Red Alert

Fourteen

Friday

Kolchinsky rang Philpott from Arta at two o’clock that morning to brief him on what had happened on Corfu. He didn’t know when they would get back to Berne. Probably late afternoon. Philpott told him not to worry. Calvieri was due to appear at a preliminary hearing in Berne at three o’clock that afternoon. Whitlock and Paluzzi would be there.

The taxi pulled up a block away from the courthouse. The man in the back folded up the morning edition of the International Herald Tribune, placed it on the seat, then picked up his attaché case and climbed out of the taxi. The article he had been staring at for the duration of the journey lay face up on the seat. The headline read: TERRORIST LEADER ON MURDER CHARGES. He paid the fare and included a generous tip for getting him to his destination on time. The driver plucked the notes gratefully from the man’s black-gloved hand, then slid the taxi into gear and drove off.

Richard Wiseman watched the taxi disappear into the traffic, then walked to the small hotel directly opposite the courthouse. It was the second time he had been to the hotel that morning. He had been there three hours earlier to reconnoitre the area. Now he knew exactly where to go. He slipped into a narrow alley at the side of the hotel and paused at the foot of the fire escape to look around him. The alley was deserted. He climbed up the metal stairs to a flat roof. He glanced at his watch: 10.07 a.m. He still had a few minutes to spare before Calvieri was due to arrive at the courthouse.

His mind wandered back over the past two days. He had checked out of the Hassler Villa Medici Hotel when Young had failed to call him from Berne and booked into the more modest Cesari Hotel under a false name. He had used the name ever since. The morning paper had carried the story of the two men who had been found dead in the martial arts centre opposite the Metropole Hotel in Berne. Neither man had been identified but he knew instinctively that one of them was Young.

He had flown to Berne the previous morning but was told by a receptionist at the Metropole Hotel that Calvieri had been out all day. He had rung the hotel at regular intervals throughout the afternoon but each time he had received the same reply. Calvieri wasn’t there. Then, the previous evening, he had seen the report of Calvieri’s arrest on one of the news bulletins. He had found out through one of his more reliable military contacts that although Calvieri was due to appear in court at three o’clock he would, in fact, be taken there secretly at ten o’clock to prevent any attempt by the Red Brigades to spring him. The security at the courthouse would be minimal in the morning and only increased for the decoy convoy that was due to arrive there at two o’clock in the afternoon. It had left him very little time…

He found himself staring absently at the narrow road running parallel to the side of the courthouse. The police van would stop there. He unlocked the attaché case and removed the specially designed detachable Vaime Super Silenced Rifle Mk2. It used subsonic ammunition and had a suppressor to cut the firing noise. It was one of Young’s rifles which he had picked up from a locker at the station. He snapped the ten-round box into place, then settled down to wait for Calvieri.

The police van swept through the open gates at the side of the courthouse at 10.24 a.m. Two police cars followed it in and the gates were immediately locked behind them. Whitlock and Paluzzi were riding in the second car.

The police van stopped beside a door at the side of the building. A policeman jumped out from the passenger side, walked to the back of the van, and unlocked the doors. He climbed inside and unlocked the cage nearest to the doors. Calvieri emerged from the cage, his hands manacled in front of him. He was the only prisoner in the van. He noticed Paluzzi standing beside the second police car, hands in pockets, and paused on the top step to smile disdainfully at him.

Wiseman’s first bullet took Calvieri high in the shoulder, knocking him back against the open door. Paluzzi was still sprinting towards the van when the second bullet hit Calvieri full in the chest, punching him backwards into the van. The policemen scrambled for cover, shouting at each other in confusion as they scanned the rooftops for any sign of the gunman. A captain was quick to take charge and led a team of four men out into the street.

Whitlock hurried over to where Paluzzi was crouched beside Calvieri.

‘The ambulance is on its way.’

‘There’s no rush,’ Paluzzi said, and closed Calvieri’s sightless eyes.

Whitlock punched the side of the van angrily.

Paluzzi stood up. ‘Call Philpott, tell him what’s happened I’m going to see if they’ve found anything out there.’

Whitlock disappeared into the courthouse to phone Philpott at the hotel.

The gate was unlocked again and Paluzzi slipped out into the street. All the activity was centred around the hotel. The two policemen there, one at the main door and the other at the entrance to the alley, were being questioned by the ever-increasing crowd of onlookers who were gathering in front of the hotel, jostling with each other in an attempt to satisfy their curiosity. Neither policeman was saying anything. A police car pulled up outside the courthouse and Paluzzi ordered the two policemen to clear the onlookers, who were already beginning to spill out on to the road. They scrambled from the car and began to disperse the crowd.

Paluzzi showed his ID card to the policeman guarding the alley and was allowed to pass. He was told that the captain was on the roof. He climbed the fire escape to the flat roof and found the captain kneeling beside a discarded rifle.

