Dead Halt

Chapter Four

Graham parked his battered white ’78 Ford pickup in the car park adjacent to the United Nations Headquarters then made his way across to the Secretariat Building and showed his pass to the guard at the main door. Entering the main foyer, he crossed to the lifts and pressed the button for the twenty-second floor. Dressed in a pair of faded blue jeans, a white T-shirt, black sports jacket and a New York Yankees baseball cap, he drew disparaging looks from some of the more somber-suited men in the lift with him. Philpott had chided Graham for his unorthodox dress sense when he first arrived at UNACO but Graham had been adamant – he would not wear a suit and tie to a briefing. Philpott hadn’t pushed the issue, but Graham’s stubbornness had made it more difficult for Philpott to choose an authentic cover for him at the United Nations. Whitlock and Sabrina had both been assigned covers that related to their backgrounds. Whitlock was an attaché with the Kenyan delegation and Sabrina, because of her degree in Romance languages from Wellesley, was a translator attached to the General Assembly. Graham, because of his degree in Political Science and his military background, had finally been given the cover of a freelance adviser on Central American policy to the American ambassador at the United Nations.

He was the only person to disembark on the twenty-second floor and he waited until the doors had closed before walking to an unmarked door at the end of the corridor. He punched a numerical code into the bellpush on the adjacent wall; moments later there was a metallic click and the door opened. He entered the small, neatly furnished room and closed the door behind him. It was the antechamber to UNACO headquarters. The wall opposite the door, which was constructed of rows of teak slats, had two seamless sliding doors built into it which could only be activated by miniature sonic transmitters. The door on the right led into the Command Center where teams of analysts, using the latest high-tech equipment, worked around the clock to monitor the fluctuating developments in international affairs. The door on the left led into the Director’s private office.

Sarah Thomas greeted him when he entered. She was an attractive thirty-one-year-old with short blonde hair who had been the Director’s personal secretary for the past four years.

“Am I the first one here?” Graham asked, glancing at his watch. “I thought I was late.”

“You are,” Sarah replied with a smile. “Don’t worry though, the show hasn’t started yet. Sabrina and Fabio are in the Command Center.”

“What are they doing in there?”

“Passing the time until C.W. gets here. He should be along any time now. Do you want to go through?” she asked, gesturing toward the right-hand side of the wall.

Graham shook his head and sat down on the burgundy-colored sofa.

“Can I get you a coffee?”

“No thanks,” Graham said, shaking his head. “I had enough of it last night.”

Sarah smiled. “So Sabrina was telling me.”

“Oh?” Graham said suspiciously. “And what exactly did she tell you?”

“That you two were out till two this morning at a club in Greenwich Village. Sounds like you had a good time.”

“Yeah, we did,” he admitted grudgingly. “We went to Sweet Basil’s. It’s a jazz club on Bleecker Street. You know it?”

“Of it,” Sarah replied. “I’m not really into jazz.”

The door to the Command Center opened. Sabrina and Paluzzi emerged into the office and the door slid shut behind them again.

Paluzzi shook Graham’s hand. “So how was last night?”

“The jazz was great,” Graham retorted sharply and gave Sabrina a dirty look.

“I think I’ll have that coffee you offered me earlier,” Sabrina said quickly to Sarah. She held up her hand when Sarah made to stand up. “Don’t get up. I’ll make it myself. You want one?”

“No thanks,” Sarah replied.

“Fabio? Mike?”

“Not for me, thank you,” Paluzzi said, shaking his head. “I only drink freshly ground coffee. That stuff’s liquid mud.”

“On a good day,” Sabrina said with a wry grin. She looked at Graham. “Mike?”

Graham shook his head then crossed to where she was standing at the dispenser. “Did you have to announce to the whole world that we’d been to Sweet Basil’s last night?” he hissed under his breath.

“I’d hardly call Sarah and Fabio the whole world, would you?” she replied tersely.

“Why did you have to tell them?”

“I don’t understand what all the fuss is about. We went to a jazz club together. That doesn’t mean we’re dating.”

Graham glanced across at Sarah and Paluzzi who were talking together. He turned back to Sabrina. “These kind of situations can be misinterpreted. That’s how rumors start.”

“Don’t worry, Mike, I promise you it won’t happen again. Because from now on we’ll only see each other at work. That way there can be no misinterpretation. Satisfied?”

Before he could reply Whitlock entered the office. He greeted them both warmly then activated the miniature transmitter which operated the sliding door to the Director’s sanctum.

“Sit down,” Whitlock said, gesturing to the two black leather sofas against the wall. He moved around behind Kolchinsky’s desk and sat down, then used the transmitter to close the door again.

Sabrina sat beside Paluzzi. The gesture wasn’t lost on Graham. She smiled at Whitlock. “I still can’t get used to seeing you behind that desk, C.W. I’m so used to having you sitting here with us.”

“Well, you’d better get used to it,” Whitlock shot back. He held up his hand in apology. “I’m sorry, Sabrina. It’s been a long night. I only got in from London an hour ago.”

“Where’s Sergei?” Graham asked.

“With the Secretary-General. And he’ll be with him for the rest of the day. And probably tomorrow and the next day as well. We’re facing one of the most serious crises in UNACO’s history. Perhaps the most serious.”

“The Code Red assignment we’ve been assigned to cover?” Graham asked.

Whitlock nodded. “Strike Force Three was chosen because you and Sabrina are the best field operatives we have at UNACO. And you’re going to need all your wits about you to crack this one.” His eyes flickered toward Paluzzi. “It’s going to be a tough baptism of fire for you, Fabio, but I’m confident you can handle it.”

