The Keys Of Hell

“Bureau records are on file at the Public Records Office in London. Sure, maybe they’re on a fifty-year hold, but there are always ways round that. The clerks aren’t very well paid. Give them ‘a few bob’ as you Brits say, and it’s amazing what you can get a copy of.”

Chavasse finished his whisky. He said calmly, “What you appear to be saying is that you’ve been checking up on my past record quite illegally.”

“Yes, but we’ve got to be careful with the London operation.”

“Does the Don know about this?”

“Of course.”

Chavasse nodded. “So – where are we at?”

“One case of yours really got to me.” Volpe went to a side table and returned with a file. “This was so amazing I had it copied. Read it. It’s good stuff. I suppose you wrote it originally. I’ve got phone calls to make to all four quarters of the globe. I’ll be about an hour then I’ll take you to Don Tino at the Saddle Room. Anything you want, Aldo will get for you.”

He went out and Vinelli stood there, face impassive. “Another whisky, Sir Paul?”

“I think champagne might be more appropriate,” Chavasse said in excellent Italian.

“Of course.”

“Is he for real, the boy?”

“He is young.”

ALDO PRODUCED A BOTTLE OF BOLLINGER from the bar and Chavasse lit another cigarette, picked up the file and opened it. It was a fifty-page resume of certain events in Albania in 1965. It was headed “Bureau Case Study 203, Field Agent Doctor Paul Chavasse.”

Aldo stood at the door, still impassive.

It was very quiet, only rain drumming against the window.

A long time ago, Chavasse told himself, a hell of a long time ago.

He started to read.

ROME AND MATANO, 1965 TWO

WHEN CHAVASSE ENTERED THE GRAND Ballroom of the British Embassy, he was surprised to find the Chinese delegation clustered around the fireplace, looking completely out of place in their blue uniforms, and surrounded by the cream of Roman society.

Chou En-lai surveyed the scene from a large gilt chair, the ambassador and his wife beside him, and his smooth impassive face gave nothing away. Occasionally, guests of sufficient eminence were brought forward by the First Secretary to be introduced.

The orchestra was playing a waltz. Chavasse lit a cigarette and leaned against a pillar. It was a splendid scene, the crystal chandeliers taking light to every corner of the cream-and-gold ballroom, reflected again and again in the mirrored walls.

Beautiful women, handsome men, dress uniforms, the scarlet and purple of church dignitaries – it was all strangely archaic, as if somehow the mirrors were reflecting a dim memory of long ago, dancers turning endlessly to faint music.

He looked across to the Chinese and, for a brief instant, the white face of Chou En-lai seemed to jump out of the crowd, the eyes fastening on his. He nodded slightly as if they knew each other and the eyes seemed to say: All these are doomed – this is my hour and you and I know it.

Chavasse shivered and, for no accountable reason, a wave of grayness ran through him. It was as if some sixth sense, that mystical element common to all ancient races, inherited from his Breton father, were trying to warn him of danger.

The moment passed, the dancers swirled on. He was tired, that was the trouble. Four days on the run with no more than a couple of hours of uneasy sleep snatched when it was safe. He lit another cigarette and examined himself in the mirror on the wall.

The dark evening clothes were tailored to perfection, outlining good shoulders and a muscular frame, but the skin was drawn too tightly over the high cheekbones that were a heritage from his French father, and there were dark circles under the eyes.

What you need is a drink, he told himself, and, behind him in the mirror, a young girl came in from the terrace through the French windows.

Chavasse turned slowly. Her eyes were set too far apart, the mouth too generous. Her dark hair hung loosely to her shoulders and the white silk dress was simplicity itself. She wore no accessories. None were needed. Like all great beauties, she wasn’t beautiful, but it didn’t matter a damn. She made every other woman in the room seem insignificant.

She moved toward the bar, heads turning as she passed, and was immediately accosted by an Italian air force colonel who was obviously slightly the worse for drink. Chavasse gave the man enough time to make a thorough nuisance of himself, then moved through the crowd to her side.

“Ah, there you are, darling,” he said in Italian. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Her reflexes were excellent. She turned smoothly, assessing him against the general situation in a split second and making her decision.

She reached up and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “You said you’d only be ten minutes. It’s really too bad of you.”

The air force colonel had already faded discreetly into the crowd and Chavasse grinned. “How about a glass of Bollinger? I really think we should celebrate.”

“I think that would be rather nice, Mr. Chavasse,” she said in excellent English. “On the terrace, perhaps. It’s cooler there.”

Chavasse helped himself to two glasses of champagne from the table and followed her through the crowd, a slight frown on his face. It was cool on the terrace, the traffic sounds muted and far away and the scent of jasmine heavy on the night air.

She sat on the balustrade and took a deep breath. “Isn’t it a wonderful night?” She turned and looked at him and laughter bubbled out of her. “Francesca – Francesca Minetti.”

She held out her hand and Chavasse gave her one of the glasses of champagne and grinned. “You seem to know who I am already.”

She leaned back and looked up at the stars. When she spoke it was as if she were reciting a lesson hard- learned.

“Paul Chavasse, born Paris, 1928, father French, mother English. Educated at Sorbonne, Cambridge and Harvard Universities. Ph.D. Modern Languages, multilingual. University lecturer until 1954. Since then…”

Her voice trailed away and she looked at him thoughtfully. Chavasse lit a cigarette, no longer tired. “Since then…?”

“Well, you’re on the books as a Third Secretary, but you certainly don’t look like one.”

“What would you say I did look like?” he said calmly.

“Oh, I don’t know. Someone who got about a lot.” She swallowed some more champagne and said casually, “How was Albania? I was surprised you made it out in one piece. When the Tirana connection went dead we wrote you off.”

She started to laugh again, her head back, and behind Chavasse a voice said, “Is she giving you a hard time, Paul?”

Murchison, the First Secretary, limped across the terrace. He was a handsome, urbane man, face bronzed and healthy, the bar of medals a splash of bright color on the left breast of his jacket.

“Let’s say she knows rather too much about me for my personal peace of mind.”