The Keys Of Hell

ELEVEN

CHAVASSE STOOD ON A RUSH MAT BESIDE the large bed and rubbed himself down with a towel until his flesh glowed. He dressed quickly in the clothes Liri had provided; corduroy pants, a checked wool shirt and knee-length leather boots a size too large so that he took them off again and pulled on an extra pair of socks.

The clothes had belonged to her brother. Conscripted into the army at eighteen, he had been killed in one of the many patrol clashes that took place almost daily along the Yugoslavian border. Her father had died fighting with the royalist party, in the mountains in the last year of the war. Since the death of her mother she had lived alone in the marshes where she had been born and bred, earning her living from wildfowling.

She was crouched at the fire when he went back into the living room, stirring something in a large pot suspended from a hook. She turned and smiled, pushing back the hair from her forehead.

“All you need now is some food inside you.”

He pulled a chair to the table as she spooned a hot stew onto a tin plate. He wasted no time on conversation, but picked up his spoon and started to eat. When the plate was empty, she filled it again.

He sat back with a sigh. “They couldn’t have done better at the London Hilton.”

She opened a bottle and filled a glass with a colorless liquid. “I’d like to offer you some coffee, but it’s very hard to come by these days. This is a spirit we distill ourselves. Very potent if you’re not used to it, but it can be guaranteed to keep out the marsh fever.”

It exploded in Chavasse’s stomach and spread through his body in a warm glow. He coughed several times and tears sprang to his eyes.

“Now this they wouldn’t be able to offer, even at the London Hilton.”

She opened an old tin carefully and offered him a cigarette. They were Macedonian, coarse, brown tobacco loose in the paper, but Chavasse knew how to handle them. He screwed the end round expertly and leaned across the table as she held out a burning splinter from the fire.

She lit a cigarette herself, blew out a cloud of pungent smoke and said calmly, “You’re no smuggler, I can see that. No seaman, either. Your hands are too nice.”

“So I lied.”

“You must have had a good reason.”

He frowned down into his glass for a moment, then decided to go ahead. “You’ve heard of the Virgin of Scutari?”

“The Black Madonna? Who hasn’t? Her statue disappeared about three months ago. The general opinion is that the central government in Tirana had it stolen. They’re worried because people have been turning to the church again lately.”

“I came to the Buene looking for it,” Chavasse said. “It was supposed to be on board a launch that sank in one of the lagoons in the marsh toward the coast. My friends and I were searching for it when the military turned up.”

He told her about Francesca Minetti, or as much as she needed to know, and of Guilio Orsini and Carlo and the Buona Esperanza. When he was done, she nodded slowly.

“A bad business. The sigurmi will squeeze them dry, even this smuggler friend of yours. They have their ways and they are not pleasant. I’m sorry for the girl. God knows what they will do with her.”

“I was wondering whether it would be possible to get into Tama,” Chavasse said. “Perhaps find out what’s happened to them?”

She looked at him sharply, her face grave. “We have a saying. Only a fool puts his head between the jaws of the tiger.”

“They’ll be beating the marshes toward the coast,” he said. “That stands to reason. Who’s going to look for me in Tama?”

“A good point.” She got to her feet and looked down into the fire, her hand on the stone mantel above it. She turned to face him. “There is one person who might be able to help, a Franciscan, Father Shedu. In the war, he was a famous resistance fighter in the hills, a legend in his own time. It would hardly be polite to arrest or shoot such a man. They content themselves with making life difficult for him – always with the utmost politeness, of course. He hasn’t been here long. A couple of months or so. I think the last man was taken away.”

“I could make a good guess about what happened to him,” Chavasse said. “This Father Shedu, he’s in Tama now?”

“There’s a medieval monastery on the outskirts of the town. They use it as local military headquarters. The Catholic church has been turned into a restaurant, but there’s an old monastery chapel at the water’s edge. Father Shedu holds his services there.”

“Would it be difficult to reach?”

