Red Alert

Six

Whitlock stared distastefully at the take away in front of him that he had sent out for. It was supposed to be bistecca alia pizzaiola steak in a tomato and herb sauce. More like bistecca al’olio. It was swimming in oil. He prodded the steak with the fork and shook his head in disgust. His stomach grumbled. He was hungry, he had to admit it.

The alternative was eating with Young in the dining-room. Suddenly the steak looked appetizing. He opened the second carton, containing peas and courgettes, and tipped them into the first beside the steak. As he ate his mind wandered back over the hours since his arrival in Rome.

Wiseman had been met unexpectedly at the airport by a senior officer from his old unit, the 1st Marine Division, which was stationed at NATO’s southern command in Verona. He had told Wiseman that a staff car and driver, would be at his disposal for the duration of his stay in Rome.

Wiseman had declined the offer, saying he was in Italy as a civilian, not as a soldier. He had accepted the offer of a lift to the Hassler Villa Medici Hotel where, after thanking the officer for his kindness, he had hired a car for himself, then retired to his suite. The officer had taken the hint and discreetly withdrawn.

That was the gist of what Young had told him when he called Wiseman to report that they had checked into the boarding house. Whitlock hated the place. It was small, dirty and smelly. He could hear the incessant blare of a radio in one of the adjoining rooms and he was sure that a woman he had passed on the landing was a prostitute. She was certainly dressed like one. Not that he cared. He was only interested in Carmen.

He had rung the hotel in Paris that afternoon, only to be told that she had checked out the previous evening. He had then called the apartment in New York but the telephone had just rung. He even tried her work number but there had been no reply there either. He rang her sister in New York. She hadn’t seen Carmen since she and C.W. had left for Paris.

She had a lot of friends in New York but they would be the last people she would turn to at a time like this. She was like him in that respect, she kept her personal problems to herself. What if she had packed her things and left the apartment? The idea had certainly crossed his mind but he had rejected it along with all his other little theories. It wasn’t in her nature to do that. She knew he would only worry if he couldn’t contact her, even if she didn’t want to speak to him. So where was she…?

‘Alexander?’

Whitlock looked round, startled by the voice behind him. Young stood in the doorway.

‘Try knocking next time,’ Whitlock snapped, turning back to his food.

‘I did, but you didn’t respond,’ Young said, closing the door behind him. He sat on the edge of the bed and gestured to the take away on the table.

‘Why didn’t you eat downstairs? The food’s a lot better than that.’

‘I’d say that depends on the company,’ Whitlock retorted, cutting the last piece of steak in half.

‘I’d watch my mouth if I were you, Alexander.’

Whitlock finished eating, then twisted his chair round to face Young.

‘What do you want?’

Young stood up and handed the keys to the hired Seat Ibiza to Whitlock.

‘We’re going out.’

‘Where?’

‘The underground car-park on the via Marmorata.’

‘Who are we meeting?’

‘That doesn’t concern you,’ Young spat.

‘I’m up to my neck in this thing, thanks to you. The least you can do is let me know what’s going on.’

Young grabbed Whitlock by his shirt, hauled him to his feet and slammed him against the wall. Whitlock resisted the temptation to break the grip and put Young on his back. He had to let Young believe he had the upper hand.

‘Let’s get something straight from the start, Alexander. I didn’t ask for you. It was the General’s idea to bring you in on this, not mine. He was the one who thought I should have a getaway driver. So don’t think you’re indispensable, because you’re not. I can do this with or without you. It makes no difference to me one way or the other.’

‘It’s nice to know you’re wanted,’ Whitlock muttered.

‘Just remember, I’m the one with the transmitter. You step out of line and I’ll use it,’ Young snarled, pushing Whitlock away from him.

Whitlock bit back his anger and followed Young into the corridor. They descended the stairs into the foyer. The plump receptionist smiled at them as they passed then returned to her knitting. The red Seat Ibiza was parked directly outside, and Whitlock unlocked the driver’s door, got in, then leaned over and unlocked the passenger door for Young. On a map he took from his inside pocket Young pointed out the route he had already outlined in red pen.

Whitlock followed directions and they reached the via Marmorata within ten minutes. Young pointed out the illuminated sign, PARCHEGGIO, and Whitlock swung the car into the entrance, coming to a stop in front of the barrier. Whitlock took a ticket from the machine and the boom gate lifted. Young told him to drive to Level C. Whitlock negotiated the spiralling ramp cautiously and braked on reaching Level C. ‘Who, or what, are we looking for?’ he asked.

Young pointed to a white Fiat Uno parked beside one of the thick concrete pillars. Whitlock pulled up behind it.

‘That’s it,’ Young said, noticing a copy of the Daily American in the back of the car. ‘I won’t be long. Drive around in circles, I’ll signal when I’m ready.’

Whitlock watched Young get out of the car. The gunman was playing it close to the chest. Too close for his liking. He had already assumed that Young was meeting someone who had information on the Wiseman murder but what good would Whitlock be to UNACO touring around in the car waiting for Young to finish? He had to know what Young was planning.

There was only one option open to him: he must bug Young’s room. He already had the bug, it was just a matter of planting it…

‘I told you to drive around the level, I’ll signal you when I’m ready.’

Whitlock put the car into gear and drove off. Young pulled on a pair of black gloves as he stared after the car. How many times had he tried to dissuade Wiseman from recruiting Alexander? The hell he needed a wheel man. He could easily have incorporated both jobs into one. And be 100,000 richer into the bargain. But Wiseman had been adamant. Alexander was a necessary back-up. Typical, Wiseman thinking like a soldier. Young didn’t like the cocky Englishman but he had no choice but to put up with him for the duration of the assignment. Wiseman’s assignment. But once it was over he still had his ace to play.

The booby-trapped watch. He smiled to himself. What a tragedy if it happened to detonate accidentally…

‘Do you have a cigarette?’

Young turned to the man who had emerged from the shadows behind the Fiat Uno. He was in his mid-twenties with long, ragged black hair and a sallow, acne-scarred face. His name was Johnny Ramona. Young took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and extended it towards him.

Ramona took one and Young lit it for him.

‘I would pay you, but I only have this,’ he said, taking half a five-hundred-lire note from his jeans pocket. Young took the note and checked it against the half he had on him. They matched.

‘Did you get the information I wanted?’

Ramona nodded and gestured to the Fiat. ‘It’s safer if we talk inside.’

Young got into the passenger seat and immediately tilted the rearview mirror until he could see behind him.

Ramona got behind the wheel.

‘A cautious man, I see.’

‘It’s one way of staying alive. Well, what have you got for me?’

‘You have the money?’

Young took an envelope from his pocket, opened it to reveal the money, but jerked it away from Ramona’s grasping hand.

‘You’ll be paid when I have the information.’

Ramona gave him a twisted smile, sat back and took another drag on the cigarette.

‘The Red Brigades were behind the break-in at the plant.’

‘Try telling me something I don’t know,’ Young retorted sarcastically, then glanced in the rearview mirror as Whitlock drove past.

‘It was carried out by the Rome cell. The team leader was Riccardo Ubrino, one of the two senior cell commanders.’

‘Where’s this Ubrino now?’

