Red Alert

Five

Whitlock woke with a splitting headache. He opened his eyes and looked around him slowly. He was lying on a brown leather couch, a pillow under his head, in an aeroplane. A private aeroplane, judging by the plush furnishings. He tried to sit up but a bolt of pain shot through his head. Instead he lay back and massaged his temples gingerly with the tips of his fingers.

‘Take these. We use them in the army.’

Whitlock saw a pair of black-gloved hands out of the corner of his eye.

In one hand were two white tablets, in the other a glass of water. Young had worn black gloves. But the voice was different. Older, more distinguished. And, unlike Young’s voice, it wasn’t discernibly American. It had to be Wiseman. He took the tablets from the palm of the outstretched hand and put one of them into his mouth. It tasted bitter. The glass was put to his lips. He took a mouthful of water and washed the tablet down, followed by the second tablet with another gulp.

He placed the glass on the floor and lay back against the pillow, his eyes closed.

It was another five minutes before he tried to sit up again. He lifted his head off the pillow, swung his legs off the couch then sat up and rubbed his eyes. He was beginning to feel human again.

‘How’s the head?’

Whitlock looked the length of the cabin at the man seated a few feet away from the cockpit door. He recognized him as Richard Wiseman from the photograph Rust had included in the assignment dossier. The photograph showed him in the uniform of a three-star general. Now he was wearing a light grey suit, white shirt and blue tie. He looked to be in his mid-fifties with a rugged, weatherbeaten face, a neatly trimmed black moustache and black hair going grey at the temples.

Wiseman repeated the question without looking up from the game of solitaire he was playing.

Whitlock looked at his watch. He had been asleep for four hours. He crossed to the table and sat down opposite Wiseman.

‘This has gone far enough. I demand to know what’s going on.’

Wiseman nodded as he studied the cards in front of him, and finally sat back, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘For a start, who are you?’

Wiseman told him.

‘Where the hell are we?’

‘In my private jet, about thirty-five thousand feet over France. ETA in Rome is twenty-five minutes.’

‘Rome?’ Whitlock replied, feigning bewilderment. ‘Why are you taking me there?’

Wiseman was about to answer when the bathroom door opened at the other end of the cabin. His eyes flickered past Whitlock and he smiled at the approaching figure.

‘Back to your old self again, I see. Mr. Alexander, you’ve met Vie Young.’

Whitlock’s eyes widened in surprise when he saw Young. The black hair and moustache were gone. Now he was blond and clean shaven.

‘I was wearing a wig,’ Young said, running his fingers through his thick blond hair. He crossed to the drinks cabinet, poured out two measures of bourbon, and handed one of the glasses to Wiseman.

‘What you are drinking, Alexander?’

‘Nothing,’ Whitlock retorted, eyeing Young coldly. ‘Where are the woman and the boy?’

Young shrugged.

‘I left them in the police car. They were only drugged.’

‘You killed Dave–’

‘He knew too much,’ Young cut in quickly.

Whitlock shook his head as if in despair.

‘I would have got five years, maximum, for the job I did. I’d have been out in three. Now I’m facing a fifteen-year stretch as an accessory to murder.’

Young picked up a card from the floor, dropped it on to the table, then sat down.

‘You’ll be facing a murder rap if the police find the gun.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Whitlock said in amazement. ‘Murder? I didn’t kill him.’

‘Didn’t you?’ Young replied. ‘There’s only one set of fingerprints on the gun. Yours.’

‘That’s ridiculous, you pulled the trigger.’

‘But I was wearing gloves, remember? I put your prints on the gun while you were unconscious.’

‘Where’s the gun now?’

‘Safe,’ Young replied.

‘Call it an insurance policy,’ Wiseman said.

Young smiled at Wiseman’s choice of phrase.

‘Insurance against what?’ Whitlock asked suspiciously.

‘You running out on us before the two of you have finished what you’re going to Rome to do,’ Wiseman answered.

‘Then, when it’s over, you hand the gun over to the police?’

‘On the contrary. It’ll be handed over to you, along with a hundred thousand pounds in cash.’

‘And you honestly expect me to believe that?’

‘I don’t see why not,’ Wiseman said, shrugging his shoulders.

‘You won’t be able to tie Vie in with Humphries’ death. He’s got half a dozen witnesses lined up who’d swear, in court if necessary, that he was with them in another country at the time of the shooting. I admit I was in London this morning. At the Court of St. James. The American Ambassador and I go back a long way.’

‘You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?’ Whitlock said. ‘So whatever way you look at it, I’ve been set up to take the fall.’

‘Not if you’re smart and do as you’re told,’ Wiseman replied.

‘So why exactly are we going to Rome?’ Whitlock asked at length.

‘To find my brother’s killer,’ Wiseman said.

‘To find him, or to kill him?’

‘It amounts to the same thing,’ Wiseman said.

‘It gets better by the minute. I suppose my prints will be found on that murder weapon as well?’

‘Officially, neither of you is in Italy. You’ll both be travelling on false passports. Vie, get his passport.’

Young crossed to an attaché case, took out a passport, and tossed it on to the table in front of Whitlock. Whitlock picked it up.

‘Raymond Anderson?’ He opened it and saw the space for the photograph.

‘We’ll take a Polaroid of you in a moment,’ Wiseman said with a shrug, then gestured to Young. ‘Vic’s travelling as Vincent Yardley. Remember the name.’

‘What about you?’ Whitlock asked Wiseman.

‘I’m going to Rome to collect my brother’s body. And that’s not a cover story.’

‘What happened to him?’

Wiseman picked up a folder from the floor beside his chair and handed it to Whitlock.

‘It’s all in there. Newspaper clippings, American mostly.’

Whitlock opened the folder. He had already seen many of the clippings, which had been included in his dossier. He leafed through them, pausing occasionally to read something that caught his eye.

‘Why did the Red Brigades shoot him?’

‘That’s what I want to find out,’ Wiseman replied, his jaw hardening. ‘He’d never harmed anyone in his life. All he cared about was his work. I could have understood it if they had come after me. A decorated soldier with strong NATO connections. I know I’m a target in their eyes. But why David? What really got to me was that the bastards actually gloated about it publicly. That was a mistake. A big mistake.’

Whitlock closed the folder and handed it back to Wiseman.

‘I’m sorry about your brother. But I don’t see where I fit in.’

‘You were recommended to me as the best wheel man either side of the Atlantic,’ Wiseman said. ‘Vie may need you for a fast getaway. It all depends on where and when the hits take place.’

‘Hits? You said your brother’s killer, not killers. How many hits are there going to be?’

‘Two at least. The gunman, and the person who authorized the killing. And if it turns out that others are involved, they too will be targeted. I want justice, Mr. Alexander, no matter what it takes.’

‘Why this personal vendetta? Why don’t you leave it to the police and let them bring the killers in?’

‘I’m a soldier, Mr. Alexander. The Red Brigades are the enemy. And I’ve been taught to kill the enemy.’