“I’m used to being thrown in at the deep end,” Paluzzi replied with a shrug.

Whitlock opened the folder on the desk. “What I’m about to tell you hasn’t been released to any of the other Strike Force teams as yet. I’ve asked those not on assignment to come in this afternoon for a special briefing. Those on assignment will be told in due course.” He stared at the page in front of him for a moment then looked up at them. “Strike Force Seven were ambushed while on assignment in London last night. Dave Swain and Jason Geddis were both dead on arrival at the hospital. Alain Mosser died in hospital in the early hours of this morning.”

“We lost a whole team?” Graham said numbly, breaking the lingering silence.

Whitlock nodded grimly. “We’ve lost individual field operatives in the past but never an entire team. This is exactly the kind of ammunition our critics need to pressurize the Secretary-General into disbanding UNACO.”

“And it couldn’t have come at a worse time,” Sabrina said, shaking her head. “Colonel Philpott’s hardly cleared out his desk and this happens.”

“Sergei and I are going to take a lot of flak over this,” Whitlock replied. “But that’s not your concern. You’ve got enough to worry about as it is. Not only do you have to take over Strike Force Seven’s assignment, you now also have to bring their killers to book.”

“Bring them to book?” Graham said angrily. “They gunned down three of our colleagues in cold blood–”

“I’m just as gutted as you are about what happened last night, Mike,” Whitlock cut in sharply.“They were a good, reliable team but more importantly they were also our friends. We can’t allow that to cloud our judgment though. This isn’t a vendetta. Remember that. We’re here to uphold the law, we’re not vigilantes out to settle a score. And you can be sure that the Secretary-General will be monitoring every move we make in this case. If you can bring them in alive then it’s going to put us in a better light when it comes to answering our critics.”

“What have we got to go on?” Sabrina asked.

“Strike Force Seven had been on a case for the past three months,” Whitlock replied, sifting through the papers in front of him. “They’ve left a lot for you to go on.”

“Such as?” Graham asked.

“Well, we’re pretty confident we know the identities of their killers,” Whitlock replied, holding up his hand before Graham could speak. “We’re jumping the gun here, Mike. Let’s put the case in perspective first, shall we?”

Graham nodded and sat back, his arms folded across his chest.

“The case they were working on involved a senior IRA cell commander. His name’s Sean Farrell.”

“Farrell?” Paluzzi retorted, spitting out the name.

“Do you know him?” Whitlock asked.

“Of him. I first came across the name about eighteen months ago when the NOCS were investigating the possible links between the Red Brigades and the IRA. I even heard it said that he was being groomed as a future IRA leader.”

“Not if we can help it,” Whitlock replied tersely. “He was arrested two days ago by Scotland Yard’s anti-terrorist squad when he returned to Britain from the continent. I made the arrangements to have him arrested because Dave Swain had assured me he had an informer who could put Farrell away for life.”

“Not McGuire?” Sabrina said suspiciously.

Whitlock nodded. “Yes, and Strike Force Seven were ambushed when they went to meet him. But there was no sign of McGuire when the police got there.”

“Who is this McGuire?” Paluzzi asked.

“Gerard McGuire is a top UNACO informer,” Whitlock told him. “He knows everything there is to know about the IRA. But there was a snag. He would only deal with Dave Swain. Nobody else.”

“Which means Strike Force Seven’s killers must know that McGuire was an informer,” Paluzzi deduced.

“We have to assume that, yes,” Whitlock agreed.

“He won’t talk to us, C.W., you know that,” Sabrina said. “Especially now that Dave’s dead.”

“If McGuire’s still alive, that is,” Paluzzi reminded her.

“That’s what you’ve got to find out. And if you do find him, you make sure he does talk. Because without his testimony Farrell will be free by the weekend. But that’s not the only reason why we need to find him before the IRA do.” Whitlock took another sheet of paper from the folder and put it on the desk. “I managed to speak to Alain last night when he first arrived at the hospital. He was able to give me a very sketchy account of what happened at the rendezvous before he lapsed into a coma. I’m not going to read it out to you. There’s a copy included in your dossiers. There is, however, one significant point that needs to be addressed now. Although he wasn’t able to hear what McGuire was saying to Dave, he was positive that he heard Dave say the name ‘Jack Scoby’.”

“Jack Scoby, who’s just been elected the new senator for New York State?” Sabrina asked.

“We have to assume that’s who he meant,” Whitlock replied. “I spoke to his office earlier this morning and found out that he’s due to fly to London at the end of the week for a short, unofficial visit to the United Kingdom. Included in the agenda is a trip to Ireland where his grandparents are buried.”

“And you think the IRA are planning something against him?” Sabrina asked.

“Find McGuire and you’ll have the answer,” Whitlock replied. “But until then we can only assume the worst. I’ve got an appointment to see Scoby later today. I’ll try and talk him into postponing his visit until we’re satisfied his life’s no longer in danger, though I don’t hold out too much hope on that score. He can be very stubborn when he wants to be as I’m sure you all know from the television interviews he gave during his recent election campaign.”

“Why would the IRA be planning something against an American senator?” Graham said at length. “Especially one as popular as Scoby. It would do irreparable harm to their image outside the United Kingdom. And it would certainly affect the flow of money they receive from their sympathizers over here. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“This is all just conjecture at the moment,” Whitlock replied. “McGuire holds the key to this whole affair. Find him and you’ve solved half the case.”