Ramona shrugged. ‘Nobody knows. It is as if he has disappeared off the face of the earth. The only person who might know is Lino Zocchi, but there is no way of confirming that.’

‘Who is Zocchi?’

‘The brigade chief here in Rome. He is in prison but he cannot be contacted. There has been an outbreak of conjunctivitis there and all visits have been cancelled until further notice.’

‘You say this Ubrino is one of two senior cell commanders. Who’s the other one?’

‘Luigi Rocca.’

‘Would he know where Ubrino’s gone?’

Ramona shook his head. ‘He is as much in the dark as everyone else. And he is the acting brigade chief until Zocchi can be contacted again.’

‘So Ubrino’s answerable to Zocchi. Who’s Zocchi answerable to?’

‘Nicola Pisani, leader of the Red Brigades.’ Ramona took an envelope from his pocket and removed a sheet of paper from inside it. ‘This is the committee structure of the Red Brigades. Pisani is at the top. Zocchi and Calvieri are immediately beneath him–’

‘Who’s Calvieri?’ Young cut in quickly. ‘I’m sure I’ve heard that name before.’

‘He is the spokesman for the Red Brigades. He appears regularly on Italian television.’

‘Would he know where to find Ubrino?’

‘I doubt it. Ubrino is from Rome. Calvieri is brigade chief in Milan. They are two different factions within the Red Brigades. And there is no love lost between the two cities. Zocchi is a hard liner, Calvieri a moderate.’

‘But it’s possible?’

‘It is possible, but most unlikely.’ Ramona flicked the cigarette butt out of the window. ‘Well, now you have the information you wanted. The money?’

‘There’s something you didn’t tell me.’

Ramona frowned. ‘What?’

‘That you’re also a member of the Red Brigades.’

Ramona chuckled nervously. ‘Whoever told you this has got his facts wrong. I have never been with the Red Brigades.’

Young looked in the rearview mirror as Whitlock passed again, then turned back to Ramona.

‘No wonder you were so eager to help me. I get the information I want and at the same time the Red Brigades get to keep tabs on me.’

Ramona shook his head.

‘Honestly, mister. I have no ties–’ Young palmed a switchblade from his pocket and rammed it into Ramona’s ribs, twisting the blade violently up into the heart. He caught Ramona as he fell forward and pushed him back against the seat. He wiped the blade on Ramona’s sleeve, then pocketed the knife and got out of the car. He looked around slowly. There wasn’t anyone in sight. He took the envelope from Ramona’s hand and closed the door. He removed his gloves, folded them over, and slipped them into his jacket pocket.

At a signal, Whitlock picked him up and drove to the exit. He paid the attendant, then swung the car out into the road and returned to the hotel, remembering the route. Young would expect that of him. He parked in the same spot outside the boarding house.

‘Want a drink?’ Young asked, locking the door behind him.

‘I don’t drink.’

‘That’s right, you don’t,’ Young muttered. ‘I remember some of your buddies in London telling me that. So what’s wrong, why don’t you drink?’

Whitlock paused on the top step and looked down at Young.

‘My parents were alcoholics. Drink killed them. Does that answer your question?’

‘Suit yourself,’ Young replied with an indifferent shrug. ‘There’s a bar on the end of the block. I’m going to get myself a couple of beers. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.’

‘Then what?’

‘We go out again. Just be sure you’re ready.’

Whitlock watched Young walk off towards the bar, then looked at the booby-trapped watch. He had fifteen minutes to plant the bug in Young’s room. He hurried up to his own room, locking the door behind him, then took a suitcase from the cupboard and placed it on the bed. He had bought the suitcase, as well as two changes of clothing, that afternoon with some of the expenses money Wiseman had given him. He unzipped it and took out a canvas toilet bag. Inside were two microphones, a radio receiver, a micro-cassette player and a pair of small headphones. He had picked up the toilet bag from a contact that afternoon. He checked the microphones. One was a radio microphone. The other was a ‘spike mike’.

He would need to get into Young’s room to plant the radio microphone. It was too risky. Which left him with the spike mike. It was nine inches long (the actual microphone was only two inches in length) with a thin, metallic spike which could be inserted into a wall or window frame and any noises from the bugged room would then vibrate against the spike and pass through it to the microphone. He moved to the window and checked the distance between it and the adjoining window. Young’s room. Ten feet. Maybe twelve. But there was no way across to it. Then he noticed the steel ladder on the far side of Young’s window. He presumed it went all the way to the roof because he couldn’t see anything in the darkness above him. It would have to be checked out.

He put the spike mike in his pocket and left the room, locking the door behind him. The fire stairs to the roof were at the end of the corridor. He took them two at a time and climbed out of the hatch on to the flat roof. The top of the ladder was visible from where he stood.

He crossed to it and peered down into the alleyway below. It was deserted. He gripped the ladder in both hands and shook it violently.

It held firm. He then clamped the spike mike between his teeth and descended the ladder to what was, he calculated, Young’s window. The ladder was further away from the window than he had initially thought.

Probably to dissuade burglars. He reached out towards the window. The frame was just in reach. That was enough. He locked one arm around the ladder then leaned across and tried to push the tip of the microphone into the wood. He was hoping it would be old and brittle, but his hopes were dashed. The wood was hard. He wiped the sweat from his face, then leaned over again and began to screw the spike into the wood. His arm was aching by the time the microphone was secure. He looked at his watch. He still had eight minutes to spare.

The window was suddenly pushed up. He pressed himself tightly against the ladder, not daring to move in case the slightest noise carried into the bedroom. Young rested his hands on the frame. He had been gone only a few minutes. Why had he returned? Then Whitlock noticed a woman in the alleyway beneath him. It looked like the prostitute he had seen earlier in the boarding house. Young leaned out of the window as she passed, his face turned away from Whitlock. He whistled at her.

Whitlock held his breath, knowing he would be spotted if she looked up at Young. She didn’t. Instead she held up her middle finger, then disappeared out into the street. Young laughed and ducked his head back into the room, closing the window. Whitlock exhaled deeply. He couldn’t believe his luck. But he didn’t intend to push it. He climbed back up to the roof, pausing a bare minute to wipe the sweat from his face with a handkerchief before returning to his room and locking the door behind him. He set up the apparatus but used only one of the headphones to see if the microphone was actually working. Silence. He checked the receiver unit. It was definitely working. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall, willing Young to make some kind of noise. Still silence. He wiped his face again and tossed the handkerchief onto the bed. There was a sudden metallic click in the headphone. He frowned, then smiled to himself when he realized what had made the noise. Young had opened a can of beer. So that was why he had come back early. He had decided to drink in his room. Then he heard the familiar sound of the telephone being picked up. He positioned a pillow behind him, then sat back against the headboard and slipped both headphones over his ears.

‘Yes, good evening. Richard Wiseman, please.’ The reception was excellent. It was almost as if Young was in the same room.

‘Good evening, sir,’ Young said. There was a pause while Wiseman spoke.

‘Yes sir, I met with the informer. I got all the information I need from him.’ Pause.

‘Including the name of the man who pulled the trigger. He’s called Ubrino, he’s a senior Brigatista here in Rome.’ Pause.

‘No, sir, he seems to have vanished. But I don’t anticipate any problems tracking him down.’ Longer pause.

