In a quarter of an hour the mountain levelled off and the mist cleared; and here indeed it was as Methuen had surmised—a large quarry with a network of abandoned workings. Some fifty men were bivouacked in lean-to huts built alongside the steep walls, camouflaged with some skill, and properly drained. The camp was still asleep and their arrival caused a general stirring of pallid faces and beards in these shadowy huts. “The mules,” someone said, and the words were repeated in gruff voices all round the camp until they swelled into a roar. “The mules. Thank God we’ve got the mules.”
Their guides had dispersed into the entrance of a tunnel and presently one came running out to Methuen, full of the self-importance that a special mission gives, and to the latter’s surprise pointed a cocked pistol at him, urging him fiercely into the tunnel. Methuen made reproachful noises and said: “Brother, what does this mean?” But the only answer he got was a scowl and a wave of the pistol. He put his hands above his head and allowed himself to be marched down the tunnel for some fifty yards. Here he was told to halt, while his guide tapped upon a door set in the wall with his pistol barrel.
“Come in,” said an extraordinarily soft and musical voice, and Methuen advanced into a shadowy room—resembling a church—lit by a dozen candles, and with some peeling ikons standing against the further wall. “Black Peter,” he said, “I have been sent to you from headquarters.”
The young man who stood up behind the table was immensely tall and broad. The steep back to his head, the unswept shock of black hair, and the black beard proclaimed him a Serb. He had cruel dark eyes set very close together and huge hands in which he was trying to crack a walnut. He was dressed in a dirty Russian tunic and trousers tucked into the tops of his dirty boots. He had bad teeth. Beside him, next to a candle which shone rosily on his evil old face, sat an old man in a much-patched uniform. His lean jaws were decorated by a fringe of silver beard, while the head was clumsily shaven in such a way as to leave a long dangling elf-lock at the crown. This Albanian type of hair-style was new to Methuen and he presumed that he must be an Arnaut from the Kosmet.
“You did not have the password?” said the old man in a cracked voice, with an air of insinuation. “Now how could that be?” The young man cracked his nut and began to eat it slowly. As he munched he raised his eyes and let them settle on Methuen’s face. It was an ugly moment. Methuen repeated his story; he had been recently infiltrated to help the White Eagles. Headquarters had sent him with a message to Black Peter. En route he had met Marko and witnessed his death. The password he had been given was “Wings” but this was apparently old. All this he droned out with as much circumspection as he could, staring down the pistol-barrel of his guard, whose curiosity overcame him so that he stood in front of his charge and stared at him like a yokel.
They looked neither convinced nor unconvinced. The old man stared at his lips all the time he was speaking and at last said: “You are not a Serb.” Methuen side-stepped this one fairly easily: “My mother is a Serb, my father a Slovene. I have spent many years abroad.” He was obsessed by one fear only: that there might be a radio link between this camp and the town organization which he imagined must be based in a town like Usizce, close to the mountains. So far, however, he could see no trace of such a thing; nor did either of his interrogators make notes. The tall one picked his nails with a knife and said: “Describe how you came.” Now Methuen was a thoughtful man and had already bothered his head a good deal in trying to imagine how agents could enter and leave the hill territory. There was only one way that he could imagine and he proceeded to describe it. “I took an ordinary ticket at Usizce for Rashka; I jumped off in one of the tunnels at night, avoided the guard and crossed the Ibar river.” Then he held his breath to see whether his guess had proved correct.
The tall young man coughed behind his hand and said in a milder tone. “You see we have to be careful.” It was the first time that the temperature had dropped and Methuen took advantage of the fact. “I do not care whether you believe in me,” he said earnestly, “but for God’s sake believe the news I bring. The Communists are surrounding this chain of hills.” He took a step to the table and unrolled a map which had caught his eye. “Here,” he said. “Look. There is no time to be lost. You must load the treasure to-night and leave early in the morning.”
