Red Alert

Nine

‘Are you all right?’ Kolchinsky asked anxiously when Sabrina entered his hotel room.

‘It’s just a graze,’ she replied, touching his arm reassuringly.

‘Where’s Michael?’

‘He’s coming,’ she said, gesturing vaguely to the door behind her.

‘How is he?’

‘I’m okay,’ Graham answered from the doorway.

Kolchinsky winced when he looked round at Graham. His left eye was now half-closed and the white dressing secured over his new stitches contrasted vividly with the discoloured bruising on the left-hand side of his face.

‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ Graham muttered, closing the door behind him.

‘You could have fooled me.’ Kolchinsky smiled grimly.

‘Has Fabio briefed you on what happened this afternoon?’ Sabrina asked, pouring out two cups of coffee from the pot on the tray.

‘He’s told me everything,’ Kolchinsky replied. ‘I was hoping we could all have a meeting as soon as the two of you got back from the hospital. That won’t be possible now. At least not for the time being.’

‘Why, what’s happened?’ Sabrina asked, handing a coffee to Graham.

‘Commissioner Kuhlmann received a call half an hour ago to say that the Francias’ Gazelle helicopter had been found abandoned in a field on the outskirts of Worb. It’s a town about ten miles from here. He’s driven out there with Fabio to take a closer look at it.’

‘No sign of Ubrino or Tommaso Francia?’

‘None at all.’

‘Has Carlo Francia’s body been found?’ Sabrina asked, sitting on the bed.

‘What was left of it,’ Kolchinsky replied.

‘Was anything found at the chalet?’ Graham asked.

‘The police report hasn’t come through yet but you can be sure we’d have been told if they had come up with anything positive.’ Kolchinsky shook his head. ‘No, we won’t have any luck there.’

‘That was to be expected really,’ Sabrina said with a resigned shrug. ‘Ubrino was hardly going to flee the nest without taking the golden egg with him, was he?’

‘Which puts us back to square one again,’ Graham said. ‘And we’ve got less than fifteen hours to go before tomorrow’s deadline. Not that that means anything. We haven’t got a hope in hell of finding him now.’

‘Leaving the Offenbach Centre as our last line of defence,’ Sabrina added, looking at Kolchinsky. ‘What extra security measures are being taken there tomorrow?’

‘Commissioner Kuhlmann has drafted in seventy policemen and thirty policewomen from around the country. They’ll all be in plainclothes.’

‘Why plainclothes?’ Graham said. ‘Surely an extra hundred uniforms would be more daunting to someone like Ubrino?’

‘And frighten him off?’ Kolchinsky replied. ‘Remember, he doesn’t know that we know the vial is destined for the Offenbach Centre. If the grounds were swamped with uniformed guards he might turn back and make his demands from a hideout anywhere in the country. Then where would we be? No, we have to play this as covertly as possible. He’s sure to have a rough idea of how many security staff are employed by the Offenbach Centre. It’s imperative that he isn’t suspicious when he gets there. As you said, we won’t find him now. Tomorrow’s our last chance.’

Graham finished his coffee and got to his feet.

‘Are we still going to have this meeting tonight?’

‘That all depends on when the two of them get back. Why, is there something on your mind?’

‘I’ve got a few questions to put to Calvieri. I can do it now, or later.’

‘Fabio told me about your little theory linking Calvieri to Ubrino. It doesn’t hold any water, Michael. You’re letting your emotions get the better of you.’

‘The fact remains that someone tipped off either Ubrino or the Francia brothers about our movements this afternoon. Who knew we were going to the chalet? You, me, Sabrina, Fabio, Kuhlmann and Calvieri. Who would you suspect?’

‘Calvieri never left this room from the time we had our briefing until the time Kuhlmann received Fabio’s call requesting back-up. When could Calvieri have warned them? I’m the first to take notice of your hunches, Michael, but this time you’re way off the mark.’

‘Someone tipped them off, Sergei. There are two bodies in the mortuary to prove it.’ Graham glanced at Sabrina. ‘And it could so easily have been three.’

‘We don’t know that they were tipped off, Michael. It’s pure speculation.’

‘I still want to talk to Calvieri,’ Graham said.

‘There’s enough tension as it is without you adding to it. Leave him alone. And that’s my final word on the subject.’

Graham threw up his hands in frustration and sat on the edge of the bed.

The telephone rang. Kolchinsky answered it.

‘Sergei, it’s C.W.,’ Whitlock said at the other end of the line.

‘C.W.?’ Kolchinsky replied in surprise. ‘How did you know we were here?’

‘Jacques told me. I can’t talk for long. Young and I are here in Berne.’

‘I know.’

‘You know?’ It was Whitlock’s turn to be surprised.

‘I had a photograph of you sent out from New York. You were recognized by one of the staff at the airport. Where are you staying?’

‘That doesn’t matter at the moment. Young’s setting up a hit on Calvieri.’

‘When?’

‘Now. This is the first chance I’ve had to call you since we got here. Young picked up a case from a locker at the airport. It has to be a high-powered rifle.’

‘Where are you calling from?’

‘A call box opposite your hotel. Young went into the building behind me a couple of minutes ago. It’s my guess he’ll lure Calvieri out to the front of the hotel. What do you want me to do?’

‘Stop him. It’s gone far enough. Are you armed?’

‘I wish I was. I had to leave the Browning behind when we fled the boarding house in Rome.’

‘Do you want back-up?’

‘No back-up, thanks. If Young suspects for one moment that I’ve double-crossed him he’ll use the transmitter to detonate the watch. I’ll get him myself.’

‘How?’

‘You let me worry about that. Keep an eye on Calvieri all the same. Try and keep him in the hotel. I’ll call you back later.’

‘C.W.’ be careful.’

‘You can count on it,’ Whitlock said and hung up.

Kolchinsky recounted the conversation to Graham and Sabrina. He thought for a moment, then said, ‘Sabrina, I want you to go down to the foyer. If Calvieri does show his face I want you to keep him occupied until I give you the all-clear sign.’

‘How am I supposed to keep him occupied?’

‘I’m sure you’ll think of something,’ Kolchinsky said, opening the door. ‘Now go on, you’re wasting time.’

‘I still say C.W. needs back-up,’ Graham said, after Kolchinsky had closed the door.

‘No back-up.’

‘He’s unarmed–’ ‘Michael!’ Kolchinsky snapped.

‘I’m as worried about him as you are but he specifically said no back-up. All we can do is wait for his call.’

‘All we can do is hope for his call,’ Graham muttered, then crossed to the tray to pour himself another cup of coffee.

