“It looks as if Kapo must have employed Vacelli to get hold of the girl for him,” Orsini said. “The sort of task for which Nature has fitted him admirably. Unfortunately, you arrived on the scene and messed things up.”

“Which doesn’t explain why Kapo went to the trouble of having me pulled in for a personal interview.”

“He probably thought he could do some kind of a deal, you made a break for it and he had to leave in a hurry in case you decided to whistle down the law on him. No other choice.”

“And in the meantime, Vacelli and his boys picked up the girl?”

Orsini nodded. “And Kapo had to leave before they could get in touch with him.”

“So you think Vacelli may still have the girl?”

Orsini opened the drawer of his desk, took out a Luger and slipped it into his hip pocket. He smiled and the great, ugly face was quite transformed.

“Let’s go and find out.”

VACELLI’S PLACE FRONTED THE HARBOR ON the corner of an alley that led into the heart of the old town. The sign simply read Café. Inside, someone was playing a guitar. They parked the pickup at the entrance, and when they went in, Orsini led the way downstairs.

There was a bead curtain and the murmur of voices from the bar beyond. The guitar player sat just inside the entrance, chair balanced against the wall. He was young with dark curling hair, the sleeves of his check shirt rolled back to expose muscular arms.

Orsini pulled back the curtain and looked down at the legs sprawled across the entrance. The guitar player made no effort to move and Orsini hooked the chair from under him, the sudden clatter stunning the room to silence.

There was a narrow, marble-topped bar, the wall behind it lined with bottles, and a few small tables, chairs ranged about them. The floor was of stone, the walls whitewashed, and there were no more than a dozen customers, most of them men.

The guitar player came up fast, a spring knife in one hand, but Carlo was faster. His hand tightened over the wrist, twisting cruelly, and the youth screamed, dropping the knife. He staggered back against the wall, tears of pain in his eyes, and Orsini shook his head.

“God knows what’s happened to the youth of this country. No manners at all.” He turned, looking the other patrons over casually. The bearded man with the scarred face, the one they called Toto, sat at the table by the wall, one arm in a sling.

Orsini grinned. “Eh, Toto, you don’t look too good. Where’s Vacelli?”

There was a scrape of a boot on stone and a surly voice growled, “What the hell do you want?”

Vacelli stood at the top of the flight of stone steps in the corner leading up to the first floor. He was built like Primo Carnera, a great ox of a man with a bullet-shaped head that was too small for the rest of his body.

“Hello there, you animal,” Orsini cried gaily. “We’ve come for the Minetti girl.”

Vacelli’s brutal face reddened in anger and he obviously restrained his temper with difficulty. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What a pity.” Orsini picked up the nearest chair and threw it at the shelves behind the bar, smashing the mirror and bringing down a dozen bottles. “Does that help?”

Vacelli gave a roar of rage and came down the steps on the run. Orsini picked up a full bottle of Chianti from a nearby table, jumped to one side and smashed it across Vacelli’s skull as he staggered past.

Vacelli fell to one knee. Orsini picked up a chair and brought it down across the great shoulders. Vacelli grunted, started to keel over. Orsini brought the chair down again and again until it splintered into matchwood. He tossed it to one side and waited.

Slowly, painfully, Vacelli reached for the edge of the bar and hauled himself up. He swayed there for a moment, then charged head-down, blood washing across his face in a red curtain. Orsini swerved and slashed him across the kidneys with the edge of his hand as Vacelli plunged past him.

Vacelli screamed and fell on his face. He tried to push himself up, but it was no good. He collapsed with a great sigh and lay still.

“Anyone else?” Orsini demanded.

No one moved and he turned to Carlo. “Watch things down here. We won’t be long.”

Chavasse followed him up the stairs and the big Italian pulled back a curtain and led the way along a narrow passage. A young woman in a cheap nylon housecoat leaned in a doorway smoking a cigarette.

“Eh, Guilio, have you killed the bastard?”

“Just about.” He grinned. “He’ll be inactive for quite a while. Time enough for you to pack your bags and move on. There was a girl brought here tonight. Any idea where she is?”

“The end room. He was just going in when you arrived. I don’t think he meant her any good.”

“My thanks, carissima.” Orsini kissed her lightly on one cheek. “Go home to your mother.”

Chavasse was already ahead of him, but the door was locked. “Francesca, it’s Paul,” he called.

There was a quick movement inside and she called back, “The door’s locked on the outside.”

Orsini stood back, raised one booted foot and stamped twice against the lock. There was a sudden splintering sound, the door sagged on its hinges, rotten wood crumbling. He stamped again and it fell back against the wall.

Francesca Minetti stood waiting, her face very white. She was still wearing Chavasse’s old sweater and looked about fifteen years old. Chavasse was aware of the breath hissing sharply between Orsini’s teeth and then the Italian was moving forward quickly.

His voice was strangely gentle and comforting, like a father reassuring a frightened child. “It’s all right now, cara. There is nothing to worry about anymore.”

She held his hand, gazing up into the ugly, battered face and tried to smile, and then she started to tremble. She turned, stumbled across the wreckage of the door and ran into Chavasse’s arms.

IT WAS JUST AFTER EIGHT O’CLOCK ON the following evening when the Buona Esperanza moved away from the jetty and turned out to sea. It was a warm, soft night with a luminosity shining from the water. There was no moon, for heavy cloud banked over the horizon as though a storm might be in the offing.

Orsini was at the wheel and Chavasse stood beside him, leaning forward to peer through the curved deckhouse window into the darkness ahead.

“What about the weather?” he said.

“Force four wind with rain imminent. Nothing to worry about.”

“Is it the same for the Drin Gulf?”

“A few fog patches, but they’ll be more of a help than anything else.”

Chavasse lit two cigarettes and handed one to the Italian. “Funny what a day-to-day business life is. I never expected to set foot on Albanian soil again.”

“The things we do for the ladies.” Orsini grinned. “But this one is something special, Paul. This I assure you as an expert. She reminds me very much of my wife, God rest her.”

Chavasse looked at him curiously. “I never knew you’d been married.”

“A long time ago.” Orsini’s face was calm, untroubled, but the sadness was there in his voice. “She was only nineteen when we married. That was in 1941 during my naval service. We spent one leave together, that’s all. The following year she was killed in an air raid while staying with her mother in Milan.”

There was nothing to be said and Chavasse stood there in silence. After a while, Orsini increased speed. “Take over, Paul. I’ll plot our course.”

Chavasse slipped behind him and the Italian moved to the chart table. For some time he busied himself with the charts and finally nodded in satisfaction.

“We should move into the marshes just before dawn.” He placed a cheroot between his teeth and grinned. “What happens after that is in the lap of God.”