Алистер Маклин - Red Alert

‘It was an observation, not a criticism.’

‘I resent UNACO being here, Mr. Kolchinsky. But I especially resent you bringing scum like Calvieri into the country. We can catch Ubrino ourselves. I have some of Europe’s finest policemen on the force. Men who use brains, not guns, to bring criminals to justice. We don’t need you here.’

‘So expel us,’ Kolchinsky challenged.

‘If it were up to me none of you would have got permission to land here in the first place. Unfortunately my Government views the situation differently.’

‘Malcolm told me you disliked UNACO. I never realized how much until now.’

‘I make no secret of my opposition to UNACO It’s become too powerful for its own good in the last few years. Your field operatives can literally get away with murder because they know they’re immune from prosecution. How can charges be brought against someone working for an organization that doesn’t officially exist? UNACO a law unto itself.’

‘That’s something I can’t accept.’ Kolchinsky picked up the folder.

‘Don’t get me wrong, though. You’ll have my full cooperation while you’re here in Switzerland. I never allow my personal feelings to interfere with my work. It would amount to professional suicide if I did.’

Professional suicide. Kolchinsky knew all about that. He had spent sixteen years as a military attaché in the West for daring to criticize the draconian methods of the KGB. The irony was that had he kept his mouth shut, like many of his liberal colleagues, he would almost certainly now be a member of the Politburo, or at least a Directorate head in the KGB, heralding in the new era of Soviet politics. But he had done what he had thought right at the time and now he could live with a clear conscience. He had no regrets. Well, almost none…

There was a knock at the door.

Kuhlmann answered it. Paluzzi introduced himself and followed the police commissioner into the room.

‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ Paluzzi said, giving Kolchinsky an apologetic smile. ‘I’d barely got to my room when the phone rang. It was Angelo.’ He glanced at Kuhlmann. ‘My adjutant, Lieutenant Angelo Marco.’

‘Has he come up with something?’ Kolchinsky asked.

‘Whitlock and Young have disappeared.’

‘Disappeared?’ Kolchinsky repeated anxiously.

‘The Red Brigades are on to them. They obviously realized this and fled the boarding house. They left everything behind. We don’t know where they are at the moment.’

‘So they could conceivably be in the hands of the Red Brigades?’

‘No, they’re not,’ Paluzzi said, trying to reassure Kolchinsky. ‘The Red Brigades have sent their most experienced assassin after them. His name’s Giancarlo Escoletti. We bugged his hotel room while he was at the boarding house waiting for them to return. When they didn’t show he went back to the hotel and called Luigi Bettinga, Calvieri’s new right-hand man, and told him he’d lost them. We’re watching his every move. If he does manage to track them down we’ll pull him in before he can do anything. He’s the least of our worries. It’s Young that concerns me. If Calvieri is his next hit it won’t be very difficult for Young to trace him to Switzerland. What if they’re already here? All Young needs is a sniper rifle and he’ll be spoilt for choice when it comes to selecting a time and place for the hit.’

‘Have you got photographs of Whitlock and this man Young?’ Kuhlmann asked.

‘I’ve got a photograph of Young in the case dossier in my room,’ Kolchinsky said. ‘It’s slightly blurred but it’s the only known one on file. I don’t have a photo of C.W. with me. There are some on file in New York.’

‘Have one faxed through to our Zürich headquarters, then we can circulate them both to all the airports and stations If they’ve passed through any of them in the last few hours, we’ll know about it.’

‘I’ll call Jacques right away. May I use your phone?’

‘Please do,’ Kuhlmann replied.

Kolchinsky explained the situation to Rust who promised to contact Philpott immediately and have a photograph of Whitlock faxed through to Zürich. Kolchinsky had barely hung up when the telephone rang.

‘Excuse me,’ Kuhlmann said as he answered it. After listening for a few moments he put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Ubrino’s been found.’

Kolchinsky and Paluzzi exchanged excited glances.

Kuhlmann spoke for a minute more and then replaced the receiver.

‘An estate agent recognized him from one of the photographs. He came here a month ago and booked a chalet on the outskirts of the city. He picked up the keys from the estate agent on Monday.’

‘The son-of-a-bitch,’ Paluzzi hissed. ‘He’s been here all the time. We’ve been chasing shadows for the past three days.’

‘Is the chalet being watched?’ Kolchinsky asked.

Kuhlmann nodded.

‘There’s a couple of plainclothes men up there now. There’s no sign of Ubrino but they’ve reported seeing smoke coming from the chimney. So it’s fair to assume he’s home.’

‘Fabio, call Michael and Sabrina. Tell them to meet us here.’

‘And Calvieri?’ Paluzzi asked, his hand hovering over the receiver.

‘And Calvieri,’ Kolchinsky said with a sigh.

The briefing was short. Paluzzi would take Graham and Sabrina to within five hundred yards of the chalet, where they would rendezvous with the two policemen. Then, once they had seen the chalet for themselves, they would decide on the best way to approach Ubrino and recover the vial intact.

‘Can you see anything?’ Paluzzi asked as the Westland Scout passed over the rendezvous area.

‘Not a damn thing,’ Graham muttered, then glanced over his shoulder at Sabrina. ‘You’ve got the binoculars. Any sign of those cops?’

‘Not yet,’ she replied without lowering the binoculars. She continued to scan the desolate white slopes beneath them, hoping to catch a glimpse of movement. Nothing. Not even a deer bounding through the snow in search of shelter from the deafening whirr of the helicopter’s rotors. Was it such godforsaken territory? Ubrino had certainly chosen his hideout well.

A sudden movement caught her eye and she swung the binoculars on to the cluster of pine trees to her left. Had she been wrong? Then she saw it again, the glint of sun on a ski pole. She tapped Paluzzi on the shoulder and pointed in the direction of the trees. A figure in a white camouflage overall emerged from the trees and waved at the helicopter.

‘I’ll take the helicopter down,’ Paluzzi said, his eyes focused on the altimeter. ‘I daren’t land it, though. I don’t know the depth of the snow. Get ready, both of you. I’ll give you the signal to deplane.’

Graham and Sabrina were wearing white Goretex overalls and white ski boots lent to them by the local police. The sunglasses were their own. They clambered into the back of the helicopter and retrieved their ski poles and Völkl skis from the rack against the side of the cabin.

They were both experienced skiers but, like the other field operatives, they still had to undergo rigorous outdoor training which included skiing, mountaineering and hang gliding at a secret camp in the backwoods of Maine.

Graham pulled open the door and winced as a gust of cold wind whipped through the cabin. After they had snapped on their skis Sabrina kept her eye on Paluzzi, waiting for his signal for them to deplane. Paluzzi continued to press down on the collective-pitch lever to lower the helicopter towards the ground then, when the pads were a couple of feet above the snow, he nodded his head vigorously, the signal to deplane.

They launched themselves through the doorway and landed nimbly in the snow, bending their knees to cushion the impact of the fall. The helicopter immediately rose upwards and banked sharply to the left, soon to disappear over the treetops.