Алистер Маклин - Red Alert

Paluzzi shook his head.

‘He’s an American, working with us. That’s all you need to know.’

The sergeant glared at Paluzzi. ‘We’ll see about that. You think you’re above the law, don’t you?’

‘Spare me the lecture,’ Paluzzi said, pocketing his ID. ‘You don’t have the necessary clearance to be told what’s going on.’

‘I don’t give a damn about your clearance,’ the sergeant snapped, glancing across at Graham. ‘He could have killed someone. That concerns me. And that’s why I’m taking him in for questioning.’

‘How old are you, sergeant?’

‘Twenty-eight. Why?’

‘You’ve got your whole career ahead of you. Don’t screw it up by getting involved in something that’s way over your head.’

‘Is that a threat?’ the sergeant hissed under his breath.

Paluzzi looked around him as he considered the question. He finally met the sergeant’s eyes again.

‘Let me put it another way. You take the American in and I’ll see to it personally that you lose your stripes.’

‘For doing my job? You’ll have to do better than that.’

Paluzzi took the fake Prime Minister’s letter from his pocket and handed it to the sergeant.

‘I don’t think I have to do much better than that, do you?’

The sergeant read the letter, refolded it and handed it back to Paluzzi.

‘I don’t seem to have any choice, Major. What happens now?’

‘I’m taking him to hospital. He needs that cut treated. I’ll get a full statement from him and have it sent to you first thing in the morning.’

‘That’s against regulations.’

‘I’ll get it cleared with your superiors, you don’t have to worry about that.’

‘And the taxi driver?’

‘He’ll be compensated in full.’ Paluzzi handed the sergeant a business card. ‘Any problems, call me.’

The sergeant pocketed the card, eyed Paluzzi contemptuously, then pushed past him to supervise the arrival of the tow truck.

Kolchinsky looked round as Paluzzi approached them.

‘Any trouble?’

‘Nothing serious.’

‘What about the woman back there?’ Graham asked.

‘She’s dead. I’m going back there now to straighten things out with the carabinieri.’ Paluzzi handed the car keys to Kolchinsky. ‘You drive. Drop me off at the Piazza, then take Mike to the hospital.’

‘Do you want me to come back for you?’

‘No, I’ll get one of my night staff to fetch me. I’ll see you at the hotel.’

‘Fine.’ Kolchinsky opened the driver’s door and looked across the car roof at Paluzzi. ‘Sabrina should be at the hotel if we’re not back by the time you get there.’

Paluzzi nodded and got into the back of the car.

Graham climbed in beside Kolchinsky. ‘Still mad at me, tovarishch?’

Kolchinsky sighed deeply and shook his head slowly to himself. He put the car into gear and pulled away from the kerb.

Whitlock stared distastefully at the take away in front of him that he had sent out for. It was supposed to be bistecca alia pizzaiola steak in a tomato and herb sauce. More like bistecca al’olio. It was swimming in oil. He prodded the steak with the fork and shook his head in disgust. His stomach grumbled. He was hungry, he had to admit it.

The alternative was eating with Young in the dining-room. Suddenly the steak looked appetizing. He opened the second carton, containing peas and courgettes, and tipped them into the first beside the steak. As he ate his mind wandered back over the hours since his arrival in Rome.

Wiseman had been met unexpectedly at the airport by a senior officer from his old unit, the 1st Marine Division, which was stationed at NATO’s southern command in Verona. He had told Wiseman that a staff car and driver, would be at his disposal for the duration of his stay in Rome.

Wiseman had declined the offer, saying he was in Italy as a civilian, not as a soldier. He had accepted the offer of a lift to the Hassler Villa Medici Hotel where, after thanking the officer for his kindness, he had hired a car for himself, then retired to his suite. The officer had taken the hint and discreetly withdrawn.

That was the gist of what Young had told him when he called Wiseman to report that they had checked into the boarding house. Whitlock hated the place. It was small, dirty and smelly. He could hear the incessant blare of a radio in one of the adjoining rooms and he was sure that a woman he had passed on the landing was a prostitute. She was certainly dressed like one. Not that he cared. He was only interested in Carmen.

He had rung the hotel in Paris that afternoon, only to be told that she had checked out the previous evening. He had then called the apartment in New York but the telephone had just rung. He even tried her work number but there had been no reply there either. He rang her sister in New York. She hadn’t seen Carmen since she and C.W. had left for Paris.

She had a lot of friends in New York but they would be the last people she would turn to at a time like this. She was like him in that respect, she kept her personal problems to herself. What if she had packed her things and left the apartment? The idea had certainly crossed his mind but he had rejected it along with all his other little theories. It wasn’t in her nature to do that. She knew he would only worry if he couldn’t contact her, even if she didn’t want to speak to him. So where was she…?

‘Alexander?’

Whitlock looked round, startled by the voice behind him. Young stood in the doorway.

‘Try knocking next time,’ Whitlock snapped, turning back to his food.

‘I did, but you didn’t respond,’ Young said, closing the door behind him. He sat on the edge of the bed and gestured to the take away on the table.

‘Why didn’t you eat downstairs? The food’s a lot better than that.’

‘I’d say that depends on the company,’ Whitlock retorted, cutting the last piece of steak in half.

‘I’d watch my mouth if I were you, Alexander.’

Whitlock finished eating, then twisted his chair round to face Young.

‘What do you want?’

Young stood up and handed the keys to the hired Seat Ibiza to Whitlock.

‘We’re going out.’

‘Where?’

‘The underground car-park on the via Marmorata.’

‘Who are we meeting?’

‘That doesn’t concern you,’ Young spat.

‘I’m up to my neck in this thing, thanks to you. The least you can do is let me know what’s going on.’

Young grabbed Whitlock by his shirt, hauled him to his feet and slammed him against the wall. Whitlock resisted the temptation to break the grip and put Young on his back. He had to let Young believe he had the upper hand.

‘Let’s get something straight from the start, Alexander. I didn’t ask for you. It was the General’s idea to bring you in on this, not mine. He was the one who thought I should have a getaway driver. So don’t think you’re indispensable, because you’re not. I can do this with or without you. It makes no difference to me one way or the other.’

‘It’s nice to know you’re wanted,’ Whitlock muttered.

‘Just remember, I’m the one with the transmitter. You step out of line and I’ll use it,’ Young snarled, pushing Whitlock away from him.

Whitlock bit back his anger and followed Young into the corridor. They descended the stairs into the foyer. The plump receptionist smiled at them as they passed then returned to her knitting. The red Seat Ibiza was parked directly outside, and Whitlock unlocked the driver’s door, got in, then leaned over and unlocked the passenger door for Young. On a map he took from his inside pocket Young pointed out the route he had already outlined in red pen.