Алистер Маклин: Dead Halt

“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.”