Red Alert

Eleven

Whitlock checked underneath the last of the tables in his section of the restaurant on the eighth floor, then straightened up and looked across despairingly at Paluzzi.

‘Seventeen minutes to one,’ Paluzzi muttered, glancing at his watch. ‘It’s taken us over an hour just to check the kitchen and restaurant. We’re never going to finish at this rate.’

Whitlock nodded sombrely. ‘Don’t remind me. What’s next on the list?’

‘The foyer.’

‘Wonderful. Now we’ll be in full glare of the press.’

The bleeper sounded. It was attached to Whitlock’s belt. He switched it off and met Paluzzi’s questioning look.

‘Am I expecting too much?’

‘Probably, but there’s only one way of finding out.’

Whitlock crossed to the telephone and rang Vlok’s office. Philpott answered.

‘It’s C.W.’ sir. Has the vial been found?’

‘No,’ Philpott replied brusquely.

Whitlock shook his head at Paluzzi.

‘I might be on to something,’ Philpott told him. ‘I want the two of you to check it out.’

‘What is it?’ Whitlock asked eagerly.

‘Were you told about Nino Ferzetti?’

‘The maintenance worker Ubrino impersonated to get into the building?’

‘The same. Well, Commissioner Kuhlmann had the local police go round to Ferzetti’s flat to see if he was all right. He was still out cold when they got there. They managed to bring him round and he told them he was drinking with a Vito Cellina last night. He also works in the maintenance department. I called Jacques in Zürich and had him run a check on Cellina. He’s clean but it turns out his stepsister, Louisa, had been involved with the Red Brigades before her death from a drugs overdose last year.’

‘So Cellina could be Calvieri’s contact inside the building”

‘He could be, but I still have my suspicions. It’s all too convenient. It’s as if Calvieri wanted us to find out about Cellina. Why else would Ubrino have mentioned Ferzetti? I could be wrong, of course. That’s why I want the two of you to get on to it right away.’

‘Do you know where he is at the moment?’

‘In the basement. That’s where the maintenance department is housed.’

‘We’re on our way, sir.’

The lift only went as far as the foyer, but there were stairs leading down to the basement to the right of the reception desk. They ignored the sign on the door, STAFF ONLY, and descended the stairs to a tiled corridor. To their right was a swing door leading into the workshop. To their left was a cream-coloured door with the words ERHALTUNG MANAGER stencilled on it in black. The maintenance manager’s office. Paluzzi rapped loudly on the door.

‘Herein,’ a voice called out.

They entered the room. The man behind the desk was heavyset, his face remarkable only for its surly expression and black-framed glasses. The name tag on his grey overall identified him as Hans Kessler. Paluzzi told Kessler in German that he was a security adviser and asked him where they could find Cellina.

‘What’s this all about?’ Kessler demanded in German, getting to his feet and removing his glasses.

‘Vito’s a good worker–’

‘We don’t want a reference,’ Paluzzi cut in, ‘we want to talk to him. Are you going to take us to him or do I have to call Dieter Vlok and tell him that his maintenance manager is refusing to cooperate with the authorities in a matter of national security?’

Kessler scowled but did as he was told, leading them into the workshop where he identified Cellina as the figure standing with his back to them on the other side of the room.

‘We’ll take it from here,’ Paluzzi said to Kessler. ‘Thank you for your help.’

Kessler looked from Paluzzi to Whitlock, then turned and left the room, muttering under his breath. The other five maintenance men in the workshop were watching them. Only Cellina seemed oblivious to their presence. It was not until Paluzzi approached Cellina that he noticed the blowtorch in his hand. He was welding. Paluzzi stopped a few feet away from Cellina, out of range of the blowtorch, and called out to him.

At first he thought Cellina hadn’t heard him but a moment later he switched off the power and looked around.

‘Are you Vito Cellina?’ Paluzzi asked in Italian.

Cellina pushed the visor away from his face. He was a gangling man in his thirties with collar-length brown hair and a sallow complexion.

‘Yes. Who are you?’

‘Security. I’d like to talk to you about a friend of yours. Nino Ferzetti.’

‘He’s not here,’ Cellina said, glancing nervously about him. ‘He didn’t come in to work this morning.’

‘That’s because you spiked his drinks last night.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Cellina stammered.

Paluzzi ripped the visor from Cellina’s face then grabbed him by the front of his overall and slammed him against the workbench.

‘I’m in no mood to play games with you. I want some answers and I want them now!’

One of Cellina’s colleagues picked up a screwdriver, but when he tried to approach Paluzzi he found his path blocked by Whitlock, who had unfastened his jacket to reveal the bolstered Browning. The man took a hesitant step backwards, then tossed the screwdriver on to the workbench. Whitlock ushered the men from the workshop and hovered menacingly at the door to dissuade any of them from returning.

‘Now it’s just you and me,’ Paluzzi hissed, tightening his grip on Cellina’s lapels. ‘Where’s the vial Calvieri gave to you this morning?’

