Red Alert

Eight

Reinhardt Kuhlmann had been the Swiss police commissioner for sixteen years. Now, aged sixty-one, he had vowed to make it his last year in office. It would be his third ‘retirement’ in seven years. On the two previous occasions he had been back behind his desk within months. But, much as he hated the idea, he knew he would have to bow out this time.

The pressure from his family was getting to him, especially from his son and daughter-in-law who were continually badgering him to spend more time at home with his wife. They didn’t understand. Neither of them was connected with law enforcement. The force was in his blood. It had become an addictive drug over the past forty-two years and his greatest fear was what effect retirement would have on him.

He pushed any thoughts of his impending retirement from his mind. He would have plenty of time to reflect on it in the years to come. He opened his briefcase and took out a folder. There was only one word on it. UNACO. Although he and Malcolm Philpott were old friends he had never attempted to hide his dislike for the organization. The concept of an international strike force appealed to him, but that’s where it ended. He argued that their use of blackmail, intimidation and violence, as well as their willingness to bend the law to suit their own needs, made them just like the criminals they had been set up to combat in the first place. But he knew his was a lone voice of protest.

There were times when he thought he was something of an anachronism in the contemporary world of law enforcement. He hated guns, and he particularly hated the idea of gun-toting foreigners shooting up his country. It had happened before and he knew it would happen again. It was inevitable.

There was a knock at the door.

He answered it and immediately recognized Kolchinsky from the photograph in the folder lying on the table behind him. They shook hands and then Kuhlmann ushered him in.

‘I feel as if I know you already,’ Kolchinsky said with a smile. ‘Malcolm’s told me a lot about you.’

‘Nothing bad, I hope. Won’t you sit down?’ Kuhlmann indicated the two chairs on either side of the window. ‘I ordered some coffee when I knew you were on your way up. It should be here any time now. How was your flight?’

‘Tedious, but aren’t they all? When did you get in from Zürich?’

Kuhlmann sat down. ‘A couple of hours ago.’

‘And you’ve been fully briefed?’

Kuhlmann pointed to the folder. ‘Your man, Jacques Rust, briefed me over breakfast this morning.’

There was another knock at the door. As Kuhlmann had predicted it was the room service waiter with the coffee. He took the tray from him and set it down on the table beside his chair.

‘How do you take your coffee?’

‘Milk, one sugar,’ Kolchinsky replied.

‘Tell me, how did Rust manage to get these rooms at such short notice?’ Kuhlmann asked as he poured out the coffee. ‘I’m told there isn’t a spare hotel bed within a twenty-mile radius of the city for the duration of the summit. I could understand if he’d managed to get one room. But six? And all here at the Metropole. I’m intrigued.’

Kolchinsky refused to rise to the bait. Philpott had warned him about Kuhlmann’s attitude towards UNACO. Kuhlmann was out to prove that Rust had used some underhand method to get the rooms. Kolchinsky was sure Rust had used some underhand method how else would he have got them? But that’s what made him such an invaluable asset to UNACO. He was like Philpott in that respect. They played on the indiscretions of others to get what they wanted. Kuhlmann would probably regard it as blackmail.Kolchinsky regarded it as simply good business sense.

‘I haven’t spoken to Jacques recently so I honestly couldn’t tell you how he did it,’ Kolchinsky replied truthfully, taking the cup and saucer from Kuhlmann and sitting back in his chair. ‘Did Jacques give you a photograph of Ubrino to circulate among your men?’

Kuhlmann nodded.

‘It’s been faxed through to every police station in the country. I’ve got teams checking all the hotels, boarding houses and chalets in and around the Berne area. If he’s here, we’ll find him.’

‘He is a master of disguise,’ Kolchinsky reminded him.

‘Which is why a police artist put the photograph through his computer and came up with a series of different disguises. Seven possibilities in all. They’re all being used in the search. We may be a small nation, Mr. Kolchinsky, but we do have an effective police force. I see to that.’

‘It was an observation, not a criticism.’

‘I resent UNACO being here, Mr. Kolchinsky. But I especially resent you bringing scum like Calvieri into the country. We can catch Ubrino ourselves. I have some of Europe’s finest policemen on the force. Men who use brains, not guns, to bring criminals to justice. We don’t need you here.’

