Red Alert

Seven

Wednesday

The telephone rang.

Kolchinsky rolled over in bed and reached out a hand to feel for the receiver. He knocked his watch and cigarettes off the bedside table, then, opening one eye, he saw that the telephone was still a foot away from his outstretched fingers. He struggled to sit up in bed and lifted the receiver to his ear.

‘Sergei?’

‘Speaking,’ Kolchinsky replied, then reached down to pick up his cigarettes and watch from the floor. He squinted at the time. 7.04 a.m. He yawned.

‘It’s Fabio. Paolo Conte’s regained consciousness.’

Kolchinsky lit a cigarette, then dropped the packet on the table.

‘Have any of your men had a chance to speak to him?’

‘Not yet. I’m on my way to the hospital now.’

‘I’ll meet you there in thirty minutes,’ Kolchinsky said, then put his hand over the mouthpiece and coughed violently.

‘Are you all right?’ Paluzzi asked.

‘Fine,’ Kolchinsky said, eyeing the cigarette with distaste. ‘I’ll tell the others.’ ‘What about Calvieri?’ He’ll have to be told,’ Kolchinsky said.

‘I’ll leave that to you. See you at the hospital in thirty minutes.’

Kolchinsky replaced the receiver, then took another drag on the cigarette. Why did he persist in smoking? It wasn’t as if he even enjoyed it any more. It had just become a costly, addictive habit. He stubbed out the cigarette, then called Graham and Sabrina in their rooms. He then rang Calvieri’s room. No reply. He dialled the number Calvieri had given to him the previous evening. It was answered immediately.

‘Posso parl are con Tony Calvieri?’ Kolchinsky asked.

‘Resti in linea,’ came the reply, and Kolchinsky heard the receiver being placed on a hard surface, probably a table.

It was picked up moments later.

‘Pronto, sono Tony Calvieri.’

‘It’s Kolchinsky. Conte’s regained consciousness. We’re meeting Paluzzi at the hospital in thirty minutes.’

‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

‘Any luck with the investigation?’

Calvieri sighed. ‘Not really, I’m afraid. I’ll fill you in when I see you. Thanks for letting me know about Conte.’

Kolchinsky met up with Graham and Sabrina ten minutes later outside the hotel and they drove to the Santo Spirito Hospital in the heart of the city. Paluzzi was waiting for them in the foyer.

‘Have you spoken to Conte?’ Kolchinsky asked.

‘I haven’t had a chance. I’ve only just got here myself.’ Paluzzi waited until a nurse had passed out of earshot then asked, ‘Where’s Calvieri?’

‘He was still at Pisani’s house when I called. He said he would be here as soon as he could.’

‘That suits me fine,’ Paluzzi said, leading them to the lift. ‘I don’t want him around until we’ve finished questioning Conte.’

‘Why?’ Sabrina asked.

Paluzzi got into the lift last and pressed the button for the third floor.

‘It’s psychological. Ubrino tried to kill him. We have to play on that if we’re going to get him into our confidence. If we’re seen to be working with the Red Brigades it could undermine our position. We can’t afford to take that chance.’

They got out on the third floor. Paluzzi indicated the two uniformed carabinieri sitting outside the private ward at the end of the corridor. They approached the two men and Paluzzi identified himself.

‘Who are the others?’ one of the policemen asked.

‘They’re with me, that’s all you need to know. Is Conte still conscious?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the policeman answered.

Paluzzi took Graham to one side.

‘I’m sending these two for an early breakfast. I’d like you to wait out here for Calvieri. Whatever you do, don’t let him come in.’

‘Got you,’ Graham replied.

Paluzzi spoke to the two policemen and they headed off for a welcome bite to eat. He opened the door and a third policeman, sitting beside the door, immediately got to his feet and challenged him. Paluzzi showed him his ID and asked him to join his colleagues in the cafeteria.

The policeman left the room. Kolchinsky and Sabrina went inside and she closed the door silently behind her.

Conte lay motionless on the bed. His face was sallow, his bloodshot eyes watching their every move. He tried to speak, but his throat was dry. Sabrina poured some water from the jug on the bedside table into a tumbler and tilted his head forward so he could take a drink. He coughed as the water ran down his throat.

‘Grazie,’ he said in a barely audible whisper.

‘Prego,’ she replied, putting the tumbler back on the table.

She was amazed at how young he looked. The UNACO dossier had given his age as twenty-two. He looked more like a schoolboy. Sixteen, seventeen at most. What had motivated him to join the Red Brigades when he had his whole life ahead of him? It seemed such a waste. Why couldn’t he see that? Perhaps now he would realize the futility of it all. The dream had become a nightmare.

Graham peered around the door.

‘Fabio, you’d better get out here.’

Paluzzi crossed to the door.

‘What is it? Has Calvieri arrived?’

‘Calvieri I can handle.’ Graham stabbed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘There’s a doctor out there who’s pretty pissed off with you. He says you were supposed to call him when you got here. Know anything about it?’