Cellina made a desperate grab for the blowtorch. He managed to curl his fingers around the handle before Paluzzi brought the butt of his Beretta down savagely on the back of his hand. Cellina cried out in pain and jerked his fingers away from the blowtorch, which clattered on to the floor. Paluzzi twisted Cellina’s arm behind his back and frog marched him to the band-saw in the middle of the room. He switched it on, then forced Cellina’s face on to the cold metal workbench. Cellina struggled in vain to break Paluzzi’s hold as his face was pushed ever closer towards the serrated blade.

‘I’ll tell you where it is,’ Cellina screamed, his eyes wide with fear. ‘Please, no more. I’ll tell you.’

‘I’m listening,’ Paluzzi replied, still pushing Cellina’s face towards the blade.

‘It’s under my workbench,’ Cellina shouted breathlessly.

Cellina’s face was within inches of the blade when Paluzzi reached down and switched off the machine. Cellina crumpled to the floor, shaking, his face buried in his hands.

Paluzzi hauled him to his feet and shoved him towards the workbench.

‘Show me,’ he snarled, then unholstered his Beretta and pressed it into Cellina’s back. ‘And do it slowly.’

Cellina crouched down and pointed a trembling finger at the metal cylinder attached to the underside of the workbench with masking tape.

‘Did he say what was in it?’ Paluzzi demanded.

Cellina shook his head.

‘He just told me to keep it here in the workshop. Out of sight. That’s why I taped it beneath my workbench.’

Whitlock crossed to where they were crouched and peered at the metal cylinder.

‘It certainly looks intact.’

Cellina frowned at Whitlock. He spoke no English. Whitlock eased himself into a position where he could study the cylinder more carefully. It wasn’t booby trapped. He peeled off the masking tape, then stood up and checked the serial number: 814785. The same number as on the cylinder stolen from Neo-Chem Industries.

‘I’ll call the Colonel,’ Whitlock said, walking to the wall phone beside the swing door.

‘Did Calvieri say why he wanted you to keep it here?’ Paluzzi asked Cellina.

‘All he said was that someone would contact me this afternoon and I was to give it to them.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know He said they would identify themselves with a password-’

‘What was in it for you?’

Cellina sagged against the workbench and ran his fingers through his hair.

‘My stepsister was a Brigatista in Milan. She died last year from a drug overdose. Calvieri threatened to tell my mother about Louisa. She knew Louisa died from drugs but she didn’t know anything about her ties with the Red Brigades. She suffered a heart attack within days of Louisa’s death. It nearly finished her off. Another shock like that would surely kill her. I couldn’t risk it. You must understand that.’

‘And how’s she going to react to your arrest? Have you thought about that?’

Cellina buried his face in his hands again.

Paluzzi crossed to where Whitlock was standing by the swing door.

‘What did the Colonel say?’

‘He wants me to take the cylinder up to the office straight away. It’ll have to be sent for analysis. He’s arranging for a security guard to take Cellina off our hands but he wants you to wait here until the guard arrives.’

‘Sure,’ Paluzzi said, then noticed Whitlock’s questioning look towards Cellina. ‘I’ll tell you about it later.’

Whitlock nodded and reached for the swing door. He suddenly turned back to Paluzzi.

‘What would you have done if he’d called your bluff?’

‘He didn’t, did he?’ Paluzzi replied, glancing at the band-saw.

‘But what if he had?’

‘It could have got a bit messy,’ Paluzzi said with an indifferent shrug.

‘You would have carved up his face?’ Whitlock asked in disbelief.

‘What use is a threat unless you’re prepared to back it up?’

‘Now I see what the Colonel meant,’ Whitlock muttered.

‘About what?’

‘You and Mike being a bad influence on each other,’ Whitlock replied, then disappeared out into the corridor.

‘I’m not convinced,’ Philpott said, turning the cylinder around in his fingers. ‘I still say it’s a red herring. That’s why I don’t intend to tell the others until it’s been analysed. If they think there’s a chance that it’s the real vial it could lull them into a false sense of complacency. And that would jeopardize the search.’

‘Your confidence in them is touching, sir,’ Whitlock said, fighting the anger in his voice.

‘I have every confidence in them,’ Philpott replied sharply. ‘I know they wouldn’t let it affect them consciously. But the subconscious plays tricks on us all with out us even realizing it.’

The door opened and Kolchinsky entered breathlessly.

‘I came as soon as I could. But why the secrecy?’

‘Because I’m not convinced this cylinder contains the virus,’ Philpott replied, placing it on the table. ‘You didn’t mention anything to Visconti, did you?’

‘I did as you said and told him you needed me back here to help you co-ordinate the search.’

‘Good. I’ve arranged for Ingrid Hauser to join him when she’s finished checking her areas.’

Kolchinsky picked up the cylinder.

‘The serial number’s the same. What makes you think it’s a dummy?’

‘We found it too easily. Calvieri’s planned this operation down to the last detail. I find it inconceivable that he would slip up at this late stage.’ Philpott relit his pipe. ‘But this is all speculation. We can’t possibly know until its contents have been analysed. One of our helicopters is waiting for you on the helipad. The lab technicians in Zürich have been put on immediate standby.’

