A few seconds passed in silence, then Andrea lifted his head suddenly, his fat face screwed up in misery. He looked as if he were going to cry.
I am only a poor fisherman, your Honour! he burst out. You laugh at me and say I do not like blood, and it is true. Nor do I like suffering and war. I want no part of any of these things! His great fists were clenched in futile appeal, his face puckered in woe, his voice risen an octave. It was a masterly exhibition of despair, and even Mallory found himself almost believing in it. Why wasn't I left alone? he went on pathetically. God only knows I am no fighting man
A highly inaccurate statement, Skoda interrupted dryly. That fact must be patently obvious to every person in the room by this time. He tapped his teeth with a jade cigarette-holder, his eyes speculative. A fisherman you call yourself
He's a damned traitor! Mallory interrupted. The commandant was becoming just that little bit too interested in Andrea. At once Skoda wheeled round, stood in front of Mallory with his hands clasped behind his back, teetering on heels and toes, and looked him up and down in mocking inspection.
So! he said thoughtfully. The great Keith Mallory! A rather different proposition from our fat and fearful friend on the bench there, eh, Lieutenant? He did not wait for an answer. What rank are you, Mallory?
Captain, Mallory answered briefly.
Captain Mallory, eh? Captain Keith Mallory, the greatest mountaineer of our time, the idol of pre-war Europe, the conqueror of the world's most impossible climbs. Skoda shook his head sadly. And to think that it should all end like this .I doubt whether posterity will rank your last climb as among your greatest: there are only ten steps leading to the gallows in the fortress of Navarone. Skoda smiled. Hardly a cheerful thought, is it, Captain Mallory?
I wasn't even thinking about it, the New Zealander answered pleasantly. What worries me is your face. He frowned. Somewhere or other I'm sure I've seen it or something like it before. His voice trailed off into silence.
Indeed? Skoda was interested. In the Bernese Alps, perhaps? Often before the war
I have it now! Mallory's face cleared. He knew the risk he was taking, but anything that concentrated attention on himself to the exclusion of Andrea was justified. He beamed at Skoda. Three months ago, it was, in the zoo in Cairo. A plains buzzard that had been captured in the Sudan. A rather old and mangy buzzard, I'm afraid, MallQry went on apologetically, but exactly the same scrawny neck, the same beaky face and bald head
Mallory broke off abruptly, swayed back out of reach as Skoda, his face livid and gleaming teeth bared in rage, swung at him with his fist. The blow carried with it all Skoda's wiry strength, but anger blurred his timing and the fist swung harmlessly by: he stumbled, recovered, then fell to the floor with a shout of pain as Mallory's heavy boot caught him flush on the thigh, just above the knee. He had barely touched the floor when he was up like a cat, took a pace forward and coliapsed heavily again as his injured leg gave under him.
There was a moment's shocked stillness throughout the room, then Skoda rose painfully, supporting himself on the edge of the heavy table. He was breathing quickly, the thin mouth a hard, white line, the great sabre scar flaming redly in the sallow face drained now of all colour. He looked neither at Mallory nor anyone else, but slowly, deliberately, in an almost frightening silence, began to work his way round to the back of the table, the scuffing of his sliding palms on the leather top rasping edgily across over-tautened nerves.
Mallory stood quite still, watching him with expressionless face, cursing himself for his folly. He had overplayed his hands There was no doubt in his mind there could be no doubt in the mind of anyone in that room that Skoda meant to kill him; and he, Mallory, would not die. Only Skoda and Andrea would die: Skoda from Andrea's throwing knife Andrea was rubbing blood from his face with the inside of his sleeve, fingertips only inches from the sheath and Andrea front the guns of the guards, for the knife was all he had. You fool, you fool, you bloody stupid fool, Mallory repeated to himself over and over again. He turned his head slightly and glanced out of the corner of his eye at the sentry nearest him. Nearest him but still six or seven feet away. The sentry would get him, Mallory knew, the blast of the slugs from that Schmeisser would tear him in half before he could cover the distance. But he would try. He must try. It was the least he owed to Andrea.
Skoda reached the back of the table, opened a drawer and lifted out a gun. An automatic, Mallory noted with detachment a little, blue-metal, snub-nosed toy but a murderous toy, the kind of gun he would have expected Skoda to have. Unhurriedly Skoda pressed the release button, checked the magazine, snapped it home with the palm of his hand, ificked off the safety catch and looked up at Mallory. The eyes hadn't altered in the slightest they were cold, dark and empty as ever. Mallory ificked a glance at Andrea and tensed himself for one convulsive fling backwards. Here it comes, he thought savagely, this is how bloody fools like Keith Mallory die and then all of a sudden, and unknowingly, he relaxed, for his eyes were still on Andrea and he had seen Andrea doing the same, the huge hand slipping down unconcernedly from the neck, empty of any sign of knife.
There was a scuffle at the table and Mallory was just in time to see Turzig pin Skoda's gun-hand to the tabletop.
Not that, sir! Turzig begged. For God's sake, not that way!
Take your hands away, Skoda whispered. The staring, empty eyes never left Mallory's face. Take your hands away, I say unless you -want to go the same way as Captain Mallory.
You can't kill him, sir! Turzig persisted doggedly. You just can't. Herr Kommandant's orders were very clear, Hauptmann Skoda. The leader must be brought to him alive.
He was shot while trying to escape, Skoda said thickly.
It's no good. Turzig shook his head. We can't kill them all and the other prisoners would talk. He released his grip on Skoda's hands. Alive, Herr Kommandant said, but he didn't say how much alive. He lowered his voice confidentially. Perhaps we may have some difficulty in making Captain Mallory talk, he suggested.
What? What did you say? Abruptly the death's head smile flashed once more, and Skoda was completely on balance again. You are over-zealous, Lieutenant Remind me to speak to you about it some time. You underestimate me: that was exactly what I was trying to do frighten Mallory into talking. And now you've spoilt it all. The smile was still on his face, the voice light, almost bantering, but Mallory was under no fflusions. He owed his life to the young W.G.B. lieutenant how easily one could respect, form a friendship with a man like Turzig if it weren't for this damned, crazy war . Skoda was standing in front of him again: he had left his gun on the table.
But enough of this fooling, eh, Captain Mallory? The German's teeth fairly gleamed in the bright light from the naked lamps overhead. We haven't all night, have we?
Mallory looked at him, then turned away in silence. It was warm enough, stuffy almost, in that little guardroom, but he was conscious of a sudden, nameless chili; he knew all at once, without knowing why, but with complete certainty, that this little man before him was utterly evil.
Well, well, well, we are not quite so talkative now, are we, my friend? He hummed a little to himself, looked up abruptly, the smile broader than ever.
Where are the explosives, Captain Mallory?
Explosives? Mallory lifted an interrogatory eyebrow. I don't know what you are talking about.
You don't remember, eh?
I don't know what you are talking about.
So. Skoda hummed to himself again and walked over in front of Miller. And what about you, my Mend?