“She is not one of us,” Dimitrievna said. “She is too young.”
“That’s good news. Now, Dimitrievna, the time for playing games is past. I wish you to tell me where my daughter is.”
“She is gone,” Dimitrievna said. “If you search for the rest of the century, you will not find her.”
“I will, you know, because you are going to tell me where to look.”
“Never.”
Berkeley shrugged. “Do you know anything about me?”
“Only what Irene told me.”
“Irene,” Helen said. “Where is she?”
“Irene is dead,” Dimitrievna said.
“Dead?” Helen’s voice dropped to a whisper. Then she shrieked, “You killed her!” She leapt at Berkeley, nails bared, but Lockwood caught her round the waist and virtually threw her to the floor.
“I’m not sure I did,” Berkeley said. “But I probably would have.”
Helen had collapsed into tears. “Murderer!” she moaned.
“It’s a point of view,” Berkeley said. “But I am sure Irene told you, Mrs Antonova, that killing people is my business. Well, part of it. Anything less than that is not going to bother me in the least.”
“Then do it,” she snarled.
He wondered if she reckoned he was bluffing. But then, he wondered himself if he was bluffing.
“As you wish. Harry, would you tie her wrists behind her back?”
Lockwood obliged, using some of the rope that originally bound Helen Karlovy. Helen continued to crouch on the floor, gazing at them through her tears.
Dimitrievna also stared at them, panting now.
Berkeley stepped up to her, dug his fingers into the bodice of her habit, and pulled. She staggered, but it came free, exposing the blouse beneath. This he also tore open, to expose her breasts in turn . . .
She continued to stare at him, and continued to pant. It was a matter of whose nerve was the stronger, Berkeley supposed. But all he had to do was think of Anna, in the clutches of this woman’s husband.
“Harry,” he said. “Let’s have the matches.”
Lockwood handed him the box, keeping his face stoically straight. He also didn’t know if his employer, whom he knew as a strictly honourable man, would actually harm this woman. But he knew there was reason enough.
“Where is my daughter?” Berkeley asked.
“Fuck off,” Dimitrievna snarled.
Berkeley struck a match, watched the flame flare, and moved it closer to Dimitrievna’s right nipple.
“I do not know where she is,” Dimitrievna gasped.
“I think you do.”
She could feel the heat now, and gasped some more.
“Is she in Bulgaria?” Berkeley asked.
“No. She is gone. Gone!” she shrieked.
“Gone where?”
“If I tell you, will you let me go?”
“No,” Berkeley said. “It is my duty to hand you over to the Serbian police.”
“They will hang me.”
“You will have a chance to defend yourself in court. If you do not tell me, I am going to burn you. I would like very much not to have to do this.”
“And do you not think they will torture me first?”
“I will put in a word for you, if you co-operate.”
Dimitrievna stared at him for one last time. Then she shrieked, “I will see you in hell.”
In the same moment she threw herself forward, racing across the room.
“Catch her!” Berkeley shouted.
But Lockwood reacted too late; he reached for her and she swivelled her hips and was past him, gaining the window and stepping into it. There she paused, swaying, looking back at them. When Berkeley started forward, she fell; he couldn’t be sure if she had jumped or overbalanced.
He gained the window and looked down, at the crumpled heap lying at the foot of the tower. Another ghost, he thought, bitterly.
Lockwood stood behind him. “Shit,” he muttered. “But she had it coming.”
Berkeley did not reply. He listened to the sound behind him, and turned to watch Helen Karlovy run for the stairs.
“Shall I get her?” Lockwood asked.
“What’s the point,” Berkeley said. “She’s no use to us now. Let her go to her sister.”
Vengeance
“Tremendous,” Gorman said. “Just tremendous. The Serbs are over the moon, and they give all the credit to you, Berkeley. You sucked those IMRO people into your trap, and closed it. Brilliant.”
Berkeley sighed. “I doubt they were very high in the IMRO organisation, sir.”
“What matter? It was a victory over the terrorists. Everyone is pleased about that.”
“And I did not regain my daughter.”
“Ah. Yes. That is very sad. You think they murdered her, do you? The bastards!”
“I think she’s alive,” Berkeley said.
Gorman raised his eyebrows.
“But I don’t know where,” Berkeley went on. “I suspect she’s been sold.”
“White slavery, eh? There’s a lot of it about, especially in that part of the world. But . . . what can you do? What can we do? It’s a damnable world.”
“I can keep looking,” Berkeley said.
“But if you don’t know where to start . . .”
“I have several leads. Principally this man Antonov.”
“But isn’t he in Bulgaria?”
“I believe so.”
“And a member of these IMRO people. You’d be committing suicide.”
“Not if I am adequately disguised, sir. I came home after the shoot-out in Serbia not only because the deal with the Serbian police was that Lockwood and I would just quietly disappear, but because I knew that there would have to be a good deal of preparation before I could enter Bulgaria safely. I intend to make those preparations as quickly as possible, and then return.”
“To look for Antonov. Who is, presumably, another of these people who have sworn to kill you, in revenge for his wife. Suppose he won’t come out of the woodwork? What then?”
