Three Great Novels

by Henry Porter

  ‘Vigo spoke to Franc?’

  ‘Yeh, Vigo, he knows a lot of our guys at Langley.’

  ‘I’ll take that drink,’ she said, brightening. ‘It’s a relief not to have to go to that place. I don’t know how you stand it.’

  ‘Goes with the territory,’ said Gibbons in a manly, stoic way.

  They drank while Herrick listened to Gibbons’ theories about the lack of car mechanics in Albania and the fact - according to him - that no one was able to read a map because the communists had banned them for forty years. She was amenable, smiled a lot, and was certainly guilty of implying that things might develop further that evening. But just past nine o’clock he leapt up and said. ‘Got to leave you, Isis. Date at the Valleys of Fire.’ He said it as if it was a film title.

  ‘What’s that?’

  He looked down at her without a trace of humour. ‘A place where questions are asked and answers are given. I’ll check in tomorrow. Hey, why don’t we do dinner at Juvenilja?’

  He navigated a pretty straight course through the tables of Tirana’s underworld and hopeful reformers, which she thought was due more to momentum than any residual balance.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Herrick left the terrace and went upstairs, trying Harland several times on the way, but his phone was either switched off or out of range. Once in her room she spread the contents of the plastic bag on the bed, and after trying various combinations, opted for jeans, red T-shirt and knitted shawl around her shoulders. She tied her hair back, put on some lipstick and blueish eyeshadow, then slipped along the corridor to the fire exit. Outside in the boulevard she merged with the volta, which was still in full flood, but quickly dumped the shawl behind a bush because she suddenly felt it made her look like a street walker. She was glad she’d chosen to wear her trainers instead of the fringed boots.

  As she made her way across the broken pavement in badly lit side-streets, she realised that a woman equipped herself with one of two attitudes on the street in Tirana - a kind of brassy hauteur, or beaten-down, famished servitude. The former implied that you had protection, which was everything in a town full of northern immigrants who had brought with them the ancient clan code Kanun of Lek Dukagjin which she had been reading about that morning. The dishonouring of a woman associated with a powerful man - the very smallest slight - could result in death and endless vendetta. So she strutted her stuff until she reached the SHISK compound, where she became more discreet and circled the place, noting the infra-red camera and the number of cars parked in the street leading to the headquarters. In the back of her mind was her father’s advice about getting to know somewhere before attempting any kind of surveillance, and she had to admit she was woefully unprepared. If Khan was suddenly moved, she would have no way of following. The area was several degrees more sinister at night. There was no street lighting and the little light that came from the headquarters and the bar directly across the road only served to hint at what lay in the shadows. She was aware of people watching her from the darker recesses where they’d put up for the night. When one of the city’s regular blackouts came, casting the neighbourhood into total darkness, she fumbled in the canvas bag for her mobile and called Bashkin, knowing that he would still be loitering hopefully outside the main entrance of the Byron. He agreed to meet her outside a newly renovated Catholic church a couple of streets away and flash his lights twice. She hung up and was about to switch off her phone when it vibrated in her hand.

  ‘Yes,’ she said hurriedly.

  ‘It’s Dolph - Andy Dolph!’

  ‘Can’t talk now, Dolph. I’m really busy.’

  ‘Okay. Quickly then, you’ve got a message from Beirut. Your friend has news for you. She said you’d need to know straight away.’

  For a moment Herrick couldn’t think what he was talking about. ‘Oh yes. Where are you?’

  ‘At your old desk to fill in for you. I’m sitting next to sweetie Lyne. You didn’t tell me about him, Isis.’

  ‘But he is sharp.’

  ‘Oh yeah, he’s good, but re-lent-less.’

  ‘Look, I’ve got to go. We’ll speak soon. And, Dolph - thanks for ringing.’

  ‘Be safe.’

  About ten minutes later, just as the lights came back on, a pair of identical white Landcruisers with US diplomatic plates appeared in the street, crashed over the potholes and pulled up to wait for the compound gates to open. Herrick turned on her phone and dialled Harland. This time he answered.

  ‘There seems to be some movement and Gibbons mentioned he was going to the Valley of Fires, wherever that is. The people from the US Embassy are here. Two cars. Maybe something is happening.’

  Harland thought for a moment. ‘Have you got transport?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t know how reliable he’s going to be.’ She gave him Bashkin’s mobile number because her battery was low, then hung up and made her way to the Mercedes where Bashkin was sunk down in the driving seat, smoking. She tapped on the window and he let her in. ‘What we do now?’ he asked.

  ‘We wait,’ she said. ‘We wait, Mr Bashkin.’ To pass the time she told him about her father coming to Albania in the war and fighting with the partisans.

  Inside the SHISK headquarters, Karim Khan heard the sound of several men walking along the corridor between the cells. One of the prisoners had suffered some kind of convulsion earlier and despite cries of help from the other men no one had come until it was too late. At least, that is what Khan concluded from the wailing in a language he could not understand. He wondered wretchedly what they would do with the body and whether the man’s relations would be told.

