Алистер Маклин - Death Train

‘Do you want me to put down on one of the wharves?’ the pilot called out over his shoulder.

‘No, the harbourmaster’s office. Know it?’ she shouted back.

The pilot gave her a thumbs-up sign and within a couple of minutes the helicopter had landed in a clearing. He pointed to a red-brick building some forty feet away. She followed Graham across the lawn to the building where, once inside, he sat on the bench beside the door while she approached the counter to speak to the duty officer. The duty officer consulted his logbook several times during the conversation and finally scribbled something down on a piece of paper which he then handed to her. She thanked him then walked over to Graham.

‘One of Werner’s freighters–’ she glanced at the paper ‘–the Napoli , was berthed at Wharf Eleven up until an hour ago.’

‘Well, that’s no good to us,’ he cut in.

‘Give me a chance,’ she retorted irritably. ‘Anyway, it seems the Napoli was already running six hours behind schedule because Werner had personally instructed her captain to wait for a crate which was being brought to Trieste by train. The captain then received the go-ahead to leave the port without the crate but no sooner had the Napoli left than a company Sikorsky touched down on Wharf Eleven. It was to take the crate out to the Napoli as soon as it was delivered to the warehouse.’

‘And the helicopter’s already taken off with the crate?’

She nodded grimly. ‘Twenty-five minutes ago.’

He banged his fist angrily on the arm of the bench.

‘They’re always one step ahead of us.’

‘There’s something else. The Napoli ’s ladened with grain bound for Ethiopia. I can’t believe anyone would actually exploit the suffering of those people for some political ideology.’ She shook her head, a mixture of anger and frustration in her eyes.

‘We’ll head it off in time,’ he said, trying to reassure her. ‘Where’s its next port of call?’

‘Dubrovnik. It should be there by early morning. Then Tripoli.’

‘So we have to stop it before it leaves Dubrovnik,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I can’t see Werner being too far away from the plutonium, so there’s every chance we’ll meet up with him in Dubrovnik.’

‘It’s not a game, Mike!’ she said, grabbing his arm as they left the office.

‘I agree, it’s a challenge.’ He walked several yards then turned to face her. ‘You’re the sharpshooter, Werner’s your problem. I want Hendrique.’

‘It’s not a vendetta either,’ she shouted after him, her words almost lost in the biting wind.

‘We’ve got to get to Dubrovnik tonight,’ he said to the pilot.

‘Dubrovnik?’ The pilot shook his head. ‘No chance, not tonight.’

‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I’ve been in contact with air control. A particularly strong bora wind’s blanketed the entire Dalmatian Coast in such a thick fog that all flights to and from the area have had to be called off until it lifts.’

‘This is UNACO, not a boy scout jamboree. Risks are all part of our business, or weren’t you told when you joined?’

The pilot glared at Graham but wisely kept his anger in check. ‘I’d be the first to risk it if there was some sort of visibility but I’m told the fog’s so bad you can’t see a hand in front of your face. We wouldn’t be risking our lives, we’d be committing suicide.’

‘When’s the fog expected to lift?’ Sabrina asked.

‘The weathermen predict early morning.’

‘And you’ll fly us to Dubrovnik then?’ she added.

‘I’ll have the airport call me the minute the fog shows signs of lifting.’

Graham looked suitably put out but he said nothing, knowing the pilot was right.

‘Just one thing. How would a ship be faring out there right now?’ Sabrina asked.

The pilot stared out into the darkness. ‘It would have dropped anchor as soon as the fog closed in. Only a madman would try and navigate a ship in these conditions.’

Graham and Sabrina exchanged glances, each knowing what the other was thinking.

‘If you want to fly back with me to the airport I’ve got a car waiting there, I can give you a lift into town. We’re going to have to find a hotel for the night.’

‘Thanks, we’d appreciate that,’ Sabrina said.

As the rotors started up the same thought still nagged at the back of their minds. Unknown to the other, neither was prepared to hazard an answer.

Whitlock moved to the wall mirror to straighten his tie. He found himself staring at the stitches across his right eyebrow. An inanimate object had done what no opponent had managed to do in four years of amateur schoolboy boxing. Cut him. He had already come to fancy the idea of a scar, but this one would be fairly innocuous once the hair had grown back.

A scar had the ability to give a face both character and strength. He remembered the scars on his grandfather’s face, three on each cheek, which had been carved into his skin by a witchdoctor using the razor-sharp point of an incisor taken from the mouth of a slain lion. It had been part of the ritual initiation ceremony turning him from a boy into a man. His grandfathers couldn’t have been more different. His mother’s father, the tall warrior with the scarred cheeks who used to enthrall the young C.W. with exciting stories of past Masai battles; his father’s father, the short, red-faced British Army Major who was rarely seen without a thick cigar in his mouth and a bottle of cheap whisky in his hand. His father had had a three-inch scar between his shoulder-blades, the result of an inter-tribal fight, he had once told his son. It was only after his father died that his mother told him the scar had actually been the result of a drunken brawl in a Nairobi nightclub. Much as he loved her, he still resented her for telling him. It was as though a part of the African mystique had died within him.

He smiled. His Masai grandfather would have been proud of him. He glanced at his wristwatch. 8.07. He was due at Karen’s house for dinner at 8.30. The last supper, as he had called it. His work in Mainz was over. It was strange to think that twenty-four hours earlier he had been pacing up and down the very same room, frustrated at his lack of progress.

He pushed the Browning into the holster under his left arm, the threat of the mysterious motorbike rider ever present in the back of his mind.

The telephone rang.

He sat on the edge of the bed before picking up the receiver. ‘Hello?’

‘C.W.?’

‘Karen, is that you?’

‘Please help me, they’ve–’

The receiver was snatched away from her.

‘Be at the plant at 8.30 or the girl dies,’ a man’s voice snarled in German.

‘I can’t, my pass was revoked today,’ Whitlock said calmly, but hearing his heart thudding in his chest.

‘You’ll get in, don’t worry. 8.30 at the cooling pond. Come along; and no piece otherwise the girl gets it.’

The line went dead.

Whitlock disappeared into the bathroom only to emerge a minute later, his tie draped around his neck. He retied it quickly in front of the mirror, pulled on his jacket, then made his way down into the hotel foyer. After handing his key in at the reception desk he hurried out into the chilly night air to where his new rented car was parked on the opposite side of the road. It was a white Vauxhall Cavalier. He was determined to keep this one intact. With that thought in mind he used the highway instead of the old Frankfurt road.

He noticed there was only one guard on duty instead of the usual three as he approached the floodlit plant complex. Only when he drew up in front of the boomgate did he see the Finnish-made Jatimatic machine-pistol in the guard’s hand. It surprised him. Not only was the Jatimatic fairly new on the market but it was also rarely seen outside the Scandinavian countries.