‘What?’
‘Your keys. You’ve left them in the ignition.’
‘Please don’t be silly.’ Petersen crossed the street and disappeared into a store.
Lorraine spoke for the first time since leaving Ploice. ‘What did he mean by that?’
‘What he says. He knows so much that he probably knows I can’t drive anyway. Certainly not this rackety old monster. Even if I could, what place would I have to drive to?’ She touched the back of the cab. ‘Wood. I couldn’t get five yards – that fearful Alex could shoot through that.’ She looked and sounded doleful in the extreme.
Lorraine said: ‘Wouldn’t it be nice to see him, just once, make a mistake, do something wrong?’
‘I’d love it. But I don’t think we should want it. I have the feeling that what is good for Major Petersen is good for us. And vice versa.’
Twenty minutes elapsed before Petersen returned. For a man who might have been regarded as being on the run, he was in no hurry. He was carrying a large wicker basket, its contents covered with brown paper. This he took round to the back of the truck. Moments later he was back in the driving seat. He seemed in good humour.
‘Well, go on,’ he said. ‘Ask away.’
Sarina made a moue, but curiosity won. ‘The basket.”
‘An army marches on its stomach. Stretch a point and you might regard us as part of an army. Provisions. What else would I have been buying in a food store? Bread, cheese, hams, various meats, goulash, fruits, vegetables, tea, coffee, sugar, a spirit stove, kettle and stewpan. I promised Colonel Lunz to deliver you in fairly good condition.’
In spite of herself, she smiled faintly. ‘You sound as if you wanted to deliver us in prime condition at a slave market. Overlooked your fat friend, didn’t you?’
‘My first purchase. George had the top off a litre flask of beer within five seconds. Wine, too.’
They cleared the outskirts of the town. Sarina said: ‘I thought the permit took you only as far as Metkovic?’
‘I have two permits. I showed only one to Carlos.’
Half an hour later Petersen recrossed the Neretva and pulled up at a fairly large garage on the outskirts of Capljina. Petersen went inside and returned in a few minutes.
‘Just saying “hallo” to an old friend.’
They passed through the village of Trebizat and not long afterwards Petersen pulled off the highway and turned up a secondary road, climbing fairly steeply as they went. From this they turned on to yet another road which was no more than a grass track, still climbing, until they finally rounded and came to a halt about fifty yards from a low stone building. They could approach no further because the road ended where they were.
They dismounted from the cab and went round to the back of the truck. Petersen tweaked back one of the canvas flaps. ‘Lunch,’ he said.
Perhaps a minute passed without any signs of activity. Sarina and Lorraine looked at each other in a puzzled apprehension which was in no way lessened by Petersen’s air of relaxed calm.
‘When George ties a knot,’ Petersen said cryptically, ‘it takes a fair deal of untying.’
Suddenly the flaps were parted and Major Massamo and his two soldiers, untied and ungagged, were lowered from the tailboard. Massamo and the older soldier collapsed dramatically immediately on touching the ground.
‘ “Who have we here and what have the wicked Petersen and his evil friends done to those poor men”,’ Petersen said. The young soldier had now joined the two others in a sitting position on the ground. ‘Well, the officer is Major Massamo, the Port Commandant, and the other two you have already seen. We have not broken their legs or anything like that. They’re just suffering from a temporary loss of circulation.’ The other four men in the back of the truck had now jumped to the ground. ‘Walk them around a bit, will you?’ Petersen said.
George lifted the Major, Giacomo the young soldier, and Michael the elderly soldier. But the last was not only old but fat and didn’t seem at all keen to get to his feet. Sarina gave Petersen what was probably intended to be a withering glance and moved to help her brother. Petersen looked at Lorraine and then at George.
‘What shall we do?’ His voice was low. ‘Stab her or club her?’
Not a muscle flickered in George’s face. He appeared to ponder. ‘Either. Plenty of ravines hereabouts.’
