Dead Halt

Chapter Sixteen

It was nine o’clock on Monday morning when Whitlock pulled up behind the white Ford which was parked a block away from West Side Electronics. As he climbed out of the car the Ford’s passenger door swung open and a man got out. Thirty-eight-year-old Frank Grecco had been one of the Drug Enforcement Agency’s top UCs, undercover cops, in New York for over twelve years before his cover was blown by an overzealous journalist out for a scoop. He had to be withdrawn from the field for his own protection and after a successful stint as the Assistant Division Chief in Los Angeles he returned to New York as its youngest ever Division Chief.

Whitlock locked the driver’s door and smiled as Grecco approached him. He had worked with Grecco on a number of joint DEA-UNACO operations over the years and it was hard to believe that it was the same man he had come to regard as one of the best UCs he’d ever encountered outside UNACO. Gone was the shoulder-length hair, the stubble and the dirty jeans. Now Grecco sported a short back and sides, a neatly trimmed black moustache and an expensive Armani double-breasted suit.

“Hey, goombah, long time no see,” Grecco said with a wide grin as he pumped Whitlock’s hand. “How you doing?”

It was the same old Frank Grecco. No frills, no graces. And that was why his return to New York two months earlier had been greeted so enthusiastically by his former colleagues.

“I’m fine, Frankie. How’s the new job going?”

“It’s days like these that make it all worth while,” Grecco replied. “I still can’t believe that we’ve finally got the chance to take Navarro down. All these years and we haven’t been able to get close to him. Every time we’ve brought him in for questioning we’ve never been able to make anything stick. I tell you, I haven’t been this excited since Scott Norwood missed that field goal for the Bills with eight seconds left of Superbowl Twenty-Five. That was a hell of a night for the Giants.”

“So Mike constantly reminds me.”

“How is that lunatic?”

“As ever,” Whitlock replied.

“And how’s my favorite UC?” Grecco said with a knowing grin.

“Sabrina’s fine. They both send their regards.”

“Thanks. Where are they?” Grecco asked.

“They had some business to attend to out of town.”

“Tell Mike I’ll call him sometime. I haven’t been to a game with him for a while.” Grecco rapped on the Ford’s rear window and gave the occupants a thumbs-up sign. Two men emerged from the back of the car. The rear doors of a second white Ford in front of it also swung open and two more plainclothes men got out. Grecco turned back to Whitlock. “I didn’t want to take any chances. Not when we’re dealing with a slippery customer like Navarro. If he does try anything, we’ve got the backup to deal with it.”

“Well, are you ready?”

“I’ve been ready for this for years,” Grecco replied with a grin.

The brunette looked up from her computer and gave Whitlock and Grecco a warm smile when they entered the room. “Good morning. May I help you?”

“We’re here to see Martin Navarro,” Grecco told her.

“Do you have an appointment, sir?” she asked, feeding a code into the computer to call up a list of Navarro’s appointments for the day.

“You won’t find our names on there, sweetheart,” Grecco told her, holding up his warrant card. “DEA. We try not to make appointments. That way we can catch the scumbags by surprise.”

“Mr. Navarro’s not due in until later this morning.”

“Your loyalty’s touching, sweetheart, but we saw him arrive half an hour ago with his hatchet man, Varese,” Grecco told her. “Don’t worry, we’ll see ourselves in.”

Whitlock opened the door and entered Navarro’s spacious office. Navarro looked up sharply from behind his desk and was about to challenge Whitlock when Grecco entered the room behind him.

The receptionist hovered anxiously in the doorway. “I’m sorry, Mr. Navarro, I did try to stop them.”

“It’s OK, Marsha. I’ll deal with this.”

She nodded nervously and closed the door behind her.

“This is Special Agent Whitlock, he’s come down all the way from our Washington office just to see you,” Grecco said to Navarro, indicating Whitlock behind him.

Whitlock held up the false DEA warrant card he’d been issued earlier that morning. Varese, who had been sitting on the sofa, got to his feet and took the card from Whitlock. He studied it carefully then nodded to Navarro before handing it back to Whitlock.

