Алистер Маклин - Red Alert

Possibly even Pisani. But he couldn’t be sure. It left him feeling helpless and frustrated. And he still hadn’t managed to contact Kolchinsky. That worried him. What if Young was about to blunder in on Ubrino’s hideout? Not that he could do anything about it, not without compromising his own cover.

‘Let’s go,’ Young said, getting out of the car.

Whitlock climbed out from behind the wheel and pocketed the keys. He looked at Young who was dressed completely in black, a sinister figure.

Young pulled a black balaclava over his head then took a silenced Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine-gun from the back of the car and slung it over his shoulder. Whitlock followed him to the eight-foot-high perimeter wall and after glancing the length of the deserted street he cupped his hands together to give him a foothold to reach the top of the wall. Young hauled himself up on to the wall, careful to avoid the tripwire alarm, and looked down into the garden, choosing the spot where he wanted to land. He dropped the submachine-gun over, then jumped nimbly into the garden, rolling with the fall as he hit the ground. He retrieved the gun and sprinted to the nearest tree where he paused to catch his breath. Then, taking a night-vision scope from the pouch on his belt, he surveyed the house and its surroundings. Where were the guards? A moment later he spotted one close to the house, an Alsatian at his side. Young moved forward cautiously, darting from tree to tree, until he was within twenty yards of the house. The dog suddenly stopped and looked towards him. Had it sensed him? He screwed up his face as the sweat burnt into his eyes but he made no attempt to wipe it away.

Any sudden movement would certainly alert the dog. The guard looked from the dog to the trees but was unable to see anything in the darkness. He spoke softly to the Alsatian then reached down and unleashed it.

Young unslung the submachine-gun as the dog bore down on him. He swallowed nervously and curled his finger around the trigger. It wasn’t so much killing the dog as stopping it. Even if he did kill it, its momentum could carry it forward on to him. He could be knocked out.

Stunned, certainly, and that would give the guard time to open fire. He aimed low, taking out the dog’s front legs. It yelped in agony as it fell, face first, to the ground. The guard was still raising his Kalashnikov when Young shot him twice in the chest, knocking him back into the flowerbed bordering the porch. The dog was trying pitifully to stand up, its bloodied legs buckled grotesquely underneath its chest. He shot it through the head. Its body jerked, then it fell heavily on to its side. He remained on one knee, waiting for any sign of the other guards. When none appeared he got to his feet and dragged the dog behind the nearest tree. He crossed to where the guard lay and picked up the Kalashnikov, ejected the clip, and tossed them both into a bush.

He rolled the guard underneath the steps, then tiptoed up on to the porch. He crouched beside the window and peered discreetly through the net curtains. The television set was on but the room was empty.

‘ Si alzi !’ a voice barked behind him, telling him to get up.

Young shifted uncertainly on his haunches, not understanding the order. He tightened his grip on the submachine-gun as he monitored the guard’s movements in the reflection of the window. The guard stepped forward and prodded Young in the back with his rifle. Young launched himself backwards, knocking the guard off-balance. He landed on his back, then rolled sideways and shot the guard through the head. The guard’s body hit the wooden railing, which broke under his weight and he fell off the porch into the flowerbed. Young cursed silently.

He had no time to hide the body for the other guards would certainly have been alerted by the sound of breaking wood. He moved to the door and tried the handle. The door swung open. He locked it behind him, then moved cautiously up the hallway, swivelling round to face each door, the submachine-gun gripped tightly in both hands.

Then he was aware of a movement at the top of the stairs. The driver of the Alfa Romeo Alfetta. Rocca got off a single shot before Young returned fire. Rocca’s shot was off target. Young’s burst peppered the wall inches from where Rocca was standing. Rocca dived to the ground.

Young, sensing the advantage, hurried up the stairs but when he reached the top and swivelled round to fan the hallway Rocca was already gone. He knew he didn’t have time to waste. He had to find Pisani before any more guards arrived. But where was he? He could be anywhere in the house. What if he had been moved when the shooting started? Young knew there was only one way of finding out. He pressed himself against the wall beside the first door then reached out and opened it. Nothing. He swivelled round and fanned the room with his submachine-gun. An empty bathroom. He moved to the second door and opened it. A bedroom. Again, empty. He looked round anxiously when he heard the sound of banging on the reinforced front door. Then he heard the sound of breaking glass. A window? He had been sure all the ground-floor windows would be protected with burglar alarms. Had the guards found another way in? How many of them were there? He turned his attention back to the third door and pushed it open.

Two bullets echoed out, slamming harmlessly into the wall. Young flung himself low through the doorway, already firing before he hit the carpet. One of the bullets took Rocca high in the shoulder. The Bernadelli spun from his hand. Young glanced at the ashen-faced man sitting in the corner of the room with a blanket around his legs.

Pisani. He recognized him from one of the photographs in the envelope he had taken from Ramona. He kicked the Bernadelli underneath the bed then reached behind him and locked the door without taking his eyes off either man. Pisani remained motionless in his chair, his eyes riveted on Young. Rocca stood in the middle of the room, his left hand clutching his right shoulder. His fingers were covered in blood. Young shot him through the head. Rocca fell back against the wall and slid lifelessly to the floor, his hand leaving a smear of blood on the white embossed wallpaper. Young trained the submachine-gun on Pisani.

‘I am glad to see that you are a professional,’ Pisani said softly, then coughed violently, his face clenched against the agonizing pain. He wiped the spittle from his lips with the back of his hand. ‘The doctors have given me two months to live, three at the most.’

‘How did you know I spoke English?’

‘Word gets around when a foreigner asks delicate questions about the Red Brigades. We are a very close family, especially here in Rome. Unfortunately Johnny Ramona defied my instructions and passed certain information on to you. He always was greedy. At least you saved us the trouble of disciplining him.’

The door handle was tried from the outside. A voice called out in Italian. Still smiling at Young, Pisani slipped his hand deftly underneath the blanket. Young reacted faster, and shot him through the head. Pisani slumped back in the chair, a trickle of blood running down the bridge of his nose and on to his pallid cheek. The blanket slipped from his legs. Young was momentarily puzzled.

There had been no weapon secreted beneath it. Then it suddenly made sense. Pisani had wanted to die, it was an escape from the agony of his cancer. He had tricked Young, knowing that as a professional he would kill him. He hadn’t wanted the guards to save him.

Young ran to the window and pushed it open. The roof sloped at a forty-five-degree angle with a twelve-foot drop to the garden. A bullet splintered the door behind him. Then another. He scrambled out on to the sill and a bullet cracked inches from his head. He overbalanced, slid down the roof, catching his elbow painfully on the gutter, and landed heavily on the grass. He remained on his back, winded by the fall. The guard who had shot at him appeared over him, the AK-47 gripped tightly in his hands. He was barely out of his teens, and he was nervous. Young glanced towards his own submachine-gun. It was out of reach. He still had an ace to play: the switchblade strapped to his left wrist.