Incredibly, everything the man had said about himself was true. At one time a high official in the Albanian Ministry of the Interior, he had been marked down for elimination in 1958 during one of Hoxha’s earlier purges. He had been allowed to enter Italy as a political refugee and had since lived in Taranto earning a living as an import-export agent. Presumably on the basis that an Albanian of any description was preferable to a foreigner, Alb-Tourist had appointed him their Taranto agent in 1963. An official investigation by Italian Military Intelligence in that year had indicated nothing sinister in the appointment.
Chavasse thanked the duty officer. No, it was nothing of any importance. He’d simply run across Kapo in Matano and had thought him worth checking on.
A T THE OTHER END OF THE WIRE IN HIS small office in Rome, the duty officer replaced the receiver with a thoughtful frown. Almost immediately, he picked it up again and put a call through to Bureau headquarters in London on the special line.
It could be nothing, but Chavasse was a topliner—everyone in the organization knew that. If by any remote chance he was up to anything and the Chief didn’t know about it, heads might start to roll and the duty officer hadn’t the slightest intention of allowing his own to be numbered among them.
The telephone on his desk buzzed sharply five minutes later and he lifted it at once. “Hello, sir…yes, that’s right…well, there may be nothing in it, but I thought you’d like to know that I’ve just had a rather interesting call from Paul Chavasse in Matano….”
O LD G ILBERTO COUGHED AS THE BRANDY caught at the back of his throat and grinned wryly at Orsini. “I must be getting old, Guilio. Never heard a dammed thing. It couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes after Carlo had delivered the young woman. One moment I was reading a magazine, the next, the lights were going out.” He raised a gnarled and scarred fist. “Old I may be, but I’d still like five minutes on my own with that fancy bastard, whoever he is.”
Orsini grinned and patted him on the shoulder. “You’d murder him, Gilberto. Nothing like a bit of science to have these young toughies running around in circles.”
They went out into the passage, leaving the old man sitting at the fire, a blanket around his shoulders. “A good heavyweight in his day,” Orsini said. “One with the sense to get out before they scrambled his brains. Anything from Rome?”
Chavasse shook his head. “Everything Kapo said about himself was true. He is the Alb-Tourist agent in Taranto, an old Party man from Tirana who said the wrong thing once too often and only got out by the skin of his teeth. According to Italian Intelligence he’s harmless, and they usually know what they’re talking about.”
“That’s what MI5 said about Fuchs and look where it got them,” Orsini pointed out. “Nobody’s perfect and the good agent is the man who manages to pull the wool over the eyes of the opposition most effectively.”
“Which doesn’t get us anywhere,” Chavasse said. “They’ve gone, which is all that counts, taking Francesca Minetti with them.”
They went into the office at the rear of the bar and Orsini produced a bottle of whisky and three glasses. He filled them, a slight thoughtful frown on his face.
“Whoever took the girl, it couldn’t have been Kapo and his men—the time factor wouldn’t have allowed it. The men who attacked her on the jetty earlier—what can you tell me about them?”
“Judging by the language the second one used when he tried to stick his knife into me, I’d say he was Italian,” Chavasse said. “Straight out of the Taranto gutter.”
“Anything else interesting about him?”
“He had a dark beard, anything but the trimmed variety, and his face was badly scarred. A sort of hook shape curving into his right eye.”
Orsini let out a great bellow of laughter and clapped him on the shoulder.
Chavasse thanked the duty officer. No, it was nothing of any importance. He’d simply run across Kapo in Matano and had thought him worth checking on.
A T THE OTHER END OF THE WIRE IN HIS small office in Rome, the duty officer replaced the receiver with a thoughtful frown. Almost immediately, he picked it up again and put a call through to Bureau headquarters in London on the special line.
It could be nothing, but Chavasse was a topliner—everyone in the organization knew that. If by any remote chance he was up to anything and the Chief didn’t know about it, heads might start to roll and the duty officer hadn’t the slightest intention of allowing his own to be numbered among them.
The telephone on his desk buzzed sharply five minutes later and he lifted it at once. “Hello, sir…yes, that’s right…well, there may be nothing in it, but I thought you’d like to know that I’ve just had a rather interesting call from Paul Chavasse in Matano….”
O LD G ILBERTO COUGHED AS THE BRANDY caught at the back of his throat and grinned wryly at Orsini. “I must be getting old, Guilio. Never heard a dammed thing. It couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes after Carlo had delivered the young woman. One moment I was reading a magazine, the next, the lights were going out.” He raised a gnarled and scarred fist. “Old I may be, but I’d still like five minutes on my own with that fancy bastard, whoever he is.”
Orsini grinned and patted him on the shoulder. “You’d murder him, Gilberto. Nothing like a bit of science to have these young toughies running around in circles.”
They went out into the passage, leaving the old man sitting at the fire, a blanket around his shoulders. “A good heavyweight in his day,” Orsini said. “One with the sense to get out before they scrambled his brains. Anything from Rome?”
Chavasse shook his head. “Everything Kapo said about himself was true. He is the Alb-Tourist agent in Taranto, an old Party man from Tirana who said the wrong thing once too often and only got out by the skin of his teeth. According to Italian Intelligence he’s harmless, and they usually know what they’re talking about.”
“That’s what MI5 said about Fuchs and look where it got them,” Orsini pointed out. “Nobody’s perfect and the good agent is the man who manages to pull the wool over the eyes of the opposition most effectively.”
“Which doesn’t get us anywhere,” Chavasse said. “They’ve gone, which is all that counts, taking Francesca Minetti with them.”
They went into the office at the rear of the bar and Orsini produced a bottle of whisky and three glasses. He filled them, a slight thoughtful frown on his face.
“Whoever took the girl, it couldn’t have been Kapo and his men—the time factor wouldn’t have allowed it. The men who attacked her on the jetty earlier—what can you tell me about them?”
“Judging by the language the second one used when he tried to stick his knife into me, I’d say he was Italian,” Chavasse said. “Straight out of the Taranto gutter.”
“Anything else interesting about him?”
“He had a dark beard, anything but the trimmed variety, and his face was badly scarred. A sort of hook shape curving into his right eye.”
Orsini let out a great bellow of laughter and clapped him on the shoulder.
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