Vis, Liberated Yugoslavia
Genevieve was glad to be on solid ground again. She waited for Peter and the others in the dining room of an SOE home near a gravel runway, the only airfield on Vis Island. American, British, and Partisan servicemen came through the home, but she sat and rested, exhausted after disguising Jamie. She was grateful she remembered the techniques her brother had used so often. Jamie was recognizable, perhaps, but only slightly after she’d added twenty years to his face, making him a believable Partisan general. The men had rushed off before she could disguise Peter or Krzysztof—Peter had felt they needed to leave at once, and she’d learned to trust his feelings.
They’d anchored at Vis that morning, doubting they could find disguises on Bisevo because it was such a tiny island, and the men had planned to take a boat with a less suspicious name to Bisevo and back. She hoped Peter and the others would return soon. She was nervous about their trip to the camp, but the Partisans were technically their allies, so she hoped everything would be all right, even though they were wearing stolen uniforms.
Genevieve tried to ignore the throbbing from her injury. She couldn’t remember ever being in so much pain before. Just a while longer, then you’ll be in Bari, and the staff there will take care of you.
“Excuse me, miss?”
She looked up at the British major who addressed her, assuming he was one of the commandos stationed on Vis. “Yes?”
“I need a passenger list for your flight to Bari.”
“Peter Eddy, James Nelson, Krzysztof Zielinski, myself—Genevieve Olivier—and possibly one civilian. I don’t know her name.”
All the blood seemed to drain from the major’s face. “Where do you travel from?”
Genevieve supposed that was a legitimate question for the man’s records. “Trieste.”
“You came by boat?”
She nodded.
“And what are the other members of your party doing at present? I see they borrowed one of our jeeps.”
The man had brown hair brushed away from his face and brown eyes. Genevieve’s shoulder still stabbed with pain, but now her stomach knotted too. The British major was asking too many questions and seemed far too interested in her answers.
* * *
Peter parked outside one of Komiža’s Catholic churches. Iuliana held on to Krzysztof’s arm as she stepped from the jeep, not trusting herself to stand without support. Krzysztof had always been thin, and it was more dramatic now, but Iuliana could still feel strength in his arms as he supported her. She hoped this was the parish Ivan had come to and that the priest would tell her where her son was. She met Krzysztof’s eyes. His hair was longer, but his eyes were the same shade of blue she remembered, the same color she’d dreamed about so many nights. When she’d woken on the rickety fishing boat taking them to Vis, he’d been holding her hand.
“I suggest you escort the women inside,” Jamie said to Krzysztof. “Marija can translate. The priest might find three Partisan soldiers a bit threatening.”
Krzysztof nodded and led the way, but when they saw the priest, he let Marija walk ahead of them.
“How did you find me?” Iuliana asked.
Krzysztof looked to Marija, who spoke with the priest in reverent tones. “I would have gone anywhere to find you, but we actually came for her. She told you how we met?”
Iuliana nodded.
“How is Anatolie?” he asked.
“He’s growing. He got hurt—his hand—but it’s improving. I wish I wouldn’t have sent him away. What if we can’t find him?” The fear of losing Anatolie overwhelmed her again. “It seems you always have to help me find my son.”
Krzysztof held her shoulders and peered into her face, probably checking for tears because her voice had cracked. “I think it was wise to send him away. It wouldn’t have been good for him to see that noose around your neck. When I saw it . . . I . . . It was hard for me to play my role.” He ran a gentle finger along her neck, where the rope had been. “I would have never forgiven myself if we’d arrived too late to save you.”
Iuliana slid into his embrace. She was crying again. Why did she always do that? “I was so worried about you. From what Kimby said, there was little chance of any of you surviving.”
“We’re all going to make it home now,” he whispered as he pulled her closer. “Or find a new home—one that’s safe and free from tyranny.”
* * *
Peter tried not to fidget as he waited outside the church. He felt strangely anxious. It’s all over now; you can relax. Krzysztof’s father had sent a plane, just as promised, and it was already waiting at the airstrip for them. And Genevieve would recover. She’d been in pain when they’d anchored that morning, but after watching her concentrate on making Jamie a Partisan general, Peter thought she would get better, especially without the motion sickness to deal with.
Peter felt his first rush of relief when he saw Krzysztof’s smile as he emerged from the church with Iuliana and Marija.
