The Keys of Hell

Chavasse nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. You know the way things have been since the 20th Party Congress in 1956, and now the Chinese are in there with both feet.’

‘Anything to worry about?’

Chavasse shook his head. ‘Albania’s the most backward European country I’ve visited and the Chinese are too far from home to be able to do much about it.’

‘What about this naval base the Russians were using at Valona before they pulled out? The word was that they’d built it into a sort of Red Gibraltar on the Adriatic.’

‘Alb-Tourist took us on an official trip on our second day. “Port” is hardly the word for the place. Good natural shelter, but only used by fishing boats. Certainly no sign of submarine pens.’

‘And Enver Hoxha – you think he’s still firmly in control?’

‘And then some. We saw him at a military parade on the third day. He cuts an impressive figure, especially in uniform. He’s certainly the people’s hero at the moment. Heaven knows for how long.’

The Chief closed the file with a quick gesture that somehow dismissed the whole affair, placing it firmly in the past.

‘Good work, Paul. At least we know where we stand. You’re due for some leave now, aren’t you?’

‘That’s right,’ Chavasse said, and waited.

The Chief got to his feet, walked to the window and looked out over the glittering city, down towards the Tiber. ‘What would you like to do?’

‘Spend a week or two at Matano,’ Chavasse said without hesitation. ‘That’s a small fishing port near Bari. There’s a good beach, and Guilio Orsini owns a place on the front called the Tabu. He’s promised me some diving. I’m looking forward to it.’

‘I’m sure you are,’ the Chief said. ‘Sounds marvellous.’

‘Do I get it?’

The old man looked out over the city, an abstracted frown on his face. ‘Oh, yes, Paul, you can have your leave – after you’ve done a little chore for me.’

Chavasse groaned and the older man turned and came back to the desk. ‘Don’t worry, it won’t take long, but you’ll have to leave tonight.’

‘Is that necessary?’

The old man nodded. ‘I’ve got transport laid on and you’ll need help. This man Orsini sounds right. We’ll offer a good price.’

Chavasse sighed, thinking of Francesca Minetti waiting on the terrace, of the good food and wine in the buffet room below. He sighed again and stubbed out his cigarette carefully.

‘What do I do?’

The Chief pushed a file across. ‘Enrico Noci, a double agent who’s been working for us and the Albanians. I didn’t mind at first, but now the Chinese have got to him.’

‘Which isn’t healthy.’

‘It never is. There’s a boat waiting at Bari to take Noci over to Albania tomorrow night. All the details are in there.’

Chavasse studied the picture, the heavy fleshy face, the weak mouth – the picture of a man who was probably a failure at everything he put his hand to, except perhaps women. He had the sort of tanned beach-boy good looks that some of them went for.

‘Do I bring him in?’

‘What on earth for?’ The Chief shook his head. ‘Get rid of him; a swimming accident, anything you like. Nothing messy.’

‘Of course,’ Chavasse said calmly.

He glanced through the file again, memorizing the facts it contained, then pushed it across and stood up. ‘I’ll see you in London.’

The Chief nodded. ‘In three weeks, Paul. Enjoy your holiday.’

‘Don’t I always?’

The Chief pulled a file across, opened it and started to study the contents, and Chavasse crossed to the door and left quietly.

3 (#ulink_690ee07a-eecf-54d1-9d69-29b7c33fce39)

Enrico Noci lay staring through the darkness at the ceiling, smoking a cigarette. Beside him the woman slept, her thigh warm against his. Once, she stirred, turning into him in her sleep, but didn’t awaken.

He reached for another cigarette and heard a distinctive rattle as something was pushed through the letter box in the outer hall. He slid from beneath the blankets, careful not to wake the woman, and padded across the tiled floor in his bare feet.

A large buff envelope lay on the mat at the front door. He took it into the kitchen, lit the gas under the coffee pot and opened the envelope quickly. Inside was a smaller sealed envelope, the one he was to take with him, and a single typed sheet containing his movement orders. He memorized them, then burned it quickly at the stove.

He glanced at his watch. Just before midnight. Time for a hot bath and something to eat. He stretched lazily, a conscious pleasure seeping through him. The woman had really been quite something. Certainly a diverting way to spend his last evening.

He was wallowing up to his chin in hot water, the small bathroom half-full of steam, when the door opened and she came in, yawning as she tied the belt of his silk dressing gown.

‘Come back to bed, caro,’ she said plaintively.

For the life of him, he couldn’t remember her name and he grinned. ‘Another time, angel. I must get moving. Make me some scrambled eggs and coffee, like a good girl. I’ve got to be out of here in twenty minutes.’

When he left the bathroom ten minutes later, he was freshly shaved, his dark hair slicked back, and he wore an expensive hand-knitted sweater and slacks. She had laid a small table in the window and placed a plate of scrambled eggs in front of him as he sat down.

As he ate, he pulled back the curtain with one hand and looked down across the lights of Bari to the waterfront. The town was quiet, and a slight rain drifted through the yellow street lamps in a silver spray.

‘Will you be coming back?’ she said.

‘Who knows, angel?’ he shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

He finished his coffee, went into the bedroom, picked up a dark blue nylon raincoat and a small canvas grip and returned to the living room. She sat with her elbows on the table, a cup of coffee in her hands. He took out his wallet, extracted a couple of banknotes and dropped them on the table.

‘It’s been fun, angel,’ he said, and moved to the door.

‘You know the address.’

When he closed the outside door and turned along the street, it was half past twelve exactly. The rain was falling heavily now and fog crouched at the ends of the streets, reducing visibility to thirty or forty yards.

He walked briskly along the wet pavement, turned confidently out of one street into another and, ten minutes later, halted beside a small black Fiat sedan. He opened the door, lifted the corner of the carpet and found the ignition key. A few moments later, he was driving away.

On the outskirts of Bari, he stopped and consulted the map from the glove compartment. Matano was about twelve miles away on the coast road running south to Brindisi. An easy enough run, although the fog was bound to hold him up a little.

He lit a cigarette and started off again, concentrating on his driving as the fog grew thicker. He was finally reduced to a cautious crawl, his head out of the side window. It was almost an hour later when he halted at a signpost that indicated Matano to the left.