‘So expel us,’ Kolchinsky challenged.

‘If it were up to me none of you would have got permission to land here in the first place. Unfortunately my Government views the situation differently.’

‘Malcolm told me you disliked UNACO. I never realized how much until now.’

‘I make no secret of my opposition to UNACO It’s become too powerful for its own good in the last few years. Your field operatives can literally get away with murder because they know they’re immune from prosecution. How can charges be brought against someone working for an organization that doesn’t officially exist? UNACO a law unto itself.’

‘That’s something I can’t accept.’ Kolchinsky picked up the folder.

‘Don’t get me wrong, though. You’ll have my full cooperation while you’re here in Switzerland. I never allow my personal feelings to interfere with my work. It would amount to professional suicide if I did.’

Professional suicide. Kolchinsky knew all about that. He had spent sixteen years as a military attaché in the West for daring to criticize the draconian methods of the KGB. The irony was that had he kept his mouth shut, like many of his liberal colleagues, he would almost certainly now be a member of the Politburo, or at least a Directorate head in the KGB, heralding in the new era of Soviet politics. But he had done what he had thought right at the time and now he could live with a clear conscience. He had no regrets. Well, almost none…

There was a knock at the door.

Kuhlmann answered it. Paluzzi introduced himself and followed the police commissioner into the room.

‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ Paluzzi said, giving Kolchinsky an apologetic smile. ‘I’d barely got to my room when the phone rang. It was Angelo.’ He glanced at Kuhlmann. ‘My adjutant, Lieutenant Angelo Marco.’

‘Has he come up with something?’ Kolchinsky asked.

‘Whitlock and Young have disappeared.’

‘Disappeared?’ Kolchinsky repeated anxiously.

‘The Red Brigades are on to them. They obviously realized this and fled the boarding house. They left everything behind. We don’t know where they are at the moment.’

‘So they could conceivably be in the hands of the Red Brigades?’

‘No, they’re not,’ Paluzzi said, trying to reassure Kolchinsky. ‘The Red Brigades have sent their most experienced assassin after them. His name’s Giancarlo Escoletti. We bugged his hotel room while he was at the boarding house waiting for them to return. When they didn’t show he went back to the hotel and called Luigi Bettinga, Calvieri’s new right-hand man, and told him he’d lost them. We’re watching his every move. If he does manage to track them down we’ll pull him in before he can do anything. He’s the least of our worries. It’s Young that concerns me. If Calvieri is his next hit it won’t be very difficult for Young to trace him to Switzerland. What if they’re already here? All Young needs is a sniper rifle and he’ll be spoilt for choice when it comes to selecting a time and place for the hit.’

‘Have you got photographs of Whitlock and this man Young?’ Kuhlmann asked.

‘I’ve got a photograph of Young in the case dossier in my room,’ Kolchinsky said. ‘It’s slightly blurred but it’s the only known one on file. I don’t have a photo of C.W. with me. There are some on file in New York.’

‘Have one faxed through to our Zürich headquarters, then we can circulate them both to all the airports and stations If they’ve passed through any of them in the last few hours, we’ll know about it.’

‘I’ll call Jacques right away. May I use your phone?’

‘Please do,’ Kuhlmann replied.

Kolchinsky explained the situation to Rust who promised to contact Philpott immediately and have a photograph of Whitlock faxed through to Zürich. Kolchinsky had barely hung up when the telephone rang.

‘Excuse me,’ Kuhlmann said as he answered it. After listening for a few moments he put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Ubrino’s been found.’

Kolchinsky and Paluzzi exchanged excited glances.

Kuhlmann spoke for a minute more and then replaced the receiver.

‘An estate agent recognized him from one of the photographs. He came here a month ago and booked a chalet on the outskirts of the city. He picked up the keys from the estate agent on Monday.’

‘The son-of-a-bitch,’ Paluzzi hissed. ‘He’s been here all the time. We’ve been chasing shadows for the past three days.’

‘Is the chalet being watched?’ Kolchinsky asked.

Kuhlmann nodded.

‘There’s a couple of plainclothes men up there now. There’s no sign of Ubrino but they’ve reported seeing smoke coming from the chimney. So it’s fair to assume he’s home.’

‘Fabio, call Michael and Sabrina. Tell them to meet us here.’

