Partisans (17 page)

‘Hotel?' Sarina said. ‘We're going to stay in a
hotel
?'

‘When you travel with us,' George said expansively, ‘you may expect nothing but the best.'

The hotel, when they arrived there, didn't look like the best. The approach to it could not have been more uninviting. Josip parked the bus in a garage and led the way along a narrow winding lane that was not even wide enough to accommodate a car, fetching up at a heavy wooden door.

‘Back entrance,' Petersen said. ‘Josip runs a perfectly respectable hotel but he doesn't care to attract too much attention by bringing so many people in at once.'

They passed through a short passage into the reception area, small but bright and clean.

‘Now then.' Josip rubbed his hands briskly, he was that kind of man. ‘If you'll just bring your luggage, I'll show you to your rooms. Wash and brush up, then dinner.' He spread his hands. ‘No Ritz, but at least you won't go to bed hungry.'

‘I can't face the stairs, yet,' George said. He nodded towards an archway. ‘I think I'll just go and rest quietly in there.'

‘Barman's off tonight, Professor. You'll have to help yourself.'

‘I can take the rough with the smooth.'

‘This way, ladies.'

In the corridor upstairs Sarina turned to Petersen and said in a low voice: ‘Why did your friend call George “Professor”?'

‘Lots of people call him that. A nickname. You can see why. He's always pontificating.'

Dinner was rather more than Josip had promised it would be but, then, Bosnian innkeepers are renowned for their inventiveness and resourcefulness, not to mention acquisitiveness. Considering the ravaged and war-stricken state of the country, the meal was a near miracle: Dalmatian ham, grey mullet with an excellent Pošip white wine and, astonishingly, venison accompanied by one of the renowned Neretva red wines. George, after remarking, darkly, that one never knew what the uncertain future held for them, there after remained silent for an unprecedented fifteen minutes: no mean trencherman at the best of times, his current exercise in gastronomy bordered on the awesome.

Apart from George, his two companions and their host, Marija, Josip's wife, was also at the table. Small, dark and energetic like her husband, she was in other ways in marked contrast to him: he was intense, she was vivacious: he was taciturn, she was talkative to the point of garrulity. She looked at Michael and Sarina, seated some distance away at one small table, and at Giacomo and Lorraine, seated about the same distance away, at another, and lowered her voice.

‘Your friends are very quiet.'

George swallowed some venison. ‘It's the food.'

‘They're talking, all right,' Petersen said. ‘You just can't hear them over the champing noise George is making. But you're right, they are talking very softly.'

Josip said: ‘Why? Why do they have to murmur or whisper? There's nothing to be afraid of here. Nobody can hear them except us.'

‘You heard what George said. They don't know what the future holds for them. This is a whole new experience for them – not, of course, for Giacomo, but for the other three. They're apprehensive and from their point of view they have every right to be. For all they know, tomorrow may be their last day on earth.'

‘It could be yours, too,' Josip said. ‘The word in the marketplace – we hoteliers spend a lot of time in the market-place – is that groups of Partisans have by-passed the Italian garrison at Prozor, moved down the Rama valley and are in the hills overlooking the road between here and Jablanica. They may even be astride the road: they're crazy enough for anything. What are your plans for tomorrow? If, I may add hastily, one may ask.'

‘Why ever not? We'll have to take to the mountains by and by of course, but those three young people don't look much like mountain goats to me so we'll stick as long as possible to the truck and the road. The road to Jablanica, that is.'

‘And if you run into the Partisans?'

‘Tomorrow can look after itself.'

At the end of the meal, Giacomo and Lorraine rose and crossed to the main table. Lorraine said: ‘I tried to have a walk, stretch my legs, this afternoon, but you stopped me. I'd like to have one now. Do you mind?'

‘Yes. I mean, I do mind. At the moment, this is very much a frontier town. You're young, beautiful and the streets, as the saying goes, are full of licentious soldiery. Even if a patrol stops you, you don't speak a word of the language. Besides, it's bitterly cold.'

‘Since when did you begin to worry about my health?' She was back to being her imperious self again. ‘Giacomo will look after me. What you mean is, you still don't trust me.'

