Partisans (8 page)

‘I'm unhappy. It is true, as I told Michael, that one never questions the captain's decisions but this is a different matter entirely. I take it those men are also passengers to Plo
e?' Carlos nodded. ‘Where are they sleeping?'

‘We have a dormitory for five in the bows. I did not think that worth mentioning, any more than I thought their arrival worth mentioning.'

‘I am also unhappy at the fact that Rome gave me the distinct impression that we would be travelling alone. I did not bargain for the fact that we would be travelling with five – seven now – people who are totally unknown to me.

‘I am unhappy about the fact that you know them or, at least, Alessandro.' Carlos made to speak but Petersen waved him to silence. ‘I'm sure you wouldn't think me such a fool as to deny it. It's just not in your nature to show a deference amounting almost to apprehension towards a total stranger.

‘Finally, I'm unhappy about the fact that they have the appearance of being a bunch of hired, professional assassins, tough ruthless killers. They are, of course, nothing of the kind, they only think they are, which is why I use the word “appearance”. Their only danger lies in their lack of predictability. For your true assassin, no such word as unpredictability exists in his vocabulary. He does precisely what he intends to do. And it is to be borne in mind, when it comes to the far from gentle art of premeditated and authorized murder, your true assassin never, never, never looks like one.'

‘You seem to know a lot about assassins.' Carlos smiled faintly. ‘I could be speaking to three of them.'

‘Preposterous!' George was incapable of snorting but he came close.

‘Giacomo, then?'

‘One is left with the impression that Giacomo is a one-man panzer division,' Petersen said. ‘Coldblooded stealth is not his forte. He doesn't even begin to qualify. You should know – you know him much better than we do.'

‘What makes you say that?'

‘Because acting isn't
your
forte.'

‘So our school drama teacher said. Lorraine?'

‘You're mad.' George spoke with conviction.

‘He doesn't mean you are.' Petersen smiled. ‘Just the suggestion. Classically beautiful women almost never have gentle eyes.'

Carlos confirmed what seemed to be the growing opinion that he was indeed no actor. He was pleased, and not obscurely. He said: ‘If you're unhappy, then I apologize for that although I really don't know why I'm apologizing. I have orders to carry out and it's my duty to follow orders. Beyond that, I know nothing.' He still wasn't a very good actor, Petersen thought, but there was nothing to be gained in saying so. ‘Won't you come back to my cabin? Three hours before we sail yet. Ample time for a nightcap. Or two. Alessandro and his men, as you say, aren't so ferocious as they look.'

‘Thank you,' Petersen said. ‘But no. I think we'll just take a turn on the upper deck and then retire. So we'll say goodnight now.'

‘The upper deck? This weather? You'll freeze.'

‘Cold is an old friend of ours.'

‘I prefer other company. But as you wish, gentlemen.' He reached out a steadying hand as the
Colombo
lurched sharply. ‘A rather rough passage tonight, I'm afraid. Torpedo boats may have their good points – I may find one some day – but they are rather less than seakindly. I hope you are also on friendly terms with Father Neptune.'

‘Our next of kin,' George said.

‘That apart, I can promise you a quiet and uneventful trip. Never had a mutiny yet.'

In the lee of the superstructure Petersen said: ‘Well?'

‘Well?' George said heavily. ‘All is not well. Seven total strangers aboard this boat and the worthy young Carlos seems to know all seven of them. Every man's hand against us. Not, of course, that that's anything new.' The tip of his nauseous cigar glowed redly in the gloom. ‘Would it be naïve of me to wonder whether or not our good friend Colonel Lunz is acquainted with the passenger list of the
Colombo
?'

‘Yes.'

‘We are, of course, prepared for all eventualities?'

‘Certainly. Which ones did you have in mind?'

‘None. We take turns to keep watch in our cabin?'

‘Of course. If we stay in our cabin.'

‘Ah! We have a plan?'

‘We have no plan. What do you think about Lorraine?'

‘Charming. I speak unhesitatingly. A delightful young lady.'

‘I've told you before, George. About your advanced years and susceptibility. That wasn't what I meant. Her presence aboard puzzles me. I can't see that she belongs in any way to this motley bunch that Carlos is transporting to Plo
e.'

‘Motley, eh? First time I've ever been called motley. How does she differ?'

‘Because every other passenger on this vessel is up to no good or I strongly suspect them of being up to no good. I suspect her of nothing.'

‘My word!' George spoke in tones of what were meant to be genuine awe. ‘That makes her unique.'

‘Carlos let us know – he could have been at pains to let us know – that she, too, came from Pescara. Do you think she comes from Pescara, George?'

‘How the devil should I tell? She could come from Timbuktu for all I know.'

‘You disappoint me, George. Or wilfully misunderstand me. I shall be patient. Your unmatched command of the nuances of all those European languages. Was she born or brought up in Pescara?'

‘Neither.'

‘But she is Italian?'

‘No.'

‘So we're back in Yugoslavia again?'

‘Maybe you are. I'm not. I'm in England.'

‘What! England?'

‘The overlay of what it pleases the British Broadcasting Corporation to call Southern Standard English is unmistakable.' George coughed modestly, his smugness could occasionally verge on the infuriating. ‘To the trained ear, of course.'

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 twentythree 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.'