‘The other three members the informer mentioned were Pisani, head of the Red Brigades, and his two deputies, Zocchi and Calvieri. They’re both brigade chiefs. Zocchi here in Rome and Calvieri in Milan. Zocchi’s in jail so we won’t be able to get to him, at least not straight away.’ Pause.

‘No sir, Alexander doesn’t know the names. I thought it best to tell him as little as possible. I still say he’s a liability.’ Pause.

‘I’d prefer to see him dead. He already knows too much.’ Longer pause.

‘I appreciate that, sir. I’ll call you again in the morning. Good night, sir.’ The receiver was replaced.

Whitlock removed the headphones, then put the apparatus back in the suitcase and locked the cupboard door. He sat on the bed again, his mind racing. Were all four Brigatisti now on Young’s hit list?

Including Calvieri? He had to pass the information on to Kolchinsky but there would be no time before they went out again. And where were they going? Was Young going to make his first hit? If so, who was his intended target? He knew Young wouldn’t tell him anything. That much was evident. And what had Young meant by, ‘I appreciate that, sir.’?

Appreciate that Wiseman was in charge and that he wanted Young to leave Alexander alone? Or did he appreciate the chance to kill Alexander?

Whitlock cursed softly to himself. If only he could have heard what Wiseman had said. He wanted to arm himself. He felt naked without his Browning. But Alexander never used firearms. And Young would know that. He couldn’t afford to take that chance, it could blow his cover.

His wits against Young’s firepower. He didn’t fancy the odds, not one little bit… There was a knock at the door. Whitlock answered it. Young stood in the doorway, the can of beer in his hand.

‘Let’s go.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll direct you there.’

Whitlock slammed the door angrily behind him and headed for the stairs. Young took another mouthful of beer, then left the can by the door and hurried after Whitlock.

Sabrina closed La Repubblica, got to her feet and moved to the window where she looked out across the brightly lit city, evoking memories of her previous visits to Rome. The first visit was the one she remembered best, mainly because it was a painful reminder of the way she used to be. The plane ticket had been a twenty-first birthday present from her parents and she had gone with three of her girlfriends from the Sorbonne, where she had been doing her postgraduate degree. She didn’t see any of the city’s heritage in those two weeks. Their nights were spent at clubs and discos and their days in bed recovering from the night before. And then there were the one-night stands…

She turned away from the window and shook her head slowly to herself. It was hard for her to believe that she had once been so immature. Not that it had ended there. After leaving the Sorbonne she had become one of the most sought-after debutantes in Europe. She had attended all the exclusive parties, rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous, and regularly had to fend off proposals of marriage from men old enough to be her grandfather. Then, when she tired of the parties, she found herself another passion: motor racing. It came to a head when she crashed her Porsche at Le Mans. She had severe bone fractures and a punctured lung. She spent the next four months in the American Hospital of Paris and came to realize that her life was going nowhere. She needed purpose and direction. She had joined the FBI on her release from hospital and it had given her the maturity she needed to make the transition to UNACO. You’ve come a long way, she thought to herself, and when she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror she noticed the faint smile of satisfaction on her face.

There was a knock at the door. She peered through the spy hole. It was Paluzzi. She opened the door and invited him in. He looked around the room.

‘Mike and Sergei not back, then?’

She closed the door. ‘I thought they were with you.’

He recounted the evening’s events.

‘I knocked on their doors but there was no reply. I thought they might be with you.’

‘I haven’t heard from them. I presume they must still be at the hospital.’

Paluzzi nodded, then indicated the armchair by the window.

‘May I?’

‘Of course,’ she replied with a sheepish grin. ‘Sorry, my mind was elsewhere. Can I get you a drink?’

‘A soft drink, perhaps. Soda water?’

She took a bottle of soda water from the fridge.

He told her not to bother with a glass and took a long swallow from the bottle, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘That’s better. It’s been quite a day.’

‘But hardly constructive,’ she replied, sitting on the bed. ‘We’re just clutching at straws, aren’t we? What chance have we got realistically of finding Ubrino before the deadline on Thursday?’

‘Not much, I’m afraid. We could certainly do with a bit of luck.’

Paluzzi took a sip, then pointed the neck of the bottle at Sabrina.

‘Conte’s our only hope now. The doctors are confident he’ll regain consciousness. It’s just a matter of when.’

‘And you think he knows where Ubrino’s hiding?’

‘It’s obvious that Ubrino’s orders were to kill the rest of his team once he had the vial. That’s borne out by Nardi’s murder as well as the attempt to try and kill Conte. Why else would he have been told to kill them, unless they already knew too much about the operation?’

‘I see your point. It’s still a long shot, though.’

‘I agree. But as you said, what chance have we got of finding Ubrino before Thursday? We have to bank on long shots now.’

They lapsed into a thoughtful silence which was interrupted moments later by the telephone ringing. Sabrina answered it. Paluzzi crossed to the window while she talked.

‘That was Calvieri,’ she said, replacing the receiver. ‘He’s had another tip-off. This time in Rome.’

‘Did he think it was genuine?’

‘All he said was that it was an anonymous call. It certainly smells like a trap.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s got to be checked out anyway.’

The telephone rang again.

‘That’s probably for me,’ he said as she picked up the handset.

She listened momentarily, then nodded and passed the receiver to him. She went to the cupboard to get her Beretta and shoulder holster.

‘Calvieri did receive an anonymous call,’ he said, hanging up.

She looked round at him as she strapped the holster over her T-shirt.

‘Who was that?’

‘One of the men in the van.’

‘What van?’

He jabbed his thumb towards the window.

‘I’ve got two men out there monitoring all Calvieri’s calls. I told you about it at HQ.’

‘No you didn’t,’ she replied, shaking her head.

‘Sorry, I thought I’d told you. We put a tap on his phone and planted a couple of bugs in his room while the two of you were in Venice. I’m sure he suspects he’s being bugged but it’s worth a try anyway.’

She pulled on a jacket.

‘Is he being tailed?’

‘When he goes out by himself.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing.’

There was a knock at the door. She answered it and ushered Calvieri into the room.

‘Evening, Paluzzi. I presume Sabrina’s told you about the tip-off.’

‘Anonymous, I believe? How original.’

‘All I was told was that he’s been spotted at one of the safe houses here in Rome.’

‘Do you think it’s a trap?’ Paluzzi asked.

‘It’s possible. As you know, I’m not very popular any more with the Brigatisti here in Rome. Most of them would gladly put a gun to my head and pull the trigger.’

‘Do you want back-up?’ Paluzzi asked.

‘No, definitely not,’ Calvieri insisted. ‘The last thing we need is a gun battle in the street.’

‘Are you armed?’ Sabrina asked.

Calvieri nodded.

‘A Heckler & Koch P9,’ Paluzzi said, looking at Sabrina. ‘But don’t rely on him to cover your back. He never uses it.’

‘I’ve never been known to use it. There is a difference.’

There was an uneasy silence as the two men stared contemptuously at each other.

‘Fabio, you’re welcome to wait here for Mike and Sergei,’ Sabrina said, deliberately stepping between them. ‘They should be back any time now.’

‘Thanks,’ Paluzzi replied. ‘I will. Take care of yourself.’