Paluzzi nodded and stepped out into the corridor. The man was in his thirties with black hair and a neatly trimmed black beard.

‘Doctor Marchetta?’ Paluzzi asked.

‘Si,’ came the curt response.

Paluzzi introduced himself in English and held up his ID card.

‘And who is he?’ Marchetta gestured to Graham. ‘I take offence to being bullied by some foreigner.’

‘He’s a security consultant with Neo-Chem Industries. He was sent over here from the United States to help with the investigation.’

Marchetta glared at Graham, then turned back to Paluzzi.

‘We agreed over the phone that you would contact me when you arrived at the hospital,’ he said, switching to Italian to exclude Graham from the conversation.

‘I tried to contact you but you were unavailable at the time.’

‘Then you should have waited until I was available!’ Marchetta snapped angrily.

‘I’m conducting a serious criminal investigation, Doctor. I don’t have time to wait about for you or anybody else. Surely you have an assistant? Why couldn’t you have sent him to meet me?’

‘The reason why I wanted to speak to you personally was to tell you about Conte’s condition. He’s very weak right now. It’s only to be expected after being in a coma for the past forty-eight hours. I can’t let you talk to him for more than five minutes. You’ll be able to question him further this afternoon, depending of course on his condition.’

‘I don’t have time to question him in installments,’ Paluzzi said sharply. ‘I need answers now.’

‘It’s out of the question. He’s in no condition to be interrogated. Five minutes, that’s all.’

‘I’m not asking you, Doctor, I’m telling you. I’m not leaving here until I have the answers I want.’

‘Major, your jurisdiction’s out there,’ Marchetta said, gesturing towards the window with a sweep of his arm. ‘But your authority ended when you entered the hospital. This is my jurisdiction. And what I say goes.’

‘Four guards were killed during the break-in.’ Paluzzi pointed to the door. ‘He is one of the men responsible–’

‘I hate the Red Brigades just as much as the next man, Major, but I’d be failing in my duty as a doctor if I didn’t do everything in my power to nurse him back to health. Then he can stand trial and I hope he spends the rest of his life in jail for what he’s done. But in this hospital he’s a patient, not a terrorist. And he’ll be treated as such.’

‘Ten minutes,’ Paluzzi said. ‘And before you launch into another speech, spare a thought for the victims’ families.’

‘I can’t risk it, Major. Not at this stage. The matron will be up in exactly five minutes’ time to administer his medication.’ Marchetta spun on his heels and strode to the lift.

‘What was all that about?’ Graham asked.

‘I was buying some time for Sergei and Sabrina. I only hope they used it.’

Graham frowned, then took his seat again opposite the door.

Paluzzi went back into the ward. Kolchinsky, standing by the window, immediately put a finger to his lips and motioned to him to remain at the door. Paluzzi nodded then looked at Sabrina who was sitting by the bed, her back to him, a micro-cassette player in her hand. Kolchinsky tiptoed across to Paluzzi and indicated that they should leave the room.

‘What’s wrong?’ Graham asked as they emerged into the corridor.

‘Nothing,’ Kolchinsky said, easing himself on to the chair beside Graham. ‘Sabrina’s managed to get him talking. I don’t want them interrupted until she’s finished.’

‘She’s got about four minutes left,’ Paluzzi said, and recounted his conversation with Marchetta.

‘And what if she’s not through by the time the matron arrives?’ Graham asked.

‘Then we come back later,’ Paluzzi answered.

‘What?’ Graham stared at Paluzzi in disbelief. ‘This could be the breakthrough and you talk about coming back later? The deadline’s tomorrow morning, in case you’ve forgotten.’

‘I don’t have any authority in here, Mike. If we start throwing our weight around we’re going to be out on the street before we know what’s hit us. And knowing the sort of person Marchetta is, he’ll block any further visits until he’s sure Conte’s up to them. And he’d be perfectly in his rights to do so. We’ve got no option, we have to play it by the rules.’

Graham was about to speak but thought better of it. What was the use? Paluzzi was right.

‘We’ve got company,’ Paluzzi said as Calvieri emerged from the lift.

‘Just what the doctor ordered,’ Graham muttered.

‘Morning,’ Calvieri called out, then gestured towards the door. ‘What have you got from Conte?’

‘Nothing yet,’ Kolchinsky said. ‘Sabrina’s still in there with him.’

‘Let me speak to him,’ Calvieri said, making for the door.

Paluzzi blocked his path.

‘Not until we know what Sabrina’s found out. You walk in there now and you could blow any chance we have of cracking the case.’

Calvieri moved to the window and watched a barge laden with crates of fresh produce negotiate its way under the Vittorio Emanuele Bridge and disappear around a sharp bend in the river.

‘What’s the latest on the Pisani murder?’ Kolchinsky asked.

Calvieri turned away from the window.

