Alastair MacNeill
Alistair MacLean’s UNACO
RED ALERT
1990
Alistair MacLean’s
Red Alert
Alistair MacLean, who died in 1987, was the best-selling author of thirty books, including world famous novels such as The Guns of Navarone and Where Eagles Dare. Of the story outlines he was commissioned to write by an American film company in 1977, two, Hostage Tower and Air Force One is Down, were, with Alistair MacLean’s approval, published as novels written by John Denis; these were followed with six by Alastair MacNeill, the highly successful Death Train, Night Watch, Red Alert, Time of the Assassins, Dead Halt and Code Breaker, and two Borrowed Time and Prime Target by Hugh Miller.
Alastair MacNeill
Alastair MacNeill was born in Scotland in 1960. When he was six years old his family emigrated to South Africa, where he showed a growing interest in writing, winning several school competitions. He returned to Britain in 1985 to pursue a full-time writing career. As well as writing seven novels based on MacLean outlines he has written five novels under his own name. He lives in Sheffield.
Red Alert is the fifth title in the UNACO series.
Prologue
On an undisclosed date in September 1979 the Secretary-General of the United Nations chaired an extraordinary meeting attended by forty-six envoys who represented virtually every country in the world. There was only one point on the agenda: the escalating tide of international crime. Criminals and terrorists were able to strike in one country then flee across its borders, secure in the knowledge that pursuit would breach the sovereignty of neighbouring states. Furthermore, drafting extradition warrants (at least for those countries that had them) was both costly and time-consuming and many contained loopholes that lawyers could exploit to secure their clients’ release. A solution had to be found.
It was agreed to set up an international strike force to operate under the aegis of the United Nations’ Security Council. It would be known as the United Nations Anti-Crime Organization (UNACO). Its objective was to ‘avert, neutralize and/or apprehend individuals or groups engaged in international criminal activities’* Each envoy then submitted a curriculum vitae of a candidate their Government considered suitable for the position of UNACO Director, and the Secretary-General made the final choice.
UNACO’s clandestine existence came into being on 1 March 1980.
*UNACO charter, article 1, paragraph 1c
One
Neo-Chem Industries Italian plant was situated near the A24 motorway, halfway between Rome and Tivoli. The complex, hidden from the road by a pine grove planted in the 1950s when the land belonged to the army, was surrounded by a 15-foot perimeter fence and patrolled by armed guards, most of whom were ex-policemen lured away from the Carabinieri by the company’s lucrative wage prospects.
Pietro Vannelli was an exception. He had been a security guard all his working life. It was all he knew. He was fifty-three years old and had been with Neo Chem Industries since the plant had opened eight years earlier.
Six months ago he had been transferred from ground patrol to the less demanding graveyard shift at the main gate. At first he had been grateful for the move, only too glad to leave the exercise to the younger men. But he soon grew disillusioned. Nothing ever happened. He missed mingling with his colleagues; the jokes, the shared cigarettes, but most of all the poker games held twice a week in one of the warehouses. All he seemed to do now was sit in the hut and read a succession of cheap paperbacks to pass the time. He had been told there was no chance of getting his old job back, so he had made some discreet enquiries about vacancies for night-watchmen in the city. It would only be a matter of time before the replies came through the post.
A pair of headlights pierced the darkness beyond the gate. It would either be a member of staff who had forgotten some work or someone seeking directions into Rome. Why else would anyone bother to take the signposted road at that time of night? He picked up his torch, tugged his peaked cap over his thinning grey hair, then opened the door and stepped out into the cold night air. A yellow Fiat Regata stopped in front of the gate. The girl who got out was in her early twenties, the same age as his own daughter, with an attractive figure and long red hair. Her face was bruised and blood seeped from the corner of her mouth. Her faded jeans were smeared with mud and her white sweatshirt was torn at the left shoulder. Tears glistened on her discoloured cheeks. He used a sonic transmitter to open the gate.
‘What happened?’ he asked in horror.
‘Please help me,’ she whispered in a barely audible voice. ‘They’re going to kill me.’
‘Who?’ he said, shining the torch into the darkness behind her. Nothing.
She suddenly darted past him and disappeared into the hut. He hurried after her. She was cowering in a corner, her hands clenched tightly under her chin, her eyes wide with fear.
‘It’s all right, you’re safe now,’ he said with a comforting smile.
He turned back to the door, intending to dose the gate, and found himself facing a silenced L34A1 Sterling submachine-gun. The man holding it was Riccardo Ubrino, a swarthy 34-year-old with greasy black hair and a stubbled chin. The man behind him was similarly armed. Paolo Conte was in his early twenties with curly brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses, He wore a brown uniform identical to Vannelli’s.
‘Carla, get his gun,’ Ubrino ordered, indicating Vannelli’s holstered Ruger GP100.
Carla Cassalo scrambled to her feet, unholstered the gun, and gave it to Ubrino. He tucked it into his belt, then unslung a second submachine-gun from his shoulder and handed it to her.
‘I see you re admiring my handiwork,’ Ubrino said to Vannelli and cast a sidelong glance at Carla’s face. ‘Realistic, isn’t it? I used to work in the make-up department at the Teatro dell’Opera. You’d be amazed what hell can be done with a little imagination.
‘Who are you?’ Vannelli asked, desperately stalling for time. He had to get to the alarm bell underneath the desk behind him.
‘Red Brigades,’ Carla told him.
‘What do you want?’ Vannelli’s right hand was now touching the desk, his fingers feeling for the button.
Ubrino pressed the tip of the silencer against Vannelli’s face. ‘Spare a thought for your family before you raise the alarm. Especially your daughter. She’s getting married next month, isn’t she? I’d hate anything to happen to her before the wedding.’
Vannelli swallowed and brought his hand back into view.
Ubrino smiled faintly and patted Vannelli’s cheek. ‘Wise decision. I want you to call your colleague in the reception foyer. Boschetto, isn’t it?’
Vannelli merely nodded.
‘Tell him about the young woman who’s cowering with fear in the corner of the hut. You’ve already called the police but you’d feel a lot better if she were to wait in the foyer for them.’ Ubrino grabbed Vannelli,s wrist as he reached for the telephone. ‘And remember your daughter when you make the call.’
Vannelli jerked his hand free. ‘You won’t get away with this.’
‘Just call him!’ Carla snapped; pressing the Sterling into Vannelli’s back.