She smiled reassuringly and followed Calvieri from the room.

The small red-brick house, bordered by a neatly trimmed hedge, was a typical example of a Red Brigades safe house. An inconspicuous building in the heart of suburbia.

Calvieri pulled up opposite the house and killed the engine. He looked at it. A paved footpath, flanked by well-tended flowerbeds, led up to the front door which was illuminated by a subtle entrance light. The only other light came from behind the drawn curtains in the room to the left of the door. He checked out the garage to the right of the house.

An Alfa Romeo Alfetta stood in the drive in front of the closed garage door.

‘Why didn’t you just ring ahead and tell them we were coming?’ Sabrina said sarcastically beside him.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Whoever’s in there will have seen the car the moment we pulled up. Why didn’t you park at the end of the street? At least then we would have had the option of using either the front or the back of the house to gain entry. Now we’ve lost the element of surprise.’

‘There is no back.’

‘How do you know?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘I’ve used this house before when I was stationed here. It backs on to the house directly behind it. The only way in from the street is through the front door. The only other way out is through the garage. So you see, we don’t have any option. We have to use the front door.’

‘And get shot before we’re halfway up the garden path?’

‘A bit melodramatic, don’t you think?’ He got out of the car and made a sweeping gesture with his arm. ‘This is suburbia. Anything suspicious and the police would be here in a flash. And that would mean the discovery of the safe house. So what use would it be? No, if they’re going to spring a trap it will be inside the house, away from prying eyes.’

‘What do you suggest we do?’

‘Use the front door, what else? I have my skeleton keys with me, one of them is sure to fit the lock. If Ubrino is in there his only way out will be through the garage. You wait out here in case he shows.’

‘Why don’t I go in and you wait out here?’

‘I know the house, Sabrina. It’s got several places where someone could hide in an emergency. You don’t know where they are.’

‘Then we go in together.’ She noticed the uncertainty in his eyes. ‘Let me put it another way for you. Either I go in with you or else I call Paluzzi and have his men go in with me. The choice is yours.’

‘Some choice.’ He opened the gate and looked at the garage.

‘He couldn’t get out there anyway.’

‘Why not?’

‘The car’s parked against the garage door. He’d have to use the front door.’

They approached the front door cautiously, their hands holding the guns in their pockets. The door was ajar. They exchanged wary glances.

Calvieri ran his fingers lightly down the jamb to check for any booby-trapped wires. Nothing. He eased the door open with his fingertips. The hallway was deserted. She took the Beretta from her pocket and slipped past him into the hallway. He closed the door behind them and followed her. She pointed to the first door on the left. He nodded and took the Heckler & Koch P9 from his pocket, his eye continually darting towards the other closed doors leading off from the hallway. She pressed herself against the wall and indicated that he should do the same on the other side of the door.

‘I’ll go in first,’ she whispered.

He nodded reluctantly.

She curled her fingers around the handle then shoved open the door and dived low into the room, fanning it with her Beretta. There was only one man in the room. He was seated in an armchair facing the door. It wasn’t Ubrino. He was a heavyset man in his forties with black hair slicked back from a craggy face.

She got up on to one knee, the Beretta aimed at his chest.

‘On your feet, very slowly. And keep your hands where I can see them.’

He looked past her and smiled when Calvieri appeared in the doorway.

‘I’m impressed, Tony. Your new bodyguard?’

Calvieri lowered his gun.

‘I might have guessed. What are you doing here, Luigi?’

‘You know him?’ Sabrina asked.

‘Unfortunately, yes. Luigi Rocca, one of Zocchi’s more repulsive puppets.’

‘I’d mind my tongue if I were you, Tony. My men don’t take too kindly to me being insulted by someone like you. Look behind you.’

Calvieri looked round slowly, his nerves taut. Two men had emerged from the opposite room. Both were armed with AK-74 assault rifles.

‘Drop the gun, Tony.’ Rocca looked at Sabrina. ‘You too, bella.’

Calvieri let the P9 fall from his fingers. One of the men retrieved it.

Sabrina stared at the two Kalashnikovs pointing at her and reluctantly tossed her gun on to the floor. The same man picked it up.

‘You never answered my question, Luigi,’ Calvieri said, coming into the room.

‘I will, in time. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your beautiful companion?’

‘Her name’s Sabrina Trestelli. She’s a graduate of Trento University.’

‘Beauty and brains. Pity you chose to join the wrong cell, bella.’ Rocca beckoned the two men forward. ‘Entertain the lady while I talk to Signore Calvieri.’

‘Whatever you have to say to me can be said in front of her,’ Calvieri said, looking round as the two men approached her.

The first man grabbed her arm. She brought her knee up sharply into his groin. He shrieked in pain and crumpled to the floor.

‘Touch me and I’ll break your arm,’ she snarled menacingly at the second man.

He looked hesitantly to Rocca for instructions.

‘Leave her,’ Rocca said, then gestured dismissively at the man gasping on the floor.

‘Take him away. Wait outside for me. I’ll call if I need you.’

The man helped his colleague from the room and closed the door behind them.

Rocca got to his feet and crossed to a side table. They both refused his offer of a drink. He poured himself a whisky, then resumed his seat and pointed to the couch behind them. Obediently they both sat down.

‘This has gone far enough, Luigi. What do you want?’

‘Answers,’ Rocca replied, and took a sip of whisky.

‘Answers to what?’ Calvieri demanded.

Rocca ran his palm over his greasy hair.

‘I’m in charge now that Signore Zocchi and Ubrino are allegedly indisposed. I use the word ‘allegedly’ because the city’s been rife with rumours, counter-rumours and accusations ever since the break-in at the Neo-Chem plant on Sunday night. I have to reassure my Brigatisti, Tony, that’s why I lured you out here. I need answers, and I need them quickly.’

‘Then I suggest you make an appointment to see Signore Pisani and discuss your problems with him.’

‘Credit me with some intelligence, Tony. Pisani’s dying. He’s nothing more than a figurehead now. You’ve been running the show for the past few months, not him.’

‘Who told you that? Zocchi?’ Calvieri could see he was right by the look in Rocca’s eyes. ‘I thought as much. And you’re the one complaining about rumours? Signore Pisani is dying, we all know that, but to say that he doesn’t play an active part in the running of the Red Brigades any more is complete nonsense. Who do you think sent me to Rome to find Ubrino? I certainly didn’t send myself. I’m here on his specific instructions. Signore Pisani will tell us when he wants to stand down. But until then he is still our leader. So that’s one rumour quashed already.’

‘What about the rumour that Zocchi’s dead?’ Rocca said, then drank down the rest of his whisky. ‘That’s why the prison’s been sealed off.’

‘The prison’s been sealed off because of an outbreak of acute conjunctivitis. I know for a fact that Signore Pisani spoke with one of the doctors who went to treat the prisoners. He saw Zocchi. That was yesterday afternoon. It’s possible that Zocchi could have been killed since then, we’ve no way of confirming or denying that. But look at it logically. If something had happened to him, I think the committee would have heard about it by now.’

‘What’s the doctor’s name?’

‘Are you questioning Signore Pisani’s word?’ Calvieri demanded angrily.

‘I just want to talk to the doctor myself,’ Rocca said defensively.

