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  MURDER’S ART

  Christopher Nicole

  © Christopher Nicole 2002

  Christopher Nicole has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published under the pseudonym Alan Savage in 2002 by Severn House Publishers Ltd.

  This edition published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  To murder thousands, takes a specious name,

  ‘War’s glorious art’, and gives immortal fame.

  Edward Young

  Table of Contents

  PART ONE:

  ASSASSINS

  One

  Two

  Three

  PART TWO:

  SURVIVAL

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  PART THREE:

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  PART ONE:

  ASSASSINS

  Arm! Arm! It is – it is – the cannon’s opening roar!

  Lord Byron

  One

  Murder

  The atmosphere in the small room was heavy. The shutter over the single window was open only a crack, less to allow the fresh October air to enter than to enable the waiting people to hear what was happening outside. Though the only sound at the moment was the generalised hum of the city of Belgrade at early afternoon work.

  The four people sweated with nervous apprehension of the coming minutes. They were an ill-assorted group. Maric, the Serb, was short and squat. He wore a black moustache to go with his black beard, and looked far more sinister than he was actually known to be. Kostic, the Croat, was a big man, young, powerfully built and clean-shaven. Ruggedly handsome, he was far more dangerous than he looked; his every action in this war was born of vengeance. Sandrine Fouquet, the Frenchwoman, was short and fair; she wore her straight yellow hair loose, and it fluttered from beneath her sidecap as she moved. Her soft features were close to beauty, and although like her companions she wore blouse and pants and boots, that she had a good figure was obvious; her very presence was affecting the two soldiers as much as what they were about.

  If the Englishman Tony Davis, tall and dark, his aquiline features usually enhanced by his saturnine humour, was less affected by Sandrine, it was because that good figure and lovely face and flowing hair were all his, whenever he chose to exercise his right to them. But for that very reason he was more concerned at her presence than either of the others. He would have preferred his mistress to remain in the comparative safety of the mountains. But Sandrine had too great a desire for vengeance on the men who had killed her best friend – who also happened to be Svetovar Kostic’s sister – ever to accept being left behind, and she had, over the six months since Yugoslavia had become sucked into this greatest of wars, proved herself time and again as good a guerilla as any man. Besides, she would never willingly let Tony Davis out of her sight; he was her sole reason for living. Now she smiled at him. ‘Listen …’ she said, speaking Serbo-Croat. The wail of a train’s whistle cut cross the morning.

  ‘Do you know, Wassermann,’ General von Blintoft remarked, ‘that I know Belgrade very well?’

  Frau von Blintoft, seated beside her husband in the first-class compartment, giggled. ‘We honeymooned there. In 1922. I even learned to speak the language.’ She switched to Serbo-Croat. ‘So did Antoni. I sometimes think that was the reason he was given this job.’ Her husband cleared his throat, loudly; even after nineteen years of marriage, he had not got used to his wife’s indiscretions.

  ‘How nice,’ Major Fritz Wassermann commented, preferring to stick to German. Himself a semi-professional soldier – he wore the black uniform of the SS – at thirty-six his hair was already speckled with grey, and his coldly handsome face seemed set in a permanently angry sneer, caused at least partly by frustration at being repeatedly passed over for promotion, or even a place on the Russian front, which he would dearly have liked. He was still trying to come to terms with the fact that his new superior was only two years older than himself, and was a general. That was thanks to the Russian front, not his ability to speak Serbo-Croat. Of course, there was a downside to everything. Antoni von Blintoft was actually in Yugoslavia because he had been severely wounded during the summer, when the German drive on Moscow had still been in full gear before being slowed by the autumnal rains. After several weeks in hospital he still walked with a limp. But he had had the time to prove himself both a leader and a hero; his Iron Cross First Class revealed that. He had no more worlds to conquer, enjoyed total domestic bliss – as the presence of both his extremely attractive wife and the slim, dark-haired and quite exquisite young woman beside her, the Blintoft’s only child, attested – and was also reported to be one of Hitler’s favourite people. He was certainly a man to be admired.