‘I hope you’re wrong about this, Malcolm,’ Kolchinsky said, holding up the cylinder.

‘So do I,’ Philpott replied.

Kolchinsky slipped the cylinder into his pocket and left.

Bachstrasse was a gloomy, deserted cul-de-sac off the Utoquai, a wharf on the banks of Lake Zürich. The road was strewn with bricks and masonry. The buildings themselves had been derelict for years. A hoarding at the entrance to the cul-de-sac warned: FALLING MASONRY. CARS PARKED AT OWNERS’ RISK. A second hoarding was more ominous: UNSAFE STRUCTURES. DANGEROUS. KEEP OUT!

UNACO owned Bachstrasse. They had erected the hoardings. They had strewn the bricks and masonry on the road to give the impression that the buildings were unsafe. Privacy was essential. Their European Test Centre, housed in a network of soundproofed catacombs, ran the length of the street. The only way into the Test Centre was through the warehouse at the end of the cul-de-sac. It was a rectangular building and, like the other buildings in the street, its windows had long since been vandalized. The battered, corrugated-iron door could be activated electronically from inside the Test Centre, provided the correct password was given. The password itself was changed every day. The roof, like the door, could be opened from inside the Test Centre but, for security reasons, it was only used in emergencies.

The helicopter descended into the deserted warehouse and when it landed on the concrete floor the roof slid back into place. The pilot cut the engine. A circular section of the floor, fifty feet in diameter, which supported the helicopter, was lowered by means of a hydraulic press and locked into place beside a landing stage. The two halves of the floor closed above the helicopter.

Kolchinsky unfastened his safety belt and picked up the small, insulated lead case at his feet. It contained the metal cylinder. He clambered out of the helicopter and made his way down a set of metal stairs to where a white-coated technician was waiting to take the case from him.

‘Monsieur Rust is waiting in his office for you,’ the technician said politely, then strode with barely contained impatience down one of the corridors leading from the landing stage.

Kolchinsky headed down another corridor and paused outside a door marked: j. RUST DIRECTEUR. He knocked. An overhead camera panned his face and a moment later there was an electronic click as the door was unlocked. Kolchinsky entered the plush office and the door closed behind him. Rust activated his wheelchair and approached Kolchinsky.

They shook hands.

‘I think you know Professor Helmut Scheffer, head of our science department,’ Rust said, indicating the black-haired man sitting on the sofa against the wall.

‘Of course,’ Kolchinsky replied. ‘How are you, Helmut?’

‘Well, thank you,’ Scheffer said, getting to his feet to shake Kolchinsky’s hand.

‘Emile made good time,’ Rust said, glancing at his watch. 1.40 p.m. ‘It can’t have taken him much more than twenty minutes to fly you here from Berne.’

‘About that,’ Kolchinsky agreed, then sat down in the leather armchair in front of Rust’s desk. He looked at Scheffer.

‘How long will it take for your people to analyse the contents of the vial?’

‘Had it been a glass cylinder, a matter of seconds. We could have used either infra-red spectroscopy or nuclear magnetic resonance. But not with metal. It will have to be cut open inside an isolation chamber.’

‘Like a glove box?’ Kolchinsky asked.

‘Glove boxes have been known to leak. This chamber’s windowless. The whole operation will be carried out by means of closed-circuit television cameras using mechanical hands which are operated from outside the chamber. Once the cylinder has been opened a sample can be transferred to a glass vial for analysis. The results will show up as a series of oscillations on a graph which we can use to identify the different components that make up the substance.’

‘But how long will it take?’ Kolchinsky repeated.

‘How long?’ Scheffer pouted thoughtfully. ‘Anything up to two hours.’

‘Two hours? Kolchinsky parroted in disbelief. ‘The way you described it, it sounded more like twenty minutes.’

‘I only outlined the process for you,’ Scheffer said defensively. ‘I’d be glad to explain it in more detail if you want.’

‘It wouldn’t mean anything to me if you did,’ Kolchinsky replied with a quick smile. ‘Science was never my strong point.’

Scheffer moved to the door.

‘They will be waiting for me in the lab. I’ll let you know the moment we’ve identified the substance in the cylinder.’

Rust activated the door, then closed it again behind Scheffer.

‘Two hours!’ Kolchinsky exclaimed, getting to his feet. ‘I never thought it would take that long.’

‘Neither did I.’ Rust indicated the armchair in front of his desk. ‘Sit down, I’ll order us some tea.’

‘I can’t sit around here for the next two hours. I’ve got to get back to the Offenbach Centre. There’s still so much to do, especially if the cylinder does turn out to be a dummy. You can call Malcolm when the results come through.’

‘I’ll get hold of Emile for you,’ Rust said, reaching for the telephone.

‘Two hours?’ Philpott said after Kolchinsky had finished briefing him. He took a sip of tea then sat back in his chair. ‘Not that it matters. We have to keep searching.’

‘Where’s Visconti?’ Kolchinsky asked, picking up his Beretta from the desk.

