The Quest

by Christopher Nicole

  She glanced at him. “Are you a bad man?”

  “That depends on your point of view. A good many people regard me as a very bad man indeed.”

  “What will you do to me?”

  “Look after you, until your sister comes through.”

  “And if she does not?”

  “I’m sure she will. Does she not love you dearly?”

  She appeared to consider this, and he took her up the tower to the higher of the two apartments.

  “I do hope you’re going to be rational about this,” he said. “Just relax and be happy you do not have to go to school for a day or two. Here.” He gave her a blanket.

  She curled her lip at him, but she was very tired, and was soon fast asleep. While Lockwood and Berkeley made their arrangements, erecting a line for the horses where they could graze. As they did not want to advertise their presence, cooking would have to be done in the courtyard, from where there was less chance of any smoke being seen; lacking that evidence of resident humanity which might encourage curiosity more than fear, Berkeley could not see any of the locals approaching. They then checked their weapons, and at first light Berkeley climbed on top of the tower roof with his binoculars to inspect the countryside.

  It was a bitterly cold day, and within a few minutes started to snow; that there was nothing moving in sight he reckoned was entirely reasonable. He went down the stairs, to where Helen Karlovy was just waking up.

  “I need to use the toilet,” she said.

  “There isn’t one. You’ll have to use the yard. And I would wrap up, if I were you.”

  She pulled the blanket round her shoulders, went to the stairs, and realised he was immediately behind her.

  “You are coming too?”

  “I’m sorry, I have to keep you in sight. Don’t worry, I’m old enough to be your father.” Even your grandfather, he supposed.

  “They are the worst,” she said, but she went down the stairs, and into the yard, shivering as she squatted. Lockwood was already there, preparing coffee and some breakfast. This she ate hungrily.

  “Your feet are turning blue,” Berkeley pointed out. “Let’s get upstairs and you can dress.”

  “And you will watch me,” she remarked.

  “A man has to have some small pleasures in life,” he said.

  In fact, watching Helen Karlovy take off her night-gown, her entire body a vast goose-pimple, was one of the most attractive sights he had ever witnessed. But soon enough she was fully dressed and considerably warmer.

  “Can we not have a fire?” she asked.

  “No. Just wrap yourself in a blanket and hope your sister gets here soon.”

  Over the next twenty-four hours she seemed to become resigned to her position. Berkeley discovered her to be an absolutely delightful young woman, older than her years – that figured, as Irene was her sister – and knowledgeable. She had heard of him, of course, and not only from Irene; she knew a great deal about recent Serbian history.

  “Do you hate me as much as she does?” he asked.

  “I do not know,” she said. “I hate the men who . . .” she bit her lip.

  “Shit,” he commented. “How old were you?”

  “I was nine years old,” she said, staring at him.

  Caterina had not been greatly older when she had first been captured by the Austrians.

  “Was Irene with you?”

  She nodded. “And Istvan. His was the worst.”

  “I can imagine. But that war is over now, and the Austrian Empire no longer exists.”

  “I do not think that war will ever be over,” she said, with profound simplicity.

  Berkeley recalled that Hitler’s young friend, Rudolph Hess, had used almost the same words.

  He attempted a smile. “So at least I’m not top of your list.”

  “One of us must kill you,” she explained. “One day. It is the law.”

  She was absolutely serious.

  “But you do not know whether or not you hate me.”

  “It is the law,” she said again.

  The next day he left her in the care of Lockwood, and rode down to Nish.

  He went first of all to the Karlovy house, where the door was opened by the maidservant.

  “You!” she gasped, and made to shut the door, but Berkeley had his foot in the way.

  “Is Miss Karlovy about?”

  “She is not here.”

  “But I am sure she left a message for me,” Berkeley said pleasantly.

  “Only that she will be back the day after tomorrow.”

  That sounded promising. Berkeley nodded, and handed her a sealed envelope. “That will tell her where she can find me, when she returns.”

  He went to the police station.

  “Ah, General,” Bobich said genially. “I was wondering what happened to you. The hotel tells me you checked out, suddenly, two nights ago. When are you going to carry out your plan?”

  “Two nights ago,” Berkeley told him.

  Bobich goggled at him. “There has been no report of it.”

  “Things went better than I had anticipated,” Berkeley said. “Irene Karlovy turned up in the middle of it, and I was able to explain the situation to her.”

  Bobich swallowed. “And her sister?”

  “I have her sister.”

  This time Bobich licked his lips. “Am I allowed to ask what you have done with her?”

  “I am holding her in the castle outside the village of Steranya.”

  “That castle is haunted.”

  “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  “Well . . . of course not. But many people do.”

  Including you, Berkeley thought.

  “Which makes it conveniently isolated,” he said. “Now, I am expecting Irene and her friends, and my daughter, some time in the next few days. I suggest you keep a watch on the castle, very discreetly, and have your people ready to move in the moment the exchange is completed.”

  “And you?”

  “As I said, Mr Lockwood and I, and Anna, will just disappear over the Hungarian border.”

  “This is all very irregular.”

  “But think of the reputation you will gain, if you manage to nab some of IMRO, actually on your territory and in action, as it were. There is no need to tell anyone of my involvement.”

