Red Alert (20 page)

What if Calvieri was the next hit on Young's list? He would have to stop Young if he did get too close to Calvieri. What about the transmitter? He was suddenly glad of the Browning Sabrina had given to him. He had no qualms about killing Young, especially with the threat of the transmitter ever present in his mind. To hell with Philpott's orders in the dossier to bring Young in alive. He would do what he thought best under the circumstances. And that meant killing Young.

What about Alexander? He doubted he would have to deal with him. How could Alexander possibly trace him?

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Young wouldn't have used his real name in London. And there was no record of their departure at any of the airports. An American airbase would be the last place he would think of checking. And even if he did, how far would he get? No, Alexander didn't worry him.

What did worry him was a revenge attack by the Red Brigades. It had been a mistake to approach the guard so openly outside Pisani's house. But what choice did he have? He had to get Young out, if only because of the transmitter in his pocket. Had he driven the car up to the gate the guard would have opened fire. Not that he could say anything to Young about Sabrina's warning. His only hope was if Calvieri went to Switzerland. They would surely follow him. And that would take the heat off them, at least for the time being . . .

He finished his espresso at the small coffee bar, paid for it, and walked the short distance back to the boarding house. The receptionist handed him his room key, then returned to her knitting. He froze halfway up the stairs when he saw Escoletti using one of the skeleton keys to open Young's door. He pressed himself against the wall when Escoletti looked round furtively before picking up his black bag and disappearing into Young's room. Whitlock's mind was racing. Who was he? A detective? A Brigatistat Did he have any accomplices? Was the boarding house being watched? He looked down into the foyer. It was deserted. He retraced his steps down the stairs and went out into the street. He looked around slowly, careful not to arouse any suspicion. He couldn't see anything untoward. Not that he had any idea who, or what, he was looking for. He had to warn Young. He walked to the bar and pushed open the door. It was a small room with a dozen tables dotted about the floor and a counter running the length of one wall. A propeller fan

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F turned slowly overhead. The five customers all sat at the bar. Nobody spoke.

Young sat at the end of the counter, a bottle of ; Budweiser in front of him. He was about to take a mouth f. ful when he noticed Whitlock standing by the door. 'Well, f how was she?' he called out, then beckoned Whitlock 'f towards him. 'As good as she looked?' ).' 'I've got to talk to you,' Whitlock said, ignoring

Young's unpleasant leer.

; 'So talk,' Young replied, lifting the bottle to his lips.

'Not here,' Whitlock retorted. 'Over there, at one of j the tables.'

| Young frowned but followed Whitlock to the table \ furthest away from the counter. Whitlock sat facing the [, doorway, watching for the tail he was sure had followed I him to the bar. \. 'What is it?' Young demanded. \ Whitlock told Young what he had seen at the boarding

- house.

i. v 'And you've never seen this guy before?' Young asked.

I Whitlock shook his head. 'He looked like a cop.'

\ Young pushed the bottle away from him. 'We've got to get out of here, fast. If you were followed it'll only be

'. a matter of time before the reinforcements arrive. Wait

| here.'

J, 'Where are you going?'

I Young didn't answer the question and crossed to the counter where he spoke softly to the barman. He then took a wad of notes from his jacket pocket and handed them discreetly to the barman who pocketed them then indicated the door behind him with a vague flick of his hand. Young beckoned Whitlock over. 'What's going on?' Whitlock asked. 'I've just bought us an escape route,' Young replied,

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then pointed to the entrance. 'We can't get out that way. Not if it's being watched.'

The barman opened the hatch and Whitlock followed Young behind the counter. The barman closed it behind them then led them through the door into the kitchen. A woman looked up from the vegetables she was dicing, smiled fleetingly at the barman, then returned to her work. The barman opened the back door and Young peered out into the alleyway. He gestured for Whitlock to follow him, and the barman closed the door behind them.

'Which way?' Whitlock asked.

Young pointed left. 'According to the barman it comes out in the street at the back of the bar. We'll be able to get a taxi there.'

'How much money have you got on you?'

Young shrugged. 'About forty thousand lire.'

'I've got even less. How far's it going to get us? You'll have to call Wiseman and tell him what happened. We need more money.'

'I'll call him later. First we need to get to the Stazione Termini,' Young said as they reached the road. 'Flag down the first taxi you see.'

'Why are we going to the station?' Whitlock demanded. 'We need money before we can go anywhere.'

'That's why we're going to the station. General Wiseman left a holdall in one of the lockers for this kind of emergency. It contains money, new passports and a duplicate set of the weapons I've been using out here. Now let's find a taxi.'