  Yet Wassermann resented him. He resented the so-evident aura of success that surrounded the general. He resented his being placed in a position of such inferiority to a man so close in age to himself and not, he was certain, any more talented. And most of all he resented the fact that in 1922, when as a seventeen-year-old boy he had been reduced to begging in the street, this man, or his family, had been wealthy enough to marry and honeymoon on a lavish scale … and that had been before the Nazis had even been widely known, much less gained power.

  ‘That was before the country was even known as Yugoslavia,’ Magda von Blintoft reminisced. ‘Then it was the Kingdom of the Serbs, Croats and Slovenes.’

  ‘You will find it has changed, Frau von Blintoft,’ Wassermann said.

  ‘Was Belgrade badly damaged?’ Angela von Blintoft asked. She had a low and what Wassermann considered an enchantingly musical voice.

  ‘I’m afraid it was, Fräulein.’ Wassermann smiled at her. He might resent her parents, but that was no reason not to find the daughter attractive, or even to flirt with her; rather it encouraged her desirability. And she was the most attractive young woman he had seen for a long time. Her features were finely etched, her eyes blue and clear, her hair a glowing dark brown; she wore the fashionable garb of a female member of the Hitler Youth – white shirt buttoned to the neck and the wrists, ankle-length black skirt, black stockings and shoes, black tie – and looked both trim and severe, as she no doubt intended. But the shirt was well filled, and the skirt sat on slim hips, while the slender ankles suggested that her legs would be on a par with the rest. He had a strong desire to see her in evening dress, when much of what was now concealed might be revealed, although equally, if she was a typical representative of the youth of this new Germany, she would no doubt indulge in such pastimes as hiking or cycling or swimming, wearing shorts or a bathing costume – or even less. It would be his duty to escort her. ‘But the governor-general’s house – it used to be the royal palace – has been repaired,’ he assured her.

  ‘Has not the entire city been repaired?’ Blintoft asked. ‘It is six months since the occupation.’

  ‘There have been other priorities, Herr General. And obtaining labour has been difficult. While the guerilla groups—’

  ‘Have these thugs not been dealt with by now?’ the general asked.

  ‘It is our intention to deal with them, certainly, Herr General. But it is a long, slow business. Owing to the shortages we have been suffering in men and materiel’ – he paused to give his new boss a censorious glance; the shortages had been caused by the necessity to have every available man and gun on the Russian front – ‘they have been allowed to develop their strength. In the mountains to the west they occupy whole towns, control large areas of the country.’

  ‘And we permit this?’

  ‘They are difficult to contain, sir. They infiltrate th
e cities. The problem is identifying them. As they do not wear uniform, they simply meld into the population – and, of course, they are widely supported and, where necessary, concealed by the population. We employ informers, agents, but they are not of great value. And if they are discovered by the guerillas, well …’ He gave Angela von Blintoft an apologetic glance. ‘It is really too horrible to talk about.’

  ‘My information is that the guerillas are commanded by a regular soldier, a former chief of the Yugoslav General Staff,’ Blintoft said.

  ‘That is correct. General Draza Mihailovic. But actually he commands only a portion of the rebels. They are divided into several groups. Mihailovic commands the rump of the old Yugoslav army. They call themselves Cetniks. Frankly, my estimation is that Mihailovic is less concerned with our occupation of the country, which he accepts as a concomitant of the war, than with what happens afterwards. He seeks a restoration of the monarchy and the status quo ante.’

  ‘But as there is a war on, and the country has been occupied, he is still in arms against the properly constituted authority,’ Blintoft pointed out. ‘What does General Nedic think about this?’

  ‘With respect, Herr General, General Nedic is a puppet. He pretends to be acting for us in ruling Serbia, and to be in control of the Yugoslav army, but he has no authority beyond the suburbs of Belgrade – except where we enforce it – and very little even within the city. Mihailovic is far more important. And he is a man with whom we can do business. With whom we have done business.’