‘Five dead. Signore Pisani; Rocca, the man Sabrina and I saw last night; and three Brigatisti who were guarding the house.’

‘Any clues, other than that one of the assailants was black?’ Kolchinsky pressed.

‘None so far. It was obviously a professional hit. Even the number plates on the getaway car were blacked out with masking tape.’

‘Who do you suspect?’ Kolchinsky continued.

Calvieri shrugged.

‘We have a lot of enemies but as I said, this was certainly a professional hit. That rules out the vast majority of fascist groups. Most of them wouldn’t have the imagination to hire an outside man, let alone have the money to pay him.’

‘So you think it was carried out by a contract killer?’ Kolchinsky said.

‘That’s my guess, yes.’ Calvieri bit his lower lip pensively. ‘He probably flew in last night, did the job, then flew out again this morning. Our best lead is this black accomplice of his. If we can find him we could identify the hit man.’

Graham and Kolchinsky exchanged glances.

‘So you think his accomplice is a local?’ Graham asked.

‘That’s the assumption we’re working on at the moment. I’m confident we’ll find him before the police do.’

‘Then what? Thumbscrews and electric shocks?’

‘We have our methods, Mr. Graham, just like you.’

The door opened and Sabrina emerged into the corridor.

‘I thought I heard your voice, Tony. Conte wants to see you.’

‘I thought he might,’ Calvieri said, smiling triumphantly at Paluzzi.

She grabbed Calvieri’s arm when he tried to get past her.

‘I’m Sabrina Trestelli, your assistant from Milan. It’s the only way I could get him to talk.’

‘Of course,’ Calvieri said, and followed her into the ward.

‘Have you had a chance to talk to your man, Whitlock, since the hit last night?’ Paluzzi asked Kolchinsky.

‘No, he hasn’t contacted me.’

‘And you’ve got no way of contacting him?’

Kolchinsky shook his head.

‘It would be too dangerous. He’ll call when he can.’

‘We’ve got to warn him, Sergei,’ Graham said. ‘What chance has he got if Calvieri’s thugs catch him unawares?’

‘We can’t, Michael, you know that. We could blow his cover.’

‘I can put a tail on him. No Brigatista will get near him.’

‘And what if Young smells a rat? We’re dealing with a professional, Fabio, not some two-bit Chicago hood.’ Graham looked at Kolchinsky. ‘We’ve got to warn him, Sergei.’

‘Let’s play it by ear, shall we?’ Kolchinsky said defensively, knowing Graham was right. But it was neither the time nor the place to discuss it.

‘It’s throwing-out time,’ Paluzzi said, indicating the matron at the end of the corridor.

Kolchinsky stood up. ‘I hope Sabrina’s got everything she can out of Conte. We can’t be coming and going for snippets of information every few hours.’

The matron greeted them with a smile and disappeared into the ward. Calvieri and Sabrina emerged moments later.

‘Well, what have you found out?’ Kolchinsky asked anxiously.

‘I’ll tell you on the way back to the hotel,’ Sabrina replied, holding up the micro-cassette player in her hand. ‘It’s all on here.’

‘That’s it,’ Sabrina said, switching off the micro-cassette player. She got up from the armchair in Kolchinsky’s room and helped herself to a roll from the breakfast tray which he had ordered.

‘Good God,’ Kolchinsky muttered, then placed his empty cup and saucer on the table beside him, his mind still reeling from Sabrina’s translation of the dialogue on the tape.

‘Let me get this straight,’ Graham said, looking at Sabrina. ‘Ubrino intends to open the vial at ten o’clock tomorrow morning at the Offenbach Centre in Berne, Switzerland, to coincide with the start of the summit of European leaders being held there, unless he sees a live telecast of Zocchi being put aboard an aeroplane bound for Cuba within the next twenty-five hours.’

‘That’s it,’ she replied grimly.

‘And he’s got no idea where Ubrino might be hiding out until then,’ Kolchinsky added.

‘Calvieri, you know him better than the rest of us. Where do you think he is?’

‘I don’t know him that well. I would say he was still in Rome. It’s what I’d do if I were in his position. Stick with the people I can trust.’

‘But you haven’t had one positive sighting of him here in Rome since the break-in,’ Graham said. ‘He could already be in Switzerland.’

‘Of course he could,’ Calvieri replied. ‘But I still think he’d want to stay in an area where he knew he would be safe. And that has to be Rome. We do have sympathizers in Switzerland but very few of them share the radical views of the Rome cell. I’m sure if Paluzzi and I put our heads together we could come up with a list of names of Swiss sympathizers who could be hiding him. But I still say he’s in Rome.’

‘Fabio, I want you and Calvieri to put that list together,’ Kolchinsky said.

‘We can get on to it right away.’

‘Give me an hour,’ Calvieri said, getting to his feet. ‘Bettinga’s coming down from Genoa to take charge of the investigation at Signore Pisani’s house. He should be there by now. Once I’ve briefed him I’ll be completely at your disposal.’

