He turned away into the fog, and as Chavasse watched him go tiredness seemed to wash over him in a great wave. He walked along the pavement, footsteps echoing between narrow stone walls, and paused on a corner, fumbling for a cigarette.
As the match flared in his hands, something needle-sharp sliced through his jacket to touch his spine. A voice said quietly, “Please to stand very still, Mr. Chavasse.”
He waited while the expert hands passed over his body, checking for the weapon that wasn’t there.
“Now walk straight ahead and don’t look round. And do exactly as you are told. It would desolate me to have to kill you.”
It was only as he started walking that Chavasse realized the voice had spoken in Albanian.
SIX
THERE WERE TWO OF THEM, HE COULD tell that much from their footfalls echoing between the walls of the narrow alleys as they moved through the old quarter of the town. The harsh voice of the man who had first spoken occasionally broke the silence to tell him to turn right or left, but otherwise there was no conversation and they stayed well behind him.
Fifteen minutes later, they emerged from an alley onto the sea wall on the far side of the harbor from the jetty. A house several floors high reared into the night, and beside it a flight of stone steps led down to a landing stage.
An old naval patrol boat was moored there, shabby and neglected, paint peeling from her hull. Across her stern ran the faded inscription
The landing stage was deserted in the light of a solitary lamp and there was no one to help him. He turned slowly and faced the two men. One of them was small and rather nondescript. He wore a heavy jersey and a knitted cap was pulled over his eyes.
The other was a different proposition, a big, dangerous-looking man badly in need of a shave. He had a scarred, brutal face, cropped hair, and wore a reefer coat and seaboots.
He slipped a cigarette into his mouth and struck a match on the seawall. “Down we go, Mr. Chavasse. Down we go.”
Chavasse descended the steps slowly. As he reached the landing stage, the little man moved past him and led the way to the far end, where he opened a door set in the thickness of the wall. A flight of stone stairs lifted into the gloom and Chavasse followed him, the big man a couple of paces behind.
They arrived on a stone landing and the little man opened another door and jerked his head. Chavasse moved past him and stood just inside the entrance. The room was plainly furnished with a wooden table and several chairs. A narrow iron bed stood against one wall.
The man who sat at the table writing a letter was small and dark and dressed in a suit of blue tropical worsted. His skin was the color of fine leather, the narrow fringe of beard combining to give him the look of a
Chavasse paused a couple of feet away, hands in pockets. Small, black, shining eyes had swivelled to a position from which they could observe him. The man half turned and smiled.
“Mr. Chavasse – a distinct pleasure, sir.”
His English was clipped and precise, hardly any accent at all. Chavasse decided that he didn’t like him. The eyes were cold and merciless in spite of the polite, birdlike expression, the eyes of a killer.
“I’m beginning to find all this rather a bore.”
The little man smiled. “Then we must try to make things more interesting. How would you like to earn ten thousand pounds?”
At the other end of the table was a tray containing a couple of bottles and several glasses. Chavasse walked to it calmly, aware of a slight movement from the big man over by the door.
One of the bottles contained Smirnoff, his favorite vodka. He half filled a glass and walked casually to the window, gazing forty feet down into the harbor as he drank, assessing the position of the
“Well?” the little man asked.
Chavasse turned. “How are things in Tirana these days?”
The little man smiled. “Very astute, but I haven’t seen Tirana in five years. A slight difference of opinion with the present regime.” He produced a white card and flicked it across. “My card, sir. I am Adem Kapo, agent for Alb- Tourist in Taranto.”
“Among other things, I’m sure.”
Kapo took out a case and extracted a cigarette, which he fitted into a holder. “You could describe me as a sort of middle-man. People come to me with their requirements and I try to satisfy them.”
“For a fee?”
“But of course.” He extended the case. “Cigarette?”
Chavasse took one. “Ten thousand pounds. That’s a lot of money. What makes you think I’d be interested?”
“Knowing who people are is part of my business and I know a great deal about you, my friend. More than you could dream of. Men like you are a gun that is for sale to the highest bidder. In any case, the money would be easily earned. My principals will pay such a sum in advance if you will agree to lead them to the position of a certain launch which recently sank in the marshes of the Buene River in Northern Albania. You are interested?”
“I could be if I knew what you were talking about.”
“I’m sure Signorina Minetti has already filled you in on the details. Come now, Mr. Chavasse, all is discovered, as they say in the English melodramas. According to the information supplied to me by my clients, the body of an Italian citizen, one Marco Minetti, was discovered on a mud bank at the mouth of the Buene recently after an attempt had been made to smuggle a priceless religious relic from the country.”
“You don’t say,” Chavasse said.
Kapo ignored the interruption. “A few hours earlier his launch had disappeared into the wastes of the Buene Marshes. Later, a priest and two men were taken into custody by the sigurmi at the town of Tama. Apparently, the priest was stubborn to the end, a bad habit they have, but the two men talked. They named Minetti, his sister and an Albanian refugee, an artist called Ramiz. I was offered what I must admit was a very handsome fee to trace them.”
“And did you?”
“We’ve been watching Ramiz for weeks, waiting for him to make his move. Incredible though it may seem, he apparently intended to go in again. You see, he was an intellectual – one of those rather irritating people who feel they have a mission in life.”
“You speak of him in the past tense?”
“Yes, it’s really quite sad.” Kapo sounded genuinely moved. “I decided to have a little chat with him earlier this evening. When Haji and Tasko were bringing him here, there was some sort of struggle. He fell from the seawall and broke his neck.”
“Just an unfortunate accident, I suppose?”
“But of course, and quite unnecessary. It’s surprising how easily one’s motives can be misunderstood. I’m afraid an earlier attempt to get in touch with Signorina Minetti also met with a conspicuous lack of success.”
“Which leaves you with me.”
“One can hardly be blamed for thinking it rather more than coincidental that Mr. Paul Chavasse of the British Secret Service just happened to be on the spot when the Signorina Minetti needed some assistance.”
Chavasse reached for the bottle of vodka and poured some more into his glass. “And what would you say if I told you I still don’t know what you’re talking about?”
“If you persisted, you would leave me no choice. I would have to apply to the signorina again, which would distress me greatly.” Kapo sighed. “On the other hand, women are so much easier to deal with. Don’t you agree, Tashko?”
The big man moved to the end of the table, a mirthless grin on his face, and Chavasse nodded thoughtfully.
