Red Alert

Two

Monday

Lino Zocchi slipped on a pair of sunglasses then stepped out into the exercise yard, a burly man on either side of him. It was a bright cool day, far pleasanter than it would be once Rome was enveloped by the sweltering heat of Summer. Zocchi looked up at the watchtower, manned by an armed warder, then dug his hands into his pockets and crossed to the concrete stand on the other side of the exercise yard. The two men kept in close attendance.

Zocchi was a short, stocky 43-year-old with a leathery face and black hair cropped close to his skull. He had grown up in the slums of Rome, committed to the political ideologies of Engels and Marx, and had been recruited by the Red Brigades when he was in his early twenties. He had gone on to spearhead a successful recruitment drive in the south of the country, mainly on the university campuses, and was rewarded with a post as one of Rome’s senior cell commanders. Three years later he was promoted to brigade chief of Rome, a position he still held despite having just started a ten-year sentence for his part in the attempted assassination of a leading Italian judge. He still had one ambition left to fulfill to become leader of the Red Brigades, even if it meant running the organization from his prison cell. He knew he could do it.

He climbed to the top of the stand and sat in the place he always took when the weather was good. His two bodyguards, both Brigatisti serving life sentences, looked around slowly, then seated themselves on either side of him. He took a cigarette from his pocket and pushed it between his lips. One of the bodyguards lit it for him. He heard the sound of the approaching helicopter and looked up when it came into view. The word POLIZIA, in black letters, was clearly visible against the side of the white fuselage. The prisoners gesticulated angrily at it, their voices carrying as they shouted abuse at the pilot. It hovered over the exercise yard. The cabin door opened fractionally. A moment later a single shot echoed out. The prisoners were still scrambling for safety when it gained height again. The cabin door was flung open and the watchtower raked with gunfire, forcing the warder to dive for cover. By the time he got to his feet the helicopter was already out of firing range. He raised the alarm, then used his binoculars to scan the exercise yard for any casualties. He trained them on a section of the stand where the prisoners were congregating in an ever-widening circle.

Zocchi lay on the top step, the cigarette still smouldering inches away from his outstretched hand. The top of his head had been shot away.

Malcolm Philpott used the miniature transmitter on his desk to close the door after the Secretary-General had left the office, then opened his tobacco pouch and tamped a wad into the mouth of his briar pipe. He lit it carefully then sat back in his chair and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling.

He was a 56-year-old Scot with a gaunt face and red hair who had spent seven years as the head of Scotland Yard’s Special Branch before taking up his present post as UNACO Director in 1980. The man with the doleful features and thinning black hair sitting opposite him had been his deputy for the past three years. Sergei Kolchinsky, who was four years younger than Philpott, had been a KGB operative for twenty-five years, sixteen of those as a military attaché in the West, before he joined UNACO replacing a fellow Russian who had been sent back home for spying.

UNACO employed 209 personnel, thirty of those being field operatives who had been siphoned off from law enforcement agencies around the world. They worked in teams of three, each team being denoted by the prefix ‘Strike Force’, and their intensive training included all forms of unarmed combat and the use of all known firearms (although operatives could choose their own weapons for any assignment). The training took place regularly at UNACO Test Centre off the Interborough Highway in Queens. The entire complex was housed underground to ensure maximum security.

Philpott reached for his cane and crossed to the window. He limped heavily on his left leg; the result of an injury he had sustained in the last days of the Korean War. His office, situated on the twenty-second floor of the United Nations Secretariat, looked out across the East River.

‘In view of the report we received this morning we’re going to have to bring in Strike Force Three for this assignment,’ Philpott said.

‘I agree.’ Kolchinsky stubbed out his cigarette and immediately took another one from the packet on the desk and lit it. ‘But then I’d have used them anyway.’

‘Do I detect a hint of favouritism there, Sergei?’ Philpott asked as he returned to his chair and sat down.

‘Call it respect. Their track record proves they are the best team we’ve got.’

Philpott entered a code into his computer, read the information from the screen, then banged his fist angrily on the desk. ‘They went on leave last week. As if we didn’t have enough problems.’ He flicked a switch on his desk. ‘Sarah?’

‘Yes, sir?’ came the immediate reply.

‘Get hold of Mike, Sabrina and C.W. Top priority.’

‘I’ll get on to it right away.’

‘And Sarah, they’re on a Code Red standby. Cancel their leave, effective immediately until further notice.’

Sabrina Carver was UNACO only female field operative. It had initially caused some resentment amongst some of her more chauvinistic male colleagues when she had been recruited from the FBI, but she had quickly proved that she was more than capable of looking after herself and now, two years on, Mike Graham and C. W. Whitlock were the envy of those same colleagues who had made the mistake of doubting her abilities.

