by Jack Higgins
"So long as we understand each other. From those ramparts down to the beach is all of four hundred feet. A long way to fall." He put a cigar in his mouth and Langley lit it for him. "Yes, a dangerous place." He blew out smoke in a long column. "Especially for someone with your sister's difficulties."
I tried to get at him, tripped over those damned chains and found myself on my hands and knees in front of him again. By some small miracle, Langley had an automatic in his right hand and screwed the muzzle into the side of my neck.
Stavrou gazed down at me dispassionately and I was aware of Simone standing behind him, hands on the back of the wheelchair, face wiped clean of all expression.
Stavrou said slowly, "All right, Grant, you were right. I've been in the rackets all my life. Al Capone, O'Bannion, Frank Nitti, Legs Diamond. I knew them all, only they're long gone and I'm still here. You know why? Because when I say it, I mean it. I always carry it through, no matter how rough."
He stopped talking for a moment and it was very quiet and then he continued, "My wife, Major Grant, was a lady, and I mean a lady. Boston Society and all that kind of stuff. When she said she'd marry me, I couldn't believe it. And the years we had together...."
He ran a hand wearily over his face. "This son of hers was always trouble, but before she died I promised her I'd see him through." He sighed, a brief ironic smile on his mouth. "I'm going to tell you something. That kid hates my guts, but it doesn't matter a damn. I'm going to get him out of that place for her sake, and you're going to see to it for me. Understand?"
To which there was little I could say--for the moment. He swung the wheelchair round in a circle and said to Langley, "All right, bring him along."
Gatano pulled me to my feet, the two characters in the fisherman sweaters got an arm each and we all went back through the garden to the terrace. Someone positioned him at the table and filled a glass with more wine.
He sipped a little and looked up at me. "I'll make the point again. If you even attempt to step out of line, your sister takes a fall. You understand me?"
"Perfectly."
"Good." He nodded to Gatano. "Unchain him."
Gatano did as he was told without a word. I stood there flexing my wrists, feeling curiously unsteady. "What happens now?"
"That's up to you. You can have anything you want. Money, equipment, men. Just ask. As for this place where they're holding the boy--plans, maps, every scrap of information we could get hold of--you'll find all that in your room. And a man called Zingari is waiting to see you."
"Who's he?"
"There's a little town on the coast about fifteen miles from the prison called Zabia. He runs a bar there."
"Amongst other things?"
"Exactly. He should be more than useful."
I moved to the table, helped myself to a glass and one of the bottles of Zibibbo. It tasted fresh and cool, and as I drank it I noticed Simone's nose wrinkle in disgust, and she backed away slightly.
"I know, angel," I said. "I smell like a sewer. Isn't life hell?" She flushed angrily and I turned to Stavrou. "How long have I got?"
"Two weeks."
"And I've got a free hand?"
He nodded gravely. "Completely."
"To choose my own team?"
There was a moment of silence and Langley poured himself a glass of wine, a slight, cynical smile on his face.
Stavrou nodded to the two stalwarts in the fisherman sweaters. "Moro and Bonetti here are good men, and Justin ..."
"Always likes to be number one." I shook my head. "I wouldn't touch any of them with a ten-foot pole. My own team, or it's not on."
He laughed harshly and slapped his thigh. "I like a man who knows what he wants and goes after it. We'll play it your way."
"Good," I said. "And now if somebody would show me to my room I'd like a bath."
"Of course," Stavrou said. "But before you go there are a couple of rather important items to take care of." He looked up at Langley. "Check if the London call has come through yet."
Langley picked up the phone and spoke briefly in fluent Italian. He said to Stavrou, "The old lady's out, but they have the housekeeper on the line."
He held the phone out to me and Stavrou said, "You can always leave a message, Major Grant. We wouldn't want your grandmother to worry, now would we?"
I did as I was told, choking back the anger, then slammed the receiver back into place. "Can I go now?"
