Cell

They darted up. There was a wide terrace behind the tier of seats at the top. Three men were running towards them. She aimed the Kalashnikov, fired a long burst. They all dropped, didn't move. A shot fired from lower down whipped past just above Paula's shoulder. Beaurain fired. The killer sank out of sight. More shots from different levels below. Beaurain swung his gun at different angles, firing each time. No more shots. He knew he had hit all four.

She heard feet clumping fast towards them from behind along the top terrace. Swinging round, she let loose another burst. The shock of her hail of bullets lifted the killer off his feet. He collapsed backwards, lay sprawled on the terrace, still as death.

One more attacker stood on a seat below them, took careful aim. Beaurain, his revolver refilled with fresh ammo, fired once. In the moonlight he saw blood spurt from the man's chest, then he sank out of sight.

'How many more?' Paula wondered as she slid in the second magazine.

'Listen…'

The amphitheatre, now filled with more blood probably than in the days of gladiatorial combat, was still, very silent. A voice called out, echoing round the amphitheatre as though it spoke through a funnel created by holding up two hands to its face.

'Don't shoot. I am Aldo Petacci. Coming towards you along the top terrace. There are no more. I counted them coming in.'

He was lean-faced, cadaverous, as though he needed a good meal. Tall and thin, wearing a windcheater, he came towards them with both arms raised well above his head. They could see him clearly in the torch beam Beaurain shone on him while Paula aimed her Kalashnikov.

He stopped. His hands were shaking. He walked up to them very slowly. Waited a good six feet away.

'I am Aldo Petacci,' he repeated. 'Have you something to show me?'

Beaurain produced from his wallet the card Mario had given him way back in Milan, which seemed a thousand miles, a year away. Petacci examined the card, looked at the back where Mario had drawn a strange symbol, then smiled.

'I have a water bottle,' he continued in English. 'If you are thirsty…'

'I am parched,' said Paula. She knew it was tension. She was surprised when Petacci extracted a clean handkerchief from his pocket, removed the screw cap from the water bottle slung over his shoulder, carefully wiped the neck before handing it to her. So hygienic. She took three swallows, handed it to Beaurain who also quenched his thirst.

'Mr Petacci,' Paula remarked, 'your English is perfect. You could be an Englishman.'

'I am.' The lean face broke into a smile. 'Mario told me a Jules Beaurain and friend would be coming. So I waited to see if you could survive inside this place. Had I realized you were British, like myself, I'd have come in to give a hand.'

'So Petacci is an assumed name?'

'One of many. My Italian is good enough to pass for one of them in this country.'

'You have information for us,' Beaurain said tersely.

'The route they use when they've come in from the East is via Milan. They board an express for Paris. Then they take a train to the coast of Brittany, end up in St Malo. Guides wait for them, put them aboard fishing vessels which cross the Channel. A few miles from the coast of Britain they transfer to dinghies when the sea's calm. They land at a remote beach somewhere near Hastings. More guides are waiting with cars to take them on.'

'Take them on to where?' Beaurain snapped.

'That he didn't know. But he knew the spectacular target is London.'

'They sound well organized. Mind telling me how you came by this. priceless information? If it's true?'

Petacci smiled grimly. 'It is true. I persuaded an Afghan who spoke unnervingly good English.'

'Might I ask you how you persuaded an Afghan to tell you all this?'

'You may.' Petacci smiled. 'You just did. I used the one method which would make him talk. I threatened to cut off his beard. Without that he couldn't join his own people. They would know something had happened, stick a knife into him.'

'Have you any idea,' Beaurain persisted, 'how many of them have followed this route?'

'More than twenty. Their European base was Milan. Now it is somewhere in Britain. No idea where. But something very big is being planned. No point in telling Victor Warner, Minister for Home Security. Man's an idiot. Always gets it wrong…'

'What is your real name?' Beaurain persisted, still holding a wad of banknotes.

'Oh, for heaven's sake!' Paula protested.

Petacci smiled. 'Your Belgian friend is right to check me out. As far as he can.' He looked at Beaurain. 'George, Hugh, Alfred. Any name you like. None of them is right.'

'Don't answer me this question,' said Paula, 'and I will understand. But have you worked for some outfit in Britain?'

'Used to be with Special Branch. Since I'm a linguist they sent me over here to Europe. I made a lot of contacts. In those days I got fed up with Special Branch, a bunch of clods. So I decided to leave and go freelance over here. The money's much better.' He smiled again. 'But I do hear that since Buller took over as top dog they've cleaned up their act.'

'One more question,' Beaurain went on. Paula groaned to herself. 'Surely that Afghan you interrogated will tell his mob what he's told you.'

'Doubt it.' Petacci smiled again. 'After I'd bled him white I shot him in the head, dumped the corpse inside a deep ravine. And if you're returning home which route are you using?'

'Same one we used to get out here,' Paula told him. 'By express from Milan to Paris, then Eurostar…'

'No!' Petacci was emphatic, still smiling. 'They will be waiting for you at Centrale. Take a train from here back to Milan. Slip out by the side exit, grab a cab, go to the airport. Fly back to Heathrow. It's late but there's been another hold-up, so flights are all leaving very late. I can drive you to Verona station.' He checked his watch. 'You should catch an express from Venice soon.'

'Thank you for your help,' Beaurain said, now gracious. He handed Petacci an envelope stuffed with notes. 'Your fee.'

Petacci riffled through the banknotes, took half, handed the rest back to the Belgian. 'I still love England. Half will keep the wolf from the door.' He looked at Paula. 'You'll be appalled when you see my car but I've installed a brand new souped-up engine. It goes like the wind. Which is the way you'd better go to get out of Italy alive. Beaurain, one question you didn't ask.'

'Which was?'

'Who are the people I've been talking about. Miss Grey -and yourself – have had a tough time. Thought I'd better keep that bit till last. They're al-Qa'eda.'

18

Late on the afternoon of the day when Beaurain and Paula were travelling aboard the express to Verona, in London Tweed was surprised to be visited by an unexpected guest. It was murky beyond the windows in his office, another typical February day. The only other two people with him were Marler, who had just arrived, and Monica, who seemed to live behind her word processor.

'A visitor for you downstairs,' Monica announced with a wry smile. 'Jasper Bullet, that nice man from Special Branch.'

'He must have got back from Italy. Send him up.'

The bulky figure of Buller, wearing a raincoat – no camel-hair uniform this time – walked in. He smiled at Monica, then at Tweed as he sat down after removing the raincoat. His manner was so different from the Bull, as his staff had nicknamed him, Monica was taken aback.

'Would you like some coffee?' she suggested., 'A gallon of it would be welcome.' He swung round and again smiled.

Tweed studied him. Under his air of affability he thought he detected tension. Buller lit a cigarette after asking permission. He stared at Tweed over the flame of his lighter.

'The situation is probably desperate,' he said quietly.

'You found out something in Milan?'