Death Train

Ten

Whitlock could sum up his mood in one word. Despondent. What had he achieved in his three days in Mainz? His cover had been blown at the outset by a beautiful woman who just happened to have dated one of the New York Times’s leading showbiz columnists (a fact corroborated by UNACO); he had nearly been run over by a Mercedes, the driver of which had subsequently drowned (or so he assumed); and although he tended to agree with Karen that Leitzig was involved in the diversion he didn’t have a shred of evidence against him. Each investigative avenue led to a dead end. He had to make the breakthrough, and quickly. But how?

The day could have started off better. He overslept, only waking at 9.30. Then, as he was reversing the Golf out of the driveway, the rain had started to fall, soon developing into a torrential downpour. After stopping off briefly at the hotel to change he drove to the plant on the old Frankfurt road, a route recommended to him by Karen the previous day. The traffic was negligible, most drivers preferring the spacious lanes of the A66 highway.

He stopped the Golf as close to the guards’ hut as possible and opened his window fractionally to display the pass Karen had organized for him on his first day at the plant. One of the guards pulled on a raincoat, tugged his peak cap over his head, then braved the sheeting rain to approach the car.

‘Morning. Whitlock, New York Times,’ he announced.

The guard ran his finger down the plastic-protected clipboard. ‘We have orders not to admit you.’

‘Who revoked my pass?’ Whitlock asked angrily.

‘Dr Leitzig.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve no idea, call him when you get home.’

‘I want to speak to him now!’

‘Your pass has been revoked, there’s nothing more to say. You’re trespassing on Government property.’

Whitlock flung his pass on to the dashboard and shook his head in frustration. Leitzig had snookered him. No doubt he would have a perfectly valid reason if challenged on the revocation order. And he had effectively blocked Whitlock’s investigation from within the plant.

The guard rapped on the window. ‘I’ve told you, you’re trespassing on Government property.’

Whitlock knew the futility of arguing; the guard was probably in Leitzig’s back pocket anyway. He needed time to rethink his strategy, time that wasn’t on his side. He turned the Golf around in front of the boomgate and drove away.

The guard unclipped the radio from his belt and put it to his lips. ‘He’s on his way.’

Whitlock rejoined the old Mainz-Frankfurt road – even the potholes were preferable to the long tailback on the main highway. He switched on the radio and turned the tuner until he found a music station. It was playing a bland pop song which was still better than some agricultural or political discussion in German. Rosie, his fifteen-year-old niece, would probably have liked it. He still hankered after the music of the sixties when the singers, unlike those of today, had tuneful voices and their backing bands didn’t have to vie with each other to see who could make the loudest noise. As Rosie kept reminding him, ‘It must get increasingly difficult to keep up with the changing face of society the older you get.’ She had a knack of making him feel twice his age!

He snapped out of his reverie as a pair of dazzling headlights drew even closer in the reflection of the rearview mirror. He muttered about the lack of consideration shown by some motorists and signalled for the driver to pass. The headlights remained fixed on the back of the Golf, forcing him to tilt the rearview mirror towards the passenger seat. He opened his window and made a sweep with his arm to beckon the driver on. He even gave way, moving precariously close to the verge so that the driver could see the road ahead for himself. The headlights swung out from behind the Golf and he caught a brief glimpse of the red bonnet braided with strips of chrome. A Range Rover. It drew abreast of the Golf but Whitlock was unable to see the driver.

‘Go on, go on,’ he shouted and waved the driver forward.

The Range Rover swerved inwards, striking the Golf broadside.

‘Damn maniac,’ Whitlock yelled as he swung the wheel violently to prevent the Golf from veering off the road.

The gently sloping thirty-feet grass embankment to his left ended abruptly in an area of dense woodland which could easily rupture a car’s fuel tank on impact.

The Range Rover struck the side of the Golf a second time and he instinctively trod sharply on the brakes, knowing he could lose control of the wheel and plummet down the embankment. He knew, though, that the Range Rover was infinitely more powerful and it would be only a matter of time before it forced the Golf off the road. The back wheels slewed sideways, away from the verge, and the Golf ended up straddled across the road. The Range Rover stopped, then executed a careful U-turn to face the stalled Golf. He reached over and unfastened the glove compartment, feeling around inside it for the Browning. As his fingers curled around the butt the Range Rover hit the Golf a glancing blow, disintegrating the right headlight in a shower of broken glass. The Golf spun round a hundred and eighty degrees, the momentum of the turn snapping Whitlock’s head against the steering wheel. He struggled to sit up, his head pounding from the force of the blow. When he gingerly touched the gash across his eyebrow he could feel blood oozing on to his fingertips.

The Range Rover had turned to make another run. The Golf was immobile only a few feet from the edge of the road and the next buffet would almost certainly cartwheel it down the embankment. Whitlock tried unsuccessfully to start the engine then reached for the Browning lying on the passenger seat. The Range Rover came directly towards the Golf, aiming to strike it on the driver’s door to get the exact angle to spin it round so it would roll sideways down the embankment. He waited until the Range Rover was twenty feet away before gripping the Browning in both hands and extending it through the open window. He picked an imaginary spot in the centre of the darkened windscreen and fired twice. Both bullets pierced the glass, inches apart, and a myriad of threadlike cracks branched out from the resulting dimpled holes.

The Range Rover sheered off course, narrowly missing the back of the Golf, then continued down the road and disappeared around the first bend.

Then he saw the motorbike parked further up the road. It was a black Suzuki 1000cc. Its rider, dressed in white leather, kick-started the machine and streaked past the Golf.

He managed to restart the Golf and as he slipped it into gear he began to think more carefully about the Range Rover. Had he seen it somewhere before? Had Karen mentioned it to him? The more he thought about it the more he was sure someone had referred to it in passing. He had met over a dozen different workers at the plant the previous day but he couldn’t place anyone who might have told him about it.

He snapped his fingers. ‘Leitzig,’ he said out loud.

Leitzig had a Range Rover that he used to go on fishing trips.

Whitlock’s head was throbbing by the time he found a public telephone. His suspicions about Leitzig grew stronger when he found out from the plant’s switchboard that he was not due at work until the afternoon shift. He found Leitzig’s home address in the directory, tore out the relevant page, and hurried back to the battered Golf. He would assess the damage later and use his credit card to settle up with Hertz. UNACO would refund him once he returned to New York. Kolchinsky wouldn’t be pleased

Leitzig lived in a run-down double-storey on Quintinstrasse overlooking the Old University campus on the eastern side of the Rhine. Whitlock parked the Golf at the end of the street, pocketed the Browning, then ran through the driving rain to the garage at the side of the house. He cupped his hands on either side of his face and peered through the cracked window. Although a piece of sacking had been erected as a makeshift curtain he could still see the red Range Rover inside. The paintwork was damaged on the passenger door. He couldn’t see the windscreen but he had all the proof he needed to confront Leitzig.

Next he turned his attention to getting into the house. He scaled a rickety six-foot wooden fence behind the garage and landed nimbly in the overgrown back yard where he remained on his haunches, Browning drawn, assessing the dangers. A veranda to his right, presumably leading into the kitchen. He made his way towards it through the knee-high grass, each squelching step soaking his feet more. A Christian Dior shirt stained with blood, a Richard James bottle-green suit saturated, and an expensive pair of Pierre Cardin slip-ons drenched. If they were ruined UNACO would pay for a replacement pair, whether Kolchinsky liked it or not.

He reached the veranda and tried the door. It opened.

An Alsatian was blocking his way, but instead of leaping up at him in defence of its territory it merely wagged its tail then returned to its basket to sleep. He decided against patting it, on the basis that he had already tempted fate too far. He slipped into the kitchen and closed the door securely behind him then reached down and removed his shoes.

Leitzig was sitting beside a small heater in the lounge, his back to the doorway. Whitlock paused and looked around the room in amazement. It was a shrine to one woman, with pictures of her from youth through to her middle years. Dozens of enlarged photographs, each mounted and framed, covered the walls, the ornamental mantelpiece and the chipped sideboard opposite the doorway.

All his pent-up anger seemed to dissipate and his voice sounded hollow when he finally spoke. ‘Dr Leitzig?’

Leitzig sprang to his feet and swung around to face him. There was a fury in his eyes. ‘Get out! Get out!’

Whitlock instinctively stepped back into the hallway, the Browning hanging limply by his side.

Leitzig was breathing heavily. ‘This is her room and I am the only other person allowed to share it with her. Nobody else!’

‘Then we’ll talk somewhere else. How about the kitchen?’

‘Who are you? What do you want?’ Surprisingly, Leitzig was hesitant.

‘Whitlock. You tried to kill me half an hour ago, remember?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Get out of my house or I will call the police.’

‘Please do, but don’t forget to mention your Range Rover in the garage. They might be interested in matching up its damaged paintwork with the paintwork on my Golf. I’m sure they’d come to some interesting conclusions. I do not think you would want the police here any more than I would.’

Whitlock was at the end of his patience, his equanimity finally deserting him. He grabbed Leitzig by the collar and slammed him against the wall. His voice was low and threatening. ‘I’m tired of playing games with you. I want some answers and I promise you I’ll get them.’

Leitzig shook his head. ‘You cannot hurt me any more than I have already been hurt. I am immune to pain now.’

Whitlock shoved Leitzig aside and entered the lounge where he picked up the nearest photograph. ‘I’ll smash them, one by one, until you tell me what I want to know.’

Leitzig stared at the photograph Whitlock was about to drop as though it were a priceless Ming vase. ‘Please, I beg of you, do not hurt her.’

‘You answer my questions and I won’t hurt her.’

‘I will answer any question you ask. Please, please, do not hurt her.’

Whitlock put the picture back on the sideboard and crossed to the heater.

Leitzig took the same picture from the sideboard and sat down in the single armchair.

‘My wife,’ he said softly, tracing his finger over the outline of her face.

‘I assumed it was. When did she pass away?’

‘Three years ago. I killed her.’

‘You killed her?’

‘She was dying from cancer. I could not bear the sight of her suffering so I killed her. I only did it because I loved her so much.’

‘Euthanasia,’ Whitlock said.

‘Call it what you like but I still killed her,’ Leitzig continued. ‘I took her back to Travemunde where we had spent our honeymoon twenty-six years before. I wanted her to have the holiday of a lifetime. On the last night there I deliberately got her drunk at dinner then took her for a walk along the beach.’ He gripped the frame in both hands and swallowed back the emotion which was threatening to surface. ‘That was when I drowned her.’

‘And you got away with it?’

‘The inquest recorded a verdict of accidental death, if that is what you mean. I did not go unpunished up here,’ Leitzig said, tapping his forehead. ‘The guilt is like a migraine. It will never go away. I have often thought about suicide but I do not have the courage to go through with it.’

Whitlock rubbed his own forehead; the throbbing was incessant. He touched the gash above his eye and was relieved to feel that it had stopped bleeding.

Leitzig seemed to notice Whitlock’s dishevelled appearance for the first time. ‘Do you want some dry clothes? I have plenty of sweaters and pants.’

It was a tempting offer but Whitlock was determined to remain in control. ‘You stay where you are.’

‘What’s going to happen to me?’

‘That all depends on your cooperation. How did you first get involved in the diversion?’

Leitzig stared at the photograph in his lap. ‘I was blackmailed into helping them.’

‘What did they have on you?’

‘I will show you. Can I get up?’

‘Where are you going?’ Whitlock asked.

‘To the sideboard.’

Leitzig opened one of the drawers and withdrew a brown envelope which he handed to Whitlock before sitting down again.

Whitlock extracted the six enlarged black and white photographs. They had all been taken with a night lens and showed Leitzig forcibly holding his wife’s head under the water. The last photograph had caught him as he was emerging from the sea, his wife’s lifeless body floating face down in the water. He slipped the photographs back into the envelope and handed it to Leitzig.

‘Those pictures would have put me behind bars for life.’

‘Who took them?’ Whitlock asked.

‘I do not know but I received them two days after the inquest.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘Nothing initially, then about six months later I was contacted at the Planck University where I was working and told to apply for the vacant post of senior technician at the reprocessing plant. With my experience I was accepted after the first interview. I found out later that my predecessor had been killed under mysterious circumstances while skiing at St Anton in Austria. Make of it what you want but I am pretty sure he was murdered so they could put their own man on the inside.’

‘Did you ever see any of your blackmailers?’

‘I liaised with two of them. The senior of the two was a Machiavellian type. Totally evil. A powerfully-built man with dark black hair and hooded eyes.’

‘And his name?’

‘Hendrick, Hendricks, something like that. He was not the sort of person you asked to repeat himself.’

‘And the other man?’

‘Canadian, called himself Vanner. Blond hair, blond moustache, always wore a trilby. He used to chauffeur Hendricks around in a black Mercedes.’

Another piece of the jigsaw had fallen into place. ‘So when did the diversion start?’

Leitzig removed a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. ‘About six or seven months after I started at the plant. In the interim period I had to recruit four new technicians and although I interviewed dozens of applicants I could only take on those put up by Hendricks. They were all fully qualified so it did not arouse any unnecessary suspicion. With the five of us working together the diversion went like clockwork.’

‘I’ve been through reams of computer print-outs but I can’t find any discrepancies. You must have siphoned the plutonium off sometime during the actual reprocessing, but how did you manage it with so many other technicians around? Or were there others in on it?’

‘Apart from a few guards and drivers nobody else was involved, certainly not any of my personnel. I had my team. We did not siphon the plutonium off during reprocessing, we siphoned it off afterwards.’

‘Afterwards? But those figures are checked by several sources before being stored in the computer.’

‘Agreed, tampering with bulk figures is virtually impossible. There is an insignificant column in the stat sheets headed “Residual Figures”, you probably did not even notice it.’

‘I remember it, the figures were all pretty negligible. Karen said it was something to do with the fissile material left in the residue. It didn’t make a lot of sense to me.’

Leitzig stubbed out his cigarette. ‘As I told you when I showed you around the plant, the uranium and plutonium undergo several extraction stages to remove any lingering impurities before they separate to form uranyl nitrate and plutonium nitrate respectively. Naturally there is both uranium and plutonium left in the residue, albeit in very small amounts. That residue then goes under its own extraction stage to release the trapped uranium and plutonium. The amounts vary with each magazine, even if it is only a matter of grams. It all counts in the end.’

He lit a second cigarette. ‘I covered my tracks right at the start by going to the plant manager and expressing my dissatisfaction at the residual extraction process. He played into my hands by asking me to supervise it personally. So I had a free hand. Over a three-day shift we could siphon off eight, maybe nine grams without it affecting the stat figures. We worked over a two-year period. Six kilograms of high-enriched, “weapons-grade” plutonium.’

‘Where is it destined for?’

‘I overheard Hendricks once say it was to be shipped to a secret laboratory in Libya.’

‘Did he mention the name of the ship?’

‘That is all I heard.’

‘Did he say what it was going to be used for?’

‘Use your imagination. It could be used for nuclear warheads but it is my guess it will be converted into an atom bomb. Six kilograms is the perfect size.’

‘Libya with an atom bomb? Sweet Jesus.’ Whitlock felt his head beginning to throb harder. ‘I want the name of all your fellow conspirators. Technicians, guards, drivers, the lot.’

The doorbell chimed.

‘Can I answer it, or am I still a prisoner?’

‘You always will be,’ Whitlock replied, picking up one of the photographs on the mantelpiece.

Leitzig left the room.

Whitlock heard the door open, then the sound of a muffled cough. Most people would have put it down to some background noise but he knew exactly what it was. A gun fitted with a silencer. He dived low through the doorway and rolled across the threadbare hall carpet, the Browning fanning the area in front of him. There was no sign of the gunman. He scrambled to his feet and dashed out on to the porch just in time to see the rider in the white leathers taking off up the road on the black Suzuki,

Leitzig was slumped against the wall, blood pumping from a bullet wound in his stomach.

Whitlock slammed the front door and raced into the lounge where he rifled through the sideboard drawers for some linen napkins to stem the flow of blood. Then he collected his shoes from the kitchen and slipped the incriminating photographs under his jacket. Leitzig was semi-conscious and there was nothing more he could do. After calling an ambulance anonymously on the hall telephone he left the house.

His first stop was Karen’s place. He parked in the driveway and hurried up to the porch where he rang the doorbell. No answer. He reached through the broken pane of glass and unlocked the door.

‘Karen?’ he called out as he entered the hallway.

No reply.

He checked the kitchen and lounge before making his way up the stairs to her bedroom. The door was ajar, as he had left it earlier in the morning when he had looked in on her. He poked his head around the door. She was still asleep, her sable hair spilt out across the cream pillowcase.

He left, locking the front door again after him. As he drove to the hotel he thought back over the eventful morning, looking forward to being able to contact Philpott with a constructive report for a change. His immediate priority was a steaming hot bath and some treatment for his gashed eyebrow. Then he would have to brave the weather again to dump the Golf in one of the city’s underground car parks, and get himself another car from a different hire company. A battered, paint-scarred yellow Golf would be difficult to miss, especially when it was parked near the scene of the shooting. If the police traced it to him he might not be as lucky as Sabrina had been in Zurich.

All eyes seemed to focus on him as he entered the foyer of the Europa Hotel. He smiled ruefully and walked self-consciously across to the reception desk to ask for his room key.

When the receptionist handed it to him he glanced round quickly and leaned closer to her.

She also glanced round and leaned closer to him, turning her head slightly to catch what he was about to say.

‘You won’t believe this, but it’s raining.’

There was a bemused smile on her face as she watched him disappear into the lift.

The first thing Sabrina saw when she opened her eyes was a blurred face looking down at her. She rubbed her eyes and the face became more distinct.