"Not yet." Stavrou nodded to Langley who picked up the phone again and pressed one of the intercom buttons. "Your sister, Major Grant. We don't want her to worry unnecessarily either, do we? You're in Cairo, I think. Delayed by important business. You hope to be with her in a matter of days."
Everyone watched as Langley held out the phone to me again. "I'd do as he says if I were you, old stick," he told me. "He can be a bit of a sod when he wants to be."
I could hear her voice, a faint echo as I reached for the receiver and forced myself to sound cheerful.
"Hannah? This is Oliver."
The delight in her voice was almost more than I could take in the circumstances and keeping that conversation going with Stavrou and his friends listening in politely was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do in my life.
When I finally put the phone down, my hand trembled slightly, the violence barely contained. "Can I go now?" I said hoarsely.
"But of course."
I turned and Gatano grabbed my shoulder. "Come on, you heard Mr. Stavrou. Move it."
Which was definitely the very last straw, so I pivoted, putting a knee into his fat gut, giving it to him again full in the face as he keeled over. He rolled down the steps into the bushes and when I swung to face him, Langley jumped back, hands raised defensively, something close to amusement on his face.
"Oh, no," I said. "Not today. I'm saving you until later, you bastard," and I turned and staggered down the steps into the garden, suddenly very tired.
3
The High Terrace
The bathroom was a trifle too baroque for my taste. Water gushed from a golden lion's mouth into a black marble tub--that sort of thing, but it was good and hot and there was plenty of it. I lay there for an hour or more, soaking away the stink of the Hole and thinking about things.
My immediate impulse was to try and get Hannah out of there by any means possible, but that was easier said than done. Stavrou had granted me an apparent freedom of movement, but what that meant in actuality was something else again.
By the time I'd shaved, I was beginning to feel almost human. I put on a robe and went into the bedroom, towelling my hair. There was a Sicilian peasant woman in a crisp white overall laying clothes out on the bed who actually curtseyed on the way out.
Underwear, slacks, shirt, shoes--everything fitted perfectly which was impressive enough until I remembered Simone. Such minor details must have been easy enough for her to provide. I thought of her briefly as I dressed and with some bitterness, but only for a moment. There were, after all, more important things to think about.
When I went out on the terrace, there was a drinks trolley that even included a couple of bottles of Irish gin. Stavrou, or Simone, obviously thought of everything. Even more interesting was the fat manilla folder on the ironwork table, so I sat down and started to explore the contents with the aid of a large gin and tonic.
The prison itself was at a place called Ras Kanai and had quite a history. The Italians had built it originally as a military fortress in colonial times. During the war the Germans had had it and then the British. Since independence, the place appeared to have been well stocked with opponents of the government of Colonel Quadhafi or those who were suspected of falling into that category.
I was halfway through when the outer door of the bedroom opened and Langley appeared followed by a small man in a shabby white-linen suit. He had tiny anxious eyes, a pale, translucent skin that seemed perpetually damp and the merest whisper of a moustache.
Langley said, "And this little wo
rm is one Benito Zingari, who may or may not be of use to you."
Zingari bobbed his head, fingering an old straw hat nervously in both hands. Langley said, "Ah, well, if nobody's going to offer me a drink, I'd better try elsewhere."
"Why don't you do just that?"
He smiled amicably and went out. I lit a cigarette and looked Zingari over. He smiled nervously and started to sweat.
I said, "They tell me you run a bar in Zabia."
"That's right, signor." His English was really very good indeed.
"What else do you do?"
"A little of this--a little of that." He shrugged. "A man must make out the best way he can."
"Cigarette smuggling?" I said. "Heroin? Women?"
He didn't reply, but there was an edge to him and a kind of cunning in his eyes. It was as if we understood each other and that fact in itself gave him confidence.
"All right," I said. "Help yourself to a drink and let's talk. Have you read this file?"
"I don't need to, signor."
"Okay, tell me about it."
