce visibility to virtually zero, had an uncommonly chilling effect on the torpedo boat, which would have been of no concern to those in an adequately central-heated boat but on this particular one the central-heating unit, as became practically everything else aboard, was functioning at about only one-third degree efficiency and, moreover, had been of a pathetically ancient design in the first place so that for the shivering passengers – and crew – the snow had become a matter for intense concern.

Alex had been wrong, even if only slightly – and what he had said had been a statement, really, not a fact – when he spoke of an east-north-east wind. It was a north-east wind. To a layman or, indeed, anybody not aboard an elderly torpedo boat, a paltry twenty-three degree difference in wind direction might seem negligible: to a person actually aboard such a boat the difference is crucial, marking, as it did for those with inbuilt queasiness, the border-line between the uncomfortable and the intolerable. Had the Colombo been head-on to wind and seas, the pitching would have been uncomfortable: had the seas been on the beam, the rolling would have been even more uncomfortable: but, that night, with the seas two points off the port bow, the resultant wicked corkscrewing was, for the less fortunate, the last straw. For some people aboard the torpedo boat that night, the degree of sea-sickness ranged from the unpleasant to the acute.

Carlos had predicted that the trip would be quiet and uneventful. At least two people, both, at least outwardly, immune to the effects of sea and cold, did not share Carlos’ confidence. The door to the bo’sun’s store, which lay to the port hand of the stairway leading down to the engine-room, had been hooked open and Petersen and Alex, standing two feet back in the unlit store, were only dimly visible. There was just enough light to see that Alex was carrying a semi-automatic machine-pistol while Petersen, using one hand to steady himself on the lurching deck had the other in his coat pocket. Petersen had long ago learned that with Alex by his side when confronting minimal forces, it was quite superfluous for him to carry a weapon of any kind.

Their little cabin, almost directly opposite them on the starboard side of the ill but sufficiently lit passage-way, had its door closed. George, Petersen knew, was still behind that door: and George, Petersen also knew, would be as wide awake as themselves. Petersen looked at his luminous watch. For just over ninety minutes he and Alex had been on station with no signs of weariness or boredom or awareness of the cold and certainly with no signs of their relaxed vigilance weakening at any time: a hundred times they had waited thus on the bleak and often icy mountains of Bosnia and Serbia and Montenegro, most commonly for much longer periods than this: and always they had survived. But that night was going to be one of their shorter and more comfortable vigils.

It was in the ninety-third minute that two men appeared at the for’ard end of the passage-way. They moved swiftly aft, crouched low as if making a stealthy approach, an attempt in which they were rather handicapped by being flung from bulkhead to bulkhead with every lurch of the Colombo: they had tried to compensate for this by removing their boots, no doubt to reduce the noise level of their approach, a rather ludicrous tactic in the circumstances because the torpedo boat was banging and crashing about to such a high decibel extent that they could have marched purposefully along in hobnailed boots without anyone being any way the wiser. Each had a pistol stuck in his belt: more ominously, each carried in his right hand an object that looked suspiciously like a hand-grenade.

They were Franco and Cola and neither was looking particularly happy. That their expressions were due to the nature of the errand on hand or to twinges of conscience Petersen did not for a moment believe: quite simply, neither had been born with the call of the sea in his ear and, from the lack of colour in their strained faces, both would have been quite happy never to hear it again. On the logical assumption that Alessandro would have picked his two fittest young lieutenants, for the job on hand, Petersen thought, their appearance didn’t say too much for the condition of those who had been left behind. Their cabin was right up in the bows of the vessel and in a cork-screwing sea that was the place to be avoided above all. They halted outside the door behind which George was lurking and looked at each other. Petersen waited until the boat was on even keel, bringing with it a comparative, if brief, period of silence.

‘Don’t move!’

Franco, at least, had some sense: he didn’t move. Cola, on the other hand, amply demonstrated Petersen’s assertion that they weren’t hired assassins but only tried to look like ones, by dropping his grenade – he had to be right-handed – reaching for his pistol and swinging round, all in what he plainly hoped was one swift coordinated movement: for a man like Alex it was a scene in pathetically slow motion. Cola had just cleared the pistol from his left waistband when Alex fired, just once, the sound of the shot shockingly loud in the metallic confines. Cola dropped his gun, looked uncomprehendingly at his shattered right shoulder then, back to the bulkhead, he slid to the deck in a sitting position.

‘They never learn,’ Alex said gloomily. Alex was not one to derive childish pleasure from such childishly simply exercises.

‘Maybe he’s never had the chance to learn,’ Petersen said. He relieved Franco of his armoury and had just picked up Cola’s pistol and grenade when George appeared in the cabin doorway. He, too, carried a weapon but had had no expectation of using it: he held his semi-automatic loosely by the stock, its muzzle pointing towards the deck. He shook his head just once, resignedly, but said nothing.

Petersen said: ‘Mind our backs, George.’

‘You are going to return those unfortunates to the bosom of their family?’ Petersen nodded. ‘A Christian act. They’re not fit to be out alone.’

Petersen and Alex moved back up the passageway preceded by Franco and Cola, the former supporting his stricken comrade. They had taken only four steps when a door on the port side, just aft of where George was standing, opened and Giacomo stepped out into the passage-way, brandishing a Biretta.