‘Well, the sooner you go, the sooner you’ll be back,’ Kolchinsky said, then jabbed his finger towards the door. ‘Go on. And for God’s sake, hurry up.’

‘You can count on it.’

‘Do you go along with his Rome theory?’ Graham asked Paluzzi after Calvieri had closed the door.

‘It makes sense, let’s put it that way. And if he’s right, we’ve got more chance of finding Lord Lucan here in Rome than we do of finding Ubrino. Even as the acting leader of the Red Brigades, Calvieri still won’t hold much sway here. Pisani didn’t, and he was more radical than Calvieri. As I’ve told you before, the Rome cell is a law unto itself.’

‘So what’s our best bet?’ Kolchinsky asked. ‘To try and catch him at the Offenbach Centre?’

‘I wish it were,’ Paluzzi replied. ‘He was a make-up artist at the Teatro dell’Opera some years back. And a damn good one by all accounts. He’s used a variety of disguises in the past and you can be sure he’ll use another one to get into the Offenbach Centre.’

Kolchinsky rubbed his hands wearily over his face. ‘Some breakthrough this is turning out to be.’

The telephone rang.

‘That could be C.W.,’ Sabrina said, jumping up to answer it.

‘Sabrina?’

She immediately recognized Philpott’s voice.

‘Morning, sir,’ she replied in surprise and glanced at her watch. It would be just past 4 a.m. in New York.

‘Is Sergei there?’

‘Yes sir,’ she replied, handing the receiver to Kolchinsky who was already standing at her side.

‘Morning, Malcolm,’ Kolchinsky said, gesturing to Sabrina to pass him his cigarettes and matches. ‘I wasn’t expecting to hear from you until this afternoon.’

‘Bad news, I’m afraid,’ Philpott answered. ‘I’ve just had a call from Major Lonsdale of Scotland Yard’s anti-terrorist squad. Alexander’s escaped.’

Kolchinsky sat on the edge of the bed and dropped his unlit cigarette into the ashtray.

‘That’s all we need.’

‘Lonsdale’s confident that he’ll be rearrested if he tries to leave the country but I still think C.W. should be told in case he does manage to slip through the net.’

‘I’ll get a message to him as soon as possible.’

‘Any new developments since I last spoke to you?’

Kolchinsky told him briefly what Sabrina had found out from Conte earlier that morning.

‘I’ll call Reinhardt Kuhlmann, the Swiss police commissioner. We go back a long way. I’ll tell him to expect a call from you this morning. You can fill him in on the details when you talk to him. I know he’ll give you his full cooperation. And you better get hold of Jacques in Zürich and tell him the news as well. He can always liaise with Reinhardt until you get to Switzerland.’

Kolchinsky promised to call Philpott later in the morning, then hung up and told the others about Alexander’s escape.

‘But how are you going to warn him without blowing his cover?’ Paluzzi asked.

‘I wish I knew.’ Kolchinsky looked at Graham and Sabrina. ‘Well, any suggestions?’

‘Yeah,’ Graham announced. ‘It involves Sabrina.’

‘I might have guessed,’ she said, eyeing Graham suspiciously. ‘Well, what wonderful scheme have you come up with this time?’

Graham held out his empty cup towards her.

‘How about a refill before I start?’

‘That’s where C.W.’s staying,’ Graham said, pointing out the boarding house to Sabrina as they passed it in the car. He drove around the corner then pulled into the first available parking space he saw and killed the engine.

‘This had better work,’ she muttered, reaching down for her bag.

He looked at her and smiled to himself. She was dressed in a tight-fitting white blouse, a black leather mini-skirt, black stockings and black shoes with three-inch stiletto heels. Her hair was loose on her shoulders and she had purposely overdone the make-up, marring her naturally fine features. It had to be realistic, much as she hated the idea of impersonating a prostitute.

‘I’m glad to see you find it funny,’ she said sharply, reaching behind her for the black leather jacket on the back seat.

‘You look great,’ he said with a grin.

‘You would think so. You’re a man.’ She opened the door. ‘I’ll see you back at the hotel.’

‘Sabrina?’

She looked back at him.

‘Good luck.’

‘Who needs luck dressed like this?’

‘You’ve got a point there,’ he replied, then started up the car and drove away.

She took a deep breath as she walked towards the boarding house, well aware of the attention she was attracting from passing male motorists. She ignored the wolf-whistles even though she knew a real prostitute would have gladly stopped to trade insults with her leering admirers. It would only have made her feel even cheaper than she already felt. She was the first to admit she enjoyed wearing eye-catching clothes, but she always dressed for herself, not for anyone else. With these clothes she felt as if she was dressed for every man in the city. She hated the feeling. It was degrading.