"The prison is about fifteen miles away from Zabia, signor, on the coast high above the cliffs. Ras Kanai, they call it. Cape of Fear. It was originally an Italian fortress."
"Yes, I know all that," I said impatiently. "How many prisoners does it hold?"
"Five hundred."
"And guards?"
"Since Quadhafi's time it has been guarded by the military. Usually around six hundred troops under the command of Colonel Masmoudi." He shook his head. "A very bad man, signor. He has been known to beat prisoners to death personally."
I thought about it for a while and it didn't look good. The ratio of guards to prisoners, for example, was better than one for one, which was incredible.
"You're sure of those figures?"
He nodded. "A great many political offenders, signor. Some of them are very important people or were. Security is most strict. Colonel Masmoudi is a fanatical supporter of the Quadhafi regime. He would execute every prisoner in the place if ordered to."
Something else which didn't make the overall situation look any brighter. I said, "Stavrou's stepson, this Stephen Wyatt. He's twenty years old and they've given him life. What are his chances?"
"The average time served by those sentenced to life is three years, signor, because at the end of that time they are usually dead. They spend most of their time working in the chain gang in the salt marsh and Masmoudi allows no rest during the beat of the day. Men die like flies."
There was a plan of the fort in the folder and a map of the surrounding area. I unfolded them on the floor and we started to go over them. The walls on the land side were forty feet high, well protected by floodlighting and heavily guarded. On the side facing the sea, the fortifications were much simpler, the cliffs being a hundred and fifty feet high at that point and quite unclimbable, or so Zingari insisted.
"You're certain of this?" I asked him.
"Oh, yes, signor, I have been inside many times on business. I supply the officers' mess with wine and spirits."
I frowned. "Aren't they all Muslims? Isn't alcohol forbidden?"
"Not at Ras Kanai. Not since Masmoudi turned Communist and has ceased to practice his religion."
Which was interesting. Supplies were brought in by a military train, another relic of Italian Imperialism.
I said, "Does this thing unload inside the fortress?"
He nodded. "Oh, yes, signor, but believe me, there is no hope there. The train is searched most thoroughly with the aid of dogs each time it enters. In any event, it only carries military personnel or new prisoners."
I frowned down at the plan. "Doesn't anyone other than the military get into the damned place? Aren't there any civilian workers?"
"The military handle everything, signor," he said firmly and then pulled up short as if at a sudden thought and chuckled. "Of course, there are the women, signor. The Friday-night women. I was forgetting those."
"And which women would those be?"
"Another innovation of Colonel Masmoudi's. He's fond of the ladies and reasonable enough to realize that plenty of his men are in the same boat, so every Friday night they bring in a couple of truckloads of women from Zabia."
"Whores?"
"But of course, signor." He looked bewildered. "They must, after all, be capable of serving more than one man. It requires very special talents."
"I bet it does," I said. "And who supplies these ladies?"
He contrived to look suitably modest. "Why, I do, signor, and it is no easy matter, I can tell you. After a month or two a change is looked for. I have to bring girls from as far away as Tripoli."
"And the trucks?" I said. "Are they allowed in?"
"Oh, no, signor." He shook his head. "The women have to dismount outside and are checked in through the gate."
I sat there for two or three minutes, staring into space and he waited patiently. After a while he said, "Is there anything else, signor?"
I shook my head. "If I need you again, I'll send for you."
He moved to the french window and hesitated. "I have been of help, signor?"
"Oh, yes," I said. "I think you could say that."
He went out quietly and I lay back, eyes closed, going over it all in my mind and after a while, I dozed.
When I awakened it was evening and just before dusk. It was heavy and oppressive, a hint of rain in the air. I crossed the terrace and took the steps down into the garden. Palms swayed in the slight wind, their branches dark feathers against the evening sky that already showed a star here and there.