‘Put that thing away,’ George said. His machine-pistol was still pointing at the deck. ‘Don’t you think there has been enough noise already?’

‘That’s why I’m here.’ Giacomo had already lowered his gun. ‘The noise, I mean.’

‘Took your time, didn’t you?’

‘I had to get dressed first,’ Giacomo said with some dignity. He was clad only in a pair of khaki trousers, displaying a tanned chest rather impressively criss-crossed with scars. ‘But I notice you are fully dressed, so I take it you were expecting whatever did happen.’ He looked in the direction of the quartet making their slow way along the passage-way. ‘What exactly did happen?’

‘Alex has just shot Cola.’

‘Good for Alex.’ If Giacomo was moved by the news he hid it well. ‘Hardly worth wakening a man for.’

‘Cola might view matters differently.’ George coughed delicately. ‘You are not, then, one of them?’

‘You must be mad.’

‘Not really. I don’t know any of you, do I? But you don’t look like them.’

‘You’re very kind, George. And now?’

‘We won’t find out just by standing here.’

They caught up with the others in just a matter of seconds which was easily enough done as the now moaning Cola could barely drag his feet along. A moment afterwards a door at the for’ard end of the passage-way opened and an armed figure came – or lurched – into view. It was Sepp and he wasn’t looking at all like the ruthless killer of a few hours ago. It required no imagination to see the slightly greenish pallor on his face, for slightly green he indisputably was: time and the seaway had wrought its effect. It was not difficult to understand why Alessandro had selected Franco and Cola for the mission.

‘Sepp.’ Petersen’s tone was almost kindly. ‘We have no wish to kill you. Before you can reach us, you would have to kill your two friends, Franco and Cola. That would be bad enough, wouldn’t it, Sepp?’ From Sepp’s pallor and general demeanour of uncertainty it seemed, that for him, things were quite bad enough as they were. ‘Even worse, Sepp, before you could get around to killing the second of your friends, you yourself would be dead. Drop that gun, Sepp.’

Whatever other parts of Sepp’s physiology were in a state of temporary dysfunction there was nothing wrong with his hearing. His elderly Lee Enfield .303 clattered to the deck.

‘Who fired that shot?’ Carlos, his habitual smile in momentary abeyance, had come limping up behind them, a pistol in hand. ‘What goes on?’

‘It would help if you could tell us.’ Petersen looked at the gun in Carlos’ hand. ‘You don’t require that.’

‘I require it as long as I am the master of this vessel. I asked’ – he broke off with an exclamation of pain as George’s massive hand closed over his gun-wrist. He struggled to free his hand, an expression of incomprehension spread over his face and he bit his lips as if to hold back another cry of pain. George removed the gun from the suddenly nerveless fingers.

‘So that’s it,’ Carlos said. His face, not without reason, was pale. ‘So I was right. You are the assassins. It is your intention to take over my vessel, perhaps?’

‘Goodness gracious, no.’ It was George who answered. ‘Your forefinger has gone white at the knuckles. Precipitate action isn’t going to help anyone.’ He handed the pistol back to Carlos and went on pontifically: ‘Unnecessary violence never helped anyone.’

Carlos took the pistol, hesitated, stuck it in his waistband and began to massage his right wrist. The demonstration of pacific intentions had had an unsettling effect. He said uncertainly: ‘I still don’t understand–’

‘Neither do we, Carlos,’ Petersen said, ‘neither do we. That’s what we’re trying to do at this moment – understand. Perhaps you could help us. Those two men, Franco and Cola – Cola, I’m afraid is going to require your peacetime professional skills quite soon – came to attack us. Perhaps they came to kill us but I don’t think so. They bungled it.’

‘Amateurs,’ George said by way of explanation.

‘Amateurs, agreed. But the effect of an amateur bullet can be just as permanent as a professional one. I want to know why those two came for us in the first place. Perhaps you can help explain this, Carlos?’

‘How should I be able to help you?’

‘Because you know Alessandro.’

‘I do but not well. I have no idea why he should seek to do you harm. I do not permit my passengers to carry out guerrilla warfare.’

‘I’m sure you don’t. But I’m equally sure that you know who Alessandro is and what he does.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I don’t believe you. I suppose I should sigh and say how much trouble it would save all round if you were to tell the truth. Not, of course, that you are telling lies. You’re just not telling anything. Well, if you don’t help us, I’ll just have to help myself.’ Petersen raised his voice. ‘Alessandro!’

Seconds passed without reply.

‘Alessandro. I have three of your men prisoner, one of them badly injured. I want to know why those men came to attack us.’ Alessandro made no reply and Petersen went on: ‘You don’t leave me any option. In wartime, people are either friends or enemies. Friends are friends and enemies die. If you’re a friend, step out into the passage-way: if you’re not, then you’ll just have to stay there and die.’

Petersen didn’t show any particular emotion but his tone sounded implacable enough. Carlos, his pain forgotten, laid a hand on Petersen’s forearm.

‘People don’t commit murder aboard my ship.’

‘Haven’t committed. And murder is for peacetime. In wartime we call it execution.’ For those listening inside the cabin the tone of his voice could have lent little encouragement. ‘George, Alex. Help Franco and Sepp into the cabin. Keep out of any line of fire.’