‘Mike?’ she said groggily. ‘Mike, are you all right?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ he replied gruffly, then put a glass to her lips. ‘Drink this.’

She took a sip of the brandy then coughed and spluttered as it burnt its way down her throat.

She pushed the glass away from her face. ‘You know I hate the stuff.’

‘People respond quickest to something they hate,’ Philpott said from the corner of the room.

She was lying on a single bed in what was obviously a hotel room. ‘Where are we?’

‘The Da Francesca Hotel in Prato,’ Philpott replied and got to his feet. ‘The American Embassy in Rome received an anonymous call to say you and Mike had been left unconscious in a small storage shed at Prato station. The caller also told the Embassy to call us. How did they know who you were working for? Mike didn’t say anything–’

‘And neither did I, sir!’ she shot back, then touched her temples gingerly. ‘Stefan Werner’s a KGB agent. They found out through him.’

‘Werner, KGB?’ Kolchinsky said from the chair beside the door.

She turned to him and a look of concern crossed her face. He was wearing a thick foam collar around his neck, tilting his head back at an angle.

‘What happened?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Whiplash. It’s a long story. Michael will fill you in on the details later.’ He reached for the cigarettes on the table beside him.

She positioned the pillow against the headboard and sat up. ‘Can I have something to drink? My tongue feels like a piece of recycled leather.’

‘Coffee?’ Philpott indicated the tray on top of the television set.

‘Yes, please,’ she said eagerly.

‘Milk, no sugar?’

‘Yes, sir.’

He poured the coffee out for her and she leaned forward to take it from him. She took several sips before putting the cup and saucer on the bedside table. Thoroughly and professionally she proceeded to tell them everything that had happened, careful to omit any references to having acceded to Hendrique’s demands. It would only have been met with a barrage of criticism, especially from Graham. She had done it because of him and it was a decision she knew she would never regret.

‘So this whole operation’s been funded by the KGB,’ Philpott said once she had finished. ‘So much for your glasnost, Sergei.’

‘Don’t tar us all with the same brush, Malcolm,’ Kolchinsky replied, then turned to Sabrina. ‘Did Werner give you any clue as to his handler’s identity?’

She shook her head.

‘I’ll get on to Zurich and the UN right away, see what they can dig up.’ Kolchinsky rose carefully to his feet.

Philpott crossed to the door and put a hand lightly on Kolchinsky’s shoulder. ‘You know the KGB hierarchy inside out; surely there aren’t that many extremists who would resort to something like this?’

‘More than you think,’ Kolchinsky replied, then left the room.

‘Why didn’t he phone from here?’ Sabrina asked.

‘Because I’m waiting for an important call,’ Philpott replied, then sat down in the chair vacated by Kolchinsky. ‘There’ve been some new developments in the last few hours. I’d just finished telling Mike when you started to stir.’

‘Why didn’t you wake me up earlier, sir?’

‘There wasn’t any need. We can’t make a move until the phone call anyway.’ Philpott took out his pipe and filled it from his tobacco pouch. ‘After we’d received the tip-off about your whereabouts I sent one of our helicopters after the train to tail it for the rest of the journey through to Rome. There was only one snag: the wagon wasn’t anywhere to be seen when the helicopter caught up with the train.’

‘You mean it had been uncoupled?’

Philpott lit his pipe and exhaled the smoke upwards. ‘That’s exactly what I mean. I had our men board the train when it next stopped but Werner and Hendrique had already flown the coop, having disembarked here at Prato some two hours earlier, according to the conductor. The wagon hadn’t been uncoupled at Prato so every station from Modena to Prato had to be contacted to try and find out where it was.’

‘And did you?’

‘Seventy minutes later. A porter at Montepiano – it’s a town about fifteen miles north of here – vaguely recalled seeing a single wagon on one of the lines. The sighting fits in with the time the train was here in Prato. It could be a red herring but it’s the only clue we’ve got. The helicopter team have gone to Montepiano to see what they can find out about the wagon.’

‘And this is the call you’re waiting for, from Montepiano?’

Philpott nodded. ‘Once we know the plutonium’s destination, hopefully you can get there first to prevent it from going any further. One of our helicopters is on standby not far from here and Zurich assures me the pilot knows the countryside like the back of his hand.’

‘So you want us to go ahead regardless of Werner’s threat?’

‘You know UNACO’s policy–’

‘Mike, that’s enough! If you played by the book it would be fair comment but you quoting the Charter is like Stallone quoting Macbeth.’

Sabrina giggled, then clamped her hand over her mouth. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

Graham eyed her icily.

‘We can’t be at all sure Werner was bluffing when he said he would detonate the plutonium if he were cornered – but to give in to his demands would be to condone criminal behaviour. UNACO was founded precisely to neutralize situations like this. We can’t back down.’ Philpott sucked on his pipe. ‘A marksman shoots to kill when he’s cornered a rabid dog. If the dog’s only wounded it can still bite. I think you know what I’m saying.’ They both nodded.

Philpott indicated with the stem of his pipe the two cream-coloured holdalls by the side of the bed. ‘I managed to get them back from the Swiss authorities last night. I’m sure you want to get changed.’

Sabrina clambered off the bed and picked up the holdalls. ‘Thank you, sir, I’ll appreciate being myself again.’

‘The bathroom’s through there,’ Philpott said, gesturing to the door on his right.

She went into the bathroom and closed the door behind her.

Philpott got to his feet and crossed to the window as though his proximity to the door might be misconstrued. ‘Why do you resent her so much, Mike? Is it because she’s a woman? Or because she hasn’t got your level of field experience? Or is it her shooting ability–’

‘It’s got nothing to do with that,’ Graham retorted defensively.

‘Have you ever seen her on the range? I only ask because I know you like to shoot on your own.’

‘I know she’s good, better than me,’ Graham said with an indifferent shrug.

‘I’ve been thinking about the two of you for a couple of days, which was why I had these sent out from New York.’ He opened his attaché case and withdrew a folder. ‘Naturally they’re confidential but as you’re her partner I thought you should see them. They’re the targets she used during her prelim tests. There’re only a couple in here, I could hardly have the life-size ones sent out. Take a look, you might learn something.’

