A Fine Night for Dying

CHAPTER 12

France

The Camargue

It was just before midnight when they reached St. Brieuc. By chance there was a train due out in fifteen minutes to Rennes, and Chavasse decided to take it rather than hang about.

At Rennes they had a delay of an hour and a half before the Marseilles train, and they spent it in a cafe just outside the station. The Jamaican was still brooding and had little to say for himself. In the end, Chavasse had had enough.

“It’s no good going on like this,” he said. “Either we clear the air now or you drop out.”

“Wouldn’t that be a problem?” Darcy said. “I’m not even in this country officially.”

Chavasse shook his head. “I can contact our Paris office. They’ll get you out.”

Darcy looked genuinely troubled. “I don’t know, Paul. When I first got the idea of following you, it seemed to make sense, and especially later when I heard what they’d done to Harvey. I was bitter and angry; I wanted revenge.”

“So?”

“That business with Gorman, I didn’t mind that. After all, he was trying to kill you. There was nothing else I could do, but Jacaud.” He shook his head. “That sticks in my throat.”

“If that’s the way you feel, then you’d better leave,” Chavasse told him. “Rossiter drowned your brother like a rat and without a qualm, he tried his hand at mass murder when the Leopard went down, and didn’t do so badly when you remember what happened to Mrs. Campbell and Old Hamid. He won’t hesitate to see the both of us off the moment he claps eyes on us and realizes we’re still in the land of the living. This isn’t the Old Bailey or the Jamaican High Court. There’s only one law here-kill or be killed-and I’ve had direct orders. Ho Tsen, Rossiter and Montefiore-they’ve all got to go.”

The Jamaican shook his head. “You know, back there in the old days, living with Harvey in Soho, I met every kind of villain there was, but you-you’re in a class of your own.”

“Which is why I’ve survived twelve years at this bloody game,” Chavasse said. “Now are you in or out?”

“The way I see it, I don’t really have much choice in the matter. I know that once I get anywhere near Rossiter, if I don’t get him first, he’ll get me. It goes against the grain, that’s all, to accept that that’s the way it is. I had years of it in Harvey’s particular jungle-I don’t suppose a psychologist would have much difficulty in working out why I took to the law.” He sighed heavily. “But you can count on me, Paul. I won’t let you down.”

“Good, now I know where I am, I’ll put a call through to our field agent in Marseilles. I’d like him to be ready for us when we arrive in the morning.”

He stood up and Darcy said, “This place, the Camargue-what is it exactly?”

“The delta area at the mouth of the Rhone,” Chavasse told him. “About three hundred square miles of lagoons and waterways, marshes, white sand dunes and hot sun, though this isn’t the best time of the year for that. It’s famous for three things. White horses, fighting bulls and flamingos. I was there as a boy twenty years ago and I’ve never forgotten it.”

“But what in the hell are they doing in a place like that?” Darcy demanded.

“That remains to be seen, doesn’t it?” Chavasse said and went to make his phone call.

JACOB Malik was Polish by birth and had left the country of his origin for political reasons just before the outbreak of the Second World War. For a couple of years, he had worked for the Deuxieme Bureau, the old French secret service organization that had died in 1940. He had spent the war working with the British Special Operations Executive, acting as a courier to French resistance units. An adventurous career had been brought to an end by an FLN grenade through his hotel bedroom window during the Algerian troubles. He had retired to a small cafe on the Marseilles waterfront with his Moorish wife and three children. He had been acting as Bureau agent in that city for six years and Chavasse had worked with him twice.

He was standing beside a Renault station wagon, leaning heavily on his walking stick, when they emerged from the station, a thin, elegant-looking man with a spiked moustache who carried his sixty years well.

He limped toward them and greeted Chavasse with enthusiasm. “My dear Paul, how wonderful to see you. How goes it?”

“Excellent.” Chavasse took his hand warmly. “And Nerida and your family?”

“Blooming. She still misses Algiers, but we could never go back. I wouldn’t last a week. They have long memories, those people.”

Chavasse introduced him to Darcy and they all got into the Renault and drove away. It was warm and rather sultry, the sun hidden from view by heavy gray clouds, and yet there was that intense light common to Marseilles, dazzling to the eyes.

“What have you arranged?” Chavasse asked.

“I gave the whole thing a great deal of thought after your phone call,” Malik said. “At exactly four a.m., I hit upon an idea of some genius, though I say this with all due modesty. To get into the Camargue presents no problem. To stay without being observed is impossible.”

“In three hundred square miles of lagoon and marsh?” Chavasse said. “I don’t follow.”

“Oh, the population is small enough, mainly wild fowlers and a few cowboys who tend the young bulls and the horses that run wild in all parts of the area. It is because of the sparseness of the population that it is difficult for outsiders to enter without it being known. What you need is a legitimate reason for being there, a reason that anyone who sees you will accept.”

“And you’ve found it?”

“Bird-watching,” Malik said simply.

Darcy Preston laughed out loud. “He can’t be serious.”

“But I am.” Malik looked slightly injured. “The Camargue is famous for its wild birds, particularly its colony of flamingos. People come to study them from all over Europe.”

“You know, I think you might actually have something there,” Chavasse said.

“More than that, my dear Paul, I have the equipment to go with it. A small cabin cruiser and all the extras I could think of. A rubber boat, shooting jackets and waders, binoculars, a decent camera. I checked with S2 in London and got the go-ahead. It seemed pointless to waste time.”

“Marvelous.” Chavasse was aware of a sudden irrational affection for him and clapped him on the shoulder. “Truly marvelous.”

“No need to overdo it, Paul. For this kind of exercise, I get a handsome fee-double if I assist in the field.”

“Do you want to?”

“I know the Camargue and you don’t, so it would seem sensible.” He smiled. “And you really have no idea how boring life is these days. A little action would definitely be good for my soul.”