“I’m getting very tired of this continual DEA harassment, Grecco. Your people tail me wherever I go. My house is under constant surveillance. Not to mention the fact that I’ve been hauled in for questioning five times in this last year alone and on each occasion I’ve been released without charge. Doesn’t that say something to you?”

“Yeah, that maybe we’ve been concentrating on the wrong man.” Grecco turned to Varese. “I know you’re carrying, Tony. I want you to take your piece out very slowly and toss it onto the floor in front of me. And I wouldn’t do anything stupid. Special Agent Whitlock’s never been known to miss from that range.”

Varese’s eyes flickered to the automatic in Whitlock’s hand but he made no move to comply with Grecco’s instructions.

“Do you want, me to come over there and take it from you, Tony?” Grecco said icily.

“Why don’t you try it, Grecco?” Varese hissed, balling his fists at his sides.

“Just do as he says!” Navarro snapped at Varese.

Varese glared at Navarro then took the Heckler & Koch P9S from his shoulder holster and tossed it onto the floor in front of Grecco.

Grecco looped his pen through the trigger guard and slipped it into a plastic evidence bag he’d produced from his pocket. “I assume this is the same Heckler & Koch you used to kill Judd Miller and Ray Tillman?”

“What are you talking about?” Varese asked contemptuously.

“Are you denying that you were at the Paramus Flying School yesterday afternoon?”

“I’ve never even heard of the Paramus Flying School,” Varese retorted disdainfully. “I was here all afternoon. Mr. Navarro can verify that.”

“Can you?” Grecco asked Navarro.

There was something in Grecco’s voice that unsettled Navarro. Confidence? He wasn’t sure but he decided to play it safe. “You seem very sure of yourself, Grecco. What have you got on Tony?”

“Judd Miller, the owner of the Paramus Flying School, recently installed video surveillance equipment on the premises in an attempt to catch the vandals who’d twice broken into the hangar in the last month and tampered with his planes,” Grecco told him. “Tillman’s murder was captured on film. If you want, I can even tell you to the second when Varese actually pulled the trigger.”

Whitlock opened his attaché case and tossed a brown envelope onto Navarro’s desk. “Those are just a few of the stills which have been lifted from the film. Each one identifies Varese as the killer.”

Navarro removed the photographs from the envelope. He only needed to look at the first one. It showed Varese standing over Tillman, the Heckler & Koch raised to fire. That alone would put him away for twenty years. “I’m calling my lawyer.”

“Tell him to meet you both down at DEA headquarters,” Grecco replied.

Suddenly Varese rushed at Whitlock, knocking him aside as he ran to the door. Swiftly unclipping his two-way radio from his belt, Grecco warned his men in the corridor that Varese was headed their way. Varese’s attempt to escape was hopeless: they grabbed him the moment he appeared and wrestled him to the floor. Snapping a pair of handcuffs around his wrists, they led him back into Navarro’s office.

Navarro had spoken to the family’s senior lawyer, Edward Brasco; now he looked across at Varese who was slumped dejectedly on the sofa, a trickle of blood running down the side of his chin. “Brasco’s on his way over to DEA headquarters. Don’t say anything until he’s briefed you.”

“You’ve made your call, Navarro. Now on your feet.” Grecco nodded to one of his men. “Cuff him, read him his rights, then get him out of here.”

“And what are the charges against me?” Navarro demanded as he was handcuffed.

“Accessory to murder and conspiracy to import and sell illegal drugs in this country,” Grecco told him.

“What the hell have drugs got to do with any of this?” Navarro demanded.

“Senator Scoby left a detailed outline of the deal he’d made with the Colombians, as well as the one he intended to make with you on his return to New York today. That, in itself, might not have stood up in court. But by having Tillman killed, you’ve admitted your guilt. Unless, of course, you intend to deny that you had anything to do with his murder and let Varese take the rap by himself. Do you?”