Whitlock emerged from the call box and looked up at the building behind him. Three floors. Several of the third-floor windows were illuminated. The rest of the building was in darkness. Young wouldn’t risk using the third floor. And the first floor was also out. He wouldn’t get the right angle on his shot from there. Which left the second floor. Whitlock glanced at his watch. Young already had a five-minute head start. Whitlock walked towards the alley at the side of the building. He suddenly froze mid-step and the woman behind him stumbled against his arm. He muttered an apology without taking his eyes off the man in the fawn trenchcoat who was standing at the entrance to the alley. He held a black doctor’s bag in his gloved hand. It was the same man Whitlock had seen at the boarding house in Rome. Escoletti looked about him casually, then disappeared into the alley. Whitlock continued to stare at the spot where Escoletti had been standing. How had he found them so quickly? What if he managed to overpower Young and take him away for questioning? What about the transmitter?

Whitlock moved cautiously towards the alley, intent on following Escoletti at a distance.

As Whitlock had predicted, Young had chosen the second floor for the hit. Getting into the building had been easy. The door leading into the alley was unlocked. Once inside he had discovered that the building was some kind of youth centre. According to the bulletin board, the first floor housed an arts and crafts workshop, the second floor a martial arts club and the third floor a discotheque. And only the discotheque was open that evening. The noise would provide the perfect cover for the hit. Nobody in the building would hear the gunshot.

He had passed a couple of teenagers on the stairs between the first and second floors but neither of them had given him a second glance as they made their way to the exit. The double doors were padlocked on the second floor. It took him a few seconds to pick the lock, then he eased one of the doors open and went inside. The street light shone dimly through the Venetian blinds. He could see the padded mats laid out neatly across the wooden floorboards. Then he noticed the two glass cabinets against the wall. He whistled softly to himself as he stared at their contents. One of the cabinets contained a pair of sheathed tachi, the Japanese sword traditionally worn suspended from the belt.

The second cabinet contained ninja weaponry: kama, the sickle used for cutting corn, which doubles as a lethal weapon; kusari-gama, a sickle attached to a lead ball with a chain; nunchaku, the corn-beater, consisting of two short lengths of wood joined by a chain; sai, an iron dagger protected by two lateral hooks which is used to check, or deflect, the tachi; shuriken, the small, iron projectile with sharp, serrated edges; and the tonfa, a twenty-inch oak rod with a cylindrical handle fixed three-quarters of the way along its stem.

Young stared, fascinated, at the assortment of weaponry until a loud horn blast from a taxi in the street below brought him sharply back to his senses. He crossed to the Venetian blinds where he opened his slim, black case and carefully removed the sections of the specially designed detachable Mauser SP66 sniper rifle which he had asked Wiseman to get for him. He screwed on the Zeiss 1.5-6x42 zoom telescopic lens then reached through the Venetian blinds and opened the window. He had a perfect view of the main entrance to the Metropole Hotel. He took a cordless phone from the case and rang the hotel. It was answered by one of the switchboard operators and he asked for Calvieri’s room.

‘Pronto, Tony Calvieri.’

‘You want to know who killed Pisani, don’t you?’

‘Who is this?’

‘I’ll meet you outside the hotel in two minutes. If you’re not there, I’ll assume you’re not interested and leave. Two minutes.’

‘How will I recognize you?’

‘I’ll recognize you.’

Young disconnected the line and replaced the phone in the case. He picked up the sniper rifle and leaned the barrel lightly on the window frame. He adjusted the sights until he had a perfect image of the doorman’s head in the crosshairs. Then, curling his finger around the trigger, he squeezed it gently. Click. He selected a 7.62 mm semi-jacketed soft point bullet from the case and fed it into the breech. Like any good sniper, he only needed one bullet. He rested the rifle on the window frame again and waited for Calvieri to appear.

A smile touched the corners of his mouth when, a minute later, the electronic doors parted and Calvieri emerged into the street. He tightened his grip on the rifle then lined up Calvieri’s forehead in the crosshairs. His finger rested lightly on the trigger but he held back from firing when Calvieri suddenly swung round towards the doors behind him. He looked to see who had distracted Calvieri’s attention. It couldn’t be. It was a woman, dressed differently, but closely resembling the prostitute he had seen in Whitlock’s room in Rome. His mind raced. Who was she? Was she a Brigatista? Why was she in Berne? What was her relationship with Calvieri? More to the point, what was her relationship with Alexander? Was Alexander working with Calvieri? Had Alexander compromised the assignment? Alexander had a lot of explaining to do. Then Young would kill him. He couldn’t afford to take any chances. But he had some unfinished business to attend to first. He lined up Calvieri’s forehead in the sights again. He slowly tightened his finger on the trigger.

The room was suddenly flooded with light.

‘Drop the gun,’ Escoletti ordered from the doorway.

Young used the reflections in the window to watch the figure behind him.

He had two options. Try and shoot him on the turn. Or throw down the rifle and take his chances from there. It was obvious that the gunman wanted him alive, otherwise he would already have put a bullet in his back. He laid the rifle down carefully in front of him then turned round slowly to face his assailant. He looked from the Bernadelli in Escoletti’s hand to the black bag on the floor beside him. It had to be the man Alexander had seen at the boarding house. A sudden thought crossed his mind. What if Alexander was working in league with him?

‘Who are you?’ Young asked. ‘Red Brigades?’

‘That’s right,’ Escoletti replied. ‘You should have quit while you were ahead. But, like so many before you, you underestimated the Red Brigades. We’re not the disjointed, ramshackle organization our Government would have the world believe. How do you think we were able to track you down to that boarding house in Rome? How do you think I was able to trace you here so quickly?’

‘So what happens now?’

‘You will be taken back to Italy and tried by a people’s court.’

‘And submitted to your proletarian justice, no doubt?’ Young said with a sneer. ‘You sound just like the Vietcong I was fighting eighteen years ago. Unenlightened, uneducated red scum.’

‘Who brought your country to its knees,’ Escoletti said with evident satisfaction. ‘The people triumphed over the fascisti, one of the greatest victories in socialist history.’

Whitlock appeared in the doorway behind Escoletti, a 5-inch length of lead piping in his hand. He pressed it into Escoletti’s back and told him to drop the gun. Escoletti stiffened but made no move to drop the Bernadelli.

Whitlock’s heart was racing. If Escoletti called his bluff and turned on him he would be dead. It was as simple as that. Escoletti finally let the Bernadelli fall to the floor. Young picked it up before Whitlock had a chance to get to it. Escoletti looked round at Whitlock, his eyes lingering on the lead piping in his hand. His face remained expressionless.