‘So why don’t you, instead of hiring us to do your dirty work for you?’ Whitlock’s expression was challenging.

Wiseman removed his gloves and held up his hands. Both index fingers were missing. ‘The Vietcong cut them off in ’69 when they found out I was a sniper. I was one of the lucky ones. I’m still alive. I’ve had several rifles made for me since then, all with the trigger housed in the butt. They’re no substitute for the real thing, though. I only use them for game shooting now. If I don’t kill a deer with my first shot I can always rely on a second shot to finish it off. It would be another matter if I could only wound a human target, especially one that was armed. It’s not that I’m scared of dying, Mr. Alexander, I just want to be sure that the job’s done properly. That’s why I chose the two of you. Vie was in my platoon in Vietnam. He’s still one of the best snipers in the business. And as I said earlier, you’re regarded as the best wheel man around. I don’t see how the two of you can fail.’

‘It’s decision time, Alexander. Are you in or out?’

‘I didn’t realize I had a choice,’ Whitlock countered sarcastically.

‘It’s very simple,’ Young said. ‘If you’re in, you’ll be paid forty thousand pounds up front. If you’re out, the door’s behind you.’

‘That’s some choice. I’m in, for what it’s worth.’

‘Excellent,’ Wiseman said. He removed an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Whitlock.

‘Forty thousand pounds sterling. You’ll be paid the balance on completion of the job.’ He noticed the uncertainty in Whitlock’s eyes. ‘One thing you’ll learn about me, Mr. Alexander, is that I never renege on a business deal. I pride myself on my honesty. You’ll be paid, in full, when it’s over.’

Whitlock opened the envelope and looked inside. The money was in used fifty-pound notes.

Young took an eight-inch oblong box from his inside jacket pocket and placed it on the table in front of Whitlock.

‘Open it.’

Whitlock picked up the box and removed the lid. Inside was a watch lying on a bed of cotton wool. He took it out, turned it around in his fingers, then looked up questioningly at Young.

‘Put it on,’ Young said.

‘Why? I’ve already got a watch.’

‘Put it on,’ Young repeated.

‘What’s the catch?’

‘It’s another little insurance policy against you running out on me now that you’ve got the money,’ Young told him. ‘It has a small homing device built into it. I have the receiver in my pocket.’

‘In other words, I’m being tagged?’

‘As a precaution, that’s all,’ Wiseman said. ‘Forty thousand pounds is a lot of money, Mr. Alexander. We don’t want you to be tempted into doing something you’ll regret.’

‘And if I refuse?’

Young smiled. ‘Then the gun will be left in a convenient place for the police to find. And you’ll be handed over to the authorities when we reach Rome. A stowaway.’

Whitlock unstrapped his own watch and snapped the other watch over his wrist. Young took a miniature black transmitter from his jacket pocket and placed it on the table.

‘The back of the watch has been packed with a highly concentrated plastic explosive. It works in conjunction with the transmitter. It can be triggered in three different ways. Firstly, by attempting to remove the watch from your wrist. Secondly, if the button on the transmitter is depressed. And thirdly, if the watch and the transmitter are ever more than three miles apart. The charge is certainly big enough to blow off part of your arm. Potentially it could kill you, depending on where your wrist was at the time of the explosion.’

‘I don’t believe this–’ Whitlock trailed off, his eyes blazing.

‘I can understand your resentment, Mr. Alexander–’

‘No you can’t,’ Whitlock interceded angrily. ‘You can’t begin to understand it. I’ve been abducted, drugged, framed, threatened and now tricked into wearing some booby-trapped wristwatch. I’ve agreed to go along with you what more do you want from me? If you want me to drive for you, Young, you neutralize this device first.’

Young shook his head.

‘It stays on until this is over. And as I’m the one who set the charge, I’m the only one who knows how to neutralize it. You’re stuck with it, Alexander. At least for the time being.’

‘And you go along with that?’ Whitlock asked Wiseman.

Wiseman nodded. ‘If that’s what Vie wants. It’s his operation, he calls the shots. I’ll merely be an observer, that’s all.’

‘I don’t trust you, Alexander. But at least this way I know I can depend on you to be where I want you when I want you. Unless, of course, you’re willing to lose your arm for the sake of forty thousand pounds. Personally I credit you with a bit more intelligence than that.’

The pilot’s voice came over the intercom asking them to fasten their seatbelts as he was about to start the final descent into Rome.

Whitlock snapped the belt shut across him then stared at the watch. They had him exactly where they wanted him. At least for the time being…

Philpott answered the telephone on his desk.

‘I’ve got a Major Lonsdale from Scotland Yard’s anti-terrorist squad on the line, sir,’ Sarah told him.

‘Put him through.’

She connected them, then replaced her receiver.

‘Colonel Philpott?’

‘Speaking. I’ve been expecting a call from you for the past two hours. What happened? Did C.W. get away all right?’

‘That all went fine. He should be touching down in Rome about now.’

‘So why the delay?’ Philpott asked.

Lonsdale explained what had happened, including the discovery of Humphries’ body by the local CID in Stoke Newington.

‘Are the boy and his mother all right?’ Philpott asked anxiously.

‘They’re both fine.’

‘Why did Young pick them?’

‘Harris knows the boy’s father, Wendell Johnson–’

‘Who’s Harris?’ Philpott cut in.

‘He was the other man Young hired to help him spring Alexander.’

‘The one you picked up yesterday?’

‘That’s right,’ Lonsdale replied. ‘It seems Young wanted a hostage to force the police guards to release Alexander. But he knew abducting someone in the street would be too dangerous. That’s when Harris came up with Mary Robson and her boy.’

‘Did Harris tell you this?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did Young get hold of the police car and the uniforms?’

‘He hired the uniforms from a theatrical company. He made a bogus call to the police to lure the police car on to a housing estate in Lambeth. The two of them overpowered the driver and left him tied up in an empty flat on the estate. Whitlock was sprung half an hour later.’

‘How did they get C.W. on to the plane?’

‘Wiseman’s private Lear jet was parked at an American airbase. The sentry on duty at the gate is certain there were only two men in Wiseman’s official car when it arrived at the base. Wiseman and the driver.’

‘Who must have been Young?’

‘The description certainly matches the American who helped spring Whitlock from the police van. We didn’t push it any further in case word got back to Wiseman. The logical conclusion is that Whitlock was in the boot, unconscious, when the car arrived at the base.’

‘I appreciate your help, Major Lonsdale.’

‘Not at all.’

‘I’ll call you to tell you when you can release Alexander back into the custody of the police.’

‘Fine. We’ll keep him entertained until then.’

Philpott hung up, then asked Sarah to get him Kolchinsky’s hotel in Rome.

Paluzzi had called Nikki Karos from Rome to find out whether he would be able to see them that afternoon. He had refused to elaborate further over the telephone and Karos had told him they were welcome to fly to the island to see him, though he doubted he would be of much assistance to them.

They had flown in a NOCS Cessna as far as the capital, Corfu, where they had transferred to an Alouette helicopter and completed the twelve miles to Karos’s mansion on the slopes of Mount Aji Deka, arriving mid-afternoon.

