Алистер Маклин - Red Alert

Whitlock slumped back in the seat and said nothing further.

Humphries continued up Kennington Park Road for another six hundred yards then turned right into Braganza Street where he slowed down before swinging the police car into a double garage and stopping beside a lime-green Fiat Uno. He picked up a remote control from the dashboard and used it to close the garage door.

‘Get the lights,’ Young said to Humphries.

Humphries got out of the car and crossed to the light switch. He flicked it on then turned back to the car. His eyes registered sudden alarm. Young was out of the car and holding a silenced Heckler & Koch P9 in his hand, aimed at Humphries. He fired twice. Humphries was thrown back against the wall then his body slid lifelessly to the concrete floor. Whitlock struggled to get out of the car, hindered by the handcuffs. When he did manage to straighten up he found himself staring at the silenced automatic in Young’s hand.

‘I didn’t go to all that trouble just to kill you,’ Young assured him, reaching slowly through the open window and opening the glove compartment, his eyes never leaving Whitlock’s face.

‘There was no reason to kill him,’ Whitlock said, staring at the body slumped against the wall. ‘Why did you do it?’

Young’s fingers curled around the tranquillizer gun in the glove compartment and as he withdrew it a faint smile touched the corners of his mouth. In one quick movement he raised the tranquillizer gun and fired. Whitlock winced as the dart hit him in the neck. The garage began to distort into a kaleidoscope of colours. The floor swayed beneath him. He stumbled to one side, bumping heavily against the wall, his legs losing all sense of balance. He felt himself fall forward.

Young caught him before he hit the side of the car.

Then everything went black.

La Serenissima. Sabrina agreed completely with the name the Venetians had given to their city. It was serene. A city with a complex labyrinth of canals, and calli, narrow streets, supported on piles of Istrian pine which had been driven down twenty-five feet into a solid bed of compressed sand, clay and limestone. She loved it most for its architecture. The Piazza San Marco, dominated by the Basilica with its facade of arches and loggias; the Palazzo Ducale, the seat of power for the past nine hundred years; Santa Maria della Salute, the white octagonal church built after the plague of 1390 which claimed nearly a third of the population. As far as she was concerned, Venice was the most beautiful city in the world.

They had arrived at Marco Polo Airport aboard a UNACO Cessna at midday.

Sabrina had picked up a Beretta from a locker in the terminal (the key had been left for her at the information desk by a UNACO contact) and then they had managed to hire a motorboat taxi, agreeing the fare in advance, to take them to the Rio Baglioni, a small canal near the Rialto Bridge, where Calvieri claimed his contact had seen Ubrino earlier that morning.

‘The helmsman says we’ll be there in another five minutes,’ Calvieri said, resuming his seat on the padded bench beside Sabrina.

She merely nodded, looking across at the Ca’ d’Oro, a magnificent palace with a Gothic facade which was once lavishly adorned with gold and now housed the acclaimed Franchetti collection of Renaissance art.

‘The Ca’ do Mosto,’ Calvieri said, pointing to the thirteenth-century Byzantine palace a hundred yards further on from the Ca’ d’Oro.

She had seen it on her previous visits to Venice but had never found out its name.

‘It was originally owned by Alvise de Mosto,’ Calvieri shouted above the noise of a passing vaporetto, a water bus packed with tourists. ‘He was an explorer who discovered the Cape Verde Islands off the African west coast.’

‘You seem to know a lot about Venice,’ Sabrina said, turning to face him.

‘It’s my favourite retreat,’ Calvieri replied with a smile. ‘I have many friends up here. It’s the most liberal Brigatista stronghold in Italy.’

Sabrina glanced at the helmsman, who had his back to them, then leaned forward, her arms resting on her knees.

‘So why would Ubrino come back? Paluzzi said he’d been hounded out because he was too radical.’

‘I know it doesn’t make any sense,’ Calvieri agreed. ‘But my contact has never let me down in the past.’

‘So you said on the plane. I still think it’s a trap. It’s too easy.’

The helmsman blew the speedboat’s horn as he turned the blind corner under the white Rialto Bridge, then swung the wheel deftly to avoid an approaching gondola. He finally stopped the speedboat at one of the landing stages on the Riva del Carbon and tossed the mooring rope to a teenager on the jetty.

‘You said you’d take us to the Rio Baglioni,’ Sabrina said, getting to her feet.

‘That’s it, the second canal down,’ the helmsman replied, pointing it out. ‘You tell me how I’m going to get in there!’

An unoccupied blue and white speedboat was moored in the entrance to the narrow canal, blocking it to traffic.

‘Some people have no consideration,’ the helmsman muttered, staring at the speedboat.

Sabrina paid him, then scrambled on to the jetty, ignoring Calvieri’s extended hand.

‘Still so sure it’s not a trap?’

Calvieri raised his hands defensively. ‘I never said it wasn’t. But why would my contact want to set me up? We’ve been friends for years. As I’ve said before–’

‘I know, he’s never let you down in the past,’ Sabrina cut in. ‘There’s always a first time. Come on, I want to take a closer look at the speedboat before we go to that address he gave to you.’

It took them a couple of minutes to reach the Rio Baglioni. It was about seven feet wide, half the size of the average canal, and ended in a cul-de-sac. The perfect setting for a trap. Sabrina crouched down beside the speedboat. A canvas tarpaulin lay in the back. It was covering something. She transferred the Beretta from the holster at the back of her jeans to the pocket of her blouson then reached over and pulled back the tarpaulin. Underneath was a cardboard box with the word ‘Valpolicella’ stencilled on the side. Calvieri got down on his haunches beside her.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

They looked round, startled by the voice behind them.

The man was in his mid-twenties. He wore loud checked trousers and a windcheater.

Calvieri got to his feet and eyed the man with obvious contempt.

‘Is this your boat?’

‘Yeah. Why?’ the man muttered in a distinctly American accent.

‘I might have guessed. Only a foreigner would moor a boat here. We live down there. How do you expect us to get our boat past yours?’

‘Where’s your boat?’ the man asked, looking round him.

‘Moored illegally at the Riva del Carbon. Have some consideration, will you?’

The American had the grace to look apologetic.

‘I’ll get the keys,’ he offered, then headed back towards his hotel.

‘False alarm,’ Calvieri said once the man was out of earshot.

‘What’s the address you were given?’

Calvieri took a slip of paper from his pocket. ‘Calle Baglioni 17.’

They moved along the footpath beside the canal, until they reached the house. It was a red-brick building with black shutters covering the four windows and an altana, a wooden terrace, on the roof. He tried the door. It was locked. He glanced the length of the deserted pathway then took a set of skeleton keys from his pocket and unlocked the door on the fourth attempt. He pocketed the keys but Sabrina grabbed his arm before he could open the door.

‘I’m the one with the gun, remember?’

She pushed open the door then pivoted around into the hallway, Beretta extended. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust.