Алистер Маклин - Red Alert

Boudien was the strongest man Graham had ever fought. It was like hitting a brick wall. It was also like being hit by a brick wall. When he did manage to break free from Boudien’s grip he made for the side of the pool but Boudien grabbed him from behind before he could climb out and yanked him back into the water. He cried out in pain as Boudien’s elbow caught him on the side of the face, splitting open his stitches.

Blood streamed down into the illuminated water. Boudien locked his arm around Graham’s neck and forced his head under the water. Graham raked at Boudien’s arm but he couldn’t break the hold. He felt as if he were being crushed by a python. He was becoming increasingly dizzy. He felt he was losing consciousness. He made one last effort to break Boudien’s grip. It was hopeless. Water seeped into his mouth. A thought suddenly flashed across his mind. Boudien had stuck the Beretta into the back of his belt. But would it still be there? His fingers raked at the back of Boudien’s trousers. Nothing. It had to be there. He tried again. This time his fingers touched the butt but as he pulled it from Boudien’s belt it slipped from his grasp. Darkness flooded over him.

Then there was a muffled thud, and another, and the pressure was gone from around his neck. He surfaced, coughing and spluttering, and grabbed on to the side of the pool. Boudien was floating face down in the water. There were two bullet holes in his back.

‘Are you all right?’ Sabrina asked anxiously, kneeling over him, the CZ75 still in her hand.

Graham sucked in several mouthfuls of air, then looked up at her.

‘You took your time, didn’t you?’

‘So would you if you’d had a fifteen-foot Cobra in front of you,’ she replied.

‘What are you talking about?’ he asked, his chest still heaving.

‘The tank containing the two King Cobras was damaged in the explosion. One of them was killed, the other escaped.’

‘Where is it now?’ Graham asked, looking past her at the shattered tank.

‘The last I saw it was disappearing down the stairs,’ she said, then squinted up at the helicopter as it descended towards the terrace.

‘And Karos ?’ he asked, pulling himself out of the water.

‘Dead. Come on, we’ve got to get out of here. The whole island must have heard the explosion. It’ll only be a matter of time before the police get here.’

He got to his feet unsteadily, but pushed her hand away when she tried to help him. He picked up the holdall and followed her to the helicopter which had landed at the end of the terrace.

‘Michael, are you okay?’ Kolchinsky shouted after Graham had climbed into the cabin.

‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ Graham replied, using his sleeve to wipe the blood from his face.

‘I’m flying to Arta in Greece. I’ve got a friend there. An old KGB colleague. We can stay with him for the night then fly back to Switzerland in the morning. His wife’s a nurse, she’ll see to your stitches. Sabrina, put a dressing on the wound. It’ll have to do until we get there.’

Graham unzipped the holdall and whistled softly to himself. Sabrina returned with the dressing and peered over his shoulder. The holdall was packed with bundles of notes. Hundreds of thousands of pounds sterling.

‘That’s some haul,’ she said, flicking through one of the bundles.

‘More than enough to start a new life,’ he replied, taking the notes from her and replacing them in the holdall.

‘Where do you suggest we go?’ she asked with a mischievous grin.

‘How about… Arta?’

She smiled, then dabbed some disinfectant on to a swab of cotton wool and began to wipe away the camouflage cream from around the wound.

The helicopter ascended into the night sky and headed out towards the Ionian Sea.

Friday

Kolchinsky rang Philpott from Arta at two o’clock that morning to brief him on what had happened on Corfu. He didn’t know when they would get back to Berne. Probably late afternoon. Philpott told him not to worry. Calvieri was due to appear at a preliminary hearing in Berne at three o’clock that afternoon. Whitlock and Paluzzi would be there.

The taxi pulled up a block away from the courthouse. The man in the back folded up the morning edition of the International Herald Tribune , placed it on the seat, then picked up his attaché case and climbed out of the taxi. The article he had been staring at for the duration of the journey lay face up on the seat. The headline read: TERRORIST LEADER ON MURDER CHARGES. He paid the fare and included a generous tip for getting him to his destination on time. The driver plucked the notes gratefully from the man’s black-gloved hand, then slid the taxi into gear and drove off.

Richard Wiseman watched the taxi disappear into the traffic, then walked to the small hotel directly opposite the courthouse. It was the second time he had been to the hotel that morning. He had been there three hours earlier to reconnoitre the area. Now he knew exactly where to go. He slipped into a narrow alley at the side of the hotel and paused at the foot of the fire escape to look around him. The alley was deserted. He climbed up the metal stairs to a flat roof. He glanced at his watch: 10.07 a.m. He still had a few minutes to spare before Calvieri was due to arrive at the courthouse.

His mind wandered back over the past two days. He had checked out of the Hassler Villa Medici Hotel when Young had failed to call him from Berne and booked into the more modest Cesari Hotel under a false name. He had used the name ever since. The morning paper had carried the story of the two men who had been found dead in the martial arts centre opposite the Metropole Hotel in Berne. Neither man had been identified but he knew instinctively that one of them was Young.

He had flown to Berne the previous morning but was told by a receptionist at the Metropole Hotel that Calvieri had been out all day. He had rung the hotel at regular intervals throughout the afternoon but each time he had received the same reply. Calvieri wasn’t there. Then, the previous evening, he had seen the report of Calvieri’s arrest on one of the news bulletins. He had found out through one of his more reliable military contacts that although Calvieri was due to appear in court at three o’clock he would, in fact, be taken there secretly at ten o’clock to prevent any attempt by the Red Brigades to spring him. The security at the courthouse would be minimal in the morning and only increased for the decoy convoy that was due to arrive there at two o’clock in the afternoon. It had left him very little time…

He found himself staring absently at the narrow road running parallel to the side of the courthouse. The police van would stop there. He unlocked the attaché case and removed the specially designed detachable Vaime Super Silenced Rifle Mk2. It used subsonic ammunition and had a suppressor to cut the firing noise. It was one of Young’s rifles which he had picked up from a locker at the station. He snapped the ten-round box into place, then settled down to wait for Calvieri.

The police van swept through the open gates at the side of the courthouse at 10.24 a.m. Two police cars followed it in and the gates were immediately locked behind them. Whitlock and Paluzzi were riding in the second car.

The police van stopped beside a door at the side of the building. A policeman jumped out from the passenger side, walked to the back of the van, and unlocked the doors. He climbed inside and unlocked the cage nearest to the doors. Calvieri emerged from the cage, his hands manacled in front of him. He was the only prisoner in the van. He noticed Paluzzi standing beside the second police car, hands in pockets, and paused on the top step to smile disdainfully at him.