Philpott pressed a button on his desk intercom.
‘Sarah, send them through.’
Although he had left his native Scotland as a boy his voice still contained traces of his Celtic background. He pointed the miniature transmitter at the door and pressed the button. The door slid open.
When they had all come in he closed it again. He indicated the two black leather couches against the wall and Kolchinsky was the first to sit down, immediately lighting up a cigarette.
‘If you want tea or coffee, help yourself,’ Philpott said, waving in the general direction of the dispenser to the right of his desk.
‘Milk, no sugar,’ Graham said to Sabrina then eased himself on to the couch beside Kolchinsky.
Sabrina glared at him, arms akimbo. ‘I’m not your personal maid.’
Whitlock saw the anger in Philpott’s eyes and stepped forward with a placating smile. ‘Let Uncle Tom get it. My ancestors had plenty of practice, it’s second nature to me by now.’
‘It’s okay, C.W., I’ll get it,’ she muttered.
‘Sabrina!’
She turned to Philpott, who was pointing at the couch behind her. She sat down without a word and shook her head when Whitlock asked if she wanted coffee.Whitlock poured two cups of coffee then returned to his seat with one after handing the other to Graham.
Philpott opened the file in front of him. ‘As I said to you all over the phone, it’s a Code Red operation. Time isn’t on our side. There isn’t much to go on but these are the facts as we know them. A vagrant was discovered yesterday in Linz, the skin on his face and hands severely burnt almost as though he had been in a fire. On further examination at the hospital it was discovered that he had lost most of his teeth and hair and there was irreparable damage to the stomach and intestines as well as to the central nervous system. The doctors were unanimous in their diagnoses. Somatic radiation poisoning. An instantaneously absorbed dose of five grays would prove fatal within the space of two weeks. The autopsy revealed he had absorbed three times that amount.’
‘What are grays?’ Graham asked.
‘It’s the SI unit to measure absorbed doses of radiation,’ Whitlock answered without looking at him.
Philpott nodded, then continued. ‘He managed to give the authorities a few sketchy details before he died. He jumped a freight train at Wissembourg on the Franco-German border and found six beer kegs in the car, but when he broke one of them open he was showered in fine powder. He then covered the kegs with a tarpaulin and left the train at Strasbourg. Three days later he was found in Linz.’
‘Have the doctors identified the radioactive substance?’ Whitlock asked.
‘Plutonium-IV.’
‘Used in the manufacture of nuclear weapons,’ Whitlock added grimly.
‘So the kegs could be anywhere in Europe by now,’ Sabrina said.
Philpott tamped a wad of tobacco into his briar pipe and lit it carefully before looking up at Sabrina. ‘Correction. Those kegs could be anywhere in the world by now. They must be found, and quickly.’
Kolchinsky got to his feet and paced the length of the room before turning to face the others.
‘That damaged keg’s a time bomb. You’ve heard what happened when a few particles came into contact with the vagrant. Imagine the consequences if its entire contents were to escape into the atmosphere. Chernobyl’s still fresh in everyone’s mind. It’s absolutely imperative that we avoid another nuclear disaster.’
Philpott paused before speaking to give added impact to Kolchinsky’s words. ‘Mike, Sabrina, you’ll work together to trace those kegs. And for God’s sake bury the hatchet.’
They both nodded sombrely.
‘What about finding out who’s behind the shipment?’ Graham asked, breaking the brief silence.
‘Your only concern is to find the plutonium.’ Philpott jabbed the stem of his pipe towards Whitlock. ‘Anyway, with luck C.W. we’ll come up with something there. We’ve run a series of programs through the computer in the Command Centre and it’s almost certain that the plutonium originated from the nuclear recovery plant outside Mainz in West Germany. It’s the only reprocessing plant in Western Europe which specializes in the production of grade-IV plutonium. I’ve organized your usual undercover role as a freelance reporter; see what you can dig up. Initial enquiries at the plant have so far uncovered nothing. There’s no record of any shipments or thefts so we’re obviously dealing with a professional outfit.’
Kolchinsky picked up three manilla envelopes from Philpott’s desk and handed them out.
They contained the standard kit for any UNACO operation. A resume of the assignment (to be destroyed after reading), airline tickets, maps of their ultimate destinations, written confirmation of hotel reservations, contacts (if any) and a sum of money in the appropriate currency. There was no limit to the amount of money which could be used during any given assignment but at the end of it each operative had to account to Kolchinsky for his or her expenses in tabular form, supplying the relevant chits to back up the figurework. Kolchinsky’s pedantic approach towards the expense accounts had given rise to a joke amongst the field operatives that it would be better to lose a life than a chit.
Graham held up his envelope. ‘C.W.‘s bound for Mainz. Where are we going?’
Philpott exhaled, blowing the smoke upwards. ‘Strasbourg.’
Four
Strasbourg, the capital of the French province of Alsace, is situated close to the border with Germany on an island formed by the two arms of the River Ill. It is a picturesque city of cobbled pedestrian streets and timber-framed houses, dominated by the Cathedral Tower, a Gothic building constructed of red Vosges sandstone and standing over 320 feet tall. The Cathedral, which can be seen even from the furthest peaks of Alsace, is regarded by the Alsatians as a proud symbol of their heritage.
As Sabrina stood outside the hotel on the Place de la Gate staring up at the Cathedral’s spire silhouetted against the dark, sombre skyline, she let her thoughts drift back over the hours since their departure from New York’s John F. Kennedy Airport. The flight to Paris had been punctuated by periodic bouts of turbulence and consequently neither of them had managed to get much sleep. Before disembarking, the passengers had been reminded to put their watches forward by six hours to be in line with Continental time, which had served to add disorientation to fatigue. A Piper Chieftain, belonging to UNACO, had been waiting at Orly Airport to fly them on to Strasbourg.
Although desperately tired both had pushed any thoughts of sleep from their minds, though after checking in at the hotel, the Vendome (chosen for its proximity to the station), they had each taken a long, refreshing shower before meeting up again for a late breakfast in the dining room.
Graham’s appearance brought her out of her reverie and they walked the short distance to the station, where she approached the information desk to ask for directions to the stationmaster’s office. She had never learnt to speak Alsatian, a dialect closely related to Old High German, so she spoke in faultless German instead. The clerk even asked where in Germany she came from. She answered Berlin; it was a city she had come to know well over the years.
The stationmaster’s office turned out to be ideally situated overlooking the busy concourse.
She knocked on the door.
‘Herein!’ a voice commanded from inside the office.
She opened the door. It was a spacious room with wall-to-wall carpeting, a teak desk and three imitation leather armchairs against the wall to the right of the door. The shelves on either side of the window behind the desk were stacked with files, directories and timetables.