He was standing beside a Renault station wagon, leaning heavily on his walking stick, when they emerged from the station, a thin, elegant-looking man with a spiked moustache who carried his sixty years well.
He limped toward them and greeted Chavasse with enthusiasm. “My dear Paul, how wonderful to see you. How goes it?”
“Excellent.” Chavasse took his hand warmly. “And Nerida and your family?”
“Blooming. She still misses Algiers, but we could never go back. I wouldn’t last a week. They have long memories, those people.”
Chavasse introduced him to Darcy and they all got into the Renault and drove away. It was warm and rather sultry, the sun hidden from view by heavy gray clouds, and yet there was that intense light common to Marseilles, dazzling to the eyes.
“What have you arranged?” Chavasse asked.
“I gave the whole thing a great deal of thought after your phone call,” Malik said. “At exactly four a.m., I hit upon an idea of some genius, though I say this with all due modesty. To get into the Camargue presents no problem. To stay without being observed is impossible.”
“In three hundred square miles of lagoon and marsh?” Chavasse said. “I don’t follow.”
“Oh, the population is small enough, mainly wild fowlers and a few cowboys who tend the young bulls and the horses that run wild in all parts of the area. It is because of the sparseness of the population that it is difficult for outsiders to enter without it being known. What you need is a legitimate reason for being there, a reason that anyone who sees you will accept.”
“And you’ve found it?”
“Bird-watching,” Malik said simply.
Darcy Preston laughed out loud. “He can’t be serious.”
“But I am.” Malik looked slightly injured. “The Camargue is famous for its wild birds, particularly its colony of flamingos. People come to study them from all over Europe.”
“You know, I think you might actually have something there,” Chavasse said.
“More than that, my dear Paul, I have the equipment to go with it. A small cabin cruiser and all the extras I could think of. A rubber boat, shooting jackets and waders, binoculars, a decent camera. I checked with S2 in London and got the go-ahead. It seemed pointless to waste time.”
“Marvelous.” Chavasse was aware of a sudden irrational affection for him and clapped him on the shoulder. “Truly marvelous.”
“No need to overdo it, Paul. For this kind of exercise, I get a handsome fee-double if I assist in the field.”
“Do you want to?”
“I know the Camargue and you don’t, so it would seem sensible.” He smiled. “And you really have no idea how boring life is these days. A little action would definitely be good for my soul.”
“That’s settled then.” Chavasse turned to Darcy, who was sitting in the rear. “Nothing like some organization.”
“Oh, I’m impressed,” Darcy said. “I’d be even more so if someone could remember to fill my belly within the next couple of hours. It’s contracted so much it’s beginning to hurt.”
“That, too, I have arranged, monsieur,” Malik said. “My cafe is a stone’s throw from the harbor. There my wife will reluctantly provide you with bouillabaisse, simply because it’s the local speciality, but if you have sense, you will choose her stuffed mutton and rice and earn her eternal friendship.”
“Lead on, that’s all I ask,” Darcy said, and Malik swung the Renault from one line of traffic to the next, narrowly missing a bus, and turned into a narrow side street leading down to the harbor.
THE stuffed mutton and rice was everything Malik had promised, and afterward, they went down to the old harbor, parked the Renault and walked along a stone jetty. There were boats of all shapes and sizes riding at anchor, and scores of dinghies and tenders of every description were tied close to the jetty. They went down the steps and Malik hauled in a six-man yacht tender.
Chavasse did the rowing and, under orders, threaded his way through the crowded harbor until they fetched alongside a twenty-foot fiberglass cabin cruiser powered by an outboard motor. She was named
The cabin was small, the two padded side benches making up into beds at night. The only other accommodation was a lavatory and a small galley.
Malik sat down with a sigh, produced a thin black cheroot and lit it. “And now to business. You’ll find a map in that locker, Paul, as well as a false bottom, under which are a couple of machine pistols and half a dozen grenades. It seemed like a good idea.”
The map unfolded to show the Camargue in detail, and not only the several mouths of the Rhone, but every lagoon, every sandbank, every waterway.
“You can’t go too much by this,” Malik said. “The action of the tide and the current from the river combine pretty forcefully. A sandbank can be there one day and gone the next, and some of the waterways can silt up just as quickly. We shouldn’t have too much trouble, though.
“And Hellgate? Have you managed to pinpoint it on the map?” Darcy asked.
“Indeed I have. See, just a little on the Marseilles side of the Pointe du Norde. Three or four miles inland is the village of Chatillon. Hellgate is marked there, a couple of miles northeast of the village.”
Chavasse found it at once, an island in a lagoon that was shaped like a half-moon. “Have you managed to find out anything of the place or Montefiore?’
“Naturally, I’ve been mainly restricted to Marseilles because of the time element, but I’ve managed to produce some useful information. The house is about seventy years old. Built in the nineties by a Russian novelist called Kurbsky, who didn’t like the czar and made it obvious. His novels had quite a vogue at the time in America and Europe generally, and he became a wealthy man. He came across the Camargue on a visit to a bull farm in the area and decided to stay. He had the house built where it was because he had an obsession with privacy. It’s a wooden building and very Russian in style.”
“What happened to him?”
“He returned home after the Revolution-a grave error. He didn’t like Lenin any more than he did the czar, only this time he couldn’t get out. He died in 1925, or was killed off. None of this required any genius, by the way. There is an excellent library in Marseilles. I had a friend in the provincial land-records office telephone through to Arles to see who owns the place now. It was used as a base by German troops during the war. Afterward, it was empty until four years ago, when it was purchased by someone named Leduc.”
“Leduc?” Chavasse frowned.
“That was the name on the register.”
Chavasse nodded slowly. “All right, I’d better fill you in on the details, then you know where you stand.”
When he had finished, Malik looked thoughtful. “A strange business. This man Rossiter, for example. On the one hand, a bungling amateur who leaves himself wide open. On the other, a ruthless, cold-blooded killer without the slightest scruples.”
“And Ho Tsen?”
“Nasty-very nasty. What’s a real pro doing mixed up with people like that?”
“That’s what we’ve got to try and find out,” Chavasse said. “Although I’ve got my own ideas on that subject. You know how difficult it is for the Chinese where espionage is concerned. The Russians don’t have anywhere near the same trouble because they can pass off their own people as nationals of most other countries. The Chinese obviously can’t do that, which explains why they’re willing to use a man like Rossiter, amateur or no amateur. Mind you, that still doesn’t explain how someone like Montefiore fits in.”
Malik nodded. “And what happens afterward?”
“Elimination-total and absolute.”
“And the girl,” Darcy put in. “What about her?”
“If we can, we get her out.”
“But only if we can?”
“Exactly. Now let’s get going. With most of the afternoon left, we can get a hell of a lot done before nightfall.