‘So you’re calling him a liar.’

‘Of course not, but how can I be expected to answer these rumours unless I have the facts at my disposal?’

‘I’ve told you already, call a meeting with Signore Pisani. He’ll understand your predicament.’ Calvieri stood up. ‘If that’s all, I’ve got a busy day ahead of me.’

‘Why are you looking for Ubrino?’ Rocca asked suddenly. ‘What did he take from the plant?’

‘That doesn’t concern you.’

‘I have a right to know!’ Rocca snapped, banging his fist angrily on the arm of the chair. He waved the guard away when the door opened. ‘You’re in my city, Tony. That makes it my concern.’

‘Signore Pisani will call a committee meeting early next week to discuss the implications of the Neo-Chem affair. I’m not at liberty to say anything until then.’

‘If you survive that long.’ Rocca reached for his cigarettes on the table and lit one. ‘There’s a lot of ill-feeling among the younger Brigatisti who resent the way you’re hunting down Ubrino like some wild animal. A contract’s been put out on you. I can’t guarantee your safety here in Rome any more.’

‘So that’s what this is all about. You can’t control your minions and you’re scared that if anything were to happen to me before contact’s made with Zocchi, it could jeopardize your chances of ever reaching brigade chief.’

‘It’s got nothing to do with that!’ Rocca snapped indignantly. ‘I’m warning you. Get out of Rome, you’re not welcome here any more.’

‘I’ll get out when I know Ubrino’s not here. Not before.’

Calvieri paused at the door and looked back at Rocca.

‘I’m right, though. If something were to happen to me it would reflect very badly on you. You’d never make brigade chief. You’d be lucky to remain a cell commander.’

Rocca waited until Calvieri and Sabrina had left, then stubbed out his cigarette angrily and reached for the telephone.

The armed guard approached the fifteen-foot wrought-iron gate and shone his torch through the bars at the Alfa Romeo Alfetta outside. Rocca made no attempt to shield his eyes from the glare of the torch, and activating the driver’s window, he shouted to the guard that he had an appointment to see Nicola Pisani. The guard contacted the house on his two-way radio to confirm the appointment then used a remote control to open the gates. Rocca drove through and the guard immediately closed the gates behind him.

Whitlock and Young had seen the Alfa Romeo Alfetta enter the grounds from their Seat Ibiza parked at the end of the street.

‘What now?’ Whitlock asked.

‘It doesn’t change anything,’ Young replied, stubbing out his cigarette among the half-dozen butts already in the ashtray. ‘I’m still going in.’

Whitlock stared ahead of him. Whose house was it? Young had refused to tell him anything, saying the less he knew, the better it would be for him. He could only assume the house belonged to a senior Brigatista.

Possibly even Pisani. But he couldn’t be sure. It left him feeling helpless and frustrated. And he still hadn’t managed to contact Kolchinsky. That worried him. What if Young was about to blunder in on Ubrino’s hideout? Not that he could do anything about it, not without compromising his own cover.

‘Let’s go,’ Young said, getting out of the car.

Whitlock climbed out from behind the wheel and pocketed the keys. He looked at Young who was dressed completely in black, a sinister figure.

Young pulled a black balaclava over his head then took a silenced Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine-gun from the back of the car and slung it over his shoulder. Whitlock followed him to the eight-foot-high perimeter wall and after glancing the length of the deserted street he cupped his hands together to give him a foothold to reach the top of the wall. Young hauled himself up on to the wall, careful to avoid the tripwire alarm, and looked down into the garden, choosing the spot where he wanted to land. He dropped the submachine-gun over, then jumped nimbly into the garden, rolling with the fall as he hit the ground. He retrieved the gun and sprinted to the nearest tree where he paused to catch his breath. Then, taking a night-vision scope from the pouch on his belt, he surveyed the house and its surroundings. Where were the guards? A moment later he spotted one close to the house, an Alsatian at his side. Young moved forward cautiously, darting from tree to tree, until he was within twenty yards of the house. The dog suddenly stopped and looked towards him. Had it sensed him? He screwed up his face as the sweat burnt into his eyes but he made no attempt to wipe it away.

Any sudden movement would certainly alert the dog. The guard looked from the dog to the trees but was unable to see anything in the darkness. He spoke softly to the Alsatian then reached down and unleashed it.

Young unslung the submachine-gun as the dog bore down on him. He swallowed nervously and curled his finger around the trigger. It wasn’t so much killing the dog as stopping it. Even if he did kill it, its momentum could carry it forward on to him. He could be knocked out.

Stunned, certainly, and that would give the guard time to open fire. He aimed low, taking out the dog’s front legs. It yelped in agony as it fell, face first, to the ground. The guard was still raising his Kalashnikov when Young shot him twice in the chest, knocking him back into the flowerbed bordering the porch. The dog was trying pitifully to stand up, its bloodied legs buckled grotesquely underneath its chest. He shot it through the head. Its body jerked, then it fell heavily on to its side. He remained on one knee, waiting for any sign of the other guards. When none appeared he got to his feet and dragged the dog behind the nearest tree. He crossed to where the guard lay and picked up the Kalashnikov, ejected the clip, and tossed them both into a bush.

He rolled the guard underneath the steps, then tiptoed up on to the porch. He crouched beside the window and peered discreetly through the net curtains. The television set was on but the room was empty.

‘Si alzi!’ a voice barked behind him, telling him to get up.

Young shifted uncertainly on his haunches, not understanding the order. He tightened his grip on the submachine-gun as he monitored the guard’s movements in the reflection of the window. The guard stepped forward and prodded Young in the back with his rifle. Young launched himself backwards, knocking the guard off-balance. He landed on his back, then rolled sideways and shot the guard through the head. The guard’s body hit the wooden railing, which broke under his weight and he fell off the porch into the flowerbed. Young cursed silently.

He had no time to hide the body for the other guards would certainly have been alerted by the sound of breaking wood. He moved to the door and tried the handle. The door swung open. He locked it behind him, then moved cautiously up the hallway, swivelling round to face each door, the submachine-gun gripped tightly in both hands.

Then he was aware of a movement at the top of the stairs. The driver of the Alfa Romeo Alfetta. Rocca got off a single shot before Young returned fire. Rocca’s shot was off target. Young’s burst peppered the wall inches from where Rocca was standing. Rocca dived to the ground.

Young, sensing the advantage, hurried up the stairs but when he reached the top and swivelled round to fan the hallway Rocca was already gone. He knew he didn’t have time to waste. He had to find Pisani before any more guards arrived. But where was he? He could be anywhere in the house. What if he had been moved when the shooting started? Young knew there was only one way of finding out. He pressed himself against the wall beside the first door then reached out and opened it. Nothing. He swivelled round and fanned the room with his submachine-gun. An empty bathroom. He moved to the second door and opened it. A bedroom. Again, empty. He looked round anxiously when he heard the sound of banging on the reinforced front door. Then he heard the sound of breaking glass. A window? He had been sure all the ground-floor windows would be protected with burglar alarms. Had the guards found another way in? How many of them were there? He turned his attention back to the third door and pushed it open.

