“Alb-Tourist took us on an official trip on our second day. Port is hardly the word for the place. Good natural shelter, but only used by fishing boats. Certainly no sign of submarine pens.”

“And Enver Hoxha – you think he’s still firmly in control?”

“And then some. We saw him at a military parade on the third day. He cuts an impressive figure, especially in uniform. He’s certainly the people’s hero at the moment. Heaven knows how long for.”

The Chief closed the file with a quick gesture that somehow dismissed the whole affair, placing it firmly in the past.

“Good work, Paul. At least we know where we stand. Another piece in the jigsaw. You’re due for some leave now, aren’t you?”

“That’s right,” Chavasse said and waited.

The Chief got to his feet, walked to the window and looked out over the glittering city, down toward the Tiber. “What would you like to do?”

“Spend a week or two at Matano,” Chavasse said without hesitation. “That’s a small fishing port near Bari. There’s a good beach and Guilio Orsini owns a place on the front called the Tabu. He’s promised me some diving. I’m looking forward to it.”

“I’m sure you are,” the Chief said. “Sounds marvelous.”

“Do I get it?”

The old man looked out over the city, an abstracted frown on his face. “Oh, yes, Paul, you can have your leave – after you’ve done a little chore for me.”

Chavasse groaned and the older man turned and came back to the desk. “Don’t worry, it won’t take long, but you’ll have to leave tonight.”

“Is that necessary?”

The old man nodded. “I’ve got transport laid on and you’ll need help. Preferably this chap Orsini from the sound of him. We’ll offer a good price.”

Chavasse sighed, thinking of Francesca Minetti waiting on the terrace, of the good food and wine in the buffet room below. He sighed again and stubbed out his cigarette carefully.