Red Alert (19 page)

Kolchinsky promised to call Philpott later in the morning, then hung up and told the others about Alexander's escape.

'But how are you going to warn him without blowing his cover?' Paluzzi asked.

'I wish I knew.' Kolchinsky looked at Graham and Sabrina. 'Well, any suggestions?'

'Yeah,' Graham announced. 'It involves Sabrina.'

'I might have guessed,' she said, eyeing Graham suspiciously. 'Well, what wonderful scheme have you come up with this time?'

Graham held out his empty cup towards her. 'How about a refill before I start?'

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'That's where C.W.'s staying,' Graham said, pointing out the boarding house to Sabrina as they passed it in the car. He drove around the corner then pulled into the first available parking space he saw and killed the engine.

'This had better work,' she muttered, reaching down for her bag.

He looked at her and smiled to himself. She was dressed in a tight-fitting white blouse, a black leather miniskirt, black stockings and black shoes with three-inch stiletto heels. Her hair was loose on her shoulders and she had purposely overdone the make-up, `:.:-' marring her naturally fine features. It had to be realistic, much as she hated the idea of impersonating a prostitute.

'I'm glad to see you find it funny,' she said sharply, reaching behind her for the black leather jacket on the back seat.

'You look great,' he said with a grin.

'You would think so. You're a man.' She opened the door. 'I'll see you back at the hotel.'

'Sabrina?'

She looked back at him.

'Good luck.'

'Who needs luck dressed like this?'

'You've got a point there,' he replied, then started up the car and drove away.

She took a deep breath as she walked towards the boarding house, well aware of the attention she was attracting from passing male motorists. She ignored the wolf-whistles even though she knew a real prostitute would have gladly stopped to trade insults with her leering admirers. It would only have made her feel even cheaper than she already felt. She was the first to admit she enjoyed wearing eye-catching clothes, but she always dressed for herself, not for anyone else. With these clothes she felt as

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if she was dressed for every man in the city. She hated the feeling. It was degrading.

She reached the boarding house and climbed the steps to the open door leading into the foyer. The receptionist gave her an indifferent look as if she'd seen it all before and returned to her knitting. Sabrina climbed the stairs to the first floor where she paused to get her bearings from the directional board on the wall. A door opened and an elderly couple emerged from their room. They eyed her disapprovingly as they walked to the stairs. She waited until they had laboriously descended, then pushed a stick of gum into her mouth and made her way to Whitlock's room, where she rapped loudly on the door.

The door was opened. It was Young. What was he doing there? Had Paluzzi's men got the two room numbers mixed up?

'I look for Signore Anderson,' she said in a strong Italian accent. 'You Anderson?'

'Hell, no,' Young replied, then ran his eyes the length of her body and whistled softly to himself. 'But right now I wish I was. Anderson, you've got company.'

Whitlock's eyes widened in amazement when he saw Sabrina but he quickly checked himself and approached the door, waiting for her to give him a cue.

'You call agency and ask for girl who speak English,' she said, chewing methodically on the gum. 'But who your friend? You say nothing about friend on phone. It cost more.'

Young grinned at Whitlock. 'Well, I'll be damned. When did you reserve this little beauty?'

'Last night, after we got back. I fancied a bit of company but they told me none of the English-speaking girls were available until this morning.'

'Company, is that what you call it?' Young ran his

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fingers through her hair. 'You're something else, sweetheart.'

'You touch, you pay,' she said sharply.

'Some other time,' Young said with a sneer. He slapped Whitlock on the arm. 'I'll see you later.'

Whitlock waited until Young had disappeared down the stairs, then closed the door and crossed to the bedside table and switched on the radio. He found a-music channel and beckoned Sabrina towards him.

'Is the place wired?' she whispered, dropping the gum into the ashtray.

He shook his head. 'No, I checked it this morning. It's the walls. They're paper thin. If Young comes back I wouldn't put it past him to try and listen through the wall. The radio will drown out any noises we're supposed to be making.'

'That's a relief,' she said with a wry smile.

'Whose idea was it for you to dress up like this?'