Although she lived in New York she still tried to get down to Miami at least twice a year to visit her parents at their Spanish-style mansion in the affluent Coral Gables suburb overlooking Biscayne Bay. When her leave came through it was already the middle of March and she hadn’t seen her mother and father since their annual Christmas pilgrimage to New York. She had decided to spend the first ten days of her leave in Miami before flying out to Switzerland to join some of her friends for a week of skiing. The Miami weather was in the high eighties and she had spent most of her time either lazing by the swimming pool listening to jazz on her portable compact disc player, or else out on Biscayne Bay in her father’s 42-foot Maxum speedboat, the Port of Call.

She parked her father’s BMW 7301 opposite the Marina Park Hotel, close to the entrance of the Miamarina, and smiled to herself as she remembered how she had managed to persuade him to call the speedboat the Port of Call after one of her favourite songs by her jazz idol, saxophonist David Sanborn. Heads turned to look at her when she got out of the car. She was a strikingly beautiful 28-year-old with a near perfect figure which she kept in shape by attending aerobics classes three times a week when she wasn’t on assignment. Her shoulder-length blonde hair, which she had tinted with auburn highlights, was tucked underneath a New York Yankees baseball cap. Mike Graham, a lifelong Yankees fan, had given it to her after she had turned up at the Test Centre wearing an LA Dodgers cap. She had never worn the Dodgers cap since. She was wearing an emerald bikini underneath a baggy white T-shirt and knew she was attracting the attention of the men she passed on her way to where the Port of Call was berthed at the end of the pier. She had come to ignore the salacious looks and wolf-whistles, for she believed to acknowledge them would only be a sign of vanity. And she despised vanity in any form.

She stopped beside the Dream Merchant, a 109-foot yacht which belonged to John Bernstein, one of Miami’s leading financiers and a close family friend for more years than she could remember. Her father had told her the day before that Bernstein was attending an international monetary conference in Washington and wasn’t due back until the following week. So what were the two men in black wet suits doing in the saloon? She was sure there was a perfectly simple explanation but decided to check it out anyway. The gangway had been pulled in so she jumped on to the deck, landing nimbly on her toes. One of the men saw her and swung round, a Walther P5 in his hand. She flung herself to the deck as he fired. The bullet smashed through the glass door and hit the pier. His colleague shouted at him and they disappeared through a side door.

Seconds later she heard the sound of engines and got to her feet in time to see the two men fleeing the yacht on red and white jet skis. She clambered back on to the pier, shouted at a startled couple on a nearby yacht to call the police, then ran to where the metallic-gold Port of Call was moored. She untied it, started the engine, then turned it sharply in the water and headed after the jet skis.

The two men saw her and split up, one heading for the busy harbour complex, the other continuing towards Lummus Island. She spun the wheel violently and went after the one making for the harbour. She knew she would lose him if he reached the harbour first. There were too many hiding places for a craft of that size. She accelerated sharply and the speedboat skimmed across the water but although she was closing on the jet ski she knew she couldn’t catch it. He glanced over his shoulder and made the mistake of thinking she would cut him off before he reached the safety of the docks. He panicked and reached for the Walther in his wet suit pocket. He lost control of the jet ski. It somersaulted, catapulting him into the water. She throttled back the engine and pulled up alongside the man who offered no resistance as she helped him into the speedboat. He slumped dejectedly on to one of the padded seats, his hands over his face. Blood ran down the side of his head from a gash above his eye.

Then she noticed the approaching patrol boat. It drew alongside the speedboat and a painter rope was thrown to her.

‘There’s another–’

‘Just tie the rope to your boat,’ a ginger-haired man commanded. He was in his early fifties and wore the insignia of a lieutenant.

She switched off the engine then scrambled on to the bow and threaded the rope through the ring, securing it firmly with an overhand knot. The man was hauled over the patrol boat’s low railing and sent below to have his wound treated. Sabrina ignored the extended hands and climbed aboard the patrol boat by herself. She asked about the other jet skier.

‘A patrol boat has already intercepted him near Lummus Island.’ The lieutenant stared at her, then shook his head slowly to himself. ‘You’ve been watching too much Miami Vice, sweetheart.’

‘I’m not your sweetheart,’ she snapped back.

‘A New Yorker; I should have guessed,’ he muttered and reached for her baseball cap.

‘You touch that and you’ll be in the water quicker than you can draw breath,’ she said icily.

‘I’d watch my tongue if I were you,’ he shot back, pointing a finger of warning at her. ‘What the hell were you doing? You could have got somebody killed at the Miamarina.’

‘I didn’t know they were armed,’ she replied defensively. ‘The yacht belongs to a friend of mine who happens to be out of town at the moment. What was I supposed to do? Ignore the fact that two men were acting suspiciously on board?’

‘You were supposed to call the police and let them handle it.’

‘I’ll bear it in mind next time, if I can find a policeman to call.’

‘I’ve got a good mind to book you.’

‘For what?’ she replied in amazement.

‘Making a citizen’s arrest? You guys must really be having trouble reaching your quota of collars for the month.’

Her bleeper sounded. She undipped it from the bottom half of her bikini and switched it off.

