Cell (16 page)

It was probably the ferocity in her voice which frightened
the driver. He dropped the gun. She kicked it under the
car. Beaurain leaned inside the car, struck the passen
ger savagely across the forehead. He slumped down in
his seat.

'Let's go,' Beaurain whispered as he hit the driver such a blow on the jaw the man sagged to the pavement.

Bending down, he hoisted the unconscious driver up by
the armpits, threw him into the back of the car, slammed the door shut.

'You're a major asset,' he said as he grasped Paula by the
arm and hustled her out of the square. 'We can just catch
that tram, I hope . . .'

They were inside as the automatic doors closed behind
them and the almost empty tram began moving. With both their weapons already bolstered, they sank into a couple of
seats together.

Paula wiped her clammy hands on her trousers. She had
removed her gloves when Beaurain had warned her as they
left Centrale. Despite the bitter cold which hit them on
leaving the express she'd taken that precaution in case she
had to use her weapon. At least it was warm inside the
trundling tram. She rubbed her hands together.

'You know something?' she remarked. 'No one took any notice of what happened. Maybe it's an everyday occurrence in Milan. You know where we're going?'

'Yes. I know Milan well. This tram stops at a point near
where we're going. Are you OK?'

'Never felt better,' she fibbed. 'Does our friend know we
are coming?'

'You heard me calling someone on my mobile as we got
near Milan. He knows the time that express arrives. And
he's never been inside the Hassler in his life - equivalent
to the Ritz in London.'

'Any idea who those two men were?'

'None at all. But I don't think they were interested in looking after our health . . .'

She peered out of the windows as the tram stopped.
This street was lined on both sides with old four- and
five-storey buildings. The ground floors were mostly small
shops - bakeries, grocers, bookshops and the inevitable supermarket. The tram moved off again. Passengers had
alighted, no one had come aboard. They were now the only
travellers. Peering out, Paula watched women shrouded in headscarves, heads bent against the bitter wind, clutching
plastic bags as they hurried along. The sun had vanished and it was getting dark.

'Next stop we get off,' Beaurain said. 'It's a bit of a
walk but we can survey where we're going. Which is rather
necessary after our reception at Centrale . . .'

When they got off after Beaurain had paid the fares Paula
wrapped her woollen scarf round her head. Even so, the
biting wind chilled her face. They walked along in silence
as the tram passed them and Beaurain kept glancing back over his shoulder . . .

'Expecting more trouble?' Paula enquired.

'Someone may have used his mobile to warn that we have
arrived.'

'But both those thugs in the limo were knocked out,' she
protested.

'You're forgetting the man on the express — Coiffeured
Hair as you called him. He probably saw what happened and
has again phoned ahead. There's the building, Murano's
HQ and home.'

There were fewer shops, few pedestrians, but still plenty
of traffic. Beaurain had nodded towards a strange building
which jutted out into the street, narrowing it. Constructed
of large blocks of grey stone, it had a weird eyebrow window
on the first floor, an entrance below of two heavy wooden
doors. Reaching it, Beaurain pressed the bell alongside a speaker phone. Before he could say anything an accented
voice spoke in English.

'Saw you come, my dear Jules. Push the right-hand door,
when it opens walk in and up the stairs. Door closes
automatically behind you . . .'

'It's very quiet round here,' Paula remarked.

'Too quiet,' Beaurain snapped.

Beaurain led the way across a small stone-paved entrance hall. He began to climb a spiral stone staircase in a corner, its sides solid stone. It curved all the way to the top, where someone opened a door. They entered a large stone-paved
room with a low ceiling, so low Beaurain had to dip his
head. He gestured to Paula, made an introduction to the
sole occupant of the room.

Mario Murano was short and stocky. His hair was brown
and short, his plump face wreathed in a welcoming smile.
He reminded Paula of a teddy bear as he took her hand in
both of his. He was garbed in a sleeveless leather jacket,
leather trousers, suede shoes.

'You bring me a lovely present,' he gurgled. 'This beauti
ful young lady, who wears an air of competence, knows what
she is doing. A professional. I sense it.'

His English was fluent and with barely a trace of an Italian
accent. Paula immediately felt at home in this strange room.
She smiled back at him.

'You exaggerate, Signer Murano . . .'

'Mario! Please. I am Mario to my friends. I can tell you are
already a good friend. Now, you find my
home interesting, I
can tell. Explore! Please do while I am pouring the wine.'

'Thank you, Mario. Yes, I do find your home interesting.
It is so unusual . . .'

Her eyes had scanned the room swiftly. A quick scan
to avoid giving offence. But Mario had noticed. She went over to the only window in the room, the eyebrow-shaped
window she had noticed when they were walking along
the street.