Franco and Sepp didn’t need any kind of helping. Execution chamber or not they couldn’t get inside it fast enough. The door banged shut and a watertight clip came down. Petersen examined the pear-shaped object in his hand.

Carlos said apprehensively: ‘What’s that?’

‘You can see. A hand-grenade of sorts. George?’ George didn’t need telling what to do. He never did. He took up position by the cabin door, his hand reaching up for the closed watertight clip. With one hand Petersen took a grip on the door handle, with the other he pressed a lever on the bottom of the grenade as he glanced at George who immediately opened the clip. Petersen jerked open the door the requisite few inches, dropped the grenade inside and banged shut the door as George closed the clip again. They could have rehearsed it a hundred times.

‘Jesus!’ Carlos’ face was white. ‘In that confined space–’ He stopped, his face puzzled now, and said: ‘The explosion. The bang.’

‘Gas-grenades don’t go bang. They go hiss. Reactions, George?’ George had taken his hand away from the clip.

‘Five seconds and then whoever it was gave up. Quick-acting stuff, is it not?’

Carlos was still almost distraught. ‘What’s the difference? Explosives or poison gas–’

Petersen spoke with patience. ‘It was not poison gas. George.’ He spoke a few words in the ear of his giant Lieutenant, who smiled and moved quickly aft. Petersen turned to Carlos. ‘Is it your intention to let your friend Cola die?’

‘He’s not my friend and he’s in no danger of dying.’ He turned to the elder Pietro who had just arrived on the scene. ‘Get my medicine box and bring along two of your boys.’ To Petersen he said: ‘I’ll give a sedative, a knockout one. Then a coagulant. A few minutes later and I’ll bandage him up. There’ll be a broken bone or bones. It may be that his shoulder is shattered beyond repair, but whatever it is there’s nothing I can do about it in this seaway.’ He glanced aft, passed his hand over his forehead and looked as if he would like to moan. ‘More trouble.’

Michael von Karajan was approaching them, closely followed by George. Michael was trying to look indignant and truculent but succeeded only in looking miserable and frightened. George was beaming.

‘By heavens, Major, there’s nothing wrong with this new generation of ours. You have to admire their selfless spirit. Here we are with the good ship Colombo trying to turn somersaults but does that stop our Michael in the polishing of his skills? Not a bit of it. There he was, crouched over his transceiver in this appalling weather, headphones clamped over his ears–’

Petersen held up his hand. When he spoke his face was as cold as his voice. ‘Is this true, von Karajan?’

‘No. What I mean is–’

‘You’re a liar. If George says it’s true, it’s true. What message were you sending?’

‘I wasn’t sending any message. I–’

‘George?’

‘He wasn’t transmitting any message when I arrived.’

‘He would hardly have had time to,’ Giacomo said. ‘Not between the time I left our cabin and when George got there.’ He eyed the now visibly shaking Michael with open distaste. ‘He’s not only a coward, he’s a fool. How was he to know that I wasn’t going to return at any moment? Why didn’t he lock his door to make sure that he wasn’t disturbed?’

Petersen said: ‘What message were you going to transmit?’

‘I wasn’t going to transmit any–’

‘That makes you doubly a liar. Who were you transmitting to or about to transmit to?’

‘I wasn’t going to–’

‘Oh, do be quiet. That makes you three times a liar. George, confiscate his equipment. For good measure confiscate his sister’s as well.’

‘You can’t do that.’ Michael was aghast. ‘Take away our radios? They’re our equipment.’

‘Good God in heaven!’ Petersen stared at him in disbelief. Whether the disbelief were real or affected didn’t matter. The effect was the same. ‘I’m your commanding officer, you young fool. I can not only lock up your equipment, I can lock you up too, on charges of mutiny. In irons, if need be.’ Petersen shook his head. ‘“Can’t”, he says, “can’t”. Another thing, von Karajan. Can it be that you’re so stupid as not to know that, in wartime at sea, the use of radio by unauthorized personnel is a very serious offence.’ He turned to Carlos. ‘Is that not so, Captain Tremino?’ Petersen’s use of formal terms lent to his enquiry all the gravity of a court-martial.

‘Very much so, I’m afraid.’ Carlos wasn’t too happy to say it but he said it all the same.

‘Is this young fellow authorized personnel?’

‘No.’

‘You see how it is, von Karajan? The Captain would also be justified in locking you up. George, put the sets in our cabin. No, wait a minute. This is primarily a naval offence.’ He looked at Carlos. ‘Do you think–’

‘I have a very adequate safe in the office,’ Carlos said. ‘And I have the only key.’

‘Splendid.’ George moved off, a disconsolate Michael trailing behind him, passing by Pietro, bearing a black metal box and accompanied by two seamen. Carlos opened the medicine chest – it appeared to be immaculately equipped – and administered two injections to the hapless Cola. The box was closed and removed: so was Cola.

‘Well, now,’ Petersen said. ‘Let’s see what we have inside.’ Alex, not without considerable effort, managed to free the watertight clip – when George heaved a watertight clip home it tended to stay heaved – then levelled his machine-pistol on the door. Giacomo did the same with his pistol, clearly demonstrating that whoever’s side, if any, he was on it clearly was not that of Alessandro and his henchmen. Petersen didn’t bother about any weapon, although he had a Luger on his person: he just pushed the door open.