‘And Calvieri?’ Paluzzi asked, his hand hovering over the receiver.

‘And Calvieri,’ Kolchinsky said with a sigh.

The briefing was short. Paluzzi would take Graham and Sabrina to within five hundred yards of the chalet, where they would rendezvous with the two policemen. Then, once they had seen the chalet for themselves, they would decide on the best way to approach Ubrino and recover the vial intact.

‘Can you see anything?’ Paluzzi asked as the Westland Scout passed over the rendezvous area.

‘Not a damn thing,’ Graham muttered, then glanced over his shoulder at Sabrina. ‘You’ve got the binoculars. Any sign of those cops?’

‘Not yet,’ she replied without lowering the binoculars. She continued to scan the desolate white slopes beneath them, hoping to catch a glimpse of movement. Nothing. Not even a deer bounding through the snow in search of shelter from the deafening whirr of the helicopter’s rotors. Was it such godforsaken territory? Ubrino had certainly chosen his hideout well.

A sudden movement caught her eye and she swung the binoculars on to the cluster of pine trees to her left. Had she been wrong? Then she saw it again, the glint of sun on a ski pole. She tapped Paluzzi on the shoulder and pointed in the direction of the trees. A figure in a white camouflage overall emerged from the trees and waved at the helicopter.

‘I’ll take the helicopter down,’ Paluzzi said, his eyes focused on the altimeter. ‘I daren’t land it, though. I don’t know the depth of the snow. Get ready, both of you. I’ll give you the signal to deplane.’

Graham and Sabrina were wearing white Goretex overalls and white ski boots lent to them by the local police. The sunglasses were their own. They clambered into the back of the helicopter and retrieved their ski poles and Völkl skis from the rack against the side of the cabin.

They were both experienced skiers but, like the other field operatives, they still had to undergo rigorous outdoor training which included skiing, mountaineering and hang gliding at a secret camp in the backwoods of Maine.

Graham pulled open the door and winced as a gust of cold wind whipped through the cabin. After they had snapped on their skis Sabrina kept her eye on Paluzzi, waiting for his signal for them to deplane. Paluzzi continued to press down on the collective-pitch lever to lower the helicopter towards the ground then, when the pads were a couple of feet above the snow, he nodded his head vigorously, the signal to deplane.

They launched themselves through the doorway and landed nimbly in the snow, bending their knees to cushion the impact of the fall. The helicopter immediately rose upwards and banked sharply to the left, soon to disappear over the treetops.

The man approaching them was in his late twenties with short blond hair and blue eyes. His goggles were pushed up on to his forehead.

‘Mike? Sabrina?’ he called out.

‘Yeah,’ Graham replied and shook the man’s outstretched hand.

‘Lieutenant Jürgen Stressner,’ he said, shaking Sabrina’s hand.

‘Where’s your partner?’ Graham asked.

‘He’s watching the chalet,’ Stressner replied, pointing behind him. ‘Our orders are to assist you in any way possible. Do you have a plan in mind?’

‘Not yet,’ Graham replied. ‘We’ll need to see the chalet first.’

‘Of course,’ Stressner said, pulling the goggles back over his eyes. ‘Follow me.’

Stressner led them down the slope and into a narrow gulley which emerged out on to another slope. Ten yards ahead of them was a dense forest of pine trees. He cut a swath through the trees and came to a sudden halt two hundred yards further on. He pointed to where his partner was crouched behind a rock twenty yards away, a pair of binoculars in his hand.

‘Sergeant Marcel Lacombe. He knows this part of the country better than any man I know.’

Lacombe was a middle-aged man of military bearing, with silver-grey hair and a thick grey moustache. He greeted Graham and Sabrina with a nod.

‘Still no sign of him?’ Stressner asked, taking the binoculars from Lacombe and giving them to Graham.

Lacombe shook his head.

Graham studied the lone chalet, fifty yards away from where they were crouched.

‘It’s totally exposed out there. He’ll see us the moment we show our faces.’

‘Can I make a suggestion?’ Stressner said.

‘Please do,’ Graham replied, handing the binoculars to Sabrina.

‘There are two doors. Front and back. I suggest we pair off and approach the doors separately. If he sees two of us coming towards the front of the chalet he’s sure to try and make a break for it through the back door.’