  For a few moments the lights were thrown on and there was the sound of men moving something. But instead of the footsteps dying, they approached his cell and keys were turned in the lock. Two men came in and dragged him from the iron bed. Another pulled his arms roughly behind his back and bound them with a plastic restraint. He was marched along the cell block, fearful eyes watching him from the cages nearest the door, and taken outside into the night where he was hooded and rolled into the back of a vehicle. Now he’d better make his peace with God, he said to himself. There had been many nights before now when he’d known he would never see daylight, but the dawn had always come and Karim Khan had somehow survived. But tonight he was certain that his life would end, and the knowledge brought him an odd solace. For him the struggle was over.

  They watched as the gates were shut and then opened again. Herrick had been urging Bashkin to take the handbrake off and allow the Mercedes to creep forward but he insisted on keeping his distance. The SHISK were people you didn’t mess with, he said. The mere fact of watching the headquarters was enough to land him in jail. When they glimpsed the figure being brought outside she leaned forward to the dashboard, wishing she had a pair of binoculars. The build of the man was about right and he was wearing a blue T-shirt, as Khan had been, but she didn’t get a clear view of his face before he disappeared behind the vehicles. Seconds later the cars emerged from the compound and moved off down the street.

  ‘We have to follow them,’ said Herrick, stabbing at her phone to call Harland.

  Bashkin shook his head. ‘It’s no possible.’

  ‘Of course it’s bloody well possible. How much do you want?’

  ‘For this?’ He looked extremely doubtful, as if no amount of money would compensate for the risk he was about to take. ‘Two hundred dollars.’

  ‘Done,’ she said.

  Unable to hide his astonishment, Bashkin started the car.

  Herrick put the phone to her ear. Harland had already answered. ‘There are two cars,’ she said. ‘I’m ninety per cent certain that they’re moving Khan. I’ll follow them. They’re going towards Skenderbeg Square.’

  ‘I’ll join you. Keep in touch.’

  They followed the cars for about five miles to the western fringes of the city. The evening was still warm and a lot of people were milling on the side of the road, buying water-melons and cold
drinks from fridges hooked up to the public power supply. Bashkin slowed down several times, once for a dog-fight that spilled into both lanes of traffic and then for a broken-down truck. As a result, they lost the two Landcruisers, and when they eventually cleared Tirana’s chaotic outskirts and hit the dual carriageway to Durrës she shouted for him to put his foot down. For once Bashkin did as he was told.

  They shot past the new Coca-Cola plant and a detergent factory, both incongruously neat and well-lit, like giant pieces of Toytown, then realised they must have missed the Landcruisers on the turning to Krujë a few miles back. They turned round and took a much smaller road. It passed through several villages and began to climb into a forest of low pines. Bashkin explained that this had once been Enver Hoxha’s private hunting ground and was now the place where they made charcoal. There were fires up here that burned night and day, he said. She asked to borrow his mobile, and after haggling over the price for a call, she phoned Harland for the final time and told him she had found the Valleys of Fire. This was where they must have brought Karim Khan, for what purpose she could not say. Harland seemed oddly unimpressed, but said he was on his way.

  After rounding several more bends they came to a head-land overlooking a bowl in the landscape. Along the far side were about ten furnaces gouged out of the bedrock. Each one had an opening about the size of a door and a little above this was a hole which let out viscous smoke and muddied light. Herrick climbed out of the car saying she’d pay Bashkin another hundred dollars to wait. She also told him to direct a tall Englishman who was about to arrive down into the valley.

  She started down the slope, picking her way through the scrub, all the while glancing ahead of her and up to the road above. As she drew near to the point where the bushes had been cleared, she saw dozens of young men and small, emaciated boys scurrying between the furnaces and heaps of rubber tyres that were responsible for the poisonous air. Their skin and clothes were blackened and the sweat on their bodies gleamed in the light. She crouched down and watched for a few minutes, almost hypnotised by the sight of them rolling tyres up the incline, then heaving them into the furnaces. Occasionally, downdrafts from the mountains caused the fires to blow back without warning and those nearest the furnace doors had to jump for cover. She saw one of these tar-black creatures, no more than four foot six tall, use a long metal poker to vault out of the way with great agility. When he landed he performed a jig like a monkey-demon cavorting in the flames of hell.

  Maybe it was the roar of the underground fires, or the idea that she was witnessing a spectacle brought to life from Hieronymous Bosch, that dulled her attention. Either way, she was utterly caught off guard when they seized her from behind, lifted her bodily onto the clear ground in front and began to frisk her. She managed a little yelp but otherwise put up no resistance.

  There were three of them, all armed. She recognised one from the SHISK headquarters. He gestured to the other two to bring her a little way down the hill and they walked to a pile of wood. The two men holding her relaxed their grip, and one - covertly it seemed to her - slipped his hand down to feel her bottom. What did this mean? Did it presage gang rape, or was this man’s interest something she could use? Could she snatch a gun and run for it?

  ‘You do know I’m a British diplomat?’ she said in a voice that sounded all too thin and powerless.