The guns were unnecessary. The four men were not unconscious but, on the other hand, they weren’t very conscious either, although they would be very soon. No coughing, no spluttering, no tears running down their cheeks: they were just slightly dazed, slightly woozy, slightly apathetic. Alex laid down his machine-pistol, collected the several weapons that were lying around, then searched the four men thoroughly, coming up with two more hand-guns and no fewer than four very unpleasant knives. All these he threw out into the passage-way.

‘Well.’ Carlos was almost smiling. ‘That wasn’t very clever of me, was it? I mean, if you had wished to dispose of all of them you’d have thrown Cola in here, too. I missed that.’ He sniffed the air professionally. ‘Nitrous oxide, I’d say. You know, laughing gas.’

‘Not bad for a doctor,’ Petersen said. ‘I thought that gas was confined only to dentists’ surgeries. Nitrous oxide, a refined form of. With this, you don’t come out of the anaesthetic with tears in your eyes, laughing, singing and generally making a fool of yourself. Normally, you don’t come out of it at all, by which I mean you’d just keep on sleeping until you woke up at your usual time, quite unaware that anything untoward had happened to you. But I’m told that if you’ve recently undergone some sort of traumatic experience immediately before you’ve been gassed, the tendency is to wake up directly the effects of the gas have worn off. They also say that if you had something weighing on your mind, such as a nagging conscience, the same thing happens.’

Carlos said: ‘That’s a strange sort of thing for a soldier to know about.’

‘I’m a strange sort of soldier. Alex, take up your gun while I have a look around.’

‘Look around?’ Carlos did just that. The cabin, if one could call it such, held five canvas cots and that was all: there wasn’t as much as even a cupboard for clothes. ‘There’s nothing to look around for.’

Petersen didn’t bother to reply. He ripped blankets from the cots and flung them on the deck. Nothing had lain beneath the blankets. He picked up a rucksack – there were five of them in the cabin – and unceremoniously dumped the contents on a cot. They were innocuous. Among some clothes and a rudimentary toilet kit there was a considerable amount of ammunition, some loose, some in magazines, but those, too, Petersen considered innocuous: he would have expected nothing else. The second rucksack yielded the same results. The third was padlocked. Petersen looked at Alessandro, who was sitting on the deck, his ravaged face expressionless: the effect was chilling, even a hint of balefulness would have been preferable to this emptiness but Petersen was not the man to be moved by expressions or lack of them.

‘Well, now, Alessandro, that wasn’t very clever, was it? If you want to hide a thing you do it inconspicuously: a padlock is conspicuous. The key.’

Alessandro spat on the deck and remained silent.

‘Spitting.’ Petersen shook his head. ‘Unpleasant, for second-rate villains. Alex.’

‘Search him?’

‘Don’t bother. Your knife.’

Alex’s knife, as one would have expected of Alex, was razor sharp. It sliced through the tough canvas of the rucksack as if through paper. Petersen peered at the contents.

‘Yes, indeed, twinges of conscience.’ He extracted a very small butane burner and an equally small kettle. The kettle had no top – the spout had a screwed top. Petersen shook the kettle: the glugging of water inside was unmistakable. Petersen turned to Carlos.

‘Doesn’t say much for the hospitality of the Colombo, does it, when a man has to bring along his own equipment for making tea or coffee or whatever.’

Carlos looked slightly puzzled. ‘Any passenger aboard this ship can have as much tea or coffee or any other drink that he wants.’ Then his face cleared. ‘For shore use, of course.’

‘Of course.’ Petersen tipped the remainder of the contents of the rucksack on to another cot, rummaged briefly around, then straightened. ‘Although, mind you, it’s difficult to see how we can make any of those refreshing beverages without any tea or coffee to make them. I’ve found out all I want to know even although I knew in advance anyway.’ He turned his attention to the fourth rucksack.

Carlos said: ‘If you’ve already found out what you want to know why keep on?’

‘Natural curiosity together with the fact that Alessandro, I’m afraid, is not a very trustworthy man. Who knows, this bag might contain a nest of vipers.’

There were no vipers but there were two more gas-grenades and a Walther with a screwed-on silencer.

‘And a stealthy killer to boot,’ Petersen said. ‘I’ve always wanted one of those.’ He put it in his pocket and opened up the last rucksack: this yielded only a small metal case about half the size of a shoe-box. Petersen turned to the nearest of his prisoners who happened to be Franco.

‘You know what’s inside this?’

Franco didn’t say whether he did not not.

Petersen sighed, placed the muzzle of his Luger against Franco’s knee-cap and said: ‘Captain Tremino, if I pull the trigger, will he walk again?’

‘Good God!’ Carlos was used to war but not this kind of war. ‘He might. He’ll be a cripple for life.’

Petersen took two steps back. Franco looked at Alessandro but Alessandro wasn’t looking at him. Franco looked at Petersen and the levelled Luger.

Franco said: ‘I know.’

‘Open it.’

Franco released two brass clips and swung back the lid. There was no explosion, no release of gas.

Carlos said: ‘Why didn’t you open it?’

