Red Alert

One

Neo-Chem Industries Italian plant was situated near the A24 motorway, halfway between Rome and Tivoli. The complex, hidden from the road by a pine grove planted in the 1950s when the land belonged to the army, was surrounded by a 15-foot perimeter fence and patrolled by armed guards, most of whom were ex-policemen lured away from the Carabinieri by the company’s lucrative wage prospects.

Pietro Vannelli was an exception. He had been a security guard all his working life. It was all he knew. He was fifty-three years old and had been with Neo Chem Industries since the plant had opened eight years earlier.

Six months ago he had been transferred from ground patrol to the less demanding graveyard shift at the main gate. At first he had been grateful for the move, only too glad to leave the exercise to the younger men. But he soon grew disillusioned. Nothing ever happened. He missed mingling with his colleagues; the jokes, the shared cigarettes, but most of all the poker games held twice a week in one of the warehouses. All he seemed to do now was sit in the hut and read a succession of cheap paperbacks to pass the time. He had been told there was no chance of getting his old job back, so he had made some discreet enquiries about vacancies for night-watchmen in the city. It would only be a matter of time before the replies came through the post.

A pair of headlights pierced the darkness beyond the gate. It would either be a member of staff who had forgotten some work or someone seeking directions into Rome. Why else would anyone bother to take the signposted road at that time of night? He picked up his torch, tugged his peaked cap over his thinning grey hair, then opened the door and stepped out into the cold night air. A yellow Fiat Regata stopped in front of the gate. The girl who got out was in her early twenties, the same age as his own daughter, with an attractive figure and long red hair. Her face was bruised and blood seeped from the corner of her mouth. Her faded jeans were smeared with mud and her white sweatshirt was torn at the left shoulder. Tears glistened on her discoloured cheeks. He used a sonic transmitter to open the gate.

‘What happened?’ he asked in horror.

‘Please help me,’ she whispered in a barely audible voice. ‘They’re going to kill me.’

‘Who?’ he said, shining the torch into the darkness behind her. Nothing.

She suddenly darted past him and disappeared into the hut. He hurried after her. She was cowering in a corner, her hands clenched tightly under her chin, her eyes wide with fear.

‘It’s all right, you’re safe now,’ he said with a comforting smile.

He turned back to the door, intending to dose the gate, and found himself facing a silenced L34A1 Sterling submachine-gun. The man holding it was Riccardo Ubrino, a swarthy 34-year-old with greasy black hair and a stubbled chin. The man behind him was similarly armed. Paolo Conte was in his early twenties with curly brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses, He wore a brown uniform identical to Vannelli’s.

‘Carla, get his gun,’ Ubrino ordered, indicating Vannelli’s holstered Ruger GP100.

Carla Cassalo scrambled to her feet, unholstered the gun, and gave it to Ubrino. He tucked it into his belt, then unslung a second submachine-gun from his shoulder and handed it to her.

‘I see you re admiring my handiwork,’ Ubrino said to Vannelli and cast a sidelong glance at Carla’s face. ‘Realistic, isn’t it? I used to work in the make-up department at the Teatro dell’Opera. You’d be amazed what hell can be done with a little imagination.

‘Who are you?’ Vannelli asked, desperately stalling for time. He had to get to the alarm bell underneath the desk behind him.

‘Red Brigades,’ Carla told him.

‘What do you want?’ Vannelli’s right hand was now touching the desk, his fingers feeling for the button.

Ubrino pressed the tip of the silencer against Vannelli’s face. ‘Spare a thought for your family before you raise the alarm. Especially your daughter. She’s getting married next month, isn’t she? I’d hate anything to happen to her before the wedding.’

Vannelli swallowed and brought his hand back into view.

Ubrino smiled faintly and patted Vannelli’s cheek. ‘Wise decision. I want you to call your colleague in the reception foyer. Boschetto, isn’t it?’

Vannelli merely nodded.

‘Tell him about the young woman who’s cowering with fear in the corner of the hut. You’ve already called the police but you’d feel a lot better if she were to wait in the foyer for them.’ Ubrino grabbed Vannelli,s wrist as he reached for the telephone. ‘And remember your daughter when you make the call.’

Vannelli jerked his hand free. ‘You won’t get away with this.’