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EIGHT

Reinhardt Kuhlmann had been the Swiss police commissioner for sixteen years. Now, aged sixty-one, he had vowed to make it his last year in office. It would be his third 'retirement' in seven years. On the two previous occasions he had been back behind his desk within months. But, much as he hated the idea, he knew he would have to bow out this time. The pressure from his family was getting to him, especially from his son and daughter in-law who were continually badgering him to spend more time at home with his wife. They didn't understand. Neither of them was connected with law enforcement. The force was in his blood. It had become an addictive drug over the past forty-two years and his greatest fear was what effect retirement would have on him.

He pushed any thoughts of his impending retirement from his mind. He would have plenty of time to reflect on i it in the years to come. He opened his briefcase and took f out a folder. There was only one word on it. UNACO. 1; Although he and Malcolm Philpott were old friends he I had never attempted to hide his dislike for the organiz I ation. The concept of an international strike force apt pealed to him, but that's where it ended. He argued that [. their use of blackmail, intimidation and violence, as well as their willingness to bend the law to suit their own needs, made them just like the criminals they had been set up to combat in the first place. But he knew his was a lone voice

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of protest. There were times when he thought he was something of an anachronism in the contemporary world of law enforcement. He hated guns, and he particularly hated the idea of gun-toting foreigners shooting up his country. It had happened before and he knew it would happen again. It was inevitable.

There was a knock at the door.

He answered it and immediately recognized Kolchinsky from the photograph in the folder lying on the table behind him. They shook hands and then Kuhlmann ushered him in.

'I feel as if I know you already,' Kolchinsky said with a smile. 'Malcolm's told me a lot about you.'

'Nothing bad, I hope. Won't you sit down?' Kuhlmann indicated the two chairs on either side of the window. 'I ordered some coffee when I knew you were on your way up. It should be here any time now. How was your flight?'

'Tedious, but aren't they all? When did you get in from Zurich?'

Kuhlmann sat down. 'A couple of hours ago.'

'And you've been fully briefed?'

Kuhlmann pointed to the folder. 'Your man, Jacques Rust, briefed me over breakfast this morning.'

There was another knock at the door. As Kuhlmann had predicted it was the room service waiter with the coffee. He took the tray from him and set it down on the table beside his chair.

'How do you take your coffee?'

'Milk, one sugar,' Kolchinsky replied.

'Tell me, how did Rust manage to get these rooms at such short notice?' Kuhlmann asked as he poured out the coffee. 'I'm told there isn't a spare hotel bed within a twenty-mile radius of the city for the duration of the summit. I could understand if he'd managed to get one

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room. But six? And all here at the Metropole. I'm intrigued.'

Kolchinsky refused to rise to the bait. Philpott had warned him about Kuhlmann's attitude towards UNACO. Kuhlmann was out to prove that Rust had used some underhand method to get the rooms. Kolchinsky was sure Rust had used some underhand method - how else would he have got them? But that's what made him such an invaluable asset to UNACO. He was like Philpott in that respect. They played on the indiscretions of others to get what they wanted. Kuhlmann would probably regard it as blackmail. Kolchinsky regarded it as simply good business sense.

'I haven't spoken to Jacques recently so I honestly couldn't tell you how he did it,' Kolchinsky replied truthfully, taking the cup and saucer from Kuhlmann and sitting back in his chair. 'Did Jacques give you a photograph of Ubrino to circulate among your men?'

Kuhlmann nodded. 'It's been faxed through to every police station in the country. I've got teams checking all the hotels, boarding houses and chalets in and around the Berne area. If he's here, we'll find him.'

'He is a master of disguise,' Kolchinsky reminded him.

'Which is why a police artist put the photograph through his computer and came up with a series of different disguises. Seven possibilities in all. They're all being used in the search. We may be a small nation, Mr , Kolchinsky, but we do have an effective police force. I see to that.'

'It was an observation, not a criticism.'

'I resent UNACO being here, Mr Kolchinsky. But I especially resent you bringing scum like Calvieri into the country. We can catch Ubrino ourselves. I have some of Europe's finest policemen on the force. Men who use

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brains, not guns, to bring criminals to justice. We don't need you here.'

'So expel us,' Kolchinsky challenged.

'If it were up to me none of you would have got permission to land here in the first place. Unfortunately my Government views the situation differently.'

'Malcolm told me you disliked UNACO. I never realized how much until now.'

'I make no secret of my opposition to UNACO. It's become too powerful for its own good in the last few years. Your field operatives can literally get away with murder because they know they're immune from prosecution. How can charges be brought against someone working for an organization that doesn't officially exist? UNACO's a law unto itself. That's something I can't accept.' Kolchinsky picked up the folder. 'Don't get me wrong, though. You'll have my full cooperation while you're here in Switzerland. I never allow my personal feelings to interfere with my work. It would amount to professional suicide if I did.'

Professional suicide. Kolchinsky knew all about that. He had spent sixteen years as a military attache in the West for daring to criticize the draconian methods of the KGB. The irony was that had he kept his mouth shut, like many of his liberal colleagues, he would almost certainly now be a member of the Politburo, or at least a Directorate head in the KGB, heralding in the new era of Soviet politics. But he had done what he had thought right at the time and now he could live with a clear conscience. He had no regrets. Well, almost none . . .

