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 Râs 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 Gaddafi 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 worm 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. Râs 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 Gaddafi’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 Gaddafi 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 heat 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 Râs 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,