Jack Higgins - The Keys Of Hell

“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?”

“So?”

“All my life I dreamt of revenge, but these things take time, one step after another. Your friend Orsini married Liri Kupi. Do you remember what happened to them three years ago?”

Chavasse went cold. “They were killed in a car accident outside Rome.”

“Exactly. Faulty brakes was the conclusion of the police.”

Chavasse managed to stay very calm. “So, now it’s my turn?”

“Precisely.”

“And what will the Don say?”

“That’s not important. His time is long past.” He took a Walther PPK from his pocket, rammed it into Chavasse’s side and searched him quickly.

“No weapon. That’s interesting.”

“I thought I was amongst friends.”

“So did the Don. The biggest mistake of your life,” Volpe said as the Mercedes moved along the waterfront.

THE PIER WAS DESERTED IN THE RAIN, THE large motor yacht moored at the far end, a few deck lights on.

“Don’t worry,” Volpe said. “No crew on board tonight. Usually there’s a watchman, but I gave him the night off too. Just you, me and Aldo.”

Vinelli pulled in by the gangway, slid from behind the wheel and opened the rear door. Chavasse got out.

“Does this suit you too, Aldo?”

Vinelli said, “Heh, conversation I don’t need. Just get moving.”

Volpe led the way, Chavasse behind him and Vinelli followed, gun in hand. They passed along the deck and came out in the stern, which was illuminated by dim lights. There was a half canopy, rain thudding against it, the railing of the upper deck above.

Volpe turned at the stern rail, put the Walther in his pocket, took out a pack of Marlboros and lit one. “Over here, Aldo.”

Vinelli moved toward him holding a Browning against his right thigh. Chavasse said, “So this is it?”

He removed his rain hat and ran his left hand over his face, his right clutching the butt of the.22 Colt in its clip.

“You know what they say in Sicily is true tonight. Paul Chavasse will sleep with the fishes. Just like my mother and father, you bastard.”

A soft voice said, “Why Mario, what’s all this?”

Don Tino Rossi moved out of the shadows of the port deck and confronted him, his face shadowed by a broad-brimmed hat, Malacca cane in one hand, a raincoat draped over his shoulders.

Volpe registered cold shock, started to stammer. “Uncle, I…”

“Never expected to see you here, isn’t that how it goes?” Rossi shook his head. “Foolish boy. I’ve known all about your plans, every conversation with Aldo here. In my home, you’re even wired for sound in the bathroom – on camera – everything. I treated you like a father and how do you repay me? By killing Sir Paul, who is important to all my plans.”

“He murdered my parents,” Volpe said desperately.

“I’ve known about that for years. So, it was all right for them to kill others, but not to be killed themselves? A point of view, but there is the matter of your intention to kill me. We can’t have that, can we?”

“Aldo!” Volpe cried.

Vinelli’s hand swept up clutching the Browning, and Chavasse fired through the rain hat and shot him between the eyes. Vinelli dropped the weapon, bounced against the rail and fell on his face.

“Damn you to hell!” Volpe cried, pulling the Walther from his pocket.

There was the muted crack of a silenced AK assault rifle from the rail above, the first shot spinning him round, the second shattering his spine. There was a step on the companionway and two men came down in reefer coats and knitted caps, both holding AKs.

Chavasse said, “You left it a little late.”

“Oh, I had every confidence in you, my friend, and as I now know you like a brother, even your trick with the Colt in the rain hat was familiar to me.” Rossi shrugged. “If you hadn’t got Aldo, my man would have.”

“So what happens now?”

“My boys will dump them out there, victims of another Mafia feud.” He smiled bleakly. “Does it give you a problem or can we still deal on London and Eastern Europe?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Good. Then be on your way. If you look over the rail you will notice a Lincoln has pulled in behind the Mercedes. Your bags have been packed and you are booked out of the Plaza.”

“To where?”

“My chauffeur will take you to Westhampton Airport on Long Island where I keep a private Gulfstream that will have you on your way to London before you know it. Good-bye, my friend. This never happened.”

“Oh, yes, it did,” Chavasse said, turned and walked away.

AS THE GULFSTREAM CLIMBED OUT OVER the Atlantic, Chavasse sat in solitary splendor and asked the steward for a large Irish whisky, which he drank quickly.

He thought of Enrico Noci, Francesca, Guilio Orsini and Mario Volpe, asleep with the fishes. A long time ago, most of it, a hell of a long time ago, but was anything ever finished? Truly finished? He closed his eyes and leaned back.

Jack Higgins was a soldier and then a teacher before becoming a full-time writer. The Eagle Has Landed turned him into an international bestselling author and his novels have since sold over 250 million copies and been translated into fifty-five languages. Many of them have also been made into successful films.