This captured their interest and they heard him out in silence. “So,” said the old man at last as he followed the rapid tracings of Methuen’s finger along the spine of the mountain range. “So they finally guessed what we are doing.” The tall young man walked up and down several times with compressed lips; then, in a sudden gust of rage, he stopped and drove the dagger he carried into the table. “It is all their fault,” he cried passionately. “I told them not to infiltrate too many men into this area. I told them we would draw attention to ourselves. I told them.” The old man clicked his teeth sympathetically and nodded. “Never mind. We will do it yet. Over the mountains and through the karst country to the coast.”
Methuen asked permission to smoke and lit a cigarette. “I am hungry,” he said, “and you don’t want my opinion. But I tell you that unless we break through the cordon we will be surrounded and lose the treasure.”
Black Peter gave a harsh laugh. “That at least not,” he said, “for the path runs along the bottomless black lake, and if we can’t get it out Tito at least won’t get it. That I swear.” He made a wide gesture in the air and added: “That at least I swear.”
“I’m hungry,” repeated Methuen wearily, and with an impatient gesture Black Peter came over to him and said: “I am not convinced of your story as yet.” Methuen shrugged his shoulders and replied: “Well, ask headquarters. But if you waste precious time you may find …” His voice tailed away for a new sound had begun to reverberate in the cave—the sound of planes. They were close now and the noise of their engines rippled and boomed among the hills. In the camp outside the tunnel there was a stir. Orders were barked. Feet clattered on the stony corridors. Black Peter opened the door and shouted: “Branko!” A savage-looking one-eyed man shambled into the room touching his forelock and caressing the butt of a revolver which he wore in his belt. “Bring this man some food,” said Black Peter. “Quickly.”
“I want time,” he said, sitting down at the table once more. “I want time to consider.” There was a tap at the door and a man in a stained military tunic came in and saluted. “Five planes, sir. They saw nothing.”
Black Peter made a gesture of despair. “How could they help not seeing,” he said. “Go away,” he added to the messenger. “Go away”; and in tones of weary resignation he said: “Ignorant peasants, what do they know?”
A table had been cleared in the corner and Methuen was told to sit down and wait for some food, an order which he obeyed with alacrity. The nervous relief at not having committed any major blunders had intensified his hunger and weariness, and placing his folded arms upon the table he leaned his head forward and fell into a sleep which was only broken by the arrival of a bowl of soup swimming with meat and fragments of bread. The drone of voices at the other end of the tunnel had undergone a subtle transformation and now that he was awake once more he realtized with a start that Black Peter and the old man were not talking to each other in Serbian any more. They were talking Bulgarian, obviously under the impression that their conversation could not be understood by their guest. Methuen smiled grimly to himself and heard Black Peter say: “No, you always accept things at their face value. Why should headquarters send him separately, since they are sending these men to-night over the mountains? Why could he not have come with them? And the story about Marko’s death … that’s another thing that makes me doubt.…” The old man said “Ach!” several times in deprecating tones. “Black Peter sees spies everywhere,” he said.
Peter blew a puff of smoke from his nose and said: “And the Englishman?”
“Anyway, he was very obvious.”
“Perhaps this one also is an agent.”
“Th
en take no chances. Treat him the same.”
The old man raised his right hand and did a graceful little sketch in the air of someone firing a pistol; it was a fluent, graceful little gesture, which Methuen caught out of the corner of his eye as he bent to his soup. He realized with a thrill of horror that they were referring to Anson’s death. “At least,” said the old man, “Branko will do the job cleanly and efficiently—like the monk.” He laughed a small creaky laugh and went to the window—which was blank and did not pierce the rock. In this embrasure, however, an ikon stood and the old man studied it with loving attention while he continued to speak, softly, insinuatingly: “The decision is yours, Black Peter. If you are worried about him let us do away with him. But I think his information is correct. You heard the planes.”
Peter sighed and relapsed into Serbian again. “Very well, barbar,” he said. “But I shall be on my guard,” and coming over to the corner of the cave where Methuen still sat eating he clapped him on the shoulder and said: “We accept your story.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank him,” said Black Peter curtly, and leaning forward he rapidly ran his hands over Methuen’s coat. With a swift gesture he pulled the pistol from its sling and held it up to examine. Methuen went on with his soup. “It’s a new American model,” he said. “We have bought some in Paris.”
