The third book in the Paul Chavasse series, 1965

THE DREAM WAS ALWAYS THE SAME. Plunging into the marsh, forcing his way through the reeds and mist, pushing the punt hard, Guilio Orsini standing at the front finding the way through and then the engine close by breaking into life and a burst of machine-gun fire.

Guilio went over headfirst, always did, and Chavasse floundered through the reeds and the bitterly cold water and then, mysteriously, like a curtain, the reeds parted and there was the lagoon and the boat, the Buona Esperanza, and Orsini was at the rail leaning over, a hand outstretched.

“Now, Paul, now.”

And Chavasse reached and the mist seemed to increase and there was the roaring of the engine and the boat slapped away, vanished, and he was alone again.

CHAVASSE WAS SUBJECT TO DREAMS OF THE past, and had always suspected it was a legacy of his Breton father. An old race, the Bretons, an ancient people. But this dream he had not had for some years. Still… he got off the bed, went to the window of his suite and looked down at Manhattan. The lights sparkled in the evening dusk. He liked New York and always had. There was an excitement there, an infinite probability to things.

When the phone went he answered at once, “Chavasse.”

“Ah, Sir Paul. Tino Rossi.”

“Good evening, Mr Rossi.”

“Listen, I know we’re meeting later for dinner at the Saddle Room, but I wondered whether you’d mind coming round to my apartment at the Trump Tower first.”

“Is there a purpose to this?”