Navarro knew what Grecco was trying to do. He turned to Varese. “Tony, now listen to me. Grecco’s going to try and offer you immunity from prosecution in return for testifying against me. Sure, it’s going to sound good. You won’t serve time. You and your family will be given a new identity. A new life. Don’t believe him. They won’t keep their word. They never do. They’ll use you then throw you to the wolves once they’ve got what they want. Don’t be tempted. Talk to Brasco. You know he’ll see you right. Promise me you won’t say anything until you’ve spoken to Brasco, Tony. Promise me.”

There was uncertainty in Varese’s eyes. He looked down at the carpet.

“Tony, look at me! Tony!”

“Take him away,” Grecco said disdainfully.

Two of Grecco’s men led Navarro from the room. Whitlock closed the door behind them.

“You’re facing a murder rap, Tony,” Grecco said, sitting next to Varese. “That’s life. You’d be lucky to be out in twenty years. More like twenty-five. Navarro knows that. Why do you think he didn’t speak up for you when he was here? Twice I put him on the spot and twice he weaseled his way out of giving me a straight answer. Why? Because he knows he can wriggle his way out of this by claiming he knew nothing of Tillman’s murder. And it’s his word against yours. Brasco’s brief will be to get him off. You’re of secondary importance to the family. The family need him. They don’t need you. Trigger men can easily be replaced. But Navarro’s the brains behind the New York operation. He’s being groomed to take over from Carmine Germino one day. Do you honestly think Germino would risk losing his best lieutenant for the next twenty years just because of you?”

“I can’t cop on Martin,” Varese said without taking his eyes off the carpet.

“Can’t, or won’t?” Whitlock asked.

Varese remained silent.

“I hear you’ve just become a father, Tony,” Grecco said. “How old’s your daughter now? A month? Two months? When you go down you’ll miss the chance of watching her growing up. Those are the best years of your life. I know. I’ve got a son of my own. Could you live with yourself knowing you’d missed her first step? Or her first word? Or with the fact that you’d only get to see her when your wife brought her on visits to the prison at weekends? And who’s to say she’d still come to visit you when she gets older and finds out that you’re serving life for murder? You’ve got to make a choice here, Tony. Which family’s more important to you? Your wife and daughter or the Mafia?”

Varese continued to stare at the carpet as the reality of his situation slowly began to sink in. He finally looked up at Grecco. “You’d protect me if I testified against the family?”

“You’d immediately be put on the Witness Protection Program. New identities. New lives. You’d be safe.”

“Would I serve time first?” Varese asked, the uncertainty still evident in his voice.

“That would depend on what you could give the DA. The more you gave him, the more flexible he’d be.”

“I can give you Carmine Germino. I’ve got enough on him to put him away for life. And his lieutenants. I’ve sat in on their strategy meetings for the last five years. I can give you numbers of bank accounts all around the world that the Germino family are using to launder their drug money. And I can give you names of senior politicians Germino has in his back pocket. But I won’t cop on Martin. Not directly. You’ll build up enough evidence against him from what I’ve got on Germino and his lieutenants. But before I do say anything to your DA I want a guarantee that I won’t spend time in jail. Because I know I’d never come out of there alive. Even if I was put in solitary they’d find a way to get to me. That’s the deal.”

“Why this obsessive loyalty to Navarro?” Whitlock asked.

“Because they’re related,” Grecco told him.

Varese nodded. “Martin’s my half-brother. We had the same mother. I was the tough one. Martin had the brains. He’d always try and talk our way out of trouble but if that failed, I’d use my fists. I guess you could say I always looked after Martin when we were growing up. But that all changed when we joined the family. Then it was his turn to look after me. Martin insisted that he wanted me as his right-hand man. Germino wanted to keep him happy so he agreed. Family loyalty means a lot to Italians, Mr. Grecco. You should know that.”

“I do.”

Varese looked from Grecco to Whitlock. “You know my terms. Put them to the DA. You shouldn’t have too much trouble finding me when you’ve got the answer.”

Grecco turned to Whitlock after Varese had been taken away. “Now I’ve got to convince my superiors and the DA to go along with this. Let’s face it, keeping Varese out of jail’s a small price to pay for landing the top echelon of the Germino family. But I guess in the end it’s all down to politics, isn’t it?”