Marco executed a perfect landing within a few feet of the white Mercedes parked on the edge of the helipad. The driver stood beside it, a holstered Bernadelli visible on his belt. Graham and Paluzzi alighted from the helicopter. The driver took their Berettas, saying they would be returned when they left the island. He ushered them into the car, then got behind the wheel and drove the five hundred yards to the Spanish-style mansion which was set against the side of the mountain and supported by four thick concrete pylons driven down forty feet into the base of the rock. A butler, complete with white gloves, accompanied them to a glass-walled lift which ran up the end wall of the building.

He pressed a button and they were transported to the roof. The doors opened on to a spacious terrace dominated by an Olympic-size swimming pool. The butler retreated to bring drinks, and they crossed to a railing which ran the length of the terrace to examine the breathtaking view. The village and the tranquil Khalikiopoulos Lagoon stood in the foreground, with Mount Pantokrator, the island’s highest mountain, and the rugged Albanian ranges in the distance. It all seemed very peaceful.

Graham moved to the swimming pool and tested the water with his fingertips. It was warm. Then, as he stood up, he noticed the row of glass tanks built into the wall to the left of the lift. Each of the six tanks contained a pair of snakes. A plaque attached to each tank identified the species: Bushmaster, Eastern Diamondback Rattlesnake, Green Mamba, Gabon Viper, King Cobra and Saw-scaled Adder. Six of the most deadly species known to man.

‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’

Graham swung round to face the man who had emerged silently from the lift behind him. He was in his fifties with a large nose prominent in an asymmetrical face. He was dressed in a white suit with a panama tugged over his grey hair.

‘Karos. Nikki Karos,’ the man said, extending a hand towards Graham. ‘Paluzzi?’

‘Graham. State Department.’

‘Ah, the American,’ Karos replied, shaking Graham’s hand.

Paluzzi crossed to where they were standing and shook Karos’s hand.

‘The great survivors,’ Karos said, looking at the snakes. ‘Reptiles have been on this earth, in one form or another, for three hundred million years. From them came the dinosaur, the ichthyosaur, the plesiosaur and all the rest of those magnificent prehistoric creatures. From those prototypes came the mammals and the birds. And when man does finally destroy himself, the reptiles will still be here to start the evolutionary process all over again.’

‘Why snakes? Why not crocodiles or lizards?’

‘Where’s the beauty in the lumbering crocodile, Mr. Graham? Or the scurrying lizard? There is, however, immense beauty in the snake. The sleek, streamlined body. The speed with which it strikes its prey. I sit out here for hours watching them.’ Karos smiled. ‘I’m sorry, I know you didn’t come all this way to discuss snakes. Please, won’t you sit down.’

They crossed to a table beside the pool and each took a chair. It was pleasantly warm in the thin March sun. The butler returned with a tray and deposited their drink son the table, along with a plate of loukanika, small spicy sausages. It was only when Graham glanced after his retreating figure that he saw a second man standing by the lift, his arms folded across his chest. He was black and a muscular six-foot-five, with a shaven head and a gold sleeper in his left ear. He reminded Graham of an extra from one of Errol Flynn’s buccaneering films.

Karos followed Graham’s eyes.

‘Don’t worry about Boudien. He’s been my personal bodyguard for the past five years. He’s an Algerian. He doesn’t say much, but when he does speak, people tend to listen to him.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ Graham replied, then drank a mouthful of the cordial the butler had brought for him.

‘Well, gentlemen, what can I do for you? I must say I’m a little intrigued as to why the State Department should send someone out here to see me. I have no business interests in your country, Mr. Graham.’

‘It’s got nothing to do with my country. What can you tell us about Vittore Dragotti?’

Graham and Paluzzi watched Karos closely, hoping to see a flicker of recognition in his eyes. There was nothing. Not that it surprised them. Karos was very much the professional.

Karos took a sip of his iced tea then shook his head.

‘Sorry, I can’t say I know the name.’

Paluzzi then put into action the plan they had devised on the plane. He took the bank statements from his jacket pocket and extended them towards Karos.

‘These were found in Dragotti’s wall safe. Four of the payments have been traced to you. Perhaps you can explain that?’

Frowning, Karos took the statements from Paluzzi and laid them out neatly on the table in front of him. He removed a pair of reading glasses from his pocket and slipped them on. Having studied the entries Paluzzi had marked in red, he looked up and shrugged.

‘It’s certainly a mystery to me. I’ve never done any business with him. Am I allowed to know what he does, or where he works?’

‘He’s the sales manager at Neo-Chem Industries in Rome,’ Paluzzi said.

‘Neo-Chem? That’s the pharmaceutical company.’ Karos smiled faintly. ‘We’re hardly in the same line of business, are we? All I can suggest is that one of my associates has been doing some business with him–’

‘You can cut the act, Karos,’ Paluzzi snapped. ‘I know for a fact that no payment is authorized without your signature. If one of your associates had been doing business with him, you’d have known about it.’

‘Come on, Fabio, stop treating the guy with kid gloves,’ Graham said, bringing the next bit of the plan into play. ‘Why waste time? Tell him that Dragotti’s confessed.’

‘Let me handle it my way, okay?’ Paluzzi retorted.

Graham turned to Karos.

‘Let’s cut the crap. We’ve already seen Dragotti this morning. He agreed to cooperate with us in return for a shorter sentence. He’s admitted being the middleman between you and Wiseman. How do you think we got hold of those bank statements?’

A drop of sweat ran down the side of Karos’s face. He wiped it away quickly then looked round at the approaching Boudien who had been alerted by the raised voices. He shook his head and waved him away.

‘We’ve got the confession all neatly documented back in Rome,’ Graham said. ‘It’s enough to put you away for twenty years.’

‘I’ll make a deal with you,’ Karos said, once Boudien had disappeared into the lift.

‘You’re in no position to make deals, Karos,’ Graham retorted.

‘I can’t go to jail, I’ve got too many enemies there.’

‘You should have thought about that before you got involved,’ Graham said.

Karos crossed to the railing and looked across the Khalikiopoulos Lagoon.

‘I’ll take you to Ubrino. In return you give me a twelve-hour head start once the vial’s been recovered. It’s a small price to pay with so much at stake.’

Graham looked at Paluzzi. ‘What do you think?’

Paluzzi stared at his empty glass and finally nodded. He looked at Karos.

‘It’s a deal. When can you take us to him?’

‘Tonight. I’m meeting him outside Sant’Ivo in Rome at eight o’clock.’

‘And he’ll have the vial with him?’ Paluzzi asked, making notes on the pad he had taken from his pocket.

‘I can only presume so. He was told never to let it out of his sight.’

‘You know this place?’ Graham asked Paluzzi.

Paluzzi nodded.

‘It’s a church near the Pantheon.’

‘Why are you meeting him there?’

Karos shrugged. ‘He was the one who called the meeting. He just said it was important and for me to meet him there.’