‘I’ll spare you the kangaroo court,’ Young said to Escoletti, and shot him through the head.

‘You didn’t have to kill him!’ Whitlock exclaimed, staring at the body sprawled at his feet.

‘That’s right,’ Young replied. ‘Close the door.’

Whitlock closed the door behind him and when he turned back to Young he found the Bernadelli trained on him.

‘I never did trust you,’ Young said, taking a step towards Whitlock. ‘As I said to you in Rome, it was General Wiseman who wanted you in on the operation. Not me. I could have handled it by myself, no trouble.’

‘I can see that,’ Whitlock said sarcastically. ‘You needed me to save your arse at Pisani’s house. And you needed me to save it again tonight.’

‘For which I’ll be eternally grateful,’ Young replied with equal sarcasm. His eyes narrowed. ‘Who was the woman with Calvieri?’

Whitlock frowned. ‘What woman? What are you talking about?’

‘That so-called prostitute who came to your room in Rome was out there talking to Calvieri not five minutes ago. Who is she?’

‘Is that what all this is about?’ Whitlock said, gesturing to the Bernadelli in Young’s hand. ‘You see a woman who looks like an Italian prostitute talking to Calvieri and you immediately jump to conclusions.’

‘They were one and the same, I’m sure of it. I’m hardly likely to forget a face or a figure like that in a hurry.’

‘What possible reason would that prostitute have for coming up here to Berne? It makes no sense at all. And if you thought about it logically, you’d agree.’

‘You’re good, I’ll grant you that. But you’re not good enough. If you haven’t told me who she is in five seconds’ time I’ll put a bullet in your left kneecap. I’m told the pain is unbearable. Another five seconds and I’ll put a bullet in your right kneecap. Then, if you still won’t talk, I’ll resort to the transmitter. I’m dying to try it out. It’s the first of its kind. If it’s any good I might just patent it. I’m sure the CIA would be interested.’

‘You’re mad,’ Whitlock said, staring at the glazed expression in Young’s eyes.

‘Five seconds. Starting now.’

‘Look, I don’t know who she is,’ Whitlock said in desperation, his eyes flickering towards the glass cabinets on the wall. They were out of reach. Even if he could have reached them, he would have had to smash the glass to get to the weapons. Young would have shot him long before he got there.

‘Two seconds,’ Young said, reaching his left hand into his jacket pocket for the transmitter.

Whitlock saw his chance. He lunged at Young, bringing the lead piping down across the back of his gun hand. Young cried out in pain and the Bernadelli fell to the floor. Whitlock grabbed Young’s wrist as he pulled the transmitter from his pocket and ran him backwards into the cabinet containing the two ceremonial tachi. The glass shattered and Whitlock slammed the back of Young’s hand against the shards still embedded in the frame. A piece of glass sliced across the back of Young’s hand and in his haste to pull away from the searing pain the transmitter slipped from his bloodied fingers. Whitlock made the mistake of taking his eyes off Young for a split second to kick the transmitter out of the way. Young butted Whitlock savagely in the face and followed through with two hammering body punches, dropping Whitlock to his knees. Young grabbed the nearest tachi, wrenched it out of its sheath, and, using both hands to grip the hilt, lashed out at Whitlock, who managed to hurl himself sideways a split second before the blade, missing him by inches, sliced through the mat where he had been kneeling. Whitlock brought his foot up sharply into Young’s midriff then, springing to his feet, he managed to draw the second tachi from its sheath before Young had time to catch his breath.

They circled each other warily, the tachi held away from their bodies, neither of them prepared to make the first move. Young suddenly gripped the hilt firmly in both hands and scythed the blade at Whitlock, who parried the blow with the blunt edge of his tachi. Young lashed out again but this time Whitlock managed to evade the blade, which smashed into the second cabinet, spilling several of the ninja weapons on the floor around them. Young swivelled round as Whitlock aimed a thrust at his midriff and blocked the attempt. The two blades locked and Whitlock shoved Young against the wall, his arm shaking as he forced the two blades ever closer to Young’s face. Young lashed out with his foot, catching Whitlock on the knee. Whitlock stumbled back in pain, lost his footing on one of the mats, and fell to the floor. Young noticed the transmitter lying beside the door. He discarded the tachi and made a grab for it.

Whitlock knew he wouldn’t be able to reach Young before he pressed the button. He looked around in desperation for the Bernadelli. It was out of reach. His fingers touched something cold on the floor beside him. An eight-sided shuriken. It was his only chance. Young uncapped the transmitter’s protective seal and looked up triumphantly. Whitlock flung the shuriken. It struck Young high in the forehead, spraying blood across the wall behind him. The transmitter slipped from Young’s hand and the astonishment was still mirrored in his eyes when he fell forward on to the floor.

Whitlock got to his feet gingerly and retrieved the transmitter, which lay next to Young’s body. He secured the protective cap over the button again then crossed to the case by the window and used the cordless telephone to call Kolchinsky and tell him what had happened. Kolchinsky told him to go back to the boarding house where he was staying and he would arrange for a scientist to be sent down from Zürich to defuse the booby-trapped watch. Whitlock replaced the telephone in the case and walked to the door, where he paused to pick up the Bernadelli. It could come in useful. He pocketed it then looked around slowly at the havoc before closing the door behind him and padlocking it again.

Kolchinsky replaced the receiver and told Graham what had happened.

‘Is he all right?’ Graham asked once Kolchinsky had finished speaking.

‘Mercifully yes. I told him to go back to the boarding house.’

‘Surely he’d be of more use to us here?’

‘And let Calvieri see him?’

‘That’s being a bit overcautious, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t think so. Remember, the Red Brigades have got a good description of C.W. I’m not saying Calvieri would link him to the hit but it’s not worth taking that chance. It’s best if we keep him in the wings until we need him.’

‘I see your point,’ Graham admitted.

‘I want you to go down to the foyer and tell Sabrina what’s happened. I’ll let you know when Fabio and Commissioner Kuhlmann get back from Worb.’

‘What do you want us to do until they get back?’

‘There isn’t much you can do.’

‘What are you going to do about the bodies across the road?’

‘I’ll have to discuss that with Commissioner Kuhlmann when he gets back.’

‘And Wiseman?’ Graham asked, as Kolchinsky led him to the door.

‘That’s up to the Colonel. I’m going to call him now.’ Kolchinsky opened the door. ‘And Michael, leave Calvieri alone.’

‘When have I ever disobeyed an order, Sergei?’ Graham asked, feigning a look of innocence.