‘Sit down,’ Philpott said, indicating a chair. ‘Have some tea and calm down. You’re like a hyperactive child at the moment.’

‘There isn’t time–’

‘Sergei,’ Philpott cut in, pointing to the chair.

Kolchinsky slipped the Beretta into his shoulder holster and reluctantly sat down.

Philpott poured him a cup of tea. ‘Ingrid Hauser’s working with Visconti now. I’d rather use you as an auxiliary. That way you can help out if one of the teams falls behind schedule. It will save us having to pull out one of the other teams to help them.’

Kolchinsky nodded and lit a cigarette.

The telephone rang.

Philpott answered it. He listened in silence.

‘Thanks for letting me know,’ he said at length, and replaced the receiver.

‘What is it, Malcolm?’ Kolchinsky asked anxiously, noticing the concern on Philpott’s face.

‘That was Vlok. He has just received a bomb threat.’

Graham and Marco knew their recall had nothing to do with the vial, that much Philpott had told them on the telephone. Apart from that they were just as much in the dark as the other three teams who were already in the office when they got there.

‘What’s this all about, sir?’ Graham asked.

‘There’s been a bomb threat,’ Philpott replied. ‘Dieter Vlok took the call. The caller claimed to have planted a bomb somewhere close to the building. It’s due to go off at three o’clock.’

‘That’s in thirty-eight minutes time,’ Marco said, looking at his watch.

‘Have you told Calvieri?’ Whitlock asked.

‘I haven’t told anybody outside this room. Vlok’s the only other person who knows about it. And I’ve sworn him to secrecy. I haven’t even told Commissioner Kuhlmann, and I don’t intend to. Strictly speaking, the bomb threat falls under his jurisdiction but knowing him, he’ll want to evacuate the building as quickly as possible. And that could make Calvieri panic, especially as he specifically warned us against staging a bomb scare.’

‘Where is Kuhlmann?’ Whitlock asked.

‘Interrogating Cellina,’ Philpott replied. ‘You’re going to have to postpone the search for the vial. At least for the time being. We have to find that bomb.’

‘If there is a bomb,’ Graham said.

‘I’m not taking any chances, Mike.’ Philpott shook his head in desperation. ‘If there is a bomb, and it goes off, and it comes out later that we received a warning beforehand there’s going to be hell to pay. Heads will roll. Starting with mine.’

‘You’re going to have to try to reason with Calvieri,’ Paluzzi said to Philpott.

‘I intend to. I’m sure he won’t let us evacuate the building but he might be able to find out if there is a bomb. And if so, where it’s hidden.’

‘Leaving us to defuse it?’

‘Of course I’d rather bring in the bomb squad, Mike, but their first priority would be to evacuate the building. And that would give Calvieri itchy fingers.’ Philpott gestured to Kolchinsky. ‘Sergei’s worked out the areas for each team to cover. I want you to get on to it right away.’

‘We’re just clutching at straws, sir,’ Graham said. ‘What chance have we got of finding it?’

‘Have you got a better plan, Michael?’ Kolchinsky snapped angrily, opening the door leading into the outer office. ‘Let’s go. The Colonel will bleep us if he gets any positive feedback from Calvieri.’

Philpott waited until they had left then dialled the extension number Calvieri had given him.

Calvieri was watching an interview with the French Prime Minister when the telephone rang. He crossed to the side table and answered it.

Philpott told him about the bomb threat.

‘The Greek ELA?’ Calvieri said.

‘That’s who the caller claimed to be representing,’ Philpott replied. ‘We have to evacuate the building. If the bomb–’

‘No,’ Calvieri cut in angrily. ‘I’ve told you already, I’ll push the button if any attempt is made to evacuate the building.’

Philpott exhaled deeply, struggling to control his temper.

‘I’m not going to argue with you, Calvieri. There isn’t time. If you’re not prepared to have the building evacuated then at least find out whether there is a bomb or whether it’s just a hoax. You’ve got the contacts. I don’t need to remind you that it’s just as much in your interest as it is in ours to get it defused in time.’

‘I’ll look into it.’

‘It’s already two twenty-five–’

‘I said I’ll look into it!’ Calvieri replaced the receiver, then spun round and punched the wall furiously.

‘What is it?’ Ubrino asked anxiously.

‘Get Bettinga on the line,’ Calvieri said softly.

‘Why, what–’

‘Just do it!’ Calvieri yelled.

Ubrino nodded hesitantly, then picked up the receiver and dialled a number in Rome to find out where he could contact Bettinga.

Calvieri looked down at his hand. The skin around the knuckles was torn and the blood trickled down between his fingers. He noticed Sabrina watching him carefully. He sat down opposite her.

‘You think I’ve finally snapped, don’t you?’

‘No, but I think you’re pretty pissed off about some thing,’ she replied, holding his stare.

‘You could say that.’ Calvieri winced when he tried to flex his fingers. ‘This is going to hurt like hell in the morning.’

‘I assume from what you said on the phone that there’s been a bomb scare.’

‘You’re very perceptive,’ Calvieri replied, then looked across at Ubrino. ‘Well?’

