by Jack Higgins
“Indeed he does, but at the moment he’s busy packing. Thanks to you and your friend, we’re obviously going to have to leave in something of a hurry.”
“For Albania.”
Rossiter smiled. “You really are on the ball. They’ll love you in Tirana.”
“And all points east?”
“Naturally.” Rossiter produced a cigarette case and offered him one. “A friendly warning. The colonel will want a few words with you when he arrives. Don’t get awkward. You saw what he did to your friend. He only asked him once, then started carving. Your man talked fifteen to the dozen when he had one ear gone. I would have thought you could have done better than him.”
“He was an old man,” Chavasse said. “Trying to make a little extra money. There was no need to do that to him.”
Rossiter shrugged. “All over the world, thousands of people die every day. Your friend Malik was just one more. If his death helps our cause, then he lived and died to some purpose.”
“Word perfect,” Chavasse said. “They must have done a good job on you back there at Nom Bek.”
“You just don’t understand—your kind never does.” Rossiter was grave and serious. “I was like you once, Chavasse, until I was helped to find a new answer, a truer answer, a new meaning for life.”
“So now it’s all right to kill people, old men and women?”
“For the cause, don’t you see that? What’s one life more or less—mine or yours? We’re all expendable. How many men have you killed in your career? Ten? Twenty?”
“I don’t notch my gun, if that’s what you mean,” Chavasse said, feeling strangely uneasy.
“Have you ever killed a woman?”
Chavasse’s mouth went dry, and for a brief moment, a face floated to the surface, the face of a woman he would have preferred to forget.
Rossiter smiled, the strange, saintly face touched with something very close to compassion. “I thought so. The difference between us is only in kind. The first and most important lesson to learn is that it isn’t what we do that is so important as why we do it. I serve a cause—freedom for every man, justice, equality. Can you say as much? What do you defend, Chavasse? Imperialism, capitalism, the Church, decay everywhere, the people crushed and strangled, unable to breathe. God, when I think of the years I spent serving corruption.”
“With all its faults, I’d rather have my way than yours. How many have the Chinese butchered in Tibet in the last five years? Half a million, give or take a few, all for the sake of the cause.”
Rossiter looked slightly exasperated. “You just don’t see, do you? No one matters—no person or persons. We’re working for tomorrow, Chavasse, not today.”
Which, significantly, was the exact opposite of the teachings of the creed in which he had been raised and educated to serve. Chavasse knew now that he really was wasting his time, but kept probing.
“So anything goes, even feeding poor old Montefiore heroin?”
“I first met Enrico Montefiore when I returned to Europe after the Korean War was over. My superiors had sent me to Vienna because they had decided that I was in need of psychiatric treatment to overcome the effects of what they were pleased to call Chinese brainwashing. Montefiore had been on drugs for years. One evening we received a call from a private sanatorium where he was a patient and extremely ill. He thought he needed a confessor.”
“And you were sent?”
Rossiter nodded. “The start of a fruitful friendship. He came to—how shall I put it—depend on me? When I finally decided to give up Holy Orders, I persuaded Montefiore that he needed quiet and isolation, so he bought this place, under an assumed name. He was badly in decline by then. I’ve had to look after him like a baby for the past three years.”
“In between assignments for your bosses in Peking.”
“Tirana, Chavasse, let’s get it right. Albania has proved a very useful European foothold for us. Of course the Chinese have found me invaluable, for obvious reasons. They’re in rather a difficult position as a rule. An Englishman can pass as a Russian if he speaks the language, but what can a Chinese do?”
“There are Hong Kong and Malayan Chinese living in Britain these days.”
“Indexed and filed—probably checked regularly by MI6 or the Special Branch. Much better to be there and yet not there, if you follow me.”
“Which is where your service for immigrants came in?”
“Exactly, only it wasn’t my service—it was Jacaud’s. There he was running these people across the Channel by the boatload. West Indian, Pakistani, African, Indian—it was perfectly reasonable to have the odd Hong Kong Chinese in there as well.”
