The Keys of Hell

COPYRIGHT

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Special overseas edition 2001

This edition 2002

Published simultaneously in hardback by

HarperCollinsPublishers

First published in the USA by

Berkley Books 2001

Copyright © Harry Patterson 2001

Jack Higgins asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Source ISBN: 9780006514671

Ebook Edition © JULY 2015 ISBN: 9780008159122

Version: 2015-07-31

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

THE KEYS OF HELL was first published in the UK by Abelard-Schuman, London, in 1965 under the authorship of Martin Fallon. The author was, in fact, the writer familiar to modern readers as Jack Higgins. Martin Fallon was one of the names he used during his early writing days. The book was later published in paperback by Coronet Books – under the authorship of Jack Higgins – but it has been out of print for several years.

In 2001, it seemed to the author and his publishers that it was a pity to leave such a good story languishing on his shelves. So Jack Higgins has created an entirely new framework to the original book, added some scenes and made some changes throughout. We are delighted to be able to bring back THE KEYS OF HELL for the pleasure of the vast majority of us all who never had a chance to read the original edition.

DEDICATION

There are no keys to hell – the doors are open to all men.

Albanian proverb

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Publisher’s Note

Dedication

Manhattan: 1995

Chapter 1

Rome Matano: 1965

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Manhattan: 1995

Chapter 17

Keep Reading

About the Author

Other Books By

About the Publisher

1

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 head-first, 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 as 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 we’re meeting later for dinner at the Saddle Room, but I wondered whether you’d 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.

‘I’ll send a limousine. Say half an hour?’

‘No need. As it’s only a couple of blocks, I’ll walk.’

‘Fine. I’ll 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 carpet bag, pulled open a flap in the bottom and produced a short-barrelled 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 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 firm’s head of security. Don Tino’s 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 he’s coming.’

‘Why wouldn’t he?’ his uncle asked. ‘He doesn’t want a car. He’s walking.’

‘You trust this Chavasse?’

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

‘Good. I’ll 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 you’ve 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 he’d 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. He’d 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 Tino’s niece her Mafia connection had assured the success of her café. Mario had gone to Columbia, had taken a law degree. Later, he’d 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, I’ll go with Aldo and monitor him. So he’s 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 I’m ten years older.’

‘Heh, Uncle, I didn’t 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 you’ve 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. You’ve seen his record. Shot three times, knifed twice.’

‘So he was hot stuff.’

‘More than that, Mario, for the past twenty years he’s been Belfast Bureau Chief and that’s 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 that’s 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.’ Mario 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. We’re not destroying the lives of stupid teenagers. We aren’t harming the widows and orphans. He can live with that as long as we provide the expertise on Eastern Europe that he needs. You’ll see that we do.’

‘Of course, Uncle.’

‘Good boy.’ The Don nodded. ‘You take care of things. Tell Sir Paul I’ll see him later for dinner at the Saddle Room. You’d 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 trench coat 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 that’s 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.

‘Let’s go, Aldo,’ Volpe said, ‘and don’t 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 side’s 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 didn’t 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 favours in return was the price, it was worth it, always supposing the price wasn’t 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 one’s got more than change. Let’s get him in here.’

He rammed the barrel of the Browning against Chavasse’s 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 I’d day, so let’s 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 Tommy’s 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, don’t 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 we’d check the hotel. Aldo recognized you from London, so we were following. I mean, scum like this, what can I say?’

‘Not much, I expect. Can we go now?’

‘Sure.’ Volpe turned to Vinelli. ‘Take care of this, Aldo. I’ll 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 Christ’s sake.’

‘It was Tommy. He’s on crack.’

‘Really?’ Vinelli headbutted him, breaking his nose, sending him staggering.

The youth started to weep, blood everywhere. ‘I’m 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 I’m a man of my word.’ He dropped the money on Tommy.

‘I’ll 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 whiskey,’ Chavasse told him, ‘Bushmills for preference.’

‘Anything. We’ve 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 whiskey from the bar by the window and brought it over.

‘I don’t 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 didn’t, so I figured it was time. I handle all the family’s 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, we’ll 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 they’re on a fifty-year hold, but there are always ways round that. The clerks aren’t very well paid. Give them “a few bob” as you Brits say, and it’s amazing what you get a copy of.’

Chavasse finished his whiskey. He said calmly, ‘What you appear to be saying is that you’ve been checking up on my past record quite illegally.’

‘Yes, but we’ve 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. It’s good stuff. I suppose you wrote it originally. I’ve got phone calls to make to all four quarters of the globe. I’ll be about an hour then I’ll 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 whiskey, 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.

2

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 took 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 greyness 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 well, 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. Behind him, reflected 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, the white silk dress was simplicity itself. She wore no accessories. None were needed. Like all great beauties, she wasn’t beautiful, but it didn’t matter a damn. She made every other woman in the room seem insignificant.

She moved towards 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. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’

Her reflexes were excellent. She turned smoothly, assessing him against the situation in a split second and making her decision.

She reached up and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘You said you’d only be ten minutes. It’s 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. It’s cooler there.’

Chavasse took 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. ‘Isn’t 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. PhD 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, you’re on the books as a Third Secretary, but you certainly don’t look like one.’

‘What would you say I did look like?’ he said calmly.

‘Oh, I don’t 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, his face bronzed and healthy, the bar of medals a splash of bright colour on the left breast of his jacket.