‘Well, yes, there's that to it also.'

‘What do you expect me to do? Run away? Report you to – to the authorities? What authorities? There
is
nothing I can do.'

‘I know that. I'm concerned solely with your own welfare.'

Beautiful girls are not much given to snorting in disbelief but she came close. ‘Thank you.'

‘I'll come along with you.'

‘No, thank you. I don't want you.'

‘You see,' George said, ‘she doesn't even like you.' He pushed back his chair. ‘But everyone likes George. Big, cheerful, likeable George. I'll come along with you.'

‘I don't want you either.'

Petersen coughed. Josip said: ‘The Major is right, you know, young lady. This
is
a dangerous town after dark. Your Giacomo looks perfectly capable of protecting anyone, but there are streets in this town where even the army police patrols won't venture. I know where it's safe to go and where it isn't.'

She smiled. ‘You are very kind.'

Sarina said: ‘Mind if we come, too?'

‘Of course not.'

All five, Michael included, buttoned up in their heavy coats and went out, leaving Petersen and his two companions behind. George shrugged his shoulders and sighed.

‘To think I used to be the most popular person in Yugoslavia. That was before I met you, of course. Shall we retire?'

‘So soon?'

‘Through the archway, I meant.' George led the way and ensconced himself behind the bar counter. ‘Strange young lady. Lorraine, that is. I muse aloud. Why did she sally forth into the dark and dangerous night. She hardly strikes one as a fresh-air fiend or fitness fanatic.'

‘Neither does Sarina. Two strange young ladies.'

George reached for a bottle of red wine. ‘Let us concede that the vagaries of womankind, especially young womankind, are beyond us and concentrate more profitably on this vintage '38.'

Alex said suddenly: ‘I don't think they're all that strange.'

Petersen and George gave him their attention. Alex spoke so seldom, far less ventured an opinion, that he was invariably listened to when he did speak.

George said: ‘Can it be, Alex, that you have observed something that has escaped our attention?'

‘Yes. You see, I don't talk as much as you do.' The words sounded offensive but weren't meant to be, they were simply by way of explanation. ‘When you're talking I look and listen and learn, while you're listening to yourselves talking. The two young ladies seem to have become very friendly. I think they've become too friendly too quickly. Maybe they really like each other, I don't know. What I do know is that they don't trust each other. I am sure that Lorraine went out to learn something. I don't know what. I think Sarina thought the same thing and wanted to find out, so she's gone to watch.'

George nodded a judicious head. ‘A closely reasoned argument. What do you think they both went out to learn?'

‘How should I know?' Alex sounded mildly irritable. ‘I just watch. You're the ones who are supposed to think.'

The two girls and their escorts were back even before the three men had finished their bottle of wine, which meant that they had returned in very short order indeed. The two girls and Michael were already slightly bluish with cold and Lorraine's teeth were positively chattering.

‘Pleasant stroll?' Petersen said politely.

‘Very pleasant,' Lorraine said. Clearly, she hadn't forgiven him for whatever sin he was supposed to have committed. ‘I've just come to say goodnight. What time do we leave in the morning?'

‘Six o'clock.'

‘Six o'clock!'

‘If that's too late –'

She ignored him and turned to Sarina. ‘Coming?'

‘In a moment.'

Lorraine left and George said, ‘For a nightcap, Sarina, I can recommend this Maraschino from Zadar. After a lifetime –'

She ignored him as Lorraine had ignored Petersen, to whom she now turned and said: ‘You lied to me.'

‘Dear me. What a thing to say.'

‘George here. His “nickname”. The Professor. Because, you said, he was loquacious –'

‘I did not. “Pontificated” was the word I used.'

‘Don't quibble! Nickname! Dean of the Faculty of Languages and Professor of Occidental Languages at Belgrade University!'

‘My word!' Petersen said admiringly. ‘You
are
clever. How did you find out?'

She smiled. ‘I just asked Josip.'

‘Well done for you. Must have come as a shock. I mean, you had him down as the janitor, didn't you?'