“Isn’t it always?” Whitlock replied as he followed Grecco from the room.

Graham and Sabrina flew to Milford by helicopter. They were met there by Jim Kingsland, a recent graduate of the FBI academy who’d been sent down from the Bureau’s New York headquarters earlier that morning to liaise with the local police department. All he’d been told was that Graham and Sabrina were “affiliated” to the Bureau and that he was to give them his full cooperation. He didn’t like the vagueness of his orders but he knew better than to question them.

Kingsland drove them to the docks. Graham and Sabrina were determined to nail Killen and his men for the murder of Billy Peterson and the attempted murder of their colleague. And if that led to information about the link between the Ventura’s cargo and the IRA, then so much the better. Two patrol cars were already waiting for them outside the main gates. One of the patrol cars followed them into the compound and parked next to them in front of the harbor master’s office.

“Kingsland, you and the two uniforms get Woods and Natchett,” Graham said, getting out of the car. “Sabrina and I will deal with Jess Killen ourselves.”

When they reached Killen’s office Graham knocked and entered. Killen was on the telephone, his feet propped up on the desk. He nodded to Graham, his eyes instinctively flickering past him to Sabrina. He wet his lips as his eyes scanned the length of her body.

Graham reached over and yanked the telephone from Killen’s hand. “Yeah, he’ll call you back in twenty years’ time.” He slammed the receiver back into its cradle. “Are you Jess Killen?”

“Yeah, I’m Killen. What the hell’s going on? You can’t just come–”

“Special Agents Graham and Carver,” Graham said. He held up his ID card then took a warrant from his pocket and placed it on the desk. “Jess Killen, you’re under arrest for the murder of William Peterson. Anything you–”

“Spare me the lecture,” Killen snarled. “I want my lawyer.”

Graham put his hand on the receiver and finished reading Killen his rights. “On your feet, Killen. Hands against the wall, feet apart.”

“You thinking I’m packing?” Killen said in disbelief. “I’m the foreman of a dockyard, not some gunslinger.”

“Just do it!” Graham hissed menacingly.

Killen swore angrily then stood up and assumed the position. Graham frisked him quickly. He was clean.

“Satisfied, G-man?” Killen snapped. “Who is this William Peterson anyway?”

“Billy Peterson,” Sabrina said. “He used to work here, remember? Then, one night, he just disappeared. Nobody’s seen or heard of him since.”

“So, what’s that got to do with me?”

“You killed him. First you beat him senseless then you put a bullet in the back of his head,” Graham told him.

“You got a witness to prove it?”

“As a matter of fact we do,” Sabrina replied, taking a photograph from her pocket and holding it out toward Killen. “Fabio Paluzzi. One, of us. Only you’d know him as Pasconi, the Italian journalist.”

“He didn’t drown when you and your two huskies pushed the car into the water,” Graham told him. “Our colleagues are at this very moment reading Woods and Natchett their rights. I’d suggest this was as good a time as any to call your lawyer, Killen.”

Killen picked up the receiver then suddenly lashed out at Graham, catching him across the side of the. face. Graham stumbled backward against Sabrina, knocking the gun from her hand. It skidded under the desk. Killen shoved past them and disappeared out through the doorway. Sabrina squinted under the desk for the gun. It was out of reach and there wasn’t time to retrieve it. She went after Killen.

Graham got to his feet and gingerly touched the side of his face. A cut had opened up at the corner of his right eye. He cursed angrily then went outside. There was no sign of either Killen or Sabrina. He looked around, deciding which way he would have gone if he’d been in Killen’s place. The warehouse? The back of the warehouse. Yeah, he’d probably duck behind the warehouse. There was a lot of foliage there. A good place to move without being seen. He drew his holstered Beretta and was about to make his way around to the back when he noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye. He swung around, Beretta raised.

Killen slowly emerged from the warehouse, his arm wrapped around Sabrina’s neck. He was holding a screwdriver to her throat. “Okay, G-man, drop the piece.”

Graham kept the Beretta trained on Killen. He couldn’t risk the shot, not with the tip of the screwdriver pressed so close to Sabrina’s throat. “Let her go, Killen!”