‘Just call him!’ Carla snapped; pressing the Sterling into Vannelli’s back.

‘Boschetto knows my voice. Kill me and you’ll never get inside the building.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ Carla said with a sneer. ‘Paolo was at drama school with me. He’s been studying your voice for the last few weeks. He may not have perfected it but Boschetto wouldn’t know the difference over the phone.‘

Ubrino pushed Carla’s submachine-gun away from Vannelli’s back. ‘She’s right. We’ve each got something to contribute to the mission. The Red Brigades never carry passengers. Not that we’ll need to use Paolo, will we? I’m sure your daughter will look lovely on her wedding day.’

Vannelli snatched the receiver from Ubrino. He had no difficulty in convincing Boschetto to let him bring the girl to the foyer.

‘Bring the car inside,’ Ubrino said to Conte after Vannelli had replaced the receiver. ‘Then we can close the gate. Hurry.’

Vannelli saw Vittorio Nardi for the first time when he took Conte’s place at the door. He immediately remembered Ubrino’s words: We’ve each got something to contribute to the mission. Nardi was the same build and height as Vannelli and, in the brown uniform, could pass for him at a distance. Vannelli knew then he was going to die. He was still reaching for the alarm when Ubrino shot him in the back. The force of the bullet knocked him against the wall and he fell heavily to the floor. Ubrino knelt beside him and checked for a pulse. There wasn’t one.

Conte pushed past Nardi into the hut, his eyes wide I!i with horror. ‘You said there wouldn’t be any killing. You said we’d only have to knock the guards out.’

‘You better start growing up, kid!’

‘Shut up, Nardi!’ Ubrino cut in sharply, then led Conte from the hut. ‘It’s your first mission, isn’t it?’

Conte nodded.

‘You’ll learn that it’s one thing to plan a mission on paper but quite another to put it into practice. Things happen that we can’t foresee in the planning stage. Vannelli went for the button. If I hadn’t shot him he’d have raised the alarm and we’d have had to abort the mission. You can see that, can’t you?’

Conte nodded again.

‘It’s just that…’ He swallowed hard.

‘You’ve never seen a dead body before? Neither had I until I joined the Red Brigades.’ Ubrino patted Conte on the back. ‘Come on, they’re waiting for us in the car.’

Nardi sat behind the wheel, his peaked cap tilted for ward to obscure his face. Carla sat beside him, the Sterling on the floor at her feet. Ubrino and Conte climbed into the back of the Regata and ducked out of sight, just as they all had done when Carla had driven up to the gate. Nardi started the car and drove up the winding approach road leading to the plant’s main reception area. There wasn’t a guard in sight. It was what they had expected. Sunday nights were always reserved for poker and at that moment two-thirds of the security staff were in one of the warehouses huddled around a makeshift table, consisting of two wooden crates pushed together, playing out their first hand of the night. The games invariably went on until the small hours of the morning. They had made an arrangement that Vannelli and Boschetto would call them if any of the senior management arrived unexpectedly at the plant, as had happened a couple of times in the last month. It cost each player twenty thousand lire for every session (the money being divided equally between Vannelli and Boschetto)but they regarded it as a small price to ensure they weren’t caught.

Nardi parked in front of the building and got out of the car. Boschetto opened the glass doors with a transmitter then hurried down the steps to where Nardi was standing with his back to him. Nardi, who had been monitoring Boschetto’s approach in the reflection of the driver’s window, swung round to face him, Ruger in hand. Boschetto opened his mouth to speak but Nardi motioned him to remain silent. Boschetto’s eyes flickered towards the gun but he did as he was told. Carla alerted the others and they scrambled out of the car. Ubrino undipped the transmitter from Boschetto’s belt then hit him on the back of the head with the butt of his Ruger. Nardi caught Boschetto as he slumped forward unconscious. He laid him on the ground then got back into the car and returned to the main gate. Ubrino got Conte to help him carry Boschetto behind a hedge to one side of the steps.

‘Let Carla into the foyer,’ Ubrino said, handing the transmitter to Conte.

‘What about you?’

‘I’ll be with you in a minute. I thought I heard a noise. I’m going to check it out.’

