Алистер Маклин - Red Alert

He couldn’t see anything untoward. Not that he had any idea who, or what, he was looking for. He had to warn Young. He walked to the bar and pushed open the door. It was a small room with a dozen tables dotted about the floor and a counter running the length of one wall. A propeller fan turned slowly overhead. The five customers all sat at the bar. Nobody spoke.

Young sat at the end of the counter, a bottle of Budweiser in front of him. He was about to take a mouthful when he noticed Whitlock standing by the door.

‘Well, how was she?’ he called out, then beckoned Whitlock towards him. ‘As good as she looked?’

‘I’ve got to talk to you,’ Whitlock said, ignoring Young’s unpleasant leer.

‘So talk,’ Young replied, lifting the bottle to his lips.

‘Not here,’ Whitlock retorted. ‘Over there, at one of the tables.’

Young frowned but followed Whitlock to the table furthest away from the counter. Whitlock sat facing the doorway, watching for the tail he was sure had followed him to the bar.

‘What is it?’ Young demanded.

Whitlock told Young what he had seen at the boarding house.

‘And you’ve never seen this guy before?’ Young asked.

Whitlock shook his head. ‘He looked like a cop.’

Young pushed the bottle away from him.

‘We’ve got to get out of here, fast. If you were followed it’ll only be a matter of time before the reinforcements arrive. Wait here.’

‘Where are you going?’

Young didn’t answer the question and crossed to the counter where he spoke softly to the barman. He then took a wad of notes from his jacket pocket and handed them discreetly to the barman who pocketed them then indicated the door behind him with a vague flick of his hand. Young beckoned Whitlock over.

‘What’s going on?’ Whitlock asked.

‘I’ve just bought us an escape route,’ Young replied, then pointed to the entrance. ‘We can’t get out that way. Not if it’s being watched.’

The barman opened the hatch and Whitlock followed Young behind the counter. The barman closed it behind them then led them through the door into the kitchen. A woman looked up from the vegetables she was dicing, smiled fleetingly at the barman, then returned to her work. The barman opened the back door and Young peered out into the alleyway. He gestured for Whitlock to follow him, and the barman closed the door behind them.

‘Which way?’ Whitlock asked.

Young pointed left.

‘According to the barman it comes out in the street at the back of the bar. We’ll be able to get a taxi there.’

‘How much money have you got on you?’

Young shrugged. ‘About forty thousand lire.’

‘I’ve got even less. How far’s it going to get us? You’ll have to call Wiseman and tell him what happened. We need more money.’

‘I’ll call him later. First we need to get to the Stazione Termini,’ Young said as they reached the road. ‘Flag down the first taxi you see.’

‘Why are we going to the station?’ Whitlock demanded. ‘We need money before we can go anywhere.’

‘That’s why we’re going to the station. General Wiseman left a holdall in one of the lockers for this kind of emergency. It contains money, new passports and a duplicate set of the weapons I’ve been using out here. Now let’s find a taxi.’

Reinhardt Kuhlmann had been the Swiss police commissioner for sixteen years. Now, aged sixty-one, he had vowed to make it his last year in office. It would be his third ‘retirement’ in seven years. On the two previous occasions he had been back behind his desk within months. But, much as he hated the idea, he knew he would have to bow out this time.

The pressure from his family was getting to him, especially from his son and daughter-in-law who were continually badgering him to spend more time at home with his wife. They didn’t understand. Neither of them was connected with law enforcement. The force was in his blood. It had become an addictive drug over the past forty-two years and his greatest fear was what effect retirement would have on him.

He pushed any thoughts of his impending retirement from his mind. He would have plenty of time to reflect on it in the years to come. He opened his briefcase and took out a folder. There was only one word on it. UNACO. Although he and Malcolm Philpott were old friends he had never attempted to hide his dislike for the organization. The concept of an international strike force appealed to him, but that’s where it ended. He argued that their use of blackmail, intimidation and violence, as well as their willingness to bend the law to suit their own needs, made them just like the criminals they had been set up to combat in the first place. But he knew his was a lone voice of protest.

There were times when he thought he was something of an anachronism in the contemporary world of law enforcement. He hated guns, and he particularly hated the idea of gun-toting foreigners shooting up his country. It had happened before and he knew it would happen again. It was inevitable.

There was a knock at the door.

He answered it and immediately recognized Kolchinsky from the photograph in the folder lying on the table behind him. They shook hands and then Kuhlmann ushered him in.

‘I feel as if I know you already,’ Kolchinsky said with a smile. ‘Malcolm’s told me a lot about you.’

‘Nothing bad, I hope. Won’t you sit down?’ Kuhlmann indicated the two chairs on either side of the window. ‘I ordered some coffee when I knew you were on your way up. It should be here any time now. How was your flight?’

‘Tedious, but aren’t they all? When did you get in from Zürich?’

Kuhlmann sat down. ‘A couple of hours ago.’

‘And you’ve been fully briefed?’

Kuhlmann pointed to the folder. ‘Your man, Jacques Rust, briefed me over breakfast this morning.’

There was another knock at the door. As Kuhlmann had predicted it was the room service waiter with the coffee. He took the tray from him and set it down on the table beside his chair.

‘How do you take your coffee?’

‘Milk, one sugar,’ Kolchinsky replied.

‘Tell me, how did Rust manage to get these rooms at such short notice?’ Kuhlmann asked as he poured out the coffee. ‘I’m told there isn’t a spare hotel bed within a twenty-mile radius of the city for the duration of the summit. I could understand if he’d managed to get one room. But six? And all here at the Metropole. I’m intrigued.’

Kolchinsky refused to rise to the bait. Philpott had warned him about Kuhlmann’s attitude towards UNACO. Kuhlmann was out to prove that Rust had used some underhand method to get the rooms. Kolchinsky was sure Rust had used some underhand method how else would he have got them? But that’s what made him such an invaluable asset to UNACO. He was like Philpott in that respect. They played on the indiscretions of others to get what they wanted. Kuhlmann would probably regard it as blackmail.Kolchinsky regarded it as simply good business sense.

‘I haven’t spoken to Jacques recently so I honestly couldn’t tell you how he did it,’ Kolchinsky replied truthfully, taking the cup and saucer from Kuhlmann and sitting back in his chair. ‘Did Jacques give you a photograph of Ubrino to circulate among your men?’

Kuhlmann nodded.

‘It’s been faxed through to every police station in the country. I’ve got teams checking all the hotels, boarding houses and chalets in and around the Berne area. If he’s here, we’ll find him.’

‘He is a master of disguise,’ Kolchinsky reminded him.

‘Which is why a police artist put the photograph through his computer and came up with a series of different disguises. Seven possibilities in all. They’re all being used in the search. We may be a small nation, Mr. Kolchinsky, but we do have an effective police force. I see to that.’