“I said drop the piece,” Killen snapped back.

“Don’t do it, Mike,” Sabrina said to Graham.

“Shut up!” Killen snapped at her, pressing the tip of the screwdriver harder against her throat. It broke her skin and a trickle of blood ran onto her sweatshirt. Killen swallowed nervously. “I want a car brought round here now. Then the lady and I are going for a ride. Then once I’m outta here, she goes free.”

“The lady’s not going anywhere with you,” Sabrina said calmly. “So you’d better kill me now.”

It was then that Kingsland and one of the uniformed policemen appeared behind Killen, their weapons drawn.

“Put the weapon down!” Kingsland ordered.

“Easy, Killen,” Graham shouted, holding up his hand as Killen looked anxiously over his shoulder.

Kingsland moved slowly toward Killen. “I want you to put the screwdriver down. Very slowly.”

“Back off, kid,” Graham hissed furiously. “Just back off.”

Kingsland’s eyes flickered toward Graham. “I’m trained–”

“Back off!” Graham yelled and swung the Beretta on Kingsland. “You take another step and I’ll put you down.”

Kingsland froze.

Graham turned back to Killen. “She wouldn’t go with you even if I did get you the car. So then what would you do? Kill her? You do that and I’ll empty this Beretta into you. And I promise you it’ll only be the last bullet that will kill you.”

“I’ll kill her, G-man, I swear I’ll kill her.”

“Do it,” Graham retorted. “Or don’t you have the guts?”

“Wait,” Kingsland shouted, staring at Graham in disbelief. “Killen, we’ll get whatever you want. Just don’t harm the woman.”

“The kid doesn’t have the authority to get you anything.” Graham slowly raised the Beretta until it was in line with Killen’s head. “I’m going to count to five. If you haven’t released her by then, I’ll kill you. It’s your choice, Killen.”

“You kill me and she dies,” Killen replied, blinking his eyes furiously as the sweat streamed down his face.

“One.”

Killen swallowed nervously as he stared at the Beretta in Graham’s hand.

“Two.”

“You wouldn’t do it,” Killen said, adjusting his grip on the handle. “She’s your partner. You wouldn’t risk her life like that.”

“Three.”

Graham fired. The bullet took Killen in the forehead. The screwdriver sliced across the side of Sabrina’s neck as he fell. She knocked his hand away and stumbled backward, the blood pouring from the gash on her neck. She dropped to her haunches then pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it against her neck. Kingsland immediately holstered his automatic and hurried toward her but she recoiled when he tried to help her to her feet.

“Leave her,” Graham snapped then turned to the policeman who was crouched over Killen, trying to find any signs of life.

The policeman finally shook his head then got to his feet and began to disperse the group of onlookers who had been alerted by the sound of gunfire.

“Kingsland, radio in for an ambulance.”

Kingsland glared at Graham but knew better than to argue. He ran off toward the unmarked police car.

Graham crouched beside Sabrina then tilted her head back gently and eased the handkerchief away from her neck. “It looks worse than it is. But we’ll get you over to a hospital all the same.”

“That was some shot,” she said, wincing as she pressed the handkerchief against her neck again.

“Yeah, some shot,” Graham retorted, helping her to her feet. “I nearly got you killed.”

“You’d have got me killed if you’d let the count go on to five. It was obvious Killen was desperate. I could feel it.” She put a hand on his arm. “I’m still alive, aren’t I? That makes it some shot.”

Kingsland returned breathlessly. “The ambulance is on its way.”

“Good,” Graham replied.

“This is far from over, Mr. Graham. Not only did you show a blatant disregard for your partner’s life, you also threatened my life when I was trying to negotiate with Killen. Then, on top of all that, you didn’t even give Killen the chance to surrender. You shot him without warning. You can be sure all this will be going in my report.”

“I’m sure it will,” Graham said contemptuously.

“And I have a witness who’ll corroborate my statement.” Kingsland turned to the policeman. “You were here. You saw everything.”

“I saw Mr. Graham save his partner’s life.”

“You heard him tell Killen he’d count to five. He didn’t even give him a chance to surrender.”

