The Keys Of Hell

MANHATTAN, 1995
ONE

THE DREAM WAS ALWAYS THE SAME. Plunging into the marsh, forcing his way through the reeds and mist, pushing the punt hard, Guilio Orsini standing at the front finding the way through and then the engine close by breaking into life and a burst of machine-gun fire.

Guilio went over headfirst, always did, and Chavasse floundered through the reeds and the bitterly cold water and then, mysteriously, like a curtain, the reeds parted and there was the lagoon and the boat, the Buona Esperanza, and Orsini was at the rail leaning over, a hand outstretched.

“Now, Paul, now.”

And Chavasse reached and the mist seemed to increase and there was the roaring of the engine and the boat slapped away, vanished, and he was alone again.

CHAVASSE WAS SUBJECT TO DREAMS OF THE past, and had always suspected it was a legacy of his Breton father. An old race, the Bretons, an ancient people. But this dream he had not had for some years. Still… he got off the bed, went to the window of his suite and looked down at Manhattan. The lights sparkled in the evening dusk. He liked New York and always had. There was an excitement there, an infinite probability to things.

When the phone went he answered at once, “Chavasse.”

“Ah, Sir Paul. Tino Rossi.”

“Good evening, Mr Rossi.”

“Listen, I know we’re meeting later for dinner at the Saddle Room, but I wondered whether you’d mind coming round to my apartment at the Trump Tower first.”

“Is there a purpose to this?”

“Well, my lawyer, Mario Volpe, as you may know, is my nephew a couple of times removed. He seems to think there are a few things he could take care of before our meeting. You understand?”

“Perfectly,” Chavasse said.

“I’ll send a limousine. Say half an hour?”

“No need. As it’s only a couple of blocks, I’ll walk.”

“Fine. I’ll look forward to seeing you for dinner later.”

Chavasse put down the phone and thought about it, a slight frown on his face, then he went to the wardrobe, took out his rather old-fashioned carpetbag, pulled open a flap in the bottom and produced a short-barreled Colt, only a.22, but deadly with hollow-point rounds. He checked it out, went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

IN THE MAGNIFICENT SITTING ROOM OF HIS Trump Tower apartment Don Tino Rossi replaced the telephone. He was seventy-six years of age and still in good shape, his silver hair almost shoulder-length, his linen suit the best that Savile Row in London could provide.

The large man in the black suit with the shaven head came forward as the Don nodded, opened a silver box, offered a cigarette and a light. He was Aldo Vinelli, the firm’s head of security. Don Tino’s nephew, Mario Volpe, stood by the terrace window smoking a cigarette, thirty years of age, medium height, good-looking and like Rossi, impeccably dressed.

“So he’s coming.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” his uncle asked. “He doesn’t want a car. He’s walking.”

“You trust this Chavasse?”

“As much as he trusts me. Our meeting in London made sense.”

“Good. I’ll make arrangements.” Volpe nodded to Vinelli. “I need you.” He went out.

The Don said quietly, “Aldo, I assigned you to protect my nephew because I trust you and you’ve done a good job.”

“Thank you, Don Tino.”

“And where does your loyalty lie?”

“With you always.”

“Good.”

The Don held out his hand. Aldo kissed it and went out. Rossi sighed. Strange that facility he’d always had that told him when someone was lying to him. A gift from God really.

BEFORE IT WAS FASHIONABLE, TINO ROSSI alone amongst Mafia leaders had realized that life had to change, that the old days were long gone. He had turned the Rossi family to respectability. Real estate developments in New York, the same on the Thames in London. Investments in the electronics industry, shipping, banking. His early start meant that these days his only rivals were the Russian Mafia.

The young man he called nephew, Mario, was an important part of the organization. He’d never known his father, and his mother had also died at a young age. Her widowed sister, Signora Volpe, had brought the boy to New York, raised him in Little Italy. As Don Tino’s niece her Mafia connection had assured the success of her café. Mario had gone to Columbia, had taken a law degree. Later, he’d done the same thing at London University and was now indispensable to the family on both sides of the Atlantic for his legal expertise.

He returned to the room. The Don said, “Is everything in hand?”

“Sure. Look, I’ll go with Aldo and monitor him. So he’s crazy enough to want to walk alone on a wet night in Manhattan, but that could be asking for it. I mean, this is an older guy. Sixty-five.”

“So I’m ten years older.”

“Heh, Uncle, I didn’t mean…”

“Make this work, Mario, nothing is more important.”

