Red Alert

Fifteen

Saturday

The weather didn’t bode well for the weekend. Sombre, overcast skies and a chilly south-westerly blowing in off the Alps.

Not that it worried Francia. After putting a fresh bandage on his hand he dressed warmly, then packed the Mini-Uzi, four spare clips and the P220 automatic into his black holdall and left the apartment. He climbed behind the wheel of the hired Volkswagen Passat, started the engine, and drove to the Metropole Hotel. There was an empty parking space directly opposite the main entrance. It seemed like a good omen.

He lit his first cigarette of the day and settled down to wait. He was in no rush.

Graham and Sabrina met for breakfast in his room at nine o’clock to run through the plan they had formulated the previous evening. Although they didn’t know where Francia was hiding out, they were sure that he would be watching the hotel, waiting for an opportunity to strike. He had to be lured into the open. And Sabrina would be the bait. Their only concern was whether he would take the bait in the next twelve hours, which was all the time they had left before Philpott’s deadline.

It was time to put the plan into action.

Graham left first, using the fire escape to get to the car-park. He tugged his New York Yankees baseball cap over his head and put on a pair of sunglasses before crossing to the Volkswagen Jetta he had hired the previous evening. It was parked facing the road. He would be able to see if Sabrina was followed. He glanced at his watch. She would reach the street within a few minutes. He switched on the radio, found a music station, and began to tap his fingers to the beat on the steering wheel.

Sabrina slipped her Beretta into her shoulder holster, then pulled on a white down jacket and zipped it up to her neck. She flicked her ponytail outside the jacket, slipped on a pair of sunglasses and left the room, locking the door behind her. She took the lift to the foyer and told reception where she would be if anyone asked for her. She left her key on the counter and walked towards the entrance. A newspaper headline caught her eye as she passed the newsstand in the foyer. It was in Italian. VIETRI MORTO – ATTACCO CARDIACO. She bought a copy and read the accompanying story: Alberto Vietri, Italy’s Deputy Prime Minister, had been found dead at his home the previous evening. He had apparently died of a heart attack. Her suspicions were confirmed when it went on to say that his body had been found by a member of the elite Italian anti-terrorist squad, the NOCS. She wondered what substance had been used to kill him. Probably hydrocyanic acid which, if fired directly into the face, causes paralysis of the heart; even the most experienced doctor would diagnose heart failure due to natural causes.

The old tricks are still the best, she thought to herself, as she folded up the newspaper and left the building. She climbed behind the wheel of the hired Fiat Croma and drove away from the hotel.

Francia started up the Passat and followed her. Even at a distance of some yards, Graham recognized Francia from the photograph lying on the passenger seat and reversed out of the parking space. He let several cars pass, then swung into Zeughausgasse, tailing the Passat at a safe distance. He turned the photograph over. On the back was the number of Sabrina’s earphone. He called her and gave her the registration number of Francia’s Passat.

She replaced the receiver and glanced in her rearview mirror. The Passat was two cars behind her. She smiled to herself. He had taken the bait. She drove to a small ski resort outside Berne and parked outside the hire shop. She went inside to get herself kitted out for the slopes. Francia parked in sight of the shop but remained in the car. Graham had to be content with a space beside a transit van. He couldn’t see Francia’s Passat from there.

Francia unzipped his holdall and slipped the Mini-Uzi inside his red-and-white padded ski jacket and zipped it up. He pocketed the P220 and the spare clips. He thought about shooting her as she emerged from the shop. No, he would wait until she was on the slopes. That was his territory. He made a mental note of her skis. A pair of red Völkl P9 SLs. At least she had good taste. He only used Völkl skis himself. She went straight to the ski lift, snapped on her skis, then climbed on to the poma lift to transport her up the slope. He went to the hire shop and selected a similar kit for himself. He paid for them and hurried from the shop without waiting for his change.

He joined the queue for the next available cable car. It wasn’t long in coming. Once inside he stood against the wall, the skis held in front of him to prevent anyone from bumping against the Mini-Uzi. He counted another twenty-seven people in the cable car. Its capacity was forty That meant it would travel faster. He wouldn’t be far behind her. Finding her wouldn’t be difficult, for it was a small resort. It was just a question of time. And he had plenty of it.

