The Keys Of Hell

TEN

THE MOTOR BOAT TURNED OUT OF A side channel into the main stream of the Buene River, the dinghy trailing behind on a line. In the stern, four soldiers huddled together, smoking cigarettes and talking in low tones. The bodies of their two comrades, killed in the lagoon by Chavasse, lay under a tarpaulin beside them.

Orsini was handcuffed to the rail and seemed half unconscious, his head roughly bandaged where a rifle butt had struck him a glancing blow. There was no sign of Francesca Minetti, but Adem Kapo paced the foredeck, impatiently smoking a cigarette, the fur collar of his hunting jacket turned up.

Orsini watched him, eyes half closed, and after a while, another man appeared from the companionway. He was as big as Orsini with a scarred, brutal face and wore the uniform of a colonel in the Army of the Albanian Republic with the green insignia of the Intelligence Corps on his collar.

Kapo turned on him, eyes like black holes in his small face. “Well?”

The colonel shrugged. “She isn’t being very helpful.”

The anger blazed out of the little man like a searing flame. “You said it would work, damn you. That all we had to do was wait and they’d walk right into the net. What in the hell am I supposed to tell them in Tirana?”

“What do you think he’s going to do, swim out of here?” The big man laughed coldly. “We’ll run him down, never fear. A night out on his own in a place like this will shrink him down to size.”

“Let’s hope you’re right.”

Kapo walked across to Orsini, looked down at him for a moment, then kicked him in the side. Orsini continued to feign unconsciousness. Kapo turned away and resumed his pacing.

AS THE MOTOR BOAT ROUNDED A POINT OF land jutting from the mist into the river, Chavasse parted the reeds carefully. He stood up to his chest in water no more than fifteen yards away as it passed and his trained eyes took in everything – Orsini and the soldiers, Kapo standing in the prow, the cigarette holder jutting from a corner of his mouth.

The most interesting thing was the presence of Tashko. When Chavasse had last encountered him, he had been dressed like any seaman off the Taranto waterfront; now he wore the uniform of a colonel in the Albanian Intelligence Corps, which explained a lot. Beyond him, through the deckhouse window, Chavasse could just see the head and shoulders of Haji, the knife man, standing at the wheel.

The motor boat passed into the mist and he waded onto a piece of comparatively dry land to take stock of the situation. The stench of the marsh filled his nostrils and the bitter cold ate into his bones.

There was a hell of a lot about the whole affair that didn’t make any kind of sense, but the basic situation was obvious enough. Adem Kapo was no ordinary agent, but someone a lot more important than that. Probably a high-ranking sigurmi officer. He’d have to be to have a colonel of Intelligence taking orders from him.

In any event he was a man who knew what he was doing. He’d obviously sailed straight for the Buene from Matano and his twenty-four-hour start had given him the time he’d needed to reach Tama and organize a suitable reception.

The Buona Esperanza must have been under observation from the moment it hit the coast, and tracking the dinghy would have been no great trick to men who knew the marshes.

He wondered what had happened to Carlo. He too was probably on his way to Tama by now. It was the only sizable town in the area and certain to be Kapo’s base.

The engine of the motor boat faded into the distance and he slid into the water and started to swim after it. Within an hour at the outside, they’d be out in force looking for him, probably concentrating their search toward the coast.

Under the circumstances, Tama would probably be a whole lot safer. At least there would be houses scattered along the riverbank, and where there were houses there was dry clothes and food. There might even be a chance of doing something about the others, although he didn’t hold out much hope of that.

ABOUT FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER THE AIR IN his Aqua-lung ran out. He surfaced quickly and waded from the river into the reeds. He pulled off his rubber flippers, unbuckled the heavy Aqua-lung and let it sink into the ooze.

He went forward through the reeds and the wildfowl called as they lifted from the water, disturbed by his passing. After a while he came out on higher ground and moved on through the mist, keeping the river on his left.

It was hard going through mud flats and marsh, and constantly he had to wade across narrow creeks, often sinking up to his waist in thick, glutinous mud. The saltwater stung his eyes painfully and the intense cold steadily drove every trace of warmth from his body until his limbs had lost all feeling.

