Алистер Маклин - Red Alert

‘They’re looking for a local,’ she reminded him.

‘That’s according to Calvieri. And now with Alexander on the loose I’m going to have to keep one eye open for him and the other open for some Red Brigades hit squad that could come knocking on my door at any moment. How the hell am I supposed to concentrate on Young with all this going on around me?’

She took a Browning from her bag and offered it to him.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘You may need this.’

‘And how would I explain it to Young? Alexander never uses guns. No, I daren’t risk it.’

‘You may have to use it on Young, especially if Calvieri’s his next target.’ She explained briefly what Conte had told her. ‘We can’t afford any slip-ups at this stage of the operation. And any attempt to hit Calvieri would certainly throw us off-balance. He’s our only hope if we need to negotiate with Ubrino. We’d be lost without him. Take the gun, C.W. Please.’

Whitlock took the Browning from her and slipped it into the bedside table drawer. He glanced at the booby-trapped watch but decided against telling her about it. The others had enough to worry about as it was. He would deal with it himself.

‘I don’t know exactly when we’re leaving for Berne,’ she said, breaking the sudden silence. ‘Probably some time in the next few hours. There isn’t much else we can do here. You’re to liaise with Jacques from now on. He’ll pass your reports on to Sergei.’

Whitlock nodded.

‘I’d better be going,’ she said, getting to her feet and smoothing down her mini-skirt. ‘I’m dying to get out of these clothes and scrape the make-up off my face. I don’t know how these girls can put up with the discomfort every time they go out on the streets. It’s revolting.’

‘It’s a living, I guess,’ he replied and walked with her to the door. ‘Thanks for coming over, Sabrina. I appreciate it.’

She hugged him.

‘Take care of yourself.’

‘And you,’ he replied, then closed the door after her.

She hailed the first taxi she saw outside the boarding house. It stopped beside her. Had she been dressed differently the driver would probably have ignored her. Not that it bothered her. She was just glad to be heading back to the hotel.

Calvieri found a parking space on the busy Corso Vittorio Emanuele and walked the two blocks to La Sfera di Cristallo, a small, inexpensive restaurant which had been there for as long as he could remember. It had only ever had one owner, a fat, balding man now in his mid-sixties with a liking for the music of Berlioz.

He went inside. Nothing had changed since he had been there last, when he had been a Rome cell commander. And that included the music. He recognized the piece immediately: ‘The Hungarian March’ from The Damnation of Faust . He had heard it enough times in the past.

‘A table for one?’ a female voice inquired behind him.

He turned round and smiled at the teenage waitress.

‘Thank you, no. I’m looking for Signore Castellano. He’s expecting me. The name’s Calvieri.’

‘I know who you are,’ she said with a quick smile. ‘I’ve seen you on television. What you say makes a lot of sense.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’ll call…’ she trailed off when she caught sight of the eighteen-stone Castellano approaching them.

‘Tony,’ Castellano called out in his gravelly voice and clasped Calvieri in a bear-like grip, kissing him on both cheeks. ‘You’re looking well, my friend.’

‘And you’re looking well fed,’ Calvieri countered, patting Castellano’s stomach.

Castellano chuckled but his face quickly became serious and he pressed his fist against his chest.

‘My heart is heavy today, Tony. Signore Pisani was a great man. But I know you won’t fail us as our new leader.’

‘I’m just deputizing until the committee meets next week to vote for a new leader.’

‘You’re too modest, Tony. You can’t lose. There’s nobody to touch you.’

‘I’m sure Zocchi would have something to say about that.’

‘Ah, Zocchi. He’s a pig. He’s where he belongs. In jail.’ Castellano put an arm around Calvieri’s shoulders and led him through the packed restaurant to a door beside the swing doors leading into the kitchen. It was marked: DIRETTORE.

‘Signore Bettinga’s waiting for you in there. Can I get you something to eat? A small pizza napoletana ? That was always your favourite.’

‘I’ve eaten, thank you. But I wouldn’t say no to one of your famous cappuccini .’

‘Coming up,’ Castellano replied and disappeared into the kitchen.

Calvieri entered the office and closed the door behind him. Luigi Bettinga sat behind Castellano’s desk absently paging through a culinary magazine. He was a small, dapper man in his late thirties with beady eyes and prematurely grey hair. He always reminded Calvieri of an accountant. They had been close friends for years and Calvieri saw him as an integral part of the new committee under his leadership.

‘ Ciao , Tony,’ Bettinga said and came round to the front of the desk to shake hands with Calvieri. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t at the house this morning. The plane was delayed in Genoa. I must have got there just after you left.’

‘You’re here now, that’s the main thing,’ Calvieri said, helping himself to a cigarette from the pack on Castellano’s desk. ‘Your phone call intrigued me. Why did you want to meet me away from the house?’

‘The house and the grounds are still crawling with police. I couldn’t take the chance of letting them overhear what I’m going to tell you.’

‘You’ve come up with something already, haven’t you?’

Bettinga nodded.

‘Yes, but I can hardly take the credit. I only took over from where you left off.’

‘So what is it?’

There was a knock at the door and Castellano came in with the cappuccino. He put it on the table and withdrew discreetly, closing the door carefully behind him.

‘Well?’ Calvieri prompted.

‘We know the identity of the gunman’s accomplice.’

‘That’s excellent news.’ Calvieri picked up the coffee cup and sat down in the leather armchair against the wall. ‘Is he a local?’

Bettinga shook his head.

‘The name on the passport is Raymond Anderson. It’s sure to be false.’

‘Where’s he staying?’

‘A boarding house on the via Marche near the Villa Borghese.’

‘What about the gunman?’ Calvieri asked, wiping the froth from his moustache. ‘Any clues to his identity?’

‘Not yet. But we do have a description of him. We got it from the receptionist at the car hire company who told us about Anderson. Blond. Good-looking. American accent.’

‘An American?’ Calvieri mused thoughtfully.

‘The boarding house is under surveillance. What do you want done?’

‘The American must be taken alive. We have to find out who he’s working for. Who knows, one of us could be his next target.’

‘And Anderson?’

‘He’s not so important. It’s the American I want.’ Calvieri took another sip of the cappuccino. ‘This has to be a low-key affair, Luigi. The police mustn’t suspect anything. If they found out we had the American they would raid every safe house in the country looking for him. There’s only one man I’d trust to handle this kind of job.’

‘Escoletti?’

‘Right. Giancarlo Escoletti. Get him on the next flight to Rome. We can’t afford to waste any more time.’

‘I’m way ahead of you, Tony. I’ve got Escoletti on standby at the Condotti Hotel. I sent for him as soon as I got your call last night.’

‘Mister Efficiency himself. Next you’ll be challenging me for the leadership.’