“And the other half?” Graham said, his eyes suddenly riveted on Whitlock. “Strike Force Seven’s killers? You said earlier that you’re pretty confident you know their identities.”

“Two eyewitnesses arrived on the scene moments after the attack on Strike Force Seven,” Whitlock told him. “There were two assassins, both were wearing balaclavas and baggy clothes. One was a woman.”

“And?” Graham prompted.

“We think it could be Fiona Gallagher. She’s Farrell’s lover as well as his deputy cell commander. They’re inseparable and rumor has it that she’s taken his arrest very badly. She’s prepared to go to any lengths to get him released.”

“Sounds like a nice girl,” Paluzzi muttered.

“Make no mistake, Fabio, she’s every inch a professional. And she won’t stop until she’s found McGuire and silenced him.”

“What about the other one?” Graham asked.

“We’re positive the second man is Liam Kerrigan. The couple described him as being over six foot with a limp on his right leg. Kerrigan is six-three and was shot in the right leg at a loyalist rally eight years ago. There had to be a wheelman and we think that would have been Hugh Mullen. He recruited Gallagher for the IRA when they were both at Bristol University. She now regards him almost as an older brother. And both men work in Farrell’s cell. It’s too much of a coincidence for it not to be his team.”

Whitlock took three manila envelopes from the drawer. Inside were details of the assignment, to be destroyed after reading; airline tickets; maps of their ultimate destination; written confirmation of their hotel accommodation; character sketches of any contacts as well as a sum of money in the currency of the country where they would be based. All field operatives also carried two major credit cards in case of emergencies. There was no limit to the amount of money they could use during an assignment, but it all had to be accounted for on their return to New York. He handed an envelope each to Graham and Sabrina. “Inside are mugshots of Kerrigan and Mullen. But there are no known photographs of Fiona Gallagher on file. You’ll be working with Scotland Yard’s anti-terrorist squad on this one. Your contacts in London will be Inspector Keith Eastman and his deputy, Sergeant John Marsh. They’ve been on the case from the start.”

“Where do I come in?” Paluzzi asked, pointing to the third envelope still lying on the table.

“You’ll be approaching the case from a different angle,” Whitlock said. “Ideally I’d have liked to have paired you off with either Mike or Sabrina as this is your first assignment with Strike Force Three, but under the circumstances it won’t be possible. At least not for the time being. Mike and Sabrina work well as a team and for that reason I don’t want to break up the partnership with such a lot at stake.”

“I understand,” Paluzzi said. “So what exactly is this ‘different angle’?”

“Two nights ago a schooner sank in a storm off Nantucket Island. It’s an island about two hundred miles northeast of here,” Whitlock added, noticing Paluzzi’s frown. “There were no survivors but some of the wreckage was washed ashore. It included a box of brand-new ArmaLite rifles. We don’t know the size of the cache, and I doubt we ever will, but what we do know is that the schooner was bound for Ireland. Sligo Bay to be precise. From there the arms would have been smuggled over the border into Northern Ireland. Normally we wouldn’t get involved in something like this. It’s an FBI matter. But this particular cache was being minded by a man called Rory Milne, a New Yorker with strong ties to Noraid, the American organization sympathetic to the IRA cause. He also happened to be Sean Farrell’s main contact here in America. He wasn’t listed as being on board the Ventura. We only found out through an FBI informer within the Noraid organization. So far we’ve managed to keep both the fact that Milne was on board and the arms find out of the newspapers. But we won’t be able to keep it out indefinitely. What we need to know is who was behind the shipment. If we can tie Farrell in directly with either the shipment or the seller then it will strengthen the case against him when it does go to court.” Whitlock handed the third manila envelope to Paluzzi. “The schooner came from Milford, a port sixty miles south of here. I’d suggest you start there. One of our cars is parked outside for you to use. Sarah has the keys.”

“I’m on my way,” Paluzzi said, getting to his feet.

“What time’s our flight to London?” Sabrina asked.

“The twelve o’clock flight from JFK,” Whitlock replied.

Sabrina glanced at her watch then looked at Graham. “We’d better get moving as well.”

“Yeah,” Graham muttered and stood up.

“I want regular reports on your progress,” Whitlock told them.

“What do you call regular?” Graham asked.

“I want you to report in at least three times a day. That way we can keep the Secretary-General updated.” Whitlock picked up the sonic transmitter then looked at each of them in turn. “Sergei and I stuck our necks out this morning when we assured the Secretary-General that you were the best team in the organization. It’s now up to you to prove us right. Because if you can’t, and we don’t find this IRA cell, there’s every chance UNACO will cease to exist. It’s a pretty sobering thought, isn’t it?”

Paluzzi and Sabrina left the room. Graham paused at the door and looked around at Whitlock. “We’ll crack it, C.W. You can count on it.”

Whitlock held Graham’s stare but said nothing. As Graham disappeared into the outer office, Whitlock closed the door after him and replaced the transmitter on the desk. He only hoped Graham was right. Because if he wasn’t …

Jack Scoby’s New York offices were located on the top floor of the Melrose Building, one of the many towering skyscrapers in the heart of the city’s financial district. Having run the gauntlet of the strict security measures in force in the building, Whitlock sat in the reception area awaiting the senator’s appearance. He looked slowly around the room. The walls were lined with framed posters from Scoby’s election campaign. He recalled having seen many of the posters splashed across the city in the run-up to the election. He also recalled how Scoby’s tough, hard-hitting campaign speeches had so enthralled a New York population ready and eager for change. Scoby had constantly criticized the lenient sentences handed out to criminals across the country, especially those involved in drug-related crimes, and although this had brought him into conflict with the liberal element who saw therapy, rather than punishment, as the answer to the problem, he had been swept to victory with what turned out to be the biggest majority ever recorded in an election in the state of New York. The sheer size of his victory had catapulted him into the political limelight and he had quickly become a hero for the far right of the party. There was already talk on Capitol Hill of him standing for the Presidency at the next election.