Graham opened the folder and picked up the first target. Beretta 92/15 rounds had been printed in the top right-hand corner. There was a single hole in the centre of the bull the size of a quarter. The second target had Mannlicher Luxus/10 rounds printed in the top right-hand corner. Apart from the one stray bullet hole dissecting the circle around the bull the rest of the bullets had formed an uncanny geometric circle in the centre of the bull. It was as though she had purposefully set out to create another perfect circle within the bull itself.

Philpott pointed to the one flaw on the target. ‘It was her first shot, she hadn’t quite adjusted the sights properly. Nobody’s perfect though.’

Graham closed the folder and handed it to Philpott. ‘I never knew anybody could be that good.’

Philpott held up the folder. ‘I know some of you feel she got into UNACO because of her father’s influence but it wouldn’t have mattered if he were the President or a hot dog vendor on Forty-Second Street – this was the deciding factor that got her into UNACO. She was on the range that morning, not her father.’

‘May I ask you a question, sir, confidentiality aside?’

‘Depends on the question,’ Philpott replied, slipping the folder back into his attaché case.

‘Did her father have any influence on your final decision?’

‘If you’d ever met George Carver you wouldn’t need to ask that question.’

Graham waited for Philpott to continue. There was a lengthy pause instead. ‘Go on, sir.’

‘I don’t need to, I’ve answered the question.’

Sabrina emerged from the bathroom before Graham could get Philpott to justify his answer.

She was wearing a baggy white jersey and figure-hugging jeans tucked into a pair of brown leather ankle boots. Her hair was tied at the back of her head with a white ribbon.

‘Why the sudden silence?’ she asked, then smiled. ‘Should I have been in the bathroom for another five minutes?’

‘Mike was asking about your father.’

‘What about him?’

Graham glowered at Philpott as he struggled to think of something to say. He was tempted to be blunt but knew it would serve no purpose. ‘I was asking the boss if he’d ever met your father.’

She frowned. ‘Have you, sir?’

‘Once, in Montreal. I had been speaking at a police convention that afternoon and in the evening I was invited to a cocktail party at the home of the American Ambassador, then your father. It was the usual drab embassy party apart from one incident when a little girl in her pyjamas came running into the room determined to show everyone the gold stars the teacher had stuck in her book that day at school.’

‘I did that?’ She screwed her face up in horror. ‘How embarrassing.’

‘What amazed me was the way you alternated between English and French when talking to your parents. I know your mother is French but you sounded as fluent as her and you couldn’t have been much older than seven or eight. It’s one of those things I’ve always remembered.’

‘It’s just the way I was brought up. I spoke English to my father and French to my mother. You could say I had the best of both worlds. It was so strictly enforced that when I first went to sleep over at a friend’s house – I must have been about nine at the time – I automatically spoke to her parents as I did to my own back home. I thought all mothers spoke French!’ She sat on the edge of the bed and stared at her unpainted fingernails. ‘Have you heard from C.W., sir?’

‘Yes, I heard from him before I left Zurich this morning. With everything that’s happened since it totally slipped my mind.’

He detailed the events from the time Whitlock had been roused from his bed by Karen’s telephone call through to Leitzig’s shooting some nine hours later.

‘Is Leitzig still alive?’ Graham asked.

‘C.W. phoned the hospital minutes before he phoned me and he was told Leitzig’s on the critical list.’

‘And C.W.? How bad was his eye injury?’ Sabrina asked.

‘He needed five stitches. Mike also picked up an injury.’

‘What happened?’ she asked anxiously.

Graham merely shrugged.

‘He sprained his shoulder badly trying to land on the wagon roof. The doctor’s given him painkillers. He’ll be fine until we get back to New York where he can get it attended to properly.’

The telephone rang.

Philpott crossed to the bedside table to answer it. He listened intently, occasionally nodding, then replaced the receiver without a word.

‘The wagon was coupled to the back of a train bound for Trieste. It’s due into Trieste at 4.40. That leaves you with a little over fifty minutes. There’s still a chance you can get there before it arrives. I’ll call the pilot.’

They pulled on their jackets and pocketed the new Berettas Kolchinsky had left on the bed for them, each taking a spare clip as an additional back-up.

‘The pilot’s waiting in the foyer,’ Philpott said after replacing the receiver.

They hurried from the room without another word.

The helicopter covered the 190 miles to Trieste in forty minutes, touching down on a strip of wasteland directly behind the station.

Graham and Sabrina disembarked even before the pilot had shut down the engine and made their way to the terminus building. The spacious concourse was teeming with commuters and tourists. After looking around briefly she grabbed his arm and led him to the side of a newsstand a few feet away.

‘I’ll find out about the train from the information centre over there. It’s pointless both of us going, we could easily become parted in this melee. I’ll be as quick as I can.’

With that she was gone.

When she returned five minutes later her face was grim.

‘Don’t tell me, it arrived early,’ Graham said.

She nodded. ‘Twenty-five minutes ago.’

‘More than enough time to transfer it elsewhere. Which platform?’

‘Seven.’

‘We’ll have to double back towards the helicopter and see if we can get on to Platform Seven from there. You’d think Philpott could have organized a clearance for us like he did at Strasbourg.’

‘This is where I play my ace.’ She withdrew two plastic ID cards and handed one to Graham.

‘I took them off the CID guys in Switzerland. All you have to do is hold it up briefly and say polizia. I’ll deal with any dialogue.’

‘There are times when I could swear you’re more than just a pretty face.’

‘Praise indeed.’

The gate leading on to Platform Seven was unguarded and they were able to slip through unobserved.

She pointed at the engine. ‘It’s a Rapido, no wonder it got here ahead of schedule.’

‘What’s a Rapido?’

‘There are different classes of trains in Italy. A Rapido’s an express, it only stops at the major cities. Very fast, very reliable.’

‘So what would you class the boneshaker we were on?’

‘That would be at the other end of the scale. A Locale perhaps. It stops at every station.’