“This is a silencer,” said Black Peter.
“Yes.”
“I will keep it for myself. You may have mine.”
“Very well.”
He stood up and faced Black Peter, smiling mildly, but inwardly furious to lose this treasure. “Now,” he said, “surely it is time to do some planning for our move to-night.”
“You should sleep first.”
“Where?”
Black Peter shouted once more for the ruffianly Branko and said: “Take this man and let him sleep until midday. Watch him. Bring him back.”
Then he turned aside to his great map-littered table, humming a song.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Black Peter Has Doubts
He slept for a good six-hour spell and the sun was high when he awoke on his bed of straw at the end of a long tunnel. As he sat up and yawned he felt a pair of strong arms gripping his shoulders and in a moment his wrists were tightly tied together behind his back. He turned and stared into the hairy face of Branko his jailor. “What is this?” The old man drew the knots secure and tested them with a grunt before answering with laconic abruptness: “Order.”
“But Black Peter said—”
“He has changed his mind. Until we can check on you.”
Methuen swore loudly and lay back once more. The old man squatted on his haunches and cut an apple into squares with his knife. He proceeded to eat it noisily. “This will gain you nothing,” said Methuen. “Absolutely nothing. Can I talk to Black Peter?” Branko shook his head. “He is busy.”
Methuen felt the pangs of a gradually dawning despair; he should, he realized now, never have come up here. He should have been content with the knowledge he had gained. Now all his plans might miscarry unless he could gain the confidence of Black Peter.
He requested and was given a long drink of water; and after some thought he stood up and walked to the mouth of the tunnel. Branko followed his every step. The grassy hollows round the great stone obelisk were alive with men and mules engaged in the various activities of a camp. There must have been a good spring somewhere hereabouts, for a long line of men were watering the animals; others were setting up shelters and lighting fires. Immediately opposite was another hollow tunnel, obviously the entrance to some old abandoned working, and here Methuen saw the flash of yellow light from carbide lamps. Two sentries stood on guard at the entrance with tommy-guns. Shadows flapped and staggered inside the mouth of the cave and Methuen made out the giant form of Black Peter. “There he is,” he said. “I must talk to him.” His jailor tried to detain him but he shouldered him aside and walked to the cave-mouth where the sentries barred his way. He called out: “Black Peter! I must talk to you.”
The leader of the White Eagles was seated on a wooden chest, deep in conversation with two ruffianly-looking men. “What is it?” he said impatiently, and catching sight of Methuen, “Ah! it is you. Come in.” Methuen pressed himself past the cold muzzles of the tommy-guns and walked into the flapping circle of light. “Why am I a prisoner?” he said. “You are not,” said Peter gruffly, “but I want to be sure about you. Too much is at stake.” He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the inner tunnel and Methuen saw for the first time the long stacks of wooden crates which he presumed must contain the gold bars. “Is this the treasure?” he said and Black Peter stood up, struggling between his desire for secrecy and an obvious pride. He followed the direction of Methuen’s glance and sighed as he said: “Yes.”
“Gold bars are heavy,” said Methuen.
“I know. But there are other things too. Look here.” Black Peter took him gently by the shoulder and piloted him deeper into the cave. It was rather like a wine-cellar. Hanging from a long chain of racks Methuen saw what at first he took to be inner tubes of car-tyres, but which proved on closer inspection to be rubber coin-bandoliers, each designed to carry five hundred gold coins. “I see. Each man will carry something. You can’t travel fast, then.” A furrow appeared on the forehead of Black Peter. “That is the problem. And look here.”
Piled in one corner (as bolts of cloth are piled in the corner of a tailor’s shop) he saw what at first he took to be a series of strips of sequin-covered material which glittered like fish scales in the yellow light. “What on earth is it?”
