Алистер Маклин - Red Alert

He would need to get into Young’s room to plant the radio microphone. It was too risky. Which left him with the spike mike. It was nine inches long (the actual microphone was only two inches in length) with a thin, metallic spike which could be inserted into a wall or window frame and any noises from the bugged room would then vibrate against the spike and pass through it to the microphone. He moved to the window and checked the distance between it and the adjoining window. Young’s room. Ten feet. Maybe twelve. But there was no way across to it. Then he noticed the steel ladder on the far side of Young’s window. He presumed it went all the way to the roof because he couldn’t see anything in the darkness above him. It would have to be checked out.

He put the spike mike in his pocket and left the room, locking the door behind him. The fire stairs to the roof were at the end of the corridor. He took them two at a time and climbed out of the hatch on to the flat roof. The top of the ladder was visible from where he stood.

He crossed to it and peered down into the alleyway below. It was deserted. He gripped the ladder in both hands and shook it violently.

It held firm. He then clamped the spike mike between his teeth and descended the ladder to what was, he calculated, Young’s window. The ladder was further away from the window than he had initially thought.

Probably to dissuade burglars. He reached out towards the window. The frame was just in reach. That was enough. He locked one arm around the ladder then leaned across and tried to push the tip of the microphone into the wood. He was hoping it would be old and brittle, but his hopes were dashed. The wood was hard. He wiped the sweat from his face, then leaned over again and began to screw the spike into the wood. His arm was aching by the time the microphone was secure. He looked at his watch. He still had eight minutes to spare.

The window was suddenly pushed up. He pressed himself tightly against the ladder, not daring to move in case the slightest noise carried into the bedroom. Young rested his hands on the frame. He had been gone only a few minutes. Why had he returned? Then Whitlock noticed a woman in the alleyway beneath him. It looked like the prostitute he had seen earlier in the boarding house. Young leaned out of the window as she passed, his face turned away from Whitlock. He whistled at her.

Whitlock held his breath, knowing he would be spotted if she looked up at Young. She didn’t. Instead she held up her middle finger, then disappeared out into the street. Young laughed and ducked his head back into the room, closing the window. Whitlock exhaled deeply. He couldn’t believe his luck. But he didn’t intend to push it. He climbed back up to the roof, pausing a bare minute to wipe the sweat from his face with a handkerchief before returning to his room and locking the door behind him. He set up the apparatus but used only one of the headphones to see if the microphone was actually working. Silence. He checked the receiver unit. It was definitely working. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall, willing Young to make some kind of noise. Still silence. He wiped his face again and tossed the handkerchief onto the bed. There was a sudden metallic click in the headphone. He frowned, then smiled to himself when he realized what had made the noise. Young had opened a can of beer. So that was why he had come back early. He had decided to drink in his room. Then he heard the familiar sound of the telephone being picked up. He positioned a pillow behind him, then sat back against the headboard and slipped both headphones over his ears.

‘Yes, good evening. Richard Wiseman, please.’ The reception was excellent. It was almost as if Young was in the same room.

‘Good evening, sir,’ Young said. There was a pause while Wiseman spoke.

‘Yes sir, I met with the informer. I got all the information I need from him.’ Pause.

‘Including the name of the man who pulled the trigger. He’s called Ubrino, he’s a senior Brigatista here in Rome.’ Pause.

‘No, sir, he seems to have vanished. But I don’t anticipate any problems tracking him down.’ Longer pause.

‘The other three members the informer mentioned were Pisani, head of the Red Brigades, and his two deputies, Zocchi and Calvieri. They’re both brigade chiefs. Zocchi here in Rome and Calvieri in Milan. Zocchi’s in jail so we won’t be able to get to him, at least not straight away.’ Pause.

‘No sir, Alexander doesn’t know the names. I thought it best to tell him as little as possible. I still say he’s a liability.’ Pause.

‘I’d prefer to see him dead. He already knows too much.’ Longer pause.

‘I appreciate that, sir. I’ll call you again in the morning. Good night, sir.’ The receiver was replaced.

Whitlock removed the headphones, then put the apparatus back in the suitcase and locked the cupboard door. He sat on the bed again, his mind racing. Were all four Brigatisti now on Young’s hit list?

Including Calvieri? He had to pass the information on to Kolchinsky but there would be no time before they went out again. And where were they going? Was Young going to make his first hit? If so, who was his intended target? He knew Young wouldn’t tell him anything. That much was evident. And what had Young meant by, ‘I appreciate that, sir.’?

Appreciate that Wiseman was in charge and that he wanted Young to leave Alexander alone? Or did he appreciate the chance to kill Alexander?

Whitlock cursed softly to himself. If only he could have heard what Wiseman had said. He wanted to arm himself. He felt naked without his Browning. But Alexander never used firearms. And Young would know that. He couldn’t afford to take that chance, it could blow his cover.

His wits against Young’s firepower. He didn’t fancy the odds, not one little bit… There was a knock at the door. Whitlock answered it. Young stood in the doorway, the can of beer in his hand.

‘Let’s go.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll direct you there.’

Whitlock slammed the door angrily behind him and headed for the stairs. Young took another mouthful of beer, then left the can by the door and hurried after Whitlock.

Sabrina closed La Repubblica , got to her feet and moved to the window where she looked out across the brightly lit city, evoking memories of her previous visits to Rome. The first visit was the one she remembered best, mainly because it was a painful reminder of the way she used to be. The plane ticket had been a twenty-first birthday present from her parents and she had gone with three of her girlfriends from the Sorbonne, where she had been doing her postgraduate degree. She didn’t see any of the city’s heritage in those two weeks. Their nights were spent at clubs and discos and their days in bed recovering from the night before. And then there were the one-night stands…

She turned away from the window and shook her head slowly to herself. It was hard for her to believe that she had once been so immature. Not that it had ended there. After leaving the Sorbonne she had become one of the most sought-after debutantes in Europe. She had attended all the exclusive parties, rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous, and regularly had to fend off proposals of marriage from men old enough to be her grandfather. Then, when she tired of the parties, she found herself another passion: motor racing. It came to a head when she crashed her Porsche at Le Mans. She had severe bone fractures and a punctured lung. She spent the next four months in the American Hospital of Paris and came to realize that her life was going nowhere. She needed purpose and direction. She had joined the FBI on her release from hospital and it had given her the maturity she needed to make the transition to UNACO. You’ve come a long way, she thought to herself, and when she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror she noticed the faint smile of satisfaction on her face.