  ‘You have done business with a guerilla leader?’

  ‘These things are sometimes necessary, Herr General, in such areas as the exchange of prisoners, or the establishment of safe areas.’

  ‘Safe areas?’

  ‘Places where our people can move freely without the risk of being murdered by these Cetniks.’

  ‘And presumably where these Cetniks can move freely without the risk of being arrested by our people. Well, I must say, that sounds very civilised.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Unfortunately, not all the guerillas are Cetniks, or pay more than lip service to Mihailovic’s authority.’

  ‘Ah,’ Blintoft said. ‘The Ustase.’

  ‘No, sir. The Ustase are very helpful to us.’

  ‘They were described to me as a terrorist organisation.’

  ‘Well, I suppose they are a terrorist organisation.’

  ‘Did they not carry out the murder of King Alexander in 1934?’

  ‘That is correct, sir. But they would describe themselves as patriots. They are composed of Croats, you see, who have never accepted the union with Serbia.’

  ‘And now they have been given their independence, by the Reich.’

  ‘Croatia has been given its independence, Herr General. But not all its people are prepared to accept it, under our auspices. For example, this man who calls himself Tito is a Croat, and yet he commands one of the most vicious of the guerilla groups.’

  ‘Tito! Yes,’ Blintoft said. ‘I have heard of this man. He is a Communist.’

  ‘He is the secretary-general of the Communist Party in Yugoslavia.’

  ‘And why has he not been arrested?’

  ‘Simply because we have not ever caught him. He lives in the mountains to the south-west and has a devoted band of followers. Men like the Englishman, Davis …’

  ‘Davis,’ the general commented. ‘Yes. I have also heard of this man. Was he not a British officer? Is he not wanted for murder? He and some woman …’

  ‘A Frenchwoman, Sandrine Fouquet. Yes. They both took part in the shoot-out with the Ustase outside the village of Divitsar in the summer, and then were prominent in the raid on Uzice. We believe Davis was wounded in that battle, but he appears to have recovered; he has been identified as being involved in several terrorist acts, with his French girlfriend. As I have said, they are two of Tito’s most devoted followers.’

  ‘Hm,’ Blintoft observed. ‘I assume you have some ideas, Major, on how these people should be dealt with?’

  ‘They should be hanged,’ Wassermann said.

  ‘Just like that?’ Frau von Blintoft asked. ‘If this man is a British officer—’

  ‘He is a renegade. He was engaged to be married to a Croat girl, Elena Kostic, when we occupied the country. Instead of leaving with the British embassy staff – he was an attaché – he fled the city with this woman, and the Frenchwoman, and began engaging in terrorist activities.’

  ‘How romantic!’ Angela von Blintoft exclaimed.

  ‘You would not think so, Fräulein, if you knew some of the things they have done.’

  ‘And they too have never been caught,’ the general remarked.

  ‘We captured the Croat woman, and executed her, but Davis and the Frenchwoman got away and linked up with these Partisans.’

  ‘Partisans?’

  ‘That is what Tito’s people call themselves.’

  ‘And you have been unable to capture them,’ the general said.

  ‘Given carte blanche, I could do so,’ Wassermann declared, looking at Angela in search of admiration.

  ‘You have an entire army of occupation,’ Blintoft pointed out.

  ‘It is too small an army for the job. Also, we – that is, our superiors in Berlin – do not seem as yet to have made up our minds how to deal with these people, sir. I think it is time to do this. I have said that they move about the country, and even into the towns, with impunity, because of the support given them by the local population, into which they can merge. I think if we were to make it our policy to shoot their supporters in groups if the guerillas refuse to surrender we would soon bring them to heel. Certainly local support for them would dwindle.’

  ‘That sounds barbaric,’ Angela von Blintoft said.

  ‘War is a barbaric business, Fräulein,’ Wasserman said, disappointed in her reaction. ‘As you would understand if you were ever to see one of our people after being captured by these brigands.’

