A Fine Night for Dying (13 page)

The bad weather had not developed as expected and the rain had held off except for intermittent showers. As they moved in toward the land, Malik once more took the wheel and Chavasse and Darcy stood at the rail.

A half dozen white horses stood on a sandbank and watched them as they went by, and beyond, hundreds of flamingos paced through the shallows, setting the air aflame with the glory of their plumage.

“What happens now, Paul?” Malik asked. “Do we stop at the village or keep going?”

“No harm in calling in,” Chavasse said. “You can visit the local store, see what you can find out. Darcy and I had better stay in the background, just in case.”

“All right.” Malik nodded. “To pass through without stopping would probably engender an unhealthy interest about our identity and business anyway. Small communities are the same the world over.”

And Châtillon was certainly that: two primitive wooden jetties standing just out of the water, an assortment of small boats and a couple of dozen houses. Malik took
L'Alouette
to the extreme end of one of the jetties and Chavasse tied up. Darcy stayed below.

The Pole limped away and Chavasse lounged in the stern, fiddling with a fishing rod, part of the general equipment Malik had provided. There didn't seem to be a great deal of activity on shore. About fifty yards away, a man worked on a boat, and two old men sat on the other jetty mending wildfowling nets.

Malik returned in fifteen minutes, carrying a paper bag loaded with various provisions. “Typical French provincials,” he said, as Chavasse helped him over the rail. “Suspicious as hell of all strangers, but wanting to know every last detail of your business.”

“And what did you tell them.”

“That I was from Marseilles with a friend to do some bird-watching and a little fishing. As I told you before, they get people like that in here all the time.”

“And they accepted your story?”

“Completely. It was an old woman in her seventies and her idiot son. I got out the map and asked her where there was a good place to tie up for the night, which gave me an excuse to put my finger on Hellgate amongst other places.”

“What was her reaction?”

“Nothing very exciting. It's private. Nice people, but they don't encourage visitors.”

“Fair enough,” Chavasse said. “Let's get moving. It'll be dark soon.”

Thunder rumbled menacingly in the distance, and Malik pressed the starter as Chavasse cast off. Darcy didn't come on deck until they were well away from the village and proceeding along a narrow channel, reeds pressing in on either hand.

Chavasse scrambled up on top of the cabin and opened the map. At first it was relatively simple to chart a course, but it became progressively more difficult the deeper into the marshes they went.

They had deliberately avoided staying with the principal waterway that gave direct access to Hellgate and kept to the northeast, so that in the end, they were approaching it from the rear.

It was almost dark when they turned into a small lagoon, and he called softly, “Okay, we'll make this do.”

Malik cut the motor and Darcy heaved the anchor over the side into eight or nine feet of water. Suddenly, it was quiet except for the croaking of bullfrogs and the occasional stirring of a bird in the thickets.

“How far?” Darcy asked.

“Quarter of a mile, no more,” Chavasse said. “We'll go on in the rubber boat at first light and take a look at the place.”

“An interesting prospect,” Malik said.

“Oh, it should be that, all right.”

Above them, thunder cracked the sky wide open, and as darkness fell, rain fell with it in a sudden drenching downpour that sent them running to the shelter of the cabin.

I
t was a cold gray world that Chavasse stepped into when he went on deck at four-thirty on the following morning. Rain hammered into the waters of the marsh with a thousand voices and yet life stirred out there in the gloom. Birds called and wild geese lifted into the rain.

He was wearing waterproof nylon waders and a hooded anorak and a pair of binoculars hung around his neck. Darcy Preston joined him, wearing a similar outfit, and was followed by Malik, who sheltered under a large black umbrella.

“The last place God made.” The Pole shuddered. “I'd forgotten there was such a time of day.”

“Good for the soul, Jacob.” Chavasse hauled in the dinghy. “We shouldn't be long—a couple of hours at the most. I just want to size things up, that's all.”

“Just make sure you know how to find your way back,” Malik said. “It's not too easy in a place like this.”

Darcy Preston took the oars and pulled away, and in a few moments
L'Alouette
had faded into the murk. Chavasse used the map and compass and charted a course for Hellgate that took them in a straight line through mud and reeds and narrow waterways, penetrating deeper and deeper into a lost world.

“This is how it must have seemed at the beginning of time,” Darcy said. “Nothing's changed.”

There was a rustle in the reeds on their left, they parted, and a young bull plowed through. He stopped in the shallows and watched them suspiciously.

“Just keep going,” Chavasse said. “That's a fighting bull with a pedigree as long as your arm. They don't take kindly to strangers.”

Darcy pulled harder and the bull faded from view. “I certainly wouldn't like to be on foot with one of those things on my tail,” he said. “What in the name of good sense are they doing running around loose?”

