The Keys Of Hell - Jack Higgins

Jack Higgins

The Keys Of Hell

The third book in the Paul Chavasse series, 1965

MANHATTAN, 1995

ONE

THE DREAM WAS ALWAYS THE SAME. Plunging into the marsh, forcing his way through the reeds and mist, pushing the punt hard, Guilio Orsini standing at the front finding the way through and then the engine close by breaking into life and a burst of machine-gun fire.

Guilio went over headfirst, always did, and Chavasse floundered through the reeds and the bitterly cold water and then, mysteriously, like a curtain, the reeds parted and there was the lagoon and the boat, the Buona Esperanza, and Orsini was at the rail leaning over, a hand outstretched.

Now, Paul, now.

And Chavasse reached and the mist seemed to increase and there was the roaring of the engine and the boat slapped away, vanished, and he was alone again.

CHAVASSE WAS SUBJECT TO DREAMS OF THE past, and had always suspected it was a legacy of his Breton father. An old race, the Bretons, an ancient people. But this dream he had not had for some years. Still he got off the bed, went to the window of his suite and looked down at Manhattan. The lights sparkled in the evening dusk. He liked New York and always had. There was an excitement there, an infinite probability to things.

When the phone went he answered at once, Chavasse.

Ah, Sir Paul. Tino Rossi.

Good evening, Mr Rossi.

Listen, I know were meeting later for dinner at the Saddle Room, but I wondered whether youd mind coming round to my apartment at the Trump Tower first.

Is there a purpose to this?

Well, my lawyer, Mario Volpe, as you may know, is my nephew a couple of times removed. He seems to think there are a few things he could take care of before our meeting. You understand?

Perfectly, Chavasse said.

Ill send a limousine. Say half an hour?

No need. As its only a couple of blocks, Ill walk.

Fine. Ill look forward to seeing you for dinner later.

Chavasse put down the phone and thought about it, a slight frown on his face, then he went to the wardrobe, took out his rather old-fashioned carpetbag, pulled open a flap in the bottom and produced a short-barreled Colt, only a.22, but deadly with hollow-point rounds. He checked it out, went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

IN THE MAGNIFICENT SITTING ROOM OF HIS Trump Tower apartment Don Tino Rossi replaced the telephone. He was seventy-six years of age and still in good shape, his silver hair almost shoulder-length, his linen suit the best that Savile Row in London could provide.

The large man in the black suit with the shaven head came forward as the Don nodded, opened a silver box, offered a cigarette and a light. He was Aldo Vinelli, the firms head of security. Don Tinos nephew, Mario Volpe, stood by the terrace window smoking a cigarette, thirty years of age, medium height, good-looking and like Rossi, impeccably dressed.

So hes coming.

Why wouldnt he? his uncle asked. He doesnt want a car. Hes walking.

You trust this Chavasse?

As much as he trusts me. Our meeting in London made sense.

Good. Ill make arrangements. Volpe nodded to Vinelli. I need you. He went out.

The Don said quietly, Aldo, I assigned you to protect my nephew because I trust you and youve done a good job.

Thank you, Don Tino.

And where does your loyalty lie?

With you always.

Good.

The Don held out his hand. Aldo kissed it and went out. Rossi sighed. Strange that facility hed always had that told him when someone was lying to him. A gift from God really.

BEFORE IT WAS FASHIONABLE, TINO ROSSI alone amongst Mafia leaders had realized that life had to change, that the old days were long gone. He had turned the Rossi family to respectability. Real estate developments in New York, the same on the Thames in London. Investments in the electronics industry, shipping, banking. His early start meant that these days his only rivals were the Russian Mafia.

The young man he called nephew, Mario, was an important part of the organization. Hed never known his father, and his mother had also died at a young age. Her widowed sister, Signora Volpe, had brought the boy to New York, raised him in Little Italy. As Don Tinos niece her Mafia connection had assured the success of her café. Mario had gone to Columbia, had taken a law degree. Later, hed done the same thing at London University and was now indispensable to the family on both sides of the Atlantic for his legal expertise.

He returned to the room. The Don said, Is everything in hand?

Sure. Look, Ill go with Aldo and monitor him. So hes crazy enough to want to walk alone on a wet night in Manhattan, but that could be asking for it. I mean, this is an older guy. Sixty-five.

So Im ten years older.

Heh, Uncle, I didnt mean

Make this work, Mario, nothing is more important.

You trust this Chavasse?

As I told you, no more than he trusts me. Sir Paul Chavasse, knighted by the Queen of England, Mario.

So?

This man is what? Half English, half French. He speaks more languages than youve had hot dinners. University degrees coming out of his ears. In spite of all that, a killer by nature. For twenty years a field agent for the Bureau, the most secret of British intelligence units. Youve seen his record. Shot three times, knifed twice.

