“Help me, Paul! Help me!”
He looked down at her, remembering Matt Sorley, Dumont and all the others, good friends who had gone to a hard death because of her.
Orsini said, “For God’s sake, Paul. Are we animals?”
Chavasse turned and looked at him and the Italian shrugged. “If you won’t help her, I will.”
He started forward and Chavasse shook his head. “My affair, Guilio.”
He reached down and pulled Francesca aboard and she sprawled on the deck, coughing and gasping for breath. “Thank you, Paul. You’ll never regret it, I promise you.”
As she got to her feet, her hand swung up and he was aware of the blade, shining in the harsh morning light. He tried to turn, but he was too late and it caught him in the left side, slicing through flesh, bouncing from the rib cage.
He staggered back, recoiling as much from the cold hatred in her eyes as from the force of the blow, and Orsini cried out in dismay. Chavasse was aware of the knife raised high, gleaming in a ray of early-morning sunlight, which at that moment pierced the mist, and then Liri’s voice was lifted in a savage cry.
She moved forward, the heavy automatic Orsini had given her in both hands, and one heavy slug after another hammered Francesca back over the rail into the water.
Chavasse was aware of Orsini kneeling beside him, of Liri throwing the gun far out to sea. He took a deep breath, fighting against the pain.
“I’m all right, Guilio. I’m fine. Just let’s get to hell out of here.”
Orsini called to Carlo in the wheelhouse and, a moment later, the engines started and the
They passed through a great widening circle of wreckage from the patrol boat and Liri, standing at the rail, called out sharply and pointed to the water.
Chavasse shook his head, holding his bunched shirt tightly against his side to stem the flow of blood and tried to hear what was being said. There was a roaring in his ears and gray cobwebs seemed to be drifting slowly across his field of vision. He was aware that the engines had stopped, that Carlo had joined Liri, and then Orsini went over the rail.
Chavasse leaned over, suddenly faint, fighting hard against the pain. When he straightened, Carlo was lifting the statue of Our Lady of Scutari over the side.
Orsini brought it across and laid it reverently on the deck in front of Chavasse. “Look, Paul, floating in the wreckage without a mark on her. A miracle.”
Carlo went back into the wheelhouse and started the engines and Chavasse sat there looking at the statue. He was crying, which was a strange thing and couldn’t be explained, and yet somehow the dark serene face smiling up at him seemed to ease his pain.
Above his head, a gull cried sharply, skimmed low over the sea and sped away through the misty rain like a departing spirit.
MANHATTAN, 1995
SEVENTEEN
IN THE SITTING ROOM AT THE TRUMP Tower apartment, Chavasse finished reading the file, closed it and sat back.
Vinelli said, “Another drink, Sir Paul?”
“Why not?” Chavasse said. “ Champagne will be fine.”
Vinelli went to the bar, opened a fresh bottle. Chavasse took the glass he offered and savored it. “Let’s have him in, Aldo.”
“As you say.”
It was quiet, only that damned rain drumming on the windows, and then the door opened and Vinelli came in ahead of Volpe.
Chavasse said, “A hell of a story. I mean, it was really heavy stuff for you to get hold of it.”
“Like I said, those clerks at the Public Records Office aren’t the best paid people in the world.”
“So all you had to do was check up on Paul Chavasse and the Bureau, and it was all there?”
“Well, you were a star performer.”
“What can I say? I’d sound modest.”
“What you did – it was better than James Bond.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Just another job for the Bureau. That’s what it was all about. The name of the game.”
“You may think that, but I’m truly impressed.”
Chavasse said, “What now?”
“We go to see Don Tino.”
“At the Saddle Room at the Plaza Hotel.”
“Actually, things have changed. The Don would like to see you on the family yacht. It’s moored off Pier Ten at the waterfront in Brooklyn. Full crew, great chef. Don Rossi is concerned with confidentiality here.”
Chavasse picked up his rain hat, slanted it across his head and reached for his Burberry. “So, let’s get on with it.”
Aldo got to the Burberry and held it for him. Chavasse said, “Why, thank you, Aldo.”
Vinelli appeared to hesitate and Chavasse smiled. “I’m really looking forward to this. I love boats, Aldo.”
ALDO DROVE, CHAVASSE AND VOLPE SAT TOGETHER in the back of the Mercedes. The rain washed the streets clean of people as they moved toward Brooklyn. Chavasse took out the silver case, selected a cigarette and lit it. He blew out the smoke.
“Yes, fascinating, that file. Of course, Bureau files are on a fifty-year hold so it would be impossible for anyone to take a look. An offense under the Official Secrets Act.”
“Amazing what money can do. People are so corrupt.”
“Oh, I agree totally, but in this case, there’s one thing wrong.”
“And what would that be?”
“Bureau Case Study 203, Field Agent Doctor Paul Chavasse. You said I probably wrote it myself. Actually, I did and there’s only one problem.”
“Which is?”
“It’s been expanded. For instance, the mention of the death of Enrico Noci. You remember that?”
“Sure. Drowned in a fishing net by you and your friends.”
“No, to be correct, executed.”
“Murdered.” There was a sudden violence in Volpe’s voice.
“A point of view. He was what you’d call a bad guy, his actions responsible for the deaths of friends of mine. Having said that, the manner of his death wasn’t the kind of thing to put in an official report, so under the Chief’s instructions, I left it out.” He took out his case and selected another cigarette. “So how did you find out?”
“From my aunt.” Volpe was shaking a little.
“And that would be Signora Volpe, if I recall your background, Don Tino’s niece.”
“Great-niece by marriage.”
“You Italians take family so seriously. So what was Enrico Noci to you?”
“My father – the father you murdered. Something I learned at my aunt’s knee.”
“I see.” Chavasse’s voice was gentler.
“No, you still don’t. Would you like to know who my mother was?”
Chavasse waited for the axe to fall. “I believe I know.”
“Francesca Minetti.”
“Who, as I point out in my report, gutted me with a rather large knife.”
“Never mind that. Your friend Liri Kupi shot her to pieces, you admit that?”