  “And the Karlovys?”

  “I’d like to think you’d find some excuse to lock them up. Irene, at the very least. She is guilty of kidnapping.”

  “As are you, General,” Bobich pointed out.

  “No, no,” Berkeley insisted. “I am assisting the police in the apprehension of these people.”

  Then it was simply a matter of waiting. The weather remained cold, and the snow continued to lie; there were even more flurries. From the tower the entire countryside had turned white, with obviously much more considerable falls in the mountains. There was little activity in the village, where the cattle were in their sheds.

  Lockwood and Helen spent most of the time playing cards, at which the girl was surprisingly adept; she had accepted her situation with remarkable equanimity, once she had understood that she was going to be neither raped nor beaten. The idea that she might be killed did not seem to occur to her. Berkeley spent most of his time scouring the country through his binoculars, aware of a growing tension, as he considered what might have happened to Anna over the preceding few months.

  How often she had been ‘disciplined’?

  On the day after his visit to Bobich he saw movement, far away to the right. Two horsemen, walking their mounts up the path, and then turning off into the mountains. They wore greatcoats which concealed any uniforms they might be wearing, but he reckoned they were more probably policemen than terrorists; it was reassuring to know they were there. It was on the third morning that he saw several people on the road. These were also mounted, and well wrapped up, but they were also well armed.

  “Company,” he said.

  “Let me see!” Helen stood besi
de him, and he gave her the glasses. “Irene,” she said.

  “How can you be sure?” Even with the glasses it was not possible to make out any faces at this distance.

  “It is the way she rides, with a slight slouch.”

  Berkeley took the glasses back, studied the group. Certainly one of them had a slightly different seat to the others. But . . . now they were closer, while he felt fairly sure one of the others was also a woman, he was equally sure she was not a little girl.

  “What do you reckon?” Lockwood asked.

  “That they haven’t come to negotiate.” He swept the hills, but there was no movement. Damnation, he thought. But he had set this up: he had to play it out.

  “What is going to happen?” Helen asked.

  “I’m damned if I know,” he told her. “But keep your head down. Harry, I’m leaving you the shotgun and your pistol. Hold this tower.”

  “While you do what?”

  “I’m going to find out what they’re at.”

  Berkeley took the satchel of grenades, his Mauser hunting rifle, checked the pistol in his belt, and went down the stairs. He moved along the lower battlements, settled himself behind a crenellation just above the gateway. The horsemen were approaching steadily; he counted seven. They carried rifles and he did not doubt that they would also have sidearms. Long odds, but he was the professional . . . and he was also filled with the killing anger that had carried him through so many dangerous situations in the past.

  “That’s far enough,” he called, as they reached the foot of the sloping causeway. He spoke in Serbo-Croat.

  The horsemen drew rein, staring at the castle, trying to ascertain where the voice had come from.

  “You are outnumbered, Townsend,” someone called back.

  Berkeley had his rifle resting on the stone wall. Now he used his binoculars, searching, identifying . . . Irene Karlovy, certainly. The other woman he did not know, nor did he recognise any of the men, until . . . Magrich! That was not a face he could possibly forget.

  But Anna was not there.

  “Where is my daughter?” he asked.

  “She is in Nish.”

  He had suspected they might try that ploy.

  “I told you to bring her here.”

  He watched the horsemen spreading out, slowly, felt the adrenalin flowing to his increased heartbeat. They had to be the losers in a shoot-out. But Anna . . .

  “That is not possible,” the woman said. “If you will come with us, bringing Helen Karlovy with you, we will effect the exchange in Nish.”

  “Listen very carefully,” Berkeley said. “I will give you twenty-four hours to return to Nish, and then to bring my daughter to this castle. Twenty-four hours, or I will execute Helen Karlovy.”

  There was a moment’s silence, then someone lost his head and fired a shot. Berkeley saw the flash, and immediately returned the shot. The terrorist’s bullet smacked into the stone of the battlements, sending splinters flying into the air, but he was several feet wide. Berkeley’s reply struck the man in the chest, and he fell off his horse without a sound, still holding his rifle.

  “Scatter,” shouted the woman, and they rode to either side. Berkeley levelled again and fired, and a horse went down, throwing its rider clear. Berkeley hated killing horses, but he had to reduce the odds.

  The thrown man had lost his weapon. He rose to his knees, groping at it, and, again using the telescopic sight with deadly accuracy, Berkeley shot the gun away from his hand while he gave a scream of pain.

  Several more shots were fired, to come crunching into the stonework, but the shooting was very wild, as the terrorists galloped to and fro. Berkeley held his fire, watched them go to ground behind various hummocks or trees. It was easy to see where they were, from the marks in the snow. But they could not approach him while he held such a commanding position.

  There was no feeling of victory though. He could not believe they had come here to make the exchange at all. In that case he was no further ahead. Saving only . . .

  He watched a large body of horsemen debouching from a valley a little back along the road. If these were more terrorists . . . but immediately he knew they were not. They wore dark uniforms and were armed with carbines, which they now began firing indiscriminately as they came closer.

