Blood of Victory

by Alan Furst

  Serebin handed it over, and the man took his time with it, touching his finger to his tongue to turn the pages, saying “Hm,” and again “Hm,” as he read. Followed the Paris representative of Marasz-Gulian on a series of logical business trips—Basel and Brussels, that kind of thing, had a look at the travel and work permits, slid them into the fold of the passport, slapped it against his palm a few times, then, not persuaded one way or the other, gave it back. “Very good,” he said, meaning either very good fake or everything is in order. “But we don’t concern ourselves with documents, this evening.”

  Serebin waited to see what came next. The man had slid his chair to a position where he blocked Serebin’s view of the other side of the room, but Serebin could hear Zolti’s voice. Not precisely angry. Argumentative.

  “We have here only some administrative difficulties. Not major, but they must be resolved.”

  Across the room, Erma. He couldn’t hear the words, but the tone was indignant.

  The chief glanced over his shoulder, then returned to Serebin. “My name is Schreiber, I am the second secretary at the legation in Bucharest, and I’ve come up here this evening to inform you that we must, regretfully, impound your shipment to Giurgiu. We will inform Herr Gulian of this action—we trust he will respect our decision. But, in any case, it’s no longer your responsibility.”

  “All right,” Serebin said.

  “As for yourself, we will take you back to Bucharest, where all this can be worked out. A technicality—I shouldn’t worry about it if I were you.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “And the owners of the tugboat?”

  From Schreiber, a dismissive shrug. Who cared?

  Across the room, a certain metallic rattle, and an anguished cry from Erma. Schreiber grunted with irritation and looked around to see what all the fuss was about.

  Serebin heard a pop and, instinctively, both he and Schreiber ducked their heads. Serebin stood up, could now see the assistant, thrashing and moaning on the floor. Beside him, a pair of handcuffs. Erma took two steps, leaned over the man and, with two more pops, put an end to the thrashing and moaning.

  Schreiber leaped to his feet, arms flung wide, shouted, “Oh for God’s sake...,” on his way to asking what somebody possibly thought they were doing, but he never got there. A small hole, the size of a coin, appeared in the back of his overcoat, where a shred of fabric now hung by a thread. He sank to his knees and coughed, hand politely over his mouth, then fell on his face, with a soft thud as his forehead hit the brick floor.

  The room was dead still. Both gendarmes and the station supervisor were backed against the wall, hands high above their heads, eyes wide with terror. In the middle of it all stood Erma, small pistol in hand, trying to figure out what came next.

  Serebin knew. He ran for the door, hit the dock in full stride. On the bow of the patrol boat, outlined in the glare of the searchlight, a Roumanian sailor was shouting at him. Had they heard the shots? Above the noise of their engines? Not possible. But, one of the people who’d been taken off the tugboat was now running back toward it. That couldn’t be right. The sailor went for the holster at his belt and shouted an order, but he didn’t quite have it right, because Serebin wasn’t going back to the tugboat.

  He dove over the low gunwale of the first barge he came to—the second from the end, barge four, the one with the Colossus of Esztergom, as luck would have it—and slithered on his stomach toward the hatch on the river side of the barge. The sailor—an officer, Serebin thought—fired at him twice, one round sliced the air above his head, the other hit the turbine and rang it like a bell. Serebin came around the corner, grabbed the rope handles of the hatch cover, and, with the recommended slow, steady pull, removed it.

  The next thing he saw was the night sky. He’d been up in the air, he knew, but not for long. Because the next thing he saw was the Colossus, well, half of it anyhow, that had risen about ten feet off the barge and was now on its way back down, on end, still wearing its tarpaulin. It landed on its other half with a magnificent clang, then tilted over into the canal with a splash that sent a wave of water across the dock. Toward the pilot station. Which had lost a corner of itself and modestly lowered half its roof in case somebody tried to look inside.

  Serb bastard—did you know? Not a land mine, an antitank mine.

