Red Alert (34 page)

'Commissioner Kuhlmann's a fine man,' the captain snapped. 'He did what he thought best under the circumstances.'

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'And look at the result.' Paluzzi walked away then looked back at the captain as he reached the top of the stairs. 'I wonder if you'll still be singing his praises when the bombs start exploding in your cities. The Red Brigades won't take this lying-down, you can be sure of that.'

Paluzzi descended the fire escape and emerged into the street, where he paused to look at the approaching ambulance.

Calvieri's death meant the Red Brigades would have to appoint a new leader. There was only one real candidate. Luigi Bettinga. The NOCS mole.

Paluzzi dug his hands into his pockets and walked back slowly to the courthouse.

Kolchinsky, Graham and Sabrina arrived back in Berne at two-thirty that afternoon. It was three o'clock before they reached the hotel. Philpott immediately called a meeting in his room. Whitlock recounted the morning's events to them.

'Where is Fabio?' Sabrina asked, once Whitlock had finished speaking.

'Packing,' Philpott answered. 'He's been recalled to Rome. It seems they want some answers as well.'

Graham poured himself a second cup of coffee, then looked across at Philpott who was seated by the window. 'What's going to happen to Wiseman? C.W. seems certain he was the phantom gunman at the courthouse this morning.'

'Nothing,' Philpott replied, then took a sip of coffee and dabbed his mouth with a paper napkin.

'Nothing?' Sabrina repeated incredulously.

'We know he was in Berne this morning but he does have an alibi for the time of the shooting.'

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'A prostitute he's paid to say she was with him,' she snorted.

'That may well be, but it's still an alibi. And we still don't have a single witness who could place him at the hotel this morning. Then there's the matter of the gun. We know he could have pulled the trigger with his middle finger, but try and explain that to a jury of housewives and accountants. They wouldn't buy it. The whole case would rest on circumstantial evidence. He'd never be convicted.'

'But C.W. can finger him as Young's paymaster,' Graham said. That's an accessory to murder charge at the very least.'

Philpott shook his head. 'And have it come out that we conspired with Scotland Yard's antiterrorist squad to kidnap, and that's what it was, a prisoner on his way to court? We'd both be crucified. And you can be sure they'd never agree to work with us again. We can't risk that kind of hostility. They're our main ally in the UK.1

Graham gave a resigned shrug. Philpott was right.

'They've got enough trouble as it is with Alexander still on the run. They don't need us to add to it, especially as it was our plan in the first place to swop C.W. for him. No, the whole messy business is best left well alone as far as I'm concerned.'

'What about Conte and the Rietler woman?' Graham asked. 'What's going to happen to them?'

'Conte will stand trial for his part in the breakin at the plant,' Philpott replied. 'He'll be put away for a long stretch, the authorities will see to that. I've spoken to Commissioner Kuhlmann about Ute Rietler. He's agreed not to press charges.' There was a knock at the door. Kolchinsky answered it.

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Paluzzi smiled at him. 'I've just come to say goodbye.'

'Come in,' Kolchinsky said, stepping aside.

'Are you off to face the music?' Whitlock said, looking up at him.

'Something like that. My plane leaves for Rome in an hour. I just came to say ciao.'

Philpott got to his feet and shook Paluzzi's hand. 'Thanks for all your help. We couldn't have done it without you and your men.'

'And we couldn't have done it without UNACO,' Paluzzi replied with a wry smile.

He shook hands with Kolchinsky and Whitlock, then turned to Graham and Sabrina and, putting his arms around their shoulders, led them to the door.

'You got a lift to the airport?' Graham asked.

'I've got the Audi. I have to leave it there anyway.' Paluzzi kissed Sabrina lightly on the cheek. 'Ciao, bella.'

She hugged him. 'Ciao, not addio.'

'That goes without saying.'

'What's the difference?' Graham asked.