“That’s settled then.” Chavasse turned to Darcy, who was sitting in the rear. “Nothing like some organization.”

“Oh, I’m impressed,” Darcy said. “I’d be even more so if someone could remember to fill my belly within the next couple of hours. It’s contracted so much it’s beginning to hurt.”

“That, too, I have arranged, monsieur,” Malik said. “My cafe is a stone’s throw from the harbor. There my wife will reluctantly provide you with bouillabaisse, simply because it’s the local speciality, but if you have sense, you will choose her stuffed mutton and rice and earn her eternal friendship.”

“Lead on, that’s all I ask,” Darcy said, and Malik swung the Renault from one line of traffic to the next, narrowly missing a bus, and turned into a narrow side street leading down to the harbor.

THE stuffed mutton and rice was everything Malik had promised, and afterward, they went down to the old harbor, parked the Renault and walked along a stone jetty. There were boats of all shapes and sizes riding at anchor, and scores of dinghies and tenders of every description were tied close to the jetty. They went down the steps and Malik hauled in a six-man yacht tender.

Chavasse did the rowing and, under orders, threaded his way through the crowded harbor until they fetched alongside a twenty-foot fiberglass cabin cruiser powered by an outboard motor. She was named L’Alouette and was painted white with scarlet trim. Darcy climbed aboard, then turned to give Malik a hand. Chavasse followed, after tying up the tender.

The cabin was small, the two padded side benches making up into beds at night. The only other accommodation was a lavatory and a small galley.

Malik sat down with a sigh, produced a thin black cheroot and lit it. “And now to business. You’ll find a map in that locker, Paul, as well as a false bottom, under which are a couple of machine pistols and half a dozen grenades. It seemed like a good idea.”

The map unfolded to show the Camargue in detail, and not only the several mouths of the Rhone, but every lagoon, every sandbank, every waterway.

“You can’t go too much by this,” Malik said. “The action of the tide and the current from the river combine pretty forcefully. A sandbank can be there one day and gone the next, and some of the waterways can silt up just as quickly. We shouldn’t have too much trouble, though. L’Alouette only draws two or three feet.”

“And Hellgate? Have you managed to pinpoint it on the map?” Darcy asked.

“Indeed I have. See, just a little on the Marseilles side of the Pointe du Norde. Three or four miles inland is the village of Chatillon. Hellgate is marked there, a couple of miles northeast of the village.”

Chavasse found it at once, an island in a lagoon that was shaped like a half-moon. “Have you managed to find out anything of the place or Montefiore?’

“Naturally, I’ve been mainly restricted to Marseilles because of the time element, but I’ve managed to produce some useful information. The house is about seventy years old. Built in the nineties by a Russian novelist called Kurbsky, who didn’t like the czar and made it obvious. His novels had quite a vogue at the time in America and Europe generally, and he became a wealthy man. He came across the Camargue on a visit to a bull farm in the area and decided to stay. He had the house built where it was because he had an obsession with privacy. It’s a wooden building and very Russian in style.”

“What happened to him?”

“He returned home after the Revolution-a grave error. He didn’t like Lenin any more than he did the czar, only this time he couldn’t get out. He died in 1925, or was killed off. None of this required any genius, by the way. There is an excellent library in Marseilles. I had a friend in the provincial land-records office telephone through to Arles to see who owns the place now. It was used as a base by German troops during the war. Afterward, it was empty until four years ago, when it was purchased by someone named Leduc.”

“Leduc?” Chavasse frowned.

“That was the name on the register.”

Chavasse nodded slowly. “All right, I’d better fill you in on the details, then you know where you stand.”

When he had finished, Malik looked thoughtful. “A strange business. This man Rossiter, for example. On the one hand, a bungling amateur who leaves himself wide open. On the other, a ruthless, cold-blooded killer without the slightest scruples.”

“And Ho Tsen?”

“Nasty-very nasty. What’s a real pro doing mixed up with people like that?”

“That’s what we’ve got to try and find out,” Chavasse said. “Although I’ve got my own ideas on that subject. You know how difficult it is for the Chinese where espionage is concerned. The Russians don’t have anywhere near the same trouble because they can pass off their own people as nationals of most other countries. The Chinese obviously can’t do that, which explains why they’re willing to use a man like Rossiter, amateur or no amateur. Mind you, that still doesn’t explain how someone like Montefiore fits in.”

Malik nodded. “And what happens afterward?”

“Elimination-total and absolute.”

“And the girl,” Darcy put in. “What about her?”

“If we can, we get her out.”

“But only if we can?”

“Exactly. Now let’s get going. With most of the afternoon left, we can get a hell of a lot done before nightfall. Agreed, Jacob?”

Malik nodded. “I’ll take her out of the harbor. I know what I’m doing. With this engine, we should make it in a little over three hours, allowing for the weather, of course, which I must say doesn’t look too good.”

He went out on deck and Chavasse followed him. He stood at the rail, looking back at Marseilles, as they moved out to sea. An old city-they had all been here. Phoenician, Greek, Roman. Beyond Cape Croisette, the sky was dark and ominous, and as they lifted to meet the swell from the open sea, rain spotted the deck in great heavy drops.

FROM the sea, the Camargue was a line of sand dunes drifting into the distance, and as they moved in, great banks of reeds and marsh grass lifted out of the water as if to greet them. With them came the heavy, pungent odor of the marshes compounded of salt and rotting vegetation and black gaseous mud, a smell that hinted at a darker, more primeval world, a place that time had bypassed.

The bad weather had not developed as expected and the rain had held off except for intermittent showers. As they moved in toward the land, Malik once more took the wheel and Chavasse and Darcy stood at the rail.

A half dozen white horses stood on a sandbank and watched them as they went by, and beyond, hundreds of flamingos paced through the shallows, setting the air aflame with the glory of their plumage.

“What happens now, Paul?” Malik asked. “Do we stop at the village or keep going?”