He had all the attributes needed to succeed in the political arena. His telegenic good looks and charismatic personality appealed to a wide audience; his uncompromising, often vitriolic speeches, laced with old-fashioned patriotic values, appealed to the conservatism of the middle and upper classes. Most political analysts regarded it as a foregone conclusion that Scoby would one day lead his party. It was only a question of when it would happen …

“Mr. Whitlock, I’m Jack Scoby.”

It wasn’t difficult to understand Scoby’s appeal. He was a strikingly handsome forty-year-old with a rich tan and thick black hair which was beginning to gray at the temples. He smiled and extended a hand of greeting.

“C.W. Whitlock,” Whitlock said, shaking Scoby’s hand.

“Shall we go through?” Scoby asked, gesturing to his office.

It was a spacious room with a heavy teak desk and three leather armchairs positioned equidistant from each other against the adjacent wall. The customary American flag hung in the corner of the room.

A man, who had been sitting in one of the armchairs, got to his feet and smiled quickly at Whitlock. He was in his late thirties with thinning brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Whitlock knew who he was before Scoby introduced him.

“Mr. Whitlock, this is Ray Tillman, my right-hand man and the brains behind my election campaign.”

Tillman shook Whitlock’s hand but said nothing.

Scoby closed the door. “Please, won’t you sit down, Mr. Whitlock?” He waited until both men were seated then moved around behind his desk and sat down. “It’s a bit of a coincidence you coming around here today. I’d actually made a note in my diary to ring UNACO sometime this week to introduce myself. We’re in the same boat, aren’t we? A new team in office. It certainly won’t be easy trying to follow in Colonel Philpott’s footsteps though. He had an exemplary record as UNACO Director.”

“Did you know the Colonel?” Whitlock asked.

“I met him a couple of times at embassy functions,” Scoby replied. “But I knew him better by his reputation. And that’s what really counts, isn’t it? Now take his successor, Sergei Kolchinsky. He’s something of a dark horse for those of us outside UNACO. Certainly an interesting choice as the new Director.”

“I take it from the tone of your voice that you don’t wholly approve of his appointment?” Whitlock said, frowning.

Scoby clasped his hands together on the table. “He’s a former colonel in the KGB who’s from an era when the Cold War was at its peak. And now he’s in charge of an international anti-crime unit working out of the United States. I find it hard to reconcile myself to those facts.”

“Sergei’s loyalties lie firmly with UNACO,” Whitlock shot back, angry at any insinuation to the contrary.

“I’m sure they do,” Scoby replied without much conviction. He was quick to give Whitlock one of his disarming smiles. “It goes without saying that Sergei Kolchinsky will have my full support for as long as he remains UNACO Director. And hopefully I’ll be able to meet him at some point in the near future. Perhaps the three of us can get together for lunch after I return from my trip to the United Kingdom?”

“I’ll have a word with him next time I see him,” Whitlock said. “Actually, the reason for my being here concerns your proposed trip to Britain at the end of the week. We received some information which may make you want to change your mind about going.”

Scoby frowned. “Really? What kind of information?”

Whitlock explained what had happened the previous night in London. He left nothing out, knowing it would only be a matter of time before Scoby received a report of the events anyway.

Tillman sat forward once Whitlock had finished talking, his arms resting on his knees. “What are the chances of this IRA cell being apprehended before Mr. Scoby leaves for London?”

“It’s impossible to say,” Whitlock replied truthfully then looked at Scoby. “That’s why I asked to see you. We’ll do everything possible to find them but if they’re still at large by the end of the week it might be wise for you to postpone your trip.”

“That’s out of the question,” Scoby cut in quickly, shaking his head. “I won’t be threatened. I intend to fly to London on Friday, irrespective of whether you’ve found these terrorists or not.”

“The senator’s views on the IRA are well known but I still don’t understand why they would plan a hit on him,” Tillman said. “It would damage their image abroad. Especially here in the States.”

“We don’t know what they’re planning, Mr. Tillman,” Whitlock was quick to correct him. “And that’s why we’re pulling out all the stops to find this informer. Naturally I’ll let you know of any developments in the case.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Scoby said.

“Well, I’d better get back to the UN,” Whitlock announced, getting to his feet.

“Thank you for coming.” Scoby walked Whitlock to the door. “If you call and I’m unavailable I’ll make sure you’re put through to Ray.”

“Fine,” Whitlock replied. “Hopefully we’ll have sorted this out before you leave for London.”

“I know you’ll do your best.” Scoby opened the door then shook Whitlock’s hand again. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you. We’ll discuss that lunch further when I get back after the weekend.”

Whitlock smiled and left the room. Scoby closed the door behind him and looked across at Tillman. “Well?”

“It doesn’t make any sense. The IRA have got nothing to gain and everything to lose if they carry out this operation.”

Scoby bit his lip pensively. “Agreed. But what if they’re not working for the IRA?”

“Whitlock seemed convinced they were an IRA cell,” Tillman replied.