“He’s at a fisherman’s house just a few minutes down the road.”
Peter nodded, glad the priest had believed Iuliana was Anatolie’s mother. Once they found the little boy, they could go home. Peter drove the jeep they’d borrowed from some British commandos to the fisherman’s home, following directions the priest had given Marija.
When they arrived, the widow’s home was empty. Peter picked the front door’s lock to make sure the woman wasn’t inside trying to hide Anatolie from a squad of Partisan soldiers.
“Mama!”
Peter turned at the shout, seeing the small boy run up a path from the ocean, an old woman trailing behind him. Peter smiled as he watched the reunion between mother and son, trying not to think of all the mothers whose sons wouldn’t be coming home or of all the children who’d lost their parents. You can’t change everything, he told himself, so enjoy the good things when you see them.
Anatolie remembered Peter, but he was scared of him, probably because he associated Peter with a bad memory. He ignored Jamie, let Krzysztof lift him into the car, and chattered away on his mother’s lap during the drive to the airstrip. According to Marija’s translation, he was telling the two women all about his boat ride and walk along the beach. No one told the boy that the blond-haired guard who’d started him on his adventure had been hanged for his efforts.
When they reached the airstrip, Peter parked near the plane, then walked back to the SOE house to get Genevieve. As soon as she was better, Peter would take her dancing. And then he would kiss her for a long, long time.
Peter went inside, but the house was empty, except for part of the American C-47 crew that would fly them to Bari.
“Do you know where the brunette with a shoulder injury went?” he asked.
The pilot nodded. “Yeah, she forgot something on the boat. Went back to get it. One of the SOE guys went with her.”
Peter wondered what Genevieve could have forgotten on the yacht. They’d left Trieste with nothing but their clothing, and Genevieve didn’t normally collect souvenirs. “When did she leave?”
“’Bout an hour ago.”
That was enough time for her to have walked there and back, except she was wounded. “Who went with her?”
“Some British major working with the Partisans.” The pilot turned to one of his crew members. “What was his name?”
“Kimby.”
Peter ran out the door and sprinted for the jeep.
“Whoa, Peter, what’s going on?” Krzysztof asked.
“Kimby’s got Genevieve.”
“What?”
Peter started the jeep instead of answering.
Jamie climbed in as Peter shoved it into gear. “Where are we going?” Jamie asked after they’d left Krzysztof, Anatolie, and the women behind in the dust.
“The ship. The pilot said she went back to the yacht with Kimby to get something.” Peter didn’t know if that was really where Kimby had taken her, but it was a place to start.
Jamie checked the clip in his pistol.
“Thanks for jumping in,” Peter said.
In his peripheral vision, Peter saw Jamie grin. “Don’t get me wrong, Peter. I am happy to do my part to see that you and Krzysztof have happy reunions. Those women, after all, are the reason for our eight-month stay in Yugoslavia. But I am also eager to find Kimby. If he knows we are alive, he will be making plans to change that fact. ‘I’ll never pause again, never stand still, till either death hath closed these eyes of mine or fortune given me measure of revenge.’”
“He’ll be expecting us. How good is he?”
Jamie let out a frustrated breath. “I have never trained with him. At Cambridge, he was an effeminate pansy, but I suppose he has been through the normal SOE training. He has time on his side. And he has never lacked brains.”
“So we’re walking into a trap?”
“Most likely.”
“I shouldn’t have left her alone.” Peter had thought she’d be safe surrounded by American airmen and British commandos.
“You were trying to avoid dragging her on another sea voyage and into a possible shootout with Partisan guards. How were we to know Kimby was visiting Vis?” Jamie’s words were meant to comfort, but they didn’t mitigate Peter’s guilt.
The men hadn’t wanted to sail a ship called the Golden Swastika into either of the main harbors on Communist-controlled Vis, so they’d abandoned it on the south shore in a picturesque cove. Kimby would be waiting for them, but he couldn’t know exactly when they’d arrive.
Peter didn’t want Kimby to hear or see the jeep, so he parked on the side of the road before they reached the shore. He wished it was dark, but the midafternoon sun shone brightly. Kimby would only have to pick up one of the high-quality binoculars the yacht’s owners had left on board to see Peter and Jamie coming along the narrow beach.