‘I need to call New York urgently.’

‘Don’t tell me, your boyfriend’s missing you,’ the lieutenant said sarcastically.

There was a ripple of laughter from the men around them. She bit back her anger.

‘If it’ll put your mind at rest, have one of your men radio through to police headquarters and check on the speedboat. The Port of Call. You’ll find it’s registered to George Carver, the former Democratic Congressman and Ambassador to Canada and the United Kingdom. He’s my father.’

The lieutenant gestured to the door behind her. ‘Make your call, but you’re going to have a lot of explaining to do before we’re through here.’

She let him lead the way to his cabin.

‘I’ll be waiting outside the door,’ he told her gruffly.

She closed the door behind her and crossed to the telephone on the desk. She dialled an unlisted number.

‘Llewelyn and Lee, good morning,’ a female voice answered politely after the first ring.

‘Sabrina Carver, 101730630,’ she said, quoting the number on her personnel dossier in Philpott’s office.

‘Hello, Sabrina, the Colonel wants to speak to you urgently. I’ll put you through.’

‘Thanks, Sarah.’

There was a click on the other end of the line.

‘Sabrina?’

‘Yes, sir,’ she replied, immediately recognizing Philpott’s crisp Celtic accent.

‘You’re on an immediate Code Red standby. There’s a ticket waiting for you at the Continental check-in counter. Your flight leaves in three hours. Briefing is scheduled for three-thirty this afternoon.’

She swore inwardly.

‘There’s a slight problem, sir,’ she said, and went on to tell him what had happened.

‘I’ll call Miami’s Chief of Police and have him clear things with this lieutenant. You say his name’s Grady?’

‘That’s what it says here,’ she replied, touching the nameplates on the desk.

‘Fine. See you later.’

The line went dead. She replaced the receiver and found Grady waiting in the corridor.

‘The Chief of Police?’ he said in amazement, when she had told him to expect the call.

‘Who are you?’

‘Just another New Yorker,’ she replied, touching her cap.

‘See you on deck.’

When he reemerged fifteen minutes later she was busy talking to a couple of the men about the intruder, who had already confessed to attempted theft. They saw it as an open and shut case.

‘You’re free to go,’ Grady told her, barely able to keep the contempt from his voice. ‘You’ll still need to testify in court.’

‘You know where to get hold of me, Lieutenant.’

Sabrina climbed back into the speedboat, untied the rope, then turned the boat around and headed back towards the Miamarina.

‘What I’d give for one date with her,’ one of the men muttered wistfully.

‘I know what your wife would give you,’ a voice piped up behind him.

The others laughed.

‘Okay, the fun’s over,’ Grady snapped.

‘Let’s get that damn jet ski out of the water before it drifts any further out to sea.’

Mike Graham’s first thought on hearing the gunshots had been for the safety of the small herd of white-tailed deer that lived in the forest near his log cabin on the banks of Lake Champlain in southern Vermont. He had spent his vacations watching them since moving from New York two years earlier and the idea of them being harmed both angered and horrified him. Arming himself with an M21 rifle and a powerful pair of Zeiss binoculars, he had set off in the direction from which the gunshots had originated. Not that he had needed to draw on any of his tracking experience to find the culprits. A ten-year-old could have followed the trail of empty beer cans. The two men were sitting against the side of a white jeep in a clearing by the lake, each with a beer in his hand. They were cooking a rabbit over a crudely constructed fire, occasionally turning it on a makeshift spit. He could smell the meat from where he lay. He could also smell the joint they were sharing.

Graham was a youthfully handsome 37-year-old with tousled collar-length auburn hair and penetrating pale blue eyes who kept himself in shape with a daily pre-dawn run followed by a gruelling workout in the converted mini-gym behind the cabin. His obsession with fitness dated back to his childhood in the Bronx when his only ambition was to wear the famous blue and white uniform of the New York Giants. His ambition was realized when he was signed up as a rookie quarterback after he graduated from CLA with a degree in Political Science. A month later he was drafted into Vietnam where a shoulder injury cut short his promising football career. He joined the CIA to help train Meo tribesmen in Thailand and on his return to the United States he was accepted by the elite anti-terrorist squad, Delta. He was promoted to leader of Squadron-B eleven years later and his first mission was to take a five-man team into Libya to destroy a known terrorist base on the outskirts of Benghazi. He was about to give the order to close in on the base when news reached him that his wife, Carrie, and son, Mike Jr, had been abducted outside their New York apartment by Arab-speaking gunmen. He refused to abort the mission and the base was destroyed. The FBI launched an intensive nationwide search but Carrie and Mike Jr were never found. He was retired from Delta at his own request three months later but was initially turned down for UNACO by the Secretary-General on the basis of his psychiatric report. Philpott personally overruled the Secretary-General’s decision and Graham was accepted as a UNACO field operative, subject to periodic reevaluation tests every year.