‘Frequently,’ Kolchinsky replied, closing the door.

Heads turned when Graham emerged from the lift but he ignored the curious looks as he scanned the foyer for Sabrina. She wasn’t there. He sighed irritably, then crossed to the reception desk and asked for her to be paged. She arrived at the desk within seconds of the call being made.

‘Where have you been?’ Graham asked, leading her away from the desk.

‘I was in the bar,’ she replied, ‘having a drink with Calvieri.’

‘Sounds cosy,’ he muttered.

She ignored the sarcasm. ‘Any news of C.W.?’

He told her briefly what had happened.

‘That’s a relief,’ she said. ‘I almost missed Calvieri when he came down here.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I had this plan to call the switchboard from a house phone the moment I saw Calvieri and have him paged to the reception desk. I would have pretended to have been an anonymous caller with information on the Pisani murder. I could have kept him talking on the phone long enough for C.W. to deal with Young.’

‘So what went wrong?’

‘I was watching the lift. Calvieri must have used the stairs. You can’t see them from the house phones. I only saw him as he was about to leave the hotel.’

‘How did you get him back inside?’ Graham asked, glancing at the electronic doors.

‘How could I, without arousing suspicion? Fortunately he came back in when he saw me. It must have been close.’ She gestured in the direction of the bar lounge. ‘I’d better get back. Why not join us?’

‘No thanks, I’m pretty selective about who I drink with.’

‘And I’m not, is that it?’

‘I don’t drink with terrorists,’ he said sharply.

‘This is business, Mike, just remember that.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ An elderly couple looked at them, startled by her raised voice.

‘Is there a problem?’ Graham asked, staring at them coldly. They moved away.

‘I’m not going to have a slanging match with you out here, Mike. If you don’t want to come for a drink, that’s fine by me. I just wanted…’ she trailed off with a shrug and turned to leave.

He grabbed her arm. ‘You just wanted what?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she retorted, then shrugged off his hand and strode back into the bar.

Graham exhaled deeply, then went after her. They were seated at a table in the corner of the room. Calvieri saw him and beckoned him over. He pulled out a chair for Graham to sit down.

‘Mike! Come and join us. What will you have to drink?’

‘The coldest bottle of Perrier you’ve got,’ Graham said, glancing up at the waiter.

‘I see you changed your mind,’ Sabrina said, eyeing Graham sharply.

‘Yeah,’ Graham muttered, then sat back and looked distantly around the packed room.

The waiter returned with the Perrier water and a glass filled with ice. He placed them on the table in front of Graham.

‘Please, this is on me,’ Calvieri said, reaching out for the chit.

Quickly Graham grabbed the chit from the table and signed it. He looked across at Calvieri after the waiter had left.

‘You buy your own drinks. I’ll buy mine. That way there can be no misunderstanding.’

‘Ever since we met you’ve gone out of your way to condemn me for my beliefs. What makes you so sure you’re right?’

‘That’s a question you should put to the families of all those people the Red Brigades have murdered in the past twenty years,’ Graham replied, holding Calvieri’s gaze. ‘You might just learn something.’

‘We only hit legitimate targets, Mr. Graham. Politicians like Moro and Tarantelli. Or soldiers like General Giorgieri or your own Leamon Hunt, the director general of the Sinai Peacekeeping Forces we assassinated in 1984. Fascisti.’

Graham drank a mouthful of Perrier and sat forward, his arms resting on the table.

‘What about all those innocent bystanders, caught in the crossfire of your so-called fight against fascism? Are they also legitimate targets?’

‘It’s regrettable, but there will always be innocent casualties in this kind of conflict.’

Graham shook his head in disgust.

‘The standard terrorist reply. You know you can’t possibly condone it, so you evade the question.’

‘The Red Brigades don’t kill senselessly, Mr. Graham. There’s always a reason for our actions.’ Calvieri took a sip of brandy, then placed his glass on the coaster in front of him.

‘You may think we’re just a group of terrorists out to spread anarchy and revolution. It’s not the case. We have aims and ambitions like any other political organization. We have a strong following, especially amongst the working classes.’

‘You did, until you killed Aldo Moro in ’78,’ Sabrina cut in quickly. ‘You’ve never managed to regain that level of support since.’

‘Granted, killing Moro was a mistake. It gave the authorities a martyr and we lost an important hostage who could have brought us a lot of money. But that was a long time ago. We have won back that support, irrespective of what the Government would lead the world to believe. This country has had to endure an endless succession of inept, corrupt governments, none more so than the present communist government under Enzo Bellini. The balance of payments is the worst in living memory, unemployment is up fifteen percent and tens of thousands of Italians are living below the poverty line.’

‘The perfect climate for revolution,’ Graham said.

‘The perfect climate for change,’ Calvieri retorted. ‘The people have lost faith in the politicians, both the Christian Democrats and the PCI, the Communist Party. It’s time to brush aside the dead wood and replace it with a new, dynamic force in politics capable of putting this country back on its feet again.’

‘In other words, the Red Brigades,’ Sabrina concluded.

‘Not necessarily, no.’ Calvieri watched the puzzlement in their expressions. ‘Of course there are those Brigatisti who won’t settle for anything less than the overthrow of the democratically elected government, in the blinkered belief that the Red Brigades could seize power in the ensuing confusion.’

‘Like Zocchi?’ Sabrina said.

‘He was the worst. But there are others, some even on the committee. And these are the ones the authorities highlight in the media, making us all out to be bloodthirsty, revolutionary anarchists whose only law comes from the barrel of a gun.’

‘You’re their spokesman, surely that gives you a platform for your own views?’ Sabrina said.

‘I wish it were that simple. The Red Brigades only make the news when they fall foul of the law. That’s the only time the media want to know me. Of course I try to put across the other side of the story, but once the interview gets back to the studio it’s butchered by the editors and by the time it reaches the television news I’ve been quoted completely out of context. The media depend on viewing figures to survive, and sensationalism seems to be the way to achieve them. I can’t win.’

‘So what are your aims, if not the violent overthrow of the government?’ Graham asked.

‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m not opposed to the violent overthrow of the government. Especially this government. If a volunteer was needed to put Bellini out of Italy’s misery I’d be glad to put the gun to his head and pull the trigger. It’s just not a viable proposition, not here in Europe. That’s where the militants and I disagree. Are the armed forces and the police just going to stand by and let us topple the government in a blaze of gunfire? Of course not. We have to be realistic. The answer is a coalition.’

Graham sat back and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Tell us about it.’

