Not much, I expect. Can we go now?
Sure. Volpe turned to Vinelli. Take care of this, Aldo. Ill drive Sir Paul to the Trump, you follow on foot.
He took Chavasse by the arm and led him away. Aldo turned, reached for the youth who was standing and pulled him close.
You were supposed to jump him and wait for us to come to the rescue and what do we get? A gun, for Christs sake.
It was Tommy. Hes on crack.
Really? Vinelli headbutted him, breaking his nose, sending him staggering.
The youth started to weep, blood everywhere. Im sorry, Mr. Vinelli, but what do I do with Tommy?
You get an ambulance. Three very large black guys beat up on you, and no fairy stories for the cops or the Rossi family will see to you on a more permanent basis. He opened his wallet and took out ten hundred-dollar bills. I said a grand and Im a man of my word. He dropped the money on Tommy.
Ill do what you say, Mr Vinelli.
You better had, kid.
Vinelli patted his face, turned his collar up against the rain and walked away.
IN THE SITTING ROOM OF THE TRUMP Tower apartment, Volpe helped Chavasse off with his Burberry and placed it on a chair. Chavasse removed the rain hat and put it on the coat carefully.
Drink, Sir Paul? Martini? Champagne?
Irish whisky, Chavasse told him, Bushmills for preference.
Anything. Weve got it all.
Good. Chavasse took a cigarette from his silver case. And then you can tell me exactly what it is you want.
Vinelli came in and stood by the door, face impassive. Volpe got the whisky from the bar by the window and brought it over.
I dont really want anything, Sir Paul. My uncle and you laid it out pretty clear at your meeting in London at the Dorchester. I mean, even Aldo here met you but I didnt, so I figured it was time. I handle all the familys legal business on both sides of the Atlantic. This whole deal is very important. I wanted to familiarize myself with you.
And why would you want to do that?
Well, on occasions, well be working together, but hell, no problem there. Your record in the intelligence business is amazing.
And how would you know that?
Bureau records are on file at the Public Records Office in London. Sure, maybe theyre on a fifty-year hold, but there are always ways round that. The clerks arent very well paid. Give them a few bob as you Brits say, and its amazing what you can get a copy of.
Chavasse finished his whisky. He said calmly, What you appear to be saying is that youve been checking up on my past record quite illegally.
Yes, but weve 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. Its good stuff. I suppose you wrote it originally. Ive got phone calls to make to all four quarters of the globe. Ill be about an hour then Ill 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 résumé 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
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 wasnt beautiful, but it didnt 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. Ive 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 youd only be ten minutes. Its 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. Its 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. Isnt 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, youre on the books as a Third Secretary, but you certainly dont look like one.
What would you say I did look like? he said calmly.
Oh, I dont 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.
Lets say she knows rather too much about me for my personal peace of mind.
Should do, Murchison said. Francesca works for the Bureau. She was your radio contact last week. One of our best operatives.
Chavasse turned. You were the one who relayed the message from Scutari warning me to get out fast?
She bowed. Happy to be of service.
Before Chavasse could continue, Murchison took him firmly by the arm. Now dont start getting emotional, Paul. Your boss has just got in and he wants to see you. You and Francesca can talk over old times later.
Chavasse squeezed her hand. Thats a promise. Dont go away.
Ill wait right here, she assured him, and he turned and followed Murchison inside.
They moved through the crowded ballroom into the entrance hall, passed the two uniformed footmen at the bottom of the grand staircase and mounted to the first floor.
The long, thickly carpeted corridor was quiet and the music, echoing from the ballroom, might have been from another world. They went up half a dozen steps, turned into a shorter side passage and paused outside a white-painted door.
In here, old man, Murchison said. Try not to be too long. Weve a cabaret starting in half an hour. Really quite something, I promise you.
He moved back along the passage, his footsteps silent on the thick carpet, and Chavasse knocked on the door, opened it and went in.