Graham eyed Karos suspiciously, then pointed a finger of warning at him.

‘You’d better be on the level because if you’re leading us on a wild-goose chase you’ll be in jail so quickly your feet won’t touch the ground.’

‘Why should I deceive you? I’ve got nothing to gain by it. Not now.’

‘Who are you working for?’ Paluzzi asked, breaking the silence.

‘I’m not working for anybody, I’m working with Lino Zocchi, head of the Rome cell of the Red Brigades.’

‘Why did he come to you?’ Paluzzi asked.

‘Because he knew the committee wouldn’t sanction the operation. And he needed money to finance it. I had the capital.’

‘How much was Wiseman paid altogether?’ Graham asked.

‘A hundred thousand dollars. Chicken feed, really, when you think about what he created. That virus is priceless. Priceless.’

‘Whose idea was the sleeping gas?’ Paluzzi asked.

‘Zocchi’s. It was a diversion, nothing more.’

‘So Ubrino knows he’s got the virus?’ Paluzzi said.

‘Of course he does. As I said, the sleeping gas was just a red herring.’

‘What are you going to get out of this?’ Paluzzi asked.

‘Twenty million pounds sterling.’

Graham whistled softly. ‘Did Zocchi say how he intended to get the money?’

Karos shook his head, then noticed the forty-foot white Gazelle helicopter crossing the lagoon towards the house.

‘Are you going to admire the scenery all day?’ Graham snapped.

Karos turned to him.

‘No, he never said. I just presumed it would be some kind of deal which included his release as well as a sum of money in return for the vial.’

Graham’s eyes flickered past Karos. The helicopter was closing in fast.

Too fast. Then he saw the two 30 mm cannons mounted on either side of the fuselage. There wasn’t even time to shout a warning. He lashed out sideways, knocking Paluzzi and his chair backwards into the swimming pool. He flung himself into the water as the machine-guns opened fire.

Karos’s body jerked grotesquely and blood spurted from the bullet holes in his immaculate white jacket. He stumbled against the railing, then disappeared over the side. The pilot raked the terrace for another few seconds then banked the helicopter sharply to the left and headed back towards the capital, Corfu.

Graham and Paluzzi held their breath underwater for another ten seconds after the firing had stopped, then swam across the pool to the safety of the steps, where they surfaced, gasping for air. Graham was the first out of the pool and he ran straight to the railing. Paluzzi was close behind him. Karos lay sprawled on the rocks eighty feet below them, his white jacket startling against the grey of the stone. Paluzzi cursed furiously in Italian, then wiped his hand over his face. There was blood on his fingers.

Graham noticed his frown and gestured to his bleeding lip.

‘I didn’t exactly have time to choose my spot.’

Paluzzi patted Graham lightly on the arm.

‘I owe you my life.’

‘Forget it,’ Graham replied, stripping off his wet shirt. ‘You don’t owe me anything.’

Boudien emerged from the lift followed by two guards. Both were armed with Spectre submachine-guns. They ran to the railing and peered down at Karos on the rocks below. The two guards, glancing repeatedly at Graham and Paluzzi, spoke softly to Boudien.

‘They think we set him up,’ Paluzzi said, interpreting the Greek for Graham.

Boudien turned to Paluzzi.

‘Did you see what kind of helicopter it was?’

‘No,’ Paluzzi lied. ‘All I saw was that it was white with a single figure at the controls.’

‘Did you see his face?’ Boudien asked.

‘You must be joking,’ Paluzzi said incredulously. ‘A second later I was underwater.’

Boudien gripped the railing tightly and stared out across the Khalikiopoulos Lagoon.

‘Who do you think did it?’ Paluzzi asked, casting a sidelong glance at him.

‘Signore Karos had many enemies. It could have been set up by any one of them.’

‘How about Lino Zocchi?’ Paluzzi asked, watching for a reaction. Boudien’s face remained impassive.

‘I don’t know him. Signore Karos never discussed his work with me.’ He suddenly eyed Paluzzi suspiciously. ‘Is that why you and the American came here, to ask Signore Karos about this man Zocchi?’

‘He did come into the conversation.’

‘The police will be here shortly,’ Boudien said. ‘You can tell them about it. You can also tell them how the two of you managed to come out of all this unscathed.’

‘You think we had something to do with Karos’s murder?’ Paluzzi demanded.

‘That’s for the police to decide. The two guards will stay here. They have orders to shoot if either of you attempts to escape.’

Paluzzi watched Boudien return to the lift, then turned to Graham and told him what was happening.

‘And there is only one way out of here,’ Graham said, glancing at the lift. ‘Angelo should have heard the gunfire from the helicopter.’

‘What can he do?’

‘There’s a rope ladder attached to the side of the passenger seat. If he dropped it we could conceivably grab hold of it as the helicopter passed overhead. I know it’s a long shot but it’s our only real chance.’

Graham looked at his watch.

‘It’s 4.17. We’ll give him until 4.20. No longer. Then we’ll have to take our chances with the lift. We have to be out of here before the cops arrive especially if they are already in Karos’s back pocket.’

‘What about the guards? We’d be dead before we got anywhere near the lift.’

‘We’d be dead before we got anywhere near the rope ladder as well. We’ve got to take them out, whatever happens.’ Graham shaded his eyes as he looked up at the approaching helicopter. ‘Looks like the cavalry’s just arrived.’

Paluzzi followed his gaze. ‘What about the guards?’

‘Let them come to us. They’re bound to be suspicious of the helicopter. You take the short one on the left. I’ll take his friend.’

The guards moved towards them. The short guard gestured for them to move away from the railing. Paluzzi and Graham stepped back, their hands raised above their heads. The second guard crossed to the railing, the Spectre gripped in both hands, waiting for the helicopter to come into firing range. The lift began to descend from the terraces.

Boudien had seen the helicopter and was sending up more guards to deal with it. Graham and Paluzzi exchanged glances. There was no time to lose. Paluzzi lunged at the short guard, parrying the Spectre with his left arm, and brought his knee up savagely into the guard’s groin. The Spectre slipped from his fingers. Graham picked it up and shot the second guard even as he turned, gun raised to fire. Paluzzi grabbed the second Spectre and turned towards the lift, waiting for the other guards to arrive.

The helicopter banked slowly two hundred yards from the terrace then dived towards them, the rope ladder hanging from the passenger door.

‘You go first,’ Graham shouted above the noise of the helicopter’s rotors.

Paluzzi shook his head.

‘I owe you–’

‘You don’t owe me anything,’ Graham snapped back. ‘Go first, no arguments.’

Paluzzi nodded, his eyes darting between the lift and the helicopter.

The thirty-foot ladder brushed the railing and trailed across the terrace towards them. Paluzzi grabbed hold of one of the rungs halfway up with his left hand, the Spectre still clenched tightly in his right.

The helicopter began to climb, lifting Paluzzi away from the terrace.

Graham fired a burst at the lift as it came into view then jumped up to grab the last rung of the ladder as the helicopter rose away and started to turn towards the lagoon. The Spectre spun from his hand and he was flung against the railing. He caught the side of his head on one of the metal struts before he was pulled up over the railing into the air.