'Mike's, naturally. I picked up the clothes on approval from a boutique half an hour ago. They're going straight back again this afternoon, believe me.' She sat down on a wooden chair and put her bag on the dressing-table behind her. 'It worked, though, just as he predicted it would. It was the one sure way of seeing you alone.'

'How long have I been under surveillance?'

She smiled. 'How did you know that?'

'How else would you have known I was in?'

'A couple of Fabio's men have had the boarding house under surveillance since the hit last night. I hear you've already changed getaway cars?'

'I did it first thing this morning. We couldn't be sure whether it was spotted or not last night.'

'Not according to the police report Fabio got through this morning. But whether the Red Brigades know is

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another matter altogether. Calvieri's being very secretive.'

'Wouldn't you if you were in his position?'

'I suppose so. That's one of the reasons I'm here.' She went on to explain first about Alexander's escape from custody, then about Calvieri's theory about the gunman's black accomplice.

'And Calvieri's sure to have a better description of me than the police if it came from that guard I knocked out,' he said once Sabrina had finished speaking.

They're looking for a local,' she reminded him.

'That's according to Calvieri. And now with Alexander on the loose I'm going to have to keep one eye open for him and the other open for some Red Brigades hit squad that could come knocking on my door at any moment. How the hell am I supposed to concentrate on Young with all this going on around me?'

She took a Browning Mkz from her bag and offered it to him. 'I know,' she said. 'You may need this.'

'And how would I explain it to Young? Alexander never uses guns. No, I daren't risk it.'

'You may have to use it on Young, especially if Calvieri's his next target.' She explained briefly what Conte had told her. 'We can't afford any slip-ups at this stage of the operation. And any attempt to hit Calvieri would certainly throw us off-balance. He's our only hope if we need to negotiate with Ubrino. We'd be lost without him. Take the gun, C.W. Please.'

Whitlock took the Browning from her and slipped it into the bedside table drawer. He glanced at the booby trapped watch but decided against telling her about it. The others had enough to worry about as it was. He would deal with it himself.

'I don't know exactly when we're leaving for Berne,' she said, breaking the sudden silence. 'Probably some time

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in the next few hours. There isn't much else we can do here. You're to liaise with Jacques from now on. He'll pass your reports on to Sergei.'

Whitlock nodded.

'I'd better be going,' she said, getting to her feet and smoothing down her miniskirt. 'I'm dying to get out of these clothes and scrape the make-up off my face. I don't know how these girls can put up with the discomfort every time they go out on the streets. It's revolting.'

'It's a living, I guess,' he replied and walked with her to the door. 'Thanks for coming over, Sabrina. I appreciate it.'

She hugged him. 'Take care of yourself.'

'And you,' he replied, then closed the door after her.

She hailed the first taxi she saw outside the boarding house. It stopped beside her. Had she been dressed differently the driver would probably have ignored her. Not that it bothered her. She was just glad to be heading back to the hotel.

Calvieri found a parking space on the busy Corso Vittorio Emanuele and walked the two blocks to La Sfera di Cristallo, a small, inexpensive restaurant which had been there for as long as he could remember. It had only ever had one owner, a fat, balding man now in his mid-sixties with a liking for the music of Berlioz.

He went inside. Nothing had changed since he had been there last, when he had been a Rome cell commander. And that included the music. He recognized the piece immediately: The Hungarian March' from The Damnation of Faust. He had heard it enough times in the past.

'A table for one?' a female voice inquired behind him.

He turned round and smiled at the teenage waitress.

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'Thank you, no. I'm looking for Signore Castellano. He's expecting me. The name's Calvieri.'

'I know who you are,' she said with a quick smile. 'I've seen you on television. What you say makes a lot of sense.'

'Thank you.'

'I'll call. . .' she trailed off when she caught sight of the eighteen-stone Castellano approaching them.

Tony,' Castellano called out in his gravelly voice and clasped Calvieri in a bear-like grip, kissing him on both cheeks. 'You're looking well, my friend.'

'And you're looking well fed,' Calvieri countered, patting Castellano's stomach.

Castellano chuckled but his face quickly became serious and he pressed his fist against his chest. 'My heart is heavy today, Tony. Signore Pisani was a great man. But I know you won't fail us as our new leader.'

'I'm just deputizing until the committee meets next week to vote for a new leader.'