‘Cosa desidera?’ a voice called out behind them.

‘Get your pass ready,’ she said to Graham.

She turned to face the approaching porter and held up the disc, careful to obscure the accompanying photograph with her fingers. She launched into a barrage of Italian and within seconds had the porter answering her questions. She thanked him once she had the information she needed and waited until he was out of earshot before speaking to Graham.

‘The crate was transferred into the back of a white van almost as soon as the train arrived at the station.’

‘Did he say where it was going?’

‘He said he overheard one of them talking about a ship but that it wasn’t mentioned by name.’

‘If the plutonium’s bound for Libya then Trieste’s as good a port as any to load it on to a ship.’

‘Straight down the Adriatic and across the Mediterranean.’

‘Precisely. I still want to look at the freight car, though. I don’t altogether trust these European porters, not after what happened at Lausanne.’

They weren’t expecting any kind of opposition but still transferred their Berettas from their shoulder holsters to their coat pockets as they neared the freight car. Sabrina pressed herself against the side of the car and waited for Graham’s signal before sliding the door open. It was empty.

‘We’re only wasting time here,’ he said, closing the door again.

Darkness was beginning to fall as they made their way back to the helicopter. Within a couple of minutes the pilot had it airborne, heading towards the docks.

‘Look!’ she exclaimed as the helicopter banked low over the harbour complex.

Graham followed the direction of her pointing finger. A demarcated section of the complex, from Wharves Nine to Seventeen, dazzlingly irradiated under numerous floodlights, was painted in the distinctive colours of the Werner Company. The W-logo was portrayed on every warehouse wall, on the stem of every quayside crane, and even the bold numbering denoting each wharf had been painted in yellow with a black border. What struck them both was the cleanliness of the wharves compared to the surrounding ones. Whereas they were littered with discarded packing crates and overflowing steel drums and many of the warehouse walls were daubed with multicoloured graffiti, the fenced-off Werner wharves were free of any rubbish and the warehouses looked as though they had been painted only hours earlier. Whatever else was wrong with him they had to admit Werner was a very professional operator.

‘Do you want me to put down on one of the wharves?’ the pilot called out over his shoulder.

‘No, the harbourmaster’s office. Know it?’ she shouted back.

The pilot gave her a thumbs-up sign and within a couple of minutes the helicopter had landed in a clearing. He pointed to a red-brick building some forty feet away. She followed Graham across the lawn to the building where, once inside, he sat on the bench beside the door while she approached the counter to speak to the duty officer. The duty officer consulted his logbook several times during the conversation and finally scribbled something down on a piece of paper which he then handed to her. She thanked him then walked over to Graham.

‘One of Werner’s freighters–’ she glanced at the paper ‘–the Napoli, was berthed at Wharf Eleven up until an hour ago.’

‘Well, that’s no good to us,’ he cut in.

‘Give me a chance,’ she retorted irritably. ‘Anyway, it seems the Napoli was already running six hours behind schedule because Werner had personally instructed her captain to wait for a crate which was being brought to Trieste by train. The captain then received the go-ahead to leave the port without the crate but no sooner had the Napoli left than a company Sikorsky touched down on Wharf Eleven. It was to take the crate out to the Napoli as soon as it was delivered to the warehouse.’

‘And the helicopter’s already taken off with the crate?’

She nodded grimly. ‘Twenty-five minutes ago.’

He banged his fist angrily on the arm of the bench.

‘They’re always one step ahead of us.’

‘There’s something else. The Napoli’s ladened with grain bound for Ethiopia. I can’t believe anyone would actually exploit the suffering of those people for some political ideology.’ She shook her head, a mixture of anger and frustration in her eyes.

‘We’ll head it off in time,’ he said, trying to reassure her. ‘Where’s its next port of call?’

‘Dubrovnik. It should be there by early morning. Then Tripoli.’

‘So we have to stop it before it leaves Dubrovnik,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I can’t see Werner being too far away from the plutonium, so there’s every chance we’ll meet up with him in Dubrovnik.’

‘It’s not a game, Mike!’ she said, grabbing his arm as they left the office.

‘I agree, it’s a challenge.’ He walked several yards then turned to face her. ‘You’re the sharpshooter, Werner’s your problem. I want Hendrique.’

‘It’s not a vendetta either,’ she shouted after him, her words almost lost in the biting wind.

‘We’ve got to get to Dubrovnik tonight,’ he said to the pilot.

‘Dubrovnik?’ The pilot shook his head. ‘No chance, not tonight.’

‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I’ve been in contact with air control. A particularly strong bora wind’s blanketed the entire Dalmatian Coast in such a thick fog that all flights to and from the area have had to be called off until it lifts.’

‘This is UNACO, not a boy scout jamboree. Risks are all part of our business, or weren’t you told when you joined?’

The pilot glared at Graham but wisely kept his anger in check. ‘I’d be the first to risk it if there was some sort of visibility but I’m told the fog’s so bad you can’t see a hand in front of your face. We wouldn’t be risking our lives, we’d be committing suicide.’

‘When’s the fog expected to lift?’ Sabrina asked.

‘The weathermen predict early morning.’

‘And you’ll fly us to Dubrovnik then?’ she added.

‘I’ll have the airport call me the minute the fog shows signs of lifting.’

Graham looked suitably put out but he said nothing, knowing the pilot was right.

‘Just one thing. How would a ship be faring out there right now?’ Sabrina asked.

The pilot stared out into the darkness. ‘It would have dropped anchor as soon as the fog closed in. Only a madman would try and navigate a ship in these conditions.’

Graham and Sabrina exchanged glances, each knowing what the other was thinking.

‘If you want to fly back with me to the airport I’ve got a car waiting there, I can give you a lift into town. We’re going to have to find a hotel for the night.’

‘Thanks, we’d appreciate that,’ Sabrina said.

As the rotors started up the same thought still nagged at the back of their minds. Unknown to the other, neither was prepared to hazard an answer.