Two guards sprinted from the lift and fired at the retreating helicopter but within seconds it was out of range, leaving them cursing at the railing.

Blood streamed down the side of Graham’s face and he had to use all his willpower to stave off the unconsciousness that threatened to overpower him. His left hand slipped and for one terrifying moment all that prevented him from falling the three hundred feet down on to the rocks below was the strength of his right hand on the last rung of the ladder.

His body swung precariously from side to side and his head was shaken violently. With a supreme effort he reached up with his left hand and clamped it around the bottom rung again. He tried to pull himself up but it was no good, he just didn’t have the energy. He closed his eyes, hoping that might stop his head spinning. It only seemed to make it worse. His fingers were slipping on the ladder. He gritted his teeth and dug his fingers into the rope. It was no good.

He was going to fall. His left hand began to slip from the ladder again. As it did a hand clasped his left wrist. He lifted his head painfully and saw Paluzzi above him. Paluzzi was shouting to him. He couldn’t hear what he was saying. He gripped more tightly with his right hand and closed his eyes, the pain now unbearable in his head. He felt himself drifting into unconsciousness. His feet touched water.

Then his ankles. Then his legs. He opened his eyes. He was being dragged through the water. Paluzzi shook Graham’s wrist and mouthed the word ‘jump’. Graham let himself fall backwards into the sea. Paluzzi dived in after him. He grabbed Graham under the arms to prevent his head from dipping under the water. Graham opened his mouth to speak, then sagged forward, unconscious, against Paluzzi.

The NOCS headquarters in Rome was a large grey building on the via Po, close to the grounds of the West German consulate. It was officially listed as an archive for the Ministry of Defence.

Paluzzi and Marco entered the building through the revolving door in the main entrance and walked to an unmarked door at the end of the long, cavernous hallway. They went inside and Paluzzi locked the door behind them. The room was lined with rows of shelving stacked with cardboard boxes full of old files and dossiers. They crossed to the far wall and Marco activated the facade with a transmitter he had undipped from his belt. The wall slid back to reveal a soundproof metal door. Marco punched an access code into the bell push and the door slid open revealing a blue-carpeted corridor. He closed it again behind them, using a second combination which caused the outside wall to slide back into place as well. Paluzzi sent Marco to the computer suite to get a back-no ground on Boudien, then went to his office and listened to the messages on his answering machine. One was from Brigadier Michele Pesco, the unit’s commander-in-chief, requesting that he report to his office as soon as he arrived. Paluzzi switched the machine off and went straight to Pesco’s office.

Pesco was a tall man in his mid-forties whose cropped black hair surmounted cold blue eyes. He had been with the Brigate Cadore, one of the Italian army’s five crack Alpine brigades, before his promotion to the NOCS to take over from his predecessor who had been killed while on a training exercise in the mountains of Sicily. His appointment had caused a lot of resentment among the men who had wanted, and expected, Paluzzi to get the post. Pesco had been in the job for three months and was still treated as an intrusive outsider. He and Paluzzi had never got on. Paluzzi resented Pesco’s appointment, especially as his new superior had no previous experience with the NOCS. And Pesco resented Paluzzi’s popularity with the men. They only spoke to each other when necessary. It was a problem known to Italy’s joint chiefs-of-staff but they couldn’t decide which of them to have transferred to another unit.

And neither man was prepared to back down first. It had become a matter of pride.

Paluzzi knocked on Pesco’s open door and entered the room. Pesco was smoking his customary cigar, the thick smoke drifting up into the extractor fan on the wall behind him. The two men acknowledged each other with a curt nod then Paluzzi turned to smile at Kolchinsky and Sabrina who were seated on the couch against the wall.

‘Where’s Mike?’ Sabrina asked.

‘He’s at the San Giovanni Hospital,’ Paluzzi replied and immediately raised a hand to allay her anxiety. ‘He’s okay, don’t worry.’

‘What happened?’ Kolchinsky asked.

Paluzzi recounted the events briefly, culminating in their rescue from the sea by a coast guard helicopter answering Marco’s mayday call.

‘How bad is the wound?’ Sabrina asked, the anxiety still on her face.

‘He needed fourteen stitches. The doctors were more worried that the blow could have damaged his eyesight but they gave him the all-clear after a series of tests. They want him to remain in hospital overnight, just as a precaution. He wasn’t too happy about that.’

‘Well, he can just stay there,’ Kolchinsky said, and looked at his watch. ‘It’s gone six-thirty. How long will it take us to get to Sant’Ivo from here?’

‘It’s about a ten-minute drive,’ Paluzzi replied.

‘I’ll go with Major Paluzzi,’ Sabrina offered.

‘No you won’t,’ Kolchinsky replied firmly. ‘You’re working with Calvieri. I want you at the hotel where you can keep an eye on him. I’ll go with the Major.’

Sabrina sat back glumly and folded her arms across her chest.

Pesco stubbed out his cigar and got to his feet.

‘Mr. Kolchinsky, I’ll leave you in Fabio’s capable hands. I have a meeting with the joint chiefs-of-staff at eight-thirty.’

Kolchinsky stood up and shook Pesco’s hand.

‘Thank you for your time, Brigadier.’

‘Glad to be of help.’ Pesco smiled at Sabrina. ‘A pleasure meeting you, Miss Carver.’

She smiled back.

Pesco acknowledged Paluzzi with another nod and left the room.

‘I presume from that show of affection there’s little love lost between the two of you,’ Sabrina said, looking at Paluzzi.

‘Sabrina, that’s enough!’ Kolchinsky chided her sharply.

‘It’s no secret,’ Paluzzi told them. ‘He’s about as popular here as a pit viper in a rabbit hutch. He’s never tried to fit in with the rest of us. Giuseppe Camerallo, his predecessor, was an inspiration to us. He led by example. He wouldn’t expect us to do anything he wasn’t prepared to do himself. Pesco hasn’t even been on a training exercise with us yet. He’s a desk man. The men don’t want that. They want another Camerallo.’

‘So why was he sent here?’ Sabrina asked.

‘Because he’s a desk man. Paperwork was Camerallo’s weakness. The auditors found the books in a total shambles when they came here after his death. That’s why the top brass sent us Pesco. I was put in charge of field operations so it was only natural that the men looked to me as their new leader. Pesco can’t accept that. He wants that respect himself. But he won’t get it by sitting behind a desk all day. That’s why he resents me so much.’ Paluzzi sat on the edge of the desk. ‘How was the trip to Venice?’

Sabrina told him what had happened.

‘Have you identified the man who fired at you?’

‘Brigadier Pesco sent my description of the man through to the computer suite ten minutes ago. There hasn’t been any feedback yet.’

Paluzzi was about to ring through when Marco appeared at the door, a folder in his hand. ‘I’ve got the information you wanted on Boudien.’ He seems Marco paused when he noticed Kolchinsky and Sabrina. ‘Sorry, sir. I didn’t realize you had company.’