Conte looked down at Boschetto. ‘You don’t think he’ll wake up?‘

‘He won’t wake.up!’ Ubrino hissed sharply. ‘We’ll be long gone by the time he comes round. Now go on, Carla’s waiting.’

Ubrino waited until Carla and Come had entered the foyer before he pressed the Sterling against the back of Boschetto’s head and squeezed the trigger. Blood splattered over his shoes. He cursed under his breath, wiped shoes on Boschetto’s jacket, then hurried up the steps into the foyer.

‘Did you see anybody?’ Conte asked, activating the door behind Ubrino.

‘No, just my imagination. You’re not the only one suffering from nerves.’ Ubrino led Conte behind the reception desk, and indicated the row of closed-circuit television screens. ‘The first sign of any guards, you call me.’

‘I will,’ Conte replied quickly.

Ubrino attached an earpiece to the two-way radio on his belt then crossed to where Carla was waiting for him at the top of the stairs, his rubber-soled shoes silent on the black-and-white tiled floor. They descended the stairs and he paused to get his bearings, picturing the architect’s blueprint in his mind. He pointed to another flight of stairs at the end of the corridor. It led down to the laboratories. He allowed himself a faint smile of satisfaction when he saw the sign on the wall at the foot of the stairs: LABORATORIES 1-17; LABORATORIES 18-40.

They wanted 27. It turned out to be a white door with the words PROFESSOR DAVID WISEMAN printed across it in black. He paused at the door to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Carla instinctively touched his arm. She had been his lover for the past year. He knew she was in love with him. She had told him enough times but he had reciprocated the sentiments merely because he knew that was what she wanted to hear. She was young and attractive, like many before her, but he would have no qualms about ditching her.

He opened the door without knocking, he had expected to find himself in a laboratory with rows of workbenches and charts plastered across the walls; instead this was an office, neatly furnished with a collection of framed diplomas on the wall. He reminded himself that David Wiseman was the plant’s senior scientific adviser: an administrator, not a research chemist. And administrators work in offices.

Wiseman sat behind the desk. He was a 49-year-old American with wiry black hair and a neatly trimmed black beard. His eyes widened in horror when Carla appeared in the room behind Ubrino.

‘It’s just make-up,’ Ubrino assured him.

‘Why?’ Wiseman asked in Italian.

‘That doesn’t concern you,’ Ubrino retorted, then crossed to the desk. ‘Have you got the vial?’

Wiseman took a sealed metal cylinder, the size of a cigar case, from one of the drawers and held it up for Ubrino to see. The vial was inside the cylinder. ‘A hundred thousand dollars isn’t enough. Not after all the risks I’ve had to take to produce this for you in secret.’

Carla stepped forward and aimed the Sterling at Wiseman’s chest. Ubrino pushed the barrel away from Wiseman. ‘Let him speak. As he said, he was the one who took all the risks.’

‘I’ll have an antidote ready for this by the end of the week. But it will cost you another hundred thousand, to be paid into my Swiss bank account.’

Ubrino nodded thoughtfully, then took the metal cylinder from Wiseman and checked the serial number. 5114785. It was the same as the number he had been given at the final briefing earlier that day.

‘Don’t forget. A hundred thousand dollars or no antidote,’ Wiseman got to his feet. ‘My laboratory’s next door. It would be better if you coshed me there. That way it would look as if I’d disturbed you.’

‘There’s been a change of plan,’ Ubrino said with an an apologetic smile.

‘What?’ Wiseman demanded. ‘Why wasn’t I told about it?’

‘I doubt whether you’d have gone along with it. We don’t need the antidote.’

‘That’s madness,’ Wiseman retorted. ‘If the vial was without an antidote the consequences would be catastrophic.’

‘And that’s what makes it all the more valuable.’ Ubrino pocketed the metal cylinder, then glanced at Carla. ‘Kill him.’

Wiseman grabbed th ashtray from his desk and threw at her, catching her painfully on the shoulder. He ashed the safety glass on the wall behind him and hit alarm bell with the palm of his hand. A high-pierced shrill echoed through the complex. Ubrino shot him twice in the back then grabbed Carla s hand and hurried to the door.

‘Call Nardi,’ he told her, easing the door open and peering out into the corridor. It was deserted. ‘Tell him to wait for us at the steps.’