The older of the two men, who was wearing a peaked cap over his grey hair, tossed the joint into the fire then got to his feet and helped himself to another beer from the cooler on the passenger seat. He was about to sit down again when a movement caught his eye in the scrub behind the jeep. He tapped his blond-haired companion on the shoulder, gestured for him to be quiet, and pointed towards the scrub. The blond-haired man took a .300 Parker Hale from the back of the jeep, raised it to his shoulder and fired. He shouted in triumph and slapped his friend on the back.

‘You only hit it in the leg, Ray,’ the grey-haired man chided, then took another mouthful of beer.

‘Hell, that deer’s big enough to keep us in jerkey for the next year.’

‘Sure is,’ Ray replied with a grin.

‘Hey, look at it tryin’ to get up. It’s not going’ to get far on three legs.’

His companion laughed. ‘Shoot it in another leg. I bet you ten dollars you can’t.’

‘You’re on, Sam,’ Ray replied and raised the rifle to his shoulder again.

Graham, who had crept up silently behind them, struck Ray in the small of the back with the butt of the M21, slamming him against the side of the jeep. The Parker Hale fell to the ground. Sam made a move towards it.

‘If you pick it up, you’d better be prepared to use it,’ Graham threatened.

Sam swallowed nervously and stepped away from the Parker Hale. Graham picked it up and threw it into the water.

‘Who are you?’ Ray demanded, his face still twisted in pain. ‘There ain’t no law against us huntin’ round here.’

Graham ignored him, then reached inside the jeep and released the hand brake It rolled towards the lake. Graham hurried over to where the deer lay, its eyes wide and fearful as it struggled to stand up. He tried to comfort it by stroking its head. There was nothing he could do to save it. The leg was shattered. He shot it through the back of the head. Its body jerked, then lay still.

‘I hope you’re proud of yourself, boy,’ Graham snapped at Ray, who had managed to stop the jeep inches away from the water.

‘We was only havin’ some fun,’ came the sullen reply.

‘Is that what you call it? Well now, it’s my turn to have some fun. Take off your boots, both of you.’

‘Go to hell,’ Sam snarled. ‘You’ve got no right to threaten us like this. Ray’s right, we haven’t broken any hunting laws.’

Graham looked out across the lake.

‘One of the reasons I came to live out here was because of its seclusion. Hardly anybody comes around these parts. I could kill you both, dump your bodies in the jeep, and drive it into the lake. Your bodies would never be found. And if you don’t think I’d do it, call my bluff.’

Ray shook his head nervously. ‘We ain’t doubtin’ you’d do it, mister. If it’s money you want–’

‘Take off your boots!’

The two men exchanged glances, then untied their boots and kicked them off. Graham threw them as far as he could into the lake, then shot out the jeep’s back tyres.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Sam shouted, his eyes fixed on the deflated tyres. ‘We’re only carrying one spare.’

‘The nearest town’s Burlington. It’s about five miles from here. Ask for Charlie, he’ll sell you a tyre, if you pay him enough.’

‘How we supposed to get there?’ Ray wailed, staring at his stockinged feet.

‘If you run you should make it by mid-afternoon.’ Graham pointed east. ‘It’s in that direction.’

‘We’ll cut our feet to pieces,’ Sam said, looking around in desperation. ‘There’s nothing but forest for miles.’

‘Yeah, deer country.’

Graham shouldered his M21 and disappeared back into the undergrowth, deaf to the shouted pleas of the men behind him. It took him twenty minutes to get back to his cabin and as he neared the door he could hear his bleeper in the bedroom. He hurried inside and switched it off. The telephone beside the bed started to ring. He sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the receiver.

‘Mike?’

‘Speaking.’

‘It’s Sarah, from Llewelyn and Lee.’

‘1913104,’ Graham quoted his UNACO ID number.

‘Finally,’ she said, the relief evident in her voice. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you for the past two hours. Isn’t your bleeper working?’

‘I guess not,’ Graham replied, turning it around in his hand.

‘Bring it in, I’ll order a replacement from the Test Centre. Colonel Philpott wants to speak to you urgently. Oh, Mr. Kolchinsky’s just come in. He wants to speak to you.’

‘Michael, what’s going on down there?’ Kolchinsky barked down the line. ‘Why haven’t you been answering your bleeper?’

‘It must be acting up,’ Graham replied dismissively. ‘What’s the big panic?’

‘You’re on a Code Red standby. Nash has been waiting for you at the Burlington airstrip for the last hour. Pack some summer clothes, the Mediterranean can be very warm at this time of year.’

‘You’ve whetted my interest already.’

‘And don’t forget to bring your bleeper with you. We can’t have you running around with a faulty one, can we?’

Kolchinsky’s sarcasm wasn’t lost on him. He smiled to himself, then replaced the receiver and crossed to the cupboard to find his suitcase.

