Алистер Маклин - Red Alert

‘Throw it into the water,’ she shouted, indicating the gaff in his hand.

He hesitated and she pressed the blade into the first youth’s throat. A trickle of blood ran down the side of his neck.

‘Do it, Antonio,’ the first youth screamed.

Antonio threw the gaff into the water.

‘Now move the barge,’ she snapped.

Antonio nodded nervously and ran back to the barge.

She tightened her grip on the youth’s hair and pressed the blade harder against his skin. Another trickle of blood seeped from the wound.

‘I want some answers. And if I haven’t got them by the time your friend’s moved the barge I’m going to cut your throat. It might make him a little more cooperative.’

‘What do you want to know?’ the youth gasped.

‘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.

‘Throw it into the water,’ she shouted, indicating the gaff in his hand.

He hesitated and she pressed the blade into the first youth’s throat. A trickle of blood ran down the side of his neck.

‘Do it, Antonio,’ the first youth screamed.

Antonio threw the gaff into the water.

‘Now move the barge,’ she snapped.

Antonio nodded nervously and ran back to the barge.

She tightened her grip on the youth’s hair and pressed the blade harder against his skin. Another trickle of blood seeped from the wound.

‘I want some answers. And if I haven’t got them by the time your friend’s moved the barge I’m going to cut your throat. It might make him a little more cooperative.’

‘What do you want to know?’ the youth gasped.

She gave a resigned nod and switched places with him.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Sure, apart from my pride.’ She shook her head, disgusted with herself. ‘I can’t believe I let him get the better of me.’

‘Come on, Sabrina, don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re only human–’

‘And so is he,’ she snapped. ‘But why didn’t he kill me when he had the chance?’

‘I’d say he made a pretty good attempt back there,’ Calvieri said, turning the speedboat up the Rio San Polo, one of the largest canals leading off from the Grand Canal.

‘He could have shot me when he came out from behind the vaporetto. Instead he fired into the bow. It doesn’t make sense.’

‘You should just be glad you’re still alive.’ Calvieri moored the boat in a narrow canal off the Rio San Polo then pointed to a house with whitewashed walls at the end of the pathway. ‘It belongs to a friend of mine. We can hide there until the police are gone.’

They scrambled up on to the side of the canal.

‘Tonino?’

He looked round at her in surprise. It was the first time she had used his first name.

‘Tony, please. The last person who called me Tonino was my headmaster.’

‘Thanks,’ she said softly.

‘Strange, isn’t it? This time I saved your life. Another time it might be me in that boat trying to kill you.’

‘Or me trying to kill you,’ she replied, holding his stare.

‘Sure, why not?’ He gave a nervous laugh, then walked towards the house.

La Serenissima. So much for the serenity. Venice would never again be the same for her.

Whitlock woke with a splitting headache. He opened his eyes and looked around him slowly. He was lying on a brown leather couch, a pillow under his head, in an aeroplane. A private aeroplane, judging by the plush furnishings. He tried to sit up but a bolt of pain shot through his head. Instead he lay back and massaged his temples gingerly with the tips of his fingers.

‘Take these. We use them in the army.’

Whitlock saw a pair of black-gloved hands out of the corner of his eye.

In one hand were two white tablets, in the other a glass of water. Young had worn black gloves. But the voice was different. Older, more distinguished. And, unlike Young’s voice, it wasn’t discernibly American. It had to be Wiseman. He took the tablets from the palm of the outstretched hand and put one of them into his mouth. It tasted bitter. The glass was put to his lips. He took a mouthful of water and washed the tablet down, followed by the second tablet with another gulp.

He placed the glass on the floor and lay back against the pillow, his eyes closed.

It was another five minutes before he tried to sit up again. He lifted his head off the pillow, swung his legs off the couch then sat up and rubbed his eyes. He was beginning to feel human again.

‘How’s the head?’

Whitlock looked the length of the cabin at the man seated a few feet away from the cockpit door. He recognized him as Richard Wiseman from the photograph Rust had included in the assignment dossier. The photograph showed him in the uniform of a three-star general. Now he was wearing a light grey suit, white shirt and blue tie. He looked to be in his mid-fifties with a rugged, weatherbeaten face, a neatly trimmed black moustache and black hair going grey at the temples.

Wiseman repeated the question without looking up from the game of solitaire he was playing.

Whitlock looked at his watch. He had been asleep for four hours. He crossed to the table and sat down opposite Wiseman.

‘This has gone far enough. I demand to know what’s going on.’

Wiseman nodded as he studied the cards in front of him, and finally sat back, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘For a start, who are you?’

Wiseman told him.

‘Where the hell are we?’

‘In my private jet, about thirty-five thousand feet over France. ETA in Rome is twenty-five minutes.’

‘Rome?’ Whitlock replied, feigning bewilderment. ‘Why are you taking me there?’

Wiseman was about to answer when the bathroom door opened at the other end of the cabin. His eyes flickered past Whitlock and he smiled at the approaching figure.

‘Back to your old self again, I see. Mr. Alexander, you’ve met Vie Young.’

Whitlock’s eyes widened in surprise when he saw Young. The black hair and moustache were gone. Now he was blond and clean shaven.

‘I was wearing a wig,’ Young said, running his fingers through his thick blond hair. He crossed to the drinks cabinet, poured out two measures of bourbon, and handed one of the glasses to Wiseman.

‘What you are drinking, Alexander?’

‘Nothing,’ Whitlock retorted, eyeing Young coldly. ‘Where are the woman and the boy?’

Young shrugged.

‘I left them in the police car. They were only drugged.’

‘You killed Dave–’

‘He knew too much,’ Young cut in quickly.

Whitlock shook his head as if in despair.

‘I would have got five years, maximum, for the job I did. I’d have been out in three. Now I’m facing a fifteen-year stretch as an accessory to murder.’

Young picked up a card from the floor, dropped it on to the table, then sat down.