It was a bright idea, and Chavasse nodded. “Full marks for using your wits. So Ho Tsen wasn’t the first?”
“If I told you how many you’d feel sick.” He smiled cheerfully.
Chavasse shrugged. “But no more. They’re not going to be too pleased about that when you get back to headquarters.”
“Oh, I don’t know. It couldn’t go on forever and I do have you, after all—a very useful prize.”
There was nothing Chavasse could say that would erase the faint, superior smile from Rossiter’s face, and then for some reason he recalled his conversation with Father da Souza.
“I was almost forgetting—I’ve a message for you.” He lied with complete conviction. “From da Souza.”
The effect was shattering. Rossiter seemed to shrink visibly. “Father da Souza?”
“That’s right. He has a parish near the East India Docks in London. When I wanted information about you, he seemed the obvious person to see.”
“How is he?” Rossiter’s voice was a whisper.
“Fine. He asked me to let you know that there isn’t a day in which he doesn’t remember you in his prayers. He was rather particular that I should tell you that.”
Rossiter’s face turned pale, and he spoke through clenched teeth. “I don’t need his prayers, do you understand? I never did and I never will.”
The bedroom door opened and Famia emerged. She was wearing a raincoat and headscarf and carried a small suitcase. She ignored Chavasse and spoke to Rossiter.
“I’m ready. Shall I take this down to the boat?”
For a brief moment, they might have been alone, for all the attention they paid Chavasse, trapped by that curious intimacy that only belongs to people hopelessly in love with each other. For Chavasse, this was the most interesting discovery of all. That Rossiter obviously genuinely cared for the girl.
He put a hand on her arm and guided her to the door. “Yes, you take your bag down to the boat. We’ll be along later.”
One of the guards opened the door. She looked through Chavasse briefly, her face blank as if he weren’t really there, and went out.
As the door closed, Chavasse said calmly, “What did you do? Put something in her tea?”
Rossiter swung round, the look on his face terrible to see. His hand dipped into his pocket and emerged clutching the Madonna. There was a sharp click and the blade jumped into view. Chavasse crouched, arms up, expecting an attack at any moment. The door opened and Ho Tsen entered.
“Trouble?” he inquired in Chinese.
Rossiter seemed at a loss for words, in some way a different person, the awkward pupil caught out and having to justify himself to the schoolmaster.
For the first time, Ho Tsen showed some evidence of emotion. A kind of contempt appeared on his face. He walked toward Chavasse, hands behind his back, and kicked him in the stomach when he was close enough.
It was expertly done, the work of someone who knew his karate. Chavasse was able to appreciate that much at least, before he keeled over.
HE rolled around a couple of times and fetched up against the wall. He lay there concentrating on recovering his breath while the voices droned somewhere in the distance, indistinct, meaningless. The colonel’s foot had not caught him in the crotch, where such a blow could have had a permanently crippling effect, but in the
lower abdomen, obviously by design.
Chavasse had at least been able to tense his muscles to receive it. The result was that, although sick and sore, he was already capable of some kind of movement when the two Chinese guards picked him up.
He played it to the hilt, dragging his feet on the way out and groaning softly. They took him down the stairs, across the hall and descended to the basement. When they reached the cellar, they dropped him to the floor. The one who had carried a machine pistol over his shoulder now unslung it, holding it ready in his hands while the other got out a key and unlocked the door.
The man with the machine pistol leaned down and grabbed Chavasse by the collar, pulling him to his feet. Chavasse drove the stiffened fingers of his left hand under the chin into the exposed throat, a killing blow when expertly delivered. The man didn’t even choke, simply sagged to the floor like an old sack, dropping his machine pistol. Chavasse came to his feet and lifted his elbow into the face of the man behind. The surprised Chinese man gave a stifled cry and went backward into the cell. A strong hand jerked the man around, and Darcy Preston hit him once in the stomach and twice on the jaw.