Sabrina found a space for her champagne-coloured Mercedes-Benz 500 SEC in the parking bay next to the United Nations Headquarters, then crossed to the Secretariat Building where she produced a pass to gain her entry into the main foyer. The pass identified her as an interpreter based at the General Assembly, the perfect cover considering her degree in Romance languages and her subsequent postgraduate work at the Sorbonne. She took the lift to the twenty-second floor, then walked to an unmarked door at the end of the corridor and punched a code into the numerical bell push on the adjacent wall. The door opened on to a small, neatly furnished office. Three of the walls were covered with cream-coloured wallpaper. The fourth wall was constructed of rows of teak slats, incorporated into which were two seamless sliding doors which could only be opened by miniature sonic transmitters. The door on the right led into the soundproofed UNACO Command Centre where teams of analysts, using the latest in high-tech equipment, worked around the clock to keep abreast of the ever-changing developments in world affairs. The door on the left led into Philpott’s office and could only be opened by him.

Sarah Thomas looked up from her typewriter and smiled at Sabrina. She was an attractive 31-year-old with short blonde hair who had turned down the possibility of a lucrative career in Hollywood after winning a beauty pageant and gone instead to secretarial college in Chicago. She had been with UNACO for four years and was married to the Test Centre’s senior martial arts instructor.

‘How was the vacation?’ she asked after Sabrina closed the door.

‘Short,’ Sabrina replied with a grin, then sat down on the couch. ‘Am I the first one here?’

Sarah nodded. ‘Mr. Kolchinsky’s gone to fetch Mike at the airport.’

‘And C.W.?’

‘He’s in Paris. Jacques Rust is flying up from Zürich to brief him.’

Sabrina indicated the desk panel. ‘Well, you’d better tell His Lordship I’m here.’

Sarah smiled then flicked on the intercom switch. ‘Sabrina’s here, sir.’

‘Send her in,’ Philpott replied, and the door slid open.

‘Afternoon, sir,’ Sabrina said as she entered the office.

‘Sit down,’ Philpott replied abruptly, activating the transmitter on his desk to close the door behind her.

She sat on the nearest of the two black leather couches.

‘I received a call earlier this afternoon from Miami’s Chief of Police,’ Philpott said, reaching for his pipe. ‘It seems-you not only went out of your way to embarrass this Lieutenant Grady in front of his own men, you also threatened him with physical violence.’

‘The guy was a creep–’

‘He’s a police officer!’ Philpott thundered. ‘You were supposed to be on leave. And that meant you didn’t have official clearance with any of the local law enforcement agencies. I had to pull a lot of strings to get you out of testifying at the trial. What if the papers had got hold of the story? My God, they would have had a field day. You drew unnecessary attention to this organization and that’s something I will not tolerate. Pull another stunt like that and you’ll find yourself suspended. Do I make myself understood?’

‘Yes, sir,’ she muttered through clenched teeth.

Philpott lit his pipe and sat back in his chair.

‘This negative side has only surfaced since you teamed up with Graham. It’s obvious that some of this contempt he holds for the law has rubbed off on to you. It might be your way of getting him to accept you as an equal, I don’t know, but it won’t do you any good if you’re transferred to another team.’

‘I resent that, sir. I’ve never tried to prove anything to Mike. If he can’t accept me for what I am, that’s his problem. Not mine.’

The intercom buzzed. Philpott flicked on the switch. ‘Yes?’

‘Mr. Kolchinsky’s here with Mike Graham, sir,’ Sarah said.

‘Send them in.’ Philpott switched the intercom off and activated the door with the transmitter on his desk.

Kolchinsky greeted Sabrina with a quick handshake then sat down and lit a cigarette.

‘Afternoon, sir,’ Graham said to Philpott, then sat on the couch beside Sabrina. ‘How you doing?’

‘Good,’ she replied with a smile. ‘And you?’

‘Okay, I guess. Where’s C.W.?’

‘Paris. Jacques is briefing him.’

‘Can we begin?’ Philpott asked, and waited until he had their attention before continuing.

‘Sergei and I had an hour-long meeting with the Secretary-General this morning about this Code Red you’ve been assigned to cover. That, in itself, should give you an idea of the severity of the situation. How often does the Secretary-General involve himself personally in a case? Sergei will brief you, he’s been monitoring the case from the start. Sergei?’

Kolchinsky stubbed out his cigarette and got to his feet.

‘Last night four terrorists from the Red Brigades broke into the Neo-Chem Industries plant outside Rome.’

‘I take it this is the same Neo-Chem Industries who own that glass and aluminium monstrosity over on West 57th Street?’ Graham asked.

‘That “glass and aluminium monstrosity”, as you call it, is their international headquarters,’ Kolchinsky told him. ‘They have fourteen plants outside the United States and are widely regarded as one of the foremost pharmaceutical manufacturers in the world.’

‘Pity about their taste in architecture.’

‘Let’s stick to the briefing, shall we?’ Philpott said, eyeing Graham sharply. ‘Go on, Sergei.’