There was a knock at the door.

Kuhlmann answered it. Paluzzi introduced himself and followed the police commissioner into the room.

'Sorry I'm a bit late,' Paluzzi said, giving Kolchinsky

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an apologetic smile. 'I'd barely got to my room when the phone rang. It was Angelo.' He glanced at Kuhlmann. 'My adjutant, Lieutenant Angelo Marco.'

'Has he come up with something?' Kolchinsky asked.

'Whitlock and Young have disappeared.'

'Disappeared?' Kolchinsky repeated anxiously.

'The Red Brigades are on to them. They obviously realized this and fled the boarding house. They left everything behind. We don't know where they are at the moment.'

'So they could conceivably be in the hands of the Red Brigades?'

'No, they're not,' Paluzzi said, trying to reassure Kolchinsky. 'The Red Brigades have sent their most experienced assassin after them. His name's Giancarlo Escoletti. We bugged his hotel room while he was at the boarding house waiting for them to return. When they didn't show he went back to the hotel and called Luigi Bettinga, Calvieri's new right-hand man, and told him he'd lost them. We're watching his every move. If he does manage to track them down we'll pull him in before he can do anything. He's the least of our worries. It's Young that concerns me. If Calvieri is his next hit it won't be very difficult for Young to trace him to Switzerland. What if they're already here? All Young needs is a sniper rifle and he'll be spoilt for choice when it comes to selecting a time and place for the hit.'

'Have you got photographs of Whitlock and this man Young?' Kuhlmann asked.

'I've got a photograph of Young in the case dossier in my room,' Kolchinsky said. 'It's slightly blurred but it's the only known one on file. I don't have a photo of C.W. with me. There are some on file in New York.'

'Have one faxed through to our Zurich headquarters, then we can circulate them both to all the airports and

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stations. If they've passed through any of them in the last few hours, we'll know about it.'

'I'll call Jacques right away. May I use your phone?'

'Please do,' Kuhlmann replied.

Kolchinsky explained the situation to Rust who promised to contact Philpott immediately and have a photograph of Whitlock faxed through to Zurich. Kolchinsky had barely hung up when the telephone rang.

'Excuse me,' Kuhlmann said as he answered it. After listening for a few moments he put his hand over the mouthpiece. 'Ubrino's been found.'

Kolchinsky and Paluzzi exchanged excited glances.

Kuhlmann spoke for a minute more and then replaced the receiver. 'An estate agent recognized him from one of the photographs. He came here a month ago and booked a chalet on the outskirts of the city. He picked up the keys from the estate agent on Monday.'

'The son-of-a-bitch,' Paluzzi hissed. 'He's been here all the time. We've been chasing shadows for the past three days.'

'Is the chalet being watched?' Kolchinsky asked.

Kuhlmann nodded. 'There's a couple of plainclothes men up there now. There's no sign of Ubrino but they've reported seeing smoke coming from the chimney. So it's fair to assume he's home.'

'Fabio, call Michael and Sabrina. Tell them to meet us here.'

'And Calvieri?' Paluzzi asked, his hand hovering over the receiver.

'And Calvieri,' Kolchinsky said with a sigh.

The briefing was short. Paluzzi would take Graham and Sabrina to within five hundred yards of the chalet, where

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they would rendezvous with the two policemen. Then, once they had seen the chalet for themselves, they would decide on the best way to approach Ubrino and recover the vial intact.

'Can you see anything?' Paluzzi asked as the Westland Scout passed over the rendezvous area.

'Not a damn thing,' Graham muttered, then glanced over his shoulder at Sabrina. 'You've got the binoculars. Any sign of those cops?'

'Not yet,' she replied without lowering the binoculars. She continued to scan the desolate white slopes beneath them, hoping to catch a glimpse of movement. Nothing. Not even a deer bounding through the snow in search of shelter from the deafening whirr of the helicopter's rotors. Was it such godforsaken territory? Ubrino had certainly chosen his hideout well.

A sudden movement caught her eye and she swung the binoculars on to the cluster of pine trees to her left. Had she been wrong? Then she saw it again, the glint of sun on a ski pole. She tapped Paluzzi on the shoulder and pointed in the direction of the trees. A figure in a white camouflage overall emerged from the trees and waved at the helicopter.

'I'll take the helicopter down,' Paluzzi said, his eyes focused on the altimeter. 'I daren't land it, though. I don't know the depth of the snow. Get ready, both of you. I'll give you the signal to deplane.'

Graham and Sabrina were wearing white Goretex overalls and white ski boots lent to them by the local police. The sunglasses were their own. They clambered into the back of the helicopter and retrieved their ski poles and Volkl ?99 skis from the rack against the side of the cabin.