Partisans. Alistair MacLean

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 sea-kindly. 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 Ploče.’

      ‘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.’