She stopped smiling and a faint colour touched her cheeks. ‘I did not. And why did you lie?'

‘No lie, really. It's quite unimportant. It's just that George doesn't like to boast of his modest academic qualifications. He's never reached the dizzying heights of a degree in economics and politics in Cairo University.'

She coloured again, more deeply, then smiled, a faint smile, but a smile. ‘I didn't even qualify. I didn't deserve that.'

‘That's true. Sorry.'

She turned to George. ‘But what are you doing – I mean, a common soldier –' Behind the bar, George drew himself up with dignity. ‘I'm a very uncommon soldier.'

‘Yes. But I mean – a dean, a professor –' George shook his head sadly. ‘Hurling pluperfect subjunctives at the enemy trenches never won a battle yet.'

Sarina stared at him then turned to Petersen. ‘What on earth does he mean?'

‘He's back in the groves of academe.'

‘Wherever we're going,' she said with conviction, ‘I don't think we're going to get there. You're mad. Both of you. Quite mad.'

FIVE

It was three-thirty in the morning when Petersen woke. His watch said so. He should not have been able to see his watch because he had switched the light off before going to sleep. It was no longer off but it wasn't the light that had wakened him, it was something cold and hard pressed against his right cheek-bone. Careful not to move his head. Petersen swivelled his eyes to take in the man who held the gun and was sitting on a chair beside the bed. Dressed in a wellcut grey suit, he was in his early thirties, had a neatly trimmed black moustache of the type made famous by Ronald Colman before the war, a smooth clear complexion, an engaging smile and very pale blue, very cold eyes. Petersen reached across a slow hand and gently deflected the barrel of the pistol.

‘You need to point that thing at my head? With three of your fellow-thugs armed to the teeth?'

There were indeed three other men in the bedroom. Unlike their leader they were a scruffy and villainous looking lot, dressed in vaguely paramilitary uniforms but their appearance counted little against the fact that each carried a machine-pistol.

‘Fellow thugs?' The man on the chair looked pained. ‘That makes me a thug too?'

‘Only thugs hold pistols against the heads of sleeping men.'

‘Oh, come now, Major Petersen. You have the reputation of being a highly dangerous and very violent man. How are we to know that you are not holding a loaded pistol in your hand under that blanket?' Petersen slowly withdrew his right hand from under the blanket and turned up his empty palm. ‘It's under my pillow.'

‘Ah, so.' The man withdrew the gun. ‘One respects a professional.'

‘How did you get in? My door was locked.'

‘Signor Pijade was most cooperative.' “Pijade” was Josip's surname.

‘Was he now?'

‘You can't trust anyone these days.'

‘I've found that out, too.'

‘I begin to believe what people say of you. You're not worried, are you? You're not even concerned about who I might be.'

‘Why should I be. You're no friend. That's all that matters to me.'

‘I may be no friend. Or I may. I don't honestly know yet. I'm Major Cipriano. You may have heard of me.'

‘I have. Yesterday, for the first time. I feel sorry for you, Major, I really do, but I wish I were elsewhere. I'm one of those sensitive souls who feel uncomfortable in hospital wards. In the presence of the sick, I mean.'

‘Sick?' Cipriano looked mildly astonished but the smile remained. ‘Me? I'm as fit as a fiddle.'

‘Physically, no doubt. Otherwise a cracked fiddle and one sadly out of tune. Anyone who works as a hatchet-man for that evil and sadistic bastard, General Granelli, has to be sick in the mind: and anyone who employs as
his
hatchet-man the psychopathic poisoner, Alessandro, has to be himself a sadist, a candidate for a maximum security lunatic asylum.'

‘Ah, so! Alessandro.' Cipriano was either not a man easily to take offence or, if he did, too clever to show it. ‘He gave a message for you.'

‘You surprise me. I thought your poisoner – and poisonous – friend was in no position to give messages. You have seen him, then?'

‘Unfortunately, no. He's still welded up in the fore cabin of the
Colombo
. One has to admit, Major Petersen, that you are not a man to do things by half-measures. But I spoke to him. He says that when he meets you again you'll take a long time to die.'