‘Come in, Angelo,’ Paluzzi said, beckoning him into the room.

‘This is Sergei Kolchinsky, deputy director at UNACO and Sabrina Carver, Mike’s partner. Lieutenant Angelo Marco, my right-hand man.’

Marco shook hands with them, then handed the folder to Paluzzi.

‘Do me a favour, Angelo, see what’s happened to the description Miss Carver sent through to be analysed in the identograph. It doesn’t take ten minutes to come up with a name.’

Marco nodded and left the room.

Paluzzi tapped the folder.

‘This is the info on Philippe Boudien, Karos’s personal bodyguard. I’ll have copies of it made for you before you leave.’

‘Is he under surveillance?’ Kolchinsky asked.

‘Twenty-four-hour surveillance. And the phone line’s been tapped. So far nothing.’ Paluzzi moved round to Pesco’s chair and sat down. ‘Any news from your other operative? Whitlock, is it?’

Kolchinsky lit a cigarette and nodded.

‘I got a call from him this afternoon. He and Young have booked into a boarding house in the city. Wiseman’s staying at the Hassler Villa Medici.’

Paluzzi whistled softly. ‘He must have money to blow. That’s one of the most expensive hotels in Rome.’

‘His ex-wife inherited the Whiting shipyard outside New York. She sold it five years ago for close on a hundred million dollars. He got to keep the Lear jet, the ranch in Colorado and an estimated ten million when they were divorced last year.’

‘Ten million and he’s still drawing an army salary? I certainly wouldn’t be slogging my guts out for the state if I had that kind of money in the bank.’

‘The money isn’t important to him. He’s a soldier, first and foremost. And a good one, by all accounts.’

The telephone rang. Paluzzi answered it and punched a code into Pesco’s desk computer as he listened to what Marco was saying.

‘Any luck?’ Sabrina asked once Paluzzi had replaced the receiver.

Paluzzi nodded then pressed a ‘print’ button on the console. A facsimile of the two faces on the screen slid out from a narrow aperture in the side of the computer. He handed it to Sabrina.

‘That’s him all right,’ she announced, handing the facsimile to Kolchinsky. ‘But why two pictures?’

‘Identical twins,’ Paluzzi said. ‘One has a mole on his right cheek. The other doesn’t. That’s the only way of telling them apart.’

Sabrina sat down beside Kolchinsky and looked at the facsimile again.

‘You’re right. It’s uncanny.’

‘Do you know which one you saw in Venice?’ Paluzzi asked.

‘The one with the mole on his cheek. I won’t forget him in a hurry. Who are they?’

‘Carlo and Tommaso Francia.’

‘Who’s who?’ she asked.

‘Carlo’s the one you saw in Venice.’ Paluzzi stared at the VDU. ‘Which means Tommaso was the one in Corfu.’

‘I thought you said you didn’t see his face,’ Kolchinsky said.

‘I didn’t, but they always work on the same assignments.’

‘What does it say about them?’ Kolchinsky asked, gesturing to the VDU.

Paluzzi pressed another button and the text came up on the screen. He read it through, translating it into English in his head. He finally looked up at them.

‘They were born in Salerno in 1956 and orphaned at an early age. Both excelled as sportsmen and by their teens they were skiing in professional tournaments. Carlo specialized in downhill racing, Tommaso in the slalom. They were chosen for the Italian team for the ’76 Winter Olympics but both failed a drugs test on the day before they were due to compete. The FIS banned them for life. They worked as stunt men for a time before drifting into crime in their late twenties. They now work as freelance enforcers in Italy and Greece.’

‘Have you ever come across them?’ Kolchinsky asked.

‘Not personally, but I know of them.’

‘Do they have any sympathies with the Red Brigades?’

‘Their sympathies lie with whoever’s paying them, Miss Carver. And they don’t come cheap. They can afford to name their price. They’re probably the best freelance team in the Mediterranean.’

‘It’s pretty ironic, isn’t it?’ Sabrina said thoughtfully. ‘Karos financed his own death.’

‘It certainly looks that way,’ Paluzzi replied.

‘What about their present whereabouts?’ Kolchinsky asked.

‘Unknown. They’re nomadic. They do have a summer villa at Frezene, a beach resort about twelve miles from here, but neither of them has been seen there in the last year. Naturally I’ll have it staked out but I don’t see us coming up with anything. We’re dealing with professionals.’

‘What about the helicopter?’ Kolchinsky asked. ‘That could be a clue in itself. A white Gazelle with mounted 30 mm cannons. You don’t see them every day.’

‘I’ve already got a team working on that but I doubt we’ll come up with anything there either. They could have hidden it anywhere.’

‘It’s hardly the easiest of things to conceal,’ Kolchinsky said.

‘I agree, but where do we start looking? Italy? Greece? Corfu? Sardinia? Sicily? The list’s endless and we don’t have the time.’

‘Unless, of course, we manage to recover the vial tonight,’ Kolchinsky said optimistically.

‘Don’t hold your breath,’ Paluzzi replied. ‘This operation’s been planned down to the last detail. You can be sure that Ubrino won’t venture out into the open unless he knows it’s safe.’

‘You think it’s a trap?’ Kolchinsky asked.

‘I didn’t initially when Karos told us about the meeting. He would have been with us and it would have been too dangerous to hit Mike and me without endangering his own life. It was only after his death that another possibility came to mind. What if the trap had been set for him? He knows too much, so Ubrino might have planned to draw him out into the open and have him killed. Except, when we linked him to the missing vial the plan was brought forward, to silence him before he could tell us anything.’

‘But Tommaso Francia was too late to silence him before you and Mike got to Corfu so he tried to kill all three of you?’ Kolchinsky concluded.

Paluzzi shook his head. ‘I don’t go along with that. He could have killed us when we were in the pool. We were sitting ducks. It was obvious he was only after Karos.’

‘It’s like what happened in Venice,’ Sabrina said to Kolchinsky. ‘It’s as if they wanted us to escape.’

‘It doesn’t make any sense,’ Kolchinsky muttered, then stubbed out his cigarette and got to his feet.

‘It’s seven o’clock. I want to see Michael before we go to Sant’Ivo.’

‘I’ll get these dossiers on Boudien and the Francia brothers translated into English for you.’

‘I can do that,’ Sabrina said, scowling at Kolchinsky. ‘It’s not as if I’ll have much else to do in my room, is it?’

Kolchinsky took the two folders from Paluzzi and handed them to Sabrina.

Paluzzi gave her a sympathetic smile, then phoned Marco to say that he and Kolchinsky were on their way to Sant’Ivo, and that Marco was to go home and get some sleep. He replaced the receiver and got to his feet.

‘Are you armed?’ he asked Kolchinsky.

Kolchinsky shook his head.

‘Take my Beretta,’ Sabrina said. She unholstered it from the back of her jeans and offered it to Kolchinsky.

‘You hold on to that, Miss Carver. I’ll draw a handgun from the armoury for Mr. Kolchinsky.’

