Алистер Маклин - Red Alert

‘It never crossed my mind, Tony,’ Bettinga replied indignantly, then noticed the smile on Calvieri’s face. ‘Your little joke, right?’

Calvieri had always maintained that Bettinga would have made a perfect poker-faced comedian. He never smiled. Irony was totally lost on him.

‘Call Escoletti and tell him to bring the American in.’ Calvieri finished his cappuccino and got to his feet. ‘I’ve got to get back to the hotel.’

‘What did Ubrino steal from the plant? Signore Pisani wouldn’t have asked you to help the authorities unless it was something pretty important.’

‘I can’t say anything at the moment, Luigi. I promise I’ll give the committee a full report at next week’s meeting.’

‘Do you think there could be a connection between the break-in at the plant and the hit on Signore Pisani?’

‘That’s what I hope to find out from the American.’

Bettinga sat down behind the desk after Calvieri had left the room and dialled the number of the Condotti Hotel. He asked for Escoletti’s room.

‘Hello?’ a voice answered.

‘Escoletti?’

‘Speaking.’

‘It’s Bettinga. I’ve spoken to Signore Calvieri. He wants the American brought in alive.’

‘What about Anderson?’

‘He’s not important. You can kill him if you have to. You know where to take the American. Call me when it’s done. And Escoletti, don’t risk anything that could alert the authorities. Signore Calvieri was quite insistent about that.’

‘Leave it to me. The authorities won’t suspect a thing.’

Bettinga replaced the receiver, then took a couple of peppermints from the bowl on the table and thoughtfully put them into his mouth.

‘Where have you been?’ Kolchinsky demanded once he had let Calvieri into his room.

‘I’m sure you know that already,’ Calvieri replied. ‘Paluzzi’s men have been tailing me ever since I arrived in Rome. But to answer your question, I was called out unexpectedly to deal with some Red Brigades business.’

‘We had an agreement, Calvieri. You work with us until the vial’s been recovered. And that means staying on call, like the rest of us. So next time you get an unexpected call, send one of your associates to deal with the problem. Isn’t that what leadership’s all about? Delegation?’

‘I’ll bear it in mind, next time,’ Calvieri retorted sarcastically.

‘You do that. But right now you’d better start packing.’ Kolchinsky handed Calvieri an airline ticket. ‘Flight 340 to Berne. It leaves Rome at twelve-twenty. That’s in less than two hours’ time. And you will be on the plane with the rest of us, that I promise you.’

Escoletti parked the hired Fiat Regata a block away from the boarding house, took the black doctor’s bag from the back seat and got out of the car, locking the door behind him.

He was a tall, distinguished-looking man in his late forties with thick black hair which was beginning to grey in streaks at the temples. He had once been a doctor but had been struck off the medical register for attempting to rape one of his patients. On his release from jail he had drifted into a life of crime and joined the Red Brigades in ’84 after meeting Calvieri at a recruitment party in Milan. His expertise with firearms (he had been a crack shot since his early teens) together with his extensive medical knowledge had made him one of the most in-demand assassins in the organization. In ’87 he had been promoted on to the committee as a senior security consultant, a position he still held, which entailed him advising the different cells on the feasibility of their intended terror campaigns across the country. He still worked in the field, but only on those assignments sanctioned at the highest level of the committee. He was known as ‘the Specialist’. Just like a doctor.

He walked past the boarding house to the narrow alleyway which ran parallel to the side of the building. He picked his way with distaste through the overflowing dustbins and paused at the foot of the fire escape. Anderson and Yardley were in Rooms 15 and 16. First floor.

That’s what the receptionist told him when he had called the boarding house from the hotel. He climbed the metal stairs to the first floor and pulled open the door. The corridor was deserted. His plan was simple. He would immobilize both men with the dart gun in his overcoat pocket then withdraw back down the fire escape and make his way round to the reception where he would say that they had called him earlier complaining of upset stomachs. He would then go to their rooms, call the bogus ambulance which was on standby not far from the boarding house, and tell the receptionist that he had diagnosed food poisoning in both cases. They would then be taken away on stretchers, ‘under sedation’, and driven in the ambulance to a safe house on the outskirts of the city. The manager of the boarding house would play down the incident, desperate to avoid any adverse publicity, and by the time the authorities did latch on to the deception the committee would have the answers they wanted and the two men would be dead. He had used the plan in the past to kidnap targets selected by the committee. It had never failed.

He stopped outside Andersen’s room. Certainly the lesser of two evils.

He curled a gloved hand around the dart gun in his pocket and rapped sharply on the door. Silence. He knocked on Yardley’s door. Again, silence. He cursed under his breath. It was what he had been dreading.

The boarding house had only been under surveillance for the past forty minutes. They must have gone out before that. On foot. The Volkswagen Jetta Anderson had hired that morning was still parked out in the street. They could be back at any time. He decided to check the rooms for any clues to their real identities. Not that he held out much hope.

They were professionals. Well, the one calling himself Yardley certainly was. But he would talk, like the others before him. Escoletti had his methods. He was a doctor. A specialist.

He would search Andersen’s room first. Then Yardley’s room. Then he would wait.

Whitlock had left the boarding house soon after Sabrina. He had needed to clear his thoughts. He had gone for a walk, careful to keep easily within a mile radius of the bar at the end of the block where Young was drinking.

What if Calvieri was the next hit on Young’s list? He would have to stop Young if he did get too close to Calvieri. What about the transmitter? He was suddenly glad of the Browning Sabrina had given to him. He had no qualms about killing Young, especially with the threat of the transmitter ever present in his mind. To hell with Philpott’s orders in the dossier to bring Young in alive. He would do what be thought best under the circumstances. And that meant killing Young.

What about Alexander? He doubted he would have to deal with him. How could Alexander possibly trace him? Young wouldn’t have used his real name in London. And there was no record of their departure at any of the airports. An American airbase would be the last place he would think of checking. And even if he did, how far would he get? No, Alexander didn’t worry him.

What did worry him was a revenge attack by the Red Brigades. It had been a mistake to approach the guard so openly outside Pisani’s house. But what choice did he have? He had to get Young out, if only because of the transmitter in his pocket. Had he driven the car up to the gate the guard would have opened fire. Not that he could say anything to Young about Sabrina’s warning. His only hope was if Calvieri went to Switzerland. They would surely follow him. And that would take the heat off them, at least for the time being…

He finished his espresso at the small coffee bar, paid for it, and walked the short distance back to the boarding house. The receptionist handed him his room key, then returned to her knitting. He froze halfway up the stairs when he saw Escoletti using one of the skeleton keys to open Young’s door. He pressed himself against the wall when Escoletti looked round furtively before picking up his black bag and disappearing into Young’s room. Whitlock’s mind was racing. Who was he? A detective? A Brigatista? Did he have any accomplices? Was the boarding house being watched? He looked down into the foyer. It was deserted. He retraced his steps down the stairs and went out into the street. He looked around slowly, careful not to arouse any suspicion.