‘Because the world is full of untrustworthy people. Lots of these boxes of tricks around. If an unauthorized opener doesn’t know where a secret switch or button is he’s going to inhale a very nasty gas. Most of the latest safes incorporate some such device.’ He took the box from Franco. The interior was shaped and lined with velvet and contained glass ampoules, two round boxes and two small hypodermic syringes. Petersen took out one of the round boxes and shook it: it rattled. Petersen handed the box to Carlos.

‘Should interest a medical man. At a guess, a variety of liquids and tablets to render the victim temporarily or permanently unconscious, by which I mean dead. Seven ampoules, you observe. One green, three blue, three pink. At a guess, the green is scopolamine, an aid to flagging memories. As for the difference in colour in the other six ampoules, there can be only one reason. Three are lethal, three non-lethal. Wouldn’t you agree, Captain?’

‘It’s possible.’ It was Carlos’ night for being unhappy and Petersen was no longer as surprised by his unhappiness as he had been earlier, nor at the obvious apprehension in which he held Alessandro. ‘There’s no means of telling one from the other, of course.’

‘I wouldn’t bet on that,’ Petersen said. He turned round as George came through the doorway. ‘All is well?’

‘A little trouble with the young lady,’ George said. ‘She put up a surprisingly spirited resistance to the confiscation of her radio.’

‘Nothing surprising about that. Fortunately, you’re bigger than she is.’

‘I’m hardly proud of that. The radios are in the captain’s cabin.’ George looked around the cabin which looked as if a small tornado had lately passed by. ‘Untidy lot, aren’t they?’

‘I helped a little.’ Petersen took the box from Carlos and handed it to George. ‘What do you make of that?’

It is difficult to conceive of a beaming, plump and cherubic face changing in an instant to one of graven stone but that was what happened to George’s.

‘Those are death capsules.’

‘I know.’

‘Alessandro’s?’

‘Yes.’

George looked at Alessandro for some seconds, nodded, and turned back to Petersen. ‘I think perhaps we should have a talk with our friend.’

‘You’re making a mistake.’ Carlos’ voice was not quite as steady as it could have been. ‘I’m a doctor. You don’t know human nature. Alessandro will never talk.’

George faced him. His expression hadn’t changed and Carlos visibly recoiled.

‘Be quiet, little man. Five minutes alone with me, ten at the most, and any man in the world will talk. Alessandro is a five minute man.’

‘It may come to that,’ Petersen said. ‘It probably will. But first things first. Apart from the capsules, we picked up one or two other interesting objects. This silenced gun, for instance.’ He showed George the Walther. ‘Two gas-grenades and a spirit burner and kettle and about two hundred rounds of ammunition. What do you think the kettle was for?’

‘One thing only. He was going to gas us, steal some real or imagined document, steam open the envelope – odd, that he should be convinced that there was an envelope around – study the contents, reseal the envelope, return it to our cabin, gas us again, wait a few seconds, replace the envelope, remove the gas-canister and leave. When we woke up in the morning we almost certainly wouldn’t be aware that anything had happened.’

‘That’s the only way it could have happened or was intended to happen. There are three questions. Why was Alessandro so interested in us? What were his future plans? And who sent him?’

‘We’ll find all that out easily enough,’ George said.

‘Of course we will.’

‘Not aboard this ship,’ Carlos said.

George studied him with mild interest. ‘Why not?’

‘There will be no torture aboard any vessel I command.’ The words sounded more resolute than the tone of the voice.

‘Carlos,’ Petersen said. ‘Don’t make things any more difficult for yourself – or us – than you can help. Nothing easier than to lock you up with this bunch of villains: you’re not the only person who can find his way to Ploče. We don’t want to nor do we intend to. We realize you find yourself in an invidious situation through no fault of your own. No torture. We promise.’

‘You’ve just said you’ll find out.’

‘Psychology.’

‘Drugs?’ Carlos was immediately suspicious. ‘Injections?’

‘Neither. Subject closed. I had another question but the answer is obvious – why did Alessandro choose to surround himself with such a bunch of incompetents? Camouflage. A dangerous man might well be tempted to surround himself with other dangerous men. Alessandro’s too smart.’ Petersen looked around. ‘No heavy metal objects and only a cat could get out of that port-hole. Carlos, would you have one of your men bring us a sledge-hammer or as near to it as you have aboard.’

The suspicion returned. ‘What do you want a sledge-hammer for?’

‘To beat out Alessandro’s brains,’ George said patiently. ‘Before we start asking questions.’

‘To close this door from the outside,’ Petersen said. ‘The clips, you understand.’

‘Ah!’ Carlos stepped into the passage-way, gave an order and returned. ‘I’ll go and have a look at the fallen hero. Not much I can do for him, I’m afraid.’

‘A favour, Carlos. When we leave, may we go up to your cabin or whatever you call the place we met you first?’

‘Certainly. May one ask why?’

‘If you’d been standing frozen in that damned passage-way for an hour and a half you’d understand why.’

‘Of course. Restoratives. Help yourselves, gentlemen. I’ll step by and let you know how Cola is.’ He paused then added drily: ‘That should give you plenty of time to prepare your intensive interrogation of me.’