“From here?” She shrugged. “Not more than half an hour. I have an outboard motor. Not too reliable, but it gets me there.”

“Could I borrow it?”

“Oh, no.” She shook her head. “They’d pick you up before you’d got a mile along the river. I know the back ways – you don’t.”

She took down an oilskin jacket from behind the door and tossed it to him together with an old peaked cap. “Ready when you are.”

She picked up her hunting rifle and led the way out through the front door and down toward the river. There was still no boat moored at the little wooden jetty. She passed it, moving through dense undergrowth and emerged on a small cleared bank that dropped cleanly into the water. Her boat, a flat-bottomed marsh punt with an old motor attached to the stern, was tied to a tree.

Chavasse cast off while she busied herself with the motor. As it coughed into life, he pushed the punt through the encircling reeds and stepped in.

LIRI KUPI CERTAINLY KNEW WHAT SHE WAS doing. At one point, they hit rough water where the river twisted round sandbanks, spilling across ragged rocks, and she handled the frail craft like an expert, swinging the tiller at just the right moment to sweep them away from the worst hazards.

After a while, they left the Buene, turning into a narrow creek that circled through a great stagnant swamp, losing itself among a hundred lagoons and waterways.

When they finally came into the river again, it was in the lee of a large island. The mist hung like a gray curtain from bank to bank, and as they moved from the shelter of the island to cross over, he could smell woodsmoke and somewhere a dog barked.

The first houses loomed out of the mist, scattered along one side of the river, and Liri took the punt in close. She produced the tin of cigarettes from her pocket and threw it to Chavasse.

“Better have one. Try to look at home.”

“Home was never like this.”

He lit a cigarette, leaned back against the prow and watched the town unfold itself. There were fewer than five hundred inhabitants these days, that much he knew. Since the cold war had warmed up between Yugoslavia and Albania, the river traffic had almost stopped and the Buene was now so silted up as to be unnavigable for boats of any size.

The monastery lifted out of the mist, a vast sprawling medieval structure with crumbling walls, several hundred yards back from the riverbank.

The Albanian flag, hanging limply in the rain, lifted in a gust of wind, the red star standing out vividly against the black, double-headed eagle, and a bugle sounded faintly.

A little farther along the bank, forty or fifty convicts worked, some of them waist-deep in water as they drove in the piles for a new jetty. Chavasse noticed that the ones on the banks had their ankles chained together.

“Politicals,” Liri said briefly. “They send them here from all over the country. They don’t last long in the marshes when the hot weather comes.”

She eased the tiller, turning the punt in toward the bank and a small ruined chapel whose crumbling walls fell straight into the river. At the foot of the wall, the entrance to a narrow tunnel gaped darkly and Liri took the punt inside.

There was a good six feet of headroom and Chavasse reached out to touch cold, damp walls, straining his eyes into the darkness, which suddenly lightened considerably. Liri cut the motor and the punt drifted in toward a landing stage constructed of large blocks of worked masonry.

They scraped beside a flight of stone steps and Chavasse tied up to an iron ring and handed her out. Light filtered down from somewhere above and she smiled through the half darkness.

“I shan’t be long.”

She mounted a flight of stone steps and Chavasse lit another cigarette, sat on the edge of the jetty and waited. She was gone for at least fifteen minutes. When she returned, she didn’t come all the way down, but called to him from the top of the steps.

He went up quickly and she turned, opened a large oak door and led the way along a narrow passage. She opened another door at the far end and they stepped into the interior of the small chapel.

THE LIGHTS WERE VERY DIM AND, DOWN BY the altar, the candles flickered and the Holy Mother was bathed in light. The smell of incense was overpowering and Chavasse felt a little giddy. It was a long time since he had been in church, too long as his mother was never tired of reminding him, and he smiled wryly as they moved down the aisle.