'Addio is a final goodbye,' Paluzzi explained. 'Ciao is more like a farewell.'

'Then ciao,' Graham said, shaking Paluzzi's hand. 'You look me up next time you're in New York. I'll take you to a game. You'll never be the same again.'

'You're on,' Paluzzi replied, then took a small gift wrapped parcel from his jacket pocket and handed it to Graham.

'What's this?' Graham asked in disbelief.

'You can open it after I've gone. Ciao,' Paluzzi said, then waved at the others and left the room.

'Open it,' Sabrina said excitedly.

Graham tore off the paper. Sabrina burst out laughing.

'What is it?' Whitlock asked.

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Graham smiled. 'An Italian phrase book.'

'I hope you take the hint,' Philpott said, jabbing the stem of his pipe at Graham. 'It'll be something for you to do while you're on leave.'

'We're back on leave?' Graham said.

'As from tomorrow,' Philpott told him. 'Naturally I still want your individual case reports on my desk as soon as possible.'

'Naturally,' Graham muttered.

'I won't count those few days you had off last week. You'll get a full three weeks' leave this time.'

'Thank you, sir.'

Philpott wasn't sure whether he had heard a hint of sarcasm in Graham's voice. He let it pass. 'I've provisionally booked five seats on a flight back to JFK tonight. I presume the three of you will be flying back with us?'

'I'm certainly looking forward to going home,' Whitlock said, automatically thinking of Carmen.

Sabrina shot Graham a sly glance, then turned back to Philpott. 'We thought we'd stay on here for a few days. Do a bit of skiing, take in the sights, that sort of thing. Is that all right, sir?'

'I can cancel the bookings if that's what you mean.' Philpott lit his pipe and exhaled the smoke up towards the ceiling. 'Sergei, C.W., the shuttle leaves for Zurich at seven-thirty. Our flight to JFK leaves Zurich at ten. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a mound of paperwork to get through in the next couple of hours.'

They made for the door.

'Oh, Mike, Sabrina?' Philpott called out after them. He waited until Kolchinsky and Whitlock had left before taking a folder from his attache case. 'You've got a thirty six-hour clearance with the local police to find Tommaso

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Francia. And if you haven't managed to find him in that time, you're to pull out. 1 mean it. The first flight back to New York. Disregard my orders and you'll both be suspended. Do 1 make myself understood?'

They nodded.

'How did you know we were going after him, sir?' Sabrina asked.

'Instinct. And because he's after you.' Philpott took a sheet of paper from the folder and handed it to Sabrina. Those are his last known movements. He was staying in an apartment lent to him by an associate about half a mile from here but he managed to give our man the slip last night. You can be sure he's still in Berne, though. He wants you badly, that much is obvious.'

'If you knew he was on to me, sir, why didn't you tell me earlier?'

"I haven't had the chance. Our intelligence reports only came through yesterday morning.'

'Thank you, sir,' Sabrina said, holding up the sheet of paper.

'Thirty-six hours,' Philpott reminded them, then turned his attention to the folder in his lap. 'That's all,' he said without looking up.

Graham and Sabrina exchanged glances then left the room.

Tommaso Francia hadn't touched the glass of beer on the table in front of him. It had been there for the past twenty minutes. His eyes darted around the bar. It was small, dirty and almost empty. Two men played pool on the other side of the room. A couple of prostitutes sat at the counter. The barman looked suitably bored, occasionally glancing at the television screen at the end of the counter.

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It didn't hold his interest for more than a few seconds at a time.

Francia stubbed out his cigarette and immediately pushed a fresh one between his lips and lit it. He knew the authorities were on to him. Why else had the apartment been watched? Not that it bothered him. All he cared about was avenging Carlo's death. And he would, at any cost. Then he would kill himself. He would have nothing left to live for after that. A part of him had died when he had heard about Carlo's death on the mountain. He hadn't slept more than a few hours in the last couple of days. He was both mentally and physically drained but his obsession with revenge had kept him going. He had to kill the Carver woman. He owed it to Carlo. It would just be a question of choosing the right time.

