Partisans by Alistair MacLean Page B

and may well have been, profoundly sad. ‘An eminently likeable young man. And you can say the same about Giacomo – except, of course, not so young. An excellent pair to have by one’s side, one would have thought, in moments of trouble and strife, which are the only ones we seem to have.’ He shook his head. ‘Where, oh where, are my ivory towers?’
    â€˜You should be grateful for this touch of realism, George. Exactly the counter-balance you academics need. What do you make of Giacomo? An Italian counterpart of the British commando?’
    â€˜Giacomo has been savagely beaten up or savagely tortured or perhaps both at the same time. Commando material unquestionably. But not Italian. Montenegrin.’
    â€˜Montenegrin!’
    â€˜You know. Montenegro.’ George, on occasion, was capable of elaborate sarcasm, an unfortunate gift honed and refined by a lifetime in the groves of academe. ‘A province in our native Yugoslavia.’
    â€˜With that fair hair and impeccable Italian?’
    â€˜Fair hair is not unknown in Montenegro and though his Italian is very good the accent overlay is unmistakable.’
    Petersen didn’t doubt him for a moment. George’s ear for languages, dialects, accents and nuances of accent was, in philological circles, a byword far beyond the Balkans.
    The evening meal was more than passable, the café more than presentable. Carlos was not only known there, as he had said, but treated with some deference. Lorraine spoke only occasionally and then to no-one except Carlos, who sat beside her. She, too, had, it seemed been born in Pescara. Predictably, neither Alex nor Michael nor Sarina contributed a word to the conversation but that didn’t matter. Both Carlos and Petersen were relaxed and easy talkers but even that didn’t matter very much: when Giacomo and George were in full cry, more often than not at the same time, even the possibility of a conversational hiatus seemed preposterous: both men talked a great deal without saying anything at all.
    On the way back to the ship they had to face not only a perceptibly stronger wind but a thinly driving snow. Carlos, who had drunk little enough, was not so sure on his feet as he thought or, more likely, would have others think. After the second stumble he was seen to be walking arm in arm with Lorraine: who had taken whose arm could only be guessed at. When they arrived at the gangway, the Colombo was rocking perceptibly at its moorings: the harbour swell responsible bespoke much worse conditions outside.
    To Petersen’s surprise and an ill-concealed irritation that amounted almost to anger, five more men were awaiting their arrival down below. Their leader, who was introduced as Alessandro, and for whom Carlos showed an unusual degree of respect, was a tall, thin, grey-haired man with a beaked nose, bloodless lips and only the rudimentary vestiges of eyebrows. Three of his four men, all about half his age, were introduced as Franco, Cola and Sepp, which names were presumably abbreviations for Francesco, Nicholas and Giuseppe: the fourth was called Guido. Like their leader, they wore nondescript civilian clothes. Like their leader they gave the distinct impression that they would have been much happier in uniform: like their leader they had cold, hard, expressionless faces.
    Petersen glanced briefly at George, turned and left the cabin, George following with Alex, inevitably, close behind. Petersen had barely begun to speak when Carlos appeared in the passage-way and walked quickly towards them.
    â€˜You are upset, Major Petersen?’ No ‘Peter’. The trace of anxiety was faint but it was there.
    â€˜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 Ploe?’ Carlos nodded. ‘Where are they sleeping?’
    â€˜We have a dormitory for