Father Shedu knelt in prayer at the altar, the brown habit dark and somber in the candlelight. His eyes were closed, the worn face completely calm, and somehow, the ugly puckered scar of the old bullet wound that had carried away the left eye seemed completely in character.

He was a man, strong in his faith, certain in his knowledge of that which was ultimately important. Men like Enver Hoxha and Adem Kapo would come and go, ultimately to break upon the rock that was Father Shedu.

He crossed himself, got to his feet in one smooth movement and turned to face them. Chavasse suddenly felt awkward under the keen scrutiny of that single eye. For a moment, he was a little boy again at his grandfather’s village in Finistere just after the war when France was free again, standing before the old, implacable parish priest, trying to explain his absence from mass, the tongue drying in his mouth.

Father Shedu smiled and held out his hand. “I am happy to meet you, my son. Liri has told me something of why you are here.”

Chavasse shook hands, relief flowing through him. “She seemed to think you might be able to help, Father.”

“I know something of what happened to the statue of Our Lady of Scutari,” the priest said. “It was my predecessor, Father Kupescu, who gave it into the charge of the young man who was later killed in the marshes. Father Kupescu has since paid for his actions with his life, I might add.”

“The girl who was with me was the young man’s sister,” Chavasse said. “She was the one who guided us to the position of Minetti’s launch.”

Father Shedu nodded. “She and an Italian named Orsini arrived in Tama earlier this afternoon. They were taken to the monastery.”

“Are you sure?”

“I was visiting sick prisoners at the time, one of the little privileges I still insist on.”

“I’m surprised you’re allowed to function at all.”

Father Shedu smiled faintly. “As you may have noticed, my name is the same as that of our beloved President, something for which the average party member holds me in superstitious awe. They can never be quite sure that I’m not some kind of third cousin, you see. There are things they can do, of course. We had a wonderful old church here. Now, it’s a restaurant. They use the altar as a counter and the nave is crammed with tables at which the happy workers can consume kebab and shashlik to the greater glory of Enver Hoxha.”

“All things in their own good time, Father,” Chavasse said.

The priest smiled. “As it happens, I can help you, Mr. Chavasse. Your friends are at the moment imprisoned in the back guardroom, which is inside the inner wall of the monastery. A colonel of Intelligence and a high sigurmi official named Kapo, who brought them in, left again almost at once with every spare soldier they could lay their hands on.”

“To look for me.”

“Obviously. I shouldn’t think there will be more than one man on duty at the guardroom – perhaps two.”

“But how could we get in, Father?” Liri demanded. “There are two walls to pass through and guards on each gate.”

“We go under, my dear. It’s really quite simple. The good fathers who built this monastery thought of everything. Come with me.”

He led the way out of the chapel and back along the passage to the door that led down to the landing stage. He took an electric torch from a ledge on which an icon stood and went down to the water’s edge. When he switched on the torch, its beam played against the rough walls of the tunnel, which ran on into the darkness, narrowing considerably.

“The monastery’s underground sewage system comes down through here to empty into the river,” he said. “Not a pleasant journey, I’m afraid, but one that will take you inside the walls without being seen.”

“Show me the way, that’s all I ask, Father,” Chavasse said. “You can leave the rest to me.”

“To require you not to use violence against violent men would be absurd,” Father Shedu said, “but you must understand that I myself could not possibly take part in any such action. You accept this?”

“Willingly.”

The priest turned to Liri. “You will stay here, child?”

She shook her head. “There may be a use for me. Please, Father. I know what I’m doing.”

He didn’t bother to argue, but hitched his trailing robes into the leather belt at his waist and stepped into the water on the left-hand side of the tunnel. It was no more than ankle-deep and Chavasse followed along a broad ledge, his head lowered as the roof dropped to meet them.

There was a strong earthy smell and a slight mist curled from the water, fanning out against the damp roof. The tunnel stretched into the darkness and gradually the water became deeper until he could feel it swirling about his knees.

By now the stench was appalling and he stumbled on, his stomach heaving. Finally, the priest turned into a side passage that came out into a cavern about fifty feet in diameter.