‘They are trying to find out where Signore Bettinga is at the moment,’ Ubrino said, his hand over the mouthpiece.

‘Who are you talking to?’

‘Larusso, one of the cell commanders in Rome.’

‘I know who he is! Ask him if he’s got the number of the ELA headquarters in Athens. That’s all I want to know.’ Calvieri turned back to Sabrina. ‘Yes, there’s been a bomb threat. Are you familiar with the ELA?’

She shook her head.

‘It stands for Espanastatikos Laikos Agonas which, roughly translated, means the People’s Revolutionary Struggle. Radical fundamentalists, nothing more.’ Calvieri took the transmitter from his pocket and turned it around in his hand.

‘I’ve spent months planning, and perfecting, this operation. And now the ELA are threatening to ruin it all. If the bomb were to go off the whole complex would be evacuated. The perfect opportunity for a search.’

‘It sounds like a case of the biter bit. If, of course, there is a bomb.’

‘There’s a bomb, I’m sure of that. You’ll find–’

‘I’ve got the number,’ Ubrino called out.

‘Call it and ask for Andreas Kozanakis head of the ELA.’ Calvieri turned back to Sabrina. ‘As I was saying, you’ll find that anonymous bomb threats are invariably hoaxes. But if an organization gives its name, that means they’re after publicity. And who’s going to take them seriously if they’re not prepared to back up those threats?’

‘The voice of the expert,’ Sabrina said with disdain.

Calvieri stood up, pocketed the transmitter, and crossed to where Ubrino was standing.

‘Any luck?’

‘It’s ringing,’ Ubrino replied.

The receiver was lifted at the other end of the line.

‘Tony,’ Ubrino said, extending the receiver towards Calvieri.

‘Hello, who’s speaking?’ Calvieri asked in Greek.

‘Andreas Kozanakis. Who is that?’

‘Tony Calvieri, Red Brigades.’

‘It’s an honour–’

‘Shove your honour,’ Calvieri said tersely. ‘I want to know if the ELA have planted an explosive device at the Offenbach Centre due to go off at three o’clock. Yes or no.’

There was silence.

‘Answer me!’ Calvieri snapped.

‘I am not at liberty to discuss that with you,’ Kozanakis replied.

‘How’s Alexis?’ Calvieri asked, his voice calm.

‘What?’ Kozanakis replied, the question catching him off guard.

‘Alexis, your daughter. How old is she now? Seventeen? Eighteen? It’s her first year at Rome University, isn’t it? I believe Lino Zocchi promised to keep an eye on her for you. Pity he’s in jail. I’d hate something to happen to her. She’s got her whole life ahead of her.’

‘Leave Alexis out of this,’ Kozanakis said, a note of anxiety creeping into his voice.

‘Then tell me about the explosive device.’

Kozanakis exhaled deeply. There was a pause.

‘Semtex. Twenty pounds.’

‘Nasty,’ Calvieri said. ‘Where is it?’

‘I don’t know. One of my aides installed it.’

Calvieri looked at his watch. ‘You’ve got exactly twelve minutes to find out where the Semtex has been hidden. If I haven’t heard from you by two forty-five then I’ll call Rome and have a couple of my Brigatisti visit Alexis at her residence. I’m sure she’ll amuse them.’

‘No!’ Kozanakis screamed down the line.

‘I know you won’t let it come to that, Andreas.’ Calvieri gave him the number, and extension, where he could be reached. ‘Twelve minutes. Don’t let Alexis down.’

‘How much lower can you sink?’ Sabrina hissed when Calvieri had replaced the receiver.

‘I never realized you spoke Greek as well,’ Calvieri said. ‘You continue to impress me.’

‘It’s not mutual,’ she retorted. ‘A seventeen-year-old girl. You disgust me.’

‘And how would UNACO have handled the situation?’ Calvieri asked, sitting astride the chair at the head of the table, his arms resting on its back.

‘We wouldn’t have threatened to send round a couple of hatchet men to rape her.’

‘Who said anything about rape?’ Calvieri exclaimed with a look of feigned disbelief.

‘Spare the theatrics, we both know what you meant.’

‘He’ll call before two forty-five,’ Calvieri said.

‘And if he doesn’t?’ she challenged.

‘He will, end of subject.’ Calvieri looked at the television screen. ‘What’s happening?’

‘The Dutch Prime Minister’s making a speech about the need for European unity in 1992’ Ubrino replied.

‘Still no sign of Bellini?’

Ubrino shook his head. ‘The Foreign Secretary is still representing the Italian Government.’

‘Good.’ Calvieri watched the screen for a couple of minutes, then got to his feet and took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. It was empty. He crumpled the pack into a ball and threw it angrily against the wall.

‘You got a cigarette?’ he asked Ubrino.

‘I smoked my last one twenty minutes ago,’ Ubrino said with an apologetic shrug.

‘Great. We could be here all night and we’re already out of cigarettes.’ Calvieri crossed to the side table and rifled through the drawers.

‘Pens, paper, even peppermints. But no damn cigarettes.’