She reholstered the Beretta.

‘Can we drop the Miss Carver bit? You make me feel like an old spinster. It’s Sabrina.’

‘And I’m Sergei,’ Kolchinsky added.

Paluzzi smiled. ‘What type of gun do you use, Sergei?’

‘Tokarev TT-33, but I can make do with whatever you’ve got.’

‘I can get you a Tokarev, no problem,’ Paluzzi assured him, and immediately called the armoury to arrange for one to be sent to the office. ‘It’ll be up in a minute,’ he said, coming round from behind the desk.

Marco appeared in the doorway. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you to Sant’Ivo, sir?’

‘No. Now go and get some rest. I’ll call you if I need you, you can be sure of that.’

‘Can you let me out?’ Sabrina asked Marco. ‘I’d better get back to the hotel and see what Calvieri’s come up with while I’ve been here.’

‘And don’t forget to tell the switchboard to put any calls from C.W. through to you until I get back,’ Kolchinsky reminded her.

‘I won’t,’ she replied, following Marco out of the room.

Paluzzi signed for the Tokarev pistol when it was brought to the office, then they left the building and drove to the San Giovanni Hospital on the Via dell’Amba Aradam opposite San Giovanni in Laterano, the basilica which is the cathedral of Rome. In the hospital foyer Paluzzi approached the reception desk to ask for directions to Graham’s private ward. It was on the third floor overlooking the Villa Celimontana, a park bordering the Colosseum.

Kolchinsky knocked and entered.

Graham was sitting up against the headboard, a pillow cushioning his back. He immediately folded the copy of the International Daily News he had been reading and tossed it on to the chair beside the bed. The discoloured bruise on the left-hand side of his face was partially hidden by the thick dressing protecting the stitches close to his eye.

‘How are you feeling, Michael?’ Kolchinsky asked, brushing the newspaper from the chair as he sat down, his eyes fixed on Graham’s face.

‘I’m fine, honestly,’ Graham replied, pushing back the sheets. He was dressed in his jeans and the clean white T-shirt Paluzzi had got from the hotel for him. ‘I’m ready. I’ve just got to put on my shoes.’

‘Ready for what?’ Kolchinsky asked sharply.

‘Didn’t Fabio tell you about Sant’Ivo?’

‘Of course he told me,’ Kolchinsky retorted. ‘You’re not going, if that’s what you think. You’re staying right where you are, at least until tomorrow morning.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with me, Sergei!’ Graham snapped angrily.

Kolchinsky sighed deeply.

‘Why must you always fight authority? The doctors wouldn’t have asked you to stay here overnight unless they thought it was necessary. Strange as it may seem, Michael, they do know what’s best for you under the circumstances.’

‘Oh yeah? That’s exactly what those psychiatrists said after Carrie and Mikey were kidnapped. We know what’s best for you, Mr. Graham. Like hell they did. They didn’t know a damn thing. To them I was just another numbered dossier that was opened when they got to work in the morning and closed again when they went home at night. They didn’t have to live with the guilt twenty-four hours a day. I did. They didn’t understand what I was going through. They just thought they did. If they could have produced a psychiatrist who had lost his family under similar circumstances to mine then I’d have been quite prepared to listen to him because he would have known what I was going through. It’s exactly the same here. Let them produce a doctor who’s had a similar injury to mine and I’ll listen to him. Dammit, Sergei, who the hell do they think they are, saying they know what’s best for me? It’s my body. It’s my mind. And I know I’m okay.’

Kolchinsky rubbed his face wearily. ‘Then discharge yourself. But that doesn’t mean you’re coming with us. Go back to the hotel. Sabrina’s there.’

‘Wonderful,’ Graham muttered. ‘She’ll be mothering me the moment I walk through the door.’

‘It’s her way of showing that she cares about you,’ Kolchinsky said, pushing the chair back angrily and getting to his feet. ‘We’ll see you back at the hotel.’

Paluzzi followed Kolchinsky into the corridor and closed the door behind him.

‘I hope I’m not being intrusive, but what exactly happened to his family?’

Kolchinsky explained about the kidnapping as they walked back to the car.

‘And they were never found?’ Paluzzi asked.

Kolchinsky shook his head.

‘And he’s never cracked?’ Paluzzi asked as Kolchinsky settled himself into the passenger seat.

‘He won’t crack. Not Michael. He’s far too professional to ever let that happen.’

Paluzzi started the engine.

‘I don’t know what I’d do if that ever happened to my family.’

‘How can you know, unless, God forbid, it ever did happen.’

‘True enough,’ Paluzzi agreed thoughtfully, as they left the car-park.

‘How many children have you got?’ Kolchinsky asked, breaking the sudden silence.

‘Just the one. Dario. He’s eight months old. He’s already quite a handful.’

‘I can believe that. What does your wife do?’

‘Nothing at the moment. Dario’s proving to be a full-time job for her. She used to be a stewardess with Air France.’ Paluzzi pointed out the floodlit Colosseum as they passed it on their right. ‘Have you ever seen it from the inside?’

‘Several times. I lived here for eighteen months.’

‘You never told me that,’ Paluzzi replied in surprise.

‘It was when I was with the KGB. I was a military attaché here. It’s a good ten years ago now.’

‘Do you miss Russia?’

‘I don’t miss the winters,’ Kolchinsky said with a smile, then stared thoughtfully at the passing traffic. ‘I like to try and get back at least once a year to see my family and friends. It’s when I’m with them that I realize just how much I do miss the country. I intend to retire there when I leave UNACO.’

‘Then you’ll realize just how much you miss the West,’ Paluzzi said with a grin.

‘That’s true. Have you ever been to the Soviet Union?’

‘I haven’t,’ Paluzzi replied apologetically. ‘Claudine, my wife, has been there several times. She says it’s a beautiful country. I certainly want to go. It’s just a matter of finding the time.’

Paluzzi drove past San Marco, one of the oldest churches in Rome, and continued along Corso Vittorio Emanuele flanked by its impressive collection of Baroque and Renaissance monuments and pulled up opposite Sant Andrea della Valle, a large sixteenth-century Baroque church.

Kolchinsky checked his Tokarev pistol, then pushed it back into his jacket pocket and got out of the car. Paluzzi used the transmitter to lock the doors behind them.

They crossed the road to Sant Andrea della Valle and Paluzzi pointed out the dome towering behind the Valle Theatre on the left-hand side of the street. Sant’Ivo. They looked around carefully, both with the same apprehensive thought. There were too many people about. It was the perfect setting for a trap. If they were ambushed they couldn’t return fire for fear of hitting some innocent bystander. Kolchinsky paused in front of a confectionery shop, using the window as a mirror to scan the road behind him. He couldn’t see anything suspicious. Not that he knew what to expect. Paluzzi tapped him on the arm and indicated that they should move on. There was no safety in numbers, not when the Red Brigades were involved. They had no qualms about killing innocent people if it meant hitting back at the authorities they detested so much. He had seen it happen all too often in the past.