  The terrorists realised they were trapped, and reached for their horses. But Berkeley had to get at least one of them, preferably Irene, alive. He began shooting again, bringing down two, and then three horses, sending their riders sprawling in the snow. They got up quickly enough, but were now under the guns of the policemen.

  Berkeley left his position and went down the causeway. The police captain dismounted and saluted him. “I congratulate you, General,” he said. “A brilliant coup. We will have them all.”

  A body of his men were riding in pursuit of the terrorist who had managed to escape.

  “And these?” Berkeley walked towards the prisoners.

  “Oh, they will hang. You may depend upon it.”

  “I wish to speak with them.”

  “Of course. Take your time. Would you like my men to tie them up for you?” He rolled his eyes.

  “I’ll let you know.” He stood above the prisoners. Two of the men were bleeding from gunshot wounds, a third was dead, but the fourth seemed relatively unharmed. He turned to the women, and drew a quick breath: Irene Karlovy lay in a crumpled, unmoving heap.

  Berkeley knelt beside her, turned her over. The front of her habit was thick with blood.

  “She is dead,” the other woman said, kneeling on Irene’s other side. Her fur hat had come off and her cloak was swinging open; her dark hair was loose and tumbled about her shoulders. Her features were big and bold and handsome, at the moment twisted in anticipated fear.

  Berkeley raised his head. He really hadn’t wanted this to happen, even if she had been responsible for the kidnapping of Anna. But Irene Karlovy had led an entirely tragic life, perhaps from the moment of her birth, certainly from the moment he had shot her father.

  “You, I take it, are Mrs Antonov,” he said.

  She tossed her head; she was unharmed. “I am Dimitrievna Antonova, yes. Are you going to shoot me too?”

  “I’m considering it,” he told her, quite seriously. “Where is my daughter?”

  “You will never see her again,” Dimitrievna Antonova said.

  “You mean you have killed her.”

  “I said you will never see her again.”

  Berkeley gazed at her for several seconds. Then he said, “I would like you to explain to me just what you mean by that.”

  “That is all you need know. You will never find her.”

  Berkeley became aware of a white-hot anger gripping his mind. The thought of Anna, his so beautiful little girl, being sold to a Turkish harem, or worse . . .

  “I would like to have this woman alone, for a little while,” he told the waiting police captain.

  Who did some more eye-rolling. “Of course, General. Would you like some assistance?”

  “I can manage. Get up,” he told Dimitrievna.

  She gazed at him, then turned to the policeman. “He is going to rape me.”

  The policeman grinned at her. “And when he is finished, then I will rape you.”

  She spat at him, and angrily he swung his boot, but Berkeley knocked her out of the way before her jaw was broken; she went rolling across the grass, skirts flying.

  “She is a bitch,” the captain growled.

  “I think you are probably right.” Berkeley stood above her. “Get up,” he said.

  Slowly she got to her feet.

  “Up there.” He pointed at the tower.

  “I would search her first,” the policeman suggested. “She may have a concealed weapon.”

  “Good thinking. Hands up, Mrs Antonova.”

  She hesitated, then raised her arms.

  “I will hold them,” the captain volunteered, grasping the arms and twisting them behind her back.

&
nbsp; Dimitrievna panted, and bared her teeth, then attempted to kick, but Berkeley caught the flailing leg and held it, while he stepped against her, opened the cloak, and ran his hands over her body. There was a lot of it, but he reckoned the occasional hardness was a belt or corset. When he moved his hand up her leg to her thigh, however, he found a small dagger strapped to the inside.

  “Bastard,” she muttered, as he drew it and held it up.

  “You are prescient, Captain,” he said. He released her leg. “Let’s go.”

  The captain freed her arms, and she stumbled up the causeway and into the castle.

  “Into the tower,” Berkeley said.

  She climbed the steps, paused to catch her breath. “What are you going to do to me?” she asked.

  “Nothing, if you’ll co-operate.”

  “With you? I would sooner die.”

  “I have a nasty feeling you may get your wish. Keep going.”

  She climbed the next flight of steps to the first apartment.

  “And up,” Berkeley said.

  They reached the top floor, where Lockwood had been awaiting them, as he had watched them enter the castle. Helen had been sitting on the floor, but she scrambled up at their entry.

  “Mrs Dimitrievna Antonova,” Berkeley introduced.

  “The woman who kidnapped Anna?”

  “The very one.”

  “I did not kidnap Anna,” Dimitrievna protested. “She came willingly.”

  “After you told her you would take her to her supposedly dead mother,” Berkeley pointed out. “Is that not correct?”

  “Well,” she said sulkily.

  “So, you lied to my daughter, and seduced her, and allowed your husband to discipline her. Am I right?”

  “She is a high-spirited child.”

  “Thank you for the use of the present tense,” Berkeley said. “Where is your husband? Or is he lying outside?”

  “He would not come. He suspected a trap.”

  “Sensible fellow. But I would like to meet him, one day.”

  “He will avenge me.”

  “Actually, he has nothing to avenge, yet.” Berkeley turned to Helen. “Do you know this woman?”

  Helen shook her head.

  “Sure?”

  “I have never seen her before,” Helen said.