‘We want the working classes to have a say in the running of the country. At the moment they don’t, which is why there is such an unacceptably high level of unemployment. What I’d like to see in the foreseeable future is for the PCI to take on board two, maybe three, Brigatisti and give them a portfolio in the government.’

‘With an eye on the Red Brigades finally running the country?’ Graham said.

‘It’s a nice thought but we just don’t have the experience to run the country by ourselves. Again, that’s where the militants and I disagree. I think it would work. The PCI have the experience and we have the input of ideas which have been sadly lacking in the past few governments.’

‘You’re overlooking one point,’ Sabrina said. ‘Some years back the PCI denounced you as “common terrorists”. What makes you think they would agree to a coalition?’

‘The Christian Democrats are currently ahead in the polls because of the way the PCI have wrecked the economy. At this rate the PCI don’t stand a chance of being returned to power at the next election. But with the support we have amongst the working classes we could not only win them the next election, but the one after that as well. That’s not something to be taken lightly.’ Calvieri finished his brandy. ‘It’s all hypothetical at the moment. We do have contacts inside the PCI but the final decision would lie with Bellini and his senior ministers.’

‘And if they don’t agree to your terms they’ll become “legitimate targets” like Moro and Tarantelli?’

Calvieri smiled at Graham.

‘They’re already legitimate targets. So you see, the sooner they agree to meet us, the better it will be for all concerned.’

‘Blackmail,’ Graham muttered. ‘I might have guessed.’

‘I prefer to call it common sense,’ Calvieri replied.

Over the loudspeakers came the request that Michael Graham contact the switchboard immediately. He crossed to the house phone at the end of the bar. The call was from Kolchinsky.

‘Commissioner Kuhlmann and Major Paluzzi have just got back,’ Kolchinsky told him. ‘We’ll have that meeting now.’

‘Your room?’

‘Yes. Is Sabrina with you?’

‘Yeah. And Calvieri.’

‘I told you to leave Calvieri alone,’ Kolchinsky said sharply.

‘Sabrina was having a drink with him. What was I supposed to do, sit at the next table?’ Graham raked his fingers through his hair. ‘Do you want us to bring him along?’

‘No, just the two of you. We won’t be able to talk freely if he’s there. Sabrina can brief him later.’

‘Okay. We’ll be up in a couple of minutes,’ Graham said, then replaced the receiver and returned to the table.

‘Sergei?’ Sabrina asked, looking up at him.

‘Yeah, he wants to see us right away.’

‘Does that include me?’ Calvieri asked.

‘No. Sabrina will brief you later if there’s anything you need to know.’

‘It’s so refreshing to work in an atmosphere of trust and cooperation,’ Calvieri said bitterly.

‘I’d prefer to call it common sense,’ Graham replied with a forced smile.

They took the lift to the third floor and walked the short distance to Kolchinsky’s room. Sabrina knocked. Kolchinsky opened the door and ushered them inside.

‘I hear you’ve been drinking with the enemy,’ Paluzzi said with a smile.

‘Not by choice, believe me.’ Graham went on to explain what Calvieri had told them about the possible coalition between the Red Brigades and the PCI.

‘I’ve never heard about it before,’ Kuhlmann said.

‘I’m not surprised,’ Paluzzi replied. ‘It’s not exactly something the PCI want the world to know about. At least not yet.’

‘So you’re saying there will be a PCI-Red Brigades coalition at the next election?’ Graham said in amazement.

‘It’s certainly a possibility. As Calvieri said, the PCI don’t stand a chance of being returned to power. They need the extra votes. And the Red Brigades are capable, in theory, of giving them those extra votes.’

‘But surely the Italian people wouldn’t accept the coalition?’ Sabrina said.

‘I don’t have to tell you how bad our economy is at the moment. And it’s getting worse by the day. The people have lost faith in the politicians. Can you honestly blame them? They want hope for the future. And if a PCI-Red Brigades coalition can offer them that hope, they’ll be voted into power.’

‘So what’s stopping the coalition happening?’ Kolchinsky asked.

‘In a word, Bellini. He’s totally opposed to the idea.’

‘At least someone’s got some scruples.’

Paluzzi laughed and patted Graham on the shoulder.

‘You obviously don’t know about Enzo Bellini, Mike. He’d make a pact with the devil if he thought it would keep him in power. It’s not the coalition that bothers him. It’s the idea that he could lose the Prime Ministership and all the privileges that go with the job.’

‘Would he be deposed?’ Sabrina asked.

‘Undoubtedly. Along with most of his cabinet. Especially his senior ministers, who are all loyal to him. Although I don’t vote for the PCI, I have to admit that they do have several up and coming politicians who could work wonders for the country. They all back the coalition. And that’s why none of them have been given posts in the government.’

Kolchinsky turned away from the window, his eyebrows furrowed thoughtfully.

‘What if the vial was going to be used not only to free Zocchi but also to force Bellini to step down as Prime Minister so that these coalition talks could take place?’

Paluzzi shook his head.

‘Opposition to the coalition isn’t just confined to the PCI. The Red Brigades also have their dissenters. And Zocchi was the loudest of them. He was a militant who wouldn’t settle for anything less than the violent overthrow of the government in power. Negotiations between the PCI and the Red Brigades were out of the question as far as he was concerned. And that went for the Rome cell in general. The idea of the coalition was drafted by Pisani, Calvieri and Luigi Bettinga, Genoa’s brigade chief, the three so-called ‘moderates’ on the committee. Had any of them been involved in the theft of the vial I’d have said you had a valid point. But not with Zocchi and Ubrino.’

There was a knock at the door and Paluzzi answered it. He stepped aside to let the two waiters enter and Kolchinsky told them to leave the trays on the dressing-table. Sabrina signed the chit and they left the room.

‘There’s tea, coffee and sandwiches,’ Kolchinsky said, gesturing towards the trays. ‘Help yourselves.’

Paluzzi poured himself a coffee then used his teaspoon to lift the edges of the bread to see what the sandwiches contained.

‘I ordered you egg mayonnaise and cheese salad,’ Kolchinsky said behind him.

Paluzzi looked round in surprise.

‘How did you know I was a vegetarian?’

‘It’s in your file at UNACO,’ Kolchinsky said, helping himself to a couple.

‘You’ve got a file on me at UNACO ?’ Paluzzi exclaimed, looking from Kolchinsky to Sabrina.

Graham put a hand on Paluzzi’s shoulder as he reached over for a sandwich.

‘Thing is, Fabio, you just can’t be too careful when it comes to differentiating between friend and foe. One day friend, next day foe.’