She reached the boarding house and climbed the steps to the open door leading into the foyer. The receptionist gave her an indifferent look as if she’d seen it all before and returned to her knitting. Sabrina climbed the stairs to the first floor where she paused to get her bearings from the directional board on the wall. A door opened and an elderly couple emerged from their room. They eyed her disapprovingly as they walked to the stairs. She waited until they had laboriously descended, then pushed a stick of gum into her mouth and made her way to Whitlock’s room, where she rapped loudly on the door.

The door was opened. It was Young. What was he doing there? Had Paluzzi’s men got the two room numbers mixed up?

‘I look for Signore Anderson,’ she said in a strong Italian accent. ‘You Anderson?’

‘Hell, no,’ Young replied, then ran his eyes the length of her body and whistled softly to himself. ‘But right now I wish I was. Anderson, you’ve got company.’

Whitlock’s eyes widened in amazement when he saw Sabrina but he quickly checked himself and approached the door, waiting for her to give him a cue.

‘You call agency and ask for girl who speak English,’ she said, chewing methodically on the gum. ‘But who your friend? You say nothing about friend on phone. It cost more.’

Young grinned at Whitlock. ‘Well, I’ll be damned. When did you reserve this little beauty?’

‘Last night, after we got back. I fancied a bit of company but they told me none of the English-speaking girls were available until this morning.’

‘Company, is that what you call it?’ Young ran his fingers through her hair. ‘You’re something else, sweetheart.’

‘You touch, you pay,’ she said sharply.

‘Some other time,’ Young said with a sneer. He slapped Whitlock on the arm. ‘I’ll see you later.’

Whitlock waited until Young had disappeared down the stairs, then closed the door and crossed to the bedside table and switched on the radio. He found a music channel and beckoned Sabrina towards him.

‘Is the place wired?’ she whispered, dropping the gum into the ashtray.

He shook his head.

‘No, I checked it this morning. It’s the walls. They’re paper thin. If Young comes back I wouldn’t put it past him to try and listen through the wall. The radio will drown out any noises we’re supposed to be making.’

‘That’s a relief,’ she said with a wry smile.

‘Whose idea was it for you to dress up like this?’

‘Mike’s, naturally. I picked up the clothes on approval from a boutique half an hour ago. They’re going straight back again this afternoon, believe me.’ She sat down on a wooden chair and put her bag on the dressing-table behind her.

‘It worked, though, just as he predicted it would. It was the one sure way of seeing you alone.’

‘How long have I been under surveillance?’

She smiled. ‘How did you know that?’

‘How else would you have known I was in?’

‘A couple of Fabio’s men have had the boarding house under surveillance since the hit last night. I hear you’ve already changed getaway cars?’

‘I did it first thing this morning. We couldn’t be sure whether it was spotted or not last night.’

‘Not according to the police report Fabio got through this morning. But whether the Red Brigades know is another matter altogether. Calvieri’s being very secretive.’

‘Wouldn’t you if you were in his position?’

‘I suppose so. That’s one of the reasons I’m here.’ She went on to explain first about Alexander’s escape from custody, then about Calvieri’s theory about the gunman’s black accomplice.

‘And Calvieri’s sure to have a better description of me than the police if it came from that guard I knocked out,’ he said once Sabrina had finished speaking.

‘They’re looking for a local,’ she reminded him.

‘That’s according to Calvieri. And now with Alexander on the loose I’m going to have to keep one eye open for him and the other open for some Red Brigades hit squad that could come knocking on my door at any moment. How the hell am I supposed to concentrate on Young with all this going on around me?’

She took a Browning from her bag and offered it to him.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘You may need this.’

‘And how would I explain it to Young? Alexander never uses guns. No, I daren’t risk it.’

‘You may have to use it on Young, especially if Calvieri’s his next target.’ She explained briefly what Conte had told her. ‘We can’t afford any slip-ups at this stage of the operation. And any attempt to hit Calvieri would certainly throw us off-balance. He’s our only hope if we need to negotiate with Ubrino. We’d be lost without him. Take the gun, C.W. Please.’

Whitlock took the Browning from her and slipped it into the bedside table drawer. He glanced at the booby-trapped watch but decided against telling her about it. The others had enough to worry about as it was. He would deal with it himself.

‘I don’t know exactly when we’re leaving for Berne,’ she said, breaking the sudden silence. ‘Probably some time in the next few hours. There isn’t much else we can do here. You’re to liaise with Jacques from now on. He’ll pass your reports on to Sergei.’

Whitlock nodded.

‘I’d better be going,’ she said, getting to her feet and smoothing down her mini-skirt. ‘I’m dying to get out of these clothes and scrape the make-up off my face. I don’t know how these girls can put up with the discomfort every time they go out on the streets. It’s revolting.’

‘It’s a living, I guess,’ he replied and walked with her to the door. ‘Thanks for coming over, Sabrina. I appreciate it.’

She hugged him.

‘Take care of yourself.’

‘And you,’ he replied, then closed the door after her.

She hailed the first taxi she saw outside the boarding house. It stopped beside her. Had she been dressed differently the driver would probably have ignored her. Not that it bothered her. She was just glad to be heading back to the hotel.

