He went up quickly, one hand against the wall, paused, and raised his head cautiously. The deck seemed deserted, the drizzle falling in silver cobwebs through the navigation lights.

He stepped out and, on his right, a match flared and a man moved out of the shadows, bending his head to light a cigarette. The flame revealed a handsome devil’s face, eyes like black holes above high cheekbones. He flicked the match away and stood there, hands in the pockets of his slacks. He wore a heavy fisherman’s sweater and his dark hair glistened with moisture.

“Signor Noci?” he said calmly in fluent Italian.

“Who the hell are you?” Noci demanded.

“My name is Chavasse – Paul Chavasse.”

It was a name Noci was completely familiar with. An involuntary gasp rose in his throat and he raised the pistol. A hand like iron clamped on his wrist, wrenching the weapon from his grasp, and Guilio Orsini said, “I think not.”

Carlo moved out of the shadows to the left and stood waiting. Noci looked about him helplessly and Chavasse held out his hand.

“I’ll have the envelope now.”

Noci produced it reluctantly and handed it across, trying to stay calm as Chavasse examined the contents. They could be no more than half a mile from the shore, no distance to a man who had been swimming since childhood, and Noci was under no illusions as to what would happen if he stayed.

Chavasse turned over the first sheet of paper and Noci ducked under Orsini’s arm and ran for the stern rail. He was aware of a sudden cry, an unfamiliar voice, obviously Carlo’s, and then he slipped on some fish scales and stumbled headlong into the draped nets.

He tried to scramble to his feet, a foot tripped him and then the soft, clinging, stinking meshes seemed to wrap themselves around him. He was pulled forward onto his hands and knees and looked up through the mesh to see Chavasse peering down at him, the devil’s face calm and cold.

Orsini and Carlo had a rope in their hands and, in that terrible moment, Noci realized what they intended to do and the scream rose in this throat.

Orsini pulled hard on the rope and Noci lurched across the deck and cannoned into the low rail. A foot caught him hard against the small of the back and he went over into the cold water.

As he surfaced, the net impeding every movement he tried to make, he was aware of Orsini running the end of the line around the rail, of Carlo leaning out of the wheelhouse window waiting. A hand went up, the Buona Esperanza surged forward.

Noci went under with a cry, surfaced on a wave, choking for breath. He was aware only of Chavasse at the rail watching, face calm in the fog-shrouded light and then, as the boat increased speed, he went under for the last time.

As he struggled violently, water forcing the air from his lungs, he was aware of no pain, no pain at all. He seemed to be floating on soft white sand beneath a blue sky and a beautiful suntanned girl waded from the sea to join him, and she was smiling.

CHAVASSE WAS TIRED AND HIS THROAT was raw from too many cigarettes. Smoke hung in layers from the low ceiling, spiraling in the heat from the single bulb above the green baize table, drifting into the shadows.

There were half a dozen men sitting in on the game. Chavasse, Orsini, Carlo Arezzi, his deckhand, a couple of fishing boat captains and the sergeant of police. Orsini lit another of his foul-smelling Dutch cheroots and pushed a further two chips into the center.

Chavasse shook his head and tossed in his hand. “Too rich for my blood, Guilio.”

There was a general murmur and Guilio Orsini grinned and raked in his winnings. “Bluff, Paul, always the big bluff. That’s all that counts in this game.”

Chavasse wondered if that explained why he was so bad at cards. For him, action had to be part of a logical progression from a carefully reasoned calculation of the risk involved. In the great game of life and death he had played for so long, a man could seldom bluff more than once and get away with it.

He pushed back his chair and stood up. “That’s me for tonight, Guilio. I’ll see you on the jetty in the morning.”

Orsini nodded. “Seven sharp, Paul. Maybe we’ll get you that big one.”

The cards were already on their way round again as Chavasse crossed to the door, opened it and stepped into a whitewashed passage. In spite of the lateness of the hour, he could hear music from the front of the club and careless laughter. He took down an old reefer jacket from a peg, pulled it on and opened the side door.

The cold night air cut into his lungs as he breathed deeply to clear his head and moved along the alley. A thin sea fog rolled in from the water and, except for the faint strains of music from the Tabu, silence reigned.

He found a crumpled packet of cigarettes in his pocket, extracted one and struck a match on the wall, momentarily illuminating his face. A woman emerged from a narrow alley opposite, hesitated, then walked down the jetty, the clicking of her high heels echoing through the night. A moment later, two sailors moved out of the entrance of the Tabu, crossed in front of Chavasse and followed her.

Chavasse leaned against the wall feeling curiously depressed. There were times when he really wondered what it was all about, not just this dangerous game he played, but life itself. He smiled in the darkness. Three o’clock in the morning on the waterfront of any kind of port was one hell of a time to start thinking like that.

The woman screamed and he flicked his cigarette into the fog and stood listening. Again the screaming sounded, curiously muffled, and he started to run toward the jetty. He turned a corner and found the two sailors holding her on the ground under a street lamp.

As the nearest one turned in alarm, Chavasse lifted a boot into his face and sent him back over the jetty. The other leapt toward him with a curse, steel glinting in his right hand.

Chavasse was aware of the black beard, blazing eyes and strange hooked scar on the right cheek, and then he flicked his cap into the man’s face and raised a knee into the exposed groin. The man writhed on the ground, gasping for breath, and Chavasse measured the distance and kicked him in the head.

In the water below the jetty there was a violent splashing and he moved to the edge and saw the first man swimming vigorously into the darkness. Chavasse watched him disappear, then turned to look for the woman.

She was standing in the shadow of a doorway and he went toward her. “Are you all right?”

“I think so,” she replied in a strangely familiar voice and stepped out of the shadows.

His eyes widened in amazement. “Francesca – Francesca Minetti. What in the world are you doing here?”

Her dress had been ripped from neck to waist and she held it in place, a slight smile on her face. “We were supposed to have a date on the terrace at the Embassy a week ago. What happened?”

“Something came up,” he said. “The story of my life. But what are you doing on the Matano waterfront at this time of the morning?”

She swayed forward and he caught her just in time, holding her close to his chest for a brief moment. She smiled up at him wanly.

“Sorry about that, but all of a sudden I felt a little light-headed.”

“Have you far to go?”

She brushed a tendril of hair back from her forehead. “I left my car somewhere near here, but all the streets look the same in the fog.”

“Better come back with me to my hotel,” he said. “It’s just around the corner.” He slipped off his jacket and draped it round her shoulders. “I could probably fix you up with a bed.”

Laughter bubbled out of her and for a moment she was once again the gay exciting girl he had met so briefly at the Embassy ball.

“I’m sure you could.”