“We had a breakthrough in Serbia by using Anna’s photograph. I believe we may have another breakthrough, again by using the photograph.”
“Where, do you suppose? If this Antonov woman has convinced you that the girl is no longer in Bulgaria?”
This Antonov woman, Berkeley thought, recalling that crumpled heap at the foot of the tower. Another death to add to his growing list. Another futile death, there was the rub. Fruitless to believe that she had killed herself less to escape him than to avoid what Bobich and Savos would have done to her once they got her into their cells. Fruitless to convince himself that she richly deserved everything that had come her way, including that final fall. The fact was that she was dead, and that he was no nearer finding Anna.
“If I cannot locate Antonov, I propose to look in Greece and Turkey,” he said.
“That’s a very long shot.”
“Apart from Antonov, it’s the only lead I have, sir.” Berkeley laid the envelope on the desk.
“What’s this?” Gorman asked.
“My resignation.”
Gorman did not open the envelope. Instead he tore it in two and dropped it into his waste basket.
“I do not intend to give up the search for my daughter, sir.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to. But I’d still like to keep you on our books. Do you realise, Berkeley, that you have probably had a more profound influence on European affairs, at least in the Balkans, than almost any man alive? And nobody even knows your name.”
“That’s not quite correct,” Berkeley pointed out. “Quite a few people know my name, at least in Serbia, which is why I have been able to operate there so successfully.”
“Even if quite a few of them are out for your blood, eh? Ha ha.”
“Ha ha,” Berkeley agreed. Quite a few, he thought. Helen Karlovy, most certainly, not to mention her brother as he grew older. This fellow Antonov. But then, he was after Antonov’s b
lood.
“You will continue to be paid,” Gorman said. “But for the immediate future, all we require from you are forwarding addresses where you can be found, and a monthly report on your observations, just to keep our paymasters happy. Will you agree to that?”
“Yes, sir. There is just one thing more. Colonel Savos.”
Gorman leaned back. “An unsavoury gentleman, from everything I have heard. From you as well.”
“Absolutely. However, he regards himself as my friend.”
“Really?”
“And I am bound to say that I could not have accomplished one half of what I have, and I am going back to 1908, without his continuing support. Which means the support of the entire Serbian police force.”
“Who are also a bunch of thugs, from what I have heard.”
“They deal with criminal matters in a different way to us, yes,” Berkeley conceded. “But then, they have a different situation. As for instance, every man, and not a few women too, in Serbia, Albania, Macedonia, Bosnia or Croatia, possesses a firearm, and is perfectly willing to use it. Any bobby who walks up to a suspect and says, ‘’Allo, ’allo, what’s all this then?’ and is not carrying a drawn weapon is on the short road to a cemetery.”
“Hm. People after your own ilk,” Gorman remarked. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist that. But I suppose, because you are also quick on the draw and ready to fire is one reason why you’ve survived so long. What were you going to tell me about Colonel Savos?”
“Simply that he is due to retire in two years’ time.”
“Pity. If he’s that useful a contact.”
“I don’t intend to use him again. But as I have said, he has been more than a useful contact in the past. I owe him a great deal.”
“And now he expects to be paid.” Gorman sighed. “How much?”
Berkeley drew a deep breath. “Asylum in England. For him and his wife.” Whichever she might be, he thought.
Gorman sat up again. “I hope you’re not serious.”
“I am, sir. You see, a man like Savos, charged with keeping the law in such an area, riddled with violently opposing factions and secret societies, has necessarily made a lot of enemies. He feels, and I agree with him, that while he is protected by all his policemen and his reputation, he is quite safe. But the moment he retires, he and his will become targets for all those people he has imprisoned and tortured over the years, and even more for the relatives of those he has executed.”
“He admits to all of this?” Gorman was scandalised.
“Goes with the job. If it hadn’t been him it would have been someone else.”
“And you seriously wish me to have him granted British citizenship? The man’s a criminal himself. You can tell him to forget it.”
“It is a matter of honour, sir. He has saved my life, and that of Lockwood, on more than one occasion.” Just by being there, he recalled. “And he is not asking for citizenship. He is asking for the right to live here.”
“For how long?” Gorman growled.
“Ah . . . I suspect the rest of his life.”
“Good God!”
“Although he did say something about emigrating to Canada or Australia, if it could be arranged.”
“That’s generous of him. God knows what the Canadians or Australians will say about that. Berkeley, you do pose some problems. However, I accept your point. A life for a life. I will promise you that Colonel Savos’ application for political asylum will be looked upon favourably, when it is made. Providing he promises to leave his habits behind.”
*
“A beard?” Alicia asked her son. “Why on earth are you growing a beard?”
“It is necessary, for my next assignment.”
“You are continuing the search for Anna.”
“Did you expect me to stop?”
Alicia sighed. “What are you going to tell the children?”
Berkeley also sighed, and shrugged. “The truth.”
“But what is the truth?” his mother pressed.
“That Anna was kidnapped.”
“Are you going to tell them why?”