‘Like Calvieri?’ Paluzzi said.

‘No, he’ll always be foe,’ Graham replied.

Sabrina took a cup of coffee to Kuhlmann who was seated by the window.

‘Did you come across anything in the helicopter?’

‘Nothing. I’ve got a team of forensic scientists going over it now but I can’t see them coming up with much.’

‘There wasn’t a single fingerprint on it,’ Paluzzi said, looking across at Sabrina. ‘Not one.’

‘What about Ubrino and Francia?’ Graham asked. ‘Surely the locals must have seen them?’

‘Someone gave two men fitting their descriptions a lift to the railway station,’ Kuhlmann said. ‘They seem to have disappeared into thin air after that.’

‘They must have bought tickets. Surely somebody must remember them?’

‘The staff at the station were questioned thoroughly, Mr. Graham. None could recall them.’

‘What if they never boarded the train but slipped back into town?’

‘We thought of that, Miss Carver,’ Kuhlmann said. ‘All accommodation centres have been checked. Nothing. I’ve also instigated the surveillance of all known terrorist sympathizers in Switzerland. If Ubrino or Francia are staying with any of them, we’ll know about it.’

‘There isn’t much else we can do, except wait,’ Paluzzi said, sitting down next to Graham.

‘Have you spoken to the Colonel, Sergei?’ Graham asked.

Kolchinsky nodded.

‘He’s flying out to Switzerland tonight. I’m picking him up at the airport tomorrow morning.’

‘What did he say about Wiseman?’

‘He’s gone to ground. His present whereabouts are unknown.’

‘And Alexander?’ Sabrina asked.

‘He was spotted at a tube station in London this morning. Scotland Yard are confident of picking him up within the next couple of days.’

‘The ambulances have arrived,’ Paluzzi said, peering down into the street.

‘What ambulances?’ Sabrina asked, craning her neck to look over Paluzzi’s shoulder.

‘To take away the bodies of Young and Escoletti,’ Paluzzi replied, then stood aside to give her a better view of what was happening in the street below them.

‘Escoletti?’ Graham said, crossing to the window.

‘Giancarlo Escoletti, the Red Brigades’ most senior hitman,’ Paluzzi told him. ‘Just the sort of person to be sent after Pisani’s killers.’

‘How do you know it was Escoletti?’ Sabrina asked. ‘Have you been over there?’

Paluzzi shook his head.

‘I knew who it was when Sergei mentioned the black doctor’s bag found beside the body. It was Escoletti’s trademark.’

‘C.W. won’t be implicated, will he?’ Graham asked, turning to Kolchinsky.

‘I cleared that with the Commissioner as soon as he arrived,’ Kolchinsky replied, indicating Kuhlmann. ‘It’ll be an open and shut case. Escoletti surprised Young, a fight ensued, and they killed each other. At least that’s the story that will appear in the morning papers.’

Graham put his empty cup on the tray.

‘Talking about the morning, hadn’t we better get on with the briefing?’

‘Quite right, Michael. Commissioner Kuhlmann and I will meet the Colonel’s plane at seven-thirty then the three of us all go directly to the Offenbach Centre for a meeting with representatives of those countries taking part in the summit.’

‘Have they already been briefed about the vial?’ Sabrina asked.

Kolchinsky nodded.

‘The Colonel told the sixteen Ambassadors at the United Nations as soon as we knew that Ubrino’s final destination was the Offenbach Centre. They’ve been kept up to date on all the latest developments.’

‘What about us?’ Graham asked. ‘What will we be doing?’

‘You three, plus Calvieri, will be in a car parked a few hundred yards away from the Offenbach Centre. You’ll be in constant radio contact with me.’

‘What use will we be there?’ Graham exclaimed in disbelief. ‘We know what Ubrino looks like. We should be working with the security guards, not sitting in some damn car.’

Kolchinsky studied the remaining sandwiches on the plate then selected one and turned back to Graham.

‘Ubrino also knows what you look like. All of you. And if he sees any of you at the Offenbach Centre he’s likely to smell a rat and take off. Then what? We wouldn’t know where to start looking for him. At least this way we can pin him down to one place. And as I told you earlier, an extra hundred policemen and women have been drafted in to help look for him.’

‘Chances are he’ll wear a disguise,’ Paluzzi said, looking at Kuhlmann. ‘And if he does, I guarantee that none of your people will recognize him. He’s a master of deception.’

‘I’ve heard about these disguises,’ Kuhlmann replied. ‘That’s why everyone entering the building will be subjected to a body search. We also have X-ray machines at all entrances to check bags and briefcases. He may be able to disguise himself, but he won’t be able to disguise the vial. He won’t get into the building undetected, of that I’m certain.’

‘I wish I could share your confidence,’ Paluzzi said, then turned to Kolchinsky. ‘Do you need me for anything else? I’ve some calls to make before I go to bed.’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Kolchinsky replied.

‘What time do you want us in position, Sergei?’ Sabrina asked.

‘I’ll be there from eight o’clock. Any time after that.’ Kolchinsky took a map of Berne from under a dossier on the bedside table and handed it to her. ‘I’ve marked the street with a cross where I want the four of you to wait. It’s close to the highway.’

‘What about radios?’ Graham asked.

‘Fabio’s got one. It’s all you’ll need.’ Kolchinsky shot Graham a hard look. ‘As long as everyone obeys orders and stays together.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ Graham muttered, then stood up and stifled a yawn. ‘It’s been a long day and I, for one, am shattered.’

‘You’re not the only one,’ Sabrina agreed, getting to her feet.

‘Not so fast, young lady,’ Kolchinsky said.

‘You’ve still got to brief Calvieri before you go to bed.’

‘You’re all heart, Sergei,’ she replied with a grimace.

Kolchinsky saw Kuhlmann and Paluzzi to the door then turned back to Graham and Sabrina.

‘Strange how the human mind works. There we all were, tiptoeing about as if this wasn’t really a crisis. But behind the facade of professional detachment we were all asking ourselves the same questions. What if Ubrino slips the net and opens the vial? How many millions will die before an antidote is found? And we’d be among the first to be contaminated. Yet none of us has voiced our anxieties, myself included. Strange, isn’t it?’

‘That’s what I like about you, Sergei,’ Graham said, patting Kolchinsky on the back. ‘Your unfailing optimism.’

Kolchinsky smiled fleetingly, then exhaled deeply.

‘It’s going to be a long night. I know I’m not going to get any sleep.’

Sabrina glanced at Graham and noticed the uncertainty in his eyes. A mirror image of her own? Kolchinsky was right. None of them wanted to address the issue head on. Not even Graham. The most vociferous amongst them.