To examine it she had to crouch. Its base line was
flush with the floor. At either end it curved upwards in
an artistic arch. From the tip of the arch to the base
it was no more than three feet high. She was looking
down the street and pavement they had walked along. She
stood up.

'So this is how you spotted that we were coming.'

'Yes, indeed.' Mario chuckled. 'Now come and join your
friend, Jules, who has already made himself comfortable.
But only when you have completed your exploration. I can
tell it interests you, my rabbit's warren.'

Beaurain had quickly seated himself in one of the high-backed chairs with armrests. The chairs were covered with
old and tasteful tapestry, placed round a heavy and large
antique table. Paula continued her exploration, while Jules
sat with an amused smile.

In three of the stone walls facing the window were
alcoves which began at knee-height above the floor. She
looked at several of the leather-bound books perched spine
to spine. They covered a variety of subjects in different
languages, including a number on espionage going back
to the foundation of the British Secret Service in the time of Queen Elizabeth I.

'The wine is Chianti,' Mario told her. 'If you don't like
it, the pot contains freshly made coffee. Also a carafe of
water. Take your choice.'

'Your English is so perfect,' she remarked, sipping the
wine.

'Ah! You see when I was young I spent three years in
London working in a fish and chip shop. They don't make
such wonderful chips in Italy! Your health, my dear.'

'Mario, we are short of time,' Beaurain broke in with a
hint of impatience. 'I need to know what happens to all the
money sent to you by that scoundrelly Belgian banker.'

'I take a small commission and then transmit the bulk electronically to Aruba in the Dutch Antilles.'

'South America now,' Paula commented.

'That's tough,' Beaurain commented. 'Persuading a banker on that island is easier than breaking into Fort
Knox, but not much easier.'

'From there it is transmitted to a secret destination,'
Mario said with a smile. 'Aruba once made a mistake
and I was sent a copy of the onward transmission. It
then goes to a Canadian bank in the Bahamas. I have the
details.'

'Fancy a trip to the Bahamas?' Beaurain asked Paula with
a touch of mockery.

Mario was fiddling inside a fat wallet he had produced
from his jacket. He extracted a sheet of folded paper, unfolded it, handed it to Beaurain. He chuckled again.

'There are people - nasty people - who would pay a
fortune for that information.' He waved a hand. 'No, Jules,
I do not want a penny.'

'Ed Pendleton,' Beaurain said, reading from the paper.
'I do know the gentleman. He's their top director.'

'You see!' Mario waved his arms excitedly as he looked at Paula. 'Jules knows the whole world. An amazing man.'

'He doesn't know the route used by al-Qa'eda to send their murderous killers to Britain,' she observed.

The whole atmosphere changed. Mario was silent. His
face now had a grave, almost nervous expression. Paula had
drunk her glass of wine and, smiling at Mario, she poured
herself coffee from the elegant pot after removing its cover.
She drank some cautiously, still smiling at Mario to cheer
him up. The coffee was very strong.

'If the reply is going to put you in danger we don't want
to hear it,' she said, careful not to look at Beaurain.

'Danger.' Mario repeated the word solemnly. 'I should warn you there is danger everywhere in Milan. You must
be very careful . . .'

A phone started ringing. Mario picked up a mobile from a stool by his side. He began talking rapidly in Italian. His
whole personality had changed. His rounded jaw tightened,
his eyes were half-closed, his voice rasping. When he put
the mobile back on the stool he looked grim.

'A problem?' Beaurain enquired quietly.

'I must apologize,' Mario said, turning to Paula, handing
her a plate of biscuits. She picked one up, slipped it into her
mouth. It tasted good. 'I have to go and meet someone,' Mario continued, standing up. 'It should not take long so you wait until I return.' He looked at Beaurain. 'In case I
do not come back . . .' Paula's stomach nerves rattled, 'you have to go to Verona to meet the man who can tell you the
route these evil men use to reach their base in Britain. He
is Aldo Petacci. Shall I spell it? No, you have got it. Aldo
will tell you. I do not know that information.' Picking up
the mobile, he pressed numbers. Again he spoke in rapid Italian, the gist of which Paula, with her limited Italian,
could not catch.

Beaurain looked across at Paula. His expression was as
grim as Mario's. He eased himself back in his chair, his right
hand slipping under his coat. She knew he was checking on
his revolver. Mario put down the mobile.

'I have spoken to Aldo. He will meet both of you at
Verona tomorrow evening at 6 p.m. exactly. Inside the amphitheatre. You know it, Jules?'