Jack Higgins - A Fine Night for Dying

Chavasse couldn’t see the landing stage, which presumably was on the other side. From an approach point of view, the house couldn’t have had a better strategic situation. The lagoon was half-moon shaped and about a hundred yards wide and two hundred long. There was no possibility of an approach under cover during daylight.

He passed the binoculars to Darcy. “What do you think?”

The Jamaican had a look and shook his head. “I don’t see how anyone could get any closer during daylight without being spotted.”

At that moment, a dog barked and two men came running round the corner of the house. They jumped into view when Chavasse focused the binoculars-two Chinese men, each clutching an assault rifle. The dog joined them a moment later, an Alsatian who ran backward and forward, rooting in the undergrowth.

“I don’t know what he’s looking for, but he won’t get much of a scent in this rain, that’s for certain,” Darcy said.

“I wouldn’t be too sure.” Chavasse watched intently through the binoculars. “It takes a lot to fool a German shepherd.”

There was a sudden commotion over on the right, a heavy splashing, as something forced its way through the reeds. At first Chavasse thought it might be another bull, but he pulled out the Walther PPK just in case. There was a groan of pain, then a splash followed by a cry for help in French.

Chavasse and Darcy pushed through the reeds and emerged on the other side of the sandbank, as a head broke the water in the channel beyond and a hand clutched feebly at air.

Chavasse plunged forward, the water reaching to his chest, and grabbed for the outstretched hand as the man went under again. Their fingers met and he went back slowly, the thick black bottom mud reluctant to let him go.

Darcy gave him a hand and they laid him on his back in the rain, a thin, gray-haired emaciated man of seventy or so. He wore pyjama pants and a sleeveless vest and his body was blue with cold. His eyes rolled wildly, he gibbered with fear, then passed out.

“Poor devil.” Chavasse raised one sticklike arm. “Ever seen anything like that before?”

Darcy examined the multiple tiny scars and nodded soberly. “A heroin addict from the look of it, and pretty far gone. I wonder who he is?”

Chavasse started to take off his anorak. “Last time I saw him was in a photo Mallory showed me, though I must say he was looking considerably healthier.”

“Montefiore?” Darcy said blankly.

“In person.” Chavasse raised the unconscious man, slipped the anorak down over his head and picked him up. “Now let’s get out of here before he dies on us.”

ON the return journey, Chavasse sat in the stern, Enrico Montefiore cradled in his arms. He was in a bad way, there was little doubt of that, and moaned restlessly, occasionally crying out. He never fully regained consciousness.

There was the sound of the Alsatian barking uncomfortably close somewhere, and then the harsh chatter of an outboard motor shattered the morning.

Chavasse sat with the compass in his free hand, relaying precise instructions to Darcy, who was putting his back into the rowing. At one point, they got stuck in a particularly thick patch of reeds and he eased Montefiore to the floor and went over the side to push.

It was cold-bitterly cold, for by this time the water had managed to get inside his nylon waders, and without his anorak the upper part of his body had no protection at all.

The dog barked monotonously, much nearer now, the sound of the outboard motor coming in relentlessly. Chavasse pushed hard and scrambled aboard as the dinghy moved again.

A few moments later, they broke from cover and drifted into clear water, and L’Alouette loomed out of the mist.

“Jacob!” Chavasse called, and then, as they moved closer, saw that Malik was sitting in the stern, his black umbrella shielding him from the rain.

The dinghy bumped gently against the side of L’Alouette . Chavasse stood up and looked straight into Malik’s face beneath the black umbrella, which he now realized was lashed to the stern rail with a length of rope. Malik’s eyes were fixed in death, his left ear was missing and there was a small blue hole just above the bridge of his nose.

“Good morning, Chavasse. Welcome aboard.”

Rossiter moved out of the cabin, smiling pleasantly as if really delighted to be meeting him again.

Colonel Ho Tsen stood in the background, one side of his face covered in surgical tape. He was holding an AK assault rife and looked grim and implacable, every inch the professional.

“One of my men took a photo of you as you came in last night,” Rossiter said. “We always like to check on new arrivals in this part of the Camargue. You may imagine my surprise when he showed me the print.”

“You took your time getting here,” Chavasse said. “You’re not too efficient.”

“This wretched weather, old man. We got here just after you left. So we decided to wait. Actually, our time wasn’t wasted. Your friend was quite forthcoming after the colonel had a few words with him. Oh, yes, I now realize that you know all about us, Chavasse. On the other hand, we know all about you.”

“How nice for you. And what about Montefiore?”

“A problem. He’s done this before, which simply isn’t good enough. I must have a word with the person who was supposed to be looking after him.”

He went to the door, produced a whistle and blew three blasts. As he turned, Darcy Preston said harshly, “Who put him on heroin-you?”

“It keeps him amenable most of the time,” Rossiter said.

“As a living vegetable. Why don’t you let him die?”

“But who on earth would sign all the checks?” Rossiter demanded, in a half-humorous manner, as if trying to be reasonable about the whole thing.

Which explained a great deal. And then several things happened at once. Montefiore started to groan, thrashed his limbs wildly and sat up, and a dinghy powered by an outboard motor appeared from the mist carrying two Chinese men and the Alsatian.

The two men came aboard, leaving the dog in the dinghy. Ho Tsen spoke sharply to one of them in Chinese, so rapidly that Chavasse could not hear what was said. The man replied in a low voice, eyes down, and Ho Tsen slapped him across the face.

“Have they got a dose with them?” Rossiter demanded in Chinese.

One of the men put down his assault rifle and produced a small leather case. He opened it, took out a hypodermic and a glass ampoule. Rossiter filled the hypo and nodded to the Chinese man, who held Montefiore down by the shoulders. Rossiter gave him the injection.

“That should hold him.”

Montefiore stopped struggling and went very still, all tenseness leaving him, and then a strange thing happened. His eyes opened and he looked up at Rossiter and smiled.

“Father Leonard?” he said. “Father Leonard, is that you?”

And smiling, the breath went out of him in a quiet sigh and his head slipped to one side.

There was a sudden silence. Rossiter gently touched his face. It was Ho Tsen who moved first. He pushed Rossiter out of the way and shook Montefiore roughly. Then he turned, his eyes angry.

“He’s dead-do you understand? You’ve killed him. I warned you-I told you, you were giving him too much.” He struck out at Rossiter, sending him back against the other bunk. “One error after another. You’ll have a lot to answer for when we reach Tirana.”

For a moment, all attention was focused on the Englishman. Chavasse sent one of the other Chinese men staggering, turned and jumped for the door. He went over the rail, surfaced and struck out for the shelter of the reeds.

He threw a quick glance over his shoulder and saw Darcy struggling with the two Chinese men at the rail. Ho Tsen appeared, clubbed the Jamaican with the butt of his rifle and raised it to his shoulder. As he started to fire, Chavasse went under the water and swam for the reeds.