So he was hot stuff.

More than that, Mario, for the past twenty years hes been Belfast Bureau Chief and thats no desk job, not with the IRA and all those other problems. Now he has Eastern Europe on his back. Bosnia, Serbia, Kosova, Albania, and we know who has the greatest input.

The Russian Mafia.

Exactly, and as they are not our friends we can help there. In return, Chavasse will help us.

When possible?

Of course. Look, I suspended all drug operations there years ago and not for moral reasons as you well know. If idiots want to kill themselves with heroin thats their affair. We make more out of cigarette smuggling from Europe into Britain than we ever would have with drugs.

Still illegal.

Yes, but as you being an expert in English law know, a drug runner pulls ten or twelve years. Get done, as the English say, for cigarette smuggling and what would your client get?

Twelve months and out in six. Marco Volpe smiled. Still illegal, running cigarettes by the millions up the Thames, so where does that leave Sir Paul Chavasse?

Exactly as he is. A realist. Were not destroying the lives of stupid teenagers. We arent harming the widows and orphans. He can live with that as long as we provide the expertise on Eastern Europe that he needs. Youll see that we do.

Of course, Uncle.

Good boy. The Don nodded. You take care of things. Tell Sir Paul Ill see him later for dinner at the Saddle Room. Youd better go now, you and Aldo, to make sure he gets here in one piece.

Uncle.

Mario Volpe went out. Rain battering the window, Don Tino reached for his unfinished glass of champagne. Such a clever boy. All the virtues really and yet capable of such stupidity. He swallowed the champagne, got up and walked out leaning on his Malacca cane.

WHEN CHAVASSE EMERGED FROM THE PLAZA Hotel it was raining slightly. He wore a Burberry trenchcoat in dark blue and an old-fashioned rain hat slanted across his head. Inside, the Colt.22 rested in a special clip. Uncomfortable, but also comforting in its own way. Just a feeling, but thats why he was still here after all these years. He declined the offer of a cab from the doorman, went down the steps and started along Fifth Avenue.

Waiting in a black Mercedes town car, Mario Volpe and Vinelli watched him.

Lets go, Aldo, Volpe said, and dont lose him. Not that there was much chance of that as they pulled away from the sidewalk. Not too many people as the rain increased.

Chavasse liked the rain. Somehow you could inhabit your own private world. It was what he called the cinema of the mind time. You considered the facts, tried to make sense, anticipate the other sides next move, and there was certainly more to all this than met the eye. All his senses, the product of forty years of living on the edge, told him that.

Not that he distrusted Don Tino particularly. It was more that he didnt trust anyone. His special kind of life had taught him that. The way Eastern Europe was, the Don could be useful, which was what his meeting with Rossi and Vinelli at the Dorchester Hotel in London had indicated. If a few favors in return was the price, it was worth it, always supposing the price wasnt too high. So Rossi was a gangster. In essence, that was what Chavasse had been for years. You had to be a kind of gangster to be an intelligence agent. All that kept you alive really.

He paused, produced a silver case from an inside pocket, took out a cigarette and lit it in cupped hands. He was standing at the entrance of a darkened mall at the time and for the moment, the sidewalk was clear. As he started forward, a young man darted out of the mall and blocked his way.

Heh, buddy, you got some change?

At that moment, another one emerged, his twin, hard-faced in bomber jacket and jeans, only he was holding a Browning pistol.

This ones got more than change. Lets get him in here.

He rammed the barrel of the Browning against Chavasses spine and drove him into the darkness.

All this was seen from the Mercedes.

Volpe said, Those bastards. Why the gun?

There was the sound of a shot. Vinelli braked to a halt and got the door open.

IN THE MALL THE ONE WITH THE BROWNING rammed it even harder into Chavasse.

A nice fat wallet here Id say, so lets stay friendly. You can call me Tommy.

Chavasse raised his right elbow, struck backwards into the face, turned sideways, pushing the Browning away, grabbed for the barrel, twisted it free and had the gun in his hand.

You should never get that close to anyone.

He pivoted, rammed the barrel of the Browning into the back of Tommys right knee and pulled the trigger. Tommy staggered into the wall and fell down with a cry.

The other one backed away, hands raised.

Heh, man, dont do it.

Vinelli arrived, a gun in his hand, Volpe behind him.

They looked at Tommy lying on the ground and Chavasse tendered the Browning to Vinelli.

Not mine, his. He looked down at the boy. Terrible class of muggers these days. Not too competent.

Volpe held out his hand. Mario Volpe, Sir Paul. We were worried about you so I figured wed check the hotel. Aldo recognized you from London, so we were following. I mean, scum like this, what can I say?