She unhooked the two-way radio from her belt and called Nardi, who told her he was already on his way. She clipped it back on to her belt and they were about to run for the stairs when they saw the approaching guard.

‘Put down your gun,’ Ubrino said to Carla.

‘What?’ she replied in amazement.

‘Trust me, cara,’ he said, then took the Sterling from her and leant it against the wall.

‘I’ve got one of them,’ he shouted, emerging into the corridor behind her, using her body to shield the Sterling in his hand.

The guard, seeing the uniform, hurried towards them. Ubrino stepped out from behind Carla and shot the guard in the chest. Carla grabbed her Sterling and covered Ubrino while he sprinted to the stairs. A guard appeared at the top of the stairs and Ubrino swung the Sterling upwards, killing him with a single shot. As he turned back to cover Carla a bullet hit the wall inches from his face. He jerked his head away, his back pressed against the staircase wall. Carla, who was already running for the stairs, turned to face the kneeling guard at the end of the corridor. He shot her twice. The Sterling spun from her hands and she landed heavily at the foot of the stairs, her sweat shirt soaked in blood. Ubrino stared momentarily at her sightless eyes, then darted up the stairs to the next level. It was deserted. He ran to the stairs leading up to the foyer and mounted them cautiously, his back against the wall, the Sterling swinging from side to side. He reached the top of the stairs and dived low on to the foyer floor, the Sterling at the ready. The foyer, too, seemed deserted. But he couldn’t see the reception desk from where he lay. He scrambled to his feet and tiptoed past the lift, frequently glancing over his shoulder, then pressed himself against the wall, the Sterling held inches from his sweating face. He flicked the switch from single to rapid fire, then pivoted round to face the reception desk, his finger curled around the trigger.

Paolo Conte stood nervously behind the desk, his eyes wide and fearful. Ubrino knew it was a trap. It made sense. Why hadn’t Conte called him on the radio when the alarm went off? Because the guards had got to him first. One or more guards would be crouched behind the desk, willing Conte to lure him into the open. An old trick. But still effective.

He had been right all along. Conte would never make a good Brigatista. He didn’t have the guts. Believing in the cause wasn’t enough. He had only been drafted into the team because he could impersonate Vannelli on the telephone. Now he was expendable.

Ubrino strafed the desk with gunfire. Conte was hit several times before he slumped to the floor. Ubrino discarded the empty magazine then pulled a fresh one from his pocket and snapped it into place. He snatched the transmitter off the desk but as he turned towards the door a bullet cracked inches from his ear. He dived to the floor and rolled to safety behind the thick concrete pillar in the middle of the foyer. The bullet had come from the direction of the stairs. A second bullet hit the pillar. He was pinned down. Where the hell was Nardi? Had he been caught? Then Ubrino heard the sound of a car engine above the alarm. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the Regata pull up in front of the steps. He undipped a smoke grenade from his belt, primed it, and rolled it towards the stairs. He activated the doors, then, using the dense black smoke as a cover, he sprinted down the steps and flung himself through the open passenger door. Nardi threw the main gate transmitter to Ubrino, then accelerated away from the guards, who had stumbled out on to the steps, coughing and spluttering from the effects of the smoke grenade.

Ubrino activated the gate when it came into view. The car shot through the narrow aperture and Ubrino immediately closed the gate behind him. He tossed the transmitter on to the dashboard, then sat back and closed his eyes.

Did you get the vial?’ Nardi asked once they were clear of the gates.

Ubrino patted his pocket in answer.

‘What happened to Carla and Paolo?’

‘Dead.’

‘I’m sorry. I know you and Carla were…’ Nardi trailed off with a shrug.

Nardi swung the car into a side road and pulled up behind the white Fiat Uno Ubrino had parked there earlier that evening. They climbed out of the car and Ubrino came up behind the unsuspecting Nardi and shot him through the back of the head. His orders had been to eliminate the others once he had the vial safely in his possession. He tossed the Sterling into the undergrowth, then crossed to the Fiat Uno and took a holdall from the back seat. It contained a pair of jeans and a grey sweatshirt. He changed into them, then stuffed the brown uniform into the holdall and left it beside Nardi’s body.

He drove the Fiat Uno the short distance to join the motorway A24 and headed back towards Rome.