“No harm in calling in,” Chavasse said. “You can visit the local store, see what you can find out. Darcy and I had better stay in the background, just in case.”

“All right.” Malik nodded. “To pass through without stopping would probably engender an unhealthy interest about our identity and business anyway. Small communities are the same the world over.”

And Chatillon was certainly that: two primitive wooden jetties standing just out of the water, an assortment of small boats and a couple of dozen houses. Malik took L’Alouette to the extreme end of one of the jetties and Chavasse tied up. Darcy stayed below.

The Pole limped away and Chavasse lounged in the stern, fiddling with a fishing rod, part of the general equipment Malik had provided. There didn’t seem to be a great deal of activity on shore. About fifty yards away, a man worked on a boat, and two old men sat on the other jetty mending wildfowling nets.

Malik returned in fifteen minutes, carrying a paper bag loaded with various provisions. “Typical French provincials,” he said, as Chavasse helped him over the rail. “Suspicious as hell of all strangers, but wanting to know every last detail of your business.”

“And what did you tell them.”

“That I was from Marseilles with a friend to do some bird-watching and a little fishing. As I told you before, they get people like that in here all the time.”

“And they accepted your story?”

“Completely. It was an old woman in her seventies and her idiot son. I got out the map and asked her where there was a good place to tie up for the night, which gave me an excuse to put my finger on Hellgate amongst other places.”

“What was her reaction?”

“Nothing very exciting. It’s private. Nice people, but they don’t encourage visitors.”

“Fair enough,” Chavasse said. “Let’s get moving. It’ll be dark soon.”

Thunder rumbled menacingly in the distance, and Malik pressed the starter as Chavasse cast off. Darcy didn’t come on deck until they were well away from the village and proceeding along a narrow channel, reeds pressing in on either hand.

Chavasse scrambled up on top of the cabin and opened the map. At first it was relatively simple to chart a course, but it became progressively more difficult the deeper into the marshes they went.

They had deliberately avoided staying with the principal waterway that gave direct access to Hellgate and kept to the northeast, so that in the end, they were approaching it from the rear.

It was almost dark when they turned into a small lagoon, and he called softly, “Okay, we’ll make this do.”

Malik cut the motor and Darcy heaved the anchor over the side into eight or nine feet of water. Suddenly, it was quiet except for the croaking of bullfrogs and the occasional stirring of a bird in the thickets.

“How far?” Darcy asked.

“Quarter of a mile, no more,” Chavasse said. “We’ll go on in the rubber boat at first light and take a look at the place.”

“An interesting prospect,” Malik said.

“Oh, it should be that, all right.”

Above them, thunder cracked the sky wide open, and as darkness fell, rain fell with it in a sudden drenching downpour that sent them running to the shelter of the cabin.

Hellgate

It was a cold gray world that Chavasse stepped into when he went on deck at four-thirty on the following morning. Rain hammered into the waters of the marsh with a thousand voices and yet life stirred out there in the gloom. Birds called and wild geese lifted into the rain.

He was wearing waterproof nylon waders and a hooded anorak and a pair of binoculars hung around his neck. Darcy Preston joined him, wearing a similar outfit, and was followed by Malik, who sheltered under a large black umbrella.

“The last place God made.” The Pole shuddered. “I’d forgotten there was such a time of day.”

“Good for the soul, Jacob.” Chavasse hauled in the dinghy. “We shouldn’t be long-a couple of hours at the most. I just want to size things up, that’s all.”

“Just make sure you know how to find your way back,” Malik said. “It’s not too easy in a place like this.”

Darcy Preston took the oars and pulled away, and in a few moments L’Alouette had faded into the murk. Chavasse used the map and compass and charted a course for Hellgate that took them in a straight line through mud and reeds and narrow waterways, penetrating deeper and deeper into a lost world.

“This is how it must have seemed at the beginning of time,” Darcy said. “Nothing’s changed.”

There was a rustle in the reeds on their left, they parted, and a young bull plowed through. He stopped in the shallows and watched them suspiciously.

“Just keep going,” Chavasse said. “That’s a fighting bull with a pedigree as long as your arm. They don’t take kindly to strangers.”

Darcy pulled harder and the bull faded from view. “I certainly wouldn’t like to be on foot with one of those things on my tail,” he said. “What in the name of good sense are they doing running around loose?”

“This is where they raise them. This is bull country, Darcy. They just about worship the damn things. We’re the interlopers, not the bulls.”

They emerged into a large lagoon, and the towers of the house loomed out of the mist fifty yards away. Chavasse made a quick gesture and Darcy pulled into the shelter of the reeds on the right. There was a patch of high ground beyond and they beached the dinghy and got out. Chavasse crouched and focused the binoculars.

As Malik had said, the house was very Russian in style and constructed of wood, with a four-story tower at each end and a verandah at the front. The whole was surrounded by pine trees that had probably been specially planted when it was first built, but what had originally been the garden was now an overgrown jungle.

There was something curiously false about the place. It was too much like the real thing-a film set for a Hollywood version of a Chekhov play.

Chavasse couldn’t see the landing stage, which presumably was on the other side. From an approach point of view, the house couldn’t have had a better strategic situation. The lagoon was half-moon shaped and about a hundred yards wide and two hundred long. There was no possibility of an approach under cover during daylight.

He passed the binoculars to Darcy. “What do you think?”

The Jamaican had a look and shook his head. “I don’t see how anyone could get any closer during daylight without being spotted.”

At that moment, a dog barked and two men came running round the corner of the house. They jumped into view when Chavasse focused the binoculars-two Chinese men, each clutching an assault rifle. The dog joined them a moment later, an Alsatian who ran backward and forward, rooting in the undergrowth.

“I don’t know what he’s looking for, but he won’t get much of a scent in this rain, that’s for certain,” Darcy said.

