Алистер Маклин: Red Alert

‘As from tomorrow,’ Philpott told him. ‘Naturally I still want your individual case reports on my desk as soon as possible.’

‘Naturally,’ Graham muttered.

‘I won’t count those few days you had off last week. You’ll get a full three weeks’ leave this time.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Philpott wasn’t sure whether he had heard a hint of sarcasm in Graham’s voice. He let it pass.

‘I’ve provisionally booked five seats on a flight back to JFK tonight. I presume the three of you will be flying back with us?’

‘I’m certainly looking forward to going home,’ Whitlock said, automatically thinking of Carmen.

Sabrina shot Graham a sly glance, then turned back to Philpott.

‘We thought we’d stay on here for a few days. Do a bit of skiing, take in the sights, that sort of thing. Is that all right, sir?’

‘I can cancel the bookings if that’s what you mean.’ Philpott lit his pipe and exhaled the smoke up towards the ceiling.

‘Sergei, C.W., the shuttle leaves for Zürich at seven-thirty. Our flight to JFK leaves Zürich at ten. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a mound of paperwork to get through in the next couple of hours.’

They made for the door.

‘Oh, Mike, Sabrina?’ Philpott called out after them. He waited until Kolchinsky and Whitlock had left before taking a folder from his attaché case. ‘You’ve got a thirty-six-hour clearance with the local police to find Tommaso Francia. And if you haven’t managed to find him in that time, you’re to pull out. I mean it. The first flight back to New York. Disregard my orders and you’ll both be suspended. Do I make myself understood?’

They nodded.

‘How did you know we were going after him, sir?’ Sabrina asked.

‘Instinct. And because he’s after you.’ Philpott took a sheet of paper from the folder and handed it to Sabrina. ‘Those are his last known movements. He was staying in an apartment lent to him by an associate about half a mile from here but he managed to give our man the slip last night. You can be sure he’s still in Berne, though. He wants you badly, that much is obvious.’

‘If you knew he was on to me, sir, why didn’t you tell me earlier?’

‘I haven’t had the chance. Our intelligence reports only came through yesterday morning.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Sabrina said, holding up the sheet of paper.

‘Thirty-six hours,’ Philpott reminded them, then turned his attention to the folder in his lap. ‘That’s all,’ he said without looking up.

Graham and Sabrina exchanged glances then left the room.

Tommaso Francia hadn’t touched the glass of beer on the table in front of him. It had been there for the past twenty minutes. His eyes darted around the bar. It was small, dirty and almost empty. Two men played pool on the other side of the room. A couple of prostitutes sat at the counter. The barman looked suitably bored, occasionally glancing at the television screen at the end of the counter. It didn’t hold his interest for more than a few seconds at a time.

Francia stubbed out his cigarette and immediately pushed a fresh one between his lips and lit it. He knew the authorities were on to him. Why else had the apartment been watched? Not that it bothered him. All he cared about was avenging Carlo’s death. And he would, at any cost.

Then he would kill himself. He would have nothing left to live for after that. A part of him had died when he had heard about Carlo’s death on the mountain. He hadn’t slept more than a few hours in the last couple of days. He was both mentally and physically drained but his obsession with revenge had kept him going. He had to kill the Carver woman. He owed it to Carlo. It would just be a question of choosing the right time.

‘You got a light?’

He looked up sharply. It was one of the prostitutes. She was pretty but the excessive make-up marred her looks. He took a box of matches from his pocket and tossed them on to the table. She lit her cigarette and handed the matches back to him, her fingers lingering on the back of his hand. He pulled his hand away.

‘You want to talk about it?’ she asked, leaning closer to him. ‘You’ve been sitting here for the last half an hour and you haven’t even touched your beer. What’s wrong?’

He clamped his hand around the glass. It shattered in his grip, splashing beer across the table. He opened his hand slowly and looked down at his palm. A four-inch shard of glass was embedded in his skin. He plucked it out and tossed it on to the table. He stood up, pocketed the matches, then wiped his bloodied hand on the back of his jeans and left the bar.

Saturday

The weather didn’t bode well for the weekend. Sombre, overcast skies and a chilly south-westerly blowing in off the Alps.

Not that it worried Francia. After putting a fresh bandage on his hand he dressed warmly, then packed the Mini-Uzi, four spare clips and the P220 automatic into his black holdall and left the apartment. He climbed behind the wheel of the hired Volkswagen Passat, started the engine, and drove to the Metropole Hotel. There was an empty parking space directly opposite the main entrance. It seemed like a good omen.

He lit his first cigarette of the day and settled down to wait. He was in no rush.

Graham and Sabrina met for breakfast in his room at nine o’clock to run through the plan they had formulated the previous evening. Although they didn’t know where Francia was hiding out, they were sure that he would be watching the hotel, waiting for an opportunity to strike. He had to be lured into the open. And Sabrina would be the bait. Their only concern was whether he would take the bait in the next twelve hours, which was all the time they had left before Philpott’s deadline.

It was time to put the plan into action.

Graham left first, using the fire escape to get to the car-park. He tugged his New York Yankees baseball cap over his head and put on a pair of sunglasses before crossing to the Volkswagen Jetta he had hired the previous evening. It was parked facing the road. He would be able to see if Sabrina was followed. He glanced at his watch. She would reach the street within a few minutes. He switched on the radio, found a music station, and began to tap his fingers to the beat on the steering wheel.

Sabrina slipped her Beretta into her shoulder holster, then pulled on a white down jacket and zipped it up to her neck. She flicked her ponytail outside the jacket, slipped on a pair of sunglasses and left the room, locking the door behind her. She took the lift to the foyer and told reception where she would be if anyone asked for her. She left her key on the counter and walked towards the entrance. A newspaper headline caught her eye as she passed the newsstand in the foyer. It was in Italian. VIETRI MORTO – ATTACCO CARDIACO. She bought a copy and read the accompanying story: Alberto Vietri, Italy’s Deputy Prime Minister, had been found dead at his home the previous evening. He had apparently died of a heart attack. Her suspicions were confirmed when it went on to say that his body had been found by a member of the elite Italian anti-terrorist squad, the NOCS. She wondered what substance had been used to kill him. Probably hydrocyanic acid which, if fired directly into the face, causes paralysis of the heart; even the most experienced doctor would diagnose heart failure due to natural causes.

The old tricks are still the best, she thought to herself, as she folded up the newspaper and left the building. She climbed behind the wheel of the hired Fiat Croma and drove away from the hotel.

Francia started up the Passat and followed her. Even at a distance of some yards, Graham recognized Francia from the photograph lying on the passenger seat and reversed out of the parking space. He let several cars pass, then swung into Zeughausgasse, tailing the Passat at a safe distance. He turned the photograph over. On the back was the number of Sabrina’s earphone. He called her and gave her the registration number of Francia’s Passat.