“I’m sure they are,” Scoby was quick to point out. “But what if they’re a rogue IRA cell in it purely for the money? Enough money to buy them new identities where the IRA would never find them.” He crossed the room and perched on the edge of the desk, his arms folded across his chest. “And let’s face it, I’ve got enough enemies in my own party, never mind amongst the Democrats, who would love to see me silenced. Permanently.”

“You think this whole operation could have been planned from Capitol Hill?”

“Why not?” Scoby nodded thoughtfully. “And what better way than to use an IRA cell in Britain to do their dirty work for them? That way, no comebacks.”

“Do you want me to have someone look into it?”

Scoby shook his head. “Let UNACO handle it. That way it’s all legit. They’ve got the resources and the contacts to get to the bottom of this, but more importantly, Kolchinsky and Whitlock will be desperate to impress the Secretary-General after the loss of their team in London. Which means the truth won’t be suppressed. And if the plot did originate on Capitol Hill, the newspapers will have a field day. I’ll see to that.”

“And you’ll be seen as the innocent party, strengthening your hand as a candidate at the next election.”

“Precisely,” Scoby replied with a knowing smile.

“We’re overlooking one thing though,” Tillman said anxiously. “That cell is still out there somewhere. Your life’s in danger until they’re caught.”

“It’s a risk I’ve got to take. Imagine what the press would say if they found out I’d postponed my trip because of a possible terrorist attack. That would seriously damage my public image. And I’m not about to jeopardize that. Not with so much at stake.” Scoby smiled to himself. “You know, Ray, this could actually be a blessing in disguise. It can only improve my standing, both here and abroad, and that can’t be a bad thing, can it?”

“Not if everything falls into place,” Tillman agreed.

“I’m sure it will, Ray. I’m sure it will.”

Paluzzi parked outside the harbor master’s office and climbed out of the car. It had taken him an hour to drive from New York to Milford. He felt he’d made good time. He locked the car, pocketed the keys, then entered the building and walked over to the reception desk. A youth in his early twenties sat at a desk against the back wall. He seemed to be the only person on duty. He finished an entry in the ledger in front of him before he got to his feet and crossed to where Paluzzi was standing.

“Afternoon,” he said without much enthusiasm. “Can I help you?”

“Hopefully,” Paluzzi replied with a smile. He took a forged Press card from his pocket and showed it to the youth. It identified him as Franco Pasconi, a journalist for the Italian newspaper, La Repubblica. It had been included in the envelope Whitlock had given him in New York. “I’d like to ask you some questions about the Ventura.”

A look of fear flashed across the youth’s face. “I ain’t got nothing to say to you, mister.”

“I’m prepared to pay for any information,” Paluzzi told him. He removed an envelope from his jacket pocket. Inside were twenty hundred-dollar bills. He took out two bills, folded them in half, and held them up between his fingers. “Well?”

The youth’s eyes flickered toward the notes but he quickly checked himself. “I said I got nothing to say to you, mister. I got work to do.”

“What’s wrong?” Paluzzi asked, leaning closer to the youth. “What are you frightened of?”

“I ain’t frightened of nothing,” the youth shot back.

“Then talk to me.”

“I told you, I got nothing to say.”

“Well, can you at least tell me where the Ventura was berthed when she was in port? It’s worth a hundred to you.”

The youth looked at the notes between Paluzzi’s fingers. “Two hundred.”

“OK, two hundred,” Paluzzi agreed.

The youth pulled a ledger out from under the counter and leafed through the dog-eared pages until he found the entry he wanted. “Wharf Three.”

“And how long was she there for?” Paluzzi asked.

“Hey, I said I’d tell you–”

“I’ve still got the money,” Paluzzi reminded him.

The youth glared at Paluzzi then consulted the ledger again. “It docked there at seven-forty on Monday morning. It left again at five that afternoon.” He slammed the ledger over then reached out and plucked the notes from Paluzzi’s fingers. When he was sure Paluzzi had gone the youth returned to his desk and dialed out a three-digit number. It was answered immediately at the other end. “Jess?”

“Yeah, who’s that?”

“Jess, it’s Billy.”

“What do you want?” came the curt reply.

“I’ve just had a guy in here asking about the Ventura. He had one of those Press card things. Foreign accent.”

“What kind of foreign accent?”

“Jeez, how should I know?” Billy retorted.

“What was the name on the Press card?”

“I didn’t see it properly.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing, honest, Jess. I’ve sent him to Wharf Three.”

“What the hell did you go and do that for?”

“He ain’t going to leave without some kind of answers. I thought it best if you spoke to him. Hey, and I told him the Ventura was berthed at Wharf Three. Play along with that.”

“Yeah,” came the thoughtful reply. “Well, he’d better not try and dig too deep or he ain’t gonna leave. Period.”

The line went dead.

Paluzzi returned to his car and took the Beretta from the glove compartment. He fed the clip into the butt then pushed it into the holster he was wearing at the back of his trousers. He didn’t want to carry the gun. It was hardly in keeping with his cover as a journalist. But he couldn’t afford to take any chances. What had alarmed him was the fear in the youth’s eyes when he mentioned the Ventura. It was obvious he had been told to keep his mouth shut. But by whom? That’s what he was hoping to find out …

He slid on a pair of sunglasses then walked the short distance to the docks. He stopped the first man he saw to ask directions to Wharf Three. On reaching his destination he paused and looked around him. Fifty yards ahead of him was a towering crane which was loading wooden crates into the hold of a small freighter. To his right was a warehouse. A large “3” was painted on the side of the building as well as on the corrugated-iron roof. Two men sat on an empty packing crate which had been pushed up against the wall adjacent to the door. Both were wearing torn jeans and grease-stained T-shirts.