‘Assuming he doesn’t open the vial first,’ Graham muttered, his eyes flickering towards Sabrina.

‘Vial?’ Stressner said, frowning. ‘What is that?’

‘Haven’t you been briefed?’ Sabrina asked.

‘All we know is his name and what he looks like.’

‘We have to tell them about the vial,’ Sabrina said to Graham. ‘They can’t be expected to go in there blind.’

Graham nodded in agreement and explained briefly about the contents of the vial.

‘And you think he would open this vial if he saw us coming?’ Stressner asked anxiously.

‘It’s possible,’ Graham replied, tight-lipped. ‘But I think he’s more likely to try and make a break for it, especially if he only sees two of us approaching the chalet.’

Sabrina nodded.

‘I’d go along with that. So if two of us lie in wait for him at the back of the chalet, out of sight, and he does try to sneak out we’ll be able to grab him before he has a chance to open the vial.’

‘In theory,’ Graham said.

‘We have no choice,’ Stressner said.

‘You’ve got a point there,’ Graham replied.

‘It’s best if we stick with our original partners. I presume the two of you are armed?’

The question surprised Stressner. ‘This is Switzerland, not the backstreets of America. We only use firearms in exceptional circumstances.’

‘And this isn’t an exceptional circumstance? Ubrino will be armed to the teeth in there, you can be sure of that. Here, take my Beretta.’

Stressner put a restraining hand on Graham’s arm.

‘I won’t need it. Put yourself in Ubrino’s position. He doesn’t know we’re unarmed. He’s more likely to try and slip out of the back than engage in a firefight.’

‘Or use the vial to effect an escape,’ Sabrina said.

‘In which case the two of you will be lying in wait for him,’ Stressner said. ‘You need the guns, not us.’

Graham trained the binoculars on the chalet again. Curtains drawn, overnight snow packed against the foot of the front door and the absence of any ski tracks in front of the chalet gave it an eerie, deserted appearance. He focused the binoculars on the chimney. A steady stream of smoke filtered up into the blue sky. He wondered if Ubrino had left the chalet since he got there on Monday. Why bother?

‘How do we get round to the back of the chalet without being seen?’ Sabrina asked.

‘I’ll let Marcel explain. He’s the expert.’

‘My English not good,’ Lacombe said to her. ‘I explain better in French. You speak French?’

She nodded, then listened attentively as he told her the best route for them to take to come up behind the chalet unnoticed.

‘You have radios?’ Stressner asked.

Graham tapped one of the pockets in his overall. ‘Kuhlmann got them for us. He had them pre-set to your frequency.’

Stressner looked at his watch. ‘It should take you ten minutes at the most to get yourselves into position. Call me when you’re ready. Then we can move in.’

Graham nodded, then followed Sabrina back through the trees, into the gulley, and out to the slope where they had deplaned. They traversed the face of the slope, crossing it without losing any height, then skied down a couloir, a steep, narrow descent, and emerged on to a flat stretch of the mountain. She stopped and pointed to the sixty-foot ridge on their right. The chalet was directly behind it. They pulled the hoods over their heads to give them added concealment in the snow then made their way slowly up the ridge, crawling the last five feet to the top.

‘Look, ski tracks leading from the door,’ she whispered.

‘Yeah,’ he muttered, his eyes screwed up behind his sunglasses as he stared at the single upstairs window facing out on to the ridge. The curtains were drawn.

‘Call Stressner, tell him we’re in position.’

Graham inched his way backwards until he was out of sight of the chalet, then took the two-way radio from his pocket and called Stressner. He replaced the radio in his pocket when he had finished and gave Sabrina a thumbs-up sign.

‘They’re going in. I’ll move further down the ridge. If Ubrino does try to make a break for it I’ll be in a better position to cut him off. You stay here…’ He trailed off, hearing the sound of a helicopter in the distance.

‘What the hell’s Paluzzi playing at? I told him I’d radio if we needed assistance.’

‘He must have picked up your conversation with Stressner and thought it was meant for him. Get him on the radio, tell him to pull out.’

Graham took the radio from his pocket again.

‘Yankee to Leatherhead, come in. Over.’

There was a pause then the crackled reply: ‘Leatherhead to Yankee, I read you. Over.’