“I wouldn’t be too sure.” Chavasse watched intently through the binoculars. “It takes a lot to fool a German shepherd.”

There was a sudden commotion over on the right, a heavy splashing, as something forced its way through the reeds. At first Chavasse thought it might be another bull, but he pulled out the Walther PPK just in case. There was a groan of pain, then a splash followed by a cry for help in French.

Chavasse and Darcy pushed through the reeds and emerged on the other side of the sandbank, as a head broke the water in the channel beyond and a hand clutched feebly at air.

Chavasse plunged forward, the water reaching to his chest, and grabbed for the outstretched hand as the man went under again. Their fingers met and he went back slowly, the thick black bottom mud reluctant to let him go.

Darcy gave him a hand and they laid him on his back in the rain, a thin, gray-haired emaciated man of seventy or so. He wore pyjama pants and a sleeveless vest and his body was blue with cold. His eyes rolled wildly, he gibbered with fear, then passed out.

“Poor devil.” Chavasse raised one sticklike arm. “Ever seen anything like that before?”

Darcy examined the multiple tiny scars and nodded soberly. “A heroin addict from the look of it, and pretty far gone. I wonder who he is?”

Chavasse started to take off his anorak. “Last time I saw him was in a photo Mallory showed me, though I must say he was looking considerably healthier.”

“Montefiore?” Darcy said blankly.

“In person.” Chavasse raised the unconscious man, slipped the anorak down over his head and picked him up. “Now let’s get out of here before he dies on us.”

ON the return journey, Chavasse sat in the stern, Enrico Montefiore cradled in his arms. He was in a bad way, there was little doubt of that, and moaned restlessly, occasionally crying out. He never fully regained consciousness.

There was the sound of the Alsatian barking uncomfortably close somewhere, and then the harsh chatter of an outboard motor shattered the morning.

Chavasse sat with the compass in his free hand, relaying precise instructions to Darcy, who was putting his back into the rowing. At one point, they got stuck in a particularly thick patch of reeds and he eased Montefiore to the floor and went over the side to push.

It was cold-bitterly cold, for by this time the water had managed to get inside his nylon waders, and without his anorak the upper part of his body had no protection at all.

The dog barked monotonously, much nearer now, the sound of the outboard motor coming in relentlessly. Chavasse pushed hard and scrambled aboard as the dinghy moved again.

A few moments later, they broke from cover and drifted into clear water, and L’Alouette loomed out of the mist.

“Jacob!” Chavasse called, and then, as they moved closer, saw that Malik was sitting in the stern, his black umbrella shielding him from the rain.

The dinghy bumped gently against the side of L’Alouette. Chavasse stood up and looked straight into Malik’s face beneath the black umbrella, which he now realized was lashed to the stern rail with a length of rope. Malik’s eyes were fixed in death, his left ear was missing and there was a small blue hole just above the bridge of his nose.

“Good morning, Chavasse. Welcome aboard.”

Rossiter moved out of the cabin, smiling pleasantly as if really delighted to be meeting him again.

Colonel Ho Tsen stood in the background, one side of his face covered in surgical tape. He was holding an AK assault rife and looked grim and implacable, every inch the professional.

“One of my men took a photo of you as you came in last night,” Rossiter said. “We always like to check on new arrivals in this part of the Camargue. You may imagine my surprise when he showed me the print.”

“You took your time getting here,” Chavasse said. “You’re not too efficient.”

“This wretched weather, old man. We got here just after you left. So we decided to wait. Actually, our time wasn’t wasted. Your friend was quite forthcoming after the colonel had a few words with him. Oh, yes, I now realize that you know all about us, Chavasse. On the other hand, we know all about you.”

“How nice for you. And what about Montefiore?”

“A problem. He’s done this before, which simply isn’t good enough. I must have a word with the person who was supposed to be looking after him.”

He went to the door, produced a whistle and blew three blasts. As he turned, Darcy Preston said harshly, “Who put him on heroin-you?”

“It keeps him amenable most of the time,” Rossiter said.

“As a living vegetable. Why don’t you let him die?”

“But who on earth would sign all the checks?” Rossiter demanded, in a half-humorous manner, as if trying to be reasonable about the whole thing.

Which explained a great deal. And then several things happened at once. Montefiore started to groan, thrashed his limbs wildly and sat up, and a dinghy powered by an outboard motor appeared from the mist carrying two Chinese men and the Alsatian.

The two men came aboard, leaving the dog in the dinghy. Ho Tsen spoke sharply to one of them in Chinese, so rapidly that Chavasse could not hear what was said. The man replied in a low voice, eyes down, and Ho Tsen slapped him across the face.

“Have they got a dose with them?” Rossiter demanded in Chinese.

One of the men put down his assault rifle and produced a small leather case. He opened it, took out a hypodermic and a glass ampoule. Rossiter filled the hypo and nodded to the Chinese man, who held Montefiore down by the shoulders. Rossiter gave him the injection.

“That should hold him.”

Montefiore stopped struggling and went very still, all tenseness leaving him, and then a strange thing happened. His eyes opened and he looked up at Rossiter and smiled.

“Father Leonard?” he said. “Father Leonard, is that you?”

And smiling, the breath went out of him in a quiet sigh and his head slipped to one side.

There was a sudden silence. Rossiter gently touched his face. It was Ho Tsen who moved first. He pushed Rossiter out of the way and shook Montefiore roughly. Then he turned, his eyes angry.

“He’s dead-do you understand? You’ve killed him. I warned you-I told you, you were giving him too much.” He struck out at Rossiter, sending him back against the other bunk. “One error after another. You’ll have a lot to answer for when we reach Tirana.”

For a moment, all attention was focused on the Englishman. Chavasse sent one of the other Chinese men staggering, turned and jumped for the door. He went over the rail, surfaced and struck out for the shelter of the reeds.