He was one of the first to disembark when the cable car docked. He climbed the steps to the exit and paused to scan the novice slopes directly in front of him. She was hardly going to be there. He had seen her ski. She was good. Very good. Someone bumped into him from behind and he instinctively clasped his hand over his midriff to prevent the Mini-Uzi from moving underneath his ski jacket. He glared at the woman, who mumbled an apology before stepping out on to the snow, unsure of herself on skis for the first time. The memories came flooding back.

How many beginners like her had he and Carlo put through their paces on the novice slopes at the Stubai Glacier in Austria where they had been instructors for eight months after their life ban from competitive skiing? Hundreds certainly. And all lacking in confidence and technique.

He was jostled again, which snapped him out of his reverie. He stepped aside to let a party of skiers pass, then turned to the restaurant which was directly behind the cable car station. She was sitting by the window drinking coffee. Was it a trap? He had been toying with the idea ever since he began tailing her from the hotel. It was possible.

Not that it bothered him, as long as he got her first. He entered the restaurant and bought a cup of coffee from the self-service counter, then sat down at a table within sight of the entrance. He was sure she hadn’t recognized him. He looked like any other skier. He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. There was only one cigarette left in it.

The condemned man’s last smoke. He found the analogy amusing. He lit the cigarette, then sat back in the chair to wait.

He was right. She hadn’t noticed him. Not that she was paying much attention to her fellow patrons. She was watching the beginners struggling to keep their balance on the novice slopes. Her introduction to the slopes had been at the age of four when her parents had taken her to Innsbruck on holiday. By the time she was fifteen she was already skiing the black runs, areas for expert skiers only. She loved the sport. It gave her a sense of freedom. And the more dangerous the black run, the more exhilarating it was for her. Whitlock was a good skier. And so was Kolchinsky, which had surprised her. He didn’t seem the type. Graham was exceptionally good, which was remarkable considering that he hadn’t started skiing until he joined Delta in his mid-twenties. He skied as if he had been doing it all his life. The thought of him brought her back guiltily to the present. She was supposed to be keeping an eye out for him. She saw him straight away.

He was the only person there wearing a baseball cap. He was standing outside the restaurant rubbing his gloved hands together. She pushed the cup away from her, collected her skis, and walked to the door.

Francia slipped his hand into his pocket and his fingers curled around the P220. He had the perfect shot as she put on her skis. He held back. It would be too easy. He wanted her to know she was going to die, just as Carlo had known when he fell to his death. He took his hand off the gun as she skied away from the restaurant, heading for one of the off-piste black runs. He waited to see if she would be followed by any of her colleagues. Nobody went after her. Not that it surprised him. They were too professional to make that kind of mistake. They would wait for him to make the first move, if, in fact, it was a trap.

He stubbed out his cigarette, took his skis from the rack against the wall, and moved to the door. He snapped on the skis then propelled himself out on to the snow. He swerved sharply around the beginners group and headed towards the nearest of the black runs. The ski pole dug into the gash in his palm but he ignored the pain, it was irrelevant. By the time he reached the edge of the black run, demarcated with black poles, he could feel the blood trickling down the inside of his glove. He looked behind him. There was nobody in sight.

Perhaps it wasn’t a trap after all. He followed the lone trail in the snow. It had to be her. He came across a cluster of trees and ducked into them, slewing to a stop out of sight of the slope. If she had any babysitters, he would be ready for them. He tried to flex his hand and a sharp pain shot up his arm. He inhaled sharply. At least it wasn’t his gun hand. He unzipped his ski jacket and removed the Mini-Uzi. Then he saw a movement further up the slope. He had been right. It was a trap. He curled his finger around the trigger. A thought suddenly crossed his mind. The gunfire could not only alert her, it could also bring the police. He took his finger off the trigger. He would have to kill her colleague silently. He moved to the edge of the trees, the Mini-Uzi clenched in his hand like a club.

Graham only noticed the deviation in the tracks at the last moment. He was still slewing to a halt when Francia launched himself at him, catching him on the back of the head with the barrel of the Mini-Uzi.

Graham fell back into the snow. Francia picked up the Beretta, ejected the magazine and threw them both into the trees. He crouched beside Graham and pressed the ski pole against his throat.

‘Drop it!’

The voice startled him. He looked up slowly. Sabrina stood thirty yards in front of him, a Beretta held at arm’s length. His eyes flickered towards the trees beside her. She had been in there waiting for him.

‘I said drop it!’

