Алистер Маклин: Red Alert

‘I’ll have an antidote ready for this by the end of the week. But it will cost you another hundred thousand, to be paid into my Swiss bank account.’

Ubrino nodded thoughtfully, then took the metal cylinder from Wiseman and checked the serial number. 5114785. It was the same as the number he had been given at the final briefing earlier that day.

‘Don’t forget. A hundred thousand dollars or no antidote,’ Wiseman got to his feet. ‘My laboratory’s next door. It would be better if you coshed me there. That way it would look as if I’d disturbed you.’

‘There’s been a change of plan,’ Ubrino said with an an apologetic smile.

‘What?’ Wiseman demanded. ‘Why wasn’t I told about it?’

‘I doubt whether you’d have gone along with it. We don’t need the antidote.’

‘That’s madness,’ Wiseman retorted. ‘If the vial was without an antidote the consequences would be catastrophic.’

‘And that’s what makes it all the more valuable.’ Ubrino pocketed the metal cylinder, then glanced at Carla. ‘Kill him.’

Wiseman grabbed th ashtray from his desk and threw at her, catching her painfully on the shoulder. He ashed the safety glass on the wall behind him and hit alarm bell with the palm of his hand. A high-pierced shrill echoed through the complex. Ubrino shot him twice in the back then grabbed Carla s hand and hurried to the door.

‘Call Nardi,’ he told her, easing the door open and peering out into the corridor. It was deserted. ‘Tell him to wait for us at the steps.’

She unhooked the two-way radio from her belt and called Nardi, who told her he was already on his way. She clipped it back on to her belt and they were about to run for the stairs when they saw the approaching guard.

‘Put down your gun,’ Ubrino said to Carla.

‘What?’ she replied in amazement.

‘Trust me, cara ,’ he said, then took the Sterling from her and leant it against the wall.

‘I’ve got one of them,’ he shouted, emerging into the corridor behind her, using her body to shield the Sterling in his hand.

The guard, seeing the uniform, hurried towards them. Ubrino stepped out from behind Carla and shot the guard in the chest. Carla grabbed her Sterling and covered Ubrino while he sprinted to the stairs. A guard appeared at the top of the stairs and Ubrino swung the Sterling upwards, killing him with a single shot. As he turned back to cover Carla a bullet hit the wall inches from his face. He jerked his head away, his back pressed against the staircase wall. Carla, who was already running for the stairs, turned to face the kneeling guard at the end of the corridor. He shot her twice. The Sterling spun from her hands and she landed heavily at the foot of the stairs, her sweat shirt soaked in blood. Ubrino stared momentarily at her sightless eyes, then darted up the stairs to the next level. It was deserted. He ran to the stairs leading up to the foyer and mounted them cautiously, his back against the wall, the Sterling swinging from side to side. He reached the top of the stairs and dived low on to the foyer floor, the Sterling at the ready. The foyer, too, seemed deserted. But he couldn’t see the reception desk from where he lay. He scrambled to his feet and tiptoed past the lift, frequently glancing over his shoulder, then pressed himself against the wall, the Sterling held inches from his sweating face. He flicked the switch from single to rapid fire, then pivoted round to face the reception desk, his finger curled around the trigger.

Paolo Conte stood nervously behind the desk, his eyes wide and fearful. Ubrino knew it was a trap. It made sense. Why hadn’t Conte called him on the radio when the alarm went off? Because the guards had got to him first. One or more guards would be crouched behind the desk, willing Conte to lure him into the open. An old trick. But still effective.

He had been right all along. Conte would never make a good Brigatista. He didn’t have the guts. Believing in the cause wasn’t enough. He had only been drafted into the team because he could impersonate Vannelli on the telephone. Now he was expendable.

Ubrino strafed the desk with gunfire. Conte was hit several times before he slumped to the floor. Ubrino discarded the empty magazine then pulled a fresh one from his pocket and snapped it into place. He snatched the transmitter off the desk but as he turned towards the door a bullet cracked inches from his ear. He dived to the floor and rolled to safety behind the thick concrete pillar in the middle of the foyer. The bullet had come from the direction of the stairs. A second bullet hit the pillar. He was pinned down. Where the hell was Nardi? Had he been caught? Then Ubrino heard the sound of a car engine above the alarm. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the Regata pull up in front of the steps. He undipped a smoke grenade from his belt, primed it, and rolled it towards the stairs. He activated the doors, then, using the dense black smoke as a cover, he sprinted down the steps and flung himself through the open passenger door. Nardi threw the main gate transmitter to Ubrino, then accelerated away from the guards, who had stumbled out on to the steps, coughing and spluttering from the effects of the smoke grenade.

Ubrino activated the gate when it came into view. The car shot through the narrow aperture and Ubrino immediately closed the gate behind him. He tossed the transmitter on to the dashboard, then sat back and closed his eyes.

Did you get the vial?’ Nardi asked once they were clear of the gates.

Ubrino patted his pocket in answer.

‘What happened to Carla and Paolo?’

‘Dead.’

‘I’m sorry. I know you and Carla were…’ Nardi trailed off with a shrug.

Nardi swung the car into a side road and pulled up behind the white Fiat Uno Ubrino had parked there earlier that evening. They climbed out of the car and Ubrino came up behind the unsuspecting Nardi and shot him through the back of the head. His orders had been to eliminate the others once he had the vial safely in his possession. He tossed the Sterling into the undergrowth, then crossed to the Fiat Uno and took a holdall from the back seat. It contained a pair of jeans and a grey sweatshirt. He changed into them, then stuffed the brown uniform into the holdall and left it beside Nardi’s body.

He drove the Fiat Uno the short distance to join the motorway A24 and headed back towards Rome.

Monday

Lino Zocchi slipped on a pair of sunglasses then stepped out into the exercise yard, a burly man on either side of him. It was a bright cool day, far pleasanter than it would be once Rome was enveloped by the sweltering heat of Summer. Zocchi looked up at the watchtower, manned by an armed warder, then dug his hands into his pockets and crossed to the concrete stand on the other side of the exercise yard. The two men kept in close attendance.

Zocchi was a short, stocky 43-year-old with a leathery face and black hair cropped close to his skull. He had grown up in the slums of Rome, committed to the political ideologies of Engels and Marx, and had been recruited by the Red Brigades when he was in his early twenties. He had gone on to spearhead a successful recruitment drive in the south of the country, mainly on the university campuses, and was rewarded with a post as one of Rome’s senior cell commanders. Three years later he was promoted to brigade chief of Rome, a position he still held despite having just started a ten-year sentence for his part in the attempted assassination of a leading Italian judge. He still had one ambition left to fulfill to become leader of the Red Brigades, even if it meant running the organization from his prison cell. He knew he could do it.

He climbed to the top of the stand and sat in the place he always took when the weather was good. His two bodyguards, both Brigatisti serving life sentences, looked around slowly, then seated themselves on either side of him. He took a cigarette from his pocket and pushed it between his lips. One of the bodyguards lit it for him. He heard the sound of the approaching helicopter and looked up when it came into view. The word POLIZIA, in black letters, was clearly visible against the side of the white fuselage. The prisoners gesticulated angrily at it, their voices carrying as they shouted abuse at the pilot. It hovered over the exercise yard. The cabin door opened fractionally. A moment later a single shot echoed out. The prisoners were still scrambling for safety when it gained height again. The cabin door was flung open and the watchtower raked with gunfire, forcing the warder to dive for cover. By the time he got to his feet the helicopter was already out of firing range. He raised the alarm, then used his binoculars to scan the exercise yard for any casualties. He trained them on a section of the stand where the prisoners were congregating in an ever-widening circle.