Two bullets echoed out, slamming harmlessly into the wall. Young flung himself low through the doorway, already firing before he hit the carpet. One of the bullets took Rocca high in the shoulder. The Bernadelli spun from his hand. Young glanced at the ashen-faced man sitting in the corner of the room with a blanket around his legs.

Pisani. He recognized him from one of the photographs in the envelope he had taken from Ramona. He kicked the Bernadelli underneath the bed then reached behind him and locked the door without taking his eyes off either man. Pisani remained motionless in his chair, his eyes riveted on Young. Rocca stood in the middle of the room, his left hand clutching his right shoulder. His fingers were covered in blood. Young shot him through the head. Rocca fell back against the wall and slid lifelessly to the floor, his hand leaving a smear of blood on the white embossed wallpaper. Young trained the submachine-gun on Pisani.

‘I am glad to see that you are a professional,’ Pisani said softly, then coughed violently, his face clenched against the agonizing pain. He wiped the spittle from his lips with the back of his hand. ‘The doctors have given me two months to live, three at the most.’

‘How did you know I spoke English?’

‘Word gets around when a foreigner asks delicate questions about the Red Brigades. We are a very close family, especially here in Rome. Unfortunately Johnny Ramona defied my instructions and passed certain information on to you. He always was greedy. At least you saved us the trouble of disciplining him.’

The door handle was tried from the outside. A voice called out in Italian. Still smiling at Young, Pisani slipped his hand deftly underneath the blanket. Young reacted faster, and shot him through the head. Pisani slumped back in the chair, a trickle of blood running down the bridge of his nose and on to his pallid cheek. The blanket slipped from his legs. Young was momentarily puzzled.

There had been no weapon secreted beneath it. Then it suddenly made sense. Pisani had wanted to die, it was an escape from the agony of his cancer. He had tricked Young, knowing that as a professional he would kill him. He hadn’t wanted the guards to save him.

Young ran to the window and pushed it open. The roof sloped at a forty-five-degree angle with a twelve-foot drop to the garden. A bullet splintered the door behind him. Then another. He scrambled out on to the sill and a bullet cracked inches from his head. He overbalanced, slid down the roof, catching his elbow painfully on the gutter, and landed heavily on the grass. He remained on his back, winded by the fall. The guard who had shot at him appeared over him, the AK-47 gripped tightly in his hands. He was barely out of his teens, and he was nervous. Young glanced towards his own submachine-gun. It was out of reach. He still had an ace to play: the switchblade strapped to his left wrist.

He struggled to sit up, then clutched his wrist, feigning a look of intense pain, and had successfully palmed the switchblade by the time the youth prodded him with the Kalashnikov, telling him to stand up. A face appeared at the bedroom window. The youth instinctively looked up.

Young lunged at him, springing the blade in the second before he drove it into the unprotected body. He grabbed the Kalashnikov from the youth’s hands and sprayed the windows with gunfire, forcing the guard to dive for cover. He discarded the Kalashnikov, picked up his own submachine-gun and sprinted to the temporary sanctuary of the trees, where he undipped a two-way radio from his belt and told Whitlock that he was on his way. He looked back towards the house. Nothing moved. He made his way through the trees until he saw the main gates ahead of him.

Although he could see the small hut beside it, he couldn’t tell if there was anyone inside. He inched his way forward.

Then he saw the guard standing outside the gate. The remote control to activate the gates was clipped to his belt. Young cursed angrily under his breath. He was trapped. He only had one option open to him. He reluctantly undipped his two-way radio and called Whitlock again.

Whitlock put the two-way radio back on to the dashboard, got out of the car and walked slowly down the street, his hands dug into his pockets.

The guard saw him but made no attempt to conceal his Kalashnikov. Whitlock smiled at him in greeting, then took Young’s cigarettes from his pocket and pushed one between his lips. He made a show of patting pockets for matches, then crossed the road to where the guard was standing.

‘Ha da accendere,‘ he asked, using his limited Italian.

The guard shook his head and waved him away from the gates. Whitlock feigned to his left then pivoted round and caught the guard on the chin with a perfectly timed haymaker. The guard was unconscious before he hit the ground. Whitlock winced as he flexed his hand painfully. He removed the remote control from the guard’s belt and opened the gates.

Young slipped out into the street and Whitlock immediately closed the gates behind him. Young took the remote control from Whitlock, wiped it clean of fingerprints, then tossed it down the nearest drain. They ran back to the car. Whitlock started the engine and pulled out into the road. Young removed his gloves, balaclava and sweatshirt then reached behind him for a holdall from which he took a white T-shirt and pulled it on, tucking it into his trousers. He stuffed the gloves, balaclava, sweatshirt and the submachine-gun into the holdall then ruffled his blond hair and picked up his cigarettes from the dashboard.

‘Seems like you needed me after all,’ Whitlock said with evident satisfaction.

Young inhaled deeply on the cigarette but remained silent.

‘Can I at least know now who you hit?’ Whitlock bit back his anger when Young continued to say nothing. ‘It’s going to be in all the papers tomorrow.’

‘So ask the receptionist to reserve you a couple.’ Young wiped his forearm across his sweating face. ‘We have to dump the car. We can drop it off at the rental agency and get another one on the way back to the hotel.’

‘That’s too obvious. If the police do get a description of the car they’re sure to check with the rental agencies. Taking it back to the rental agency so soon after the crime would certainly arouse suspicion. I say we dump it in a car-park and hire a new one from a different agency in the morning.’

Young nodded in agreement and flicked his half-smoked cigarette out of the window. He closed his eyes and remained silent for the rest of the journey back to the boarding house.

Sabrina and Calvieri returned to the hotel and went straight to her room. Kolchinsky answered the door.

‘How’s Mike?’ she asked before Kolchinsky could say anything.

‘Ask him yourself,’ Kolchinsky said, gesturing behind him.

She winced at the discoloured bruise on the side of Graham’s face as she crossed to the bed and sat down beside him.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘I’m okay,’ he replied dismissively. ‘How did you get on?’

‘We didn’t,’ she replied, despondent, and told them what had happened.

‘Is there any chance of this Rocca discovering the truth ?’ Kolchinsky asked Calvieri.

‘No,’ Calvieri replied.

‘Only Signore Pisani and I know about the vial. And Signore Pisani won’t tell him anything.’

‘Rocca’s not a problem,’ Paluzzi said from his chair by the window. ‘He couldn’t find his way out of a floodlit alley without asking for directions. You have to understand that the entire Rome cell of the Red Brigades was geared around Zocchi. He was the kingpin. The decision-maker, if you like. Ubrino and Rocca are good lieutenants in that they were able to see that Zocchi’s orders were carried out successfully. But neither of them is capable of running a cell, least of all the one here in Rome. It’s by far the most complex of all the Red Brigades’ cells. That’s why there are so many rumours around at the moment. Rocca doesn’t have the ability or the experience to deal with the situation. Zocchi, on the other hand, would have quashed them within hours.’

‘Paluzzi’s right,’ Calvieri said grudgingly, then sat down in the chair on the other side of the window. ‘Zocchi ran Rome as a one-man show. The cell is in chaos now, as Sabrina saw for herself tonight. It’s going to take a lot of hard work to pull it round again.’

‘At least something good has come out of all this,’ Graham said, eyeing Calvieri coldly.