He moved into the gray curtain and the ground became firmer, and he found himself stumbling across firm sand and springy marsh grass. He paused on a small hillock, head turned slightly to one side. He could smell woodsmoke, heavy and pungent on the air, drifting before the wind.

A narrow arm of the river encircled a small island and a low house looked from the mist. There was no sign of life and no boat was moored at the narrow wooden jetty. Probably the home of a fisherman or wildfowler out at his traps. Chavasse moved upstream, disturbing a wild duck, and walked into the river, allowing the current to sweep him in toward the island.

He landed in the reeds and moved through them carefully, drawing his knife. The house was no more than twenty yards away, a poor enough looking place of rough-hewn logs with a shingle roof and stone chimney.

Two or three scrawny hens picked apathetically at the soil and scattered as he moved across the patch of open ground. The back door was simply several heavy wooden planks nailed together, and it opened with a protesting groan as he unfastened the chain that held it.

He moved into a small dark room that was obviously some sort of kitchen. There was a cupboard, a rough table and a pail of fresh water at the side of the door. The living room was furnished with a table and several chairs. There were two or three cupboards, and a skin rug covered the wooden floor in front of the stone hearth on which logs burned fitfully, heavily banked by ashes.

He crouched to the warmth, spreading his hands, and a cold wind seemed to touch the side of his face. A voice said quietly, “Easy now. Hands behind your neck and don’t try anything stupid.”

He came up slowly. There was a soft footstep and the hard barrel of a gun was pushed against his back. As a hand reached for the hilt of the knife at his waist, he pivoted to the left, swinging away from the gun barrel. There was a cry of dismay as they came together and fell heavily to the floor. Chavasse raised his right arm to bring down the edge of his hand.

He paused. His opponent was a young girl, perhaps nineteen or twenty, certainly no more. She wore a heavy waterproof hunting jacket, corduroy breeches and leather knee boots, and her dark hair was close-cropped like a young boy’s, the skin sallow over high cheekbones, the eyes dark brown. She was not beautiful and yet in any crowd she would have stood out.

“Now there’s a thing,” he said softly and sat back. For a moment, she lay there, eyes widening in surprise and then, in a flash, she was on her feet again like a cat, the hunting rifle in her hands.

She stood there, feet apart, the barrel steady on his chest and he waited. The barrel wavered, sank slowly. She leaned the rifle against the table and examined him curiously. Her eyes took in his bare feet, the shirt and pants that were clinging to his body.

She nodded. “You’re on the run, aren’t you? Where from? The chain gang at Tama?”

He shook his head. “I’m on the run all right, angel, but not from there.”

She scowled and reached for the rifle again. “You’re no gegh, that’s for sure. You speak like a tosk from the big city.”

Chavasse was aware of the enmity that still existed between the two main racial groups in Albania. The geghs of the north with their loyalty to family and tribe, and the tosks of the south from whom Communism had sprung.

There were times when a man had to play a hunch and this was one of them. His face split into that inimitable charming smile that was one of his greatest assets and he raised a hand as the rifle was turned again.

“Neither gegh or tosk. I’m an outlander.”

Her face was a study of bewilderment. “An outlander? From where? Yugoslavia?”

He shook his head. “Italy.”

Understanding dawned. “Ah, a smuggler.”

“Something like that. We were surprised by the military. I managed to get away. I think they’ve taken my friends to Tama.” She stood watching him, a thoughtful frown on her face, and he made the final gesture and held out his hand. “Paul Chavasse.”

“French?” she said.

“And English. A little of both.”

She made her decision and her hand reached for his. “Liri Kupi.”

“There was a gegh chieftain called Abas Kupi, leader of the Legaliteri, the royalist party.”

“Head of our clan. He fled to Italy after the Communists murdered most of his friends at a so-called friendship meeting.”

“You don’t sound as if you care for Hoxha and his friends very much?”

“Hoxha?”

She spat vigorously and accurately into the fire.