  He’d been lucky, he realized. By rights he should be somewhere up on the hill, but he was in business now and he didn’t mean to leave it unfinished. He rolled over the edge of the next barge, barge three, and, using its cargo for cover, crawled to the hatch at the end nearest the tugboat. He took hold of the ropes, pulled, pulled harder, and the hatch cover came free in his hands. He swore, and peered into the depths of the barge’s interior, saw the remnant of wire shining silver in the water, and came fairly close to going down there after it. Actually, very close.

  On his way to barge two, he heard the patrol boat coming, engine wide open, searchlight beam moving down the canal. By now the crew had got its machine guns going, and began by raking the cabin of the Empress, splintering wood and shattering glass, the boat swinging on its tie line with the force of the heavy rounds. Serebin smelled burning and looked over his shoulder. The pilot station was on fire—had the blast wave blown the fireplace into the room? By the light of the dancing flames he saw a shadowy figure, running up the hillside through the trees. Zolti? Erma? He didn’t know, but clearly this river was not, at the moment, the best place to be.

  He was extremely careful with the hatch cover on barge two, visualizing the wire loop at the base of the mine’s trigger, watching the wire as it depressed the lever, and, in the moment before the explosion, taking back what he’d called Captain Draza. Because the mine had been centered on the barge, the wire run far enough back so that the force of the blast was taken by the underside of the turbine.

  And the hull. Because all that remained of the Colossus and its barge were bubbles. And the neighboring barges had been pulled halfway below the water by their towing links when the middle barge sank. He saw no more. Pressed his body between deck and gunwale as the mine went off, then covered his head with his arms as wood and metal rained down from above. He felt the barge begin to sink beneath him. Moved on to the first barge in line.

  Somebody saw him.

  He heard hunters’ cries from the patrol boat, a long machine gun burst chewed up the deck a foot away, and he ran, then dove for shelter on the dock side of the turbine. Now he couldn’t reach the hatch cover—on the river side of the barge, the large-calibre bullets tore the gunwale apart, and the patrol boat crept forward to try to get a firing angle for its gunner. They were excited, now that they knew where he was and what he was doing. As Serebin, on hands and knees, fled further into the defilade of the turbine, the light probed wildly and the gunner began to fire at the turbine itself, which pinged and rattled and echoed as it was hit, the occasional tracer ricochet sailing off into the night. And some of the rounds, hammered off with great enthusiasm but not all that much precision, ripped through the deck and, he hoped, down through the bottom.

  The machine gun stopped abruptly—those long, indulgent bursts were soon enough, he knew, punished with a hiss of compressed air and a mad scramble by the server to feed in a new belt. Serebin looked at his watch, it had stopped at 11:08. Marrano was waiting for him downriver at Berzasca, but he couldn’t move. One step away from the cover of the turbine, and that would be that. The pilot station was burning brighter now, he could hear the crackle of old wood, smoke drifted over the river, and the flames illuminated the dock with orange light. So, no darkness for him.

  The officer on the patrol boat now came to his senses. Certainly he’d been on the radio, certainly other boats had been dispatched, and it had certainly occurred to him that he’d better win this little war before they showed up. So, all he needed to do was appoint a few volunteers to board the barge, use the turbine for cover, and attack from both ends. Serebin knew it would come to that a
nd, soon enough, the sound of the patrol boat engine came toward him, as it maneuvered to position itself next to the barge. Now he had to do the one thing he most didn’t want to do.

  He turned, saw that the barge had been roped to a cleat, but, when he pushed against the edge of the dock, there was perhaps a foot of clearance. He lay prone on the gunwale, hesitated, finally slid one leg into the water. Bit his lip, then lowered himself the rest of the way. It was like being packed in ice, the cold gripped him so hard he could barely breathe. And then, the patrol boat’s motion in the canal sent a gentle current toward the barge, which pressed against him, and began to squeeze his chest between the hull and the rough slab of timber that framed the dock. He fought it with both hands but it didn’t give, so he had seconds to pull himself up on the gunwale. And into the light, into the view of the patrol boat. Still, better to die that way than to be crushed to death. As he started to climb, the barge moved. Only an inch, but enough. Using his hands, he slid himself along the timber to the edge of the hull, took a breath, went under.