It was some three feet deep in stinking water and at least a dozen tunnels emptied into it. The Franciscan waded across and counted from the left.

“I think the eighth will be the one.”

The tunnel was no more than four feet high and Chavasse paused at the entrance and reached out to Liri. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” She chuckled. “The swamps stink worse than this lot in the summer.”

They bent double and went after Father Shedu, who was now several yards ahead. A few moments later he stopped. Light filtered down through some sort of grille and a short tunnel sloped up toward the surface.

“If I am right,” the priest said, “we should be in a cell of the old cloisters behind the square containing the guardhouse.”

The tunnel was a good fifty feet in length, the stonework smooth and slippery, making it difficult to climb. The priest went first, Liri next and Chavasse brought up the rear. He jammed himself between the narrow walls, working his way up foot by foot. Once, Liri slipped, falling back against him, but he managed to hold her and they continued.

Above them, Father Shedu was already at the entrance, a large slab that had been carved by some master craftsman into a stone grille. He put his shoulder to it and it slid back easily. He climbed out and turned to give Liri a hand.

Chavasse clambered up after them and found himself in a small crumbling cell with a gaping doorway that opened into half-ruined cloisters, broken pillars lifting into the sky, grass growing between great, cracked stone slabs.

“Through the cloisters and you will come to the square,” Father Shedu said. “The guardroom is a small flat-roofed building of brick and concrete.” A slight smile touched his mouth. “From here, you are on your own. There is nothing more I can do for you. As I said earlier, I must not play any active part in this affair. I will wait here.” He turned to Liri. “You will stay with me?”

She shook her head stubbornly. “There may be something I can do. Something to help.”

“Father Shedu’s right,” Chavasse said. “You stay.”

“If you want my gun, then you take me.” She patted the stock of the old hunting rifle. “That’s my final word.”

Chavasse looked at the priest, who sighed heavily. “A will of iron, I’m afraid, and she hates the Reds.”

Chavasse said to Liri, “You can come as far as the edge of the square. You watch from there while I go in. If anything goes wrong, you’ll have plenty of time to join Father Shedu and get clear. All right?”

He moved out across the ruined courtyard and through the cloisters to the crumbling wall on the far side. The square stretched before him, quiet and still. The guardhouse was built against the wall halfway along the other side, just as Father Shedu had described, a difficult place to come at from the front. In the far wall, great double gates leading to the outer square were closed.

Chavasse turned to Liri. “You stay here, I’m going to work my way round the wall so that I come in from the other side where there’s no windows. If anything happens, get out of it fast and back to Father Shedu.” She started to protest, but he pulled the rifle firmly from her grasp. “Now be a good girl and do as you’re told.”

He moved along behind the ruined wall to the point where it joined the other, stepped into the open and ran, half crouching, until he reached the side of the guardhouse. He paused, conscious of the sweat soaking his shirt, and started forward. At that moment the guardhouse door opened and someone stepped out.

Chavasse heard voices, two men talking. One of them laughed and a match was struck. He was trapped with no place to run. If one of them took a step to the corner of the building, he was certain to be discovered.

A fresh young voice called, “Heh, you there! Yes, you, you great ox. Come here!”

Liri Kupi strolled calmly across the square, her hands in her pockets. Her intention was obviously to attract the attention of the guards and she succeeded perfectly. As Chavasse went along the side of the guardhouse, two soldiers moved out to meet Liri.

They weren’t even armed, and one of them was stripped to the waist as if he had been having a wash. Chavasse ran forward, raised the rifle and rammed it down hard against an exposed neck. As the soldier crumpled with a groan, the other swung round. Chavasse swung the barrel into the man’s stomach. He keeled over, and the butt of the rifle smashed his skull.

Chavasse was already moving toward the door when Liri arrived on the run, her face flushed. “There can’t be anyone else. They’d have come out when I called.”