‘One of those killed during the break-in was the plant’s senior scientific adviser, Professor David Wiseman. He’d worked for UNACO in the past as a consultant, which was why we were able to gain access to his personal files within hours of his death. A team of scientists from our Zürich HQ took a complete inventory of his stock but found only one item missing. A vial encased in a metal cylinder identical to this one I got from the Test Centre.’

Sabrina took the metal cylinder from Kolchinsky and turned it around in her fingers. ‘And nothing else was taken from any of the other laboratories?’

‘All the other laboratories were still locked when our people got there. No, the terrorists knew exactly what they wanted and where to find it.’

‘What was in the vial?’ Graham asked, taking the metal cylinder from Sabrina.

‘I’m coming to that.’ Kolchinsky lit another cigarette and dropped the match into the ashtray on Philpott’s desk. ‘According to the files Wiseman kept in his personal safe he had been working on two projects that hadn’t been sanctioned by the company. One was to procure a quantity of sleeping gas for the Rome cell of the Red Brigades.’

‘And was the Rome cell behind the break-in?’ Sabrina asked.

‘Yes,’ Kolchinsky replied. ‘The second project involved viruses. Six months ago he set out to develop a highly contagious recombinant DNA virus which could potentially kill millions of people if it were ever released into the atmosphere. He completed his work on it a fortnight ago.’

Sabrina sat forward, her arms resting on her knees. ‘And the Red Brigades took the wrong vial?’

Kolchinsky nodded grimly. ‘Both were stored in metal cylinders. The only way of telling them apart was by their different serial numbers. The vial containing the sleeping gas was found in Wiseman’s office.’

‘What about the antidote?’ Sabrina asked.

‘He was still working on it at the time of his death,’ Philpott replied.

‘But surely if all his work’s been documented then our boffins can come up with an antidote themselves?’ Graham said, handing the metal cylinder back to Kolchinsky.

‘I don’t know how much you know about recombination, Michael, but basically it needs the genes of two virus strains to conjugate for it to be successful. An antidote can only be developed if both strains of the virus are known. In this case both strains were artificially created in his laboratory. He referred to them throughout his files simply as “alpha” and “beta”. He was the only person who knew what they were.’

‘And now he’s dead,’ Sabrina muttered, rubbing her hands over her face.

‘What if the sleeping gas was just a red herring and the virus was destined for the Red Brigades all along?’ Graham said.

‘That was my theory, until this arrived on my desk.’ Philpott removed a telex from the folder in front of him. ‘It’s a transcript of a taped message the Italian government received earlier this morning. The voice has been identified as Riccardo Ubrino, one of Rome’s senior Brigatisti. He’s threatened to open the vial at ten o’clock on Thursday morning unless he sees a live telecast of Rome’s jailed brigade chief, Lino Zocchi, being put on an aeroplane bound for Cuba. What is significant, though, is that he refers to the contents of the vial as “sleeping gas”. Why continue the pretence knowing that the authorities will have already discovered the truth, unless he genuinely believes he has the sleeping gas?’

‘I don’t get it, sir,’ Sabrina said, frowning. ‘Have we been called in because the Italian government won’t comply with his demands?’

‘We’ve been called in because the Italian government can’t comply with his demands. Zocchi’s dead. He was shot by an unknown gunman an hour after the government received the tape. The authorities have instigated an immediate news blackout on Zocchi’s death. The prison itself has been isolated. The authorities have come up with a story that there’s a bout of acute conjunctivitis amongst the prisoners so that news of Zocchi’s death can’t be leaked out to visitors. But it can’t remain isolated indefinitely. The vial has to be found. Quickly.’

‘Can’t the authorities get around the table with senior Brigatisti and explain the situation to them?’ Sabrina asked.

‘They already have,’ Kolchinsky replied, resuming his seat. ‘Word is that Zocchi masterminded the break-in from his prison cell. It was done without the knowledge of the committee, so none of them know where Ubrino’s gone to ground. They have no way of contacting him. And even if they could, who’s to say Zocchi didn’t give him instructions to open the vial in the event of his death?’

‘To make matters worse, the gunman who shot Zocchi was in a police helicopter, or what looked remarkably like one,’ Philpott added. ‘Put yourself in Ubrino’s shoes. An hour after the government receives his demands, Zocchi is killed by a gunman in a police helicopter. Coincidence?’

‘It’s obviously a set-up, sir,’ Sabrina said.

‘Try explaining that to the Red Brigades,’ Philpott replied.

‘But why us, sir?’ Graham asked. ‘Why haul us back from leave when you could have brought in one of the other Strike Force teams?’

Philpott removed a second telex from the folder. ‘This also arrived this morning. It concerns Wiseman’s brother. You might remember him. Richard Wiseman. I believe he was one of the more colourful officers in Vietnam.’

‘Yeah, I remember him. Lieutenant-Colonel Richard Wiseman, Marine Corps. A damn good soldier.’