Lorraine looked at them in perplexity: Serbo-Croat, evidently, was not her language.
Petersen said: ‘I can understand now why the boyfriend is along. Bodyguard and interpeter. I know who she is,’
‘So do I.’
Lorraine could be irritated and imperious at the same time and she was good at being both.
‘What are you two talking about? It is bad manners, you know.’ In another day and age she would have stamped her foot.
‘It is our native language. No offence. My dear Lorraine, you would make life so much easier for yourself if you stopped being suspicious of everyone. And yes, we were talking about you.’
‘I thought as much.’ But her voice was a shade less assertive.
‘Just try to trust people occasionally.’ Petersen smiled to rob his words of any offence. ‘We’re as much looker-afterers as your Giacomo is. Will you please understand that we want to take care of you. If anything were to happen to you, Jamie Harrison would never forgive us.’
‘Jamie Harrison! You know Jamie Harrison.’ Her eyes had widened and a half-smile touched her lips. ‘I don’t believe it. You know Captain Harrison!’
‘”Jamie” to you.’
‘Jamie.’ She looked at George. ‘Do you know him?’
‘Tush, tush! Suspicions again. If Peter says he knows him then I must know him. Isn’t that so?’ He smiled as colour touched her cheeks. ‘My dear, I don’t blame you. Of course I know him. Tall, very tall. Lean. Brown beard.’
‘He didn’t have a brown beard when I knew him.’
‘He has now. And a moustache. Brown hair, anyway. And, as they say in English, he’s terribly terribly English. Wears a monocle. Sports it, I should say. Claims he needs it, but he doesn’t. Just English.’
She smiled. ‘It couldn’t be anyone else.’
Major Massamo and his two men, their grimaces bespeaking their still returning circulation, were now at least partially mobile. Petersen retrieved the heavy wicker basket from the back of the truck and led the way up grass-cut steps to the stone hut and produced a key. Sarina looked at the key, then at Petersen but said nothing.
Petersen caught her glance. ‘I told you. Friends.’ The combination of the creaking hinges as the door swung open and the musty smell from within was indication enough that the place hadn’t been used for months. The single room, which made up the entire hut, was icy, bleak and sparsely furnished: a deal table, two benches, a few rickety wooden chairs, a stove and a pile of cordwood.
‘Be it ever so humble,’ Petersen said briskly. ‘First things first.’ He looked at George who had just extracted a bottle of beer from the basket. ‘You have your priorities right?’
‘I have a savage thirst,’ George said with dignity. ‘I can slake that and light a stove at the same time.’
‘You’ll look after our guests? I have a call to make.’
‘Half an hour. I hope.’
It was an hour later when Petersen returned. George was no believer in doing things by half and by that time the hut was a great deal more than pleasantly warm. The top of the stove glowed a bright cherry red and the room was stiflingly hot. Petersen pointedly left the door open and set on the table a second wicker basket he had brought with him.
‘More provisions. Sorry I’m late.’
‘We weren’t worried,’ George said. ‘Food’s ready when you are. We’ve eaten.’ He peered inside the basket Petersen had brought. ‘Took-you all that time to get that?’
‘I met some friends.’
Sarina said from the doorway. ‘Where’s the truck?’
‘Round the corner. Among trees. Can’t be seen from the air.’
‘You think they’re Carrying out an air search for us?’
‘No. One doesn’t take chances.’ He sat at the table and made himself a cheese and salami sandwich. ‘Anyone who needs some sleep had better have it now. I’m going to have some myself. We didn’t have any last night. Two or three hours. Besides, I prefer to travel at night.’
‘And I prefer to sleep at night,’ George said. He reached out for another bottle. ‘Let me be your trusty guard. Enjoy yourself. We did.’
‘After Giovanni’s cooking anyone would be ravenous.’
Petersen set about proving that he was no exception. After a few minutes he looked up, looked around and said to George: ‘Where have those pesky girls gone to?’
‘Just left. For a walk, I suppose.’