In the silence, Chavasse picked up the machine pistol and grinned. “I’d say we’re in business again.”
“What’s next on the agenda?” Darcy asked.
Chavasse held up the machine pistol. “Even with this, we don’t stand much of a chance against Rossiter, Ho Tsen and those Albanians. If we could get on board L’Alouette, things could look a little different. Those hand grenades and the machine pistols Malik hid in the false bottom of that locker could more than even things up.”
“What about the girl?”
“She sold us out, didn’t she? As a matter of interest, your hunch was right. She and Rossiter can’t keep their hands off each other. As far as I’m concerned, she’s had it.”
He cut off any further discussion by leading the way outside and tried the other end of the passage. The first stairs they came to had a door at the top, which was not locked. When Chavasse opened it cautiously, he looked into the kitchen, a large, square room with a fire burning on an open hearth. At that moment, a door opened and two of the Albanians entered. He closed the door gently, put a finger to his lips and he and Darcy retreated. At the far end of the passage, more steps took them to a door long disused. Darcy wrestled with the rusted bolt and it finally opened to reveal a small walled garden that was as much a jungle as everything else. They went out through an archway at the far end and ran for the shelter of the trees.
They made it and kept on going, Chavasse in the lead, following one of the overgrown paths, the undergrowth pressing in so closely on either side that it brushed against them.
Without warning, the path emptied into a clearing on the edge of the lagoon in which stood the ruins of a fake Greek temple. Famia Nadeem was standing there, staring up at the broken columns, hands in the pockets of her duffle coat.
She swung round, startled, and an expression of real alarm appeared on her face. Chavasse dropped the machine pistol and grabbed her cruelly, clamping a hand across her mouth.
“Listen to me, you silly little bitch. Your boyfriend is an agent of the Chinese Communist government. He’s responsible for the deaths of a great many people, including Old Hamid and Mrs. Campbell. Do you understand?”
She gazed at him, wide-eyed, and he took his hand away. Immediately she opened her mouth, a scream rising in her throat, and he struck her on the jaw with his clenched fist.
He lowered her to the ground and turned to Preston. “Sling her over your shoulder and make for the landing stage. Get as close as you can and wait in the bushes.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Create a diversion. If I can draw them off, it will give you time to board L’Alouette and get moving.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll swim out from here and join you on your way past, and if I’m not there in time, don’t start getting all heroic on me. Just get out of here.”
“You’re in charge.”
The Jamaican picked up the girl, slung her over one shoulder and moved away into the undergrowth. Chavasse hurried back toward the house. He already had a plan of sorts. The house was wholly constructed of timber. With the right encouragement, it should go up like a torch, and there was one obvious place to start.
He moved back through the tangled garden and entered the basement again. This time, when he cautiously opened the door at the top of the second flight of stairs, the kitchen was empty.
He went in, removed the glass chimney from the oil lamp on the table and scattered its contents across the floor. He made a brief search through the cupboards and found a half-full can of paraffin in one of them. He emptied it to good effect, then moved toward the fire. Behind him, the door opened and Colonel Ho Tsen entered.
If he was armed, it didn’t show, and in any case, the machine pistol already had him covered.
Ho Tsen actually smiled. “No sporting chance, Mr. Chavasse?”
“In a pig’s eye,” Chavasse said. “The Breton half of me’s in charge at the moment and we always pay our debts. This is for Jacob Malik.”
The first burst caught Ho Tsen in the right shoulder, spinning him around, and the second shattered his spine, driving him out through the open door. As he fell, Chavasse picked a burning log from the hearth and tossed it into the center of the room. There was a minor explosion and he only just made it to the cellar door, flames reaching out to engulf him.
As he went out through the garden, he could hear cries of alarm from the other side of the house, the Albanians from the sound of it, running to see what had gone wrong, just as he had hoped.