  ‘Please, Major,’ Magda protested.

  ‘I apologise, Frau von Blintoft. But I regard the situation as serious enough to require serious methods.’

  ‘But if we started shooting men indiscriminately,’ Magda said, ‘would that not simply drive more of them into joining the guerillas?’

  ‘Oh, we would have to shoot their women as well, and their children.’

  ‘Oh, Papa!’ Angela exclaimed.

  ‘Yes,’ Blintoft said. ‘It all does sound very barbaric. I was sent here to pacify this country, Major, not turn it into a desert.’

  ‘Yugoslavia can never be pacified as long as men like Tito and this Davis are allowed to roam free, sir.’

  ‘I understand that. And I understand that they can best be defeated by undermining the support they are receiving from the common people. But I doubt that wholesale shooting of men, women and children is going to accomplish this. People are easier conquered by kindness than by cruelty.’

  ‘Kindness?’ Wassermann did not seem able to believe what he was hearing.

  ‘Kindness,’ the general repeated emphatically. ‘If we treat these people with dignity, rewarding those who accept us and even support us, while punishing, but not too severely, those who oppose us and give shelter to our enemies, we will achieve far more. Win the hearts and minds of the people, Major, and you have won the war.’

  ‘I was under the impression that we have already won the war, Herr General,’ Wassermann said coldly.

  ‘A war is won when the last shot has been fired,’ Blintoft said firmly.

  ‘There are houses,’ Angela said. She had been looking out of the carriage window, and now sought to ease the tension between the two men. ‘How much farther is it?’

  ‘Five minutes, Fräulein,’ Wassermann assured her.

  Sandrine Fouquet stood to one side of the window, looking down on the station forecourt. ‘So many men,’ she said. Beneath her the guard of honour was assembling, shuffling to and fro, watched by a surprisingly large crowd, curious to see their new master
. General Nedic was there, as well as several other high officers in the rump of the Serbian army. ‘Will we get away?’ Sandrine asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Tony Davis said with more conviction than he perhaps felt. He was aware of a sense of unreality. But he had existed in that sense for six months now. In April he had been a young man with hardly a care in the world, the horrors and humiliation of the abortive British campaign in Flanders and Belgium, and of the wound he had suffered which had hospitalised him for several months, submerged in the relative peace and quiet of Belgrade, a city he had loved at first sight. His appreciation of Belgrade, and of Yugoslavia in general, had been encouraged by the fact that he had also fallen in love with Elena Kostic. Elena, earthy and enthusiastically amoral, could never possibly have been envisaged as the wife of a captain in the Buffs, as he had then been – and probably still was, at least in the Official Gazette – but she had been the most perfect mistress for a young man who believed in living life to the hilt.

  It had been his determination to make sure that she survived the unheralded bombing attack that had introduced Belgrade to war. Her rescue had caused him to be absent from the British embassy when the staff had been evacuated, and launched him into this bandit-like existence, in the course of which he had discovered that very little in Yugoslavia was as it seemed, that the rivalries and fears shared by Serbs, Croats, Slovenes, Montenegrins, Macedonians and Albanians transcended anything he could have imagined possible. He had learned to survive, by turning himself from an officer and a gentleman into a ruthless killer. That determination to carry the fight to the enemy had cost Elena her life, but at the same time had brought him the amazing devotion of the little French journalist who had escaped Belgrade with him and who had learned to be as ruthless as himself, with equal reason – Elena Kostic had been her best friend.

  Neither of them would have survived, he knew, had they not joined forces with Tito. In many ways the big Croat was the antithesis of everything they stood for. He was a Communist who took his orders from Moscow, and he was unashamedly looking to the formation of a Communist government after the war. But he never forced his beliefs or his ideals on any of his followers, and although he was a Croat and his country had been given a form of independence by the Germans, he was continuing the fight against the invaders of Yugoslavia – which was more than Draza Mihailovic, who was a Serb and who therefore should have had more reason to wish the Germans expelled, seemed prepared to do.