Great blocks of gold coins had been joined together into strips, joined by tiny gold staples. Each piece measured about a square foot and in the centre of each was a hole. “I don’t understand,” said Methuen and Peter gave a hoarse bark of laughter as he picked up one of these glittering sheets and slipped his head through the hole in the centre. It was like a coat of chain-mail, only made of coins. “Each man will also wear one of these golden shirts; and look, there are others to put over the mules like blankets. Methuen gave a low whistle. “But the weight,” he said. “You can’t do a good day’s march with this.” Black Peter looked at him for a moment without speaking. “You will see,” he said confidently. “You will see.”
There was a ripple of movement outside and the sound of voices. Black Peter cocked his ear and said: “The scouts are coming in. They will confirm your story about the troops. Come.”
They left the cave and at once a group of bearded peasants rushed across the grass to Black Peter and began to gabble unintelligibly, waving their arms and flourishing weapons of all kinds. For a moment they were inundated with questions and cries and even Black Peter could understand little of what the men had to say. It was useless calling for silence so with admirable presence of mind he lit a cigarette and sat down on the grass; at once he was encircled by the scouts who squatted round him as if round a camp fire, and fell silent. “Now,” said Black Peter, and one felt the authority behind his deep melodious voice, “let us speak in turn so that we see the true picture of events. You, Bozo: what have you to tell?”
One by one he heard them out, puffing reflectively at his cigarette, betraying no concern and no impatience. Then he turned to Methuen, who sat close beside him, still uncomfortably pinioned and said: “You are right. We must move tonight.” He dismissed the scouts and sat for a while in deep thought on the grass.
He rose at last and walked to where a shattered fragment of the old wall made an admirable natural dais and climbing on to it, with his back to the cliffside, blew three shrill blasts on a whistle. At once the camp hummed with life, as an ants’ nest does if one drops something down it. From all quarters men came running to gather before him, and Black Peter waited for them without any trace of impatience. Methuen could not help admiring his perfect self-possession and calm. When the whole band was assembled silently before him Black Peter stared at them for a full half-minute be
fore beginning to speak. He was obviously a born orator and experienced in his effects.
He began by praising their heroism in facing the dangers of guerilla life in a territory as difficult as Yugoslavia; he reminded them that the journey they were about to undertake would be in many ways the most dangerous and exhausting they might ever make. “The treasure is heavy, we know that. Our march will be slow. And I must warn you that it may be interrupted, for the Communists are approaching this mountain from three sides, hoping to cut us off. One thing we must remember. Usually it is the guerillas who can move fast, and who travel light, while regular troops are encumbered with heavy equipment. But in this case we will be the slow ones, the heavily laden ones. We will be like ants laden with ears of corn too big for them. Therefore we shall need discipline. Therefore we shall need skill in place of speed.”
A hoarse murmur greeted him, and he waited for silence before continuing. “Many of you know the route I propose to follow; at the head of each column will be a guide who knows the country well. I think we should avoid the cordon easily if we do not lack courage, and by dawn on Saturday we should reach a mountain path known to nobody which runs above the Black Lake. Then to Durmitor and the karst.” Everyone spat with pleasure at this and Black Peter went on in a fusillade of sound. “We shall not lose the King’s treasure, that at least is certain. Rather we shall die, rather we shall take it into the Black Lake with us, locked in a death-grip with the enemies who have ruined our country.” A hoarse ragged cheer broke out and some of his audience shouted: “Well spoken!” and brandished their weapons.
A grim smile played about Black Peter’s mouth for a moment. Then he went on seriously: “One thing makes it difficult for us now—namely aircraft. Some of you saw those planes this morning looking for us. If they should find us they would be able to attack us from the air and who could escape? For this reason I ask you: when the planes come do not all start running about in every direction to hide. Let each man stay absolutely still where he stands. Let him become unmoving as the Janko Stone, for the planes cannot see stillness in men—only movement. This is so important to understand that I have taken an extraordinary measure. Three guards have orders to take up a central position if planes are heard, and to shoot immediately at anyone who is seen moving. Now I don’t want anyone to be hurt. But whoever moves endangers the life of each one of us, and he will be shot. Do you agree with me?”