'You got a light?'

He looked up sharply. It was one of the prostitutes. She was pretty but the excessive make-up marred her looks. He took a box of matches from his pocket and tossed them on to the table. She lit her cigarette and handed the matches back to him, her fingers lingering on the back of his hand. He pulled his hand away.

'You want to talk about it?' she asked, leaning closer to him. 'You've been sitting here for the last half an hour and you haven't even touched your beer. What's wrong?'

He clamped his hand around the glass. It shattered in his grip, splashing beer across the table. He opened his hand slowly and looked down at his palm. A four-inch shard of glass was embedded in his skin. H plucked it out and tossed it on to the table. He stood up, pocketed the matches, then wiped his bloodied hand on the back of his jeans and left the bar.

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FIFTEEN

Saturday

The weather didn't bode well for the weekend. Sombre, overcast skies and a chilly south-westerly blowing in off the Alps.

Not that it worried Francia. After putting a fresh bandage on his hand he dressed warmly, then packed the Mini-Uzi, four spare clips and the Pzzo automatic into his black holdall and left the apartment. He climbed behind the wheel of the hired Volkswagen Passat, started the engine, and drove to the Metropole Hotel. There was an empty parking space directly opposite the main entrance. It seemed like a good omen. He lit his first cigarette of the day and settled down to wait. He was in no rush.

Graham and Sabrina met for breakfast in his room at nine o'clock to run through the plan they had formulated the previous evening. Although they didn't know where Francia was hiding out, they were sure that he would be watching the hotel, waiting for an opportunity to strike. He had to be lured into the open. And Sabrina would be the bait. Their only concern was whether he would take the bait in the next twelve hours, which was all the time they had left before Philpott's deadline. It was time to put the plan into action.

Graham left first, using the fire escape to get to the

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car-park. He tugged his New York Yankees baseball cap over his head and put on a pair of sunglasses before crossing to the Volkswagen Jetta he had hired the previous evening. It was parked facing the road. He would be able to see if Sabrina was followed. He glanced at his watch. She would reach the street within a few minutes. He switched on the radio, found a music station, and began to tap his fingers to the beat on the steering wheel.

Sabrina slipped her Beretta into her shoulder holster, then pulled on a white down jacket and zipped it up to her neck. She flicked her ponytail outside the jacket, slipped on a pair of sunglasses and left the room, locking the door behind her. She took the lift to the foyer and told reception where she would be if anyone asked for her. She left her key on the counter and walked towards the entrance. A newspaper headline caught her eye as she passed the newsstand in the foyer. It was in Italian. vietri morto -- attacco cardiaco. She bought a copy and read the accompanying story: Alberto Vietri, Italy's Deputy Prime Minister, had been found dead at his home the previous evening. He had apparently died of a heart attack. Her suspicions were confirmed when it went on to say that his body had been found by a member of the elite Italian antiterrorist squad, the NOCS. She wondered what substance had been used to kill him. Probably hydrocyanic acid which, if fired directly into the face, causes paralysis of the heart; even the most experienced doctor would diagnose heart failure due to natural causes. The old tricks are still the best, she thought to herself, as she folded up the newspaper and left the building. She climbed behind the wheel of the hired Fiat Croma and drove away from the hotel.

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Francia started up the Passat and followed her. Even at a distance of some yards, Graham recognized Francia from the photograph lying on the passenger seat and reversed out of the parking space. He let several cars pass, then swung into Zeughausgasse, tailing the Passat at a safe distance. He turned the photograph over. On the back was the number of Sabrina's earphone. He called her and gave her the registration number of Francia's Passat.

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 Pzzo 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 Volkl ?9 SLs. At least she had good taste. He only used Volkl skis himself. She went straight to the ski lift, snapped on her skis, then climbed on to the pomma 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