“You trust this Chavasse?”

“As I told you, no more than he trusts me. Sir Paul Chavasse, knighted by the Queen of England, Mario.”

“So?”

“This man is what? Half English, half French. He speaks more languages than you’ve had hot dinners. University degrees coming out of his ears. In spite of all that, a killer by nature. For twenty years a field agent for the Bureau, the most secret of British intelligence units. You’ve seen his record. Shot three times, knifed twice.”

“So he was hot stuff.”

“More than that, Mario, for the past twenty years he’s been Belfast Bureau Chief and that’s no desk job, not with the IRA and all those other problems. Now he has Eastern Europe on his back. Bosnia, Serbia, Kosova, Albania, and we know who has the greatest input.”

“The Russian Mafia.”

“Exactly, and as they are not our friends we can help there. In return, Chavasse will help us.”

“When possible?”

“Of course. Look, I suspended all drug operations there years ago and not for moral reasons as you well know. If idiots want to kill themselves with heroin that’s their affair. We make more out of cigarette smuggling from Europe into Britain than we ever would have with drugs.”

“Still illegal.”

“Yes, but as you being an expert in English law know, a drug runner pulls ten or twelve years. Get done, as the English say, for cigarette smuggling and what would your client get?”

“Twelve months and out in six.” Marco Volpe smiled. “Still illegal, running cigarettes by the millions up the Thames, so where does that leave Sir Paul Chavasse?”

“Exactly as he is. A realist. We’re not destroying the lives of stupid teenagers. We aren’t harming the widows and orphans. He can live with that as long as we provide the expertise on Eastern Europe that he needs. You’ll see that we do.”

“Of course, Uncle.”

“Good boy.” The Don nodded. “You take care of things. Tell Sir Paul I’ll see him later for dinner at the Saddle Room. You’d better go now, you and Aldo, to make sure he gets here in one piece.”

“Uncle.”

Mario Volpe went out. Rain battering the window, Don Tino reached for his unfinished glass of champagne. Such a clever boy. All the virtues really and yet capable of such stupidity. He swallowed the champagne, got up and walked out leaning on his Malacca cane.

WHEN CHAVASSE EMERGED FROM THE PLAZA Hotel it was raining slightly. He wore a Burberry trenchcoat in dark blue and an old-fashioned rain hat slanted across his head. Inside, the Colt.22 rested in a special clip. Uncomfortable, but also comforting in its own way. Just a feeling, but that’s why he was still here after all these years. He declined the offer of a cab from the doorman, went down the steps and started along Fifth Avenue.

Waiting in a black Mercedes town car, Mario Volpe and Vinelli watched him.

“Let’s go, Aldo,” Volpe said, “and don’t lose him.” Not that there was much chance of that as they pulled away from the sidewalk. Not too many people as the rain increased.

Chavasse liked the rain. Somehow you could inhabit your own private world. It was what he called the cinema of the mind time. You considered the facts, tried to make sense, anticipate the other side’s next move, and there was certainly more to all this than met the eye. All his senses, the product of forty years of living on the edge, told him that.

Not that he distrusted Don Tino particularly. It was more that he didn’t trust anyone. His special kind of life had taught him that. The way Eastern Europe was, the Don could be useful, which was what his meeting with Rossi and Vinelli at the Dorchester Hotel in London had indicated. If a few favors in return was the price, it was worth it, always supposing the price wasn’t too high. So Rossi was a gangster. In essence, that was what Chavasse had been for years. You had to be a kind of gangster to be an intelligence agent. All that kept you alive really.

He paused, produced a silver case from an inside pocket, took out a cigarette and lit it in cupped hands. He was standing at the entrance of a darkened mall at the time and for the moment, the sidewalk was clear. As he started forward, a young man darted out of the mall and blocked his way.

“Heh, buddy, you got some change?”

At that moment, another one emerged, his twin, hard-faced in bomber jacket and jeans, only he was holding a Browning pistol.

“This one’s got more than change. Let’s get him in here.”

He rammed the barrel of the Browning against Chavasse’s spine and drove him into the darkness.

All this was seen from the Mercedes.

Volpe said, “Those bastards. Why the gun?”

There was the sound of a shot. Vinelli braked to a halt and got the door open.

IN THE MALL THE ONE WITH THE BROWNING rammed it even harder into Chavasse.

“A nice fat wallet here I’d say, so let’s stay friendly. You can call me Tommy.”

