ADAM HALL - The Kobra Manifesto

Fogel was turning across my bows and I didn't think he had any particular route in his mind: if he drove straight off alongside the pavement he would run through a curtain of bullets because the carabinieri were strung out and already taking deliberate aim instead of firing wild and his only chance was to make a fast U-turn and try for distance. He was doing that and at the same time I was forced to make a decision because the situation was now mobile and I didn't stand a chance of tagging him without his knowing. The thing was beginning to look shut-ended because my orders were to identify without being recognised and I couldn't do that without tagging him and I couldn't tag him without being seen. Unless I could run him to ground and put the whole thing into a long-term surveillance phase I couldn't hope to get close enough to identify.

During a mission a lot of your thinking is done for you by Control and the moves are sketched out for you through Signals, but sometimes the executive has to get into his controller's mind and make his decision accordingly and in this case the controller was Egerton and I didn't think he'd want me to abort the Rome assignment. There was also of course the other consideration: if I wanted him to give me the Kobra mission I'd have to give him a bit of an incentive and the best way of doing that was to tie up this Rome phase the way he wanted it.

So I wouldn't abort.

The Fiat was slithering a little because of wheelspin and I eased off and got the tyres biting and then gunned up again, closing the gap on the Alfa-Romeo and holding it as another volley of shots came from behind us and picked some paint off Fogel's car and smashed the rear window. The siren of the emergency vehicle had started howling and I could see its red flashing light in the mirror. There was some traffic coming the other way because a Pan American Jumbo was due in at 00:55 and the line of cars began slowing when they saw the emergency vehicle coming up behind us. A stray shot came from somewhere but it didn't seem to hit anything.

Fogel was trying for the main exit gate but his brake lights came on and the tyres began smoking because a police car had appeared from the other direction to cut him off: with that siren howling it wouldn't be long before every patrol on the airport zeroed in on the Alfa and at this point I began thinking he wasn't going to make it because they were taking him very seriously: I still didn't know what the two plainclothesmen had been waiting for but they could have been noncombatant surveillance men scouting for the carabinieri , but even if I was wrong on that point the fact remained that the carabinieri had been sent specifically to meet Fogel so they wanted him pretty badly.

A single shot and my windscreen shattered and I hit the snow away with the flat of my left hand: I think it was Fogel himself, holding the gun across his shoulder and letting fly at random to cool of the pursuit.

Two shells left.

The Alfa-Romeo was now in a long curving slide as he took evasive action against the police car and I clouted the right offside wing of the Fiat as I went through the gap between the police car and a traffic island, driving into a blaze of light and out again and seeing the Alfa straightening up ahead of me. The only way he could go now was through the open gates to the tarmac and I followed him and saw the guard drawing his gun as I passed him. He fired three steady shots and two of them went into the Alfa, smashing a rear light and picking some bits of glass off the broken rear window. The car swerved and corrected and swerved again and I hit the brakes and pulled out a bit towards the airport building to give him room if he was going to turn over.

I couldn't see what was happening but it looked as if the guard's second shot had hit Fogel but hadn't quite knocked him out. He'd got control again but was veering towards the Air France plane that was now being checked and refuelled in the parking bay. This could either be typical thinking on his part or pure chance and I couldn't make out which: if he kept on his present course he could drive under the tail of the aircraft with a few inches to spare and give himself some excellent visual and tactical cover and force anyone behind him to hold their fire.

I swung the wheel and brought the Fiat into a wide curve that would take me past the tail of of the aircraft and keep the Alfa in sight. The sirens were now a permanent background and I could see some lights flashing somewhere beyond the Air France plane and to the right. Fogel was still on course but there was something wrong with him because the Alfa swerved again and tried to correct and couldn't make it: on this course he wouldn't clear the tail of the plane with anything like the room he needed. Some of the maintenance crew had stopped work and I thought I saw one of them running for cover behind the fuel tanker.

Headlights blinded me for a moment and I hit the mirror. Either the police car or the emergency vehicle had been gaining on us and I pulled over slightly to the left again to give them a clear run if they wanted to go past: the Fiat was flat out and smelling hot and I wasn't certain I could keep up with the Alfa-Romeo if Fogel decided to head for the open runways; but this thought was academic because he swerved again and couldn't correct this time and hit the fuel tanker head-on and I was already putting the Fiat into a controlled slide when the whole thing went up and I was driving into a wall of flame.

She was practising arpeggios.

The heavy lace curtains were half drawn and the light in die room was muted, softening the reflections in the lid of the piano.

I watched her hands. She was only a child, and having trouble with her right thumb, passing it under with a little jerk and using her arm to support the movement. Several times she gave up and sat perfectly still, gazing in front of her with her pale ivory face composed and her eyes quiet. A painter would have run for his brushes, though I could believe chat if I hadn't been in the room she would have sworn aloud each tune she stopped playing.

I was putting her off, I said.

No, not at all.

We spoke Italian.

I was only here for a moment, I told her.

She didn't blame me, she said with a wistful smile.

Then she began again, trying to get her thumb ready so that it didn't jerk. I sat listening until Rumori came in.

He was dark and thin with eyes that moved restlessly in the shadows of 'his brows, as if he were all the time half-listening to some distant drummer, 'Mr Wexford,' he said.

We spoke English.

'Europress.'

He nodded absently, taking me into the hall, where an immense lantern hung from the ceiling, its coloured-glass pendants smouldering under a film of dust. The silk walls were torn here and there, and the plaster showed through: the Piazza Piccola was an area of crumbling villas where people tended to move in and out a lot as the rents went up; and the moving men were indifferent 'She's making progress,' I said.

'You think so?'

He stooped towards the door of the music room, listening.

'Perhaps not,' he said, and turned away. There was an appointment book on the gilt console and he ran a long delicate finger down the page.

'You were to come for a lesson,' he said, 'on the Ninth.'

The Seventh, surely.' I went to look at the book.

'In a series of twelve lessons,' he said reluctantly, 'I shall need you here at least twice a week.' He turned again and led me to the stairs and I followed him up.

Code introduction for the period Eighth to Fourteenth was any number at random, with an answering sequence of two below and three above, in this case 9-7-12. I'd only seen him once before, nearly four years ago, and remembered him as a larger man. I suppose you can't feel as mournful as that without losing weight.