“Let’s hope you’re right.”

The outer office was quiet, papers scattering across the desk in the wind that blew in through the doorway. Keys hung on a board on the far wall. Chavasse moved across quickly and opened the inner door. There were only six cells. The first four were empty. Guilio Orsini was in the fifth, sprawled on a narrow bunk, head on hands.

“Now then, you old bastard,” Chavasse said amiably.

The Italian sat up, an expression of astonishment on his face. He jumped on his feet and crossed to the grille. “Paul, by all that’s holy! You go in for miracles now?”

“Ask and ye shall receive,” Chavasse said. “You’ll never know just how apt that quotation is. Where’s Francesca?”

“Next door. We’ve been here ever since we arrived. Kapo took off again in something of a hurry. Presumably to chase you.”

“He’s out of luck.”

Liri was beside him with the keys. As she released Orsini, Chavasse was already at the next grille. Francesca Minetti stood there, eyes like dark holes in the white face.

“I knew you’d come, Paul.”

He took the keys from Liri and unlocked the cell. Francesca came straight into his arms. He held her close for a moment, then pushed her away.

“We’ve got to get moving.”

Orsini was already ahead of them, following Liri, and Chavasse picked up the rifle and pushed Francesca along the passage. The Italian paused in the doorway and looked out into the square.

“Seems quiet enough.”

The noise of the siren rising through the still air was like a physical blow, numbing the senses. Chavasse swung round and saw Francesca on the other side of the room. She had opened a small metal box on the wall and her thumb was pressed firmly against a scarlet button.

He pulled her away so violently that she staggered back against the desk. “What the hell are you playing at?”

She spat in his face and slapped him heavily across the left cheek, and in an instinctive reflex action he returned the blow with his clenched fist, knocking her to the floor.

She lay there moaning softly and Orsini grabbed Chavasse by the sleeve, pulling him round. “For God’s sake, what’s going on?”

A single shot echoed across the square, splintering the doorpost, and Orsini ducked, pulling Liri to the floor. Chavasse looked out through the window and saw a movement on the wall above the great gates. Another rifle shot was followed by the rapid stutter of a submachine gun, and a line of bullets kicked a cloud of dust into the air in a brown curtain.

He smashed the window with the butt end of the hunting rifle, aimed quickly and fired. There was a faint cry and a soldier pitched over the parapet and fell, still clutching his rifle.

One of the two guards lying in the square pushed himself onto his knees, an expression of bewilderment on his face. Chavasse shot him through the head and ducked out of sight as the man’s comrades started to concentrate on the window.

He moved to the doorway and crouched beside Orsini and the girl. “There must be half a dozen of them up there now and more on the way. I’m going to draw their fire. It might give you and Liri a chance. She knows the way. Just do as she says.”

Orsini opened his mouth to protest, but Chavasse was already running into the square. He flung himself down beside the body of the guard he had shot, took aim and started to fire at the men on the wall.

Behind him, Orsini and the girl emerged from the guardhouse and started to run. It was at precisely that moment that the great double doors on the far side of the square swung open. An engine burst into life and a Jeep roared through in a cloud of dust. A light machine gun was mounted on a swivel in the rear and Colonel Tashko swung it in a half arc, a line of bullets churning the dust into fountains beside Orsini and the girl, bringing them to a halt, hands held high.

Chavasse, the heart freezing inside him, saw a detail of soldiers come through the gate, rifles at the port. In the moment that the Jeep braked, slewing broadside on, Francesca staggered past him and lurched toward it. Chavasse jumped to his feet and fired the hunting rifle from the hip as he ran.

His first shot kicked up dirt a foot to one side of her and then something punched him in the left arm, spinning him round, the rifle flying from his grasp. He crouched like an animal, holding his arm tightly, blood oozing between the fingers, and heard boots crunch through the dirt in the sudden silence.

When he raised his eyes, Adem Kapo looked down at him, a slight smile fixed to the small mouth.