Free Partisans by Alistair MacLean Page A

pain as George’s massive hand closed over his gun-wrist. He struggled to free his hand, an expression of incomprehension spread over his face and he bit his lips as if to hold back another cry of pain. George removed the gun from the suddenly nerveless fingers.
    â€˜So that’s it,’ Carlos said. His face, not without reason, was pale. ‘So I was right. You are the assassins. It is your intention to take over my vessel, perhaps?’
    â€˜Goodness gracious, no.’ It was George who answered. ‘Your forefinger has gone white at the knuckles. Precipitate action isn’t going to help anyone.’ He handed the pistol back to Carlos and went on pontifically: ‘Unnecessary violence never helped anyone.’
    Carlos took the pistol, hesitated, stuck it in his waistband and began to massage his right wrist. The demonstration of pacific intentions had had an unsettling effect. He said uncertainly: ‘I still don’t understand –’
    â€˜Neither do we, Carlos,’ Petersen said, ‘neither do we. That’s what we’re trying to do at this moment – understand. Perhaps you could help us. Those two men, Franco and Cola – Cola, I’m afraid is going to require your peacetime professional skills quite soon – came to attack us. Perhaps they came to kill us but I don’t think so. They bungled it.’
    â€˜Amateurs,’ George said by way of explanation.
    â€˜Amateurs, agreed. But the effect of an amateur bullet can be just as permanent as a professional one. I want to know why those two came for us in the first place. Perhaps you can help explain this, Carlos?’
    â€˜How should I be able to help you?’
    â€˜Because you know Alessandro.’
    â€˜I do but not well. I have no idea why he should seek to do you harm. I do not permit my passengers to carry out guerrilla warfare.’ ‘I’m sure you don’t. But I’m equally sure that you know who Alessandro is and what he does.’
    â€˜I don’t know.’
    â€˜I don’t believe you. I suppose I should sigh and say how much trouble it would save all round if you were to tell the truth. Not, of course, that you are telling lies. You’re just not telling anything. Well, if you don’t help us, I’ll just have to help myself.’ Petersen raised his voice. ‘Alessandro!’
    Seconds passed without reply.
    â€˜Alessandro. I have three of your men prisoner, one of them badly injured. I want to know why those men came to attack us.’ Alessandro made no reply and Petersen went on: ‘You don’t leave me any option. In wartime, people are either friends or enemies. Friends are friends and enemies die. If you’re a friend, step out into the passage-way: if you’re not, then you’ll just have to stay there and die.’
    Petersen didn’t show any particular emotion but his tone sounded implacable enough. Carlos, his pain forgotten, laid a hand on Petersen’s forearm.
    â€˜People don’t commit murder aboard my ship.’
    â€˜Haven’t committed. And murder is for peacetime. In wartime we call it execution.’ For those listening inside the cabin the tone of his voice could have lent little encouragement. ‘George, Alex. Help Franco and Sepp into the cabin. Keep out of any line of fire.’
    Franco and Sepp didn’t need any kind of helping. Execution chamber or not they couldn’t get inside it fast enough. The door banged shut and a watertight clip came down. Petersen examined the pear-shaped object in his hand.
    Carlos said apprehensively: ‘What’s that?’
    â€˜You can see. A hand-grenade of sorts. George?’ George didn’t need telling what to do. He never did. He took up position by the cabin door, his hand reaching up for the closed watertight clip. With one hand Petersen took a grip on the door handle, with the other he pressed a lever on the bottom of the grenade