Алистер Маклин - Red Alert

She replaced the receiver and glanced in her rearview mirror. The Passat was two cars behind her. She smiled to herself. He had taken the bait. She drove to a small ski resort outside Berne and parked outside the hire shop. She went inside to get herself kitted out for the slopes. Francia parked in sight of the shop but remained in the car. Graham had to be content with a space beside a transit van. He couldn’t see Francia’s Passat from there.

Francia unzipped his holdall and slipped the Mini-Uzi inside his red-and-white padded ski jacket and zipped it up. He pocketed the P220 and the spare clips. He thought about shooting her as she emerged from the shop. No, he would wait until she was on the slopes. That was his territory. He made a mental note of her skis. A pair of red Völkl P9 SLs. At least she had good taste. He only used Völkl skis himself. She went straight to the ski lift, snapped on her skis, then climbed on to the poma lift to transport her up the slope. He went to the hire shop and selected a similar kit for himself. He paid for them and hurried from the shop without waiting for his change.

He joined the queue for the next available cable car. It wasn’t long in coming. Once inside he stood against the wall, the skis held in front of him to prevent anyone from bumping against the Mini-Uzi. He counted another twenty-seven people in the cable car. Its capacity was forty That meant it would travel faster. He wouldn’t be far behind her. Finding her wouldn’t be difficult, for it was a small resort. It was just a question of time. And he had plenty of it.

He was one of the first to disembark when the cable car docked. He climbed the steps to the exit and paused to scan the novice slopes directly in front of him. She was hardly going to be there. He had seen her ski. She was good. Very good. Someone bumped into him from behind and he instinctively clasped his hand over his midriff to prevent the Mini-Uzi from moving underneath his ski jacket. He glared at the woman, who mumbled an apology before stepping out on to the snow, unsure of herself on skis for the first time. The memories came flooding back.

How many beginners like her had he and Carlo put through their paces on the novice slopes at the Stubai Glacier in Austria where they had been instructors for eight months after their life ban from competitive skiing? Hundreds certainly. And all lacking in confidence and technique.

He was jostled again, which snapped him out of his reverie. He stepped aside to let a party of skiers pass, then turned to the restaurant which was directly behind the cable car station. She was sitting by the window drinking coffee. Was it a trap? He had been toying with the idea ever since he began tailing her from the hotel. It was possible.

Not that it bothered him, as long as he got her first. He entered the restaurant and bought a cup of coffee from the self-service counter, then sat down at a table within sight of the entrance. He was sure she hadn’t recognized him. He looked like any other skier. He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. There was only one cigarette left in it.

The condemned man’s last smoke. He found the analogy amusing. He lit the cigarette, then sat back in the chair to wait.

He was right. She hadn’t noticed him. Not that she was paying much attention to her fellow patrons. She was watching the beginners struggling to keep their balance on the novice slopes. Her introduction to the slopes had been at the age of four when her parents had taken her to Innsbruck on holiday. By the time she was fifteen she was already skiing the black runs, areas for expert skiers only. She loved the sport. It gave her a sense of freedom. And the more dangerous the black run, the more exhilarating it was for her. Whitlock was a good skier. And so was Kolchinsky, which had surprised her. He didn’t seem the type. Graham was exceptionally good, which was remarkable considering that he hadn’t started skiing until he joined Delta in his mid-twenties. He skied as if he had been doing it all his life. The thought of him brought her back guiltily to the present. She was supposed to be keeping an eye out for him. She saw him straight away.

He was the only person there wearing a baseball cap. He was standing outside the restaurant rubbing his gloved hands together. She pushed the cup away from her, collected her skis, and walked to the door.

Francia slipped his hand into his pocket and his fingers curled around the P220. He had the perfect shot as she put on her skis. He held back. It would be too easy. He wanted her to know she was going to die, just as Carlo had known when he fell to his death. He took his hand off the gun as she skied away from the restaurant, heading for one of the off-piste black runs. He waited to see if she would be followed by any of her colleagues. Nobody went after her. Not that it surprised him. They were too professional to make that kind of mistake. They would wait for him to make the first move, if, in fact, it was a trap.

He stubbed out his cigarette, took his skis from the rack against the wall, and moved to the door. He snapped on the skis then propelled himself out on to the snow. He swerved sharply around the beginners group and headed towards the nearest of the black runs. The ski pole dug into the gash in his palm but he ignored the pain, it was irrelevant. By the time he reached the edge of the black run, demarcated with black poles, he could feel the blood trickling down the inside of his glove. He looked behind him. There was nobody in sight.

Perhaps it wasn’t a trap after all. He followed the lone trail in the snow. It had to be her. He came across a cluster of trees and ducked into them, slewing to a stop out of sight of the slope. If she had any babysitters, he would be ready for them. He tried to flex his hand and a sharp pain shot up his arm. He inhaled sharply. At least it wasn’t his gun hand. He unzipped his ski jacket and removed the Mini-Uzi. Then he saw a movement further up the slope. He had been right. It was a trap. He curled his finger around the trigger. A thought suddenly crossed his mind. The gunfire could not only alert her, it could also bring the police. He took his finger off the trigger. He would have to kill her colleague silently. He moved to the edge of the trees, the Mini-Uzi clenched in his hand like a club.

Graham only noticed the deviation in the tracks at the last moment. He was still slewing to a halt when Francia launched himself at him, catching him on the back of the head with the barrel of the Mini-Uzi.

Graham fell back into the snow. Francia picked up the Beretta, ejected the magazine and threw them both into the trees. He crouched beside Graham and pressed the ski pole against his throat.

‘Drop it!’

The voice startled him. He looked up slowly. Sabrina stood thirty yards in front of him, a Beretta held at arm’s length. His eyes flickered towards the trees beside her. She had been in there waiting for him.

‘I said drop it!’

Francia’s fingers tightened on the Mini-Uzi in the snow beside him. He brought the gun up in one quick movement and she flung herself sideways as he fired. The bullets ripped into the trees. She searched frantically for her Beretta which had slipped from her grasp when she had hit the ground. It was lying in the clearing. She couldn’t reach it without being hit. She scrambled to her feet and took off, zigzagging through the trees in a desperate bid to outrun him. A volley of bullets tore into the trees to her left. She couldn’t look behind her, she had to concentrate on carving between the trees. Then she reached a clearing which ended abruptly fifty yards further on with a vertical drop of twenty feet to the next slope. She dug her ski poles into the snow and launched herself down the fall line, her knees bent, her torso flexed, her pelvis thrust forward. She looked behind her.