Алистер Маклин - Dead Halt

Paluzzi held out a sheet of paper. “You asked for a copy of our shifts for the weekend.”

“Thanks, Fabio,” Whitlock said, taking the timetable from Paluzzi.

“Are you busy right now?”

Whitlock’s answer was to gesture to the files spread out over the bed.

“I was wondering if you could spare me five minutes?”

“Of course. Come in,” Whitlock replied. “What’s up?”

“It’s about that message that I got when I checked in earlier this evening.”

“It’s nothing serious, is it?” Whitlock asked anxiously. “Nothing’s happened to Claudine or little Dario, has it?”

“No, nothing like that,” Paluzzi replied, quick to allay Whitlock’s sudden concern. “The message was from the head of the Joint Chiefs-of-Staff in Italy. They want me to go back home and take over as the new Commander-in-Chief of the NOCS.”

“But you left because you couldn’t get on with your superiors,” Whitlock said.

“Only my immediate superior, Brigadier Michele Pesco. But he was relieved of command last night. They want me to take his place.”

“And?”

“And nothing,” Paluzzi replied despondently. “Well, not yet anyway. I told them I needed time to think it over. I’m torn on this one, C.W. Half of me wants to catch the next flight back to Rome and assume command first thing in the morning. But the other half wants to stay on here with UNACO. I know it’s something only I can decide, but I just needed to get it off my chest. That’s why I came to you. You’re the senior man around here. I just wanted to put my cards on the table so that if I did decide to take the post it wouldn’t come as a bolt out of the blue to either you or Sergei. I respect you both too much for that.”

“It sounds like you’ve made up your mind already,” Whitlock said with a smile.

“Far from it. It’s something I’ll need to discuss with Claudine when I get back to the States.”

“I know what she’ll say.”

“I know she’s never settled properly in New York, which is obviously something I’ll need to bear in mind when I’m weighing up the situation. There are other considerations but I’m still determined to make the decision myself.”

Whitlock suddenly thought of Carmen. What would she say when he announced that he wanted to go back into the field? Just how independent would his decision be when it came down to it? Knowing Carmen, she’d play a big role in the outcome. And although Paluzzi wasn’t admitting it, he knew Claudine would also play an important part in his final decision. Which meant that Paluzzi was already as good as the new Commander-in-Chief of the Italian elite anti-terrorist squad.

“I just thought I’d let you know,” Paluzzi said, breaking the sudden silence.

“I’m glad you did. And if you need to talk, you know where I am.”

Paluzzi nodded then left the room. Whitlock sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up the telephone. Should he tell Kolchinsky now, or wait until he returned to New York? Kolchinsky would have enough to worry about as it was with the Secretary-General on his back every few minutes. No, he had to tell him. And if Paluzzi did leave, he knew exactly who he’d want to replace him …

Sabrina reached out a hand for the telephone on the bedside table, fumbling in the darkness until she felt her fingers curl around the receiver. She picked it up.

“Good morning, Miss Carver, this is your five o’clock wake-up call,” a friendly female voice announced on the other end of the line.

“Uh-huh,” Sabrina muttered sleepily, dropping the receiver back into its cradle.

All she wanted to do was turn over again and go back to sleep. She forced herself to sit up, then, switching on the bedside lamp, she pulled back the covers and swung her legs out of the bed. She had been on call that night and was wearing a gray tracksuit. Her plimsolls lay within easy reach of the bed. But there had been no calls. At least that had been some consolation …

She ran her fingers through her disheveled hair and rubbed her hands slowly over her face. She hated getting up early in the morning. And that meant any time before eight-thirty. She was essentially a night person. She finally stood up and switched on the kettle. If she had to start the day at such an obscene hour, then a cup of strong, black coffee would help to make it that little bit more bearable.

The telephone rang. She groaned then reached over and answered it.

“Morning. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Mike?” she said in surprise. “What are you doing up at this godforsaken hour? And why do you sound so bloody cheerful?”

Graham chuckled. “Sounds like someone got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

“You know I’m never at my best this early in the morning,” she retorted gruffly. “Why are you calling?”

“You want some company on your run this morning?”

“I thought you usually went for your run around eight?” she replied.

“Yeah, usually. But I thought, what the hell, I might as well run with you guys this morning.”

“I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you run with Scoby and I’ll go back to bed?”

“Nice try, Sabrina. Now get your butt out of bed. I’ll be around in ten minutes.”

“Make it twenty and you’ve got a deal,” she replied.

“OK. Twenty minutes.” The line went dead.

She replaced the receiver and stifled a yawn. She hated jogging almost as much as being forced to get out of bed at five in the morning. Almost. She knew Graham and Whitlock were both avid joggers but she couldn’t see the point of running from one spot to another. What purpose did it serve? She preferred to work out in aerobic classes four times a week. And, when she wasn’t on assignment, she taught karate to housewives two nights a week at a community center in Manhattan. She had gained her black belt in karate when she was still in her teens.

Pushing any thoughts of aerobics and karate from her mind, she reluctantly got to her feet and went through to the bathroom.

Cross and Johnstone, the two anti-terrorist squad detectives who had also been assigned to accompany Scoby on his early morning run, were already waiting in the corridor when Graham and Sabrina arrived punctually to meet Scoby at five forty-five outside his suite. Graham, as usual, was wearing his New York Giants tracksuit and a white headband knotted loosely at the back of his head.

“Is he ready?” Graham asked, gesturing to the door.

“Dunno,” Cross replied with a shrug. “We just got here.”

Graham rapped on the door and moments later Scoby answered it, still wearing his dressing gown. He appraised Graham’s shellsuit slowly. “A liberal and a Giants fan?”

“Mike used to play for the Giants,” Sabrina said, coming to Graham’s defense.

Graham shot her a dirty look.

“Really?” Scoby said in surprise. “Why wasn’t there any mention of it in your dossier?”

“It wasn’t relevant to the case,” Graham replied brusquely.

“Graham? I can’t say I remember the name. What position did you play?”

“Quarterback. But I never played at senior level. I was sent to ’Nam a month after I signed for them. I picked up a shoulder injury over there and that was the end of my playing career.”

“Sounds like you had a narrow escape. Let’s face it, there is only one team to play for in New York. And that’s the Jets.”

“The Jets did try to sign me when I got back from ’Nam,’ Graham replied poker-faced. “I was told that even with my screwed-up arm, I was a damn sight better than any of their regular quarterbacks. But, much as I loved the game, I just couldn’t bring myself to sink that low. Not the Jets.”