Whitlock moved to the wall mirror to straighten his tie. He found himself staring at the stitches across his right eyebrow. An inanimate object had done what no opponent had managed to do in four years of amateur schoolboy boxing. Cut him. He had already come to fancy the idea of a scar, but this one would be fairly innocuous once the hair had grown back.

A scar had the ability to give a face both character and strength. He remembered the scars on his grandfather’s face, three on each cheek, which had been carved into his skin by a witchdoctor using the razor-sharp point of an incisor taken from the mouth of a slain lion. It had been part of the ritual initiation ceremony turning him from a boy into a man. His grandfathers couldn’t have been more different. His mother’s father, the tall warrior with the scarred cheeks who used to enthrall the young C.W. with exciting stories of past Masai battles; his father’s father, the short, red-faced British Army Major who was rarely seen without a thick cigar in his mouth and a bottle of cheap whisky in his hand. His father had had a three-inch scar between his shoulder-blades, the result of an inter-tribal fight, he had once told his son. It was only after his father died that his mother told him the scar had actually been the result of a drunken brawl in a Nairobi nightclub. Much as he loved her, he still resented her for telling him. It was as though a part of the African mystique had died within him.

He smiled. His Masai grandfather would have been proud of him. He glanced at his wristwatch. 8.07. He was due at Karen’s house for dinner at 8.30. The last supper, as he had called it. His work in Mainz was over. It was strange to think that twenty-four hours earlier he had been pacing up and down the very same room, frustrated at his lack of progress.

He pushed the Browning into the holster under his left arm, the threat of the mysterious motorbike rider ever present in the back of his mind.

The telephone rang.

He sat on the edge of the bed before picking up the receiver. ‘Hello?’

‘C.W.?’

‘Karen, is that you?’

‘Please help me, they’ve–’

The receiver was snatched away from her.

‘Be at the plant at 8.30 or the girl dies,’ a man’s voice snarled in German.

‘I can’t, my pass was revoked today,’ Whitlock said calmly, but hearing his heart thudding in his chest.

‘You’ll get in, don’t worry. 8.30 at the cooling pond. Come along; and no piece otherwise the girl gets it.’

The line went dead.

Whitlock disappeared into the bathroom only to emerge a minute later, his tie draped around his neck. He retied it quickly in front of the mirror, pulled on his jacket, then made his way down into the hotel foyer. After handing his key in at the reception desk he hurried out into the chilly night air to where his new rented car was parked on the opposite side of the road. It was a white Vauxhall Cavalier. He was determined to keep this one intact. With that thought in mind he used the highway instead of the old Frankfurt road.

He noticed there was only one guard on duty instead of the usual three as he approached the floodlit plant complex. Only when he drew up in front of the boomgate did he see the Finnish-made Jatimatic machine-pistol in the guard’s hand. It surprised him. Not only was the Jatimatic fairly new on the market but it was also rarely seen outside the Scandinavian countries.

It was the same guard who had turned him away that morning.

‘I hope you’re being paid overtime for all this devoted service,’ Whitlock said through the open window.

The guard ordered Whitlock to unlock the back door. Once inside he closed the door and pressed the Jatimatic into Whitlock’s neck.

‘Your piece, and take it out slowly.’

‘You told me on the phone not to bring one.’

‘Your piece!’ the guard snapped, his finger tightening on the trigger.

‘Okay, okay,’ Whitlock said in a placating voice and reached for the Browning.

‘I said slowly.’

‘If I go any slower my hand won’t be moving.’

The guard snatched the Browning from him.

‘Carry on straight but instead of turning into the visitors’ car park turn left and continue for another hundred metres. You’ll see a white door marked Seventeen. Park there.’

Whitlock followed the guard’s instructions and drew up in front of the white door with ‘17’ emblazoned across it in black paint. Underneath was stencilled: Entrance strictly prohibited to unauthorized personnel. As he climbed from the Cavalier something caught his eye in the reflection of the overhead spotlight.

The black Suzuki 1000cc was partially hidden in the shadows of an oak tree on the perimeter of the grass embankment. The guard prodded the Jatimatic into the small of his back and he returned his attention to the white door. It opened inwards.

‘Left,’ the guard ordered.

He did as he was told and a few feet further on found himself in front of the door to the storage pond Leitzig had shown him a couple of days earlier. The door was ajar and he pushed it open with his fingertips. He glanced over his shoulder, awaiting instructions.

The guard gestured to the metal ladder on the wall to his right. ‘Climb, to the top.’

Whitlock was hoping he could disarm the guard on the ladder but he was out of luck. The guard waited until Whitlock was halfway up before following him, careful to keep his distance at all times. As Whitlock neared the top of the ladder he was able to see the white leather boots and pants of the motorbike rider standing a few feet away on the catwalk. He clambered up on to the catwalk and saw the rider’s face for the first time.

Karen was wearing a pair of dark glasses to hide her bruised eye, her black hair contrasting vividly with the whiteness of the leather jacket.

The guard, breathing heavily, appeared on the catwalk and handed the Browning to her.

‘Frisk him,’ she ordered in German.

The guard frisked Whitlock quickly. ‘He’s clean.’

‘You don’t seem too surprised to find me holding the aces. Wasn’t my performance over the phone realistic enough?’ she asked.

‘It was the first time. What baffles me though is why you went to the lengths of a black eye if, and correct me if I’m wrong, you and Vanner were going to kill me once I reached the house.’

‘How did you find out about Vanner?’

‘Leitzig told me, before you shot him.’

‘Well, the black eye was an accident. Frankie, Frankie Vanner that is, opened the kitchen door into my face in his rush to leave the house on hearing the police sirens in the distance. That’s when our plan started to go wrong. We’d expected you to come alone.’

‘Who exactly is this Vanner?’

‘Hendrique’s right-hand man. He was originally supposed to have been on the train but Werner had him sent back here once you arrived.’ She held up her hand as he was about to speak. ‘My turn to ask a question.’

He glanced at the muzzle of the Browning pointing at his midriff. ‘I’d say that’s a fair request.’

‘When did you first suspect me?’