Peter concentrated on his memory of the shore. The sand was shaped like a wedge, widening as it moved farther from the concave cove. They’d left the yacht partially covered by the cove’s overhanging rocks. The easiest way to reach the yacht was to walk or drive along the beach, but that was where Kimby would look for them.
They could also swim around the rocks and approach the yacht from the opposite side. Or approach it from above. Peter untied the gear strapped to the jeep’s hood, leaving the shovels and first-aid kits and winding up the rope that had held them there. “Jamie, would you rather rappel or swim?”
Jamie reached for the rope. “You board first; try the starboard stern. I will drop in on the port bow.”
Peter nodded and ran off, moving his holster from his waist to his neck so his pistol wouldn’t be submerged as long. When he reached the water’s edge on the back side of the cove, he kicked his shoes off and threw his Partisan jacket, shirt, and cap to the ground. The water was shallow enough that Peter could wade most of the way around the massive rock blocking his view of the yacht. In chest-deep water, he inched his way around the cliff and saw the yacht. He spotted Kimby on the deck, searching the area with a pair of binoculars. Peter hid behind the rock and waited while Kimby finished his scan. When Peter checked again, Kimby was facing the narrow strip of beach, his back to Peter. The yacht’s original owners had kept a collection of Wagner records, and over the sound of the waves hitting the rocks, Peter could make out the notes of a march.
Peter swam the remaining thirty yards to the yacht, keeping his head above water and using a modified breaststroke instead of a crawl stroke, hoping it would make less noise. He lost sight of Kimby as he drew closer and was breathing hard as he made it to the starboard hull.
He pulled himself from the water by the anchor rope, making more noise than he would have preferred. The wet rope was slippery, but Peter had climbed plenty of ropes in training. His hands hurt and his muscles ached by the time he reached the deck and used both hands to pull himself aboard.
Genevieve saw him first. She sat on the deck with her back against the wheelhouse, the skin around her eyes pinched with pain and worry. Her right cheek was swollen, and Peter guessed Kimby had struck her. Kimby stood nearby. He turned, released the binoculars, and grabbed his pistol as Peter reached for his. Peter pointed his weapon at Kimby, and Kimby aimed his at Genevieve.
“Lieutenant Eddy, you were willing to parachute into Yugoslavia so I wouldn’t send her to Germany. What are you willing to do so I don’t send her to the bottom of the Adriatic with a bullet hole in her head?”
“You don’t keep your promises anyway. Why should I believe you’ll let her go if I cooperate?” Peter was taking a risk, but maybe if he kept Kimby talking, Kimby wouldn’t hear Jamie on the cliff above the yacht.
Kimby’s lips twitched into a smile. “Believe this, Lieutenant: if you don’t put your pistol down in the next two seconds, I will shoot her now.”
“He’ll shoot me anyway, Peter,” Genevieve said. “He plans to kill all of us here, where there won’t be any witnesses.”
Kimby gripped his pistol with both hands. Genevieve glared up at him.
“Wait!” Peter dropped his pistol into the water.
“Tsk tsk. So predictable.”
“It’s over, Kimby.” Peter kept his eyes on his foe, willing himself not to look at the cliff jutting out over the yacht. “Krzysztof already sent our report. Your career is finished. No one will forgive you for sacrificing four agents on an unnecessary mission, sabotaging their parachutes, and ordering them killed. Chesterfield told us everything before he died.”
Kimby laughed. “Don’t be so dramatic, Lieutenant. Chesterfield couldn’t have told you everything because he knew very little. All my actions were for the benefit of the British Empire and its vital alliance with Soviet Russia. I have friends in high positions who will defend me, especially when all the witnesses are dead.”
“And Venice? How did turning two SOE agents over to OVRA benefit the British Empire?”
Kimby frowned. “James Nelson hates the Communists almost as much as he hates the Fascists. His talents are a threat to the greater good, and his death was meant to benefit the entire Soviet Union.”
Jamie slid silently down the rope behind Kimby, his pistol in one hand and his cane hooked in his belt, but Kimby seemed to sense his presence. While Jamie was still ten feet from the deck, Kimby spun and fired. Jamie dropped from the rope, his pistol fell overboard, and his cane clattered to the deck beside him.
Peter took a quick step toward his friend, but Kimby pivoted his pistol back to Peter.
“I’ll give you credit for being clever, but you won’t win. Nor will you be around to assist Zielinski should he climb on deck next.” Kimby smiled, and his finger tightened on the trigger.
