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Authors: Alistair MacLean
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the same. Theirguards looked them over uncertainly, then withdrew to form a ragged but watchful semi-circle. Reynolds turned to Andrea, the expression on his face registering a complete absence of admiration and goodwill.
‘You’re crazy.’ Reynolds’s voice came in a low, furious whisper. ‘Crazy as a loon. You could have got yourself killed. You could have got all of us killed. What are you, shell-shocked or something?’
Andrea did not reply. He lit one of his obnoxious cigars and regarded Reynolds with mild speculation or as near an approach to mildness as it was possible for him to achieve.
‘Crazy isn’t half the word for it.’ Groves, if anything, was even more heated than Reynolds. ‘Or didn’t you
know
that was a Partisan you killed? Don’t you
know
what that means? Don’t you
know
people like that must always take precautions?’
Whether he knew or not, Andrea wasn’t saying. He puffed at his cigar and transferred his peaceable gaze from Reynolds to Groves.
Miller said soothingly: ‘Now, now. Don’t be like that. Maybe Andrea
was
a mite hasty but –’
‘God help us all,’ Reynolds said fervently. He looked at his fellow-sergeants in despair. ‘A thousand miles from home and help and saddled with a trigger-happy bunch of has-beens.’ He turned back to Miller and mimicked: ‘“Don’t be like that.”‘
Miller assumed his wounded expression and looked away.
The room was large and bare and comfortless. The only concession to comfort was a pine fire crackling in a rough hearth-place. The only furniture consisted of a cracked deal table, two chairs and a bench.
Those things Mallory noted only subconsciously. He didn’t even register when he heard Droshny say: ‘Captain Mallory. This is my commanding officer.’ He seemed to be too busy staring at the man seated behind the table.
The man was short, stocky and in his mid-thirties. The deep lines around eyes and mouth could have been caused by weather or humour or both: just at that moment he was smiling slightly. He was dressed in the uniform of a captain in the German Army and wore an Iron Cross at his throat.
FOUR
Friday
0200–0330
The German captain leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. He had the air of a man enjoying the passing moment.
‘Hauptmann Neufeld, Captain Mallory.’ He looked at the places on Mallory’s uniform where the missing insignia should have been. ‘Or so I assume. You are surprised to see me?’
‘I am
delighted
to meet you, Hauptmann Neufeld.’ Mallory’s astonishment had given way to the beginnings of a long, slow smile and now he sighed in deep relief. ‘You just can’t imagine
how
delighted.’ Still smiling, he turned to Droshny, and at once the smile gave way to an expression of consternation. ‘But who
are
you? Who is this man, Hauptmann Neufeld? Who in the name of God are those men out there? They must be – they must be -’
Droshny interrupted heavily: ‘One of his men killed one of my men tonight.’
‘What!’ Neufeld, the smile now in turn vanishingfrom his face, stood abruptly: the backs of his legs sent his chair crashing to the floor. Mallory ignored him, looked again at Droshny.
‘Who are you?
For God’s sake, tell me!’
Droshny said slowly: ‘They call us Cetniks.’
‘Cetniks? Cetniks? What on earth are Cetniks?’
‘You will forgive me, Captain, if I smile in weary disbelief.’ Neufeld was back on balance again, and his face had assumed a curiously wary impassivity, an expression in which only the eyes were alive: things, Mallory reflected, unpleasant things could happen to people misguided enough to underrate Hauptmann Neufeld. ‘You? The leader of a special mission to this country and you haven’t been well enough briefed to know that the Cetniks are our Yugoslav allies?’
‘Allies? Ah!’ Mallory’s face cleared in understanding. ‘Traitors? Yugoslav Quislings? Is that it?’
A subterranean rumble came from Droshny’s throat and he moved
‘You’re crazy.’ Reynolds’s voice came in a low, furious whisper. ‘Crazy as a loon. You could have got yourself killed. You could have got all of us killed. What are you, shell-shocked or something?’
Andrea did not reply. He lit one of his obnoxious cigars and regarded Reynolds with mild speculation or as near an approach to mildness as it was possible for him to achieve.
‘Crazy isn’t half the word for it.’ Groves, if anything, was even more heated than Reynolds. ‘Or didn’t you
know
that was a Partisan you killed? Don’t you
know
what that means? Don’t you
know
people like that must always take precautions?’
Whether he knew or not, Andrea wasn’t saying. He puffed at his cigar and transferred his peaceable gaze from Reynolds to Groves.
Miller said soothingly: ‘Now, now. Don’t be like that. Maybe Andrea
was
a mite hasty but –’
‘God help us all,’ Reynolds said fervently. He looked at his fellow-sergeants in despair. ‘A thousand miles from home and help and saddled with a trigger-happy bunch of has-beens.’ He turned back to Miller and mimicked: ‘“Don’t be like that.”‘
Miller assumed his wounded expression and looked away.
The room was large and bare and comfortless. The only concession to comfort was a pine fire crackling in a rough hearth-place. The only furniture consisted of a cracked deal table, two chairs and a bench.
Those things Mallory noted only subconsciously. He didn’t even register when he heard Droshny say: ‘Captain Mallory. This is my commanding officer.’ He seemed to be too busy staring at the man seated behind the table.
The man was short, stocky and in his mid-thirties. The deep lines around eyes and mouth could have been caused by weather or humour or both: just at that moment he was smiling slightly. He was dressed in the uniform of a captain in the German Army and wore an Iron Cross at his throat.
FOUR
Friday
0200–0330
The German captain leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. He had the air of a man enjoying the passing moment.
‘Hauptmann Neufeld, Captain Mallory.’ He looked at the places on Mallory’s uniform where the missing insignia should have been. ‘Or so I assume. You are surprised to see me?’
‘I am
delighted
to meet you, Hauptmann Neufeld.’ Mallory’s astonishment had given way to the beginnings of a long, slow smile and now he sighed in deep relief. ‘You just can’t imagine
how
delighted.’ Still smiling, he turned to Droshny, and at once the smile gave way to an expression of consternation. ‘But who
are
you? Who is this man, Hauptmann Neufeld? Who in the name of God are those men out there? They must be – they must be -’
Droshny interrupted heavily: ‘One of his men killed one of my men tonight.’
‘What!’ Neufeld, the smile now in turn vanishingfrom his face, stood abruptly: the backs of his legs sent his chair crashing to the floor. Mallory ignored him, looked again at Droshny.
‘Who are you?
For God’s sake, tell me!’
Droshny said slowly: ‘They call us Cetniks.’
‘Cetniks? Cetniks? What on earth are Cetniks?’
‘You will forgive me, Captain, if I smile in weary disbelief.’ Neufeld was back on balance again, and his face had assumed a curiously wary impassivity, an expression in which only the eyes were alive: things, Mallory reflected, unpleasant things could happen to people misguided enough to underrate Hauptmann Neufeld. ‘You? The leader of a special mission to this country and you haven’t been well enough briefed to know that the Cetniks are our Yugoslav allies?’
‘Allies? Ah!’ Mallory’s face cleared in understanding. ‘Traitors? Yugoslav Quislings? Is that it?’
A subterranean rumble came from Droshny’s throat and he moved
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