A burst of gunfire shattered the confectioner’s window into a starburst of tiny fragments of flying glass. Kolchinsky flung himself to the ground. When he raised his head he saw a middle-aged woman sprawled across the pavement in front of the window, her white blouse stained with blood. She was dead. The street emptied as panic-stricken bystanders fled, screaming. The gunman was in the back of a black Mercedes. Kolchinsky crawled to where Paluzzi was crouched behind a silver BMW, the Beretta gripped tightly in his hand.

‘He missed you by inches,’ Paluzzi whispered. ‘Did you see who it was?’

Kolchinsky nodded grimly.

Tommaso Francia brought the black Mercedes level with the BMW. He glanced at Carlo in the rearview mirror. They smiled at each other. Carlo stroked the Uzi’s trigger with his gloved finger. He had them. They couldn’t get away, not without him seeing them. He could wait. There was no rush.

Graham had followed Kolchinsky and Paluzzi into the hospital car-park where he had hailed a taxi and promised the driver a handsome reward if he managed to tail Paluzzi’s Alfa Romeo Lusso without being seen. The driver had grinned like an excited schoolboy and given Graham a thumbs-up sign, relishing the challenge.

The driver had slammed on his brakes to prevent the taxi from ploughing into the back of a Fiat Tipo when it braked sharply behind the black Mercedes. He couldn’t reverse, there was a tailback of cars behind the taxi. He was stuck. And very frightened.

Graham leapt from the back seat of the taxi, yanked open the front door, and hauled the startled driver out into the road. Then, climbing behind the wheel, he slipped the taxi into gear and swung out from behind the Fiat Tipo. There was a gap of ten yards between the Fiat and the Mercedes. Graham rammed the taxi into the back of the Mercedes. The momentum of the impact propelled Tommaso against the steering wheel. The engine stalled. Graham rammed the Mercedes again.

Tommaso cursed angrily as he struggled to restart the engine. The engine came to life and the tyres shrieked in protest as the car pulled away, heading for the Vittorio Emanuele Bridge. Graham gave chase.

Carlo fired a burst at the taxi. Graham ducked sideways as the bullets hit the windscreen, pock-marking the glass. He hit the windscreen frantically with his forearm, but it wouldn’t budge.

Carlo fired again, scoring hits on both the front tyres. The taxi spun out of control and smashed into the side of a parked car, hammering Graham’s head against the steering wheel. He immediately felt the blood seeping out from under the dressing and down the side of his face. He unbuckled his safety belt and reached groggily for the door handle. The door was pulled open from the outside and anxious passersby peered in at him. He didn’t understand what they were saying. A hand reached out to help him but he shrugged it off and sat back, his eyes closed. It felt as if hundreds of ball bearings were ricocheting around inside his head.

The pain was unbelievable. Eventually he opened his eyes, wiped the blood from the side of his face with the back of his hand, and gingerly eased himself out of the car. His legs were unsteady and he had to grab on to the open door to support himself.

Kolchinsky and Paluzzi pushed their way through the crowd to where Graham was standing.

‘Are you all right?’ Paluzzi asked anxiously.

Graham nodded.

‘What the hell were you doing?’ Kolchinsky demanded.

‘Saving your ass, in case you didn’t notice,’ Graham retorted, his face screwed up with the pain throbbing inside his head.

‘We were perfectly safe where we were.’

‘Not from where I was sitting. What if he’d shot at the petrol tank? You guys wouldn’t have known anything about it.’ Graham’s eyes flickered past Kolchinsky as the taxi driver reached the front of the crowd. ‘Now this is trouble.’

The driver clasped his hands to his head as he stared in horror at the taxi’s crumpled bonnet. A police car pulled up and two carabinieri got out. One of them immediately cleared the crowd of onlookers from the road and began to direct the tailback of congested traffic which had built up on both sides of the road. The second policeman, wearing the insignia of a sergeant, approached the taxi but held up his hand when the driver tried to speak to him. He stared at the bullet holes, the buckled hood and the shredded tyres before finally turning to the driver and asking if it was his car. The driver admitted it was but went on to explain volubly what had happened. The sergeant listened attentively, occasionally nodding his head, then told the driver to wait. He crossed to where Graham was leaning against the side of the taxi, a handkerchief pressed against the wound on his face. Paluzzi cut in front of the sergeant before he could speak and held up his ID card. The sergeant looked at it, then gestured to Graham and asked Paluzzi if he was also with the NOCS.

Paluzzi shook his head.

‘He’s an American, working with us. That’s all you need to know.’

The sergeant glared at Paluzzi. ‘We’ll see about that. You think you’re above the law, don’t you?’

‘Spare me the lecture,’ Paluzzi said, pocketing his ID. ‘You don’t have the necessary clearance to be told what’s going on.’

‘I don’t give a damn about your clearance,’ the sergeant snapped, glancing across at Graham. ‘He could have killed someone. That concerns me. And that’s why I’m taking him in for questioning.’

‘How old are you, sergeant?’

‘Twenty-eight. Why?’

‘You’ve got your whole career ahead of you. Don’t screw it up by getting involved in something that’s way over your head.’

‘Is that a threat?’ the sergeant hissed under his breath.

Paluzzi looked around him as he considered the question. He finally met the sergeant’s eyes again.

‘Let me put it another way. You take the American in and I’ll see to it personally that you lose your stripes.’

‘For doing my job? You’ll have to do better than that.’

Paluzzi took the fake Prime Minister’s letter from his pocket and handed it to the sergeant.

‘I don’t think I have to do much better than that, do you?’

The sergeant read the letter, refolded it and handed it back to Paluzzi.

‘I don’t seem to have any choice, Major. What happens now?’

‘I’m taking him to hospital. He needs that cut treated. I’ll get a full statement from him and have it sent to you first thing in the morning.’

‘That’s against regulations.’

‘I’ll get it cleared with your superiors, you don’t have to worry about that.’

‘And the taxi driver?’

‘He’ll be compensated in full.’ Paluzzi handed the sergeant a business card. ‘Any problems, call me.’

The sergeant pocketed the card, eyed Paluzzi contemptuously, then pushed past him to supervise the arrival of the tow truck.

Kolchinsky looked round as Paluzzi approached them.

‘Any trouble?’

‘Nothing serious.’

‘What about the woman back there?’ Graham asked.

‘She’s dead. I’m going back there now to straighten things out with the carabinieri.’ Paluzzi handed the car keys to Kolchinsky. ‘You drive. Drop me off at the Piazza, then take Mike to the hospital.’

‘Do you want me to come back for you?’

‘No, I’ll get one of my night staff to fetch me. I’ll see you at the hotel.’

‘Fine.’ Kolchinsky opened the driver’s door and looked across the car roof at Paluzzi. ‘Sabrina should be at the hotel if we’re not back by the time you get there.’

Paluzzi nodded and got into the back of the car.

Graham climbed in beside Kolchinsky. ‘Still mad at me, tovarishch?’

Kolchinsky sighed deeply and shook his head slowly to himself. He put the car into gear and pulled away from the kerb.