Genevieve had stood when Jamie fell, and as Kimby fired at Peter, she yanked the binocular strap around Kimby’s neck, sending his shot wild.
Kimby swore, bringing the pistol around and landing a vicious blow on Genevieve’s injured arm. She cried out in pain and crumpled to the deck. Peter rushed Kimby, gripping the wrist that held the pistol with his right hand and thrusting his left into Kimby’s neck. Kimby gasped for breath, but he kept hold of his pistol and stomped on the insole of Peter’s shoeless left foot.
Peter swayed to the side, right into Kimby’s punch. In the wave of dizziness that followed, Peter felt himself falling and focused all his willpower on bringing Kimby down with him. He plowed his shoulders into Kimby’s abdomen and felt the British major tumble. Genevieve reached for Kimby’s pistol. He seemed to realize he was about to lose it, so he threw it overboard.
Peter landed on top of Kimby, which should have given him an edge, but the advantage didn’t last long. The broken ribs, pneumonia, lack of food—even the swim to the yacht—were wearing on him. In prolonged hand-to-hand combat, Kimby was going to win. They grappled with each other, punching and blocking, kneeing and kicking. Each of Kimby’s strikes left Peter reeling in pain, but Kimby seemed to recover instantly whenever Peter made headway against him. As Kimby flipped Peter to his back and pinned him to the deck, they met each other’s eyes, and Kimby too seemed to know his victory was inevitable.
Genevieve tried to grab the binocular strap again, but Kimby threw her off as though she weighed no more than a child. She landed on her bad arm and winced.
Kimby turned his attention back to Peter, swinging his fist toward the side of Peter’s head. Peter blocked it, but Kimby’s other hand clamped around Peter’s throat. How did Kimby get hands like vises? Peter saw Genevieve behind Kimby. “Run,” he croaked. If she left now, she might make it to safety before Kimby was finished with Peter.
Jamie’s whisper in French barely reached his ears. “Genevieve, my cane.”
Peter didn’t hear the rest of the instructions, but he held out a hand instead of blocking Kimby’s next punch. His vision blurred when Kimby’s fist connected, but he felt the handle of Jamie’s cane in his hand. When he gripped it, Genevieve held the bottom, pulling it away from the knife.
Kimby didn’t see it coming—the knife in his ribs. It wasn’t a fatal blow, but it made Kimby release Peter’s neck. Gasping for breath, Peter gripped the knife’s handle again and twisted, eliciting a howl of pain. Peter slid out from under Kimby and kicked him in the head.
While Kimby moaned in pain, Genevieve helped Peter to his feet.
“Do you surrender?” Peter’s voice sounded strange in his ears.
Kimby crawled to the side of the ship so he could use the rail for support. He stood, his eyes darting from Jamie to Peter to Genevieve. He hesitated for an instant, then dove into the water below.
Peter ran to the railing. The sun shone into the clear water, and Peter could see the trail of bubbles from Kimby’s descent straight to the bottom. He kept his eyes on the water, but Kimby wasn’t trying to escape death; he was trying to escape justice.
When Peter was certain Kimby was no longer a threat, he knelt next to Genevieve, who was examining the bullet hole in Jamie’s ribs.
“How bad is it?” Peter asked.
“It must have missed his lungs, or he’d already be dead,” Genevieve said.
Peter went down to the stateroom and grabbed the first-aid kit they’d used on Genevieve. It wasn’t fancy—no sulfa powder, no painkillers, just iodine and bandages.
Jamie moved his head and inhaled as if preparing for a speech.
“No, keep your mouth shut,” Peter said. “Knowing you, you’re planning to say something dramatic and then die. And I don’t want you to die.”
Jamie looked indignant. “I have five perfectly lovely Shakespeare quotations about death.”
“And I don’t want to hear any of them.”
“After all we have been through together, you won’t even listen to my quotes? How many times have I saved your life?”
Peter felt his lips pull into a smile. “I haven’t been counting, but I guess the number’s a little higher today than it was yesterday. Once we’re in Bari, I’ll listen to as many scenes as you care to recite. But none until then.”
Genevieve finished dressing Jamie’s wound. “Peter, I don’t think Jamie should walk, and my shoulder’s making me dizzy. Maybe you could pull the car around?”
Peter checked his pants pocket. The key to the jeep was still inside.