‘None of us will, Sergei, you can be sure of that,’ Graham said then disappeared out into the corridor.

Sabrina looked across at Kolchinsky who was standing with his back to her at the window then turned and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

Whitlock stared at the food in front of him. Choucroute garnie, sauerkraut with boiled ham and Vienna sausages. One of his favourite dishes. He had bought it on the way back to the boarding house but when he had opened the carton in his room his appetite seemed to vanish. He just wasn’t hungry. He had prodded the food absently with his fork for the last hour without making any attempt to eat it. Now it was cold and unappetizing. He suddenly stabbed the fork into one of the sausages and pushed the carton away from him. He glanced at his watch. 10.40 p.m.

What did time matter? He stood up and crossed to the telephone on the bedside table. He picked up the receiver and rang the apartment in New York. He let it ring for a minute. No reply. How many times had he rung the number in the last hour? Ten? More like fifteen. And each time the same. He had rung Carmen’s work number half a dozen times as well, with the same result. He replaced the receiver, then walked to the window and looked down into the alley below him. A teenage couple were kissing in the shadows of a doorway. He turned away angrily and sat down again. He was out of his mind with worry. Where was Carmen? Her sister hadn’t seen her. Her friends hadn’t seen her. It was completely out of character for her to act like this. He had called all the main hospitals in New York but none of them had any record of her admittance.

He had even contacted the city mortuaries but again his enquiries had drawn a blank. He was desperate to talk to her. He suddenly banged his fist angrily on the table. He had to stop dwelling on Carmen’s disappearance and concentrate on the assignment. Damn his selfishness. He had to pull himself together. Quickly.

He picked up one of the keys on the table. It was for Young’s room. He had been meaning to search the room ever since he got back to the boarding house. Now was a perfect time. It would help him to take his mind off Carmen. Well, he could try. He left his room, looked the length of the deserted corridor, then moved to the adjacent door, unlocked it, and slipped inside. He closed the door behind him and switched on the light. The room was identical to his own. A double bed, a table, a chair, a chest of drawers and a washbasin beside the window. Even the garish wallpaper was the same. He searched the chest of drawers and found a passport in the bottom drawer in the name of Vincent Yannick. A Walther P5 lay beside the passport. It was a good, reliable handgun, used mainly by the West German and Dutch police forces and exported extensively to both North and South America. He still preferred the Browning for accuracy. Not that he had much choice. The Browning Sabrina had given to him in Rome was in the hands of the NOCS.

As was everything else they had left behind at the boarding house. He looked under the bed and pulled out the pale-blue holdall Young had taken from the locker at Berne’s Belpmoos Airport. He unzipped it. Inside were bundles of Swiss francs, all in used notes. He would give the money to Kolchinsky to hand over to UNICEF.

He looked around sharply when he heard the noise. It came from next door, from within his own room. He immediately thought of the scientist being sent from Zürich to deactivate the booby-trapped watch. But there was another possibility. A Red Brigades assassin. He peered out into the corridor. It was still empty. He closed the door silently behind him and approached his own room cautiously, the Walther gripped tightly in his hand. The door was ajar. He kicked it open and dropped to one knee, training the Walther on the figure standing by the window. The man was in his forties with short blond hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He raised his hands slowly.

‘Who are you?’ Whitlock demanded.

‘My name is Dr. Hans Gottfried,’ came the nervous reply. ‘Monsieur Rust sent me. I did knock on the door but there was no reply. That is why I came inside.’

Whitlock got to his feet and tucked the Walther into his belt.

‘I’m sorry if I startled you but I couldn’t afford to take any chances.’

Gottfried lowered his hands. ‘I quite understand.’

‘Can I get you something to drink? Tea? Coffee? That’s about all they serve here.’

‘Nothing, thank you. May I see the watch?’

Whitlock held out his arm. Gottfried studied the watch for some time, then asked to see the transmitter. He turned it around in his hand then undid the protective cap to expose the detonator button.

‘Don’t touch that!’ Whitlock shouted, his eyes wide in horror.

Gottfried smiled gently.

‘I do not intend to, I assure you. I was just looking at the design.’

Whitlock slumped on to the bed.

‘I’m sorry, I’m just on edge. I’ve been like this ever since I was tricked into wearing this damn thing. What if the strap came loose while I was asleep? What if Young went on drinking and inadvertently strayed more than three miles away from the boarding house? You could count the number of hours’ sleep I’ve had since Monday on one hand. I’m exhausted.’

‘I can well imagine,’ Gottfried said, picking up an attaché case from beside the bed. ‘You will sleep well tonight, I promise you that.’

How the hell could he sleep well not knowing where Carmen was? He stifled a yawn, then forced a quick smile when he noticed that Gottfried was watching him.

‘Do you know anything about the origins of the device?’ Gottfried asked, placing the case on the table.

‘He did say it was the first of its kind and he had this insane idea to patent it if it proved successful.’

‘Homemade. I thought as much. That means the transmitter could also be booby-trapped.’

‘Wonderful,’ Whitlock muttered, then crossed to the window and sat on the edge of the sill.

‘What’s the next move?’

Gottfried patted the attaché case.

‘This contains a portable scanner we developed last year. It works on the same principle as the X-ray machines used at airports to check suitcases. We will be able to see if the transmitter is booby-trapped.’

‘And if it is? What then?’

‘That would depend on the nature of the device,’ Gottfried replied, opening the case and starting to piece together the machine. ‘If it is a tricky operation we will have to fly back to Zürich and defuse it in the laboratory. And if something were to go wrong, God forbid, there would be a medical team on standby to give you immediate assistance.’

‘That’s comforting to know,’ Whitlock replied, grim faced.

‘We have to accept that possibility,’ Gottfried said, glancing up at Whitlock.

‘The only way to deactivate this device is by cutting it off at the power source. That means opening the casing. And if this man Young knew anything about booby-traps, he could have made the job very difficult indeed.’

Whitlock wiped the back of his hand across his clammy forehead.

Gottfried removed a length of flex from the case and held up the plug which was attached to the end of it.

‘Where is the nearest socket?’

‘By the bed. Here, I’ll plug it in for you.’

‘Thank you,’ Gottfried said, handing the flex to Whitlock.

‘Okay?’

’Ja, it is working.’

Whitlock took up a position behind Gottfried’s chair and looked more closely at the apparatus inside the attaché case: a twelve-inch fold-up square box, with protective curtains at each end, a compact control console and a monitor which was built into the lid of the case.