He left almost immediately to be replaced by Pietro, bearing a small sledge-hammer. They closed the door and secured one of the eight water-tight clips. One was enough. George struck it with one blow of the hammer. That, too, was enough – not even a gorilla could now have opened that clip from the inside. They left the sledge-hammer in the passage-way and went directly to the engineroom, which was unmanned, as they had known it would be: all controls were operated from the wheelhouse. It took them less than a minute to find what they were looking for. They made a brief excursion to the upper deck then repaired to Carlos’ cabin.

‘A thirsty night’s work,’ George said. He was on his second, or it could have been third, glass of grappa. He looked at the von Karajans’ radios on the deck beside him. ‘These would have been safer in our cabins. Why have them here?’

‘They’d have been too safe in our cabins. Young Michael would never have dared to try to get at them there.’

‘Don’t try to tell me that he might try to get at them here.’

‘Unlikely, I admit. Michael, it is clear, is not cast in the heroic mould. He might, of course, be a consummate actor, but I don’t see him as an actor any more than a hero. However, if he’s desperate enough – and he must have been desperate to try to get off a message at the time and place he did – he might try.’

‘But the radios will be in the safe as soon as Carlos returns. And Carlos has the only key.’

‘Carlos might give him that key.’

‘Oh! So that’s the way our devious mind works. So we keep an eye on our Michael for the remainder of the night? Not that there’s all that much left of it. And if he does try to recover the radios, what does that prove except that there is a connection between him and Carlos?’

‘That’s all I want to prove. I don’t expect either would say or admit to anything. They don’t have to. At least, Michael doesn’t have to. I can have him detained in Ploče for disobedience of orders and suspicion of trying to communicate with the enemy.’

‘You really suspect him of that?’

‘Good Lord, no. But, no question, he’s been trying to communicate with someone and that someone might as well be a spy. It’ll look better on a charge sheet. All I want to see is if there’s any connection between him and Carlos.’

‘And if there is you’re prepared to clap him into durance vile?’

‘Sure.’

‘And his sister?’

‘She’s done nothing. She can come along with us, hang around Ploče or join him in, as you say, durance vile. Up to her.’

‘The very flower of chivalry.’ George shook his head and reached for the grappa. ‘So we may or may not suspect a connection between Carlos and Michael but we do suspect one between Carlos and Alessandro.’

‘I don’t. I do think that Carlos knows a great deal more about Alessandro than we do but I don’t think he knows what Alessandro is up to on this passage. A very simple point. If Carlos were privy to Alessandro’s plans then he, Alessandro, wouldn’t have bothered to bring along a kettle and burner: he’d just have gone to the galley and steamed the envelope open.’ He turned round as Carlos entered. ‘How’s Cola?’

‘He’ll be all right. Well, no danger. His shoulder is a mess. Even if it were a flat calm I wouldn’t touch it. It needs a surgeon or an osteologist and I’m neither.’ He unlocked a safe, put the radio gear inside then relocked the door. ‘Well, no hurry for you, gentlemen, but I must return to the wheelhouse.’

‘A moment, please.’

‘Yes, Peter?’ Carlos smiled. ‘The interrogation?’

‘No. A few questions. You could save us a lot of time and trouble.’

‘What? In interrogating Alessandro? You promised me no torture.’

‘I still promise. Alessandro tried to assault us and steal some papers tonight. Did you, do you know about this?’

‘No.’

‘I believe you.’ Carlos raised his eyebrows a little but said nothing. ‘You don’t seem unduly concerned that your fellow-Italian has been made a prisoner by a bunch of uncivilized Yugoslavs, do you?’

‘If you mean does he mean anything personally to me, no.’

‘But his reputation does.’

Carlos said nothing.

‘You know something about his background, his associations, the nature of his business that we don’t. Is that not so?’

‘That could be. You can’t expect me to divulge anything of that nature.’

‘Not expect. Hope.’

‘No hope. You wouldn’t break the Geneva Conventions to extract that information from me.’

Petersen rose. ‘Certainly not. Thank you for your hospitality.’

Petersen was carrying a canvas chair and the metal box of capsules when he entered the cabin in which Alessandro and his three men were imprisoned. George was carrying two lengths of heaving line and the sledge-hammer with which he had just released the outside clip. Alex was carrying only his machine-pistol. Petersen unfolded the chair, sat on it and watched with apparent interest as George hammered home a clip.

‘We’d rather not have any interruptions, you see,’ Petersen said. He looked at Franco, Sepp and Guido. ‘Get into that corner there. If anyone moves Alex will kill him. Take your jacket off, Alessandro.’

Alessandro spat on the floor.

‘Take your jacket off,’ George said pleasantly, ‘or I’ll knock you out of it.’

Alessandro, not a man of a very original turn of mind, spat again. George hit him somewhere in the region of the solar plexus, not a very hard blow, it seemed, but enough to make Alessandro double up, whooshing in agony. George removed the jacket.

‘Tie him up.’

George set about tying him up. When Alessandro had recovered a little from his initial bout of gasping, he tried to offer some resistance, but an absentminded cuff from George to the side of the jaw convinced him of the unwisdom of this. George tied him in such a fashion that both arms were lashed immovably to his sides. His knees and ankles were bound together and then, for good measure, George used the second heaving line to lash Alessandro to the cot. No chicken was ever so securely trussed, so immobile, as Alessandro was then.