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Graham hissed angrily. ‘I haven’t given the order to move in. Return to base and await further instructions. I repeat, return to base. Over.’

Another pause.

‘Leatherhead to Yankee, message unclear. I am at base. Repeat, I am at base. Over.’

Graham was about to speak when the helicopter came into view. It was the white Gazelle Tommaso Francia had used on Corfu. Graham scrambled to the top of the ridge. He had to warn Stressner and Lacombe.

They were already clear of the trees. Stressner swung round to face the helicopter as it dived towards them. Tommaso Francia opened fire. Both men were hit by a hail of bullets and the helicopter immediately banked sharply, skimming over the chalet and passing within ten feet of the ridge where Graham and Sabrina lay motionless in the snow.

‘Leatherhead to Yankee, I heard gunfire. Are you all right? Do you need assistance? Over.’

Sabrina picked the radio out of the snow.

‘Sister to Leatherhead, we’ve come under fire from the Francias’ helicopter. Stressner and Lacombe have been hit. Need assistance. Repeat, need assistance. Over.’

‘Message understood. Am on my way. Over and out.’

Graham was the first on to his feet.

‘We’ve got to take cover before it comes back. The chalet’s our only chance.’

They approached the chalet cautiously and took up positions on either side of the back door. They took the Berettas from their pockets and Graham indicated for Sabrina to go around the side of the chalet. She nodded then moved apprehensively towards the end of the wall, the Beretta held barrel upwards inches away from her face. Once there she paused to wipe the sweat from her forehead. She glanced over her shoulder but Graham had already disappeared around the other side of the chalet. She swivelled round, Beretta held at arm’s length. Nothing. She could see Stressner’s body from where she stood. He lay on his back, his white overall saturated with blood. Then she heard the sound of the helicopter’s engine behind her. She turned to see the Gazelle rise into view from behind the ridge. She flung herself into the snow a split second before a row of bullets peppered the side of the chalet where she had been standing. The helicopter swivelled fractionally as if on an invisible axis until the 30 mm cannons were aimed at her. She tried desperately to get to her feet. She knew she wouldn’t make it before the guns opened fire.

The Westland Scout seemed to appear from nowhere. It shot across the front of the Gazelle and Tommaso Francia recoiled in horror, unconsciously jerking his hands off the controls. The Gazelle bucked sharply and went out of control. It plummeted towards the chalet. He managed to regain control of it at the last moment and it missed the roof by a matter of inches. One of the pads struck the chimney and Sabrina had to scramble out of the way as bricks and mortar rained down into the snow. The Gazelle levelled out and disappeared over the pine trees in pursuit of the Westland Scout.

‘You okay?’ Graham asked behind her.

She nodded, then removed her sunglasses and wiped her sleeve across her forehead.

‘Now’s our chance to get Ubrino, with the helicopter out of the way.’

‘You take the back, I’ll take the front.’

He moved round to the front of the chalet and ducked as he passed a window, even though earlier the curtains had been drawn, only straightening up again when he was clear of it. He undipped his skis then pressed himself against the wall and reached out slowly for the door handle. His gloved fingers curled around it and he pushed it down.

The door was unlocked. He opened the door and took up a firing stance, Beretta extended, legs bent and apart. He found himself looking down a dimly lit hallway. He stepped inside and his eyes instinctively moved towards the wooden stairs to his right. Was Ubrino at the top, waiting to pick him off the moment he tried to climb them? Or was he hiding in one of the rooms leading off from the hall?

He noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye and spun round to face the open door, the Beretta held at arm’s length. Nothing moved. A sprinkling of snow landed in front of the door. That was what he had seen. More snow fell to the ground. It couldn’t be thawing, the chalet was enveloped in shade. That meant something else was dislodging the snow. Or someone else. Ubrino. He waded out into knee-deep snow and as he looked up at the sloping roof Ubrino propelled himself away from the open skylight window. Graham raised his Beretta to fire. Ubrino launched himself off the edge of the roof and caught Graham’s wrist with the edge of his ski, knocking the gun from his hand.

He landed awkwardly and skidded sideways into the snow. He managed to get to his feet before Graham felled him with a bruising football tackle. Ubrino lashed out with his ski pole, catching Graham painfully on the shoulder. He lashed out again with the ski pole, this time hitting Graham in the face. The basket at the end of the pole ripped open the stitches in the side of Graham’s face, spurting blood across the snow. Graham cried out in pain and stumbled backwards, his hand covering the wound as blood streamed down the side of his face. Ubrino scrambled to his feet and set off down the slope.

