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  ‘When will I see you again?’

  ‘As soon as I can make it.’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘I can’t promise that. Elena,’ – he took her in his arms – ‘you understand that if I am ordered out I will have to go.’

  ‘I know. You are a soldier.’

  ‘I will try to obtain permission for you to come with me.’

  She shook her head. ‘I must stay here.’

  ‘Even if there is a chance you might be killed?’

  ‘I must stay,’ she said again.

  He sighed and glanced at Sandrine.

  ‘I will stay too,’ Sandrine said. ‘As long as there is work to be done.’

  Tony kissed her, then hugged Elena. ‘I’ll try to get back to you as soon as I can.’

  *

  ‘It’s a wholesale evacuation,’ Tony told the colonel. ‘Just about every German in Belgrade is on the move. Presumably that means every German in Yugoslavia is getting out.’

  ‘Strange,’ Brooke-Walters commented. ‘Talk about the herd instinct . . .’

  ‘I don’t think it is strange, sir. And I don’t think it is the herd instinct. I think every German-occupied household has been warned by the embassy that they should leave, now.’

  ‘In a flat spin? You say they’re going by car, mostly. They can’t possibly carry all their gear. What are they anticipating? A German invasion? If that were the case, wouldn’t they be better off just to shut themselves in their houses and wait for their troops to arrive? If the Yugoslavs decide to fight at all, they’ll hardly have the time to organise any internment camps. Anyway,’ he mused, ‘if all those cars and trucks are moving north to the border, they are going to clog the roads and make movement south by any military units next to impossible. If the evacuation has been ordered from Berlin, someone has dropped a clanger.’

  Tony suppressed a sigh with difficulty. It seemed that since the beginning of this war, every British leader from Chamberlain down – with the honourable exception of Churchill himself – was anxious to discover German mistakes. He hadn’t actually seen any of those so far.

  ‘I would say that depends on just how Jerry intends to come, sir. Have we any orders as yet?’

  ‘No we have not. Because nothing has happened yet. There has been no official diplomatic response from Berlin. But this evacuation presupposes that there will be one, soon enough. For the time being, proceed with your preparations for departure.’

  ‘Ah . . . supposing we do leave, sir . . .’

  Brooke-Walters had been looking down at his papers. Now he looked up, his expression indicating that this supposition was taken for granted.

  Tony drew a deep breath. ‘Will we be able to take anyone with us, sir?’

  ‘We will take everyone who holds a British passport and wishes to come.’

  ‘There’s a Frenchwoman, Sandrine Fouquet, on the staff of Paris Temps. Well, she’s sort of a friend of mine—’

  ‘There is a French embassy in Belgrade, Tony. If she wishes to leave, they’ll look after it. We have enough to worry about with our own people. You’ll be asking me next if we can take the Kostics.’

  ‘I’m not sure they wish to go, sir.’

  Brooke-Walters nodded. ‘That is very sensible, and very patriotic. Now get on with it.’

  *

  Tony saluted, and went to his room to wash and brush up before lunch. He was in a distinctly agitated state, compounded certainly by what was happening, but equally by what had just happened.

  His previous sexual encounters with Elena had been anticipatory, exploratory, less memorable than they should have been because of their transience; each had borne no relation to anything previous, and had merely been a promise of the next time, of their slowly building relationship. This morning’s encounter had been nothing like that. There had been no mental rapport. He had the feeling that he might as well have been a man Elena had picked up off the street, to satisfy the excitement she had admitted feeling.

  There had also been an air of finality, not just in her admission that marriage between them was impossible, but in her acceptance that she would probably never see him again. He had been an incident in her life, nothing more. And now she was being called to sterner duties.

  Oddly, he did not feel bitter, only hurt. And guilty that he could not stay to put things right.

  The presence of Sandrine had not helped, either. Quite apart from the fact that he had never before been naked in the presence of two women at the same time, there was the fact that, entirely without wishing it, he had found himself attracted to the Frenchwoman. She was in every way better looking, better groomed, better mannered, better bred . . . better suited to be the wife of an English officer. He had had these thoughts before, but had immediately rejected them, firstly because she belonged to a friend – even if he was also an enemy – and more importantly because Sandrine had never shown the slightest interest in him as anything other than a friend. Today had been different. Was that because it was the first time she had seen him naked? Or because she was angry and grief-stricken at being abandoned by Bernhard? Or simply that, like Elena, she had been excited by the sudden crisis?

  As if it mattered. He was never going to see her again, either. He had not actually promised Bernhard anything, and as the colonel had said, if she wanted to get out, her best bet was the French embassy.

  What a right royal fuck-up!

  *

  Pinder, his batman, had almost completed packing. ‘Some do, sir,’ the corporal commented.

  Pinder was a Yorkshireman, an apple-cheeked, somewhat heavy young man, who viewed life with a pessimistic pragmatism. Tony had only acquired him after leaving hospital, and they were still on a mutual learning curve as regards each other, but the corporal maintained an earnestly respectful air, not only as due to an officer, but to a man who had actually seen action – Pinder had not got to France.

  Now he asked, ‘Will we be leaving then, sir?’