“Because of a blood feud? I’ve considered that, and decided against it. It would give them an enormous feeling of insecurity.”
“Well, then? You can’t mean . . .”
“Yes,” Berkeley said.
“But that’s too horrible to contemplate. Certainly for young children.”
“It’s better than living the rest of their lives in fear. It’s horrible, yes. But it does happen. It has happened before, and it will happen again. Anna was kidnapped by someone for sex, and was then murdered. If it makes them thoroughly suspicious of strangers, that will be no bad thing.”
“But the traumatic effect . . .”
“You’ve been reading that fellow Freud again, Mother. What is a traumatic effect?”
“Well . . .” she flushed.
“The effect an event can have upon your mind and therefore the rest of your life. So let’s work it out. The effect in this case can only be a revulsion to strangers, and possibly a revulsion to sex. Both will wear off, in time. And at this time, both are useful assets, wouldn’t you say? I may be gone a long time.”
“And you really think you can find her?”
“I’m certainly not going to stop trying.”
“Berkeley . . .” another flush. “If she’s alive . . . well . . .”
“I know that, Mother. She will undoubtedly have been raped, and I’m pretty sure she has also been beaten, regularly.”
“She won’t be the Anna we knew and loved, any more.”
“She will still be my daughter,” Berkeley said.
*
“But why would anyone want to kidnap Anna?” Little Alicia asked, her eyes filled with tears.
Berkeley sighed, and hugged his children. “Anna was a very beautiful girl,” he said. “Some men always wish to get hold of beautiful girls.”
“But what do they do with them?”
“They have sex with them,” Johnnie said.
“What is sex?”
“They pull down their drawers and put their things into them,” Johnnie said.
He was clearly picking up a lot of the wrong knowledge at school, Berkeley reflected.
Alicia stared at her brother, her mouth an enormous O, then looked at her father.
“I’m afraid that is true,” he said.
“You mean some man has done that to Anna?” The little girl was aghast.
“Yes,” he said. At least once, he thought.
“Will she ever come home, Papa?”
He nodded. “I’m going to find her.”
“And if you don’t, I will,” Johnnie asserted. “I’ll find her. And I’ll find the man who did it. And I’ll kill him.”
“You won’t,” Berkeley said. “I will already have done that.”
Lockwood naturally wished to accompany him, but for the first time in more than twenty years Berkeley refused.
“You have your own life, your own responsibilities here,” he said. “Your own wife and children. You have been away from them too often and for too long on my behalf.”
“The thought of you, alone, in that den of thugs, all out for your blood . . .”
“I shall be travelling incognito,” Berkeley said. “Back to Mr Smith, eh? And I am not going to go near friend Savos, or indeed, Serbia. I don’t believe Anna is there. I am merely going to be a private detective looking for a disappeared child. Besides, old friend,” he said, as Lockwood was still looking doubtful, “I need you here as a back stop. Dad is a little old for any heavy stuff, and there is always the chance one of those thugs may turn up again. I’m thinking of Antonov.”
“And if he does?”
Berkeley grinned. “Just make sure it’s self-defence.”
*
“Julia’s here,” Alicia said.
“Not again.”
“She’s very loyal.”
“She’s very anxious to get her h
ands on me, you mean,” Berkeley said.
He went downstairs. She had, as usual, ridden over, and looked very trim.
“Oh, Berkeley.” She held his hands and drew him to her. He kissed her cheek. “It must be desperate for you.”
“It is.”
His abrupt honesty had always taken her by surprise. To that was now added his appearance. “Do you realise you haven’t shaved? It must be for days.”
“I know that, Julia.”
She waited for an explanation, but as one wasn’t forthcoming, asked, “What are you going to do?”
“Find Anna.”
“But . . .”
“If it takes me the rest of my life.”
“You mean you’ve left the Army?”
Something she had always wanted him to do.
“The Army has given me extended leave of absence.”
“Oh.” She was disappointed. “Could we walk?”
“Of course.” He escorted her out of the back door and into the garden. She obviously had something to tell him, and he could guess what it was.
She walked right down to the orchard, and there sat on the bench, which faced away from the house. Here they had courted, it seemed a very long time ago.
He sat beside her. “Your divorce has come through,” he suggested.
Her head turned, sharply. “However did you know?”
“An educated guess.”
“Well . . .” Her fingers twined themselves round each other. “It has, yes. The nisi won’t be for another six months, of course. But that’s not very long, is it?”
“Not really. You must be very relieved.”
“I am. Marrying Harvey was the biggest mistake of my life. I only did it because you went off and married that Serbian woman.”
“Bosnian.”
“Eh?”
“She was more Bosnian than Serbian. Not that it matters now. They’re all one nation, so they say.”
“Did you love her?”
“Very much.”
“But . . .”
“Oh, we fell out after a while. She had too much hatred wrapped up in her mind.”
“But you wouldn’t leave her.”
Berkeley sighed. “We’ve been through all this before, Julia. She was the mother of my children, and we were, how shall I put it? Partners in crime. Or at least, in our clandestine war with Austria.”
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