Carlo fired again, scoring hits on both the front tyres. The taxi spun out of control and smashed into the side of a parked car, hammering Graham’s head against the steering wheel. He immediately felt the blood seeping out from under the dressing and down the side of his face. He unbuckled his safety belt and reached groggily for the door handle. The door was pulled open from the outside and anxious passersby peered in at him. He didn’t understand what they were saying. A hand reached out to help him but he shrugged it off and sat back, his eyes closed. It felt as if hundreds of ball bearings were ricocheting around inside his head.
The pain was unbelievable. Eventually he opened his eyes, wiped the blood from the side of his face with the back of his hand, and gingerly eased himself out of the car. His legs were unsteady and he had to grab on to the open door to support himself.
Kolchinsky and Paluzzi pushed their way through the crowd to where Graham was standing.
‘Are you all right?’ Paluzzi asked anxiously.
Graham nodded.
‘What the hell were you doing?’ Kolchinsky demanded.
‘Saving your ass, in case you didn’t notice,’ Graham retorted, his face screwed up with the pain throbbing inside his head.
‘We were perfectly safe where we were.’
‘Not from where I was sitting. What if he’d shot at the petrol tank? You guys wouldn’t have known anything about it.’ Graham’s eyes flickered past Kolchinsky as the taxi driver reached the front of the crowd. ‘Now this is trouble.’
The driver clasped his hands to his head as he stared in horror at the taxi’s crumpled bonnet. A police car pulled up and two carabinieri got out. One of them immediately cleared the crowd of onlookers from the road and began to direct the tailback of congested traffic which had built up on both sides of the road. The second policeman, wearing the insignia of a sergeant, approached the taxi but held up his hand when the driver tried to speak to him. He stared at the bullet holes, the buckled hood and the shredded tyres before finally turning to the driver and asking if it was his car. The driver admitted it was but went on to explain volubly what had happened. The sergeant listened attentively, occasionally nodding his head, then told the driver to wait. He crossed to where Graham was leaning against the side of the taxi, a handkerchief pressed against the wound on his face. Paluzzi cut in front of the sergeant before he could speak and held up his ID card. The sergeant looked at it, then gestured to Graham and asked Paluzzi if he was also with the NOCS.
Paluzzi shook his head.
‘He’s an American, working with us. That’s all you need to know.’
The sergeant glared at Paluzzi. ‘We’ll see about that. You think you’re above the law, don’t you?’
‘Spare me the lecture,’ Paluzzi said, pocketing his ID. ‘You don’t have the necessary clearance to be told what’s going on.’
‘I don’t give a damn about your clearance,’ the sergeant snapped, glancing across at Graham. ‘He could have killed someone. That concerns me. And that’s why I’m taking him in for questioning.’
‘How old are you, sergeant?’
‘Twenty-eight. Why?’
‘You’ve got your whole career ahead of you. Don’t screw it up by getting involved in something that’s way over your head.’
‘Is that a threat?’ the sergeant hissed under his breath.
Paluzzi looked around him as he considered the question. He finally met the sergeant’s eyes again.
‘Let me put it another way. You take the American in and I’ll see to it personally that you lose your stripes.’
‘For doing my job? You’ll have to do better than that.’
Paluzzi took the fake Prime Minister’s letter from his pocket and handed it to the sergeant.
‘I don’t think I have to do much better than that, do you?’
The sergeant read the letter, refolded it and handed it back to Paluzzi.
‘I don’t seem to have any choice, Major. What happens now?’
‘I’m taking him to hospital. He needs that cut treated. I’ll get a full statement from him and have it sent to you first thing in the morning.’
‘That’s against regulations.’
‘I’ll get it cleared with your superiors, you don’t have to worry about that.’
‘And the taxi driver?’
‘He’ll be compensated in full.’ Paluzzi handed the sergeant a business card. ‘Any problems, call me.’
The sergeant pocketed the card, eyed Paluzzi contemptuously, then pushed past him to supervise the arrival of the tow truck.
Kolchinsky looked round as Paluzzi approached them.
‘Any trouble?’
‘Nothing serious.’
‘What about the woman back there?’ Graham asked.
‘She’s dead. I’m going back there now to straighten things out with the carabinieri.’ Paluzzi handed the car keys to Kolchinsky. ‘You drive. Drop me off at the Piazza, then take Mike to the hospital.’
‘Do you want me to come back for you?’
‘No, I’ll get one of my night staff to fetch me. I’ll see you at the hotel.’
‘Fine.’ Kolchinsky opened the driver’s door and looked across the car roof at Paluzzi. ‘Sabrina should be at the hotel if we’re not back by the time you get there.’
Paluzzi nodded and got into the back of the car.
Graham climbed in beside Kolchinsky. ‘Still mad at me, tovarishch?’
Kolchinsky sighed deeply and shook his head slowly to himself. He put the car into gear and pulled away from the kerb.
Six
Whitlock stared distastefully at the take away in front of him that he had sent out for. It was supposed to be bistecca alia pizzaiola steak in a tomato and herb sauce. More like bistecca al’olio. It was swimming in oil. He prodded the steak with the fork and shook his head in disgust. His stomach grumbled. He was hungry, he had to admit it.
The alternative was eating with Young in the dining-room. Suddenly the steak looked appetizing. He opened the second carton, containing peas and courgettes, and tipped them into the first beside the steak. As he ate his mind wandered back over the hours since his arrival in Rome.
Wiseman had been met unexpectedly at the airport by a senior officer from his old unit, the 1st Marine Division, which was stationed at NATO’s southern command in Verona. He had told Wiseman that a staff car and driver, would be at his disposal for the duration of his stay in Rome.
Wiseman had declined the offer, saying he was in Italy as a civilian, not as a soldier. He had accepted the offer of a lift to the Hassler Villa Medici Hotel where, after thanking the officer for his kindness, he had hired a car for himself, then retired to his suite. The officer had taken the hint and discreetly withdrawn.
That was the gist of what Young had told him when he called Wiseman to report that they had checked into the boarding house. Whitlock hated the place. It was small, dirty and smelly. He could hear the incessant blare of a radio in one of the adjoining rooms and he was sure that a woman he had passed on the landing was a prostitute. She was certainly dressed like one. Not that he cared. He was only interested in Carmen.
He had rung the hotel in Paris that afternoon, only to be told that she had checked out the previous evening. He had then called the apartment in New York but the telephone had just rung. He even tried her work number but there had been no reply there either. He rang her sister in New York. She hadn’t seen Carmen since she and C.W. had left for Paris.
She had a lot of friends in New York but they would be the last people she would turn to at a time like this. She was like him in that respect, she kept her personal problems to herself. What if she had packed her things and left the apartment? The idea had certainly crossed his mind but he had rejected it along with all his other little theories. It wasn’t in her nature to do that. She knew he would only worry if he couldn’t contact her, even if she didn’t want to speak to him. So where was she…?