The captain noticed Paluzzi behind him and got to his feet.

‘The gunman got away,’ he muttered through clenched teeth.

Paluzzi examined the rifle, then looked across to the courthouse yard at Calvieri’s body, which had been covered with a grey blanket. He shook his head.

‘I said there should be more security. But nobody listened. It wasn’t my jurisdiction. It’s certainly going to look good on Kuhlmann’s record. Calvieri gunned down at a courthouse because he failed to sanction the proper security measures. The man’s still living in the Middle Ages. The sooner he goes the better it will be for this country.’

‘Commissioner Kuhlmann’s a fine man,’ the captain snapped. ‘He did what he thought best under the circumstances.’

‘And look at the result.’ Paluzzi walked away then looked back at the captain as he reached the top of the stairs. ‘I wonder if you’ll still be singing his praises when the bombs start exploding in your cities. The Red Brigades won’t take this lying down, you can be sure of that.’

Paluzzi descended the fire escape and emerged into the street, where he paused to look at the approaching ambulance.

Calvieri’s death meant the Red Brigades would have to appoint a new leader. There was only one real candidate. Luigi Bettinga. The NOCS mole.

Paluzzi dug his hands into his pockets and walked back slowly to the courthouse.

Kolchinsky, Graham and Sabrina arrived back in Berne at two-thirty that afternoon. It was three o’clock before they reached the hotel. Philpott immediately called a meeting in his room. Whitlock recounted the morning’s events to them.

‘Where is Fabio?’ Sabrina asked, once Whitlock had finished speaking.

‘Packing,’ Philpott answered. ‘He’s been recalled to Rome. It seems they want some answers as well.’

Graham poured himself a second cup of coffee, then looked across at Philpott who was seated by the window.

‘What’s going to happen to Wiseman? C.W. seems certain he was the phantom gunman at the courthouse this morning.’

‘Nothing,’ Philpott replied, then took a sip of coffee and dabbed his mouth with a paper napkin.

‘Nothing?’ Sabrina repeated incredulously.

‘We know he was in Berne this morning but he does have an alibi for the time of the shooting.’

‘A prostitute he’s paid to say she was with him,’ she snorted.

‘That may well be, but it’s still an alibi. And we still don’t have a single witness who could place him at the hotel this morning. Then there’s the matter of the gun. We know he could have pulled the trigger with his middle finger, but try and explain that to a jury of housewives and accountants. They wouldn’t buy it. The whole case would rest on circumstantial evidence. He’d never be convicted.’

‘But C.W. can finger him as Young’s paymaster,’ Graham said. ‘That’s an accessory to murder charge at the very least.’

Philpott shook his head.

‘And have it come out that we conspired with Scotland Yard’s anti-terrorist squad to kidnap, and that’s what it was, a prisoner on his way to court? We’d both be crucified. And you can be sure they’d never agree to work with us again. We can’t risk that kind of hostility. They’re our main ally in the UK.’

Graham gave a resigned shrug. Philpott was right.

‘They’ve got enough trouble as it is with Alexander still on the run. They don’t need us to add to it, especially as it was our plan in the first place to swop C.W. for him. No, the whole messy business is best left well alone as far as I’m concerned.’

‘What about Conte and the Rietler woman?’ Graham asked. ‘What’s going to happen to them?’

‘Conte will stand trial for his part in the break-in at the plant,’ Philpott replied. ‘He’ll be put away for a long stretch, the authorities will see to that. I’ve spoken to Commissioner Kuhlmann about Ute Rietler. He’s agreed not to press charges.’

There was a knock at the door. Kolchinsky answered it.

Paluzzi smiled at him. ‘I’ve just come to say goodbye.’

‘Come in,’ Kolchinsky said, stepping aside.

‘Are you off to face the music?’ Whitlock said, looking up at him.

‘Something like that. My plane leaves for Rome in an hour. I just came to say ciao.’

Philpott got to his feet and shook Paluzzi’s hand.

‘Thanks for all your help. We couldn’t have done it without you and your men.’

‘And we couldn’t have done it without UNACO,’ Paluzzi replied with a wry smile.

He shook hands with Kolchinsky and Whitlock, then turned to Graham and Sabrina and, putting his arms around their shoulders, led them to the door.

‘You got a lift to the airport?’ Graham asked.

‘I’ve got the Audi. I have to leave it there anyway.’ Paluzzi kissed Sabrina lightly on the cheek. ‘Ciao, bella,’

She hugged him. ‘Ciao, not addio.’

‘That goes without saying.’

‘What’s the difference?’ Graham asked.

‘Addio is a final goodbye,’ Paluzzi explained. ‘Ciao is more like a farewell.’