Francia’s fingers tightened on the Mini-Uzi in the snow beside him. He brought the gun up in one quick movement and she flung herself sideways as he fired. The bullets ripped into the trees. She searched frantically for her Beretta which had slipped from her grasp when she had hit the ground. It was lying in the clearing. She couldn’t reach it without being hit. She scrambled to her feet and took off, zigzagging through the trees in a desperate bid to outrun him. A volley of bullets tore into the trees to her left. She couldn’t look behind her, she had to concentrate on carving between the trees. Then she reached a clearing which ended abruptly fifty yards further on with a vertical drop of twenty feet to the next slope. She dug her ski poles into the snow and launched herself down the fall line, her knees bent, her torso flexed, her pelvis thrust forward. She looked behind her.

Francia had reached the edge of the clearing. He fired. The bullets peppered the snow behind her. She tensed herself to jump. He fired again, forcing her to swerve in the second before she launched herself through the air. She landed awkwardly, overbalanced, and tumbled headlong into the snow. Francia reached the edge of the ridge before she could get up. He aimed the Mini-Uzi at her. She opened her mouth to speak. Her throat was dry. She knew she was going to die.

Francia smiled faintly and trained the Mini-Uzi on her legs. He was going to make her suffer. And he was going to enjoy it. His finger tightened on the trigger. He saw a movement out of the corner of his eye and was still turning when Graham hit him with his shoulder.

Graham’s momentum sent them both over the edge of the ridge.

Francia fired blindly as he fell. He hit the snow first. Graham landed within a few feet of him. They both lay face down in the snow. Neither of them moved. Sabrina grabbed the fallen Mini-Uzi and turned Francia over. She recoiled in horror. He had been impaled on one of his own ski poles. It jutted grotesquely from his stomach, the blood soaking the front of his jacket. She turned to Graham and turned him over on to his back. There was no blood. The bullets had missed him.

‘Mike?’ she said, shaking his shoulder. ‘Mike, are you okay?’

He opened one eye, then the other.

‘I feel like I’ve been sacked by “The Refrigerator”.’

She smiled with relief.

‘Can’t you talk about anything but football?’

‘How about baseball?’ He eased himself into a sitting position and looked across at Francia. He screwed up his face.

‘Rather him than me.’

‘Thanks, Mike,’ she said softly.

‘Yeah, sure,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders.

They heard the sound of the engine seconds before the police helicopter came into view. Graham sighed deeply, then picked up one of his red ski poles and began to wave it above his head to catch the pilot’s attention.

New York was swathed in sunlight. Temperatures were exceptionally high for March. Not that it bothered Whitlock. He was used to the heat, having spent part of his childhood in the sultry Rift Valley region of Kenya. He stood on the balcony of his sixth-floor Manhattan apartment looking out across a packed Central Park. He was deep in thought. He had arrived back at the apartment at midnight, still disorientated by the six-hour time difference between Zürich and New York. Carmen had been there. She had returned the previous evening. She had been evasive when he questioned her on where she had been for the last five days. All she would say was that she had been staying at a hotel in the city. She had needed time alone to think about the future of their marriage. But she wouldn’t be drawn on her conclusions. This had infuriated him and he had chosen to sleep in the spare room. They had hardly spoken to each other at breakfast and she had spent most of the morning in the kitchen baking for a local charity fete. He had spent the morning on the balcony, brooding. He was at his wits’ end. How was he supposed to communicate with her when she refused to open up to him?

It wasn’t as if he was a stranger. They had been married for six years. But for how much longer?

The doorbell rang. Company was the last thing he needed. He decided to ignore the bell. Then it went again and Carmen shouted to him to answer it. He cursed under his breath and strode across the lounge to the door. He opened it on the chain. His eyes widened in surprise. It was Philpott.

‘Afternoon, sir,’ Whitlock stammered, then unlocked the chain and opened the door. ‘Please, come in.’

‘Thank you,’ Philpott replied, following Whitlock into the lounge. He looked around the room slowly and nodded his head in approval. ‘Very nice, C.W.’

Whitlock smiled quickly. ‘Won’t you sit down, sir?’

Philpott eased himself into an armchair and took his pipe and tobacco pouch from his pocket. He held them up.

‘May I?’

‘Of course, there’s an ashtray on the table. Can I get you a drink, sir?’

‘A Scotch, if you have it.’ Philpott tamped a wad of tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, then looked up as Whitlock crossed to the drinks cabinet in the corner of the room. ‘Alexander’s been rearrested. I thought you’d like to know.’

‘That’s a relief.’ Whitlock poured out two whiskies. ‘Ice, sir?’