He threw a quick glance over his shoulder and saw Darcy struggling with the two Chinese men at the rail. Ho Tsen appeared, clubbed the Jamaican with the butt of his rifle and raised it to his shoulder. As he started to fire, Chavasse went under the water and swam for the reeds.

Safely in their shelter, he turned and looked back. The two Chinese men were already in the dinghy and casting off, the Alsatian howling like a wolf. Chavasse started to push through the reeds, half-swimming, half-wading. And then another sound rent the morning: the engine of L’Alouette as she got underway.

HE came to a waterway so deep that his feet failed to touch bottom. He swam across to a gray-green wall of palm grass and forced his way through. He paused after a few minutes, treading water. The sound of L’Alouette’s engine was fading. Presumably it was returning to Hellgate, but the outboard motor of the dinghy was popping away in the vicinity and the Alsatian’s mournful howl echoed eerily through the rain like a voice from the grave.

He started to swim again, pushing his way through the reeds, and suddenly, the sound of the outboard motor ceased abruptly and the dog stopped barking. Which wasn’t good, whichever way you looked at it, because now he didn’t have the slightest idea where they were.

His feet touched bottom, and he plowed through thick black mud and moved out of reeds and grass to relatively firm ground. The compass still hung around his neck, enabling him to check his direction, and he concentrated hard, trying to recapture a pictorial image of the map. It was an old trick and surprisingly effective. The island would be the only one of any size in the vicinity of L’Alouette’s anchorage, a couple of hundred yards in diameter and a quarter of a mile southwest of Hellgate.

He started to run, then came to a dead stop as a bull loomed out of the mist to confront him. The animal held its head high and stared him right in the eye. Steam drifted from its nostrils and Chavasse backed away slowly. There was a movement to his right as another bull appeared like a dark shadow, flanks glistening. It pawed the ground nervously, its head dipped, the great curving horns gleaming viciously, and then another appeared beyond the first and yet another, six or seven of the great beasts in all, fighting bulls reared for their courage and heart, bred to fight in the ring.

He took a deep breath and walked through them very slowly, passing so close between two of the outer circle that he could reach out and touch them. He kept on going, stumbling through tussocks of marsh grass, and emerged on a sandy shore. There was a sharp cry, followed by two shots close together, and sand fountained into the air on his right.

The dinghy drifted out of the mist perhaps twenty yards away. In a single frozen moment of time, he saw clearly that the Alsatian was muzzled, but not for long. The AK assault rifle cracked again, and as Chavasse turned to run, the Alsatian took to the water.

He didn’t have long-a minute or a minute and a half at the most before it ran him down. He tugged feverishly at his belt as he stumbled on. There was a technique for handling big dogs, but its successful application depended entirely on keeping calm and having a hell of a lot of luck in the first few seconds of attack.

The belt came free, he looped it around each hand, then turned and waited, holding his hands straight out in front of him, the belt taut.

The Alsatian came out of the mist on the run and skidded briefly to a halt. In almost the same moment, he moved in, mouth wide. Chavasse pushed the belt at him and the old trick worked like a charm. The Alsatian grabbed at it, teeth tearing at the leather. Chavasse jerked with all his strength, bringing the dog up on its hind legs and kicked it savagely in the loins.

The Alsatian rolled over and he kicked it again in the ribs and the head. It howled terribly, writhing in the mud, and he turned and moved on as the two Chinese men arrived.

Another shot followed him, and from somewhere near at hand there was a roar of pain. The bulls. In the heat of the moment, he had forgotten about the bulls. There was a sudden trampling and one of them appeared, blood streaming from a wound in the shoulder.

Chavasse dived for the shelter of a clump of reeds and dropped on his face as heavy bodies crashed through the mud. There was a cry of dismay, a shot was fired and someone screamed. When he raised his head, he saw an old bull lurch out of the rain, one of the Chinese men hanging across his head, impaled on the right horn. The bull shook the man free and started to trample him.

There were two more shots somewhere in the mist and then a terrible cry. Chavasse had heard enough. He moved out of the reeds quickly and took to the water. A few moments later, he reached another patch of dry land, checked his compass and started to move southwest toward Hellgate.

IT took him the best part of an hour to reach the vantage point from which he and Darcy had viewed the house that morning. He crouched in the reeds and peered across the lagoon. If anything, the mist had thickened and everything was indistinct, ghostlike, more than ever a sad Russian landscape.

By now L’Alouette would be tied up at the landing stage on the other side of the island at the rear of the house, and if anything was to be done, it would have to be from here.

To his left, reeds marched out into the gray water, providing plenty of cover for perhaps half of the distance. The final approach would be in the open-no other way.

He was still wearing the nylon waders Malik had provided, and now he sat down and pulled them off. Underneath he was wearing a pair of slacks so wet that they clung to him like a second skin. He moved round toward the line of reeds and waded into the water, crouching low. For the first time since his jump for freedom on L’Alouette, he felt cold-really cold-and shivered uncontrollably as the water rose higher. And then his feet lost touch with the bottom and he started to swim.

He paused at the extreme end of the reeds and trod water. There were about fifty yards of clear water left to cover. He took a couple of deep breaths, sank under the surface and started to swim. When he sounded for air, he was halfway there. He surfaced as gently as possible, turned on his back to rest for a brief moment, then went under again.

In a very short time, his body scraped the black mud off the bottom as he neared the island. He came to the surface and floundered ashore into the shelter of a line of bushes.

He crouched there in the rain, sobbing for breath, then got to his feet and moved on cautiously through the derelict garden to the house. There was no sound, not a sign of life-nothing, and a strange kind of panic touched him. What if they had left? What if Rossiter had decided to get out while the going was good? And then Famia Nadeem appeared at the end of the overgrown path he was following.