‘Then ciao,’ Graham said, shaking Paluzzi’s hand. ‘You look me up next time you’re in New York. I’ll take you to a game. You’ll never be the same again.’

‘You’re on,’ Paluzzi replied, then took a small gift-wrapped parcel from his jacket pocket and handed it to Graham.

‘What’s this?’ Graham asked in disbelief.

‘You can open it after I’ve gone. Ciao,’ Paluzzi said, then waved at the others and left the room.

‘Open it,’ Sabrina said excitedly.

Graham tore off the paper. Sabrina burst out laughing.

‘What is it?’ Whitlock asked.

Graham smiled. ‘An Italian phrase book.’

‘I hope you take the hint,’ Philpott said, jabbing the stem of his pipe at Graham. ‘It’ll be something for you to do while you’re on leave.’

‘We’re back on leave?’ Graham said.

‘As from tomorrow,’ Philpott told him. ‘Naturally I still want your individual case reports on my desk as soon as possible.’

‘Naturally,’ Graham muttered.

‘I won’t count those few days you had off last week. You’ll get a full three weeks’ leave this time.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Philpott wasn’t sure whether he had heard a hint of sarcasm in Graham’s voice. He let it pass.

‘I’ve provisionally booked five seats on a flight back to JFK tonight. I presume the three of you will be flying back with us?’

‘I’m certainly looking forward to going home,’ Whitlock said, automatically thinking of Carmen.

Sabrina shot Graham a sly glance, then turned back to Philpott.

‘We thought we’d stay on here for a few days. Do a bit of skiing, take in the sights, that sort of thing. Is that all right, sir?’

‘I can cancel the bookings if that’s what you mean.’ Philpott lit his pipe and exhaled the smoke up towards the ceiling.

‘Sergei, C.W., the shuttle leaves for Zürich at seven-thirty. Our flight to JFK leaves Zürich at ten. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a mound of paperwork to get through in the next couple of hours.’

They made for the door.

‘Oh, Mike, Sabrina?’ Philpott called out after them. He waited until Kolchinsky and Whitlock had left before taking a folder from his attaché case. ‘You’ve got a thirty-six-hour clearance with the local police to find Tommaso Francia. And if you haven’t managed to find him in that time, you’re to pull out. I mean it. The first flight back to New York. Disregard my orders and you’ll both be suspended. Do I make myself understood?’

They nodded.

‘How did you know we were going after him, sir?’ Sabrina asked.

‘Instinct. And because he’s after you.’ Philpott took a sheet of paper from the folder and handed it to Sabrina. ‘Those are his last known movements. He was staying in an apartment lent to him by an associate about half a mile from here but he managed to give our man the slip last night. You can be sure he’s still in Berne, though. He wants you badly, that much is obvious.’

‘If you knew he was on to me, sir, why didn’t you tell me earlier?’

‘I haven’t had the chance. Our intelligence reports only came through yesterday morning.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Sabrina said, holding up the sheet of paper.

‘Thirty-six hours,’ Philpott reminded them, then turned his attention to the folder in his lap. ‘That’s all,’ he said without looking up.

Graham and Sabrina exchanged glances then left the room.

Tommaso Francia hadn’t touched the glass of beer on the table in front of him. It had been there for the past twenty minutes. His eyes darted around the bar. It was small, dirty and almost empty. Two men played pool on the other side of the room. A couple of prostitutes sat at the counter. The barman looked suitably bored, occasionally glancing at the television screen at the end of the counter. It didn’t hold his interest for more than a few seconds at a time.

Francia stubbed out his cigarette and immediately pushed a fresh one between his lips and lit it. He knew the authorities were on to him. Why else had the apartment been watched? Not that it bothered him. All he cared about was avenging Carlo’s death. And he would, at any cost.

Then he would kill himself. He would have nothing left to live for after that. A part of him had died when he had heard about Carlo’s death on the mountain. He hadn’t slept more than a few hours in the last couple of days. He was both mentally and physically drained but his obsession with revenge had kept him going. He had to kill the Carver woman. He owed it to Carlo. It would just be a question of choosing the right time.

‘You got a light?’

He looked up sharply. It was one of the prostitutes. She was pretty but the excessive make-up marred her looks. He took a box of matches from his pocket and tossed them on to the table. She lit her cigarette and handed the matches back to him, her fingers lingering on the back of his hand. He pulled his hand away.

‘You want to talk about it?’ she asked, leaning closer to him. ‘You’ve been sitting here for the last half an hour and you haven’t even touched your beer. What’s wrong?’

He clamped his hand around the glass. It shattered in his grip, splashing beer across the table. He opened his hand slowly and looked down at his palm. A four-inch shard of glass was embedded in his skin. He plucked it out and tossed it on to the table. He stood up, pocketed the matches, then wiped his bloodied hand on the back of his jeans and left the bar.