Sabrina emerged from the chalet and got off three shots at the retreating figure before he disappeared around the shoulder of the mountain. She dug her ski poles into the snow and launched herself after him.

Graham returned to the chalet, where he found a clean towel and pressed it tightly against the wound in an attempt to try and stem the flow of blood. He was about to run some water in the washbasin when he heard the sound of a helicopter engine stuttering in the distance. He went to the front door and looked up into the sky. The Westland Scout was approaching the chalet low over the pine trees, black smoke billowing out from the single turboshaft engine mounted behind the cabin. It managed to avoid the trees and crash-landed thirty yards away from the chalet. The fuel tank was ruptured and a fire started in the tail section. Paluzzi threw open the cockpit door and stumbled towards the chalet. He was only yards away from it when the helicopter exploded, hurling chunks of flaming debris hundreds of feet into the air. He was flattened by the force of the explosion. Graham hurried out to where he lay, helped him to his feet, and led him back to the chalet.

‘You okay?’ Graham asked anxiously once they were inside the door.

‘I’m okay,’ Paluzzi replied with a weak smile. ‘What happened to you?’

Graham told him about Ubrino.

‘I’ll go after Sabrina,’ Paluzzi said. ‘She’ll need back-up. I’ll take your skis.’

‘She’s got a radio. She’ll call us if she needs back-up.’ Graham looked at the twisted remains of the helicopter burning fiercely in the snow. ‘What happened to you?’

‘I gave Francia a good run for his money but he finally got a direct hit on my engine. I had to limp back here, it’s all I could do.’

‘Why didn’t he follow you in?’

‘My guess is he heard my distress call. He peeled off as soon as I started smoking. Kuhlmann’s sending a couple of police helicopters but you can be sure that Francia will be long gone by the time they get here.’

‘When do you expect them?’

‘They should be here in about ten minutes.’

Graham expressed his approval then disappeared back into the bathroom to wash the blood from his face. Paluzzi walked to the front door and stared at the bodies of Stressner and Lacombe lying in the snow. Then he looked down the slope, his thoughts with Sabrina.

Sabrina was gaining rapidly on Ubrino. Then the Gazelle appeared behind them. Tommaso Francia couldn’t risk shooting at her in case one of the bullets hit Ubrino.

She looked over her shoulder at the helicopter and saw Carlo Francia standing in the open cabin doorway. He was dressed in skiing gear.

Moments later he propelled himself through the doorway, landing with bended knees on the slope twenty yards behind her. The helicopter flew past her and Tommaso Francia threw a rope ladder to Ubrino through the passenger door. Carlo Francia unshouldered his Uzi and fired a burst into the snow behind Sabrina. She veered to the left, giving Ubrino a few valuable seconds to grab hold of the ladder which dangled enticingly in front of him. He discarded one of the ski poles and reached out for the ladder. His fingers found one of the rungs and he clamped his hand around it. Then, discarding his other ski pole, he grabbed the ladder with his other hand. He felt himself being lifted off the slope.

Tommaso Francia activated a button on his control panel and the rope ladder began to reel in automatically. The helicopter banked sharply, denying Sabrina a shot at Ubrino. Within seconds it had disappeared from view.

She looked behind her. Carlo Francia was still there, the Uzi in his right hand. He acknowledged her with a faint smile and a slight inclination of his head, just as he had done in Venice. He squeezed the trigger. She curved sharply to avoid the bullets and entered a dense thicket of larch trees. Francia double-angled, forming an inverted ‘L’ in the snow to change direction, and followed her into the wood. He fired again but the bullets chewed harmlessly into the trees on either side of her. The wood ended abruptly and she found herself beginning a steep, curving descent. She looked behind her. No sign of Francia. She carved the first bend and stopped sharply, coming to a halt out of sight of the trees. It was her only chance. She had to get behind him. But what if he approached the bend firing? She crouched down, the Beretta clenched tightly in her gloved hand.

Francia took the bend wide and only saw her as he shot down the slope.