Gottfried placed the transmitter inside the chamber, then pressed a series of keys on the console in front of him. An image of the transmitter’s components appeared on the screen.

‘The normal two wires connected to the detonator cap,’ Gottfried said, pointing them out with the tip of his pen. ‘Nothing unusual there.’

‘What about the sides of the case? He could have set a hair-trigger device which would detonate the watch if any attempt was made to open the transmitter.’

Gottfried enlarged each side of the transmitter in turn but there were no strands of wire crossing the joins between the two halves of the case.

‘There is another possibility,’ Gottfried said at length. ‘A light-emitting diode. It is a tiny photocell incorporated into the circuit which would trigger off the explosive charge the moment it came into contact with a light source.’

‘In other words, when you removed the back of the transmitter.’

‘Exactly. But there is a way of getting round it. Infra-red light.’

‘Does that mean I’m going to have to fly back to Zürich with you?’ Whitlock asked.

‘That is up to you. There is an infra-red light built into this system but if you would prefer to go to Zürich–’

‘Not if we can do it here,’ Whitlock cut in. ‘I’m on standby. My colleagues may need me at any time.’

‘Very well. Will you switch off the light and close the curtains, please? The infra-red light can only work in complete darkness.’

Whitlock did as he was asked. Gottfried activated the infra-red, which was built into the lid of the case, then switched off the scanner and removed the transmitter from the chamber. He placed it face down on the table then selected a screwdriver from the miniature tool kit he had taken from his pocket and began to unscrew the first of the four screws holding the two halves of the case together. Whitlock remained motionless behind him, his breathing shallow and ragged. He wiped the sweat from his eyes then bit his lower lip painfully when Gottfried placed the fourth screw on the table and gingerly lifted the back off the transmitter. He breathed out deeply and managed a nervous smile when Gottfried held up the back half of the case to show him that it was perfectly harmless. Gottfried took a pair of pliers from the kit and studied the two wires more closely. One blue. One yellow. The standard wiring for a device of that kind. He used the tip of the pliers to look under the wires for any booby-trap that may not have shown up on the monitor. Nothing. He sat back and shook his head slowly.

‘What’s wrong?’ Whitlock asked anxiously.

‘I have this feeling that something is not right,’ Gottfried replied, staring at the two wires. ‘It is almost as if he is inviting us to go ahead and cut the wires. Why go to such lengths to booby-trap the watch but not the transmitter? It makes no sense.’

Whitlock remained silent. Not that he could have spoken anyway. His throat was suddenly dry. Gottfried took a small scalpel from the kit and cut a two-inch gash in the yellow flex. He peeled the plastic back and studied the fine network of wires inside it. He did the same with the blue flex and it was a couple of minutes before he sat back and nodded to himself.

‘Well?’ Whitlock asked.

‘It is booby-trapped.’ Gottfried used the scalpel to point out a single strand of wire amongst the network inside the yellow flex. ‘There it is.’

Whitlock stared at Gottfried. ‘How can you tell? It just looks like another wire to me.’

‘It would, to an untrained eye. I have been defusing explosive devices for the past fifteen years. I know what to look for.’ Gottfried used the scalpel as a pointer and followed the passage of the wire to the detonator cap. ‘If you look closely you will see that this strand was connected separately from the other wires. The perfect booby-trap.’

‘Is there one in the blue flex as well?’

Gottfried shook his head. ‘It is not necessary. Both lengths of flex have to be cut to defuse the device. He only needed to booby-trap one of them.’

‘Thank God for suspicious minds,’ Whitlock said, wiping his forearm across his forehead.

‘More like devious minds. The only way to beat these kind of people is to think like them.’

Gottfried picked up the pliers and cut through the blue flex. Then, using the tip of the screwdriver to isolate the booby-trap, he cut the remaining wires inside the yellow flex to make safe the transmitter.

‘You can take off the watch now.’

Whitlock stared at the watch, an uncertainty in his eyes.

‘Trust me, Mr. Whitlock, the watch is perfectly safe now.’

‘It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s Young I don’t trust.’

Gottfried switched the light on again then turned back to Whitlock.

‘You are worried about the booby-trap in the strap, not so?’

Whitlock nodded. ‘As I said, I don’t trust that bastard an inch. It would be just like him to have the last laugh.’

‘The booby-trap needs to work off a power source. The power source has been cut, so the booby-trap cannot work. It is as simple as that.’ Gottfried smiled at the doubt in Whitlock’s eyes. ‘What must I do to convince you?’

Whitlock sat on the edge of the bed and smiled ruefully at Gottfried.

‘Nothing. I’m convinced.’

‘So take off the watch.’

Whitlock undipped the strap and let out a deep breath when the watch slipped off his wrist on to the back of his hand. He eased it over his fingers and dropped it on to the bed.

‘Thanks,’ Whitlock said softly, massaging his wrist where the watch had been pressed against his skin.

‘I am glad to be of assistance.’ Gottfried pointed to the watch.

‘May I take it with me? I would like to examine it more closely in the laboratory.’

‘Please, take it,’ Whitlock said, handing the watch to Gottfried.

‘I never want to see it again.’

Gottfried smiled, then dismantled the X-ray machine.

‘Can I at least buy you a drink before you go back to Zürich?’ Whitlock asked.

‘That is very kind of you but I have to get back as quickly as possible. Yours is not the only such difficulty awaiting my attention, you understand.’

‘Of course. I hope it all goes well.’

‘I am sure it will.’ Gottfried closed the attaché case and locked it. ‘Nice to have met you, Mr. Whitlock.’

‘Likewise,’ Whitlock said, shaking Gottfried’s hand. ‘I just wish it had been under more relaxing conditions.’

‘C’est la vie,’ Gottfried replied with a resigned shrug, then took his leave.

Whitlock closed the door behind him then kicked off his shoes and lay on the bed, his hands clasped behind his head. He knew he should be feeling great relief now that he was rid of the watch. But he only felt empty. It was probably the same feeling the condemned man feels on the eve of his execution. He stifled a yawn. His body was exhausted but his mind was awake. Very awake. He glanced at the telephone and thought about Graham, Sabrina and Kolchinsky. He knew none of them would be sleeping. But at least they had each other for company. He had nobody. Not even his wife. He’d probably get back to the apartment and find the divorce papers in the post. If he got back, he reminded himself. That all depended on Ubrino.

He sat up and reached for the telephone. He rang the apartment in New York. He let it ring for the customary minute. No reply. He thought about calling her work number then replaced the receiver and pushed the telephone away from him. Why bother? There would be no reply.

C’est la vie …