She let the hem drop and Kyle, his face twisted in pain, manacled her hands behind her back then shoved her roughly on to the couchette beside Graham.
‘How did you know I was in your compartment?’ she asked.
Werner pushed aside his jacket to reveal a miniature transmitter attached to his belt. ‘It picks up a signal the moment the case is opened.’
‘So you left the case unlocked on purpose?’
‘That was the bait, although I was certainly surprised to see you back again. I thought another agent would have been sent out to replace you but I seem to have underestimated UNACO’s powers of persuasion.’
The surprise was mirrored in her eyes.
‘Oh yes, we know who you’re working for,’ Werner said triumphantly. ‘It took a while though to find out. UNACO isn’t exactly a household name.’
‘Why are you doing this, Stefan? You’ve got everything. Money, respect, and you own one of the most successful companies in Europe. And what about all those millions of underprivileged children who’ve benefited from your charitable foundations? I remember the documentary NBC did on you last year. Those African kids looked upon you as some kind of Messiah sent to give them hope for the future. I felt honoured to have known you. Was it all just a sham, the perfect cover? Who would suspect one of the world’s leading philanthropists of being an arms dealer?’
‘An arms dealer?’ Werner said with a chuckle. ‘Is that what UNACO thinks I am?’ His face became serious. ‘Those foundations did start out as a cover but now they’ve become something of an obsession. I feel as though I’m doing something constructive while I remain here in the West.’
‘You’re talking too much,’ Hendrique snapped.
Werner gave a resigned shrug. ‘It’ll come out soon enough.’
She looked from Hendrique to Werner. ‘You’re KGB?’
‘Correct.’ Werner patted the attaché case. ‘I was hoping I wouldn’t have to resort to this but you’ve left me with no choice. You know what’s inside the case, only you don’t know what’s inside the metal box. Let me show you.’
He punched the four digits on the keyboard and they appeared on the narrow screen above it. 1–9–6–7. The box sprung open. Inside was a radio transmitter, no bigger than a cigarette lighter, on a rolled gold chain. He put the attaché case to one side and leaned forward, the transmitter resting in his cupped hand.
‘I’m not going to insult your intelligence by beating about the bush. There are six metal kegs in the crate, as you no doubt guessed all along. Five of them contain plutonium. The sixth contains an explosive device. I couldn’t tell you how powerful it is because I haven’t actually seen it. All the kegs are the same weight so none of us knows which one contains the explosives. It was put together in a vacuum so it’s perfectly safe as long as it remains sealed. The slightest breath of air will trigger the mechanism inside.’ He lifted back the transmitter’s cap to reveal a small red button. ‘This is the only other way the device can be triggered. Press this button and–’ He threw up his hands. ‘You have a nuclear explosion to rival Nagasaki, only this time right in the heart of Europe. The fallout would have catastrophic results for generations to come.’
She stared at him in horror. ‘And you have the audacity to talk about doing something constructive by helping the underprivileged children?’
There was genuine hurt in his eyes. ‘Do you really think I’d want you to press the button, knowing the consequences? Do you? We wouldn’t gain anything by destroying the plutonium after all the trouble we’ve gone to in accruing it. We want to prevent a catastrophe as much as you do. After all, none of us would survive it.’
‘So what’s the price?’
‘All we ask is that we’re given a safe passage to our ultimate destination.’
‘And it’s up to me to pass on this demand?’
‘It’s a request, not a demand.’
‘And if you’re challenged you’ll sacrifice the lot?’
‘If I was cornered and saw no way out, yes.’ He closed the cap and slipped the chain around his neck, tucking the transmitter under his shirt. ‘Hypodermic?’
Hendrique fetched it from the adjoining compartment and handed it to Werner who rolled up Sabrina’s sleeve, found a vein in the crook of her arm, and gently inserted the needle into her flesh. He then eased the wimple from her head, allowing her blonde hair to fall on to her shoulders.
‘So angelic, so beautiful,’ he said wistfully, then put his hand against her cheek.
She jerked her head away.
‘Goodbye, my dear Sabrina.’
‘Until the next time,’ she rejoined, her already beginning to slur.
‘Stay with them,’ Hendrique told Kyle.
She shook her head, desperately trying to stave off the drowsiness, but her eyelids were becoming increasingly heavy. The compartment meshed into a kaleidoscope of hazy colours before she slumped sideways against Graham.
Ten
Whitlock could sum up his mood in one word. Despondent. What had he achieved in his three days in Mainz? His cover had been blown at the outset by a beautiful woman who just happened to have dated one of the New York Times’s leading showbiz columnists (a fact corroborated by UNACO); he had nearly been run over by a Mercedes, the driver of which had subsequently drowned (or so he assumed); and although he tended to agree with Karen that Leitzig was involved in the diversion he didn’t have a shred of evidence against him. Each investigative avenue led to a dead end. He had to make the breakthrough, and quickly. But how?
The day could have started off better. He overslept, only waking at 9.30. Then, as he was reversing the Golf out of the driveway, the rain had started to fall, soon developing into a torrential downpour. After stopping off briefly at the hotel to change he drove to the plant on the old Frankfurt road, a route recommended to him by Karen the previous day. The traffic was negligible, most drivers preferring the spacious lanes of the A66 highway.
He stopped the Golf as close to the guards’ hut as possible and opened his window fractionally to display the pass Karen had organized for him on his first day at the plant. One of the guards pulled on a raincoat, tugged his peak cap over his head, then braved the sheeting rain to approach the car.
‘Morning. Whitlock, New York Times,’ he announced.
The guard ran his finger down the plastic-protected clipboard. ‘We have orders not to admit you.’
‘Who revoked my pass?’ Whitlock asked angrily.
‘Dr Leitzig.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve no idea, call him when you get home.’
‘I want to speak to him now!’
‘Your pass has been revoked, there’s nothing more to say. You’re trespassing on Government property.’
Whitlock flung his pass on to the dashboard and shook his head in frustration. Leitzig had snookered him. No doubt he would have a perfectly valid reason if challenged on the revocation order. And he had effectively blocked Whitlock’s investigation from within the plant.
The guard rapped on the window. ‘I’ve told you, you’re trespassing on Government property.’
Whitlock knew the futility of arguing; the guard was probably in Leitzig’s back pocket anyway. He needed time to rethink his strategy, time that wasn’t on his side. He turned the Golf around in front of the boomgate and drove away.
The guard unclipped the radio from his belt and put it to his lips. ‘He’s on his way.’
Whitlock rejoined the old Mainz-Frankfurt road – even the potholes were preferable to the long tailback on the main highway. He switched on the radio and turned the tuner until he found a music station. It was playing a bland pop song which was still better than some agricultural or political discussion in German. Rosie, his fifteen-year-old niece, would probably have liked it. He still hankered after the music of the sixties when the singers, unlike those of today, had tuneful voices and their backing bands didn’t have to vie with each other to see who could make the loudest noise. As Rosie kept reminding him, ‘It must get increasingly difficult to keep up with the changing face of society the older you get.’ She had a knack of making him feel twice his age!