‘What do you expect?’ Sabrina said. ‘It’s a conference room, not a tobacco stall.’

Calvieri closed the bottom drawer, then tugged back his sleeve to look at his watch.

‘Tempus fugit,’ Sabrina said, looking at the clock on the wall.

‘He’s still got six minutes.’ Calvieri leaned back against the side table and folded his arms across his chest. ‘He’ll call. Wouldn’t you? Or perhaps you don’t think I’d carry out my threat against Alexis, just as you don’t think I’d press the button if it came to the crunch.’

‘I’m sure you would, under the circumstances.’

‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

‘As you said earlier, who’s going to take you seriously unless you’re prepared to back up your threats? But I still don’t believe you’d push the button, even as a last resort. You’d have so much to lose.’

‘If I found myself in a situation where I was forced to press the button, I’d have reached a stage where I had nothing left to lose.’ Calvieri dismissed the subject with a curt flick of the hand. ‘This is all idle speculation. Bellini will resign, the money will be paid and the virus will be returned to the authorities intact.’

‘Let’s hope the ELA have read the script as well.’ Sabrina looked up at the clock. ‘Three minutes left. Are you still so sure he’s going to call?’

‘Of course,’ Calvieri replied indifferently.

They lapsed into silence, both caught up in their own thoughts.

She knew he wouldn’t push the button. He couldn’t. He wasn’t the megalomaniac the others believed him to be. She knew him better than them. He had even managed to fool Ubrino then again, that wouldn’t be very difficult. She smiled faintly as she looked at Ubrino, who sat in front of the television set, as enthralled as a child. She had her doubts whether he even understood what was being said at the conference. He was slow, even gullible. But he was also very dangerous. He wouldn’t touch her as long as Calvieri needed her.

They were sure to use her as a hostage to get clear of the building once the ransom had been paid. Then what? She suddenly realized her life was entirely in Calvieri’s hands. There was little comfort in that thought.

Calvieri flexed his fingers and winced as the pain shot through the back of his hand. He took the transmitter from his pocket again and turned it around slowly in his hands. It seemed to ease the pain. Strange. His eyes flickered towards the telephone. Damn the ELA. What if Kozanakis couldn’t contact his aide? What if the bomb went off? The building would be evacuated. Then what? He looked at the transmitter. The button. He smiled to himself. Would he press it? Not according to Sabrina. Only he knew the answer. If it did come to the crunch, he–

The telephone rang.

He snatched up the receiver.

‘Calvieri?’

‘About time,’ Calvieri replied, recognizing Kozanakis’s voice. He glanced at his watch. ‘You just made it. What did you find out?’

‘The Semtex is in the boot of a white Audi Quattro. It’s parked close to the building.’

‘Number plate?’

‘He doesn’t remember,’ Kozanakis replied hesitantly.

‘Brilliant! Does it have any distinctive features?’

‘A plaid rug on the back seat, that’s all he can remember.’

‘Is the boot booby-trapped?’

‘Yes,’ came the resigned reply. ‘It’ll blow if any attempt is made to open it.’

‘You’ve done well, Andreas.’

‘What’s going on?’ Kozanakis demanded. ‘I had this number checked with the operator. You’re at the Offenbach Centre.’

‘That’s right,’ Calvieri said brusquely.

‘The ELA has planned this for months–’

‘You’re way out of your league,’ Calvieri interrupted him sharply. ‘The Red Brigades have got something big going down here. It’ll be in the news soon enough. But until then you’re to keep your mouth shut. If only for Alexis.’

‘This is going to cost you, Calvieri.’

‘I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.’ Calvieri cut the connection and smiled at Sabrina. ‘What did I tell you?’

‘What did you mean about it being in the news?’ she asked suspiciously. ‘I thought the whole point of the exercise was to keep the media in the dark.’

‘It is, while we’re here. But I intend to hold a press conference once I reach my final destination. I want the world to know what happened here today. And I’ll exploit it to the full. The capitulation of the smug Western governments who have always vowed publicly never to bow to so-called terrorism. They will be humiliated and discredited in the eyes of the world. The Red Brigades will become legendary. But more importantly we’ll have sent out a message to our revolutionary comrades fighting for justice the world over. And that message will be: we can win. We will win.’

‘You’re deluded,’ Sabrina said, shaking her head sadly to herself.

‘Am I?’ Calvieri said almost to himself, as he picked up the receiver to call Philpott.

Philpott consulted Kolchinsky’s list after he had spoken to Calvieri. Teams One and Three were the closest to the building. He bleeped them then chewed the stem of his unlit pipe as he anxiously waited for them to call, his eyes continually flickering towards the desk clock as the seconds slipped away.

Graham and Marco located the white Audi Quattro within a minute of contacting Philpott. It was parked fifty yards away from the building.

It had been positioned for maximum effect. A plaid rug lay crumpled on the back seat. It had diplomatic plates which later turned out to be false.

‘We need a piece of wire to unlock the door,’ Marco said.

‘To hell with that,’ Graham replied, then picked up a rock from a nearby flowerbed and pitched it through the driver’s window. He reached through the broken window to unlock the door, then used the rug to brush the glass from the seat.

