‘It’s a minority–’
‘Is it?’ he cut in sharply. ‘Until they clean up their act this is one guy who’ll treat cops and criminals alike.’
Two of the policemen had entered the dining car and Graham watched them walk up to Sabrina, who had her back to them.
‘Sabrina Cassidy?’ the one wearing the sergeant’s insignia asked after comparing her face to the photocopy of the identikit in his hand.
‘Yes,’ she replied cautiously.
‘I have a warrant for your arrest,’ the sergeant said, pronouncing each word carefully in a thick Italian accent. ‘Would you come with us, please?’
‘So where’s the goddam warrant?’ Graham snapped.
‘Mike, please.’ She looked up at the sergeant. ‘On what charge?’
‘Murder.’ The sergeant withdrew the warrant from his tunic pocket and unfolded it. ‘The murder in Fribourg of Kurt Rauff. You’ll be deported back to Switzerland to face trial.’ He glanced at Graham. ‘Are you travelling with Miss Cassidy?’
Graham knew the drill; it was all typed out so neatly in the UNACO manual. The success of any given mission must be regarded as paramount regardless of the plight of any individual Strike Force operative during the course of that aforementioned mission.
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘We met on the train yesterday. Her berth’s next to mine.’
‘I would still like to see your passport,’ the sergeant said.
The sergeant accompanied Sabrina to her compartment and sent his deputy with Graham to fetch his passport.
Graham ferreted through his holdall and pulled his passport out from amongst his clothes.
The young policeman snatched it from him and opened it. He was satisfied the photograph was that of Graham. ‘Mi-kel Green,’ he said, reading the name in the passport.
‘Michael, for Christ’s sake!’ Graham snapped.
The policeman waved him aside and rifled through the contents of the two holdalls. He looked somewhat aggrieved at finding nothing more lethal than a razor. The Geiger-Müller counter was in the wardrobe and Graham had the key in his pocket. The policeman glanced at the wardrobe but didn’t bother investigating it any further. As Graham left his compartment he prayed there was no noticeable bulge from the holstered Beretta under his jacket. If they decided to frisk him–
Sabrina’s hands were manacled in front of her when Graham opened the door to her compartment. The sergeant was holding her Beretta in a sealed plastic bag. He took the passport from his deputy and flipped through it before pocketing it.
‘What are you doing?’ Graham demanded.
‘You’re free to travel inside Italy. We’ll decide when you can leave.’
‘And here I thought fascism died with Mussolini,’ Graham snarled. ‘I hope Miss Cassidy’s entitled to the customary phone call usually associated with the democratic judicial system?’
‘She’ll be allowed a phone call,’ the sergeant replied gruffly.
‘Is there anything you need?’ Graham asked her.
‘A hacksaw?’ she replied with a smile. ‘I’ll be okay. It’ll be sorted out soon enough when I contact the proper authorities.’
Graham took her trenchcoat from the overhead rack and draped it over her wrists to hide the handcuffs.
‘Thanks,’ she said softly.
‘Where will you be staying once you reach Rome?’ the sergeant asked.
Graham shrugged. ‘I haven’t made any definite plans. I’m not going to be accepted anywhere now without my passport.’
‘Report to any police station once you arrive in Rome. By then the Swiss police will know if they’ll need a statement from you or not. Your passport will be returned to you then.’
The young policeman gathered up Sabrina’s two holdalls and disappeared out into the corridor. The sergeant hooked his arm under hers and escorted her from the compartment.
Graham slumped on to the nearest couchette and rubbed his hands over his face.
Sabrina glanced over her shoulder as she alighted from the train. Hendrique was standing by one of the dining car windows, a satisfied expression on his face.
It was the first time Sabrina had ever been inside an interrogation room and what she found in Fribourg shattered the Hollywood image of four whitewashed walls with a table and two wooden chairs in the centre of a bare concrete floor and a single, naked bulb hanging from a piece of platted flex. The walls were cream-coloured and matched the beige carpet on which stood a table and two padded chairs. A fluorescent light shone overhead and the wall heater behind her made the room even warmer than her berth had been on the train.
She had refused to answer any of Frosser’s questions on the helicopter which had flown them back to Fribourg. Once there she had, on Philpott’s instructions (her one phone call), kept up her silence for fear of incriminating herself. Frosser had spent a frustrating thirty minutes with her in the interrogation room and her only response to his barrage of questions had been a quiet ‘ja’ at the outset when asked if she understood German. It turned out he spoke no English. She actually felt sorry for him.
He was obviously a good and dedicated policeman yet he was floundering in something that was completely over his head. He had enough evidence against her, in the form of the Beretta, but he was still struggling to establish a motive for the killing. It was also something of a test case for Philpott. It was the first time a UNACO operative had been held on a murder charge anywhere on the European continent.
An operative had been arrested in Morocco two years earlier for the rather clumsy killing of a Chinese double agent and after the negotiations had failed Strike Force Three, then still containing Rust, had carried out a daring midnight raid on the prison to release their colleague.
As demanded by Philpott, no Moroccan was hurt in the incident. She knew hers would be a very different case. It would be down to a mixture of tact and diplomacy while ensuring the confidentiality of UNACO at all times. It was in nobody’s interests to have her face a murder charge in the full glare of international publicity. If one journalist got the faintest whiff of UNACO’s official existence
The door opened and Frosser entered, his tie loose at his throat and his waistcoat unbuttoned under his open jacket. He tossed a dossier on to the table and sat down.
‘One of the bullets taken from Rauff’s body has been positively identified as having come from your gun. That makes a very strong case for the prosecution. You’re not doing yourself any favours by remaining silent.’
She stared at the wall opposite her.
He opened the dossier and tapped her passport. ‘Forensics have confirmed it’s a fake. Whoever made it for you is a very skilled craftsman. It also puts a new slant on the investigation. I don’t believe it was a crime of passion any more.’
She was relieved to hear it. Not only had she been appalled by the very idea of her agreeing to meet someone like Rauff at a deserted warehouse but some of Frosser’s insinuations and innuendoes had nearly provoked an angry outburst from her on more than one occasion.
‘The other bullets match the FN FAL found in the warehouse. It had been wiped clean.’
She was about to speak then snapped her mouth shut. Hendrique had thought of everything, even to the point of substituting one FN FAL for the other.
‘What were you going to say?’
She continued to stare at the wall.
‘I’ve been underestimating you all along. When I first saw you I automatically thought: beautiful woman, crime of passion. I even conned myself into believing those anonymous calls were part of some eternal triangle. Not any more. You, an American with a forged passport, and Rauff, a criminal connected with several of Europe’s most influential racketeers. I must have been blind. It wasn’t any crime of passion, it was a hit.’