“Count?” The policeman shrugged. “I didn’t hear any count.”

“What are you talking about?” Kingsland demanded.

“You may be the one who’s just graduated from some fancy college but I’m the one with twenty years’ service behind me,” the policeman said coldly. “This is the real world, not one of your textbook simulations. Wise up, kid, or you won’t last very long in this business.”

Kingsland glared at the policeman then strode off. “Thanks for the support, pal,” Graham said to the policeman.

“You had to make a split-second decision. And that’s what this game’s all about, isn’t it?” The policeman looked around as more workers emerged from the warehouse to get a closer look at Killen’s body. “Excuse me. I’d better get something to put over the body.”

Graham crossed to where Sabrina was sitting on a wooden crate, the blood-soaked handkerchief still pressed against her neck. He sat down beside her. “How you doing?”

“I could be a lot worse,” she replied, watching as the policeman draped a tarpaulin over Killen’s body.

Graham looked at his watch. “I don’t think we’re going to make the Colonel’s briefing at this rate. I’ll call him from the hospital and tell him we’re going to be delayed.”

“That’s guaranteed to put him in a good mood. You know how he hates to be kept waiting.”

“I still can’t believe he’s back at the helm again. He may be a cantankerous old fossil at times but he’s still the only person capable of saving the organization right now.”

“As long as it’s not already too late.”

Graham and Sabrina arrived forty minutes after the briefing was due to have started.

“I’m sorry we’re late, sir,” Graham said. “I hope you got my message: Sabrina had to get some medical attention before we flew back from Milford.”

“Yes, I’ve heard all about the incident at the docks,” Philpott replied, then looked at Sabrina. “How is your neck?”

Sabrina’s hand instinctively went to the scarf she was wearing. “It’s nothing serious, sir. Just a few stitches.”

“How did you hear about it, sir?” Graham asked.

“I received a call from a senior official in the local FBI. He tells me you threatened to kill his man and that you shot a suspect without warning.”

“They sent down a fresh-faced kid straight out of the academy, sir,” Sabrina cut in before Graham had a chance to defend himself. “He was playing it by the book. If Mike hadn’t intervened when he did Killen would almost certainly have stabbed me. Mike saved my life, sir. I don’t think he has to explain himself for that.”

Philpott nodded slowly in agreement. “No, he doesn’t. I’ve since spoken to a Sergeant Kelley of the Milford Police Department.” He looked at Graham. “He spoke very highly of you, Mike. From what I can ascertain, you took a decision under pressure when Sabrina’s life was threatened. Sabrina’s alive so, as far as I’m concerned, that’s an end to it. Now sit down, both of you.”

Graham and Sabrina exchanged suspicious glances as they sat down on the nearest sofa. Philpott was being unusually understanding. It was a far cry from the often dictatorial Philpott of old. Had the heart attack mellowed him?

“Is something the matter?” Philpott asked.

“No, sir,” Graham replied with a quick smile.

Philpott opened the folder in front of him. “I’ve received some good news and bad news in the last hour. I thought it best to wait until you were all here before I told you. The bad news is that the powers – that in London – have decided that Eastman won’t stand trial.”

“So the bastard walks,” Graham hissed angrily.

“What choice did they have? Imagine what the Press would have made of it had it ever come out that Scoby’s assassination had actually been masterminded by a senior officer in the anti-terrorist squad. It would have destroyed public confidence in the British police.”

“What will happen to him?” Sabrina asked.

“He’s already been stripped of his rank and dismissed from the force. Who knows what will happen to him in the future? If the IRA ever got a whiff of what really happened they’ll have him killed without a moment’s hesitation. And that’s something he’ll have to live with for the rest of his life. I certainly wouldn’t want to be in his shoes.”

“And the good news?” Sabrina said.

“I met with one of the President’s senior aides earlier today. I explained our position to him and asked that he pass it on to the President. Well, I received a call from the President a short time ago. He assured me that UNACO will continue to operate, as before, under the auspices of the United Nations. So there’s no need for any of you to start preparing your CVs.”