Calvieri found a parking space on the busy Corso Vittorio Emanuele and walked the two blocks to La Sfera di Cristallo, a small, inexpensive restaurant which had been there for as long as he could remember. It had only ever had one owner, a fat, balding man now in his mid-sixties with a liking for the music of Berlioz.

He went inside. Nothing had changed since he had been there last, when he had been a Rome cell commander. And that included the music. He recognized the piece immediately: ‘The Hungarian March’ from The Damnation of Faust. He had heard it enough times in the past.

‘A table for one?’ a female voice inquired behind him.

He turned round and smiled at the teenage waitress.

‘Thank you, no. I’m looking for Signore Castellano. He’s expecting me. The name’s Calvieri.’

‘I know who you are,’ she said with a quick smile. ‘I’ve seen you on television. What you say makes a lot of sense.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’ll call…’ she trailed off when she caught sight of the eighteen-stone Castellano approaching them.

‘Tony,’ Castellano called out in his gravelly voice and clasped Calvieri in a bear-like grip, kissing him on both cheeks. ‘You’re looking well, my friend.’

‘And you’re looking well fed,’ Calvieri countered, patting Castellano’s stomach.

Castellano chuckled but his face quickly became serious and he pressed his fist against his chest.

‘My heart is heavy today, Tony. Signore Pisani was a great man. But I know you won’t fail us as our new leader.’

‘I’m just deputizing until the committee meets next week to vote for a new leader.’

‘You’re too modest, Tony. You can’t lose. There’s nobody to touch you.’

‘I’m sure Zocchi would have something to say about that.’

‘Ah, Zocchi. He’s a pig. He’s where he belongs. In jail.’ Castellano put an arm around Calvieri’s shoulders and led him through the packed restaurant to a door beside the swing doors leading into the kitchen. It was marked: DIRETTORE.

‘Signore Bettinga’s waiting for you in there. Can I get you something to eat? A small pizza napoletana? That was always your favourite.’

‘I’ve eaten, thank you. But I wouldn’t say no to one of your famous cappuccini.’

‘Coming up,’ Castellano replied and disappeared into the kitchen.

Calvieri entered the office and closed the door behind him. Luigi Bettinga sat behind Castellano’s desk absently paging through a culinary magazine. He was a small, dapper man in his late thirties with beady eyes and prematurely grey hair. He always reminded Calvieri of an accountant. They had been close friends for years and Calvieri saw him as an integral part of the new committee under his leadership.

‘Ciao, Tony,’ Bettinga said and came round to the front of the desk to shake hands with Calvieri. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t at the house this morning. The plane was delayed in Genoa. I must have got there just after you left.’

‘You’re here now, that’s the main thing,’ Calvieri said, helping himself to a cigarette from the pack on Castellano’s desk. ‘Your phone call intrigued me. Why did you want to meet me away from the house?’

‘The house and the grounds are still crawling with police. I couldn’t take the chance of letting them overhear what I’m going to tell you.’

‘You’ve come up with something already, haven’t you?’

Bettinga nodded.

‘Yes, but I can hardly take the credit. I only took over from where you left off.’

‘So what is it?’

There was a knock at the door and Castellano came in with the cappuccino. He put it on the table and withdrew discreetly, closing the door carefully behind him.

‘Well?’ Calvieri prompted.

‘We know the identity of the gunman’s accomplice.’

‘That’s excellent news.’ Calvieri picked up the coffee cup and sat down in the leather armchair against the wall. ‘Is he a local?’

Bettinga shook his head.

‘The name on the passport is Raymond Anderson. It’s sure to be false.’

‘Where’s he staying?’

‘A boarding house on the via Marche near the Villa Borghese.’

‘What about the gunman?’ Calvieri asked, wiping the froth from his moustache. ‘Any clues to his identity?’

‘Not yet. But we do have a description of him. We got it from the receptionist at the car hire company who told us about Anderson. Blond. Good-looking. American accent.’

‘An American?’ Calvieri mused thoughtfully.

‘The boarding house is under surveillance. What do you want done?’

‘The American must be taken alive. We have to find out who he’s working for. Who knows, one of us could be his next target.’

‘And Anderson?’

‘He’s not so important. It’s the American I want.’ Calvieri took another sip of the cappuccino. ‘This has to be a low-key affair, Luigi. The police mustn’t suspect anything. If they found out we had the American they would raid every safe house in the country looking for him. There’s only one man I’d trust to handle this kind of job.’

‘Escoletti?’

‘Right. Giancarlo Escoletti. Get him on the next flight to Rome. We can’t afford to waste any more time.’

‘I’m way ahead of you, Tony. I’ve got Escoletti on standby at the Condotti Hotel. I sent for him as soon as I got your call last night.’

‘Mister Efficiency himself. Next you’ll be challenging me for the leadership.’

