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Authors: Alistair MacLean
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towards Mallory, his right hand closing round the haft of a knife. Neufeld halted him with a sharp word of command and a brief downward-chopping motion of his hand.
‘And what do you mean by a special mission?’ Mallory demanded. He looked at each man in turn and smiled in wry understanding. ‘Oh, we’re special mission all right, but not in the way you think. At least, not in the way I think you think.’
‘No?’ Neufeld’s eyebrow-raising technique, Mallory reflected, was almost on a par with Miller’s. ‘Then why do you think we were expecting you?’
‘God only knows,’ Mallory said frankly. ‘We thought the Partisans were. That’s why Droshny’s man was killed, I’m afraid.’
‘That’s why Droshny’s man –’ Neufeld regarded Mallory with his warily impassive eyes, picked up his chair and sat down thoughtfully. ‘I think, perhaps, you had better explain yourself.’
As befitted a man who had adventured far and wide in the West End of London, Miller was in the habit of using a napkin when at meals, and he was using one now, tucked into the top of his tunic, as he sat on his rucksack in the compound of Neufeld’s camp and fastidiously consumed some indeterminate goulash from a mess-tin. The three sergeants, seated nearby, briefly observed this spectacle with open disbelief, then resumed a low-voiced conversation. Andrea, puffing the inevitable nostril-wrinkling cigar and totally ignoring half-a-dozen watchful and understandably apprehensive guards, strolled unconcernedly about the compound, poisoning the air wherever he went. Clearly through the frozen night air came the distant sound of someone singing a low-voiced accompaniment to what appeared to be guitar music. As Andrea completed his circuit of the compound, Miller looked up and nodded in the direction of the music.
‘Who’s the soloist?’
Andrea shrugged. ‘Radio, maybe.’
‘They want to buy a new radio. My trained ear –’
‘Listen.’ Reynolds’s interrupting whisper was tense and urgent. ‘We’ve been talking.’
Miller performed some fancy work with his napkin and said kindly: ‘Don’t. Think of the grieving mothers and sweethearts you’d leave behind you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘About making a break for it is what I mean,’ Miller said. ‘Some other time, perhaps?’
‘Why not now?’ Groves was belligerent. ‘They’re off guard –’
‘Are they now.’ Miller sighed. ‘So young, so young. Take another look. You don’t think Andrea
likes
exercise, do you?’
The three sergeants took another look, furtively, surreptitiously, then glanced interrogatively at Andrea.
‘Five dark windows,’ Andrea said. ‘Behind them, five dark men. With five dark machine-guns.’
Reynolds nodded and looked away.
‘Well, now.’ Neufeld, Mallory noted, had a great propensity for steepling his fingers: Mallory had once known a hanging judge with exactly the same propensity. This
is
a most remarkably odd story you have to tell us, my dear Captain Mallory.’
‘It is,’ Mallory agreed. ‘It would have to be, wouldn’t it, to account for the remarkably odd position in which we find ourselves at this moment.’
‘A point, a point.’ Slowly, deliberately, Neufeld ticked off other points on his fingers. ‘You have forsome months, you claim, been running a penicillin and drug-running ring in the south of Italy. As an Allied liaison officer you found no difficulty in obtaining supplies from American Army and Air Force bases.’
‘We found a little difficulty towards the end,’ Mallory admitted.
‘I’m coming to that. Those supplies, you also claim, were funnelled through to the Wehrmacht.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t keep using the word “claim” in that tone of voice,’ Mallory said irritably. ‘Check with Field-Marshal Kesselring’s Chief of Military Intelligence in Padua.’
‘With pleasure.’ Neufeld picked up a phone, spoke briefly in German and replaced the receiver.
Mallory said in
‘And what do you mean by a special mission?’ Mallory demanded. He looked at each man in turn and smiled in wry understanding. ‘Oh, we’re special mission all right, but not in the way you think. At least, not in the way I think you think.’
‘No?’ Neufeld’s eyebrow-raising technique, Mallory reflected, was almost on a par with Miller’s. ‘Then why do you think we were expecting you?’
‘God only knows,’ Mallory said frankly. ‘We thought the Partisans were. That’s why Droshny’s man was killed, I’m afraid.’
‘That’s why Droshny’s man –’ Neufeld regarded Mallory with his warily impassive eyes, picked up his chair and sat down thoughtfully. ‘I think, perhaps, you had better explain yourself.’
As befitted a man who had adventured far and wide in the West End of London, Miller was in the habit of using a napkin when at meals, and he was using one now, tucked into the top of his tunic, as he sat on his rucksack in the compound of Neufeld’s camp and fastidiously consumed some indeterminate goulash from a mess-tin. The three sergeants, seated nearby, briefly observed this spectacle with open disbelief, then resumed a low-voiced conversation. Andrea, puffing the inevitable nostril-wrinkling cigar and totally ignoring half-a-dozen watchful and understandably apprehensive guards, strolled unconcernedly about the compound, poisoning the air wherever he went. Clearly through the frozen night air came the distant sound of someone singing a low-voiced accompaniment to what appeared to be guitar music. As Andrea completed his circuit of the compound, Miller looked up and nodded in the direction of the music.
‘Who’s the soloist?’
Andrea shrugged. ‘Radio, maybe.’
‘They want to buy a new radio. My trained ear –’
‘Listen.’ Reynolds’s interrupting whisper was tense and urgent. ‘We’ve been talking.’
Miller performed some fancy work with his napkin and said kindly: ‘Don’t. Think of the grieving mothers and sweethearts you’d leave behind you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘About making a break for it is what I mean,’ Miller said. ‘Some other time, perhaps?’
‘Why not now?’ Groves was belligerent. ‘They’re off guard –’
‘Are they now.’ Miller sighed. ‘So young, so young. Take another look. You don’t think Andrea
likes
exercise, do you?’
The three sergeants took another look, furtively, surreptitiously, then glanced interrogatively at Andrea.
‘Five dark windows,’ Andrea said. ‘Behind them, five dark men. With five dark machine-guns.’
Reynolds nodded and looked away.
‘Well, now.’ Neufeld, Mallory noted, had a great propensity for steepling his fingers: Mallory had once known a hanging judge with exactly the same propensity. This
is
a most remarkably odd story you have to tell us, my dear Captain Mallory.’
‘It is,’ Mallory agreed. ‘It would have to be, wouldn’t it, to account for the remarkably odd position in which we find ourselves at this moment.’
‘A point, a point.’ Slowly, deliberately, Neufeld ticked off other points on his fingers. ‘You have forsome months, you claim, been running a penicillin and drug-running ring in the south of Italy. As an Allied liaison officer you found no difficulty in obtaining supplies from American Army and Air Force bases.’
‘We found a little difficulty towards the end,’ Mallory admitted.
‘I’m coming to that. Those supplies, you also claim, were funnelled through to the Wehrmacht.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t keep using the word “claim” in that tone of voice,’ Mallory said irritably. ‘Check with Field-Marshal Kesselring’s Chief of Military Intelligence in Padua.’
‘With pleasure.’ Neufeld picked up a phone, spoke briefly in German and replaced the receiver.
Mallory said in
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