“How did you manage to get him on our side, sir?” Whitlock asked in amazement.

“We came to an understanding. The President wanted the Scoby affair buried. I wanted an assurance that UNACO wouldn’t be sacrificed for what happened in Ireland. It means, however, that as far as we’re concerned, neither Scoby nor Tillman ever made a deal with the Colombians to import cocaine into this country. Nor did the meeting between Tillman and Navarro ever take place. Not even Melissa Scoby will know the truth. That’s how the President wants it and as no drugs ever changed hands on American soil, I’d say we got the better end of the deal.”

“What about Navarro and Varese? Are they just going to be allowed to walk?”

Philpott let Whitlock answer Graham’s question.

“Tony Varese’s made a deal with our old buddy, Frankie Grecco,” Whitlock told them. “The DEA have persuaded the DA to drop all charges against Varese in return for testifying against the Germino family. Carmine Germino and four of his senior lieutenants have already been taken into custody. The only stipulation Varese made was that he wouldn’t testify against Navarro. It’s a personal thing. But with the evidence against the others the DEA are confident that they can make a solid case against Navarro anyway. They’ll go down for a long time.”

“What about Tillman’s murder?” Graham asked.

“It’ll become another unsolved statistic on the books of the NYPD,” Philpott replied. “The videotape will be destroyed once Varese’s testified and been given a new identity under the Witness Protection Program.”

“There’s another interesting twist to the case,” Kolchinsky said. “We received a fax this morning from our contact in Medellin. Miguel Cabrera, Navarro’s inside man in the Medellin cartel, was killed in a car bomb explosion late last night. His murder was almost certainly ordered by Navarro to silence him after the deal went sour. It seems highly unlikely that his father could have found out that he was working for Navarro and had him killed.”

“If he had, he wouldn’t have been killed by a car bomb,” Graham said. “You can be sure Miguel Cabrera would have died a slow and agonizing death. The Colombians don’t take too kindly to informers.”

Philpott ran his finger down the list in front of him. “There is one last point which actually brings us back full circle to the arms which were found on Nantucket Island last week. Varese’s already told Grecco that the Germino family was one of the main suppliers of arms to the IRA. The cache of ArmaLite rifles on board the Ventura was destined for Sean Farrell. So Scotland Yard will now have ample evidence to nail Farrell on gun-running charges. Not that he’ll be much of a threat anymore. His liaison with Fiona Gallagher has not only destroyed his credibility but also his future within the IRA. Rumor has it he’ll go the same way as Brady.”

“That can’t be a bad thing, can it?” Whitlock said.

Philpott leafed through the papers in front of him until he found the one he wanted. “Now, about Fabio’s replacement.”

“I thought C.W. was being brought back into the field?” Graham said, looking at Whitlock.

“He is,” Philpott agreed. “But I’ll need a team leader when we come to rebuild Strike Force Seven. And C.W. is the perfect choice.”

“I thought I’d be back with Mike and Sabrina,” Whitlock said in surprise.

“In case you’ve forgotten, Mike was promoted to team leader when you came over on to the management side,” Philpott reminded him. “There can’t be two team leaders in one unit.”

“In that case I resign my leadership,” Graham said. “I know I speak for Sabrina when I say we want C.W. back in Strike Force Three. Let’s face it, UNACO are going to need to be at their sharpest over the next few months if we’re to regain our credibility amongst the other intelligence services around the world.”

“Mike’s right, sir,” Sabrina added. “It would be crazy to break up the team at a time like this. We need to consolidate our position amongst the intelligence community and we can’t do that by rebuilding another team. Recruit from the outside and, where necessary, promote from within. I can think of half a dozen operatives you could bring in to replace Dave Swain. And it would be good for morale.”

“Have you both quite finished lecturing me on the concepts of good management practice?” Philpott said, looking at each of them in turn.

They both nodded somberly.

“You obviously feel strongly about this. And, surprisingly enough, there is an element of common sense in what you both said. C.W., you’re reinstated as leader of Strike Force Three.”

“Thank you, sir,” Whitlock said, beaming.