‘Sabrina tells me you knew Nikki Karos,’ Kolchinsky said, breaking the lingering silence.

Calvieri nodded.

‘I’ve had dealings with him in the past. Strictly on a business level. His sort are anathema to me. Capitalists, driven by greed and power. The very basis of corruption in our so-called “free society”.’

‘Spare us the lecture, Calvieri,’ Graham snapped. ‘What about the Francia brothers? Do you know them as well? Strictly on a business level, of course.’

Calvieri smiled faintly at Graham’s irony. ‘I know of them. But I’ve never met them, if that’s what you mean.’

The telephone rang.

Sabrina answered it, then put her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Tony, it’s for you.’

Calvieri took the receiver from her. He was pale with shock when he replaced it a minute later.

‘What’s wrong?’ Kolchinsky asked.

‘Signore Pisani’s dead,’ Calvieri replied softly. ‘He was shot.’

‘What happened?’ Sabrina asked.

‘The details are still sketchy at the moment. All I know is that a masked gunman got into Signore Pisani’s house and shot him, Rocca and four other Brigatisti. The only clue we have is that the gunman’s accomplice was black.’ Calvieri shook his head in disbelief. ‘I only spoke to Signore Pisani a couple of hours ago. You’ll have to excuse me. I must get over there straight away to initiate our own investigation.’ He noticed the uncertainty in Kolchinsky’s eyes. ‘I’ll still be working with you. That hasn’t changed. It’s what Signore Pisani would have wanted. I’ll arrange for one of the other brigade chiefs to take charge but I need to be there until he arrives.’

‘Any idea when you’ll be back?’ Kolchinsky asked.

‘Hopefully by the morning.’ Calvieri took a notebook from his pocket, wrote down Pisani’s telephone number, and handed the sheet of paper to Kolchinsky.‘I’ll be there if you need me.’

Kolchinsky waited until Calvieri had closed the door behind him, then slumped into the vacant chair beside the window.

‘Black accomplice. No prizes for guessing who that was.’

‘But why Pisani?’ Paluzzi said with a frown. ‘He knew nothing about the break-in until it was broadcast on the radio the next day.’

‘Young wouldn’t have known that,’ Sabrina replied. ‘To him Pisani was a legitimate target.’

‘If that’s the case then he could be intent on wiping out the entire committee,’ Paluzzi said. ‘That’s the last thing we need.’

‘I don’t understand your concern,’ Graham said to Paluzzi. ‘Young would be doing you a favour by wiping out this committee, as you call it. It would throw the Red Brigades into total chaos.’

‘God forbid. I know these committee members inside out. Bring in a load of new faces and all that painstaking work’s gone out of the window. I’d have to start the whole process again from scratch. We’d also lose our mole. And there’d be no way we could replace him. Not at that level.’

Graham stood up. He crossed to the door then swung round to face Paluzzi, his eyes blazing.

‘It’s the same old story, isn’t it? Better the devil you know! Instead of trying to smash the backbone of this committee you take the easy way out and leave them where they are because that way you can keep tabs on them and rap them on the knuckles when they step out of line. That makes you an accomplice, Fabio. You’re no better than they are.’

‘I can understand your bitterness, Mike–’

‘Can you really?’ Graham cut in with biting sarcasm. ‘Your family hasn’t been butchered by terrorists in the name of some cause the anarchistic bastards don’t even understand.’

‘Mike–’

‘Stay out of this, Sabrina,’ Graham snarled, without taking his eyes off Paluzzi.

‘You just can’t accept what you did in Libya, can you?’ Sabrina stood up and approached Graham. ‘And because of that you’ll find any excuse to attack others for what you regard as your own mistakes.’

‘Sit down, Sabrina,’ Graham whispered in a threatening tone.

‘No, not this time. This needs to be said. It’s long overdue.’ She held his withering stare.

‘You knew the risks when you joined Delta. So did Carrie. That’s why she asked you to get a desk job. You refused because you knew you wouldn’t last five minutes closed up in some office. You’re a field operative. One of the best. It’s where you belong. She knew that too. She may have never said it but deep down inside she knew you were right. Why else do you think she stood by you? And that’s what made your decision in Libya the right one. It’s what she would have wanted you to do. Why don’t you let yourself see that, Mike? Why?’

Graham’s fists were clenched tightly at his sides. She thought for a moment that he was going to hit her. Then he spun round and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Kolchinsky shook his head despairingly, then rubbed his hands over his face.

‘Well done, Sabrina. You know exactly what he’s like when he gets into one of his moods. That’s all we need at a time like this.’

‘It had to be said, Sergei,’ Sabrina replied.

‘Don’t you think your timing could have been a little better? We’ve got thirty-six hours left before the deadline. This was supposed to be a briefing.’ Kolchinsky banged his fist angrily on the arm of the chair. ‘Next time you want to stir up his memories, try to be a bit more subtle about it. You, of all people, should know how touchy he is about Carrie and little Mikey.’

‘Precisely,’ she shot back. ‘Whenever their names are mentioned everyone clears their throats and someone quickly changes the subject. What good can that do him? It can only make him feel even more guilty than he already feels. The only way to help him is to make him confront the guilt that’s eating away inside him.’

Kolchinsky sighed deeply, then gestured to the telephone.

‘Just order some coffee, will you?’

She sat on the bed and picked up the receiver. ‘Fabio?’

‘Coffee would be good, thank you. And something to eat, if possible. I’m famished.’

She ordered three coffees and some sandwiches from room service, then hung up and turned back to Kolchinsky.

‘You know I’m right, Sergei.’

‘Let’s drop the subject, shall we?’

There was a knock at the door. Sabrina answered it. She had never seen the man before. He asked to speak to Paluzzi. The two men spoke in the doorway for several minutes and when Paluzzi returned to his chair he was carrying a folder.

‘What was all that about?’ Kolchinsky asked.

‘It was one of the men from HQ,’ Paluzzi replied, sitting down and opening the file. ‘I’ve had several teams working on the case from different angles. These are their reports.’

‘Have they come up with anything?’ Sabrina asked, as he sorted through the sheets of paper.

‘The warder at the prison was shown a picture of a Gazelle similar to the one Tommaso Francia used on Corfu. He’s positive that it’s the same make of helicopter used in the Zocchi murder.’

‘This case gets more baffling by the minute,’ Kolchinsky said with a weary sigh. ‘Zocchi and Karos hire the Francia brothers. Then they’re killed by them. It doesn’t make sense.’

‘Perhaps there’s a third party involved,’ Sabrina ventured.

Paluzzi shook his head. ‘I can’t see it. I’m sure Karos would have told us if there were.’

‘But he was killed before you had a chance to question him fully,’ Sabrina said.

‘True, but he was quick to finger Zocchi. Why not finger the third party as well, if one was involved?’

‘Perhaps too quick?’ Kolchinsky mused thoughtfully.

Sabrina looked at Kolchinsky. ‘You think Karos fingered Zocchi deliberately to throw us off the scent of his real partner? It would certainly account for the murders.’

‘Fabio, what do you think?’

Paluzzi shook his head.

‘Why?’ Sabrina asked.

‘It all comes back to Ubrino. He was totally dependent on Zocchi. He never did anything without first consulting him. No, Zocchi had to be involved somewhere along the line.’

