Алистер Маклин - Red Alert

‘Your contact was right about one thing. Nobody’s lived here for years.’

‘Including Ubrino,’ Calvieri said, joining her in the hallway. ‘A wild-goose chase.’

‘Or a trap.’

They both heard the noise. It came from above. Sabrina led the way up the wooden staircase, wincing every time she stood on a creaky board. A bronze cross, tarnished from years of neglect, was mounted on the wall at the top of the stairs. Calvieri pointed to the door at the end of the corridor, which was ajar. Sabrina nodded, certain the noise had come from inside the room. She kicked open the door then dropped to one knee, the Beretta trained on the figure crouched in the corner. The boy was no older than ten and his eyes were wide with fear. She bolstered the Beretta and crossed to where he was huddled against the wall.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked softly in Italian.

‘Marcello,’ the boy replied, staring at Calvieri. ‘Are you the police?’

‘Ever seen a policeman with one of these?’ Calvieri replied, flicking his ponytail.

Marcello shook his head. ‘Are you from the orphanage?’

‘No,’ Sabrina replied. ‘How long have you been here?’

Marcello shrugged. ‘A week. Ten days. I don’t know.’

‘How do you live?’ she asked.

‘There are many tourists, even in March. I learned how to pick pockets at the orphanage.’

‘How did you get up here?’ Calvieri asked.

Marcello led them to a single window, opened it, and pointed to the trellis against the side of the house.

‘I never use any other part of the house. That way there’s no footprints in the dust to give me away.’

‘You’ve certainly got it all worked out,’ Sabrina said.

‘I don’t want to go back to the orphanage. You won’t tell them where I am, will you?’

‘No,’ Calvieri said before Sabrina could answer. ‘Has anyone else been here in the last couple of days?’

‘Nobody. You’re the only people who know about my hideout.’

Calvieri ruffled Marcello’s hair.

‘Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with us.’

Sabrina took Calvieri out on to the landing and shut the door.

‘How long do you think he’ll last on the streets before the police pick him up?’

‘A lot longer than you think. Give him a chance, Sabrina.’

‘What chance has he got living like this? He’ll probably have a police record before the year’s out.’

‘Have you stopped to think why he ran away from the orphanage? I know Brigatisti who grew up in orphanages and, much as I hate the law, I’d rather see him in a detention centre than having to put up with the abuse that they went through.’

‘You’re talking about isolated incidents. The vast majority of orphanages look after their children.’

‘Are you so sure? And are you prepared to take that chance on his behalf?’

Her brow creased with concern. Taking out the Beretta again she completed the search, by climbing another set of stairs up to the altana The bolt on the door at the top of the stairs had rusted with age. She struggled to draw it back, then pulling the door open, she stepped outside. It was covered with weeds. She checked to see if any of the weeds had been recently disturbed. None had.

Calvieri was waiting for her in the hall.

‘Find anything?’

She shook her head and walked back outside on to the canal path.

Calvieri followed her, securing the front door behind him.

‘So much for your contact,’ she said contemptuously as they made their way back to the canal entrance.

‘I’ll be taking the matter up with him, you can be sure of that.’

The American had moved the speedboat from the mouth of the canal and was busy mooring it fifteen yards away when he saw them approaching.

‘You can get through now!’ he said, reaching for the mooring rope in the back of the boat.

Calvieri was about to reply when he saw the white speedboat dart out from behind a row of vaporetti moored at the Riva del Carbon. He couldn’t make out the pilot’s features but there was no mistaking the stumpy Uzi clenched in his right hand. He knocked Sabrina to the ground and flung himself after her seconds before a fusillade of bullets peppered the wall behind them. Sabrina was the first to her feet and ran to the blue and white speedboat.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ the American hissed, staring after the retreating white speedboat.

‘I’m taking your boat,’ Sabrina said, jumping into the speedboat beside him.

‘Like hell you are,’ the American retorted, stepping in front of the wheel.

She glanced despairingly at the white speedboat. She had to catch it before it turned up one of the side canals. There was no time to lose. She unholstered her Beretta and levelled it at the American.

‘Get out!’

‘Jesus, you’re crazy,’ the American stammered in disbelief, his eyes riveted on the Beretta in her hand.

‘Out!’ she snapped.

The American swallowed nervously then scrambled up on to the jetty. She swung the speedboat round, and headed after the fleeing gunman. The Grand Canal was teeming with an assortment of craft at that time of the afternoon and the gunman used this to his advantage, weaving in and out of the traffic with the consummate ease of a seasoned helmsman. There were vaporetti and motoscafi, water taxis, packed with sightseers; traghetti, two-man gondolas, ferrying shoppers from one side of the canal to the other in search of bargains at the numerous waterside markets; barges laden with fresh produce destined for the luxury hotels; speedboats of all shapes and sizes, careful to keep within the strictly enforced speed limits; and the full-size gondolas transporting the wealthy tourists to and from their hotels which lined both sides of the canal.

She lost sight of the white speedboat and cut across the bow of an approaching vaporetto much to the anger of the helmsman who shook his fist at her to see if the gunman was heading for the other side of the canal. He wasn’t there. She slowed the speedboat to a crawl in order to take a closer look around her. Where the hell had the other boat gone? It had weaved between a couple of barges, then nothing. She accelerated until she reached the spot where she thought it had disappeared. She looked right, then left. Nothing. She looked to her right again. There was another canal leading off from the Grand Canal about twenty yards further on. He could never have reached it in such a short time. Or could he? She slowed the speedboat on reaching the offshoot. The white speedboat wasn’t there. She hailed a youth on the pathway who was unloading crates of fresh fruit from a barge and asked him whether a white speedboat had passed him in the last couple of minutes. He crouched at the edge of the path, his eyes running the length of her body.

‘Nice,’ he muttered. ‘Very nice.’

‘Did you see a speedboat or not?’ she asked angrily.

He scratched his head. ‘Maybe. What’s in it for me?’

‘Forget it,’ she snapped, turning back to the wheel.

Her path was blocked. The mooring rope holding the stern of the barge had been untied and the barge now stood at a forty-five-degree angle to the canal path. It would be impossible to squeeze the speedboat past it. Another youth appeared, holding a gaff. The first youth jumped into the speedboat but before she could react she felt the tip of a switchblade against her ribs.

‘Switch off the engine,’ he ordered. ‘And don’t try to reverse.’

She did as she was told.

‘I’m sure you’re armed,’ he said with a sneer, then reached out a hand to search her.

She raised her hands then brought her elbow up sharply under his chin, rocking his head backwards. She twisted his arm savagely behind his back, disarmed him, then jerked his neck back and pressed the blade against his exposed throat. The second youth approached the speedboat cautiously.