‘Young’s hired a couple of locals who’ve worked with Alexander in the past It Young’s insurance against snatching the wrong man. One of them, Dave Humphries, is on our payroll. It was him who tipped us off about Young in the first place.’
‘But if they both know what Alexander looks like, where does that leave me?’
‘It’s all been taken care of, don’t worry. Humphries has agreed to identify you as Alexander in exchange for a small financial incentive.’
‘What about the other man?’
‘He won’t be there. In fact, he’s sitting in a police cell right now. And he’ll remain there on suspicion of some trumped-up charge until after the breakout in the morning. It’s too late for Young to draft in a new accomplice so it will just be the two of them.’ Lonsdale removed a silver cigarette case from his inside jacket pocket and offered it to Whitlock, who declined with a raised hand. Lonsdale lit one for himself and pocketed the case again. ‘Our original idea was to change vans en route to the Old Bailey but the problem is, we don’t know where Young intends to spring you. It could be at any point along the way. We’re going to have to be there from the start.’
‘How many men in the van?’
‘Two of us up front. We’re also using our own men to act as your fellow prisoners. The last thing we need is a mass breakout.’
‘What time are we due out of the police station?’
‘The hearing’s scheduled for two. I haven’t finalized the exact time of departure with the station commander yet but it should be around eleven-thirty.’
‘What about Alexander?’
‘He’ll be our guest for a few days. We’ll hand him back to the prison authorities when we get the nod from your chaps.’
‘How have they taken it?’
Lonsdale chuckled. ‘They’re well pissed off, because it’s going to look like they lost Alexander. Too bad, it’s something they’ll have to accept.’
Whitlock pointed to the folder. ‘Has anything come through on Young?’
Lonsdale nodded. ‘I read it while I was waiting for you. Some partner you’ve got there. Seems he ran with a New York gang until he was eighteen when he was drafted into Vietnam. He turned out to be an exceptional soldier, and after the US pulled out in ’75 he joined the French Foreign Legion. Spent eight years with them, then deserted and went to Central America to fight against the Sandinistas. He now works with the death squads in El Salvador.’ He handed the fax from the Command Centre to Whitlock, then stood up and moved to the window. He turned back to Whitlock. ‘Married?’
Whitlock’s fingers instinctively tightened around his glass. He put it down on the table, hoping Lonsdale hadn’t noticed. ‘For six years.’
‘What does your wife do?’
‘She’s a paediatrician. How about you?’
‘I’ve been married for eleven years. Cathy used to be a teacher, but now she’s a full-time mother. Jill’s nine, Holly’s five. Cathy’s expecting again in October. We already know it’s going to be a boy this time. Quite are lief I’m beginning to get outvoted on everything at home. At least we men will be able to stick together. Have you any children?’
Whitlock shook his head. Just as well, he thought to himself.
‘What time will you be here?’ he asked.
‘About ten. That will give us plenty of time to get to the police station.’ Lonsdale drank down the rest of his Scotch in one gulp. ‘I’ll leave the folder with you and pick it up in the morning. I’ll see myself out. Good night.’
Whitlock returned to the bedroom after Lonsdale had left the house. He thought about Carmen as he got ready for bed. He had an insane impulse to ring her but he quickly talked himself out of it. He switched off the light and climbed into bed, pulling the sheets up to his chin. What was going to happen to them? He knew he would lose her if he stayed with UNACO. It was inevitable. She was always worried about him when he was on assignment: worry which was affecting her work. Or so she claimed. But what was the alternative? Leave UNACO to set up some security consultancy that advised Fifth Avenue boutique owners how best to protect their premises? That wasn’t for him. He loved the challenge of his work. He only wished he knew how to convince Carmen. He stifled a yawn, turned over, and closed his eyes. Within minutes he was asleep.
The streets of Rome were still quiet when Kolchinsky parked the hired Peugeot 405 in front of a small cafeteria on the via Nazionale. Sabrina looked through the passenger window.
‘Canzone Caffè, that’s it all right.’
Graham, who was seated in the back, glanced at his watch. ‘Two minutes to seven. Perfect timing.’
Kolchinsky switched off the engine. They got out and locked the doors behind them. The card hanging in the window read Chiuso. Closed. He waited until a couple had walked past then knocked sharply on the door. A corner of the red curtain which spanned the window was pulled back and a moment later the door was unlocked and opened. It was locked again behind them. Apart from the man who had let them in, there was only one other person in the room. He was seated at one of the tables, a copy of Paese Sera spread out in front of him. An empty coffee cup stood on the next table.
‘Please, come in,’ he said, without looking up from the newspaper.
‘Major Paluzzi?’ Kolchinsky said, approaching the table.
The man held up his hand, continuing to study the page in front of him. He finally shook his head and sat back in the chair, a bemused smile touching the corners of his wide mouth.
‘I hate the stock market. That’s the third day in a row that my shares have gone down. I should have listened to my father when he told me to dump them.’ He suddenly grinned and got to his feet, pushing back the chair, his hand extended. ‘Fabio Paluzzi, Nucleo Operativo Centrale di Sicurezza.’
They each shook his hand in turn.
Paluzzi was thirty-six years old with a gaunt, pallid face which, together with his cropped brown hair, made him look more like an emaciated prisoner on a hunger strike than one of the most respected officers in the elite Italian anti-terrorist squad, the NOCS, better known as the ‘Leatherheads’ because of the leather hoods they often wore in combat.
‘Please, sit down,’ Paluzzi said, indicating the table. ‘Have you eaten this morning?’
‘We had dinner on the plane,’ Kolchinsky replied, pulling up a chair.
‘You mean breakfast?’
‘Dinner, breakfast, it’s the same thing. We’re six hours behind you in New York.’ Sabrina stifled a yawn as if to make her point.
‘It’s really disorientating.’
‘I can believe it. How about some coffee?’
‘The magic word,’ Kolchinsky replied. ‘We checked into the Quirinale Hotel, dumped our things, and dashed over here. Not even time for a coffee.’
‘That’s easily rectified,’ Paluzzi said, and signalled to the man who had let them in. He held up three fingers. ‘Tre tazze di caffè.’
The man pointed to Paluzzi’s empty cup.
‘Si, grazie,’ Paluzzi said, nodding his head. He gestured after the retreating man. ‘Giancarlo’s completely deaf. He used to be with the NOCS. His eardrums were shattered in a freak accident when a limpet mine detonated prematurely during an underwater exercise. He bought the café when he was discharged from hospital. I thought it would be the perfect place for us to meet. He can lip-read, but don’t worry, he can’t understand a word of English. We can talk freely in front of him.’
‘Where did you learn to speak English?’ Sabrina asked.
‘My mother’s English,’ Paluzzi replied. He took a telex from his pocket and gave it to Kolchinsky. ‘Your Colonel Philpott asked me to give you this. It came through about four hours ago.’