“Well, Father, you seem a little preoccupied. Perhaps I should come back another day?” Shut up, you damn fool! said Kelly to himself. You’ll antagonise him!
“You were a captain in the Ustase, is that not correct?” asked the priest, his face stone.
“Yes, that is correct.”
“And I,” continued the priest, “was a Lieutenant Colonel. It may be as well for you to remember that, Novak.”
Kelly, his blood now up, said, “Since 1945 our respective ranks have not been worth a shovelful of shit. It may be as well for you to remember that, Cecelja!” You’ve blown it, he thought to himself, but to his surprise, the priest smiled and leaned further back in his seat.
“Black Legion, was it not?” he asked.
Kelly nodded. “Black Legion,” he confirmed.
“Every officer I met in the Black Legion had the same self-opinionated, arrogant, disrespectful, insolent self-confidence that you have just displayed. I suppose that’s what made them so incredibly good in combat.” He paused for a moment, as if deep in thought, then said, “Odd though, I don’t remember you.”
“I regret I never had the very great privilege of meeting you in person,” said Kelly, with more than a trace of sarcasm. “I feel sure I would have remembered.”
The priest smiled again. “Perhaps.”
“We seem to have started on the wrong foot, Dragan,” he said, his tone placatory, “so let’s start again. Perhaps you could tell me about your adventures with the Black Legion?”
And so, they talked, or at least Kelly did, Cecelja interposing a question here or observation there. It wasn’t what Kelly wanted to do, afraid as he was of betraying his accent, but he had no alternative. To have been taciturn would have surely invited suspicion. He was trapped in a corner but saw no alternative than to try to bluff it out.
At length, Cecelja said, “You have had an eventful career, Dragan, you are exactly the type of patriot we want to aid. I will get you to Rome. You will then be moved to Genoa when a suitable ship is available, and from there it’s Argentina and a whole new life with a new identity.”
He shuffled through the papers on his desk for a moment before shaking his head. “I had prepared a Red Cross document ready for your signature, but it’s not here. Ugh, of course, I gave it to Lorenzo to finalise. Also, you will need a photograph for your Red Cross passport … wait here a moment, I’ll get that document you need to sign.” So saying, he calmly rose and left the room, closing the door behind him.
On the other side of the door, it was a very different Father Vilim who emerged from his office, his face thunder and his mouth twisted into a snarl. He hissed something in Italian which clearly caused consternation in Lorenzo and Mattia. Sensing a problem, but unable to understand the language, Manteufel grabbed the arm of the man he had spoken to earlier.
“What’s wrong?” he asked in German.
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong, Herr Manteufel,” said the priest, reverting to German, “that man is an imposter!”
Manteufel reacted immediately. Drawing his Luger from the back of his trousers, he cocked it and made for the door. “I’ll kill the swine,” he growled. “I’ve never trusted that bastard—I’ll blow his brains out.”
Cecelja and the two Italians restrained him and calmed him down. “Not here, Herr Manteufel, the shot would be heard, and we can’t risk that. We can’t afford a scandal. I can understand how you feel, having been his babysitter for so long, but you must contain yourself. You will have the pleasure of killing him, but away from here.
“I want everyone to remain calm. He must suspect nothing. I will take in a Red Cross document for him to sign, then Lorenzo and Mattia will go with you to the photographer and forger in Eugendorf, only you won’t get that far. In the woods to the left of the main road, you will do what has to be done, and make sure you hide the body well. Is everyone clear? And you, Manteufel, are you now calm?”
Everyone nodded, and Cecelja re-entered his office, emerging a few moments later arm-in-arm with Kelly. “When you have the papers and photographs from our document specialist, you will return here and we will arrange transportation to Rome. I fear your journey is not at an end yet, Dragan,” he said, smiling.
They drove away from the property heading, as far as Kelly could tell, roughly north-east on a main road, Kelly and Manteufel in the back, Lorenzo and Mattia in the front. After a couple of miles, Lorenzo turned off the main road and onto a small track, heading into a dense wood. The vehicle pulled to halt in a clearing deep in the trees. Manteufel instantly leapt out of his side door, drawing his Luger, cocking it and pointing it at Kelly.
“Get out! Slowly!” he ordered.
Kelly emerged, his face a picture of bewilderment.
“Move away from the car, hands in the air!”
Kelly once more complied.
“You two, get out! I’ll need a hand in a minute,” Manteufel ordered.
The Italians climbed out of the car and leaned back against it, each holding a small handgun in his right hand. At that point Manteufel swung round and levelled his Luger at the two men.
“Drop your weapons and turn around, hands on the car!” he ordered.
Lorenzo started to raise his weapon, but it only reached waist height before a Luger round smashed into his chest, sending him crashing into the side of the car and sliding down. Kelly moved in swiftly and retrieved the pistol from the dead hand, levelling it at the other man.
Mattia was in a frenzy of terror. He flung his weapon away and stood with his hands in the air, visibly shaking and repeating, alternately in German and Italian, “My friends, my friends, please don’t shoot, please!”
“Turn around, hands on the top of