He gave it another minute, then ran for the trees. As he reached their shelter, L’Alouette’s engine roared into life. So Darcy had made it after all? Behind him there was a sudden crackling, as flames burst through the windows, blowing out the glass.
A bullet splintered the trees above his head and he swung round and emptied the machine pistol in a wild burst that sent the Albanian who had fired at him in a headlong retreat round the corner of the house.
Chavasse ran, head down, and shots chased him through the undergrowth, slicing through the pine trees above his head. He burst from cover and plunged headlong into the lagoon as L’Alouette appeared round the point about fifty yards out.
As he started to swim, L’Alouette altered course toward him, slewing to a halt broadside on as Darcy spun the wheel and cut the engine.
The Jamaican ran for the rail and pulled Chavasse over with easy strength.
“Get going, for Christ’s sake,” Chavasse, said with a gasp.
As Darcy vanished into the wheelhouse, a bullet ricocheted from the rail as the first Albanian arrived at the water’s edge. Chavasse turned and saw Rossiter appear from the trees with the other three men. The engines of L’Alouette roared, and Darcy took her away in a burst of speed, bullets chopping into her hull.
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
Once around the southern tip of the island, they were out of the direct line of fire and safe. The girl lay on her face near the stern rail where Darcy had dropped her. When Chavasse picked her up, she groaned and her eyelashes fluttered.
He took her into the cabin, laid her gently down on one of the seats, then opened the map locker and removed the false bottom. He unbuttoned his wet shirt, stuffed the grenades inside for ease of carrying, picked up the two machine pistols and went on deck.
Darcy was giving the engine all it had and Chavasse shook his head. “You’re wasting your time. That MTB has four times our speed. We’ve got maybe five minutes to get ready for them, so throttle down.”
“What do we do?”
“Flight the best way we know how. First of all, I’ll show you how to use one of these things.”
He went over the finer points of the machine pistol briefly, then quickly primed the grenades. “I want them to go off in a hurry. Three secon
ds is all you’ve got from the moment you release the handle, and don’t you forget it. You take three—I’ll take three. You can carry them inside your shirt.”
He looked back through the mist to where smoke drifted sluggishly through the heavy rain. “I shouldn’t think there will be much of Hellgate left after that little lot has burned itself out. Cut the motor.”
Somewhere not too far away, the engine of the MTB roared like an angry lion. They had entered a smaller lagoon, and L’Alouette moved broadside toward the entrance of the narrow waterway at the far end. She drifted to a halt, her prow in the reeds, and Chavasse nodded.
“This is as good a place as any. Now let’s have the girl up here and I’ll tell you what we do next.”
HER speed considerably reduced in the narrow waterway, the MTB was moving slowly when she entered the small lagoon, and the Albanian stationed in the prow, submachine gun at the ready, saw L’Alouette and cried out.
The engines of the MTB died, and she moved on, carried by her own momentum, drifting past the place where Darcy Preston stood waist deep among the reeds, holding Famia securely, a hand clamped across her mouth.
Chavasse waited on the other side of the lagoon on a piece of relatively high ground, soft black sand surrounded by marsh grass. Two grenades lay on the ground beside him, another was ready in his hand.
He caught a glimpse of Rossiter’s flaxen hair in the window of the wheelhouse and then the MTB was abreast. She was perhaps twenty or thirty feet away from him when he tossed the first grenade. It bounced on the stern deck, rolled into the water and exploded. The MTB rocked in the turbulence, and there was a cry of alarm as the man in the prow went headfirst into the water.
On the other side of the lagoon, Darcy pushed the girl away from him, took a grenade from inside his shirt, pulled the pin and tossed it. It had farther to go than he had realized and fell short, sending a fountain of water skyward. As he took out another one, the girl screamed and flung herself on him just as he tossed the grenade. It fell into the water no more than fifteen feet away and the blast flattened the reeds and blew them both over.