George surveyed his handiwork with some satisfaction then turned to Petersen: ‘Isn’t there something in the Geneva Conventions about this?’

‘Could be, could be. Truth is, I’ve never read them.’ He opened the metal box and looked at Alessandro. ‘In the interests of science, you understand. This shouldn’t take any time at all.’ The words were light enough but Alessandro wasn’t listening to the words, he was looking at the implacable face above and not liking at all what he saw. ‘Here we have three blue ampoules and three pink. We think, and Captain Tremino who is also a doctor agrees with us, that three of these are lethal and three non-lethal. Unfortunately, we don’t know which is which and there’s only one simple, logical way to find out. I’m going to inject you with one of these. If you survive it, then we’ll know it’s a nonlethal ampoule. If you don’t, we’ll know it’s the other ones that are non-lethal.’ Petersen held up two ampoules, one blue, one pink. ‘Which would you suggest, George?’ George rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘A big responsibility. A man’s life could hang on my decision. Well, it’s not all that big a responsibility. No loss to mankind, anyway. The blue one.’

‘Blue it shall be.’ Petersen broke the ampoule into a test tube, inserted the needle of the hypodermic and began to withdraw the plunger. Alessandro stared in terrified fascination as the blue liquid seeped up into the hypodermic.

‘I’m afraid I’m not very good at this job.’ Petersen’s conversational calm was more terrifying than any sibilant threats could ever have hoped to be. ‘If you’re careless an air bubble can get in and an air bubble in the blood stream can be very unpleasant. I mean, it can kill you. However, in your case, I don’t think it’s going to make very much difference one way or another.’

Alessandro’s eyes were staring, his whitened lips drawn back in a rictus of terror. Petersen touched the inside of Alessandro’s right elbow. ‘Seems a suitable vein to me.’ He pinched the vein and advanced the syringe.

‘No! No! No!’ Alessandro’s voice was an inhuman scream torn from his throat. ‘God, no! No!’

‘You’ve nothing to worry about,’ Petersen said soothingly. ‘If it’s a non-lethal dose you’ll just slip away from us and come back in a few minutes. If it’s a lethal dose, you’ll just slip away.’ He paused. ‘Just a minute, though. He just might die in screaming agony.’ He brought out a pad of white linen cloth and handed it to George. ‘Just in case. But watch your hand, though. When a dying man’s teeth clench they stay clenched. Worse, if he draws blood you’ll get infected too.’

Petersen pinched the vein between fingers and thumb. Alessandro screamed. George applied the pad to his mouth. After a few seconds, at a nod from Petersen, he withdrew the pad. Alessandro had stopped screaming now and a weird moaning noise came from deep in his throat. He was struggling insanely against his bonds, his face was a mask of madness and a seizure, a heart attack, seemed imminent Petersen looked at George: the big man’s face was masked in sweat.

Petersen said in a quiet voice: ‘This is the killer dose, isn’t it?’ Alessandro didn’t hear him. Petersen had to repeat the questions twice before the question penetrated the fear crazed mind.

‘It’s the killer dose! It’s the killer dose.’ He repeated the words several times, the words a babble of near-incoherent terror.

‘And you die in agony?’

‘Yes, yes! Yes, yes!’ He was gasping for breath like a man in the final stages of suffocation. ‘Agony! Agony!’

‘Which means you have administered this yourself. There can be no pity, Alessandro, no mercy. Besides, you could still be telling a lie.’ He touched the tip of the needle against the skin. Alessandro screamed again and again. George applied the clamp.

‘Who sent you?’ Twice Petersen repeated the question before Alessandro rolled his eyes. George removed the pad.

‘Cipriano.’ The voice was a barely distinguishable croak. ‘Major Cipriano.’

‘That’s a lie. No major could authorize this.’ Careful not to touch the plunger Petersen inserted the tip of the needle just outside the vein. Alessandro opened his mouth to scream again but George cut him off before he could make a sound. ‘Who authorized this? The needle’s inside the vein now, Alessandro. All I have to do is press the plunger. Who authorized this?’

George removed the pad. For a moment it seemed that Alessandro had lost consciousness. Then his eyes rolled again.

‘Granelli.’ The voice was a faint whisper. ‘General Granelli.’ Granelli was the much-feared, much-hated Chief of Italian Intelligence.

‘The needle is still inside the vein, my hand is still on the plunger. Does Colonel Lunz know of this?’

‘No. I swear it. No!’

‘General von Löhr?’

‘No.’

‘Then how did Granelli know I was on board?’

‘Colonel Lunz told him.’

‘Well, well. The usual trusting faith between the loyal allies. What did you want from my cabin tonight?’

‘A paper. A message.’

‘Perhaps you’d better withdraw that syringe,’ George said. ‘I think he’s going to faint. Or die. Or something.’

‘What were you going to do with it, Alessandro?’ The tip of the needle had remained where it was.

‘Compare it with a message.’ Alessandro really did look very ill indeed. ‘My jacket.’

Petersen found the message in the inside pocket of the jacket. It was the duplicate of the one he had in his cabin. He refolded the paper and put it in his own inside pocket.

‘Odd,’ George said. ‘I do believe he’s fainted.’