SHE wore rubber boots to the knees and an old naval duffle coat, the hood pulled up. She was the same and yet not the same, in some strange way a different person. She walked on, hands thrust into the pockets of her duffle coat, face serious. Chavasse waited till she was abreast of him, then reached out from the bushes and touched her shoulder.

Her expression was something to see. The eyes widened, the mouth opened as if she would cry out, and then she took a deep shuddering breath.

“I couldn’t believe it when Rossiter said you were alive.”

“He’s here? You’ve seen him?”

She nodded. “They came back in the other boat about an hour ago with Mr. Jones, though he isn’t Mr. Jones anymore, is he?”

Chavasse put a hand on her shoulder. “How bad has it been?”

“Bad?” She seemed almost surprised. “That’s a relative term, I guess. But we mustn’t stand here talking like this. You’ll get pneumonia. Through those trees is a derelict summer house. Wait there. I’ll bring some dry clothes, and then we’ll decide what’s to be done.”

She faded like a ghost and he stood, watching her through the quiet rain, conscious of the stillness, drained of all strength. God knew what Rossiter had done to her, but she had been used harshly, must have been for such a profound change to have occurred so quickly.

The summer house reminded him of childhood. The roof leaked and half the floorboards were missing and he slumped down against the wall underneath the gaping window. He used to play in just such a place a thousand years ago.

He closed his eyes, tiredness flooding over him, and a board creaked. When he looked up, Rossiter stood in the doorway, Famia at his side.

Her face was calm, completely impassive, pure as a painting of a medieval Madonna.

The cellar into which two more Chinese guards pushed him was so dark that he had to pause for a couple of moments after the door was closed, waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom.

“Darcy, are you there?” he called softly.

“Over here, Paul.” There was a movement in the darkness and Chavasse reached out.

“What happened when I jumped the boat? Are you all right?”

“A knock on the head, that’s all. What about you? I thought you’d be long gone.”

Chavasse told him. When he had finished, the Jamaican sighed. “He certainly must have got through to that girl.”

Chavasse nodded. “It doesn’t make sense. She knows what happened on the Leopard. How can she possibly believe anything he says?”

“There could be a very simple explanation,” Darcy pointed out.

“She’s fallen in love with him, you mean?”

“Could be more than that. Might be one of those strong sexual attractions that some people have for each other. It’s possible.”

“I suppose so. Immaterial now, anyway.” Chavasse moved through the darkness, hand outstretched until he touched the wall. “Have you explored?”

“Not really. I was still unconscious when they first dumped me in here.”

Chavasse moved along the wall, feeling his way cautiously. He touched some kind of flat board, felt for the edge and pulled. It came away with a splintering crash and light flooded in.

The window was barred, the glass long since disappeared. It was at ground level and the view was confined to a section of what had once been the lawn stretching down to the landing stage that Chavasse had been unable to see from the other side of the island.

The landing stage had definitely seen better days and half of it had decayed into the lagoon. The rest was occupied by a forty-foot seagoing launch that had obviously once been a motor torpedo boat and L’Alouette.

Four men passed by, carrying boxes between them, and went toward the launch. They certainly weren’t Chinese, and Chavasse strained forward and managed to catch the odd word as they passed by.

“Albanian,” he whispered to Darcy. “Which makes sense. Remember the incident on L’Alouette when Ho Tsen took a swing at Rossiter? He told him he’d have a lot to answer for when they reached Tirana.”

“The only European Communist nation to ally itself with Red China rather than Russia. It certainly explains a great deal.”

The men from the launch returned. A few minutes later, they reappeared, carrying a couple of heavy traveling trunks. “Looks as if somebody is moving house,” Darcy commented.

Chavasse nodded. “Destination Albania. They’ve got to get out, now that we’ve been nosing around. They’ve no guarantee that others won’t follow.”

“But why keep us in one piece?” Darcy said. “I wouldn’t have thought they’d want excess baggage.”

“But we aren’t. I’ve had dealings with the Albanians before, and the Chinese. They’d love to have me back. And you might be useful, too. They can’t tell until they’ve squeezed you dry.”

The bolt rattled in the door, it opened and the two Chinese men appeared. One of them held a machine pistol threateningly, the other came forward, grabbed Chavasse and pushed him roughly outside. They locked the door and shoved him along the corridor.

They passed through a large entrance hall, mounted a flight of uncarpeted stairs and knocked on the first door. It was opened, after a slight delay, by Rossiter who was wearing a dressing gown. He looked as if he had just pulled it on and was certainly naked to the waist. He tightened the cord and nodded.

“Bring him in.”

Beyond him another door stood open and Chavasse caught a glimpse of a bed, the covers ruffled and Famia stepping into her skirt in front of a mirror. Rossister closed the door and turned.

“You do keep popping up, don’t you? Of course, now we know what you are, it isn’t really surprising.”

“What’s happened to the man from Peking?” Chavasse asked. “Doesn’t he want to put his two cents’ worth in?”

“Indeed he does, but at the moment he’s busy packing. Thanks to you and your friend, we’re obviously going to have to leave in something of a hurry.”

“For Albania.”

Rossiter smiled. “You really are on the ball. They’ll love you in Tirana.”

“And all points east?”

“Naturally.” Rossiter produced a cigarette case and offered him one. “A friendly warning. The colonel will want a few words with you when he arrives. Don’t get awkward. You saw what he did to your friend. He only asked him once, then started carving. Your man talked fifteen to the dozen when he had one ear gone. I would have thought you could have done better than him.”

“He was an old man,” Chavasse said. “Trying to make a little extra money. There was no need to do that to him.”

Rossiter shrugged. “All over the world, thousands of people die every day. Your friend Malik was just one more. If his death helps our cause, then he lived and died to some purpose.”

“Word perfect,” Chavasse said. “They must have done a good job on you back there at Nom Bek.”

“You just don’t understand-your kind never does.” Rossiter was grave and serious. “I was like you once, Chavasse, until I was helped to find a new answer, a truer answer, a new meaning for life.”