I moved on, taking a flight of steps up to the ramparts and found Simone leaning over the wall, staring down at the sea, outlined against a sky the color of brass. Perhaps she'd noticed me out of the corner of her eye down there in the garden as I approached, but she certainly gave no sign.
I lit a cigarette and flicked the match far out into the darkness. "Well?"
"Well what?" she said. "If you think I'm going to apologize, you've come to the wrong shop."
"No apologies needed," I said. "But a few facts would be appreciated."
"Such as?"
"Why you did it would do for starters."
"All right, Oliver." She turned to face me. "It was a job, that's all. Just another assignment."
"Well, you're a great little actress. I'll say that for you. You were particularly good at simulating orgasms, by the way. I'll be happy to give you a reference to that effect any time."
She struck out at me furiously, but I got a hand up to block the blow. "Damn you!" she said. "And just how honest were you with me, anyway?"
"A fair point," I said. "Strangely enough I can forgive you nearly all of it, but not Hannah. Never that. That was unforgivable and that was one side of me you did know about. One side of me I never hid from you."
Which hit home rather satisfactorily. Her shoulders sagged a little and she turned away to look out to sea. "Why Stavrou, for God's sake?" I said.
"Because I owe him," she replied. "Because he's been good to me. About three years ago I was in love with a man in Paris who trafficked in heroin. I didn't know it at the time, but when the police moved in, they were going to pull me down with him. I could have got ten years."
"And Stavrou saved your hide?"
"That's about it"
"Oh, I see it now," I said. "We've all misjudged him. Presumably he's like the toad in the fairy story. One kiss from your delicious lips and he'll change into a handsome young prince. Now that I can't wait to see."
She turned away angrily and we were suddenly hailed by Stavrou. "Over here, you two."
He was on the high terrace and as we went up the steps, someone switched on floodlighting. The table was laid for three only and Stavrou sat at the far end, the waiter standing behind him.
"Come and join me," he said jovially.
I pulled out a chair, Simone hesitated briefly, then sat down. The waiter doled out a local soup made with goat's cheese and served
ice-cold. There was champagne to help things along.
"And where's friend Langley tonight?" I inquired.
"Entertaining your sister, naturally," Stavrou shrugged. "After all, one must keep the pretense up." I stiffened, which is putting it mildly, and he added good humoredly, "No need to fret, I assure you, sir. The idea of any young woman being in danger where Justin is concerned is really quite amusing."
Which was something, and I continued with the meal with as good a grace as possible under the circumstances. It was excellent and he obviously had a first rate local chef. We had narbe di San Paolo, which is ravioli filled with sugar and cheese and fried, and cannolo to follow and more champagne.
During the entire meal he kept up a running conversation. Everything from politics to art and most things in between. I didn't say much and neither did Simone.
It was only when I stood up to leave that he suddenly said, "You read the file? You've seen Zingari? What do you think?"
I said, "It's possible. It could be done with the right organization and workforce."
There was genuine astonishment on his face. "You mean you've found a way in?"
"There's always a way in if you think hard enough." I helped myself to more champagne. "Even the Bank of England. In fact a long time ago someone did just that."
He nodded slowly. "All right, how?"
"That comes later. First I have to see a man called Aldo Barzini."
"Why?"
"Because for this kind of job he's the best there is."
He reached for a cigar and the waiter lit it for him. "And what does he do when he isn't working, this Barzini?"
"Runs a funeral business in Palermo among other things."
He laughed helplessly, his whole body shaking. "By God, but you're a rogue, sir. I knew it the minute I clapped eyes on you." He wiped his face with a napkin. "All right, go to Palermo and see this man. Justin can fly you up there in the Cessna in the morning."
"I want Barzini and probably two others. I'm hoping he'll be able to provide specialists. That kind of thing comes expensive."
"How much?"
"That depends how rich he is these days." I shrugged. "Sixty, maybe seventy-five thousand dollars for the team. This is a knife-edge proposition, remember. One step and we all go down."