‘What else did your men come up with?’ Kolchinsky asked, breaking the sudden silence.

‘It seems Vittore Dragotti, the sales manager at Neo-Chem Industries, was in serious financial difficulty at the time of his death. That would explain why he was acting as the middleman between Karos and Wiseman.’

‘And still no sign of the money Karos paid to Wiseman ?’ Kolchinsky asked.

‘His bank accounts have been turned inside out. Both here and in America. Nothing. It’s probably stuck away in some numbered Swiss account.’

There was another knock at the door. Sabrina answered it again, this time admitting the waiter with the tray, which he deposited on the table between Kolchinsky and Paluzzi.

Sabrina poured out three cups of coffee, added a dash of milk to her own, then retreated to the bed.

‘Aren’t you eating?’ Paluzzi asked her.

‘I ate earlier. And anyway, it’s white bread. I never touch it.’ She smiled wryly. ‘I have enough trouble as it is keeping in shape.’

‘There I have to disagree,’ Paluzzi said gallantly.

‘Have you finished translating those dossiers on Boudien and the Francia brothers?’ Kolchinsky interrupted, selecting a sandwich from the pile on the plate.

She nodded and pulled the dossiers out from the bedside cabinet. She returned them to Paluzzi and handed a photocopy of her translation to Kolchinsky.

‘I’ll give Mike his when I see him again.’

‘You’ll give it to him tonight. He has to be kept up to date.’

‘Thanks,’ she replied, screwing up her face.

‘It’s your fault he stormed out in the first place. And get your act together. Both of you. There’s no room for personal squabbles at a time like this. We have to pull together as a team. If either of you can’t accept that, I’ll have you replaced.’

She nodded sombrely. ‘I’ll tell him.’

Kolchinsky finished his coffee, then looked at Paluzzi. ‘Is there anything else?’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Paluzzi replied, scanning the reports. ‘There’s been no change in Paolo Conte’s condition. I’ll be told the moment he regains consciousness.’

‘And you contact me,’ Kolchinsky told him. ‘I don’t care what time it is.’

‘That goes without saying,’ Paluzzi assured him, then stood up and stifled a yawn. ‘I’d better be on my way. My wife hasn’t seen me for days.’ He looked down at Kolchinsky. ‘I’ll have a full report for you on the Pisani murder first thing in the morning.’

‘I’d appreciate that.’

Paluzzi said good night and left the room.

‘I’ve still got some paperwork to complete before I turn in,’ Kolchinsky announced. He crossed to the door and paused to look back at Sabrina. ‘I meant what I said about you and Michael.’

‘I’ll talk to him, Sergei, I said I would,’ she replied with a hint of irritation in her voice.

Kolchinsky disappeared out into the corridor, closing the door behind him. Sabrina waited until she was sure he had gone, then collected the photocopy from the bed and went to Graham’s room at the far end of the corridor. She knocked. No reply. She knocked harder. Still no reply.

She cursed softly to herself. Where was he?

‘Looking for me?’

She spun round, startled by Graham’s voice, then let out a deep sigh and clasped her hand to her chest.

‘God, you gave me a fright. Where did you come from?’

He indicated the stairs beside the lift, then turned back to her.

‘Sergei sent you, didn’t he?’

‘I’d have come anyway. We need to talk.’

He unlocked the door, switched on the light, then removed a cigar humidor from his suitcase and opened it to reveal a 6405 Surveillance System, standard issue for all UNACO field operatives, and used it to check that his room hadn’t been bugged in his absence. The room was clean. He replaced the humidor in his suitcase, then took a bottle of Perrier water from the fridge and opened it.

‘You want something to drink?’

‘No thanks, I’ve just had coffee.’ She sat in one of the armchairs by the window.

‘What’s that?’ he asked, pointing to the paper in her hand.

She gave it to him then updated him on the points made by Paluzzi after Graham had left. He listened carefully, then put the photocopy on the bedside table to read later in more detail.

‘I didn’t mean to upset you earlier,’ she said. ‘I just felt it needed to be said.’

She tensed herself for the rebuke. It was always the same when someone tried to raise the subject of his family. He would only talk about them on his terms. It was a deep, personal grief and he had never let anyone past the barriers he had built around himself since the tragedy.

‘You’re probably right,’ he muttered at length, his hands clenched tightly around the bottle.

His reply caught her off-guard. He looked up slowly at her. The cynicism had gone from his eyes, and he suddenly looked vulnerable. It was a side of him she had never seen before. She said nothing. It was up to him to break the silence. On his terms.

‘What you said in your room hurt me,’ he said softly, his eyes never leaving her face. ‘That’s why I stormed out. I needed to go for a walk and clear my head. My anger was initially aimed at you. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I was angry with myself. You’re the only person who’s ever tried to help me overcome the grief, or perhaps I should call it bitterness, that’s built up inside me since I lost Carrie and Mikey. Everyone else tiptoes around it as if it doesn’t exist. And I’ve always resented you for it. That’s why I’ve knocked you whenever I could. It was my way of getting back at you. You hurt me, I hurt you. Pretty pathetic when you think about it. Some partner I’ve turned out to be.’

Sabrina still said nothing, but her face showed her sympathetic concern.

‘There’s something I want to tell you. It might give you a better understanding of what’s going on up here,’ he said, tapping his head. ‘I’ve never told this to anybody before. Not even my mother. And I’m closer to her than I am to anyone.’ He placed the bottle on the carpet between his feet and ran his fingers through his hair, struggling to marshal his thoughts. He finally looked up at her. ‘I was going to resign my post at Delta after I got back from Libya.’

‘Did Carrie know?’ Sabrina asked softly.

He shook his head.

‘She found out she was pregnant two days before I left for Libya. That’s when I made my decision to quit, but the crisis was already brewing in Libya and I didn’t get a chance to do anything about it. We were going to throw a party when I got back to announce her pregnancy to our family and friends. I thought that would be the perfect time to tell her.’ He smiled sadly. ‘You can’t imagine how happy that would have made her.’

‘But would you have been happy?’ she asked.

‘It wasn’t a decision I took lightly, believe me. And I wouldn’t have done it unless I was absolutely certain in my own mind that it was the right thing to do. At the time I thought it was.’ He picked up the bottle and turned it around slowly in his hands. ‘Without sounding vain, I could have walked into any number of jobs. Instructor, supervisor, consultant. And none of them would have been desk jobs. I would have been still in the field and I would have had my family around me. It’s exactly what Carrie would have wanted.’ His gaze moved around the room. ‘You can’t imagine how I felt when I heard about the kidnapping. I was gutted. My first reaction was to call off the mission. That way I would have been reunited with Carrie and Mikey when I got back home. At least in theory. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I just couldn’t do it. It would have been the coward’s way out. How could I have ever looked them in the face again? There was only one decision I could take. Maybe now you can appreciate the hell I’ve been going through these past fourteen months.’

‘I think I can,’ she said quietly.

He stood up.

‘We’ve got a big day ahead of us tomorrow. I’m going to have a bath, then get some sleep. Who knows what time we’ll be woken in the morning.’

‘Thanks for talking to me, Mike.’

‘Sure,’ he muttered.

She hugged him to her, then quickly left the room.