“This doesn’t mean that you’ve pulled one over on the old fossil,” Philpott said, looking directly at Graham. “Just remember that.”

“Sir, you’re not suggesting that I call you–” Graham trailed off with a helpless shrug but when he turned to Sabrina for support she was looking down at her feet, struggling not to laugh.

“I’m sure it’s meant as a term of endearment,” Philpott said with a knowing smile. He closed the folder. “That’s all, thank you. You have the rest of the week off but just make sure you have your beepers with you at all times in case something should crop up. Mike, that includes taking it with you to the game tonight.”

“That goes without saying, sir,” Graham replied. “But how did you know I was going to the game?”

“The Giants against the Redskins at Meadowlands? I know you wouldn’t miss that for the world.”

“No, sir,” Graham said with a smile.

“But I still want those outstanding reports on my desk first thing in the morning. I can’t delay the Secretary-General any longer.”

“You’ll have them, sir,” Graham assured him. Philpott activated the sliding door then turned his attention to one of the folders on his desk.

Whitlock touched Graham’s arm as he turned to leave. “Frankie said to tell you he’d ring you sometime and arrange for the two of you to go to a game together.”

“Frankie’s always going to ring me and arrange for us to go to a game together,” Graham replied. “He never does though.”

“Why don’t you ring him today and see if he’s going to the game tonight?” Sabrina said to Graham. “Perhaps we can meet up with him there.”

“Why don’t you ring him?” Graham replied. “You’re a lot closer to him than I am.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she shot back.

“It’s no secret that you’ve been out with Frankie a few times since his divorce came through.”

“Sure I have. But it’s always been a purely platonic friendship.”

“That’s not what Frankie says,” Graham replied.

“Then Frankie’s a goddamn liar,” she snapped angrily. “And you can tell him that when you see him at the game tonight. It would be a shame to waste the spare ticket after all the trouble you’ve gone to to get it.”

She stormed out of the room before Graham could say anything.

“I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your touch while I’ve been away, Mike,” Philpott said, looking up from the folder on his desk. “Still as subtle as ever.”

“You were way out of line there, Mike,” Whitlock said. “You know Frankie and his big mouth. I think you owe Sabrina an apology.”

“OK,” Graham said defensively and hurried from the room. He caught up with Sabrina as she was about to press the button for the lift. “Hey, wait up a minute, will you? Look, I was out of order back there. I’m sorry.”

Her finger hovered over the button then she sighed deeply and let her arm fall to her side. “Frankie was a great UC. One of the best. But he was a completely different person outside work. He had this macho side to his personality that always seemed to surface whenever he was around women. That wasn’t for me. So I stopped seeing him. It’s as simple as that. And now you say he claims that we had something going? It’s really sad that a guy like Frankie has to make up these kind of stories to bolster his own ego.”

“Yeah. But then that’s Frankie for you. I should have known better than to say what I did. I’m sorry.” Graham gave her a questioning look. “You still want to come to the game tonight?”

“Are you going to invite Frankie?”

“Not a chance,” Graham said.

“Then you’re on.” She chuckled to herself. “It would have been a pity if I hadn’t got to see the game after spending three hours over the Atlantic learning about nickel defenses, slot formations, shotguns, sacks and turnovers.”

“You’ll have a good time, you’ll see.”

Whitlock left the UNACO offices and walked over to where they were standing. “Truce?”

“For the moment,” Sabrina replied.

“Talking of truces, have you spoken to Carmen yet?” Graham asked.

“I broke the news to her gently last night. Very gently in fact.”

“And?” Sabrina pressed.

“Well, she didn’t exactly do a jig of delight. But then she didn’t pack her bags and leave either. I think she’s accepted it, albeit reluctantly. I’m taking her out to dinner tonight at her favorite restaurant, Le Chantilly. I’m sure she’ll have something to say about it then.”

“I’m sure she will.”

“Thanks for making me feel better, Sabrina.” Whitlock pressed the button for the lift. “Anyone for a beer over at McFeely’s?”

“You buying?” Graham asked as the lift doors opened onto the floor.

“Why not?” Whitlock replied and followed them into the lift.