‘Boschetto knows my voice. Kill me and you’ll never get inside the building.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ Carla said with a sneer. ‘Paolo was at drama school with me. He’s been studying your voice for the last few weeks. He may not have perfected it but Boschetto wouldn’t know the difference over the phone.‘
Ubrino pushed Carla’s submachine-gun away from Vannelli’s back. ‘She’s right. We’ve each got something to contribute to the mission. The Red Brigades never carry passengers. Not that we’ll need to use Paolo, will we? I’m sure your daughter will look lovely on her wedding day.’
Vannelli snatched the receiver from Ubrino. He had no difficulty in convincing Boschetto to let him bring the girl to the foyer.
‘Bring the car inside,’ Ubrino said to Conte after Vannelli had replaced the receiver. ‘Then we can close the gate. Hurry.’
Vannelli saw Vittorio Nardi for the first time when he took Conte’s place at the door. He immediately remembered Ubrino’s words: We’ve each got something to contribute to the mission. Nardi was the same build and height as Vannelli and, in the brown uniform, could pass for him at a distance. Vannelli knew then he was going to die. He was still reaching for the alarm when Ubrino shot him in the back. The force of the bullet knocked him against the wall and he fell heavily to the floor. Ubrino knelt beside him and checked for a pulse. There wasn’t one.
Conte pushed past Nardi into the hut, his eyes wide I!i with horror. ‘You said there wouldn’t be any killing. You said we’d only have to knock the guards out.’
‘You better start growing up, kid!’
‘Shut up, Nardi!’ Ubrino cut in sharply, then led Conte from the hut. ‘It’s your first mission, isn’t it?’
Conte nodded.
‘You’ll learn that it’s one thing to plan a mission on paper but quite another to put it into practice. Things happen that we can’t foresee in the planning stage. Vannelli went for the button. If I hadn’t shot him he’d have raised the alarm and we’d have had to abort the mission. You can see that, can’t you?’
Conte nodded again.
‘It’s just that…’ He swallowed hard.
‘You’ve never seen a dead body before? Neither had I until I joined the Red Brigades.’ Ubrino patted Conte on the back. ‘Come on, they’re waiting for us in the car.’
Nardi sat behind the wheel, his peaked cap tilted for ward to obscure his face. Carla sat beside him, the Sterling on the floor at her feet. Ubrino and Conte climbed into the back of the Regata and ducked out of sight, just as they all had done when Carla had driven up to the gate. Nardi started the car and drove up the winding approach road leading to the plant’s main reception area. There wasn’t a guard in sight. It was what they had expected. Sunday nights were always reserved for poker and at that moment two-thirds of the security staff were in one of the warehouses huddled around a makeshift table, consisting of two wooden crates pushed together, playing out their first hand of the night. The games invariably went on until the small hours of the morning. They had made an arrangement that Vannelli and Boschetto would call them if any of the senior management arrived unexpectedly at the plant, as had happened a couple of times in the last month. It cost each player twenty thousand lire for every session (the money being divided equally between Vannelli and Boschetto)but they regarded it as a small price to ensure they weren’t caught.
Nardi parked in front of the building and got out of the car. Boschetto opened the glass doors with a transmitter then hurried down the steps to where Nardi was standing with his back to him. Nardi, who had been monitoring Boschetto’s approach in the reflection of the driver’s window, swung round to face him, Ruger in hand. Boschetto opened his mouth to speak but Nardi motioned him to remain silent. Boschetto’s eyes flickered towards the gun but he did as he was told. Carla alerted the others and they scrambled out of the car. Ubrino undipped the transmitter from Boschetto’s belt then hit him on the back of the head with the butt of his Ruger. Nardi caught Boschetto as he slumped forward unconscious. He laid him on the ground then got back into the car and returned to the main gate. Ubrino got Conte to help him carry Boschetto behind a hedge to one side of the steps.
‘Let Carla into the foyer,’ Ubrino said, handing the transmitter to Conte.
‘What about you?’
‘I’ll be with you in a minute. I thought I heard a noise. I’m going to check it out.’
Conte looked down at Boschetto. ‘You don’t think he’ll wake up?‘
‘He won’t wake.up!’ Ubrino hissed sharply. ‘We’ll be long gone by the time he comes round. Now go on, Carla’s waiting.’
Ubrino waited until Carla and Come had entered the foyer before he pressed the Sterling against the back of Boschetto’s head and squeezed the trigger. Blood splattered over his shoes. He cursed under his breath, wiped shoes on Boschetto’s jacket, then hurried up the steps into the foyer.
‘Did you see anybody?’ Conte asked, activating the door behind Ubrino.
‘No, just my imagination. You’re not the only one suffering from nerves.’ Ubrino led Conte behind the reception desk, and indicated the row of closed-circuit television screens. ‘The first sign of any guards, you call me.’
‘I will,’ Conte replied quickly.
Ubrino attached an earpiece to the two-way radio on his belt then crossed to where Carla was waiting for him at the top of the stairs, his rubber-soled shoes silent on the black-and-white tiled floor. They descended the stairs and he paused to get his bearings, picturing the architect’s blueprint in his mind. He pointed to another flight of stairs at the end of the corridor. It led down to the laboratories. He allowed himself a faint smile of satisfaction when he saw the sign on the wall at the foot of the stairs: LABORATORIES 1-17; LABORATORIES 18-40.
They wanted 27. It turned out to be a white door with the words PROFESSOR DAVID WISEMAN printed across it in black. He paused at the door to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Carla instinctively touched his arm. She had been his lover for the past year. He knew she was in love with him. She had told him enough times but he had reciprocated the sentiments merely because he knew that was what she wanted to hear. She was young and attractive, like many before her, but he would have no qualms about ditching her.
He opened the door without knocking, he had expected to find himself in a laboratory with rows of workbenches and charts plastered across the walls; instead this was an office, neatly furnished with a collection of framed diplomas on the wall. He reminded himself that David Wiseman was the plant’s senior scientific adviser: an administrator, not a research chemist. And administrators work in offices.
Wiseman sat behind the desk. He was a 49-year-old American with wiry black hair and a neatly trimmed black beard. His eyes widened in horror when Carla appeared in the room behind Ubrino.
‘It’s just make-up,’ Ubrino assured him.
‘Why?’ Wiseman asked in Italian.
‘That doesn’t concern you,’ Ubrino retorted, then crossed to the desk. ‘Have you got the vial?’
Wiseman took a sealed metal cylinder, the size of a cigar case, from one of the drawers and held it up for Ubrino to see. The vial was inside the cylinder. ‘A hundred thousand dollars isn’t enough. Not after all the risks I’ve had to take to produce this for you in secret.’
Carla stepped forward and aimed the Sterling at Wiseman’s chest. Ubrino pushed the barrel away from Wiseman. ‘Let him speak. As he said, he was the one who took all the risks.’
‘I’ll have an antidote ready for this by the end of the week. But it will cost you another hundred thousand, to be paid into my Swiss bank account.’
Ubrino nodded thoughtfully, then took the metal cylinder from Wiseman and checked the serial number. 5114785. It was the same as the number he had been given at the final briefing earlier that day.