‘I’ll bet his victims never had a chance to faint. I wish,’ Petersen said with genuine regret, ‘that I had pressed that plunger. No question our friend here is – was – a one-man extermination squad.’ Petersen sniffed at the test-tube, dropped it and the ampoule to the deck, crushed them both beneath his heel and then squirted the contents of the hypodermic on the deck.

‘Spirit-based,’ Petersen said. ‘It will evaporate quickly enough. Well, that’s it.’

In the passage-way, George mopped his forehead. ‘I wouldn’t care to go through that again. Neither, I’m sure, would Alessandro.’

‘Me neither,’ Petersen said. ‘How do you feel about it, Alex?’

‘I wish,’ Alex said morosely, ‘that you had pushed that plunger. I could have shot him as easy as a wink.’

‘That would have been an idea. At least he’d have gone without the agony. In any event, he’s all washed up as an operative of any kind or will be as soon as he gets back to Termoli. Or even to Ploče. Let’s fix this door.’

All eight water-tight clips were engaged and with each clip in turn, to muffle sound, Alex held in position the pad that had been so lately used for another purpose, while George hammered home the clip. When the eighth had been so dealt with, George said: ‘That should hold it for a while. Especially if we throw this hammer overboard.’

‘Let’s make sure,’ Petersen said. He left and returned within a minute with a gas cylinder, a welder’s rod and a face-mask. Petersen was, at best, but an amateur welder but what he lacked in expertise he made up in enthusiasm. The completed result would have won him no prizes for finesse but that was unimportant. What was important was that for all practical purposes that door was sealed for life.

‘What I’d like to do now,’ Petersen said, ‘is to have a word with Carlos and Michael. But first, I think, a pause for reflection.’

‘How does this sound,’ Petersen said. He was seated at Carlos’ desk, a scotch in front of him and, beside it, a message he had just drafted. ‘We’ll have Michael send it off by and by. Plain language, of course. COLONEL LUNZ. Then his code number. YOUR WOULD-BE ASSASSINS AND/OR EXTERMINATORS A BUNCH OF INCOMPETENTS STOP ALESSANDRO AND OTHER BUNGLERS NOW CONFINED FORE CABIN COLOMBO BEHIND WELDED STEEL DOOR STOP SORRY CANNOT CONGRATULATE YOU GENERAL VON LÖHR GENERAL GRANELLI MAJOR CIPRIANO ON CHOICE OF OPERATIVES REGARDS ZEPPO. “Zeppo”, you may recall, is my code name.’

George steepled his fingers. ‘Fair,’ he said judicially, ‘fair. Not entirely accurate, though. We don’t know that they are assassins and/or etc.’

‘How are they to know that we don’t know? Should cause quite a stirring in the dovecote. Not too much billing and cooing, wouldn’t you think?’

George smiled broadly. ‘Colonel Lunz and General von Löhr are going to be fearfully upset. Alessandro said they knew nothing of this set-up.’

‘How are they to know that we didn’t know,’ Petersen said reasonably. ‘They’ll be fit to be tied and ready to assume anything. I’d love to be listening in to the heated telephone calls among the named parties later on today. Nothing like spreading confusion, dissension, suspicion and mistrust among the loyal allies. Not a bad night’s work, gentlemen. I think we’re entitled to a small nightcap before going to have a word with Carlos.’

The wheelhouse was lit only by the dim light from the binnacle and it had taken Petersen and his two companions some time to adjust their eyes to the gloom. Carlos himself was at the wheel – at a discreet word from Petersen the helmsman had taken temporary leave of absence.

Petersen coughed, again discreetly, and said: ‘I am surprised, Carlos – I would almost say acutely distressed – to find a simple honest sailorman like yourself associating with such notorious and unscrupulous characters as General Granelli and Major Cipriano.’

Carlos, hands on the wheel, continued to gaze straight ahead and when he spoke his voice was surprisingly calm. ‘I have never met either. After tonight, I shall take care that I never shall. Orders are orders but I will never again carry one of Granelli’s murderous poisoners. They may threaten court-martial but threats are as far as they will go. I take it that Alessandro has talked?’

‘Yes.’

‘He is alive?’ From the tone of his voice Carlos didn’t particularly care whether he were or not.

‘Alive and well. No torture, as promised. Simple psychology.’

‘You wouldn’t and couldn’t say so unless it were true. I’ll talk to him. By and by.’ There was no hint of urgency in his voice.

‘Yes. Well. I’m afraid that to talk to him you’ll have to have yourself lowered in a bo’sun’s chair to his cabin porthole. Door’s locked, you see.’

‘What’s locked can be unlocked.’

‘Not in this case. We apologize for having taken liberties with an Italian naval vessel but we thought it prudent to weld the door to the bulkhead.’

‘Ah, so.’ For the first time Carlos looked at Petersen his expression registering, if anything, no more than a polite interest. ‘Welded? Unusual.’

‘I doubt whether you’ll find an oxyacetylene lance in Ploče.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘You might have to go all the way back to Ancona to have them freed. One would hope you are not sunk before you get there. It would be a terrible thing if Alessandro and his friends were to go to a watery grave.’

‘Terrible.’

‘We’ve taken another liberty. You did have an oxyacetylene flame. It’s at the bottom of the Adriatic.’

Although he could see no gleam of white teeth, Petersen could have sworn that he was smiling.