  Not more than a few feet to the tug, but cold and black as death. Finally a groping hand found the side of the boat and he hauled himself over the low freeboard and onto the deck. He was exhausted, finished. He lay still for a time, then began to work his hands, which had gone numb and stiff in the freezing water.

  When he opened his eyes he saw that the patrol boat had maneuvered itself next to the barge, and, for a bare instant, there was a flicker of motion in the shadow of the turbine. Somebody on the boat began calling out to him—you can surrender, we won’t hurt you, there’s custard for dessert. It was all in Roumanian and he understood not a word of it but he got the general idea. In fact, it was whatever might keep him from hearing the armed sailors as they crawled around on the barge.

  Not long until they figured out he wasn’t there, so he slid forward as quickly as he could until he reached the foot of the steps that led up to the pilot cabin. Then he heard pistol shots, and he froze. Next came a shouted conversation between barge and patrol boat, and suddenly the searchlight swept over the water, the other barges, and finally the tugboat. Serebin lay completely still, pinned in the white beam, and waited for the machine gun.

  It didn’t come. The searchlight played on the cabin, then moved, slowly now, across the hill above the burning pilot station. Serebin scuttled up the steps and knelt at the foot of the helm. He made a fist and, imitating what Erma had done, hit the board skirting below the wheel. Nothing happened. He tried reaching behind the panel, but it was blocked by a board across the bottom. Again, he pounded. Nothing. Christ, there’s a trick to it. Then he stood, turned his arm parallel to the skirting, and hit it with the side of his fist. And, by means of some fiendish carpenter’s alchemy he could not imagine, it popped open.

  The Mannlicher was nice and heavy, he knelt back down and curled around it, shivering, and, with thick, frozen fingers, managed to release the magazine. Loaded. He pushed it back in place with the heel of his hand, heard it lock in place with an emphatic click—the Austrians made good weapons—and worked the slide. The same fool’s demon that had tried to trick him into blowing himself up now suggested it would be a perfectly fine idea to fire from the cabin. But, once again, he stopped just in time. Crawled back to the stern, got as low as he could, lined the barrel sight up with the center of the searchlight, and squeezed the trigger.

  But the Austrians’ good weapons didn’t always send the bullets where the sight said they were going—low or high, left or right, he didn’t know. However, all was not lost; the light remained undamaged but, as one of the sailors howled and swore like a man who’s hit his thumb with a hammer, the beam shot straight up into the sky and stayed there. On the patrol boat, all hell broke loose—running shapes, shouted orders. Serebin waited, held his right wrist with his left hand and fought to keep the Mannlicher steady. When, a moment later, the light went back to work, it swung toward the stern of the tugboat. Had they seen the muzzle flare? He fired, shifted the gunsight, tried again, and once more. Then, with one brilliant, white, dazzling, final flash, the light exploded.

  Serebin wasted no time. Blood pounding, head down, he sprinted for the bow, leapt onto the dock, and ran up the hill into the night.

  It was damp and still in the forest, all wet leaves and bare trees. He climbed quickly, avoiding the path, and made it halfway up the slope when he realized he either had to sit down or fall down. He lowered himself to the ground, braced his back against a tree, wrapped his arms around himself and tried, by force of will, to stop shivering.

  Looking through the woods below him, he watched the scene on the river. The roof of the pilot station had now collapsed into the burning walls, the second barge was gone and had taken the third barge down with it. The last barge in line was heeled over on its side, its turbine halfway into the canal. Sinking, he hoped. Why hadn’t he thought to punch a few holes in the things? The patrol boat had tied up to the dock, but its searchlight was still dark, and the officer hadn’t, as far as he could see, sent crewmen up into the forest to look for him.