'You're too modest, Tony. You can't lose. There's nobody to touch you.'

'I'm sure Zocchi would have something to say about that.'

'Ah, Zocchi. He's a pig. He's where he belongs. In jail.' Castellano put an arm around Calvieri's shoulders and led him through the packed restaurant to a door beside the swing doors leading into the kitchen. It was marked: direttore. 'Signore Bettinga's waiting for you in there. Can I get you something to eat? A small pizza napoletana? That was always your favourite.'

'I've eaten, thank you. But I wouldn't say no to one of your famous cappuccini.'

'Coming up,' Castellano replied and disappeared into the kitchen.

Calvieri entered the office and closed the door behind

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him. Luigi Bettinga sat behind Castellano's desk absently paging through a culinary magazine. He was a small, dapper man in his late thirties with beady eyes and prematurely grey hair. He always reminded Calvieri of an accountant. They had been close friends for years and Calvieri saw him as an integral part of the new committee under his leadership.

'Cwo, Tony,' Bettinga said and came round to the front of the desk to shake hands with Calvieri. 'I'm sorry I wasn't at the house this morning. The plane was delayed in Genoa. I must have got there just after you left.'

'You're here now, that's the main thing,' Calvieri said, helping himself to a cigarette from the pack on Castellano's desk. 'Your phone call intrigued me. Why did you want to meet me away from the house?'

'The house and the grounds are still crawling with police. I couldn't take the chance of letting them overhear what I'm going to tell you.'

'You've come up with something already, haven't you?'

Bettinga nodded. 'Yes, but I can hardly take the credit. I only took over from where you left off.'

'So what is it?'

There was a knock at the door and Castellano came in with the cappuccino. He put it on the table and withdrew discreetly, closing the door carefully behind him.

'Well?' Calvieri prompted.

'We know the identity of the gunman's accomplice.'

'That's excellent news.' Calvieri picked up the coffee cup and sat down in the leather armchair against the wall. 'Is he a local?'

Bettinga shook his head. 'The name on the passport is Raymond Anderson. It's sure to be false.'

'Where's he staying?'

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'A boarding house on the via Marche near the Villa Borghese.'

'What about the gunman?' Calvieri asked, wiping the froth from his moustache. 'Any clues to his identity?'

'Not yet. But we do have a description of him. We got it from the receptionist at the car hire company who told us about Anderson. Blond. Good-looking. American accent.'

'An American?' Calvieri mused thoughtfully.

'The boarding house is under surveillance. What do you want done?'

'The American must be taken alive. We have to find out who he's working for. Who knows, one of us could be his next target.'

'And Anderson?' 'He's not so important. It's the American I want.' Calvieri took another sip of the cappuccino. 'This has to be a low-key affair, Luigi. The police mustn't suspect anything. If they found out we had the American they would raid every safe house in the country looking for him. There's only one man I'd trust to handle this kind of job.'

'Escoletti?'

'Right. Giancarlo Escoletti. Get him on the next flight to Rome. We can't afford to waste any more time.'

'I'm way ahead of you, Tony. I've got Escoletti on standby at the Condotti Hotel. I sent for him as soon as I got your call last night.'

'Mister Efficiency himself. Next you'll be challenging me for the leadership.'

'It never crossed my mind, Tony,' Bettinga replied indignantly, then noticed the smile on Calvieri's face. 'Your little joke, right?'

Calvieri had always maintained that Bettinga would

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have made a perfect poker-faced comedian. He never smiled. Irony was totally lost on him.

'Call Escoletti and tell him to bring the American in.' Calvieri finished his cappuccino and got to his feet. 'I've got to get back to the hotel.'

'What did Ubrino steal from the plant? Signore Pisani wouldn't have asked you to help the authorities unless it was something pretty important.'

'I can't say anything at the moment, Luigi. I promise I'll give the committee a full report at next week's meeting.'

'Do you think there could be a connection between the breakin at the plant and the hit on Signore Pisani?'

'That's what I hope to find out from the American.'

Bettinga sat down behind the desk after Calvieri had left the room and dialled the number of the Condotti Hotel. He asked for Escoletti's room.

'Hello?' a voice answered.

'Escoletti?'

'Speaking.'