‘It never crossed my mind, Tony,’ Bettinga replied indignantly, then noticed the smile on Calvieri’s face. ‘Your little joke, right?’

Calvieri had always maintained that Bettinga would have made a perfect poker-faced comedian. He never smiled. Irony was totally lost on him.

‘Call Escoletti and tell him to bring the American in.’ Calvieri finished his cappuccino and got to his feet. ‘I’ve got to get back to the hotel.’

‘What did Ubrino steal from the plant? Signore Pisani wouldn’t have asked you to help the authorities unless it was something pretty important.’

‘I can’t say anything at the moment, Luigi. I promise I’ll give the committee a full report at next week’s meeting.’

‘Do you think there could be a connection between the break-in at the plant and the hit on Signore Pisani?’

‘That’s what I hope to find out from the American.’

Bettinga sat down behind the desk after Calvieri had left the room and dialled the number of the Condotti Hotel. He asked for Escoletti’s room.

‘Hello?’ a voice answered.

‘Escoletti?’

‘Speaking.’

‘It’s Bettinga. I’ve spoken to Signore Calvieri. He wants the American brought in alive.’

‘What about Anderson?’

‘He’s not important. You can kill him if you have to. You know where to take the American. Call me when it’s done. And Escoletti, don’t risk anything that could alert the authorities. Signore Calvieri was quite insistent about that.’

‘Leave it to me. The authorities won’t suspect a thing.’

Bettinga replaced the receiver, then took a couple of peppermints from the bowl on the table and thoughtfully put them into his mouth.

‘Where have you been?’ Kolchinsky demanded once he had let Calvieri into his room.

‘I’m sure you know that already,’ Calvieri replied. ‘Paluzzi’s men have been tailing me ever since I arrived in Rome. But to answer your question, I was called out unexpectedly to deal with some Red Brigades business.’

‘We had an agreement, Calvieri. You work with us until the vial’s been recovered. And that means staying on call, like the rest of us. So next time you get an unexpected call, send one of your associates to deal with the problem. Isn’t that what leadership’s all about? Delegation?’

‘I’ll bear it in mind, next time,’ Calvieri retorted sarcastically.

‘You do that. But right now you’d better start packing.’ Kolchinsky handed Calvieri an airline ticket. ‘Flight 340 to Berne. It leaves Rome at twelve-twenty. That’s in less than two hours’ time. And you will be on the plane with the rest of us, that I promise you.’

Escoletti parked the hired Fiat Regata a block away from the boarding house, took the black doctor’s bag from the back seat and got out of the car, locking the door behind him.

He was a tall, distinguished-looking man in his late forties with thick black hair which was beginning to grey in streaks at the temples. He had once been a doctor but had been struck off the medical register for attempting to rape one of his patients. On his release from jail he had drifted into a life of crime and joined the Red Brigades in ’84 after meeting Calvieri at a recruitment party in Milan. His expertise with firearms (he had been a crack shot since his early teens) together with his extensive medical knowledge had made him one of the most in-demand assassins in the organization. In ’87 he had been promoted on to the committee as a senior security consultant, a position he still held, which entailed him advising the different cells on the feasibility of their intended terror campaigns across the country. He still worked in the field, but only on those assignments sanctioned at the highest level of the committee. He was known as ‘the Specialist’. Just like a doctor.

He walked past the boarding house to the narrow alleyway which ran parallel to the side of the building. He picked his way with distaste through the overflowing dustbins and paused at the foot of the fire escape. Anderson and Yardley were in Rooms 15 and 16. First floor.

That’s what the receptionist told him when he had called the boarding house from the hotel. He climbed the metal stairs to the first floor and pulled open the door. The corridor was deserted. His plan was simple. He would immobilize both men with the dart gun in his overcoat pocket then withdraw back down the fire escape and make his way round to the reception where he would say that they had called him earlier complaining of upset stomachs. He would then go to their rooms, call the bogus ambulance which was on standby not far from the boarding house, and tell the receptionist that he had diagnosed food poisoning in both cases. They would then be taken away on stretchers, ‘under sedation’, and driven in the ambulance to a safe house on the outskirts of the city. The manager of the boarding house would play down the incident, desperate to avoid any adverse publicity, and by the time the authorities did latch on to the deception the committee would have the answers they wanted and the two men would be dead. He had used the plan in the past to kidnap targets selected by the committee. It had never failed.

He stopped outside Andersen’s room. Certainly the lesser of two evils.

He curled a gloved hand around the dart gun in his pocket and rapped sharply on the door. Silence. He knocked on Yardley’s door. Again, silence. He cursed under his breath. It was what he had been dreading.

The boarding house had only been under surveillance for the past forty minutes. They must have gone out before that. On foot. The Volkswagen Jetta Anderson had hired that morning was still parked out in the street. They could be back at any time. He decided to check the rooms for any clues to their real identities. Not that he held out much hope.

They were professionals. Well, the one calling himself Yardley certainly was. But he would talk, like the others before him. Escoletti had his methods. He was a doctor. A specialist.

