With that she was gone.
When she returned five minutes later her face was grim.
‘Don’t tell me, it arrived early,’ Graham said.
She nodded. ‘Twenty-five minutes ago.’
‘More than enough time to transfer it elsewhere. Which platform?’
‘Seven.’
‘We’ll have to double back towards the helicopter and see if we can get on to Platform Seven from there. You’d think Philpott could have organized a clearance for us like he did at Strasbourg.’
‘This is where I play my ace.’ She withdrew two plastic ID cards and handed one to Graham.
‘I took them off the CID guys in Switzerland. All you have to do is hold it up briefly and say polizia. I’ll deal with any dialogue.’
‘There are times when I could swear you’re more than just a pretty face.’
‘Praise indeed.’
The gate leading on to Platform Seven was unguarded and they were able to slip through unobserved.
She pointed at the engine. ‘It’s a Rapido, no wonder it got here ahead of schedule.’
‘What’s a Rapido?’
‘There are different classes of trains in Italy. A Rapido’s an express, it only stops at the major cities. Very fast, very reliable.’
‘So what would you class the boneshaker we were on?’
‘That would be at the other end of the scale. A Locale perhaps. It stops at every station.’
‘Cosa desidera?’ a voice called out behind them.
‘Get your pass ready,’ she said to Graham.
She turned to face the approaching porter and held up the disc, careful to obscure the accompanying photograph with her fingers. She launched into a barrage of Italian and within seconds had the porter answering her questions. She thanked him once she had the information she needed and waited until he was out of earshot before speaking to Graham.
‘The crate was transferred into the back of a white van almost as soon as the train arrived at the station.’
‘Did he say where it was going?’
‘He said he overheard one of them talking about a ship but that it wasn’t mentioned by name.’
‘If the plutonium’s bound for Libya then Trieste’s as good a port as any to load it on to a ship.’
‘Straight down the Adriatic and across the Mediterranean.’
‘Precisely. I still want to look at the freight car, though. I don’t altogether trust these European porters, not after what happened at Lausanne.’
They weren’t expecting any kind of opposition but still transferred their Berettas from their shoulder holsters to their coat pockets as they neared the freight car. Sabrina pressed herself against the side of the car and waited for Graham’s signal before sliding the door open. It was empty.
‘We’re only wasting time here,’ he said, closing the door again.
Darkness was beginning to fall as they made their way back to the helicopter. Within a couple of minutes the pilot had it airborne, heading towards the docks.
‘Look!’ she exclaimed as the helicopter banked low over the harbour complex.
Graham followed the direction of her pointing finger. A demarcated section of the complex, from Wharves Nine to Seventeen, dazzlingly irradiated under numerous floodlights, was painted in the distinctive colours of the Werner Company. The W-logo was portrayed on every warehouse wall, on the stem of every quayside crane, and even the bold numbering denoting each wharf had been painted in yellow with a black border. What struck them both was the cleanliness of the wharves compared to the surrounding ones. Whereas they were littered with discarded packing crates and overflowing steel drums and many of the warehouse walls were daubed with multicoloured graffiti, the fenced-off Werner wharves were free of any rubbish and the warehouses looked as though they had been painted only hours earlier. Whatever else was wrong with him they had to admit Werner was a very professional operator.
‘Do you want me to put down on one of the wharves?’ the pilot called out over his shoulder.
‘No, the harbourmaster’s office. Know it?’ she shouted back.
The pilot gave her a thumbs-up sign and within a couple of minutes the helicopter had landed in a clearing. He pointed to a red-brick building some forty feet away. She followed Graham across the lawn to the building where, once inside, he sat on the bench beside the door while she approached the counter to speak to the duty officer. The duty officer consulted his logbook several times during the conversation and finally scribbled something down on a piece of paper which he then handed to her. She thanked him then walked over to Graham.
‘One of Werner’s freighters–’ she glanced at the paper ‘–the Napoli, was berthed at Wharf Eleven up until an hour ago.’
‘Well, that’s no good to us,’ he cut in.
‘Give me a chance,’ she retorted irritably. ‘Anyway, it seems the Napoli was already running six hours behind schedule because Werner had personally instructed her captain to wait for a crate which was being brought to Trieste by train. The captain then received the go-ahead to leave the port without the crate but no sooner had the Napoli left than a company Sikorsky touched down on Wharf Eleven. It was to take the crate out to the Napoli as soon as it was delivered to the warehouse.’
‘And the helicopter’s already taken off with the crate?’
She nodded grimly. ‘Twenty-five minutes ago.’
He banged his fist angrily on the arm of the bench.
‘They’re always one step ahead of us.’
‘There’s something else. The Napoli’s ladened with grain bound for Ethiopia. I can’t believe anyone would actually exploit the suffering of those people for some political ideology.’ She shook her head, a mixture of anger and frustration in her eyes.
‘We’ll head it off in time,’ he said, trying to reassure her. ‘Where’s its next port of call?’
‘Dubrovnik. It should be there by early morning. Then Tripoli.’
‘So we have to stop it before it leaves Dubrovnik,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I can’t see Werner being too far away from the plutonium, so there’s every chance we’ll meet up with him in Dubrovnik.’
‘It’s not a game, Mike!’ she said, grabbing his arm as they left the office.
‘I agree, it’s a challenge.’ He walked several yards then turned to face her. ‘You’re the sharpshooter, Werner’s your problem. I want Hendrique.’
‘It’s not a vendetta either,’ she shouted after him, her words almost lost in the biting wind.
‘We’ve got to get to Dubrovnik tonight,’ he said to the pilot.
‘Dubrovnik?’ The pilot shook his head. ‘No chance, not tonight.’
‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I’ve been in contact with air control. A particularly strong bora wind’s blanketed the entire Dalmatian Coast in such a thick fog that all flights to and from the area have had to be called off until it lifts.’
‘This is UNACO, not a boy scout jamboree. Risks are all part of our business, or weren’t you told when you joined?’
The pilot glared at Graham but wisely kept his anger in check. ‘I’d be the first to risk it if there was some sort of visibility but I’m told the fog’s so bad you can’t see a hand in front of your face. We wouldn’t be risking our lives, we’d be committing suicide.’
‘When’s the fog expected to lift?’ Sabrina asked.
‘The weathermen predict early morning.’
‘And you’ll fly us to Dubrovnik then?’ she added.
‘I’ll have the airport call me the minute the fog shows signs of lifting.’
Graham looked suitably put out but he said nothing, knowing the pilot was right.