Алистер Маклин - Death Train

Graham prised the shotgun from Hendrique’s hand, pointed it at the wall, and squeezed the trigger. Plaster and mortar erupted into the air as the cartridge tore a jagged crevice in the wall.

Sabrina’s face went pale.

He tossed the shotgun casually on to Hendrique’s body. ‘You win some, you lose some.’

For a moment she thought he was going to put his arm around her shoulders.

Instead he gave her a pat on the back.

‘You’re okay, partner.’

She watched him walk out on to the wharf then smiled to herself. Hardly a eulogy, but it was a start.

‘Where’s Graham?’ Philpott asked, prodding the face of his desk clock with his fountain pen. ‘I bet he’s doing this on purpose.’

Whitlock and Sabrina exchanged glances. The thought had crossed their minds. Whereas they had arrived within minutes of each other at the United Nations building, with time to spare, Graham, ever the nonconformist, was now over fifteen minutes late. Sabrina sat down on one of the black leather couches and cupped her hands over her mouth to hide the smile as she watched Philpott’s glowering face.

‘Insolence isn’t funny, Sabrina,’ Philpott said, without looking at her.

‘I agree with you, sir.’ She removed her hands from her face to reveal a deadpan expression.

‘More coffee, sir?’ Whitlock asked, crossing to the dispenser.

‘No, and stop pacing the floor like an expectant father.’

Whitlock slumped on to the couch beside Sabrina.

A light flashed on the desk intercom. Philpott depressed the switch below the light. ‘Yes?’

‘Mr Graham’s here, sir.’

‘Mike Graham, in person?’ Philpott said sarcastically.

‘Yes, sir,’ came the hesitant reply.

‘Thanks, Sarah.’ He switched off the intercom and used the small transmitter on his desk to activate the door panel.

Graham came in carrying a cardboard box under his arm.

‘Nice of you to drop by, Mike,’ Philpott said tersely and closed the panel again.

‘I’m sorry I’m late, sir, but I’ve been down in the foyer for the past ten minutes trying to clear this through security,’ Graham said, tapping the cardboard box.

‘You’ve got the whole day to go shopping–’

‘It’s not for me, sir, it’s for Sabrina,’ Graham cut in to prevent Philpott from delivering one of his monologues on discipline.

‘For me?’ she said with wide-eyed disbelief. Graham placed the cardboard box on the coffee table between the couches. He removed a folder which had been wedged under one of the flaps and placed it on Philpott’s desk beside the other two documented reports submitted by Whitlock and Sabrina.

‘What is it?’ she asked with a hint of excitement.

‘Open it,’ Graham replied.

‘May I, sir, before we start?’ she asked girlishly.

The telephone rang. Philpott waved absently to the cardboard box as he picked up the receiver.

She opened the lid and peered inside, then recoiled in terror, shifting backwards on the couch until she was pressed against Whitlock.

‘What is it?’ Whitlock asked, trying to peer over her shoulder.

Graham removed the cage from inside the cardboard box and she shrunk back even further against Whitlock.

‘Please, Mike, take it away,’ she pleaded.

‘It’s only a hamster,’ Whitlock said, puzzled.

She turned her face away and put her hands up in front of her. ‘Mike, take it away. Please.’

Graham put the cage back into the cardboard box, then squatted down in front of her. He glanced up at Whitlock. ‘She had a bad experience with rats as a kid which has subsequently left her with a deep-rooted fear of all rodents.’

‘You never mentioned this before,’ Whitlock said to her.

She stared guiltily at her hands.

‘I don’t think she realized just how far this phobia’s actually developed until we spoke about it on the plane coming home. It nearly got her killed in Yugoslavia. She’ll tell you what happened in her own time but I don’t see why we should involve anyone else, including the boss.’ He turned to her. ‘Next time your phobia could be instrumental in getting one of us killed. As I said to you on the plane, it’s all in the mind and you’ll never overcome it by continually dodging it, hoping it’ll go away on its own. Confront it, it’s the only way.

‘Rats are hardly the most domesticated of pets so I settled for a hamster, mainly because we used to have one. Well, Mikey did. Know what he called it? “Quarterback”. We tried to tell him that it wasn’t quite the name for a hamster but he was adamant, so “Quarterback” it stayed. He loved the little guy. Many a night we’d go to tuck him in only to find the hamster out of its cage and rustling against the bedclothes. We went to a restaurant once only to have “Quarterback” pop out of Mikey’s pocket halfway through the meal.’

‘Oh no,’ Whitlock said chuckling.

‘I’ve never paid a check so quickly in my life. All I’m asking, Sabrina, is that you give the little guy a chance. Watch him, understand him, I promise you he’ll help you overcome your fear. Deal?’

‘Deal,’ she said softly.

A sudden silence followed and they turned to Philpott, who had finished on the telephone and was browsing through one of their reports. Whitlock cleared his throat.

Philpott looked up and reached for his pipe. ‘I won’t keep you long but seeing you’re all here I thought you’d like to be brought up to date on the case. C.W., you first. The local police have made a number of arrests at the plant after Leitzig’s detailed confession so I think we can safely say that network’s been successfully closed down. The West German Government has promised a full enquiry into security at the plant and I’ve been assured that a number of heads are going to roll before it’s through.’

‘What about my cover story, sir? Being exposed so early on could have had a damaging effect on the rest of the operation.’

‘Granted, but I don’t see any reason to review the backstopping process. It was a million to one chance that she could have caught you out as she did. It’s never happened before and I doubt it’ll ever happen again. It’s imperative that your cover stories are as authentic and credible as possible. I’ll certainly raise the matter with the Secretary-General but as far as I’m concerned I’m happy with things the way they are.’ Philpott tapped the newspaper on his desk.

‘You wrote a good article about the plant but I never knew you were that opposed to nuclear power.’

‘Windscale, Denver, Three Mile Island, Chernobyl. They said it could never happen. How many have to die to prove them wrong?’

‘That’s the last paragraph of your article, isn’t it?’ Philpott asked, glancing at the newspaper.

‘Yes, sir. It sums up my feelings perfectly.’

Philpott consulted his notes. ‘Mike, Sabrina, I received the doctor’s report on the two of you today. It’s as we thought. The amount of radiation you’ve been exposed to was negligible. Your reading was slightly higher, Mike, mainly because you were in the wagon with Milchan for a short time. Even so, it’s absolutely nothing to worry about.’

‘What about Milchan?’ Graham asked.

‘His report came through yesterday. He’s got about six weeks at the most. There’s nothing they can do for him.’ Philpott paused to light his pipe. ‘Anyway, back to the case. I’ve been pressing the KGB to find out all they can on Stefan Werner. A telex finally came through from Moscow this morning. I’ll give you the gist of its contents. Stefan Werner wasn’t his real name.

‘He was born Aleksei Lubanov in Minsk, 1941. He was recruited by the KGB at the age of seventeen to undergo the customary ten-year training programme to prepare an agent for work abroad. He was trained at Gacznya and Prakhovka spy schools and first surfaced as Stefan Werner in Brazil, 1967. He spoke fluent Portuguese so he had no trouble in securing himself a job as a salesman at a freight company in Rio. Within a year he was running the company. He then left Brazil and bought a share in a struggling German shipping line. He bought the company out six months later and it turned out to be the foundation upon which he subsequently built his shipping and freight empire. A brilliant businessman, but a dedicated KGB agent all the same.’