‘I’ve always suspected you, even if it was just a nagging doubt in the back of my mind. It was something Leitzig said which really got me thinking. He said part of the reason for his being planted here was to employ Hendrique’s four technicians to help him, along with the drivers and guards who were also involved in the diversion. You told me at the Hilton you were in charge of hiring, amongst others, the drivers and the guards. It was a matter of putting two and two together.’

‘I’m impressed,’ she said without sounding it. ‘You’re right, of course. I employed all the staff vetted by Hendrique without any of them suspecting I was anything other than the head of the PR department. It’s been the perfect cover – only four other people know about it. Werner, Hendrique, Frankie and my handler.’

‘What about Leitzig?’

‘Leitzig?’ she scoffed. ‘One of the reasons for my being here was to monitor the diversion’s progress and report it directly to my handler. If Leitzig had known I was watching him he’d probably have panicked. As far as he was concerned he was the kingpin in the plant itself. All our staff worked for him. He paid them and if any of them got greedy he’d call in Hendrique.’

‘What about his predecessor? Did Hendrique kill him?’

‘He wasn’t greedy, he just refused to cooperate. He also threatened to expose the diversion plot before it had even begun. Hendrique killed him and made it look like a skiing accident.’

Her smile was apologetic. ‘I think I’ve answered enough of your questions.’

She took a step back and extended the Browning at arm’s length, the muzzle aimed at the centre of Whitlock’s forehead. Her finger curled around the trigger. He stared at the Browning, transfixed, knowing he could never reach it before she pulled the trigger. Her wrist flexed in the second before she fired. The bullet took the guard in the chest, knocking him back against the wall. She fired again and the guard toppled face down on to the catwalk. The Jatimatic came to rest inches from Whitlock’s feet.

‘You could try,’ she said, watching his flickering eyes. ‘Otherwise kick it over the side.’

He brushed it off the catwalk with the side of his foot.

‘This section of the plant’s not in operation tonight and even if someone should go past they wouldn’t hear a thing. It’s soundproof. We’re all alone.’

Whitlock looked down at the dead man. ‘You’ve got a strange way of repaying loyalty.’

‘I told you, he worked for Leitzig, not for me. Anyway, he knew about my cover. I had to confide in him to get him to help me. Actually, it’s worked out rather well. The guard catches you snooping in an unauthorized area of the plant and in the ensuing struggle he’s shot and you lose your footing, falling to your death. It’s not very original but quite effective nevertheless.’

‘And what if I manage to keep my footing?’

‘Then I’ll shoot you. It might spoil my little scenario but at least you won’t have to worry about it.’

‘Such consideration.’ He moved to the railing and peered down at the tranquil water seventy feet below. ‘Can I ask one final question?’

‘Ask.’

‘Who exactly are you working for?’

‘KGB, Department S. I was recruited at university and I’ve been working for them ever since.’

Her voice became strangely hollow. ‘I’ve only got one regret about all of this, that we never made love last night.’

‘Well, it would have saved you the bother of tonight’s trip.’

‘I couldn’t have killed you then,’ she said quietly. ‘I wanted you so much.’

‘We could try–’

‘Don’t mock me,’ she erupted, then levelled the Browning at his chest. ‘I’ll shoot if you haven’t jumped in ten seconds.’

He turned his head to look at the pond below, then clutched his neck, his face twisted in pain. Massaging the back of his neck his fingers felt for the sheathed stiletto he had strapped underneath his collar before leaving the hotel. He had rehearsed the move countless times on a dummy in front of his bedroom mirror back home but it was the first time he would be putting it into practice. Surprise and accuracy were vital if it were to succeed; the slightest misjudgement would cost him his life. He gripped the hilt then tilted his head fractionally so he could unsheath the knife cleanly and follow through in one fluid movement.

She saw the glint of the blade at the last second but instead of firing she instinctively tried to get a better grip on the Browning. The finely-sharpened blade sliced across the back of her hand. She screamed, dropped the Browning, then stumbled backwards clutching her bleeding hand to her stomach. He saw what happened next as if it were in a slow-motion replay. She backed against the railings and lost her footing, toppling backwards but grabbing on to one of the vertical struts with her injured hand. She managed to get her other hand around the railing, then glanced down at the water seventy feet below her.

‘Don’t look down!’ he shouted.

Only her hands were visible above the level of the catwalk.

‘Give me your hand.’

‘I can’t, they’re slipping,’ she screamed, her bloodied hands unable to get a grip on the smooth railing. ‘Help me, for God’s sake help me.’

He reached down between the struts and grabbed one of her wrists with both hands, but even as he took the strain the blood was already acting as a lubricant between their skins. He dug his fingers mercilessly into her flesh and in a last, desperate bid to hold on she released her grip on the now sticky railing and clasped her hands, one at a time, around his wrists. He tried to pull her up but her hands were slipping all the time. Then, suddenly, she dropped her injured hand to her side, unable to bear the pain any longer. Her wrist slipped through his hands and as she dug her fingers into his palms he caught sight of her wide, pleading eyes staring up at him. Then the contact broke. He turned away sharply as she plunged backwards into space.

He finally stood up and looked down. She was floating face down in the pond, only her white leathers visible above the surface of the water.

He removed the ID disc from the dead guard’s pocket to use to open the door then picked up his Browning and made his way towards the ladder.

After locking the storage pond door behind him he walked down the corridor and out into the night. He drove the Cavalier slowly down the driveway until he came to the boomgate where a guard emerged from the hut and glanced at his pass. Even if his pass had been revoked no guard would bother checking the list against outgoing vehicles.

‘You haven’t seen another guard dressed like me, have you? Only when I came on duty a few minutes ago this place was unmanned. Anyone could have got in.’

‘No, sorry,’ Whitlock replied with an apologetic smile.

The guard activated the boomgate.

Whitlock’s next stop would be the hospital to check on Leitzig’s condition. The last he heard, Leitzig was off the critical list. The sooner he got the names of Leitzig’s fellow conspirators the sooner he could file his last report to Philpott.

Then back to New York.

Back to Carmen.