Chavasse raised his right elbow, struck backwards into the face, turned sideways, pushing the Browning away, grabbed for the barrel, twisted it free and had the gun in his hand.

“You should never get that close to anyone.”

He pivoted, rammed the barrel of the Browning into the back of Tommy’s right knee and pulled the trigger. Tommy staggered into the wall and fell down with a cry.

The other one backed away, hands raised.

“Heh, man, don’t do it.”

Vinelli arrived, a gun in his hand, Volpe behind him.

They looked at Tommy lying on the ground and Chavasse tendered the Browning to Vinelli.

“Not mine, his.” He looked down at the boy. “Terrible class of muggers these days. Not too competent.”

Volpe held out his hand. “Mario Volpe, Sir Paul. We were worried about you so I figured we’d check the hotel. Aldo recognized you from London, so we were following. I mean, scum like this, what can I say?”

“Not much, I expect. Can we go now?”

“Sure.” Volpe turned to Vinelli. “Take care of this, Aldo. I’ll drive Sir Paul to the Trump, you follow on foot.”

He took Chavasse by the arm and led him away. Aldo turned, reached for the youth who was standing and pulled him close.

“You were supposed to jump him and wait for us to come to the rescue and what do we get? A gun, for Christ’s sake.”

“It was Tommy. He’s on crack.”

“Really?” Vinelli headbutted him, breaking his nose, sending him staggering.

The youth started to weep, blood everywhere. “I’m sorry, Mr. Vinelli, but what do I do with Tommy?”

“You get an ambulance. Three very large black guys beat up on you, and no fairy stories for the cops or the Rossi family will see to you on a more permanent basis.” He opened his wallet and took out ten hundred-dollar bills. “I said a grand and I’m a man of my word.” He dropped the money on Tommy.

“I’ll do what you say, Mr Vinelli.”

“You better had, kid.”

Vinelli patted his face, turned his collar up against the rain and walked away.

IN THE SITTING ROOM OF THE TRUMP Tower apartment, Volpe helped Chavasse off with his Burberry and placed it on a chair. Chavasse removed the rain hat and put it on the coat carefully.

“Drink, Sir Paul? Martini? Champagne?”

“Irish whisky,” Chavasse told him, “Bushmills for preference.”

“Anything. We’ve got it all.”

“Good.” Chavasse took a cigarette from his silver case. “And then you can tell me exactly what it is you want.”

Vinelli came in and stood by the door, face impassive. Volpe got the whisky from the bar by the window and brought it over.

“I don’t really want anything, Sir Paul. My uncle and you laid it out pretty clear at your meeting in London at the Dorchester. I mean, even Aldo here met you but I didn’t, so I figured it was time. I handle all the family’s legal business on both sides of the Atlantic. This whole deal is very important. I wanted to familiarize myself with you.”

“And why would you want to do that?”

“Well, on occasions, we’ll be working together, but hell, no problem there. Your record in the intelligence business is amazing.”

“And how would you know that?”

“Bureau records are on file at the Public Records Office in London. Sure, maybe they’re on a fifty-year hold, but there are always ways round that. The clerks aren’t very well paid. Give them ‘a few bob’ as you Brits say, and it’s amazing what you can get a copy of.”

Chavasse finished his whisky. He said calmly, “What you appear to be saying is that you’ve been checking up on my past record quite illegally.”

“Yes, but we’ve got to be careful with the London operation.”

“Does the Don know about this?”

“Of course.”

Chavasse nodded. “So – where are we at?”

“One case of yours really got to me.” Volpe went to a side table and returned with a file. “This was so amazing I had it copied. Read it. It’s good stuff. I suppose you wrote it originally. I’ve got phone calls to make to all four quarters of the globe. I’ll be about an hour then I’ll take you to Don Tino at the Saddle Room. Anything you want, Aldo will get for you.”

He went out and Vinelli stood there, face impassive. “Another whisky, Sir Paul?”

“I think champagne might be more appropriate,” Chavasse said in excellent Italian.

“Of course.”

“Is he for real, the boy?”

“He is young.”

ALDO PRODUCED A BOTTLE OF BOLLINGER from the bar and Chavasse lit another cigarette, picked up the file and opened it. It was a fifty-page résumé of certain events in Albania in 1965. It was headed “Bureau Case Study 203, Field Agent Doctor Paul Chavasse.”

Aldo stood at the door, still impassive.

It was very quiet, only rain drumming against the window.

A long time ago, Chavasse told himself, a hell of a long time ago.

He started to read.