“This is where they raise them. This is bull country, Darcy. They just about worship the damn things. We're the interlopers, not the bulls.”

They emerged into a large lagoon, and the towers of the house loomed out of the mist fifty yards away. Chavasse made a quick gesture and Darcy pulled into the shelter of the reeds on the right. There was a patch of high ground beyond and they beached the dinghy and got out. Chavasse crouched and focused the binoculars.

As Malik had said, the house was very Russian in style and constructed of wood, with a four-story tower at each end and a verandah at the front. The whole was surrounded by pine trees that had probably been specially planted when it was first built, but what had originally been the garden was now an overgrown jungle.

There was something curiously false about the place. It was too much like the real thing—a film set for a Hollywood version of a Chekhov play.

Chavasse couldn't see the landing stage, which presumably was on the other side. From an approach point of view, the house couldn't have had a better strategic situation. The lagoon was half-moon shaped and about a hundred yards wide and two hundred long. There was no possibility of an approach under cover during daylight.

He passed the binoculars to Darcy. “What do you think?”

The Jamaican had a look and shook his head. “I don't see how anyone could get any closer during daylight without being spotted.”

At that moment, a dog barked and two men came running round the corner of the house. They jumped into view when Chavasse focused the binoculars—two Chinese men, each clutching an assault rifle. The dog joined them a moment later, an Alsatian who ran backward and forward, rooting in the undergrowth.

“I don't know what he's looking for, but he won't get much of a scent in this rain, that's for certain,” Darcy said.

“I wouldn't be too sure.” Chavasse watched intently through the binoculars. “It takes a lot to fool a German shepherd.”

There was a sudden commotion over on the right, a heavy splashing, as something forced its way through the reeds. At first Chavasse thought it might be another bull, but he pulled out the Walther PPK just in case. There was a groan of pain, then a splash followed by a cry for help in French.

Chavasse and Darcy pushed through the reeds and emerged on the other side of the sandbank, as a head broke the water in the channel beyond and a hand clutched feebly at air.

Chavasse plunged forward, the water reaching to his chest, and grabbed for the outstretched hand as the man went under again. Their fingers met and he went back slowly, the thick black bottom mud reluctant to let him go.

Darcy gave him a hand and they laid him on his back in the rain, a thin, gray-haired emaciated man of seventy or so. He wore pyjama pants and a sleeveless vest and his body was blue with cold. His eyes rolled wildly, he gibbered with fear, then passed out.

“Poor devil.” Chavasse raised one sticklike arm. “Ever seen anything like that before?”

Darcy examined the multiple tiny scars and nodded soberly. “A heroin addict from the look of it, and pretty far gone. I wonder who he is?”

Chavasse started to take off his anorak. “Last time I saw him was in a photo Mallory showed me, though I must say he was looking considerably healthier.”

“Montefiore?” Darcy said blankly.

“In person.” Chavasse raised the unconscious man, slipped the anorak down over his head and picked him up. “Now let's get out of here before he dies on us.”

 

ON the return journey, Chavasse sat in the stern, Enrico Montefiore cradled in his arms. He was in a bad way, there was little doubt of that, and moaned restlessly, occasionally crying out. He never fully regained consciousness.

There was the sound of the Alsatian barking uncomfortably close somewhere, and then the harsh chatter of an outboard motor shattered the morning.

Chavasse sat with the compass in his free hand, relaying precise instructions to Darcy, who was putting his back into the rowing. At one point, they got stuck in a particularly thick patch of reeds and he eased Montefiore to the floor and went over the side to push.

It was cold—bitterly cold, for by this time the water had managed to get inside his nylon waders, and without his anorak the upper part of his body had no protection at all.

The dog barked monotonously, much nearer now, the sound of the outboard motor coming in relentlessly. Chavasse pushed hard and scrambled aboard as the dinghy moved again.

A few moments later, they broke from cover and drifted into clear water, and
L'Alouette
loomed out of the mist.

“Jacob!” Chavasse called, and then, as they moved closer, saw that Malik was sitting in the stern, his black umbrella shielding him from the rain.

The dinghy bumped gently against the side of
L'Alouette
. Chavasse stood up and looked straight into Malik's face beneath the black umbrella, which he now realized was lashed to the stern rail with a length of rope. Malik's eyes were fixed in death, his left ear was missing and there was a small blue hole just above the bridge of his nose.

“Good morning, Chavasse. Welcome aboard.”

Rossiter moved out of the cabin, smiling pleasantly as if really delighted to be meeting him again.

 

COLONEL Ho Tsen stood in the background, one side of his face covered in surgical tape. He was holding an AK assault rife and looked grim and implacable, every inch the professional.

“One of my men took a photo of you as you came in last night,” Rossiter said. “We always like to check on new arrivals in this part of the Camargue. You may imagine my surprise when he showed me the print.”