  The SHISK guard laughed without turning towards her. He was searching the track below them, shielding his face from the heat of the fires. ‘No Ingleesh diplomat,’ he said, wagging his finger without looking at her. ‘You Ingleesh spy. Missease Jeemes Bond.’ All three laughed. At this point, the little man she had seen leaping from the flames came over with a seesaw walk, holding the metal pole over his shoulder like a javelin. He had a round, hairless face with elfin ears and eyes that were too close together. They knew his name - Ylli - and beckoned to him, although his strange looks clearly made them feel uncomfortable. Ylli put out a hand and was given a cigarette and some notes which he stuffed into his back pocket. Then he strutted around Herrick, making observations about her in the high, unbroken voice of a boy. Twice he tried to touch her but was shooed away by the guards. Then he withdrew and let himself down onto a pile of four tyres where he smoked with quick, childish puffs and made gestures that suggested he was sitting in the finest armchair ever made.

  The little man heard the cars first, and scrambled up to balance on the tyres with prehensile bare feet and waved excitedly with the pole. The two Landcruisers, now joined by a Jeep and BMW sped up the remainder of the hill and tore past them about fifty yards away. Herrick strained forward but couldn’t make out any of the passengers because they were thrown into silhouette by the light of the fires and a lot of dust had been kicked up by the lead vehicle. They reached the top of the bowl and stopped just beyond a layer of black fog, at which Ylli jumped down and scampered over to them. Several men got out and started making for the higher ground above the furnaces. They were dragging someone with them, the man in the blue T-shirt, who evidently had his hands tied behind his back and was offering no resistance whatsoever. Behind them came The Doctor, who struggled up the slope with Ylli bringing up the rear. Something passed between this group: it almost seemed as if they were trying to reason with the prisoner. But at length all but two stepped away. The man was marched forward and without further hesitation pushed into the flue opening. Ylli rushed up to the hole and could be seen thrusting and jabbing at the body with his pole. Then a couple of car tyres were thrown in. These instantly caught light and belched a column of smoke and sparks into the night. Without a second look, the party descended to the cars, drove back down towards them and pulled up. A man she hadn’t seen before got out. He was in his late forties, dapperly dressed for the evening in a light sports jacket, a thin polo shirt and well-cut trousers. He took off the jacket, hung it round his shoulders and dusted off his hands with a quick slapping motion.

  ‘It was your choice to be here tonight,’ said the man. His English was perfect; the manner reminiscent of the polo ground. ‘You were spying, and unpleasant things sometimes happen to spies, as you are no doubt aware.’

  Herrick was almost too shocked to speak. ‘Why did you kill him?’ she said. ‘And like that?’

  ‘We have no use for a filthy terrorist. He would not answer our questions. We gave him his chance as you saw this afternoon. How many people have been burnt and mutilated by the actions of men like Khan? You ask yourself that before you judge us. We believe in decisive solutions here in Albania.’

  ‘Burning people alive,’ she said quietly, ‘is not an option in any war.’

  ‘You have a phrase in English, do you not, Miss Herrick? If you can’t stand the heat of the fire … well, I’m sure you know it.’ He gave a little chuckle, took a small notebook from his pocket and held it up to the headlights of the leading car. ‘Your address in London and your telephone number are written here, and that belonging to your father, an old war hero, I believe. He lives in Scotland in a place called Hopelaw - a pretty name - and he has a servant there named Mrs Mackenzie. You see, you are no mystery to me, Isis Herrick.’

  She shook her head. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am Marenglen.’ He paused and took a folded handkerchief from his trouser pocket and held it under his nose. ‘You see, we Albanians have been locked up in this land for many years, so when the communists fell we acquired a taste for travel. Many Albanians have left and set up enterprises all over the world. In some cases, regrettably, these did not meet with the approval of the authorities. However, in London my countrymen encountered little opposition to their activities and they were able to establish themselves in many different fields of endeavour. You will be familiar, perhaps, with the way they have taken over certain businesses in Soho, but they also have many other tricks up their sleeves. One is contract killing.’

  He returned the handkerchief to his pocket and snapped his fingers. The guard who had first apprehended her handed him a cigarette and lit it. ‘S
o,’ he let out smoke from the side of his mouth, ‘allow Marenglen to tell you now that if you place so much as a word of what you have seen in your report to London, I will have you and your father and his loyal servant killed. Naturally, these contracts will be issued in the order that causes maximum pain. If, however, you feel you cannot guarantee your silence to me now, then I don’t see why we shouldn’t advance things a little. You have met Ylli. I believe Ylli is a virgin, at least with humans, although the same cannot be said for sheep and goats. We can leave you with Ylli, he can take his pleasure with you and then, well, you will disappear. I think you can imagine that this would not be a happy end.’

  She nodded.

  ‘So why don’t you go back to the Byron and prepare to leave Albanian soil within, say, thirty-six hours. That should give you time to send a convincing report saying you were given access to the prisoner Khan and that he was in every respect unforthcoming and uncooperative. Oh yes, there is one other thing. Take Robert Harland with you. I don’t see that there is any point in his staying on after you’ve left.’ He smiled, not very pleasantly, and walked the few paces to the car.