Алистер Маклин - Red Alert

‘The foyer.’

‘Wonderful. Now we’ll be in full glare of the press.’

The bleeper sounded. It was attached to Whitlock’s belt. He switched it off and met Paluzzi’s questioning look.

‘Am I expecting too much?’

‘Probably, but there’s only one way of finding out.’

Whitlock crossed to the telephone and rang Vlok’s office. Philpott answered.

‘It’s C.W.’ sir. Has the vial been found?’

‘No,’ Philpott replied brusquely.

Whitlock shook his head at Paluzzi.

‘I might be on to something,’ Philpott told him. ‘I want the two of you to check it out.’

‘What is it?’ Whitlock asked eagerly.

‘Were you told about Nino Ferzetti?’

‘The maintenance worker Ubrino impersonated to get into the building?’

‘The same. Well, Commissioner Kuhlmann had the local police go round to Ferzetti’s flat to see if he was all right. He was still out cold when they got there. They managed to bring him round and he told them he was drinking with a Vito Cellina last night. He also works in the maintenance department. I called Jacques in Zürich and had him run a check on Cellina. He’s clean but it turns out his stepsister, Louisa, had been involved with the Red Brigades before her death from a drugs overdose last year.’

‘So Cellina could be Calvieri’s contact inside the building”

‘He could be, but I still have my suspicions. It’s all too convenient. It’s as if Calvieri wanted us to find out about Cellina. Why else would Ubrino have mentioned Ferzetti? I could be wrong, of course. That’s why I want the two of you to get on to it right away.’

‘Do you know where he is at the moment?’

‘In the basement. That’s where the maintenance department is housed.’

‘We’re on our way, sir.’

The lift only went as far as the foyer, but there were stairs leading down to the basement to the right of the reception desk. They ignored the sign on the door, STAFF ONLY, and descended the stairs to a tiled corridor. To their right was a swing door leading into the workshop. To their left was a cream-coloured door with the words ERHALTUNG MANAGER stencilled on it in black. The maintenance manager’s office. Paluzzi rapped loudly on the door.

‘ Herein ,’ a voice called out.

They entered the room. The man behind the desk was heavyset, his face remarkable only for its surly expression and black-framed glasses. The name tag on his grey overall identified him as Hans Kessler. Paluzzi told Kessler in German that he was a security adviser and asked him where they could find Cellina.

‘What’s this all about?’ Kessler demanded in German, getting to his feet and removing his glasses.

‘Vito’s a good worker–’

‘We don’t want a reference,’ Paluzzi cut in, ‘we want to talk to him. Are you going to take us to him or do I have to call Dieter Vlok and tell him that his maintenance manager is refusing to cooperate with the authorities in a matter of national security?’

Kessler scowled but did as he was told, leading them into the workshop where he identified Cellina as the figure standing with his back to them on the other side of the room.

‘We’ll take it from here,’ Paluzzi said to Kessler. ‘Thank you for your help.’

Kessler looked from Paluzzi to Whitlock, then turned and left the room, muttering under his breath. The other five maintenance men in the workshop were watching them. Only Cellina seemed oblivious to their presence. It was not until Paluzzi approached Cellina that he noticed the blowtorch in his hand. He was welding. Paluzzi stopped a few feet away from Cellina, out of range of the blowtorch, and called out to him.

At first he thought Cellina hadn’t heard him but a moment later he switched off the power and looked around.

‘Are you Vito Cellina?’ Paluzzi asked in Italian.

Cellina pushed the visor away from his face. He was a gangling man in his thirties with collar-length brown hair and a sallow complexion.

‘Yes. Who are you?’

‘Security. I’d like to talk to you about a friend of yours. Nino Ferzetti.’

‘He’s not here,’ Cellina said, glancing nervously about him. ‘He didn’t come in to work this morning.’

‘That’s because you spiked his drinks last night.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Cellina stammered.

Paluzzi ripped the visor from Cellina’s face then grabbed him by the front of his overall and slammed him against the workbench.

‘I’m in no mood to play games with you. I want some answers and I want them now!’

One of Cellina’s colleagues picked up a screwdriver, but when he tried to approach Paluzzi he found his path blocked by Whitlock, who had unfastened his jacket to reveal the bolstered Browning. The man took a hesitant step backwards, then tossed the screwdriver on to the workbench. Whitlock ushered the men from the workshop and hovered menacingly at the door to dissuade any of them from returning.

‘Now it’s just you and me,’ Paluzzi hissed, tightening his grip on Cellina’s lapels. ‘Where’s the vial Calvieri gave to you this morning?’

Cellina made a desperate grab for the blowtorch. He managed to curl his fingers around the handle before Paluzzi brought the butt of his Beretta down savagely on the back of his hand. Cellina cried out in pain and jerked his fingers away from the blowtorch, which clattered on to the floor. Paluzzi twisted Cellina’s arm behind his back and frog marched him to the band-saw in the middle of the room. He switched it on, then forced Cellina’s face on to the cold metal workbench. Cellina struggled in vain to break Paluzzi’s hold as his face was pushed ever closer towards the serrated blade.

‘I’ll tell you where it is,’ Cellina screamed, his eyes wide with fear. ‘Please, no more. I’ll tell you.’

‘I’m listening,’ Paluzzi replied, still pushing Cellina’s face towards the blade.

‘It’s under my workbench,’ Cellina shouted breathlessly.

Cellina’s face was within inches of the blade when Paluzzi reached down and switched off the machine. Cellina crumpled to the floor, shaking, his face buried in his hands.

Paluzzi hauled him to his feet and shoved him towards the workbench.

‘Show me,’ he snarled, then unholstered his Beretta and pressed it into Cellina’s back. ‘And do it slowly.’

Cellina crouched down and pointed a trembling finger at the metal cylinder attached to the underside of the workbench with masking tape.

‘Did he say what was in it?’ Paluzzi demanded.

Cellina shook his head.

‘He just told me to keep it here in the workshop. Out of sight. That’s why I taped it beneath my workbench.’

Whitlock crossed to where they were crouched and peered at the metal cylinder.

‘It certainly looks intact.’

Cellina frowned at Whitlock. He spoke no English. Whitlock eased himself into a position where he could study the cylinder more carefully. It wasn’t booby trapped. He peeled off the masking tape, then stood up and checked the serial number: 814785. The same number as on the cylinder stolen from Neo-Chem Industries.

‘I’ll call the Colonel,’ Whitlock said, walking to the wall phone beside the swing door.

‘Did Calvieri say why he wanted you to keep it here?’ Paluzzi asked Cellina.

‘All he said was that someone would contact me this afternoon and I was to give it to them.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know He said they would identify themselves with a password-’

‘What was in it for you?’

Cellina sagged against the workbench and ran his fingers through his hair.

‘My stepsister was a Brigatista in Milan. She died last year from a drug overdose. Calvieri threatened to tell my mother about Louisa. She knew Louisa died from drugs but she didn’t know anything about her ties with the Red Brigades. She suffered a heart attack within days of Louisa’s death. It nearly finished her off. Another shock like that would surely kill her. I couldn’t risk it. You must understand that.’