  As the Empress was escorted toward the Moldova Veche station, he’d calculated the distance to the bridge on the Berzasca river as close to twenty-seven kilometers. It would take him all night—maybe well into the morning, to walk that far. Would Marrano still be there? Serebin wasn’t sure. He would stay as long as he could, but the neighborhood wasn’t going to get any friendlier as the night wore on and the Roumanians began to look for him. Still, there was no other choice, it was a long way back to Belgrade. And if Marrano, for whatever reason, was forced to abandon the meeting place, the only alternative left for Serebin was crossing the river into Yugoslavia.

  He forced himself to his feet, found a tree-branch walking stick in a tangle of underbrush, and started climbing.

  Count Szechenyi’s theory of road building was simple enough: cut a right angle into a mountainside. This made for a winding ledge above steep canyons, shadowed by Carpathian peaks that soared up into the night sky. Was the road in Transylvania? South of there, but not far. Maybe it didn’t have bats, or coachmen driving black-plumed horses—yet, but it had everything else. Fog, that thickened by the hour, the steady wash of the river on the cliffs below, rocky outcrops that hung overhead, at least one owl—and something else he could only imagine, sometimes a deserted valley, and a wind that sighed in the trees, froze him to the bone, and now and then stirred the fog to reveal a crescent slice of pale and waning moon.

  Enormous silence. And not a human soul to be seen.

  For that much, he was grateful. At one point he stopped to rest, realized that the Mannlicher was getting heavier with every step, opened the magazine to find a single bullet, and threw the gun into the forest below. It did occur to him that an hour of sleep might actually speed him on his way, but he knew better than to do that. Speed you on your way to heaven. So he rose and trudged on, singing quietly to himself as he marched.

  All through the hours of the night, he walked. Then, as light touched the eastern sky, he heard a creaking wheel, and the thud of hooves on stone, coming up behind him. He stepped off the road, half-ran, half-slid a little way down the hill, and hid behind a tree until he could see what it was. An oxcart, with high wheels built of thick planks, a man and a woman in the black clothing of Roumanian peasants sitting together on the driver’s seat. Serebin decided to take a chance, and returned to the road.

  When the man saw him he pulled on the reins, tipped his battered black hat, the woman beside him moved to make room, and Serebin climbed up next to them. In the cart, a small shape carefully sewn into a sheet. Serebin, in French, offered his sympathies, which, without understanding a word of it, the couple perfectly understood, and the woman thanked him in Roumanian.

  This was better than walking, though not all that much faster. The ox plodded steadily along as the gray dawn—farm roosters at it in the distance—turned into a gray morning. The road grew wider as stone turned to dirt, and they passed through a se
ries of mountain villages, sixteenth-century villages—mud, straw, and cow manure. In a narrow valley, a column of mounted soldiers approached from the other direction. Were they searching for fugitives? Serebin didn’t let them get a look at his face, but when the officer at the head of the column saw what was in the cart he removed his hat, and inclined his head toward the couple.

  Serebin rode on the oxcart until mid-morning, then they stopped by a path that wound through the fields—to a church, he thought, and a graveyard. Serebin thanked them, and continued on foot.

  But not for long. When he saw, in the distance, a pair of bicycle riders, he rushed into the woods, tripped on a root and went sprawling. Then cursed himself for fleeing from phantoms—at the potential cost of a sprained ankle—until he saw that the young men on the bicycles wore the uniform of the national gendarmerie and had rifles slung on their backs. He waited until they passed, returned to the road, but was forced to hide three times in the next hour; first by a big sedan, then by a truck, and last by a band of singing German hikers. That did it. He found a cattle path and followed it to a village where he managed, by greeting an old woman over a stake fence, to buy an apple and a loaf of bread. Then decided not to test his luck any further and found himself a hideout in a willow grove, where he ate the apple and the bread, drank from a brook—the water so cold it made his teeth ache—and settled in to wait for dusk.

  He woke suddenly, an hour later, had no idea where he was, returned to consciousness, and still didn’t know where he was. He spent the rest of the day in the willow grove, sometimes dozing, sometimes watching the river, and was back on the road after sunset, now glad of the darkness and the gathering fog. The next village he came to was bigger than the others. It had a street—paved with quarried stone a long, long time ago, and a church—a cross mounted on the dome of an old Turkish mosque.