  ‘It looks like it,’ Tony acknowledged.

  ‘The Jerries do get around,’ Pinder commented.

  ‘At the moment, yes.’

  ‘By sea, will it be, sir?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Air?’ They had arrived in Belgrade by air, and the corporal had not enjoyed the journey.

  ‘No. It’s going to be by car and truck, across some pretty rugged – and hostile – terrain.’

  ‘But we’re a diplomatic mission, sir.’

  ‘We may have to convince people of that,’ Tony said. He washed his hands, checked his uniform – it was not as neat as it should be; he wondered if Brooke-Walters had noticed that – and went down to lunch.

  Leighton and Johnstone, and indeed the entire embassy staff, were full of information and speculation.

  ‘If you ask me,’ Leighton remarked, ‘I think the old man is overreacting. So the Germans are getting out. That’s because they’ve been taken by surprise. They’re not used to being defied like this. There’s no need for us to do the same.’

  ‘What does your German friend say about it?’ Johnstone asked.

  ‘He only knows that he and his people have been ordered out, and are getting out.’

  ‘And Elena?’

  ‘All martial ardour. If the Jerries come, the Yugoslavs will whop them.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think it’s a shitting awful mess,’ Tony said.

  *

  By dusk the embassy was ready to go, but as they had as yet received no orders, it was a business of sitting around, or standing around, or walking in the garden.

  Obviously a great deal was going on behind the scenes, and beyond the scope of the junior officers. The ambassador was attempting to arrange diplomatic passports to get his people out. He also felt that it was necessary to keep a continuing liaison with the Yugoslav military command. This was sufficiently important to be dealt with by Brooke-Walters personally, even though he could only convey to General Simovic the same blea
k appraisal of the chances of British military help as he had to his three officers that morning.

  But the waiting was tiresome. As was his personal situation. He was tempted to go looking for Elena when darkness fell, but he still could not get over the feeling that their morning get-together had been her way of saying goodbye.

  The city appeared to have settled down somewhat from the frenzy of the breaking news. Presumably all the Germans had now left. Tony envisaged the roads to the north, only one or two of them even remotely qualified to be called highways, clogged with bumper-to-bumper traffic. What would they meet coming down? And what, indeed, would they meet at the border?

  He played a couple of rubbers of bridge with Leighton and Johnstone and one of the secretaries, none of them concentrating very hard on the fall of the cards. In the middle of the evening Brooke-Walters came in, but went straight up to see the ambassador, his face like a looming thundercloud.

  Tony said goodnight to Pinder, got into bed, switched off the light, and listened to the sounds of the night seeping through his closed window. After a few minutes he got up and stood at the glass, looking out at the lights. Belgrade was certainly a brilliant sight, far more so now than usual. But then, he doubted anyone was going to sleep tonight.

  He closed the shutters, hoping to keep out both the light and the noise – the curtains were only thin, transparent material – and frowned as he heard the drone of aircraft. Aircraft, over Belgrade, in the middle of the night?

  He turned back, opened both shutters and curtains, and looked out again as the first bombs fell.

  Chapter Two – Panic

  The first explosion was not very far away, and the blast sent Tony tumbling across the room in the middle of a cloud of shattering glass. He fell across the bed, his hands having instinctively come up to protect his face; even so, from the stinging he guessed he had been cut in several places.

  For a moment he lay still, his half-awake mind unable to determine exactly where he was, even as waves of understanding swept through his brain. The Germans had never intended diplomatic manoeuvring, or indeed anything so mundane as a declaration of war. They had not even intended an invasion until Yugoslavia, or at least Belgrade, had been wiped off the map. Once again the rest of the world, including the British, had been caught with their pants down because of their continuing, outmoded belief that there were necessary negotiations to be undergone, procedures to be followed, before the fighting could begin.

  He wondered if Bernhard had known what was going to happen – or at least suspected would happen – following the peremptory orders to evacuate the city, and, indeed, the country.

  Now the entire night was shrouded in the noise of the explosions, and even lying on his bed Tony could see the sky brightening with the first of the fires. Now too the continuous rumble was being penetrated by other sounds: the wail of sirens, the shrieks of terrified people, and even one or two gunshots, as if someone were attempting to bring down one of the planes with a rifle.

  There were shouts of alarm within the embassy itself, and a good deal of noise. Tony dragged on his clothes, and added his revolver holster and cartridge pouch. He did not suppose there was going to be anyone to shoot at, at least for a while, but it made him feel better.

  He had just finished dressing when Pinder appeared, panting and looking distraught, still buttoning his tunic. ‘What a rum do, sir.’

  ‘Yes. Are you ready to move out?’

  ‘Just give the word, sir.’

  ‘The word will need to come from someone else. Just stand by.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but your face is cut. Would you like me—’

  The lights went out; either a German bomb had struck the electricity plant or someone in authority had realised that the fully lit city was too simple a target. But the sudden plunging of Belgrade into pitch darkness – apart from the fires – caused a fresh outbreak of screams and shrieks.

  ‘Where are you, sir?’ Pinder inquired.

