Leitzig left the room.
Whitlock heard the door open, then the sound of a muffled cough. Most people would have put it down to some background noise but he knew exactly what it was. A gun fitted with a silencer. He dived low through the doorway and rolled across the threadbare hall carpet, the Browning fanning the area in front of him. There was no sign of the gunman. He scrambled to his feet and dashed out on to the porch just in time to see the rider in the white leathers taking off up the road on the black Suzuki,
Leitzig was slumped against the wall, blood pumping from a bullet wound in his stomach.
Whitlock slammed the front door and raced into the lounge where he rifled through the sideboard drawers for some linen napkins to stem the flow of blood. Then he collected his shoes from the kitchen and slipped the incriminating photographs under his jacket. Leitzig was semi-conscious and there was nothing more he could do. After calling an ambulance anonymously on the hall telephone he left the house.
His first stop was Karen’s place. He parked in the driveway and hurried up to the porch where he rang the doorbell. No answer. He reached through the broken pane of glass and unlocked the door.
‘Karen?’ he called out as he entered the hallway.
No reply.
He checked the kitchen and lounge before making his way up the stairs to her bedroom. The door was ajar, as he had left it earlier in the morning when he had looked in on her. He poked his head around the door. She was still asleep, her sable hair spilt out across the cream pillowcase.
He left, locking the front door again after him. As he drove to the hotel he thought back over the eventful morning, looking forward to being able to contact Philpott with a constructive report for a change. His immediate priority was a steaming hot bath and some treatment for his gashed eyebrow. Then he would have to brave the weather again to dump the Golf in one of the city’s underground car parks, and get himself another car from a different hire company. A battered, paint-scarred yellow Golf would be difficult to miss, especially when it was parked near the scene of the shooting. If the police traced it to him he might not be as lucky as Sabrina had been in Zurich.
All eyes seemed to focus on him as he entered the foyer of the Europa Hotel. He smiled ruefully and walked self-consciously across to the reception desk to ask for his room key.
When the receptionist handed it to him he glanced round quickly and leaned closer to her.
She also glanced round and leaned closer to him, turning her head slightly to catch what he was about to say.
‘You won’t believe this, but it’s raining.’
There was a bemused smile on her face as she watched him disappear into the lift.
The first thing Sabrina saw when she opened her eyes was a blurred face looking down at her. She rubbed her eyes and the face became more distinct.
‘Mike?’ she said groggily. ‘Mike, are you all right?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ he replied gruffly, then put a glass to her lips. ‘Drink this.’
She took a sip of the brandy then coughed and spluttered as it burnt its way down her throat.
She pushed the glass away from her face. ‘You know I hate the stuff.’
‘People respond quickest to something they hate,’ Philpott said from the corner of the room.
She was lying on a single bed in what was obviously a hotel room. ‘Where are we?’
‘The Da Francesca Hotel in Prato,’ Philpott replied and got to his feet. ‘The American Embassy in Rome received an anonymous call to say you and Mike had been left unconscious in a small storage shed at Prato station. The caller also told the Embassy to call us. How did they know who you were working for? Mike didn’t say anything–’
‘And neither did I, sir!’ she shot back, then touched her temples gingerly. ‘Stefan Werner’s a KGB agent. They found out through him.’
‘Werner, KGB?’ Kolchinsky said from the chair beside the door.
She turned to him and a look of concern crossed her face. He was wearing a thick foam collar around his neck, tilting his head back at an angle.
‘What happened?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Whiplash. It’s a long story. Michael will fill you in on the details later.’ He reached for the cigarettes on the table beside him.
She positioned the pillow against the headboard and sat up. ‘Can I have something to drink? My tongue feels like a piece of recycled leather.’
‘Coffee?’ Philpott indicated the tray on top of the television set.
‘Yes, please,’ she said eagerly.
‘Milk, no sugar?’
‘Yes, sir.’
He poured the coffee out for her and she leaned forward to take it from him. She took several sips before putting the cup and saucer on the bedside table. Thoroughly and professionally she proceeded to tell them everything that had happened, careful to omit any references to having acceded to Hendrique’s demands. It would only have been met with a barrage of criticism, especially from Graham. She had done it because of him and it was a decision she knew she would never regret.
‘So this whole operation’s been funded by the KGB,’ Philpott said once she had finished. ‘So much for your glasnost, Sergei.’
‘Don’t tar us all with the same brush, Malcolm,’ Kolchinsky replied, then turned to Sabrina. ‘Did Werner give you any clue as to his handler’s identity?’
She shook her head.
‘I’ll get on to Zurich and the UN right away, see what they can dig up.’ Kolchinsky rose carefully to his feet.
Philpott crossed to the door and put a hand lightly on Kolchinsky’s shoulder. ‘You know the KGB hierarchy inside out; surely there aren’t that many extremists who would resort to something like this?’
‘More than you think,’ Kolchinsky replied, then left the room.
‘Why didn’t he phone from here?’ Sabrina asked.
‘Because I’m waiting for an important call,’ Philpott replied, then sat down in the chair vacated by Kolchinsky. ‘There’ve been some new developments in the last few hours. I’d just finished telling Mike when you started to stir.’
‘Why didn’t you wake me up earlier, sir?’
‘There wasn’t any need. We can’t make a move until the phone call anyway.’ Philpott took out his pipe and filled it from his tobacco pouch. ‘After we’d received the tip-off about your whereabouts I sent one of our helicopters after the train to tail it for the rest of the journey through to Rome. There was only one snag: the wagon wasn’t anywhere to be seen when the helicopter caught up with the train.’
‘You mean it had been uncoupled?’
Philpott lit his pipe and exhaled the smoke upwards. ‘That’s exactly what I mean. I had our men board the train when it next stopped but Werner and Hendrique had already flown the coop, having disembarked here at Prato some two hours earlier, according to the conductor. The wagon hadn’t been uncoupled at Prato so every station from Modena to Prato had to be contacted to try and find out where it was.’
‘And did you?’
‘Seventy minutes later. A porter at Montepiano – it’s a town about fifteen miles north of here – vaguely recalled seeing a single wagon on one of the lines. The sighting fits in with the time the train was here in Prato. It could be a red herring but it’s the only clue we’ve got. The helicopter team have gone to Montepiano to see what they can find out about the wagon.’
‘And this is the call you’re waiting for, from Montepiano?’
Philpott nodded. ‘Once we know the plutonium’s destination, hopefully you can get there first to prevent it from going any further. One of our helicopters is on standby not far from here and Zurich assures me the pilot knows the countryside like the back of his hand.’
‘So you want us to go ahead regardless of Werner’s threat?’