‘He’s now General Wiseman of the First Ranger Battalion. And he’s out for revenge. I’m not going to go into detail, it’s all in the resume for you to read on the plane. Basically, he’s hiring a gunman and a driver to do the dirty work for him. We can’t afford to have them encroaching on the case. There’s too much at stake. It seems he’s chosen a Jamaican from London as the getaway driver. We’re going to put

our man in his place. And there’s only one field operative who fits the bill.’

‘C.W.,’ Sabrina said.

‘Right,’ Philpott replied, handing out two manila envelopes to Graham and Sabrina.

The envelopes contained the resume, which had to be destroyed after reading; airline tickets; maps of their ultimate destination; written confirmation of hotel accommodation; a brief character sketch of their contacts (if any) and a sum of money in lire. All field operatives also carried two credit cards for emergencies. There was no limit to the amount of money an operative could use during an assignment but it all had to be accounted for to Kolchinsky, with chits to back up the figure work when they returned to New York.

‘Your flight leaves in two hours. Sergei will be going with you to set up a base in Rome. I’ll be joining you as soon as I can. Jacques will run things from Zürich in my absence.’ Philpott activated the

transmitter on his desk to open the door. ‘Mike? Sabrina?’

They paused at the door to look back at him.

‘Good luck. I’ve got a feeling you’re going to need it.’

C. W. Whitlock replaced the receiver and looked round at his wife, Carmen, who was standing motionless on the balcony, her hands gripped tightly around the railing, the light evening breeze teasing her shoulder length black hair. She was a tall, slender Puerto Rican with a youthful beauty which belied her true age. She was forty. As he stared at her he realized just how much he loved her. But that wasn’t enough to save their crumbling marriage.

‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ he said behind her, looking across the Champs de Mars at the brightly lit Eiffel Tower which soared 984 feet into the clear night sky.

‘That was Jacques on the phone, wasn’t it?’ she asked softly.

‘Yes, he’s on his way up,’ he replied, putting an arm around her shoulders.

‘Don’t.’ She shrugged his arm off and returned to the bedroom.

He leaned his arms on the railing and looked down at the passing traffic on the Avenue de Bourdonnais. He was a 44-year-old Kenyan with sharp, angular features tempered by the neat moustache he had worn since his university days. After graduating with a BA (Hons) from Oxford he had returned to Kenya where he spent a short time with the army before joining the Intelligence Corps, remaining there for ten years and rising to the rank of Colonel. He had been one of Philpott’s first recruits in 1980.

There was a knock at the door.

‘I’ll get it,’ Carmen said.

Jacques Rust smiled at her when she opened the door. He activated his mechanized wheelchair and entered the room. He handed her the bouquet of red roses he was carrying.

‘Freshly picked from the jardin du Luxembourg,’ he said with a smile. ‘Well, I hope not. I bought them from a vendor I’ve known for years.’

She kissed him lightly on the cheek, the anger suddenly gone from her eyes.

‘Thank you, Jacques, they’re beautiful. I’ll put them in some water.’

‘Where’s C.W.?’

‘He’s on the balcony,’ she replied. ‘I’ll get him for you.’

Rust put his attaché case on the floor. He was a handsome 43-year-old Frenchman with pale blue eyes and short black hair. He had spent fourteen years with the French Service de Documentation Extérieure et de Contre-Espionnage before joining UNACO in 1980. He and Whitlock had worked as a team until the Secretary-General had given Philpott permission to increase the field operatives from twenty to thirty. Sabrina, because of her age and relative inexperience, had been put with them to form the original Strike Force Three. A year later he and Sabrina were on a stakeout at the Marseilles docks when they came under fire from the drug smugglers they had been watching. He was hit in the spine, leaving him paralyzed from the waist down. He was given a senior position at the Command Centre after his release from hospital, and was promoted to head the European operation when his predecessor was killed in a car crash. He was widely tipped to become the next UNACO Director when Philpott retired in four years’ time. That had already given rise to speculation that Kolchinsky would replace him in Zürich with Whitlock taking over as deputy director when he was retired from the field, also in four years’ time.

‘Hello, C.W.,’ Rust said when Whitlock entered the room.

‘Jacques,’ Whitlock replied, his handshake formal rather than friendly.

‘I’ll leave you two to it,’ Carmen said, emerging from the kitchen where she had put the roses in some water.

‘Where are you going?’ Whitlock asked.

‘Does it matter?’ she retorted.

‘Of course, it matters,’ Whitlock shot back. ‘I don’t want you walking the streets by yourself at this time of night.’

‘He’s right, Carmen,’ Rust said to her. ‘This part of the city’s crawling with. pickpockets and bag-snatchers.’

‘Don’t worry, I don’t intend to walk the streets by myself.’ She looked at Whitlock. ‘You know where I’ll be. If, of course, you remember our honeymoon.’

‘You know where she’s going?’ Rust asked once Carmen had left the room.

Whitlock nodded.

‘There’s a small bistro not far from here on the rue de Crenelle. We ate there most nights when we were here on our honeymoon. It’s ironic, isn’t it? We started our marriage in this room, now it looks like we’re going to end it here as well.’