“Afternoon,” Paluzzi called out as he approached them. He took the Press card from his pocket and held it up. “Franco Pasconi. I’m a journalist with the Italian newspaper, La Repubblica. I’d like to ask you some questions about the Ventura. I believe it was moored here before it sailed on Monday night?”

One of the men shrugged and took another drag on his cigarette.

The other drew his forearm across his sweating face then wiped it on his T-shirt. “Dunno,” he said.

“Surely you must have seen it?” Paluzzi said.

“We see a lot of boats,” the one with the cigarette said.

“You’re not being very helpful,” Paluzzi said. “The Ventura was registered here in Milford. The crew were all locals.”

“That’s right,” the one with the cigarette replied. “Our people. Our friends. Not so, Randy?”

“Yeah,” the other man muttered.

“How well did you know Earl Reid?” Paluzzi asked.

“What the hell do you want to know ’bout Earl for?” Randy demanded.

“Background,” Paluzzi replied.

The man with the cigarette pointed a finger at him. “Shove your background, mister. Earl was a friend of ours. And that’s all you need to know about him.”

“What about the rest of the crew? How well did you know them?”

“We knew them,” Randy replied. “Right, Tom?”

“Right. We’ve had enough of your questions, mister. I suggest you get your ass out of here while you’ve still got one. We don’t like outsiders prying into our affairs. Especially at a time like this.”

“Why’s everyone clamming up around here?” Paluzzi asked. “What are you hiding?”

Tom stubbed out his cigarette on the side of the crate then jumped nimbly to the ground. “I told you to get your ass out of here. You don’t listen, do you?”

“All I want are some answers–” Paluzzi trailed off when Tom pulled a switchblade from his back pocket.

“That’s enough!”

Paluzzi looked around, startled by the voice behind him. The man was in his late thirties with thick sandy hair and a rugged, weather-beaten face. He was wearing jeans with a white shirt and a red tie open at the collar.

“This guy’s a journalist. He’s been asking questions ’bout Earl,’ Randy said. “We told him to beat it but he don’t listen.”

“Get back to work,” the man ordered, then glanced at the switchblade in Tom’s hand. “And put that away. I’ll deal with this.”

Tom glowered at Paluzzi then pocketed the switchblade again before disappearing into the warehouse. Randy spat onto the ground inches from Paluzzi’s feet and followed Tom into the warehouse.

“Thanks,” Paluzzi said, extending a hand toward the man. “The name’s Franco Pasconi.”

“Jess Killen, I’m the wharf foreman,” the man replied, purposely digging his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Why are you asking questions about Earl?”

“It’s background for a story I’m writing.”

“A story? What about? Hell, ships go down around Nantucket all the time. So why the interest in the Ventura?”

Paluzzi’s mind was racing. Wharf foreman. That meant Killen would almost certainly be in on any of the deals that were struck up in or around the dockyard. And that included the loading of ArmaLite rifles onto the Ventura. He had to play his ace. But he had no idea how Killen would react. “Do you know a man called Milne? Rory Milne?”

Killen’s eyes narrowed fractionally. He shook his head. “No, can’t say I do. Should I?”

Paluzzi sensed that Killen was lying. “He was on the Ventura when it went down. But there wasn’t an official passenger list. And he wasn’t listed amongst the crew either. I wondered if you knew why he was on board?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Rory Milne was a member of Noraid. Does the name mean anything to you?”

“No.”

Again Paluzzi sensed that Killen was lying. But Paluzzi was determined to press ahead, hoping for some kind of reaction. “Noraid is an American organization that gives financial support to the IRA. I assume you have heard of them.”

“Of course I’ve heard of them,” Killen snapped, stung by Paluzzi’s sarcasm. He stared at his feet for a moment then looked up at Paluzzi again. “Earl Reid was a good friend of mine. So were the rest of the crew. They were all decent, hard-working men. And they all had families. But that doesn’t seem to bother you newspapermen, does it? All you’re after is another story, irrespective of whether there’s any truth in it or not. Well there isn’t a story here, mister. Earl was taking a consignment of grain to Ireland. It’s a trip he’s been making every few months for the past eight years. Ask the port authorities in Sligo Bay. They’ll verify what I’ve told you. I assume you’ve heard of Sligo Bay?”

Paluzzi nodded. “I know Sligo Bay. Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Killen. It looks like I’ll just have to try somewhere else for my story.”

“Then you make sure it’s outside Milford,” Killen said, pointing a finger of warning at him. “Because if I hear you’ve been bothering Sheila Reid, or any of the other families, I’ll personally see to it that you never write again.” He started to walk away then turned and eyed Paluzzi coldly. “You’re not welcome here, mister. Get out while you still can.” He turned on his heel and walked off.

Paluzzi sighed deeply and shook his head slowly. Killen would try and ensure that nobody spoke to him though he knew there was always a chance that one of the men would be willing to talk, given the right financial incentive. But how would he know which of them to approach? He could report back to Whitlock and ask him to run a check on the workers to find out which of them could be susceptible to a bribe, but that would take time.

He walked back slowly to where he had parked his car outside the harbor master’s office. He took the keys from his pocket and was about to get in when Billy appeared in the office doorway. He looked agitated. He looked around nervously then beckoned Paluzzi toward him. Paluzzi slid the keys back into his pocket and crossed to where Billy was standing. Billy grabbed his arm and pulled him into the office. He looked outside again and, satisfied they hadn’t been seen, closed the door behind them.

“What’s going on?” Paluzzi demanded, his hand resting lightly on the Beretta at the back of his trousers.