Two security guards, who had seen what had happened from their posts at the main gate, sprinted across to the car, batons drawn. One of the guards prodded Graham painfully in the chest with the tip of his baton and ordered him in German to put his hands on the roof of the car.

Graham punched him. The guard fell as if pole axed. The second guard shoved Marco aside but found himself staring down the barrel of Graham’s Beretta. Whitlock and Paluzzi arrived breathlessly, having been alerted by the sound of breaking glass. Whitlock immediately pushed Graham’s gun hand down to his side. Paluzzi was about to reach for his NOCS card when Vlok emerged from the building and ran towards them, shouting at the guard to leave Graham alone. The guard did as he was told. Vlok looked down at the unconscious man, then took the second guard to one side and explained briefly about the bomb. The guard, obeying Vlok’s orders, dispersed the small crowd of onlookers, then turned his attention to his colleague sprawled beside the open car door.

‘Was that necessary?’ Vlok asked, indicating the unconscious guard.

‘We’ll discuss that later. Right now we’ve got a bomb here that’s due to go off in,’ Graham paused to look at his watch, ‘eleven minutes.’

‘Can’t you defuse it?’ Vlok asked.

‘It’s booby-trapped. We don’t have the time or the equipment to deal with it,’ Whitlock told him. ‘We’ve got to get the car off the premises as quickly as possible.’

Graham slid behind the wheel to hotwire the ignition.

‘There must be a secluded spot somewhere around here,’ he said without looking up. ‘We can leave it there and let it blow.’

‘It’s too dangerous,’ Paluzzi said. ‘The vibration could trigger off an avalanche on one of the surrounding mountains. Perhaps more than one avalanche. We can’t risk it.’

The engine spluttered then died. Graham cursed angrily, then reached under the wheel in another attempt to start the car.

‘What are we going to do?’ Vlok asked anxiously.

‘Water, that’s the only answer,’ Whitlock replied after a moment’s thought.

‘Water?’ Vlok said with a frown.

‘A gorge, a lake, even a swimming-pool would do. If we can immerse the car in water, it’ll short-circuit the wiring in the bomb and that would stop it from exploding.’

‘There is a lake not far from here,’ Vlok said. ‘It’s very small.’

‘How far?’

Vlok shrugged helplessly. ‘A five-minute drive, about that.’

‘Did you hear that?’ Whitlock asked Graham.

‘I heard. We’ll get going as soon as I can get this started.’

The engine coughed into life. Graham revved the engine, then gestured for them to get into the car.

‘What have you in mind?’ Whitlock asked.

‘You’ll see. Now get in.’ Graham turned to Paluzzi. ‘You guys tell the Colonel what’s happening.’

‘How will you get back?’ Marco asked.

‘I’ve got that covered,’ Graham replied, closing the door.

‘Good luck,’ Paluzzi said, hitting the roof with the palm of his hand.

Graham reversed out of the space, then spun the wheel violently and sped towards the red and white boom gate

‘What’s the plan?’ Whitlock asked from the back seat.

‘There’s a police car parked outside the main gate. It can give us an escort to the lake. We’ll get there in half the time.’

‘In theory,’ Vlok said.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Graham asked, glancing at Vlok in the rearview mirror.

‘The quickest route to the Lottersee, that’s the name of the lake, is on the old Berne–Thun road. It’s only used by lorries now that the N6 has been built. It’s a narrow, twisting road and overtaking is virtually impossible.’

‘It gets better by the minute,’ Graham muttered, then trod lightly on the brake as they neared the boom-gate.

‘I’m not saying we’ll encounter any traffic,’ Vlok said, trying to appease Graham. ‘Most of the lorries use the N6 anyway. But it’s best to be warned.’

Graham stopped the car but kept it idling. Vlok told the guard to raise the boom gate It was raised and Graham drove through. He pulled up beside the police car. Vlok got out, identified himself to the uniformed policeman behind the wheel, and told him about the bomb in the boot of the Quattro. The policeman listened in disbelief, then leaned over and pushed open the passenger door. Vlok got in beside him. The policeman started up the engine.

‘Wait,’ Graham shouted at the policeman above the drone of the siren. He turned to Whitlock.

‘Out. If I’m going to drive this baby into the lake, I don’t want to be carrying any passengers.’

Whitlock nodded, then climbed out of the Quattro and got into the police car. Graham gave the policeman a thumbs-up sign. The police car pulled away in a screech of burning rubber. Graham glanced at the dashboard clock. Eight minutes. He put the Quattro into gear and sped after the police car. They joined the N6 and kept to the fast lane, forcing the traffic in front of them to give way. When the police car suddenly swung across into the middle lane Graham was quick to follow it, forcing a Seat Malaga to brake sharply behind him. The driver hooted angrily.

The police car then took a gap in the slow lane and indicated that it would be leaving the motorway at the next turn-off.