He would search Andersen’s room first. Then Yardley’s room. Then he would wait.

Whitlock had left the boarding house soon after Sabrina. He had needed to clear his thoughts. He had gone for a walk, careful to keep easily within a mile radius of the bar at the end of the block where Young was drinking.

What if Calvieri was the next hit on Young’s list? He would have to stop Young if he did get too close to Calvieri. What about the transmitter? He was suddenly glad of the Browning Sabrina had given to him. He had no qualms about killing Young, especially with the threat of the transmitter ever present in his mind. To hell with Philpott’s orders in the dossier to bring Young in alive. He would do what be thought best under the circumstances. And that meant killing Young.

What about Alexander? He doubted he would have to deal with him. How could Alexander possibly trace him? Young wouldn’t have used his real name in London. And there was no record of their departure at any of the airports. An American airbase would be the last place he would think of checking. And even if he did, how far would he get? No, Alexander didn’t worry him.

What did worry him was a revenge attack by the Red Brigades. It had been a mistake to approach the guard so openly outside Pisani’s house. But what choice did he have? He had to get Young out, if only because of the transmitter in his pocket. Had he driven the car up to the gate the guard would have opened fire. Not that he could say anything to Young about Sabrina’s warning. His only hope was if Calvieri went to Switzerland. They would surely follow him. And that would take the heat off them, at least for the time being…

He finished his espresso at the small coffee bar, paid for it, and walked the short distance back to the boarding house. The receptionist handed him his room key, then returned to her knitting. He froze halfway up the stairs when he saw Escoletti using one of the skeleton keys to open Young’s door. He pressed himself against the wall when Escoletti looked round furtively before picking up his black bag and disappearing into Young’s room. Whitlock’s mind was racing. Who was he? A detective? A Brigatista? Did he have any accomplices? Was the boarding house being watched? He looked down into the foyer. It was deserted. He retraced his steps down the stairs and went out into the street. He looked around slowly, careful not to arouse any suspicion.

He couldn’t see anything untoward. Not that he had any idea who, or what, he was looking for. He had to warn Young. He walked to the bar and pushed open the door. It was a small room with a dozen tables dotted about the floor and a counter running the length of one wall. A propeller fan turned slowly overhead. The five customers all sat at the bar. Nobody spoke.

Young sat at the end of the counter, a bottle of Budweiser in front of him. He was about to take a mouthful when he noticed Whitlock standing by the door.

‘Well, how was she?’ he called out, then beckoned Whitlock towards him. ‘As good as she looked?’

‘I’ve got to talk to you,’ Whitlock said, ignoring Young’s unpleasant leer.

‘So talk,’ Young replied, lifting the bottle to his lips.

‘Not here,’ Whitlock retorted. ‘Over there, at one of the tables.’

Young frowned but followed Whitlock to the table furthest away from the counter. Whitlock sat facing the doorway, watching for the tail he was sure had followed him to the bar.

‘What is it?’ Young demanded.

Whitlock told Young what he had seen at the boarding house.

‘And you’ve never seen this guy before?’ Young asked.

Whitlock shook his head. ‘He looked like a cop.’

Young pushed the bottle away from him.

‘We’ve got to get out of here, fast. If you were followed it’ll only be a matter of time before the reinforcements arrive. Wait here.’

‘Where are you going?’

Young didn’t answer the question and crossed to the counter where he spoke softly to the barman. He then took a wad of notes from his jacket pocket and handed them discreetly to the barman who pocketed them then indicated the door behind him with a vague flick of his hand. Young beckoned Whitlock over.

‘What’s going on?’ Whitlock asked.

‘I’ve just bought us an escape route,’ Young replied, then pointed to the entrance. ‘We can’t get out that way. Not if it’s being watched.’

The barman opened the hatch and Whitlock followed Young behind the counter. The barman closed it behind them then led them through the door into the kitchen. A woman looked up from the vegetables she was dicing, smiled fleetingly at the barman, then returned to her work. The barman opened the back door and Young peered out into the alleyway. He gestured for Whitlock to follow him, and the barman closed the door behind them.

‘Which way?’ Whitlock asked.

Young pointed left.

‘According to the barman it comes out in the street at the back of the bar. We’ll be able to get a taxi there.’

‘How much money have you got on you?’

Young shrugged. ‘About forty thousand lire.’

‘I’ve got even less. How far’s it going to get us? You’ll have to call Wiseman and tell him what happened. We need more money.’

‘I’ll call him later. First we need to get to the Stazione Termini,’ Young said as they reached the road. ‘Flag down the first taxi you see.’

‘Why are we going to the station?’ Whitlock demanded. ‘We need money before we can go anywhere.’

‘That’s why we’re going to the station. General Wiseman left a holdall in one of the lockers for this kind of emergency. It contains money, new passports and a duplicate set of the weapons I’ve been using out here. Now let’s find a taxi.’