‘Don’t talk like that, C.W. –’

‘Like what?’ Whitlock cut in sharply, his eyes blazing. ‘You know damn well why our marriage is in such a mess. She wants me out of the firing line at UNACO. I want to stay because I know I have a future with the organization. We chose Paris as neutral ground. No fights. No UNACO Three weeks to try and save our marriage. What happens? Three days after we get here you call to say that I’m on a Code Red standby. All leave’s been cancelled. She’s got every right to be mad, Jacques. Every right.’

Rust nodded sombrely. ‘I know what you’re saying, C.W. but we have to use Strike Force Three. More to the point, we have to use you.’

Whitlock sighed deeply and patted Rust on the shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Jacques, I didn’t mean to fly off the handle at you like that. I know we wouldn’t have been recalled unless the situation was critical. It’s just so frustrating not being able to make Carmen understand that.’

‘I don’t like it any more than you do, C.W. You know how fond I am of Carmen. I hate to see the two of you like this.’

‘I know,’ Whitlock said softly, then sat on the edge of the bed. ‘What’s the assignment?’

Rust told him about the break-in at the plant, the stolen vial, Ubrino’s demands and the death of Zocchi. ‘Mike and Sabrina will be handling that side of the case. You’re going undercover. We received a report today to say that Wiseman’s brother is out for revenge. He’s already hired a gunman to find his brother’s killer.’ He took a blue folder from his attaché case, opened it, and handed a photograph to Whitlock. ‘That’s the wheel man he wants to use. His name’s Reuben Alexander, a Londoner of Jamaican extraction. You’re going to take his place.’

‘But I don’t look anything like him. All we’ve got in common is that we’re black.’

‘Alexander’s camera-shy. In fact, he takes it to extremes. That’s why we think you’ll be able to pull it off without any hitches. That’s a police photograph you’ve got there. And it’s the only one they’ve got, apart from his official mug shots.’

‘I take it Wiseman’s never met him?’

Rust shook his head. ‘Wiseman only put the scheme together when he heard of his brother’s murder. Alexander’s been in custody for the past fortnight. He’s due in court tomorrow. That’s when they intend to spring him.’

‘I don’t get it, Jacques. Why not just have Wiseman and this gunman picked up until we’ve recovered the vial?’

‘On what charge? All we have is the word of an informer. Richard Wiseman is a three-star general. He also happens to be one of America’s most decorated war heroes. If we pulled him in without any evidence we’d have the Pentagon down on us like a ton of bricks. We have to keep this whole thing as quiet as possible. Imagine the pandemonium if word ever got out about the vial. This way we can make sure that Wiseman won’t get under our feet. It’s imperative that Ubrino’s given as wide a berth as possible if we’re to have any chance of recovering the vial.’

‘Who’s the gunman?’

‘His name’s Vie Young. They served in Vietnam together. That’s all we know about him at the moment. We’re having him checked out, the information will be waiting for you by the time you reach London.’

Whitlock handed the photograph back to Rust.

‘Who’s my contact in London?’

‘A Major Lonsdale of Scotland Yard’s anti-terrorist squad.’

‘Aren’t we handling the switch ourselves?’

‘Now, the British authorities wouldn’t hear of it. It was either the anti-terrorist squad, or nothing. We had no choice. Lonsdale will brief you further once you get to London.’

‘What time’s my flight?’

‘Ten o’clock.’

Whitlock checked his watch.

‘It’s gone seven-thirty already. You’ll have to excuse me, Jacques, I still have to break the news to Carmen.’

‘Go on,’ Rust said softly. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

They shook hands, then Whitlock grabbed the key off the dresser and left the room. He took the lift to the foyer, handed in the key, then emerged out into the cool night air and strode briskly to the bistro a hundred yards away, on the rue de Crenelle. It was exactly as he remembered it. The whitewashed exterior walls, the green and white awning over the entrance and the umbrella-shaded tables spilling out on to the pavement. He went inside. It was packed. Carmen sat at the counter, tracing her finger absently around the rim of her empty glass.

‘Can I buy madame another drink?’ he asked over her shoulder.

‘That’s the fourth offer I’ve had since I came in,’ she replied.

‘What Frenchman can resist a beautiful woman?’ he said, trying to catch the barman’s attention.

‘What time are you leaving?’

‘My flight’s at ten o’clock. I’m sorry–’

‘Save it, I’ve heard it all before,’ she interceded, snapping her fingers to catch the barman’s attention. She asked him to refill her glass.

‘Monsieur? the barman asked Whitlock.

‘The gentleman was just leaving,’ she answered. When the barman had gone she turned to Whitlock.

‘Thanks for the second honeymoon, all three days of it. I suppose I should be grateful it lasted that long.’

‘Carmen–’

‘Leave me alone!’

He kissed her on the cheek. There was nothing he could say.

She stared ahead of her as he left the bistro. She was damned if she would give him the satisfaction of seeing the tears in her eyes.