“I can tell you everything you want to know about the Ventura. I was there, see. But it’ll cost you.”

“How much?”

“Ten thousand dollars.”

Paluzzi snorted in amazement then shook his head. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Get it if you want to know who paid Killen to put those guns on the Ventura.”

“Why the sudden change of heart?” Paluzzi asked suspiciously. “You obviously tipped Killen off about me after I’d spoken to you.”

“I had to,” Billy replied quickly. “He’d have been suspicious if he’d found out you’d been here and I hadn’t told him about it.”

“So you keep him informed on everything that happens in here?”

Billy nodded. “Look, we can’t talk here. If Jess or any of his men found me talking to you like this I’d be dead. Meet me tonight at the back of the warehouse on Wharf Three. Midnight. And bring the money with you.”

“I told you, I can’t raise that kind of money.”

“You want the story, you bring the money. And if you don’t have the money, don’t come.”

“I could manage five grand, but I guess that won’t be enough for you,” Paluzzi said with a shrug and moved to the door.

“Hey, wait,” Billy called out after him.

Paluzzi paused at the door, his hand resting lightly on the handle. He looked around slowly at Billy. “Well?”

“Make it seven and a half–”

“Five,” Paluzzi cut in quickly. “That’s my final offer. I’ll bring it with me tonight. It’s up to you whether you want to show or not.”

Billy swallowed nervously and nodded. “I’ll be there. And have the money in used bills.”

“I’ll only hand the money over when I’m sure you’re telling me the truth. And that means I’ll need more than just your word.”

“I’ve got the paperwork to back up anything I say,” Billy retorted. “Now get out before someone finds you here.”

Paluzzi left the office and got into the car. He smiled to himself as he started up the engine. Five thousand dollars. Pin money to UNACO. He knew Whitlock would have authorized the ten thousand if he’d needed it. But he was damned if he was about to give in to some greedy kid. Let him sweat a bit. Paluzzi engaged the gears and drove away. He knew he was going to enjoy the rest of the afternoon.

Killen was on the telephone when Tom and Randy entered his office. He acknowledged them with a nod then returned to his conversation. There were two chairs in front of Killen’s desk but neither man made any move to sit down. And they knew Killen wouldn’t offer them a chair either. He kept a certain aloofness from the men underneath him which had ensured that they treated him with the respect he felt he deserved. He was a tough, often brutal, foreman who ruled the docks with an iron fist. But he was also the first to reward loyalty. And men like Tom and Randy had made a lot of money through Killen’s numerous illegal deals involving the loading and unloading of drugs and arms from ships in port. Killen had become known amongst the east coast underworld as a man who could keep his mouth shut. And he expected the same discipline from his men …

He replaced the receiver then lit a cigarette and swung his feet up onto the desk. “Yeah, what is it?”

“We’ve got a problem, Jess,” Tom told him. “We followed that reporter back to his car. Billy offered to tell him everything about the Ventura for ten grand.”

Killen drew on his cigarette then exhaled the smoke up toward the ceiling. “Ten grand? That’s a lot of money for Billy.”

“The reporter talked him down to five,” Tom said. “They’re meeting at Wharf Three tonight. Midnight.”

“Billy? I treated him like my own kid.” Killen dismissed the thought with a shrug. “No matter. Meet me here at nine-thirty tonight.”

“What you gonna do ’bout the reporter?” Randy asked anxiously. “He’s an outsider, Jess.”

“I warned him to get out of Milford while he could. It’s too late now.” Killen took another drag on his cigarette. “Did either of you catch the name of the paper he’s working for?”

“Hell, he did say,” Randy said, scratching his curly brown hair. “You remember, Tom?”

“Something about a ‘Republic’, I think,” Tom replied with a desperate shrug. “Sorry, Jess, that’s all I remember.”

“That’s OK,” Killen told him, then gestured to the door. “I’ll speak to you guys later. I’ve got a call to make.”

The two men left the room, careful to close the door behind them.

Killen picked up the receiver again and dialed a number he had memorized in his head. It was answered immediately.

“It’s Killen,” he said when the man had identified himself.

“I told you never to call me on this number unless it was an emergency,” the man told him.

“This is an emergency,” Killen shot back. “You know any Italian newspaper that’s got the name ‘Republic’ in it?”

“La Repubblica,” came the immediate reply. “It’s one of the leading papers in Rome. Why?”

“There was a guy here just now claiming he worked for the newspaper. He was asking some awkward questions about the Ventura.”

“What sort of questions?”

“He knew about Milne.”

“How?” came the startled reply.

“I don’t know,” Killen answered.

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing,” Killen replied. “You’d better run a check on him. See if he’s on the level. He said his name was Franco Pasconi.”

“Pasconi,” the man muttered as he wrote down the name.

“He’s meeting one of my staff here at midnight tonight.”

“You set him up?”

“No, this particular staff member’s suddenly got greedy. Don’t worry, I’ll deal with him. Nobody double-crosses Jess Killen.”

“Do what you want with your own man but don’t touch the journalist until I’ve had a chance to check him out. Is that understood?”

“Whatever you say,” Killen replied with a shrug.

“But if you want him silenced it’ll cost you.”

“Doesn’t it always?” came the sarcastic reply.

“That’s the price you have to pay if you want to keep your hands clean,” Killen said with a faint smile.

“Remember, leave the journalist alone unless I tell you otherwise.” The line went dead.

Killen replaced the receiver, stubbed out his cigarette, then swung his feet off the desk and went in search of Tom and Randy.