'It's Bettinga. I've spoken to Signore Calvieri. He wants the American brought in alive.'

'What about Anderson?'

'He's not important. You can kill him if you have to. You know where to take the American. Call me when it's done. And Escoletti, don't risk anything that could alert the authorities. Signore Calvieri was quite insistent about that.'

'Leave it to me. The authorities won't suspect a thing.'

Bettinga replaced the receiver, then took a couple of peppermints from the bowl on the table and thoughtfully put them into his mouth.

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'Where have you been?' Kolchinsky demanded onee he had let Calvieri into his room.

'I'm sure you know that already,' Calvieri replied. 'Paluzzi's men have been tailing me ever since I arrived in Rome. But to answer your question, I was called out unexpectedly to deal with some Red Brigades business.'

'We had an agreement, Calvieri. You work with us until the vial's been recovered. And that means staying on call, like the rest of us. So next time you get an unexpected call, send one of your associates to deal with the problem. Isn't that what leadership's all about? Delegation?'

Til bear it in mind, next time,' Calvieri retorted sarcastically.

'You do that. But right now you'd better start packing.' Kolchinsky handed Calvieri an airline ticket. 'Flight 340 to Berne. It leaves Rome at twelve-twenty. That's in less than two hours' time. And you will be on the plane with the rest of us, that I promise you.'

Escoletti parked the hired Fiat Regata a block away from the boarding house, took the black doctor's bag from the back seat and got out of the car, locking the door behind him.

He was a tall, distinguished-looking man in his late forties with thick black hair which was beginning to grey in streaks at the temples. He had once been a doctor but had been struck off the medical register for attempting to rape one of his patients. On his release from jail he had drifted into a life of crime and joined the Red Brigades in '84 after meeting Calvieri at a recruitment party in Milan. His expertise with firearms (he had been a crack shot since his early teens) together with his extensive medical knowledge had made him one of the most in-demand

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assassins in the organization. In '87 he had been promoted on to the committee as a senior security consultant, a position he still held, which entailed him advising the different cells on the feasibility of their intended terror campaigns across the country. He still worked in the field, but only on those assignments sanctioned at the highest level of the committee. He was known as 'the Specialist'. Just like a doctor.

He walked past the boarding house to the narrow alleyway which ran parallel to the side of the building. He picked his way with distaste through the overflowing dustbins and paused at the foot of the fire escape. Anderson and Yardley were in Rooms 15 and 16. First floor. That's what the receptionist told him when he had called the boarding house from the hotel. He climbed the metal stairs to the first floor and pulled open the door. The corridor was deserted. His plan was simple. He would immobilize both men with the dart gun in his overcoat pocket then withdraw back down the fire escape and make his way round to the reception where he would say that they had called him earlier complaining of upset stomachs. He would then go to their rooms, call the bogus ambulance which was on standby not far from the boarding house, and tell the receptionist that he had diagnosed food poisoning in both cases. They would then be taken away on stretchers, 'under sedation', and driven in the ambulance to a safe house on the outskirts of the city. The manager of the boarding house would play down the incident, desperate to avoid any adverse publicity, and by the time the authorities did latch on to the deception the committee would have the answers they wanted and the two men would be dead. He had used the plan in the past to kidnap targets selected by the committee. It had never failed.

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He stopped outside Anderson's room. Certainly the lesser of two evils. He curled a gloved hand around the dart gun in his pocket and rapped sharply on the door. Silence. He knocked on Yardley's door. Again, silence. He cursed under his breath. It was what he had been dreading. The boarding house had only been under surveillance for the past forty minutes. They must have gone out before that. On foot. The Volkswagen Jetta Anderson had hired that morning was still parked out in the street. They could ^te back at any time. He decided to check the rooms for any clues to their real identities. Not that he held out much hope. They were professionals. Well, the one calling himself Yardley certainly was. But he would talk, like the others before him. Escoletti had his methods. He was a doctor. A specialist.

He would search Anderson's room first. Then Yardley's room. Then he would wait.

Whitlock had left the boarding house soon after Sabrina. He had needed to clear his thoughts. He had gone for a walk, careful to keep easily within a mile radius of the bar at the end of the block where Young was drinking.