“You took your time getting here,” Chavasse said. “You're not too efficient.”

“This wretched weather, old man. We got here just after you left. So we decided to wait. Actually, our time wasn't wasted. Your friend was quite forthcoming after the colonel had a few words with him. Oh, yes, I now realize that you know all about us, Chavasse. On the other hand, we know all about you.”

“How nice for you. And what about Montefiore?”

“A problem. He's done this before, which simply isn't good enough. I must have a word with the person who was supposed to be looking after him.”

He went to the door, produced a whistle and blew three blasts. As he turned, Darcy Preston said harshly, “Who put him on heroin—you?”

“It keeps him amenable most of the time,” Rossiter said.

“As a living vegetable. Why don't you let him die?”

“But who on earth would sign all the checks?” Rossiter demanded, in a half-humorous manner, as if trying to be reasonable about the whole thing.

Which explained a great deal. And then several things happened at once. Montefiore started to groan, thrashed his limbs wildly and sat up, and a dinghy powered by an outboard motor appeared from the mist carrying two Chinese men and the Alsatian.

The two men came aboard, leaving the dog in the dinghy. Ho Tsen spoke sharply to one of them in Chinese, so rapidly that Chavasse could not hear what was said. The man replied in a low voice, eyes down, and Ho Tsen slapped him across the face.

“Have they got a dose with them?” Rossiter demanded in Chinese.

One of the men put down his assault rifle and produced a small leather case. He opened it, took out a hypodermic and a glass ampoule. Rossiter filled the hypo and nodded to the Chinese man, who held Montefiore down by the shoulders. Rossiter gave him the injection.

“That should hold him.”

Montefiore stopped struggling and went very still, all tenseness leaving him, and then a strange thing happened. His eyes opened and he looked up at Rossiter and smiled.

“Father Leonard?” he said. “Father Leonard, is that you?”

And smiling, the breath went out of him in a quiet sigh and his head slipped to one side.

There was a sudden silence. Rossiter gently touched his face. It was Ho Tsen who moved first. He pushed Rossiter out of the way and shook Montefiore roughly. Then he turned, his eyes angry.

“He's dead—do you understand? You've killed him. I warned you—I told you, you were giving him too much.” He struck out at Rossiter, sending him back against the other bunk. “One error after another. You'll have a lot to answer for when we reach Tirana.”

For a moment, all attention was focused on the Englishman. Chavasse sent one of the other Chinese men staggering, turned and jumped for the door. He went over the rail, surfaced and struck out for the shelter of the reeds.

He threw a quick glance over his shoulder and saw Darcy struggling with the two Chinese men at the rail. Ho Tsen appeared, clubbed the Jamaican with the butt of his rifle and raised it to his shoulder. As he started to fire, Chavasse went under the water and swam for the reeds.

Safely in their shelter, he turned and looked back. The two Chinese men were already in the dinghy and casting off, the Alsatian howling like a wolf. Chavasse started to push through the reeds, half-swimming, half-wading. And then another sound rent the morning: the engine of
L'Alouette
as she got underway.

 

HE came to a waterway so deep that his feet failed to touch bottom. He swam across to a gray-green wall of palm grass and forced his way through. He paused after a few minutes, treading water. The sound of
L'Alouette
's engine was fading. Presumably it was returning to Hellgate, but the outboard motor of the dinghy was popping away in the vicinity and the Alsatian's mournful howl echoed eerily through the rain like a voice from the grave.

He started to swim again, pushing his way through the reeds, and suddenly, the sound of the outboard motor ceased abruptly and the dog stopped barking. Which wasn't good, whichever way you looked at it, because now he didn't have the slightest idea where they were.

His feet touched bottom, and he plowed through thick black mud and moved out of reeds and grass to relatively firm ground. The compass still hung around his neck, enabling him to check his direction, and he concentrated hard, trying to recapture a pictorial image of the map. It was an old trick and surprisingly effective. The island would be the only one of any size in the vicinity of
L'Alouette
's anchorage, a couple of hundred yards in diameter and a quarter of a mile southwest of Hellgate.

He started to run, then came to a dead stop as a bull loomed out of the mist to confront him. The animal held its head high and stared him right in the eye. Steam drifted from its nostrils and Chavasse backed away slowly. There was a movement to his right as another bull appeared like a dark shadow, flanks glistening. It pawed the ground nervously, its head dipped, the great curving horns gleaming viciously, and then another appeared beyond the first and yet another, six or seven of the great beasts in all, fighting bulls reared for their courage and heart, bred to fight in the ring.

He took a deep breath and walked through them very slowly, passing so close between two of the outer circle that he could reach out and touch them. He kept on going, stumbling through tussocks of marsh grass, and emerged on a sandy shore. There was a sharp cry, followed by two shots close together, and sand fountained into the air on his right.