It was almost nine o’clock before Kolchinsky finally returned to his apartment in the East Tremont suburb of New York. He dropped his attaché case on the chair in the hall then went to the kitchen where he helped himself to an ice cold Budweiser from the fridge. He poured the beer out into a glass then took it through to the lounge and settled down in his favorite armchair opposite the television set. But he didn’t reach for the remote control on the table beside him. He closed his eyes, savoring the silence for the first time that day.

The doorbell rang.

He groaned and rubbed his eyes wearily. For a moment he was tempted to ignore it. But he knew he couldn’t. He placed the glass on the table then hauled himself to his feet and went to answer the door.

“Malcolm?” Kolchinsky said in surprise.

“Hello, Sergei,” Malcolm Philpott replied.

“Come in,” Kolchinsky said, holding open the door.

Philpott was in his mid-fifties with gaunt features and thinning red hair. He limped heavily on his left leg, the result of a shrapnel wound in the last days of the Korean War. He now walked with the aid of a cane.

Kolchinsky led him into the lounge and gestured toward the couch. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Anything but coffee. I had three cups in that diner down the road while I was waiting for you.”

Philpott sat down and leaned the cane against the wall. “I wouldn’t say no to a whiskey though, if you have it.”

Kolchinsky crossed to the drinks cabinet in the corner of the room. “I thought you were supposed to be visiting your sister in Scotland.”

“I lasted ten days over there,” Philpott replied. “I got back a couple of days ago.”

“You make it sound like it was an ordeal,” Kolchinsky said, handing the glass to Philpott.

“It was,” came the blunt reply. “My sister and her husband live in a small cottage about ten miles outside Edinburgh. It’s in the middle of nowhere. I suppose most people would regard that as paradise. The solitude almost drove me crazy. I couldn’t wait to get back to New York. I guess I’m just addicted to the big city atmosphere.”

“What I’d give to be in that cottage right now,” Kolchinsky muttered as he sat down again.

“I heard about what happened to Strike Force Seven,” Philpott said grimly.

“How?” Kolchinsky replied in amazement. “That’s supposed to be classified information.”

“I still have my contacts at the UN.” Philpott shook his head. “Don’t worry, they’re not in UNACO. So who have you brought in to replace them?”

“Malcolm, you know I can’t discuss this with you.”

“I’m hardly going to sell the story to the Press, am I?”

“That’s not the point. You’re not part of the organization anymore,” Kolchinsky told him.

Philpott raised the glass but it froze inches from his lips. “It’s Strike Force Three, isn’t it?”

Kolchinsky said nothing.

“I thought as much,” Philpott said, nodding his head. “I’d have used them as well.”

“I didn’t say they’d been brought in,” Kolchinsky said defensively.

“But you’d have denied it if it wasn’t true. How are Mike and Sabrina?”

“OK,” Kolchinsky replied tersely.

“And Fabio Paluzzi? How’s he settling in?”

“OK.”

Philpott smiled. “And I suppose C.W.’s OK as well.”

Kolchinsky nodded. “Look, Malcolm, I don’t want to appear rude, but it’s been a very long day. Ten hours cooped up in the same room being grilled continually by a succession of foreign ambassadors about the events in London last night.”

“You don’t know how lucky you are, Sergei,” Philpott said at length.

“Lucky?” Kolchinsky retorted in amazement. “I haven’t even been in this job for a month and already UNACO’s facing the most serious setback in its short history. There’s even talk of the organization being disbanded. That would look great on my CV, wouldn’t it?”

“UNACO won’t be disbanded, and you know it,” Philpott said.

“I don’t know it, Malcolm,” Kolchinsky replied quickly. “You should have heard some of those ambassadors today. If they had their way, UNACO would already be history.”

“They’re politicians, Sergei. Lots of talk. But fortunately it’s not up to them, is it? The ultimate decision lies with the Secretary-General. And I know he’s a hundred percent behind you and the organization.”

“You’ve spoken to him?”

“I’ve spoken to someone close to him,” Philpott replied.

Kolchinsky took his cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lit one. “Have you started smoking again?”

“No, but I still carry my favorite pipe with me,” Philpott said, patting his jacket pocket. “It’s reassuring. I won’t start again. The heart attack was the incentive I needed to give up.”

“So what are you doing with yourself now that you’re a man of leisure?”

“Nothing,” Philpott replied, shaking his head. “Absolutely nothing. And I don’t know how much more of it I can take.”

“You need a hobby.”

“Can you imagine me growing orchids or joining some amateur dramatics society? UNACO was my life, Sergei. It’s what kept me going. That’s what I meant just now about you being lucky. I’d sell my soul to the devil to trade places with you right now.”

“I’d settle for a straight swap,” Kolchinsky said with a weary sigh. “You come back and I’ll take early retirement.”

“I’d jump at the chance but I doubt my doctor would agree to it.” Philpott drank down the whiskey then reached for his cane and got to his feet. “Thanks for the drink. And the company. I’ll leave you to get some rest. You look like you need it.”

Kolchinsky stood up and walked with Philpott to the door. “You know you’re welcome here anytime, Malcolm. I mean it.”

“I know,” Philpott replied, patting Kolchinsky on the arm. “And I might just take you up on that offer. When things quieten down again.”

Kolchinsky closed the door behind Philpott then returned to the lounge and sat down again. He retrieved his cigarette from the ashtray and was about to take another drag when he abruptly changed his mind and stubbed it out. He switched on the television to catch the last five minutes of the news. He was already asleep by the time it finished.