  ‘Follow me,’ Tony told him, and felt his way along the corridor to the stairs. On his way he encountered several other people, emerging from their rooms and bumping into one another, but he reached the ground floor without actually being knocked over.

  In the dining room someone had managed to light several candles, which sent light guttering into the corners as the building continued to shake to the blast of explosions; Tony supposed it was a miracle it hadn’t yet received a direct hit. Brooke-Walters was in command here, surveying the motley crowd of dressed and half-dressed men and women gathering in front of him.

  ‘You will carry out your drill,’ he said. ‘Proceed down to the cellars in an orderly fashion. There is no need to panic.’

  ‘Are we going to move out, sir?’ someone asked.

  ‘We are awaiting orders,’ the colonel said. ‘The ambassador is trying to get through now. There has been no declaration of war.’

  ‘You wouldn’t describe dropping a few tons of bombs on a capital city a declaration of war, sir?’ asked someone else.

  The building shook again as there were some more explosions close at hand.

  ‘Get down to the cellars,’ Brooke-Walters repeated, no doubt thankful he did not have to answer the awkward question. ‘All of you. We’ll be told what to do come daylight.’

  Daylight! Tony looked at his watch. Three thirty. Daylight was at least two hours away.

  He stepped back against the wall as people started to file past him.

  ‘Aren’t you coming down?’ Johnstone asked.

  ‘I’m going out. Cover for me, if you have to. I’ll be back by first light.’

  ‘You’re taking a bit of a risk, old man.’

  ‘I need to know,’ Tony said.

  He stepped into the corridor, and was instantly plunged into darkness. But the explosions had ceased. The raid was over.

  The sentries still stood at the front door, although inside the building rather than out in the open.

  ‘Captain Davis,’ Tony said, as they couldn’t possibly identify him in the gloom.

  ‘Sir.’ They stood to attention. ‘You’re not going out?’

  ‘Orders,’ Tony explained.

  ‘It’s a bit tricky out there, sir. There are people inside the gates. They’ve been banging on the door.’

  ‘Didn’t you send them off?’

  ‘We received no orders, sir. Just to refuse admittance.’

  It occurred to Tony that they were all suffering from a considerable lack of orders.

  ‘I’ll manage,’ he said.

  They opened the doors, and he stepped out into the morning air. A mass of odours greeted him, of which burning wood was the strongest. There was also a great deal of noise, some of it quite close at hand.

  ‘Don’t forget to let me back in,’ he told them, and went down the steps.

  The embassy stood in its own grounds, and he was for the moment separated from the city itself. But it was there, a huge glow of burning fires, a huge eruption of frightened, angry noise. Sirens still wailed, but these had taken on a quality of frustrated despair. All around him – as the guards had warned – there were people, some shouting, some just sitting, heads bowed. Several approached him as they identified him as a British officer.

  ‘Why you will not let us in?’ someone asked him. ‘You are our friends, no?’

  ‘We are your friends, yes,’ Tony agreed. ‘But there are too many people inside already. Anyway, you are safer here. When the bombers come back, they may well hit the embassy itself.’

  ‘You think the bombers will come back?’

  ‘I think it is extremely likely.’

  He pushed through them and reached the gates. These were open, and crowded with people. He pushed his way through these as well, and was immediately engulfed in a crowd of hurrying bodies, gasping and panting, weeping and wailing, cursing and swearing. Quite a few carried belongings taken from burning homes – whether their own or other people’s Tony had no idea – but all were in search of sanctu
ary. Some continued to push their way into the embassy grounds, but the majority streamed past, obviously aiming to get out of the stricken city and gain the open space beyond the houses.

  The night was suddenly quite hot, both from the flames and the masses of humanity. Tony needed to travel only a few yards before he came upon the first burning buildings, a whole street of shops and houses blazing merrily, with several deep craters in front of them. A fire engine stood to one side, helplessly.

  ‘There is no water,’ one of the firemen told Tony. ‘They have cut the mains.’

  ‘Can’t they use the river?’

  The Danube and the Sava flowed right through the city.

  The fireman nodded. ‘They are arranging this now. But it will take time. It has been so sudden. We did not expect this. No one expected this.’

  Tony went on, and entered a living hell. He was attempting to take the most direct route to the Kostics’ house, the route he always took, but it was impossible this morning. Some of the streets were impassable because of craters, others were engulfed in flames, and still others were blocked off by police. Even those which were officially open were crowded with people, dazed by what had happened to their homes, trying to find missing members of their families, clamouring for help. But where was the help going to come from?

  It took him nearly an hour to reach the Croat quarter, which, he was relieved to see, was relatively undamaged – although there were still crowds in the street, shouting questions at each other, as dazed as anyone else in the city.

  ‘Tony!’

  ‘Svetovar. Thank God! But . . .’ Tony peered at the young man. Svetovar was in uniform, with sidecap, and had a rifle slung on his shoulder.

  ‘I am a reservist,’ Svetovar explained. He was tall and strongly built, like his sister, and wore a little moustache. ‘Did you not know this? I am to report to my unit.’

  ‘Your family?’

  ‘They are all right. The house has not been hit. They will be pleased to see you. But Tony,’ – he held Tony’s shoulders – ‘you will get them out, eh?’