‘I’m fine, honestly,’ Graham replied, pushing back the sheets. He was dressed in his jeans and the clean white T-shirt Paluzzi had got from the hotel for him. ‘I’m ready. I’ve just got to put on my shoes.’
‘Ready for what?’ Kolchinsky asked sharply.
‘Didn’t Fabio tell you about Sant’Ivo?’
‘Of course he told me,’ Kolchinsky retorted. ‘You’re not going, if that’s what you think. You’re staying right where you are, at least until tomorrow morning.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with me, Sergei!’ Graham snapped angrily.
Kolchinsky sighed deeply.
‘Why must you always fight authority? The doctors wouldn’t have asked you to stay here overnight unless they thought it was necessary. Strange as it may seem, Michael, they do know what’s best for you under the circumstances.’
‘Oh yeah? That’s exactly what those psychiatrists said after Carrie and Mikey were kidnapped. We know what’s best for you, Mr. Graham. Like hell they did. They didn’t know a damn thing. To them I was just another numbered dossier that was opened when they got to work in the morning and closed again when they went home at night. They didn’t have to live with the guilt twenty-four hours a day. I did. They didn’t understand what I was going through. They just thought they did. If they could have produced a psychiatrist who had lost his family under similar circumstances to mine then I’d have been quite prepared to listen to him because he would have known what I was going through. It’s exactly the same here. Let them produce a doctor who’s had a similar injury to mine and I’ll listen to him. Dammit, Sergei, who the hell do they think they are, saying they know what’s best for me? It’s my body. It’s my mind. And I know I’m okay.’
Kolchinsky rubbed his face wearily. ‘Then discharge yourself. But that doesn’t mean you’re coming with us. Go back to the hotel. Sabrina’s there.’
‘Wonderful,’ Graham muttered. ‘She’ll be mothering me the moment I walk through the door.’
‘It’s her way of showing that she cares about you,’ Kolchinsky said, pushing the chair back angrily and getting to his feet. ‘We’ll see you back at the hotel.’
Paluzzi followed Kolchinsky into the corridor and closed the door behind him.
‘I hope I’m not being intrusive, but what exactly happened to his family?’
Kolchinsky explained about the kidnapping as they walked back to the car.
‘And they were never found?’ Paluzzi asked.
Kolchinsky shook his head.
‘And he’s never cracked?’ Paluzzi asked as Kolchinsky settled himself into the passenger seat.
‘He won’t crack. Not Michael. He’s far too professional to ever let that happen.’
Paluzzi started the engine.
‘I don’t know what I’d do if that ever happened to my family.’
‘How can you know, unless, God forbid, it ever did happen.’
‘True enough,’ Paluzzi agreed thoughtfully, as they left the car-park.
‘How many children have you got?’ Kolchinsky asked, breaking the sudden silence.
‘Just the one. Dario. He’s eight months old. He’s already quite a handful.’
‘I can believe that. What does your wife do?’
‘Nothing at the moment. Dario’s proving to be a full-time job for her. She used to be a stewardess with Air France.’ Paluzzi pointed out the floodlit Colosseum as they passed it on their right. ‘Have you ever seen it from the inside?’
‘Several times. I lived here for eighteen months.’
‘You never told me that,’ Paluzzi replied in surprise.
‘It was when I was with the KGB. I was a military attaché here. It’s a good ten years ago now.’
‘Do you miss Russia?’
‘I don’t miss the winters,’ Kolchinsky said with a smile, then stared thoughtfully at the passing traffic. ‘I like to try and get back at least once a year to see my family and friends. It’s when I’m with them that I realize just how much I do miss the country. I intend to retire there when I leave UNACO.’
‘Then you’ll realize just how much you miss the West,’ Paluzzi said with a grin.
‘That’s true. Have you ever been to the Soviet Union?’
‘I haven’t,’ Paluzzi replied apologetically. ‘Claudine, my wife, has been there several times. She says it’s a beautiful country. I certainly want to go. It’s just a matter of finding the time.’
Paluzzi drove past San Marco, one of the oldest churches in Rome, and continued along Corso Vittorio Emanuele flanked by its impressive collection of Baroque and Renaissance monuments and pulled up opposite Sant Andrea della Valle, a large sixteenth-century Baroque church.
Kolchinsky checked his Tokarev pistol, then pushed it back into his jacket pocket and got out of the car. Paluzzi used the transmitter to lock the doors behind them.
They crossed the road to Sant Andrea della Valle and Paluzzi pointed out the dome towering behind the Valle Theatre on the left-hand side of the street. Sant’Ivo. They looked around carefully, both with the same apprehensive thought. There were too many people about. It was the perfect setting for a trap. If they were ambushed they couldn’t return fire for fear of hitting some innocent bystander. Kolchinsky paused in front of a confectionery shop, using the window as a mirror to scan the road behind him. He couldn’t see anything suspicious. Not that he knew what to expect. Paluzzi tapped him on the arm and indicated that they should move on. There was no safety in numbers, not when the Red Brigades were involved. They had no qualms about killing innocent people if it meant hitting back at the authorities they detested so much. He had seen it happen all too often in the past.
A burst of gunfire shattered the confectioner’s window into a starburst of tiny fragments of flying glass. Kolchinsky flung himself to the ground. When he raised his head he saw a middle-aged woman sprawled across the pavement in front of the window, her white blouse stained with blood. She was dead. The street emptied as panic-stricken bystanders fled, screaming. The gunman was in the back of a black Mercedes. Kolchinsky crawled to where Paluzzi was crouched behind a silver BMW, the Beretta gripped tightly in his hand.
‘He missed you by inches,’ Paluzzi whispered. ‘Did you see who it was?’
Kolchinsky nodded grimly.
Tommaso Francia brought the black Mercedes level with the BMW. He glanced at Carlo in the rearview mirror. They smiled at each other. Carlo stroked the Uzi’s trigger with his gloved finger. He had them. They couldn’t get away, not without him seeing them. He could wait. There was no rush.
Graham had followed Kolchinsky and Paluzzi into the hospital car-park where he had hailed a taxi and promised the driver a handsome reward if he managed to tail Paluzzi’s Alfa Romeo Lusso without being seen. The driver had grinned like an excited schoolboy and given Graham a thumbs-up sign, relishing the challenge.
The driver had slammed on his brakes to prevent the taxi from ploughing into the back of a Fiat Tipo when it braked sharply behind the black Mercedes. He couldn’t reverse, there was a tailback of cars behind the taxi. He was stuck. And very frightened.
Graham leapt from the back seat of the taxi, yanked open the front door, and hauled the startled driver out into the road. Then, climbing behind the wheel, he slipped the taxi into gear and swung out from behind the Fiat Tipo. There was a gap of ten yards between the Fiat and the Mercedes. Graham rammed the taxi into the back of the Mercedes. The momentum of the impact propelled Tommaso against the steering wheel. The engine stalled. Graham rammed the Mercedes again.
Tommaso cursed angrily as he struggled to restart the engine. The engine came to life and the tyres shrieked in protest as the car pulled away, heading for the Vittorio Emanuele Bridge. Graham gave chase.
Carlo fired a burst at the taxi. Graham ducked sideways as the bullets hit the windscreen, pock-marking the glass. He hit the windscreen frantically with his forearm, but it wouldn’t budge.