Bloody Passage

Gatano did as he was told without a word. I stood there flexing my wrists, feeling curiously unsteady. ‘What happens now?’

‘That’s up to you. You can have anything you want. Money, equipment, men. Just ask. As for this place where they’re holding the boy – plans, maps, every scrap of information we could get hold of – you’ll find all that in your room. And a man called Zingari is waiting to see you.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘There’s a little town on the coast about fifteen miles from the prison called Zabia. He runs a bar there.’

‘Amongst other things?’

‘Exactly. He should be more than useful.’

I moved to the table, helped myself to a glass and one of the bottles of Zibibbo. It tasted fresh and cool, and as I drank it I noticed Simone’s nose wrinkle in disgust, and she backed away slightly.

‘I know, angel,’ I said. ‘I smell like a sewer. Isn’t life hell?’ She flushed angrily and I turned to Stavrou. ‘How long have I got?’

‘Two weeks.’

‘And I’ve got a free hand?’

He nodded gravely. ‘Completely.’

‘To choose my own team?’

There was a moment of silence and Langley poured himself a glass of wine, a slight, cynical smile on his face.

Stavrou nodded to the two stalwarts in the fisherman sweaters. ‘Moro and Bonetti here are good men, and Justin …’

‘Always likes to be number one.’ I shook my head. ‘I wouldn’t touch any of them with a ten-foot pole. My own team, or it’s not on.’

He laughed harshly and slapped his thigh. ‘I like a man who knows what he wants and goes after it. We’ll play it your way.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘And now if somebody would show me to my room I’d like a bath.’

‘Of course,’ Stavrou said. ‘But before you go there are a couple of rather important items to take care of.’ He looked up at Langley. ‘Check if the London call has come through yet.’

Langley picked up the phone and spoke briefly in fluent Italian. He said to Stavrou, ‘The old lady’s out, but they have the housekeeper on the line.’

He held the phone out to me and Stavrou said, ‘You can always leave a message, Major Grant. We wouldn’t want your grandmother to worry, now would we?’

I did as I was told, choking back the anger, then slammed the receiver back into place. ‘Can I go now?’

‘Not yet.’ Stavrou nodded to Langley who picked up the phone again and pressed one of the intercom buttons. ‘Your sister, Major Grant. We don’t want her to worry unnecessarily either, do we? You’re in Cairo, I think. Delayed by important business. You hope to be with her in a matter of days.’

Everyone watched as Langley held out the phone to me again. ‘I’d do as he says if I were you, old stick,’ he told me. ‘He can be a bit of a sod when he wants to be.’

I could hear her voice, a faint echo as I reached for the receiver and forced myself to sound cheerful.

‘Hannah? This is Oliver.’

The delight in her voice was almost more than I could take in the circumstances and keeping that conversation going with Stavrou and his friends listening in politely was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do in my life.

When I finally put the phone down, my hand trembled slightly, the violence barely contained. ‘Can I go now?’ I said hoarsely.

‘But of course.’

I turned and Gatano grabbed my shoulder. ‘Come on, you heard Mr Stavrou. Move it.’

Which was definitely the very last straw, so I pivoted, putting a knee into his fat gut, giving it to him again full in the face as he keeled over. He rolled down the steps into the bushes and when I swung to face him, Langley jumped back, hands raised defensively, something close to amusement on his face.

‘Oh, no,’ I said. ‘Not today. I’m saving you until later, you bastard,’ and I turned and staggered down the steps into the garden, suddenly very tired.

3

The High Terrace

The bathroom was a trifle too baroque for my taste. Water gushed from a golden lion’s mouth into a black marble tub – that sort of thing, but it was good and hot and there was plenty of it. I lay there for an hour or more, soaking away the stink of the Hole and thinking about things.

My immediate impulse was to try and get Hannah out of there by any means possible, but that was easier said than done. Stavrou had granted me an apparent freedom of movement, but what that meant in actuality was something else again.

By the time I’d shaved, I was beginning to feel almost human. I put on a robe and went into the bedroom, towelling my hair. There was a Sicilian peasant woman in a crisp white overall laying clothes out on the bed who actually curtseyed on the way out.

Underwear, slacks, shirt, shoes – everything fitted perfectly which was impressive enough until I remembered Simone. Such minor details must have been easy enough for her to provide. I thought of her briefly as I dressed and with some bitterness, but only for a moment. There were, after all, more important things to think about.

When I went out on the terrace, there was a drinks trolley that even included a couple of bottles of Irish gin. Stavrou, or Simone, obviously thought of everything. Even more interesting was the fat manilla folder on the ironwork table, so I sat down and started to explore the contents with the aid of a large gin and tonic.

The prison itself was at a place called Râs Kanai and had quite a history. The Italians had built it originally as a military fortress in colonial times. During the war the Germans had had it and then the British. Since independence, the place appeared to have been well stocked with opponents of the government of Colonel Gaddafi or those who were suspected of falling into that category.

I was halfway through when the outer door of the bedroom opened and Langley appeared followed by a small man in a shabby white-linen suit. He had tiny anxious eyes, a pale, translucent skin that seemed perpetually damp and the merest whisper of a moustache.

Langley said, ‘And this little worm is one Benito Zingari, who may or may not be of use to you.’

Zingari bobbed his head, fingering an old straw hat nervously in both hands. Langley said, ‘Ah, well, if nobody’s going to offer me a drink, I’d better try elsewhere.’

‘Why don’t you do just that?’

He smiled amicably and went out. I lit a cigarette and looked Zingari over. He smiled nervously and started to sweat.

I said, ‘They tell me you run a bar in Zabia.’

‘That’s right, signor.’ His English was really very good indeed.

‘What else do you do?’

‘A little of this – a little of that.’ He shrugged. ‘A man must make out the best way he can.’

‘Cigarette smuggling?’ I said. ‘Heroin? Women?’

He didn’t reply, but there was an edge to him and a kind of cunning in his eyes. It was as if we understood each other and that fact in itself gave him confidence.