Алистер Маклин: Death Train

‘It’s got a nine written in the margin,’ he said.

‘Don’t forget the vagrant was heavily sedated when he spoke to the authorities. Even if he did count six kegs, who’s to say there weren’t more stacked away in another part of the freight car?’

‘Where were they shipped from?’ he asked.

‘Munich. They were unloaded here five days ago. Local address.’

‘Ties in roughly with the time the vagrant jumped the train. It could also be a wild-goose chase.’

‘Could be, but it’s the only lead we’ve got.’

He unzipped the holdall, took out a couple of Boyt shoulder holsters and dropped them on to the table before delving into the holdall again for two handguns carefully wrapped in strips of green cloth. Both were Beretta 92s, the official handgun of the United States Army. The Beretta 92 had always been Sabrina’s favourite handgun but Graham still secretly hankered for the Colt .45 he had first started to use in Vietnam. He had only changed to the Beretta after joining UNACO. All UNACO operatives were allowed to choose their own handguns and, although he had initially used a Colt .45, there had been one main reason for his converting to the Beretta: its magazine capacity – fifteen rounds as opposed to the Colt’s seven. Eight extra bullets in a tight spot could mean the difference between life and death. And not only for him.

After strapping on her shoulder holster and snapping a magazine into the Beretta, Sabrina checked the holdall to make sure the radiation detection counter had also been included. It was a portable Geiger-Müller detector, one of the most popular and reliable devices on the market. It was also one of the most economical, which was why Kolchinsky would have purchased it in the first place. She smiled to herself. Kolchinsky was used to the gentle ribbing he got from the operatives about his cost-cutting exercises but when it came to the crunch he would never put any of their lives at risk for the sake of the budget. He demanded, and got, only the best, invariably at a knockdown price after cleverly playing the manufacturers off against each other.

‘Ready?’

She nodded. ‘Have you got a plan in mind?’

‘Not yet. Let’s see the place first.’

The address on the invoice turned put to be a three-storey house on the Quai des Pécheurs, its reflection perfectly mirrored in the tranquil waters of the River Ill. Its white walls contrasted vividly with the black shutters latched into place over the numerous windows, and the heavy curtains drawn across the three dormer windows jutting out from the unpainted corrugated-iron roof only added to its forbidding atmosphere.

‘They’re certainly hiding something,’ Graham said as he climbed out of the rented Renault GTX.

‘I think, under the circumstances, we should call in our contact,’ Sabrina said at length.

He looked over the car roof at her, his eyebrows furrowed questioningly. ‘What circumstances?’

‘We can hardly go in demanding a guided tour without any kind of official search warrant.’

‘You know the rules, Sabrina: we only use contacts if it’s absolutely necessary. We can handle this ourselves.’

‘How? You’re not going to go storming in there like a bull in a china shop again? You know how pissed off Kolchinsky was when he got the bill the last time you did that.’

‘No, I’ve got a more subtle approach in mind. The damsel in distress.’

‘I might have guessed. Okay, let’s hear it.’

A minute later Sabrina swung the Renault into a narrow alleyway beside the house and emerged into a cobbled courtyard closed in on all sides by faded white walls, the paint peeling off in unsightly flakes to reveal greyish plaster underneath. She climbed out and rapped the knocker on the black wooden door. A judas hole slid back and a youthful face peered out at her. She explained her predicament to him in French, occasionally gesturing at the Renault behind her. As she spoke he leaned closer to the grille to get a better view of her. Skintight jeans tucked into a pair of brown leather boots and a terrific figure. He could hardly believe his luck and unlocked the door to admit her. Once inside in the long, dimly-lit corridor she withdrew a photostat copy of the invoice from her pocket and handed it to him. His salacious grin faltered then disappeared and he glared at her, furious with himself for being tricked so easily.

His eyes flickered past her and he smiled faintly before turning back to her and loudly questioning the validity of the original invoice. His clumsy attempt to distract her attention was all the warning she needed. She waited until the last possible moment before pivoting round to challenge the approaching figure. As the figure closed his fingers around her lapels she clenched her fists together and forced her arms up between his arms until her hands met in front of her face, forcing him to loosen his grip. She then brought her clenched fists down viciously on to the bridge of his nose. He screamed in agony and fell to his knees, cradling his broken nose between his bloodied hands.

The youth snaked his hand behind the door but as his fingers curled around the hilt of the sheathed poniard Graham appeared behind him and pressed the Beretta into his back. He stiffened in terror then let his hand drop to his side. Graham pushed him away from the entrance and reached behind the door to unsheath the poniard. He extended it towards the youth, hilt first, daring him to take it. Sabrina intervened by taking the poniard from Graham’s hand and slipping it down the side of her boot.

‘Did you pick up any readings on the outer building?’ she asked, removing the Geiger-Müller counter from the holdall he had brought with him.

He shook his head. ‘It’s clean.’

She switched it on and traced its sensitive receiver over the door and surrounding floor area.

The needle never moved. When she approached the youth he took a hesitant step back but froze to the spot on seeing Graham’s threatening look. She tried to get a reading first off the youth then off his whimpering colleague. Both readings were negative.

‘You speak English, boy?’ Graham demanded.

The youth pressed his back against the wall, his eyes wide with fear.

‘ Parlez-vous anglais? ’ Sabrina translated.

The youth shook his head. She asked him about the beer kegs and he pointed to a flight of wooden stairs at the end of the hall.

‘What about him?’ Graham asked, indicating the injured man.

‘He won’t be going anywhere in a hurry.’

The wooden stairs led down into a narrow corridor illuminated by a single naked bulb dangling at the end of a piece of frayed flex. The only door was situated at the end of the corridor, secured by a bulky padlock. She made her way to the door but again the counter failed to give a reading. She told the youth to unlock the door but he shook his head. Graham, having understood the conversation by Sabrina’s gesticulation towards the padlock, shoved the youth roughly in the back towards the door. When the youth swung round he found himself staring down the barrel of Graham’s Beretta. He fumbled to unclip the keys from his belt and his fingers were trembling as he tried to unlock the door. It took him three attempts to insert the key into the padlock. He dropped the padlock on to the floor then pushed the heavy door open and reached inside to switch on the light. Sabrina followed him into the room, still unable to get any sort of reading on the Geiger-Müller counter. Hundreds of crates of beer were stacked against three of the whitewashed walls but the fourth, and longest, wall was hidden behind rows of wooden racks lined with bottles of both local and imported wines. The youth led them through a brick archway into a second room overflowing with cardboard boxes, many of them open to reveal their contents. Whisky. He pointed to the nine beer kegs standing in the centre of the room.