Thirty yards away. Graham cursed under his breath. He couldn’t get into the slow lane, there was a tailback of traffic behind the police car. He waited until he was only a few yards away from the turn-off then accelerated sharply and cut across the slow lane into the slip road. Brakes screeched behind him, followed by the sickening crunch of clashing metal. He didn’t look back. The cars hadn’t been travelling very fast. There shouldn’t be much damage. A crumpled fender. A shattered light. Nothing more. He braked at the end of the turn-off, changed down into second, and followed the police car on to the old Berne–Thun road.

He saw what Vlok had meant about overtaking being virtually impossible. The single lane on each side of the road was narrow, restricting visibility. To the left was a sheer drop of two hundred feet, to the right a towering rock face He followed the police car around a sharp bend in the road and groaned in dismay at the pantechnicon twenty yards ahead of them. The pantechnicon disappeared around another bend. He glanced anxiously at the clock. He had six minutes left. He wiped the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead and turned the car into the bend. The police car was already sitting on the pantechnicon’s tail, waiting for an opportunity to pass. It swayed out from behind the truck but the policeman couldn’t risk overtaking on one of the blind corners.

Graham bit his lip nervously. They would never reach the lake at this rate. He knew he would have to take the initiative. He had no choice.

He gritted his teeth and pulled out from behind the police car. He passed it. Another bend loomed ahead. The police car dropped back, giving him the chance to tuck in behind the pantechnicon. Graham knew it would only waste more time. He had to get past. The Quattro and the pantechnicon turned into the bend together. The pantechnicon driver saw the lorry first and desperately tried to wave Graham back. Then Graham saw the lorry. He looked behind him. He wouldn’t be able to drop back behind the pantechnicon, the distance was too great. It left him with no option. Evasive action. He swung the wheel sharply to the right, missing the lorry by inches. The lorry swerved to the left, clipping the side of the pantechnicon. The Quattro struck the mountain side-on and a protrusion of rock ripped a jagged gash in both doors before Graham managed to swing the car back on to the road. He glanced in his rearview mirror. Both the lorry and the pantechnicon had stopped. The police car didn’t stop.

Graham looked at the clock. Three minutes. And still no sign of the lake. He had already decided to send the car over the edge of the road if he hadn’t seen the lake within the next minute. Avalanche or not, he wasn’t going to kill himself for some terrorist’s bomb. He was already contemplating where to ditch the car when he saw the signpost LOTTERSEE-EINGANG 2 km. It was still going to be tight. Then he saw the lake to his left. Its tranquillity reminded him of Lake Champlain. But it was only a fraction of the size.

The road descended rapidly. He followed another signpost on to a dirt road which led him to the lake. He couldn’t drive the car into the water, there was no guarantee that the boot would be submerged before the bomb detonated. He scanned his surroundings. A wooden jetty fifty yards away. It would be perfect. He spun the wheel violently and drove to the jetty. It was deserted. The whole area seemed to be deserted.

The police car appeared in his rearview mirror. He mounted the jetty carefully, fearful that the wooden boards wouldn’t hold the car’s weight. They held firm. He checked the time. A minute left.

He decided against jumping from the car before it left the jetty, not with so much at stake. He would bail out when it hit the water. It would take several seconds to sink, giving him enough time to swim away.

He pressed the accelerator and the car shot forward. He braced himself as the car launched off the jetty. Then it hit the water, nose first.

He immediately unbuckled his seatbelt and pulled on the door handle. The door wouldn’t open. The car dipped forward and the cold, murky water flooded in. He tugged desperately at the handle then hit the door with his shoulder. It was jammed. The lock had been damaged when the door had been raked against the mountain. Within seconds the inside of the car was flooded. His only chance was the passenger door. He reached for the handle. The car bucked forward, knocking him against the windscreen. He felt as if his lungs would burst. If only he could get to the passenger door…

Whitlock knew something was wrong when he saw Graham struggling with the door handle before the front of the Quattro disappeared. He leapt out of the police car, discarded his jacket and his Browning, and ran to the end of the jetty. He dived into the water just as the last part of the Quattro slid under the water. He took a deep breath and dived. He could see where it had come to rest on its wheels. As he got closer he saw Graham struggling frantically with the passenger door. Whitlock grabbed the handle with both hands and, anchoring his right foot against the back door, he slowly eased it open. Graham pushed desperately from his side until the gap was big enough for him to squeeze through. They immediately propelled themselves upwards to the surface where they paused, coughing and spluttering, to catch their breath before swimming quickly to the jetty. Vlok and the policeman hauled them out of the water. Graham slumped down on to the wooden planks and exhaled deeply. It had been close.

Whitlock crouched beside Graham and put a hand lightly on his shoulder.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah,’ Graham replied, then put an arm around Whitlock’s shoulders.

‘I don’t know how much longer I’d have lasted out there if you hadn’t showed up when you did. Thanks, buddy.’

Whitlock shrugged it off, then stood up and helped Graham to his feet.

‘What we need now is a hot shower and a change of clothing before we catch pneumonia.’ He looked up at the policeman. ‘Any chance of a lift back to our hotel?’

‘You bet,’ the policeman replied with a grin.