His eyes widened in amazement. How had she stopped so quickly? A bullet cracked inches from his head. Suddenly the hunter had become the hunted. He fired wildly behind him but the bullets went well wide of the mark. He cursed himself for panicking. Then he saw his chance: a ridge directly in front of him. He tucked his body down to increase his speed and as he hit the ridge he pirouetted in mid-air, just one of the freestyle manoeuvres which had brought him such acclaim as a professional skier, and fired at Sabrina on the turn. A bullet ripped through her sleeve, grazing her arm, and she had to call on all her expertise to keep herself from overbalancing and tumbling into the snow.

Francia executed the perfect landing, then looked behind him, the Uzi at the ready for the first sight of Sabrina riding the crest of the ridge.

She still hadn’t appeared by the time he reached the next bend. Now he could lie in wait for her further down the slope. It would be impossible for him to miss her as she took the bend. He smiled to himself as he leaned into the bend. His smile faltered when he saw the precipice fifteen yards in front of him. He tried to stop but lost control and tumbled down the slope. He came to rest within a few feet of the edge and the Uzi disappeared over it. He raised his head fractionally and looked down into the canyon below him. A sheer drop of eight hundred feet. He reached down to unclip his skis. The sudden movement dislodged a piece of ice behind him. It confirmed his worse fears. He was lying on a cornice, a sheet of ice overhanging the precipice. Any movement could cause it to break off. He swallowed nervously and blinked rapidly as the sweat dripped into his eyes. All he could do was wait for help. But for how long?

Sabrina descended the ridge cautiously, the Beretta held tightly in her hand. Her arm was throbbing. She could feel the blood oozing down the inside of her sleeve and into her glove. Her progress was slow and she paused before reaching the bend in the slope. What if Francia was lying in wait for her around the corner, as she had done to him earlier? An Uzi against a Beretta.

She didn’t fancy the odds. She wiped the sweat from her face and inadvertently smeared blood across her cheek. She decided to take the bend as wide as she possibly could. At least that way she would be able to see Francia if he had concealed himself on the other side of the bend. She dug her ski poles into the snow and propelled herself forward. She saw the precipice as she took the corner and came to a halt ten feet away from where he lay. For a moment she thought it was a trap. Then she saw the fear in his eyes.

‘Help me, please,’ he pleaded in English, his eyes riveted on her.

She moved closer, the Beretta still trained on him.

‘You help me, I tell you what you want to know,’ he said in a breathless voice. ‘Please, you must help me.’

‘I’m going to extend my ski pole towards you. Grab hold of the basket. Do you understand?’

He nodded.

She lay flat on the hard surface snow and reached out the ski pole towards him. It didn’t reach his hand. She inched her way forward, knowing she could also be on the cornice. And it could collapse at any moment. It was impossible to know where the mountain ended and the cornice began. There was a sudden crack and another sheet of ice broke off behind him. He gritted his teeth, not daring to look over his shoulder. He was now barely three feet away from the edge of the precipice. She was at full stretch, not daring to move any closer. The pole was within his reach. His fingers touched the tip and he managed to grab hold of it. She gripped the other end of the pole with both hands, steadying herself. Cracks began to appear in the ice around him and as his fingers curled around the basket a section of ice broke underneath him. He slid backwards, his legs now dangling over the edge of the precipice. She dug her skis into the snow, desperately trying to anchor herself, but she felt herself being dragged towards the precipice as Francia continued to slide further over the edge. In desperation he grabbed the basket with both hands but this only served to pull her even closer to the edge. She knew she couldn’t save him and unless she let go of the ski pole she would be dragged over the edge with him. She began to ease the strap off from around her wrist.

‘No, please,’ he screamed, desperately trying to get a better grip on the basket.

She tugged at the strap until it slid off her hand. For a brief moment he clawed frantically at the ice, then he fell, the wind tearing the scream from his lips. She moved back slowly until she felt she had put enough distance between herself and the edge of the precipice, then got to her feet and wiped her sleeve across her glistening face. What if she had tried to outrun him instead of ducking down behind the slope when she did? What chance would she have had to stop at that speed? She would have been the one who went over the precipice. She shuddered. It had been that close.

She sat down in the snow and leaned back against a large tree. Then, taking the two-way radio from her pocket, she called Graham to arrange for a helicopter to pick her up. She had had enough skiing for one day.