The Keys of Hell. Jack Higgins

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.

      ‘Let’s say she knows rather too much about me for my personal peace of mind.’

      ‘She should,’ 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 don’t 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. ‘That’s a promise. Don’t go away.’

      ‘I’ll 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. We’ve 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.

      The room was a small, plainly furnished office, its walls painted a neutral shade of green. The young woman who sat at the desk writing busily was attractive in spite of her dark, heavy-rimmed library spectacles.

      She glanced up sharply and Chavasse smiled. ‘Surprise, surprise.’

      Jean Frazer removed her spectacles. ‘You look like hell. How was Albania?’

      ‘Tiresome,’ Chavasse said. ‘Cold, wet and with the benefits of universal brotherhood rather thinly spread on the ground.’ He sat on the edge of the desk and helped himself to a cigarette from a teak box. ‘What brings you and the old man out here? The Albanian affair wasn’t all that important.’

      ‘We had a NATO intelligence meeting in Bonn. When we got word that you were safely out, the Chief decided to come to Rome to take your report on the spot.’

      ‘Nice try,’ Chavasse said. ‘The old bastard wouldn’t have another job lined up for me, would he? Because if he has, he can damn well think again.’

      ‘Why not ask him?’ she said. ‘He’s waiting for you now.’

      She nodded towards a green baize door. Chavasse looked at it for a moment, sighed heavily and crushed his cigarette into the ashtray.

      The inner