Jack Higgins - A Fine Night for Dying

“And you were sent?”

Rossiter nodded. “The start of a fruitful friendship. He came to-how shall I put it-depend on me? When I finally decided to give up Holy Orders, I persuaded Montefiore that he needed quiet and isolation, so he bought this place, under an assumed name. He was badly in decline by then. I’ve had to look after him like a baby for the past three years.”

“In between assignments for your bosses in Peking.”

“Tirana, Chavasse, let’s get it right. Albania has proved a very useful European foothold for us. Of course the Chinese have found me invaluable, for obvious reasons. They’re in rather a difficult position as a rule. An Englishman can pass as a Russian if he speaks the language, but what can a Chinese do?”

“There are Hong Kong and Malayan Chinese living in Britain these days.”

“Indexed and filed-probably checked regularly by MI6 or the Special Branch. Much better to be there and yet not there, if you follow me.”

“Which is where your service for immigrants came in?”

“Exactly, only it wasn’t my service-it was Jacaud’s. There he was running these people across the Channel by the boatload. West Indian, Pakistani, African, Indian-it was perfectly reasonable to have the odd Hong Kong Chinese in there as well.”

It was a bright idea, and Chavasse nodded. “Full marks for using your wits. So Ho Tsen wasn’t the first?”

“If I told you how many you’d feel sick.” He smiled cheerfully.

Chavasse shrugged. “But no more. They’re not going to be too pleased about that when you get back to headquarters.”

“Oh, I don’t know. It couldn’t go on forever and I do have you, after all-a very useful prize.”

There was nothing Chavasse could say that would erase the faint, superior smile from Rossiter’s face, and then for some reason he recalled his conversation with Father da Souza.

“I was almost forgetting-I’ve a message for you.” He lied with complete conviction. “From da Souza.”

The effect was shattering. Rossiter seemed to shrink visibly. “Father da Souza?”

“That’s right. He has a parish near the East India Docks in London. When I wanted information about you, he seemed the obvious person to see.”

“How is he?” Rossiter’s voice was a whisper.

“Fine. He asked me to let you know that there isn’t a day in which he doesn’t remember you in his prayers. He was rather particular that I should tell you that.”

Rossiter’s face turned pale, and he spoke through clenched teeth. “I don’t need his prayers, do you understand? I never did and I never will.”

The bedroom door opened and Famia emerged. She was wearing a raincoat and headscarf and carried a small suitcase. She ignored Chavasse and spoke to Rossiter.

“I’m ready. Shall I take this down to the boat?”

For a brief moment, they might have been alone, for all the attention they paid Chavasse, trapped by that curious intimacy that only belongs to people hopelessly in love with each other. For Chavasse, this was the most interesting discovery of all. That Rossiter obviously genuinely cared for the girl.

He put a hand on her arm and guided her to the door. “Yes, you take your bag down to the boat. We’ll be along later.”

One of the guards opened the door. She looked through Chavasse briefly, her face blank as if he weren’t really there, and went out.

As the door closed, Chavasse said calmly, “What did you do? Put something in her tea?”

Rossiter swung round, the look on his face terrible to see. His hand dipped into his pocket and emerged clutching the Madonna. There was a sharp click and the blade jumped into view. Chavasse crouched, arms up, expecting an attack at any moment. The door opened and Ho Tsen entered.

“Trouble?” he inquired in Chinese.

Rossiter seemed at a loss for words, in some way a different person, the awkward pupil caught out and having to justify himself to the schoolmaster.

For the first time, Ho Tsen showed some evidence of emotion. A kind of contempt appeared on his face. He walked toward Chavasse, hands behind his back, and kicked him in the stomach when he was close enough.

It was expertly done, the work of someone who knew his karate. Chavasse was able to appreciate that much at least, before he keeled over.

HE rolled around a couple of times and fetched up against the wall. He lay there concentrating on recovering his breath while the voices droned somewhere in the distance, indistinct, meaningless. The colonel’s foot had not caught him in the crotch, where such a blow could have had a permanently crippling effect, but in the lower abdomen, obviously by design.

Chavasse had at least been able to tense his muscles to receive it. The result was that, although sick and sore, he was already capable of some kind of movement when the two Chinese guards picked him up.

He played it to the hilt, dragging his feet on the way out and groaning softly. They took him down the stairs, across the hall and descended to the basement. When they reached the cellar, they dropped him to the floor. The one who had carried a machine pistol over his shoulder now unslung it, holding it ready in his hands while the other got out a key and unlocked the door.

The man with the machine pistol leaned down and grabbed Chavasse by the collar, pulling him to his feet. Chavasse drove the stiffened fingers of his left hand under the chin into the exposed throat, a killing blow when expertly delivered. The man didn’t even choke, simply sagged to the floor like an old sack, dropping his machine pistol. Chavasse came to his feet and lifted his elbow into the face of the man behind. The surprised Chinese man gave a stifled cry and went backward into the cell. A strong hand jerked the man around, and Darcy Preston hit him once in the stomach and twice on the jaw.

In the silence, Chavasse picked up the machine pistol and grinned. “I’d say we’re in business again.”

“What’s next on the agenda?” Darcy asked.

Chavasse held up the machine pistol. “Even with this, we don’t stand much of a chance against Rossiter, Ho Tsen and those Albanians. If we could get on board L’Alouette , things could look a little different. Those hand grenades and the machine pistols Malik hid in the false bottom of that locker could more than even things up.”

“What about the girl?”

“She sold us out, didn’t she? As a matter of interest, your hunch was right. She and Rossiter can’t keep their hands off each other. As far as I’m concerned, she’s had it.”

He cut off any further discussion by leading the way outside and tried the other end of the passage. The first stairs they came to had a door at the top, which was not locked. When Chavasse opened it cautiously, he looked into the kitchen, a large, square room with a fire burning on an open hearth. At that moment, a door opened and two of the Albanians entered. He closed the door gently, put a finger to his lips and he and Darcy retreated. At the far end of the passage, more steps took them to a door long disused. Darcy wrestled with the rusted bolt and it finally opened to reveal a small walled garden that was as much a jungle as everything else. They went out through an archway at the far end and ran for the shelter of the trees.

They made it and kept on going, Chavasse in the lead, following one of the overgrown paths, the undergrowth pressing in so closely on either side that it brushed against them.

Without warning, the path emptied into a clearing on the edge of the lagoon in which stood the ruins of a fake Greek temple. Famia Nadeem was standing there, staring up at the broken columns, hands in the pockets of her duffle coat.

She swung round, startled, and an expression of real alarm appeared on her face. Chavasse dropped the machine pistol and grabbed her cruelly, clamping a hand across her mouth.