“So now it’s all right to kill people, old men and women?”

“For the cause, don’t you see that? What’s one life more or less-mine or yours? We’re all expendable. How many men have you killed in your career? Ten? Twenty?”

“I don’t notch my gun, if that’s what you mean,” Chavasse said, feeling strangely uneasy.

“Have you ever killed a woman?”

Chavasse’s mouth went dry, and for a brief moment, a face floated to the surface, the face of a woman he would have preferred to forget.

Rossiter smiled, the strange, saintly face touched with something very close to compassion. “I thought so. The difference between us is only in kind. The first and most important lesson to learn is that it isn’t what we do that is so important as why we do it. I serve a cause-freedom for every man, justice, equality. Can you say as much? What do you defend, Chavasse? Imperialism, capitalism, the Church, decay everywhere, the people crushed and strangled, unable to breathe. God, when I think of the years I spent serving corruption.”

“With all its faults, I’d rather have my way than yours. How many have the Chinese butchered in Tibet in the last five years? Half a million, give or take a few, all for the sake of the cause.”

Rossiter looked slightly exasperated. “You just don’t see, do you? No one matters-no person or persons. We’re working for tomorrow, Chavasse, not today.”

Which, significantly, was the exact opposite of the teachings of the creed in which he had been raised and educated to serve. Chavasse knew now that he really was wasting his time, but kept probing.

“So anything goes, even feeding poor old Montefiore heroin?”

“I first met Enrico Montefiore when I returned to Europe after the Korean War was over. My superiors had sent me to Vienna because they had decided that I was in need of psychiatric treatment to overcome the effects of what they were pleased to call Chinese brainwashing. Montefiore had been on drugs for years. One evening we received a call from a private sanatorium where he was a patient and extremely ill. He thought he needed a confessor.”

“And you were sent?”

Rossiter nodded. “The start of a fruitful friendship. He came to-how shall I put it-depend on me? When I finally decided to give up Holy Orders, I persuaded Montefiore that he needed quiet and isolation, so he bought this place, under an assumed name. He was badly in decline by then. I’ve had to look after him like a baby for the past three years.”

“In between assignments for your bosses in Peking.”

“Tirana, Chavasse, let’s get it right. Albania has proved a very useful European foothold for us. Of course the Chinese have found me invaluable, for obvious reasons. They’re in rather a difficult position as a rule. An Englishman can pass as a Russian if he speaks the language, but what can a Chinese do?”

“There are Hong Kong and Malayan Chinese living in Britain these days.”

“Indexed and filed-probably checked regularly by MI6 or the Special Branch. Much better to be there and yet not there, if you follow me.”

“Which is where your service for immigrants came in?”

“Exactly, only it wasn’t my service-it was Jacaud’s. There he was running these people across the Channel by the boatload. West Indian, Pakistani, African, Indian-it was perfectly reasonable to have the odd Hong Kong Chinese in there as well.”

It was a bright idea, and Chavasse nodded. “Full marks for using your wits. So Ho Tsen wasn’t the first?”

“If I told you how many you’d feel sick.” He smiled cheerfully.

Chavasse shrugged. “But no more. They’re not going to be too pleased about that when you get back to headquarters.”

“Oh, I don’t know. It couldn’t go on forever and I do have you, after all-a very useful prize.”

There was nothing Chavasse could say that would erase the faint, superior smile from Rossiter’s face, and then for some reason he recalled his conversation with Father da Souza.

“I was almost forgetting-I’ve a message for you.” He lied with complete conviction. “From da Souza.”

The effect was shattering. Rossiter seemed to shrink visibly. “Father da Souza?”

“That’s right. He has a parish near the East India Docks in London. When I wanted information about you, he seemed the obvious person to see.”

“How is he?” Rossiter’s voice was a whisper.

“Fine. He asked me to let you know that there isn’t a day in which he doesn’t remember you in his prayers. He was rather particular that I should tell you that.”

Rossiter’s face turned pale, and he spoke through clenched teeth. “I don’t need his prayers, do you understand? I never did and I never will.”

The bedroom door opened and Famia emerged. She was wearing a raincoat and headscarf and carried a small suitcase. She ignored Chavasse and spoke to Rossiter.

“I’m ready. Shall I take this down to the boat?”

For a brief moment, they might have been alone, for all the attention they paid Chavasse, trapped by that curious intimacy that only belongs to people hopelessly in love with each other. For Chavasse, this was the most interesting discovery of all. That Rossiter obviously genuinely cared for the girl.

He put a hand on her arm and guided her to the door. “Yes, you take your bag down to the boat. We’ll be along later.”

One of the guards opened the door. She looked through Chavasse briefly, her face blank as if he weren’t really there, and went out.

As the door closed, Chavasse said calmly, “What did you do? Put something in her tea?”

Rossiter swung round, the look on his face terrible to see. His hand dipped into his pocket and emerged clutching the Madonna. There was a sharp click and the blade jumped into view. Chavasse crouched, arms up, expecting an attack at any moment. The door opened and Ho Tsen entered.

“Trouble?” he inquired in Chinese.

Rossiter seemed at a loss for words, in some way a different person, the awkward pupil caught out and having to justify himself to the schoolmaster.

For the first time, Ho Tsen showed some evidence of emotion. A kind of contempt appeared on his face. He walked toward Chavasse, hands behind his back, and kicked him in the stomach when he was close enough.

It was expertly done, the work of someone who knew his karate. Chavasse was able to appreciate that much at least, before he keeled over.

HE rolled around a couple of times and fetched up against the wall. He lay there concentrating on recovering his breath while the voices droned somewhere in the distance, indistinct, meaningless. The colonel’s foot had not caught him in the crotch, where such a blow could have had a permanently crippling effect, but in the lower abdomen, obviously by design.

