Алистер Маклин - Death Train

She saw the glint of the blade at the last second but instead of firing she instinctively tried to get a better grip on the Browning. The finely-sharpened blade sliced across the back of her hand. She screamed, dropped the Browning, then stumbled backwards clutching her bleeding hand to her stomach. He saw what happened next as if it were in a slow-motion replay. She backed against the railings and lost her footing, toppling backwards but grabbing on to one of the vertical struts with her injured hand. She managed to get her other hand around the railing, then glanced down at the water seventy feet below her.

‘Don’t look down!’ he shouted.

Only her hands were visible above the level of the catwalk.

‘Give me your hand.’

‘I can’t, they’re slipping,’ she screamed, her bloodied hands unable to get a grip on the smooth railing. ‘Help me, for God’s sake help me.’

He reached down between the struts and grabbed one of her wrists with both hands, but even as he took the strain the blood was already acting as a lubricant between their skins. He dug his fingers mercilessly into her flesh and in a last, desperate bid to hold on she released her grip on the now sticky railing and clasped her hands, one at a time, around his wrists. He tried to pull her up but her hands were slipping all the time. Then, suddenly, she dropped her injured hand to her side, unable to bear the pain any longer. Her wrist slipped through his hands and as she dug her fingers into his palms he caught sight of her wide, pleading eyes staring up at him. Then the contact broke. He turned away sharply as she plunged backwards into space.

He finally stood up and looked down. She was floating face down in the pond, only her white leathers visible above the surface of the water.

He removed the ID disc from the dead guard’s pocket to use to open the door then picked up his Browning and made his way towards the ladder.

After locking the storage pond door behind him he walked down the corridor and out into the night. He drove the Cavalier slowly down the driveway until he came to the boomgate where a guard emerged from the hut and glanced at his pass. Even if his pass had been revoked no guard would bother checking the list against outgoing vehicles.

‘You haven’t seen another guard dressed like me, have you? Only when I came on duty a few minutes ago this place was unmanned. Anyone could have got in.’

‘No, sorry,’ Whitlock replied with an apologetic smile.

The guard activated the boomgate.

Whitlock’s next stop would be the hospital to check on Leitzig’s condition. The last he heard, Leitzig was off the critical list. The sooner he got the names of Leitzig’s fellow conspirators the sooner he could file his last report to Philpott.

Then back to New York.

Back to Carmen.

An airport official telephoned the helicopter pilot at 4.15 the following morning to tell him the fog had lifted sufficiently over the Adriatic for him to attempt the flight to Dubrovnik. Within ten minutes he, Graham and Sabrina had checked out of the hotel and within twenty-five minutes air traffic control had given the helicopter clearance for takeoff. As soon as they were airborne Graham and Sabrina removed wetsuits from the holdall which had been left, on their instructions, in a locker at the airport. In the confined space it was no easy task to strip down to the T-shirt and shorts they were wearing underneath their thick winter clothes and pull on the suits.

By the time they reached Dubrovnik two-and-a-half hours later the fog had already dissipated and the first shafts of dawn light stippled the darkened horizon like the initial brushstrokes of a magnificent watercolour.

The pilot pointed downwards as they flew over the section of harbour owned by Werner Freight. It was a much smaller area than the Trieste complex, comprising only two wharves and a line of warehouses painted in the company’s distinctive colours of black, red and yellow.

The pilot, having already radioed ahead to the harbour authorities, had established that the Napoli had yet to dock in Dubrovnik, its arrival time now uncertain due to the delay caused by the fog. There was currently no ship berthed at either of the two wharves.

When the pilot banked the helicopter away from the harbour to rendezvous at a predetermined spot marked on a chart which had also been included in the holdall, Graham and Sabrina slipped on their flippers and facemasks, then put their Berettas and black plimsolls into the waterproof pouches and secured them to clips at their waists. The coordinates on the chart turned out to be an area some five hundred metres off-shore. It was the perfect place for the drop. When the pilot had lowered the helicopter to within ten feet of the water he nodded his head vigorously, the signal for them to deplane. No sooner had they jumped through the open hatchway and hit the water than the helicopter ascended and wheeled away over Ploce Beach towards the airport.

They were both experienced swimmers and consequently neither had any difficulty in covering the distance to the wharf, the last hundred metres being swum underwater using snorkels to avoid detection in the beam of the powerful floodlights which were still on despite the growing light of day. Once at the wharf they rested for a couple of minutes then Graham led the way to a rusty steel ladder at the juncture of Wharves Seven and Eight. He climbed it until his eyes were level with the newly tarred surface of the wharf. The area was deserted except for a company Land Rover parked outside the warehouse facing directly on to Wharf Eight.

The warehouse door suddenly opened and a man emerged, an Italian Spectre sub-machine-gun slung over his shoulder. Graham ducked down, waiting for the sound of approaching footsteps. There was none. He raised his head slowly then cursed under his breath. The man was standing on the other side of the Land Rover, his head bent forward to light his cigarette. He tossed the spent match aside then leaned back against the passenger door and folded his arms across his chest. There was no route into the warehouse without disturbing the man and even Graham didn’t fancy his chances against the Spectre, arguably the most lethal short-range machine-pistol on the market. He whispered to Sabrina and in reply she removed her flippers while balancing with one hand gripped around the strut of the ladder.

She handed them to him then slipped on her plimsolls and tucked the Beretta into the webbing around her waist.

‘Distract his attention when I give the signal.’

‘Oh, yeah? Have you any idea just how potent the Spectre is?’

‘Sure. It’s got a fifty-round magazine and has an effective range of a hundred-and-fifty metres.’ She put her hand lightly on his arm. ‘He won’t get off a shot. Trust me.’

She climbed up on to the wharf before he could reply and moved cautiously, doubled-over, to the near side of the Land Rover. Crouched down on her haunches, she quickly assessed the situation before giving Graham a nod. He ducked out of sight and a moment later tossed her flippers up on to the wharf. The guard swung round sharply and unslung the Spectre, waiting for the owner of the flippers to come into view. After a few seconds he frowned and took several hesitant steps towards the edge of the wharf. He stopped, now clear of the Land Rover, his back to Sabrina. She rose ghost-like from her hiding place and chopped her hand down viciously on the side of his neck. He crumpled to the ground.

‘Mike!’ she hissed.

Graham scrambled up on to the wharf where he helped her push the unconscious guard under the Land Rover.

‘Hendrique’s here,’ he announced, after peering through the driver’s window.

She shouldered the Spectre. ‘How do you know?’