“Well, I’d appreciate it if you kept the noise down,” the manager said, glancing in Mullen’s direction. “There are other guests to consider as well.”
“We will,” Mullen promised him.
Fiona closed the door and looked around at Mullen. “Wake him up and get him out of here.”
Mullen filled a plastic cup with water from the sink in the corner of the room and splashed it over Kerrigan’s face. It took another minute before Kerrigan was finally able to sit up. A discolored bruise had already formed on his cheek where Fiona had caught him with her elbow.
“Let’s go,” Mullen said, reaching out a hand to help Kerrigan to his feet.
“I can manage,” Kerrigan snapped, but when he tried to get up a stabbing pain shot through his groin. He inhaled sharply then slowly got to his feet and moved gingerly to the door. He paused, his fingers curled around the handle, and looked around at Fiona. “This isn’t over, not by a long way.”
“It is for tonight,” she replied. “Now get out!”
She locked the door behind the two men then took the Heckler & Koch from her holdall. She paused briefly in thought. Kerrigan was a professional, surely he wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize the operation? But could she be so certain? Her decision made, she put the automatic under the pillow. It made her feel more secure. She couldn’t afford to take any chances …
Paluzzi parked the car out of sight of the dockyard. He took the Beretta from the glove compartment, pushed it into his holster, then picked up the black holdall from the passenger seat and got out of the car. He glanced at his luminous watch. Eleven seventeen p.m. He was in good time. He avoided the main entrance, which was patrolled by an armed guard, and followed the perimeter fence until he reached a point opposite the back of the warehouse on Wharf Three. He opened the holdall and removed a pair of wire-cutters. It only took him a few seconds to cut a hole in the fence big enough for him to slip through. He left the wire-cutters in a clump of overgrown weeds by the fence then eased the Beretta from his shoulder holster and moved cautiously toward the warehouse. A car turned into the road behind him and he instinctively ducked down as it drove past. He waited until the engine had faded into the distance then got to his feet again and covered the remaining ten yards to the back of the warehouse. He peered around the side of the wall. The fishing trawler which had been berthed at the wharf that afternoon was gone. He kept close to the wall as he made his way slowly toward the front of the warehouse. A single security light above the closed warehouse doors illuminated the deserted loading bay. He looked at his watch again. Eleven twenty-two. Well, all he could do was wait.
He was about to return to the rear of the warehouse when he heard a rustling sound somewhere behind him. He turned sharply, Beretta extended, but he couldn’t see anything in the darkness. Slowly he edged his way back along the wall. He reached the end of the wall and pivoted around, fanning the area with the Beretta. Nothing. Nerves. He cursed himself silently. Get a hold of yourself. He put the holdall down. Then he heard another noise, this time a branch snapping underfoot. He swung the Beretta toward the bushes on his right.
“Come out slowly,” he commanded. “I’m armed, so don’t try anything foolish.”
A figure emerged from the bushes. The face was hidden in the shadows. But Paluzzi recognized the physique straight away. Jess Killen.
“Good evening,” Killen said, stepping from the shadows. He smiled faintly, seemingly unaffected by the Beretta aimed at his chest. “Don’t tell me, you were out taking a walk and you lost your way.”
“Take your hands out of your pockets, very slowly, and place them on your head. Do it now!”
Killen shrugged then eased his gloved hands out of his pockets and held them up to show Paluzzi he wasn’t armed. “Now it’s your turn. If you look behind you, very slowly, you’ll see that Tom and Randy are both armed. You remember Tom and Randy, don’t you?”
Paluzzi’s stomach was churning as he slowly looked over his shoulder. Tom and Randy were standing twenty yards behind him, both armed with Mini-Uzis. Like Killen, both men were wearing leather gloves.
“If you fancy your chances, you could try and take them out on the turn,” Killen told him. “If not, I’d be obliged if you’d throw down the gun.”
Paluzzi knew he could take out one of them on the turn. But both? Armed with Mini-Uzis, each with a twenty-round magazine? He’d have to be fast. And suicidal. He tossed the Beretta onto the ground.
“Wise move,” Killen said. “If you’d like to follow Randy, he’ll show you to the warehouse. We can talk in there.”
Randy stepped back and gestured with the Mini-Uzi for Paluzzi to move ahead of him. Paluzzi did as he was instructed. Tom retrieved the holdall and the Beretta, handed them to Killen, then went ahead to open the warehouse doors. Paluzzi was ushered into the dimly lit warehouse and Randy gestured to the wooden chair in the middle of the concrete floor. Paluzzi sat down, his eyes constantly flickering between Tom and Randy. Both Mini-Uzis were trained on him. Killen appeared, tossed the holdall onto the floor, then closed the door behind him. He took a packet of cigarettes from his inside pocket, pushed one between his lips, and lit it.
“Cigarette?” he said, offering the packet to Paluzzi.
Paluzzi remained silent.
Killen shrugged and tossed the packet to Randy who helped himself to a cigarette. “So, your name’s Pasconi. Franco Pasconi, a freelance reporter for La Repubblica. Correct?”
Paluzzi still said nothing.
Tom stepped forward to strike him with the Mini-Uzi but Killen waved him away. “Well, I know that already. I had you checked out earlier this afternoon. But what troubles me is why a reporter would be carrying this.” He held up the Beretta. “Hardly standard issue for a foreign correspondent, is it?”
“I’d say that depends on the story you’re running,” Paluzzi replied coldly.
“The story? Of course. I believe Billy was going to tell you everything for five grand. A bargain at the price. But then you were dealing with Billy. I presume that’s the money in there.” Killen gestured to the holdall. “Well, Billy’s already here but he won’t be telling you about the Ventura.”
“Who’s Billy?” Paluzzi said, holding Killen’s stare.
Killen turned the Beretta around thoughtfully in his hands. “Tell me, how did you know about Rory Milne?”
Paluzzi was silent.
“Do you have a contact in Noraid?” Killen prompted.
Silence.
“I don’t particularly want to let Tom and Randy work you over. I’ve seen them do it before. It’s certainly not for the faint-hearted.” Killen glanced at Tom and Randy. “Get Billy.”
The two men went to a small office at the far end of the warehouse. When they re-emerged they were half-carrying, half-dragging the unconscious Billy between them. His hands had been tied behind his back. They dumped Billy onto the floor in front of Paluzzi. Killen crouched down, grabbed Billy’s hair, and jerked his head back. Paluzzi winced at the sight of Billy’s face. His nose had been broken, several of his teeth had been knocked out and he could make out several discolored bruises under the mask of blood. Paluzzi couldn’t look at him for more than a few seconds.
“It’s not a pleasant sight, is it?” Killen removed a bloodstained handkerchief from one of Billy’s pockets and opened it. Paluzzi recoiled in horror. Inside was a tongue. “If you have a loose tooth, you take it out. So surely the same principle should apply to a loose tongue?”
Paluzzi clasped his hands over his face as he struggled not to throw up. When he was finally able to look up again Killen had stuffed the handkerchief back into Billy’s pocket.