Алистер Маклин: Red Alert

Francia had reached the edge of the clearing. He fired. The bullets peppered the snow behind her. She tensed herself to jump. He fired again, forcing her to swerve in the second before she launched herself through the air. She landed awkwardly, overbalanced, and tumbled headlong into the snow. Francia reached the edge of the ridge before she could get up. He aimed the Mini-Uzi at her. She opened her mouth to speak. Her throat was dry. She knew she was going to die.

Francia smiled faintly and trained the Mini-Uzi on her legs. He was going to make her suffer. And he was going to enjoy it. His finger tightened on the trigger. He saw a movement out of the corner of his eye and was still turning when Graham hit him with his shoulder.

Graham’s momentum sent them both over the edge of the ridge.

Francia fired blindly as he fell. He hit the snow first. Graham landed within a few feet of him. They both lay face down in the snow. Neither of them moved. Sabrina grabbed the fallen Mini-Uzi and turned Francia over. She recoiled in horror. He had been impaled on one of his own ski poles. It jutted grotesquely from his stomach, the blood soaking the front of his jacket. She turned to Graham and turned him over on to his back. There was no blood. The bullets had missed him.

‘Mike?’ she said, shaking his shoulder. ‘Mike, are you okay?’

He opened one eye, then the other.

‘I feel like I’ve been sacked by “The Refrigerator”.’

She smiled with relief.

‘Can’t you talk about anything but football?’

‘How about baseball?’ He eased himself into a sitting position and looked across at Francia. He screwed up his face.

‘Rather him than me.’

‘Thanks, Mike,’ she said softly.

‘Yeah, sure,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders.

They heard the sound of the engine seconds before the police helicopter came into view. Graham sighed deeply, then picked up one of his red ski poles and began to wave it above his head to catch the pilot’s attention.

New York was swathed in sunlight. Temperatures were exceptionally high for March. Not that it bothered Whitlock. He was used to the heat, having spent part of his childhood in the sultry Rift Valley region of Kenya. He stood on the balcony of his sixth-floor Manhattan apartment looking out across a packed Central Park. He was deep in thought. He had arrived back at the apartment at midnight, still disorientated by the six-hour time difference between Zürich and New York. Carmen had been there. She had returned the previous evening. She had been evasive when he questioned her on where she had been for the last five days. All she would say was that she had been staying at a hotel in the city. She had needed time alone to think about the future of their marriage. But she wouldn’t be drawn on her conclusions. This had infuriated him and he had chosen to sleep in the spare room. They had hardly spoken to each other at breakfast and she had spent most of the morning in the kitchen baking for a local charity fete. He had spent the morning on the balcony, brooding. He was at his wits’ end. How was he supposed to communicate with her when she refused to open up to him?

It wasn’t as if he was a stranger. They had been married for six years. But for how much longer?

The doorbell rang. Company was the last thing he needed. He decided to ignore the bell. Then it went again and Carmen shouted to him to answer it. He cursed under his breath and strode across the lounge to the door. He opened it on the chain. His eyes widened in surprise. It was Philpott.

‘Afternoon, sir,’ Whitlock stammered, then unlocked the chain and opened the door. ‘Please, come in.’

‘Thank you,’ Philpott replied, following Whitlock into the lounge. He looked around the room slowly and nodded his head in approval. ‘Very nice, C.W.’

Whitlock smiled quickly. ‘Won’t you sit down, sir?’

Philpott eased himself into an armchair and took his pipe and tobacco pouch from his pocket. He held them up.

‘May I?’

‘Of course, there’s an ashtray on the table. Can I get you a drink, sir?’

‘A Scotch, if you have it.’ Philpott tamped a wad of tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, then looked up as Whitlock crossed to the drinks cabinet in the corner of the room. ‘Alexander’s been rearrested. I thought you’d like to know.’

‘That’s a relief.’ Whitlock poured out two whiskies. ‘Ice, sir?’

‘No ice. It seems he was quite relieved to have been finally caught. Life on the run wasn’t much fun for him. Ah, thank you,’ Philpott said, taking the tumbler.

Whitlock sat on the sofa. ‘I’m sure you didn’t come all this way just to tell me about Alexander.’

‘Actually no.’ Philpott was about to take a sip of his whisky when Carmen came in. He immediately got to his feet. ‘Nice to see you again, Mrs. Whitlock.’

Carmen shook Philpott’s hand and sat on the sofa beside Whitlock.

‘Again?’ Whitlock said suspiciously, his eyes moving between Carmen and Philpott. ‘You two know each other?’

‘I went to see Colonel Philpott after I got back from Paris,’ Carmen said.

‘What?’ Whitlock said in disbelief. ‘You know the rules…’ He trailed off when Philpott raised his hand.

‘I’m not here because of that,’ Philpott assured him. ‘It was an exceptional case as far as I’m concerned. We had a long talk. I suggested she book into the Plaza. It was obvious she needed some time to herself, away from the pressures of family and friends.’ He took a sip of whisky, then sat back in the chair. ‘We don’t want to lose you, C.W. And neither does Carmen. Only I couldn’t give her any assurances about your future at UNACO. Not without clearing it first with the Secretary-General. I’ve spent most of the morning with him. He’s agreed to let me speak to you both. Naturally what I’m going to tell you can’t be repeated outside these four walls until it becomes official. Not to anybody.’

‘I understand, sir,’ Whitlock said hesitantly.

Philpott finished his whisky but declined Carmen’s offer of a refill.

‘There’s been a lot of rumours circulating about who’s going to replace who when I retire in four years’ time. For a start, I’m not retiring in four years’ time. I’m retiring at the end of the year. Doctor’s orders. Jacques won’t be taking my place as has been generally rumoured. He’s too important to us in Zürich. He’s built up an invaluable network of contacts across Europe which could be damaged if he were replaced. Sergei will take over from me when I retire. And you will become his deputy. But he’ll only stay on as Director for a year. He wants to go back to Russia and settle there again now that Gorbachev’s given new hope to the country. The Secretary-General doesn’t want to lose him but naturally he won’t stand in his way. That means you’ll take over as Director when Sergei leaves.’

‘Me, sir?’ Whitlock stammered in disbelief. He had hoped for Rust’s job at the most, but Director? He couldn’t believe it.

‘I recommended you to the Secretary-General because I think you’re the best man for the job. And you have the respect of all the field operatives. I know you’ll do well.’

‘Does Sergei know?’

‘He seconded my recommendation. Jacques knows as well. He’s thrilled at the idea. As I’m sure you are.’

‘I am, sir,’ Whitlock said, struggling to find the words. ‘But what about Strike Force Three? Do you have a replacement in mind for me?’

‘I’ve got just the man. Fabio Paluzzi.’

Whitlock grinned. ‘He’s coming over to us?’

‘I spoke to him yesterday. He jumped at the chance. He’ll be joining us next month. I’ll put him with one of the other teams so that he can get some experience, then he’ll be transferred to Strike Force Three when you come on to the management side in November.’