Chavasse had at least been able to tense his muscles to receive it. The result was that, although sick and sore, he was already capable of some kind of movement when the two Chinese guards picked him up.

He played it to the hilt, dragging his feet on the way out and groaning softly. They took him down the stairs, across the hall and descended to the basement. When they reached the cellar, they dropped him to the floor. The one who had carried a machine pistol over his shoulder now unslung it, holding it ready in his hands while the other got out a key and unlocked the door.

The man with the machine pistol leaned down and grabbed Chavasse by the collar, pulling him to his feet. Chavasse drove the stiffened fingers of his left hand under the chin into the exposed throat, a killing blow when expertly delivered. The man didn’t even choke, simply sagged to the floor like an old sack, dropping his machine pistol. Chavasse came to his feet and lifted his elbow into the face of the man behind. The surprised Chinese man gave a stifled cry and went backward into the cell. A strong hand jerked the man around, and Darcy Preston hit him once in the stomach and twice on the jaw.

In the silence, Chavasse picked up the machine pistol and grinned. “I’d say we’re in business again.”

“What’s next on the agenda?” Darcy asked.

Chavasse held up the machine pistol. “Even with this, we don’t stand much of a chance against Rossiter, Ho Tsen and those Albanians. If we could get on board L’Alouette, things could look a little different. Those hand grenades and the machine pistols Malik hid in the false bottom of that locker could more than even things up.”

“What about the girl?”

“She sold us out, didn’t she? As a matter of interest, your hunch was right. She and Rossiter can’t keep their hands off each other. As far as I’m concerned, she’s had it.”

He cut off any further discussion by leading the way outside and tried the other end of the passage. The first stairs they came to had a door at the top, which was not locked. When Chavasse opened it cautiously, he looked into the kitchen, a large, square room with a fire burning on an open hearth. At that moment, a door opened and two of the Albanians entered. He closed the door gently, put a finger to his lips and he and Darcy retreated. At the far end of the passage, more steps took them to a door long disused. Darcy wrestled with the rusted bolt and it finally opened to reveal a small walled garden that was as much a jungle as everything else. They went out through an archway at the far end and ran for the shelter of the trees.

They made it and kept on going, Chavasse in the lead, following one of the overgrown paths, the undergrowth pressing in so closely on either side that it brushed against them.

Without warning, the path emptied into a clearing on the edge of the lagoon in which stood the ruins of a fake Greek temple. Famia Nadeem was standing there, staring up at the broken columns, hands in the pockets of her duffle coat.

She swung round, startled, and an expression of real alarm appeared on her face. Chavasse dropped the machine pistol and grabbed her cruelly, clamping a hand across her mouth.

“Listen to me, you silly little bitch. Your boyfriend is an agent of the Chinese Communist government. He’s responsible for the deaths of a great many people, including Old Hamid and Mrs. Campbell. Do you understand?”

She gazed at him, wide-eyed, and he took his hand away. Immediately she opened her mouth, a scream rising in her throat, and he struck her on the jaw with his clenched fist.

He lowered her to the ground and turned to Preston. “Sling her over your shoulder and make for the landing stage. Get as close as you can and wait in the bushes.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Create a diversion. If I can draw them off, it will give you time to board L’Alouette and get moving.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll swim out from here and join you on your way past, and if I’m not there in time, don’t start getting all heroic on me. Just get out of here.”

“You’re in charge.”

The Jamaican picked up the girl, slung her over one shoulder and moved away into the undergrowth. Chavasse hurried back toward the house. He already had a plan of sorts. The house was wholly constructed of timber. With the right encouragement, it should go up like a torch, and there was one obvious place to start.

He moved back through the tangled garden and entered the basement again. This time, when he cautiously opened the door at the top of the second flight of stairs, the kitchen was empty.

He went in, removed the glass chimney from the oil lamp on the table and scattered its contents across the floor. He made a brief search through the cupboards and found a half-full can of paraffin in one of them. He emptied it to good effect, then moved toward the fire. Behind him, the door opened and Colonel Ho Tsen entered.

If he was armed, it didn’t show, and in any case, the machine pistol already had him covered.

Ho Tsen actually smiled. “No sporting chance, Mr. Chavasse?”

“In a pig’s eye,” Chavasse said. “The Breton half of me’s in charge at the moment and we always pay our debts. This is for Jacob Malik.”

The first burst caught Ho Tsen in the right shoulder, spinning him around, and the second shattered his spine, driving him out through the open door. As he fell, Chavasse picked a burning log from the hearth and tossed it into the center of the room. There was a minor explosion and he only just made it to the cellar door, flames reaching out to engulf him.

As he went out through the garden, he could hear cries of alarm from the other side of the house, the Albanians from the sound of it, running to see what had gone wrong, just as he had hoped.

He gave it another minute, then ran for the trees. As he reached their shelter, L’Alouette’s engine roared into life. So Darcy had made it after all? Behind him there was a sudden crackling, as flames burst through the windows, blowing out the glass.

A bullet splintered the trees above his head and he swung round and emptied the machine pistol in a wild burst that sent the Albanian who had fired at him in a headlong retreat round the corner of the house.

Chavasse ran, head down, and shots chased him through the undergrowth, slicing through the pine trees above his head. He burst from cover and plunged headlong into the lagoon as L’Alouette appeared round the point about fifty yards out.

As he started to swim, L’Alouette altered course toward him, slewing to a halt broadside on as Darcy spun the wheel and cut the engine.

The Jamaican ran for the rail and pulled Chavasse over with easy strength.

“Get going, for Christ’s sake,” Chavasse, said with a gasp.

As Darcy vanished into the wheelhouse, a bullet ricocheted from the rail as the first Albanian arrived at the water’s edge. Chavasse turned and saw Rossiter appear from the trees with the other three men. The engines of L’Alouette roared, and Darcy took her away in a burst of speed, bullets chopping into her hull.