‘No ice. It seems he was quite relieved to have been finally caught. Life on the run wasn’t much fun for him. Ah, thank you,’ Philpott said, taking the tumbler.

Whitlock sat on the sofa. ‘I’m sure you didn’t come all this way just to tell me about Alexander.’

‘Actually no.’ Philpott was about to take a sip of his whisky when Carmen came in. He immediately got to his feet. ‘Nice to see you again, Mrs. Whitlock.’

Carmen shook Philpott’s hand and sat on the sofa beside Whitlock.

‘Again?’ Whitlock said suspiciously, his eyes moving between Carmen and Philpott. ‘You two know each other?’

‘I went to see Colonel Philpott after I got back from Paris,’ Carmen said.

‘What?’ Whitlock said in disbelief. ‘You know the rules…’ He trailed off when Philpott raised his hand.

‘I’m not here because of that,’ Philpott assured him. ‘It was an exceptional case as far as I’m concerned. We had a long talk. I suggested she book into the Plaza. It was obvious she needed some time to herself, away from the pressures of family and friends.’ He took a sip of whisky, then sat back in the chair. ‘We don’t want to lose you, C.W. And neither does Carmen. Only I couldn’t give her any assurances about your future at UNACO. Not without clearing it first with the Secretary-General. I’ve spent most of the morning with him. He’s agreed to let me speak to you both. Naturally what I’m going to tell you can’t be repeated outside these four walls until it becomes official. Not to anybody.’

‘I understand, sir,’ Whitlock said hesitantly.

Philpott finished his whisky but declined Carmen’s offer of a refill.

‘There’s been a lot of rumours circulating about who’s going to replace who when I retire in four years’ time. For a start, I’m not retiring in four years’ time. I’m retiring at the end of the year. Doctor’s orders. Jacques won’t be taking my place as has been generally rumoured. He’s too important to us in Zürich. He’s built up an invaluable network of contacts across Europe which could be damaged if he were replaced. Sergei will take over from me when I retire. And you will become his deputy. But he’ll only stay on as Director for a year. He wants to go back to Russia and settle there again now that Gorbachev’s given new hope to the country. The Secretary-General doesn’t want to lose him but naturally he won’t stand in his way. That means you’ll take over as Director when Sergei leaves.’

‘Me, sir?’ Whitlock stammered in disbelief. He had hoped for Rust’s job at the most, but Director? He couldn’t believe it.

‘I recommended you to the Secretary-General because I think you’re the best man for the job. And you have the respect of all the field operatives. I know you’ll do well.’

‘Does Sergei know?’

‘He seconded my recommendation. Jacques knows as well. He’s thrilled at the idea. As I’m sure you are.’

‘I am, sir,’ Whitlock said, struggling to find the words. ‘But what about Strike Force Three? Do you have a replacement in mind for me?’

‘I’ve got just the man. Fabio Paluzzi.’

Whitlock grinned. ‘He’s coming over to us?’

‘I spoke to him yesterday. He jumped at the chance. He’ll be joining us next month. I’ll put him with one of the other teams so that he can get some experience, then he’ll be transferred to Strike Force Three when you come on to the management side in November.’

Philpott looked at Carmen.

‘I hope that puts things in a clearer perspective for you, Mrs. Whitlock. Naturally you’ll want to discuss it by yourselves.’ He took two airline tickets from his pocket and placed them on the table. ‘Your flight leaves for Paris from La Guardia tomorrow afternoon. You’ll find a confirmed booking at your hotel when you get there. Two weeks. The bill comes to us. And don’t worry, Mrs. Whitlock, we won’t interrupt your holiday again by recalling C.W. You have my word on that.’

She smiled. It was obvious from her expression that she was far too emotional to speak.

‘Well, I must be on my way.’ Philpott reached for his cane and pulled himself to his feet. ‘Enjoy yourselves.’

‘Thank you, sir. For everything.’

Philpott nodded, then moved to the hall. They both accompanied him, and Whitlock opened the door.

‘Thank you, Colonel,’ Carmen said softly.

Philpott shook her hand.

‘I only hope I’ve been of some help. Oh, and, C.W., don’t forget to send a postcard.’

Whitlock smiled and closed the door behind Philpott. He turned back to Carmen. Her cheeks were streaked with tears.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked anxiously.

‘Nothing,’ she replied and kissed him lightly on the mouth. ‘Not any more.’