Appreciate that Wiseman was in charge and that he wanted Young to leave Alexander alone? Or did he appreciate the chance to kill Alexander?
Whitlock cursed softly to himself. If only he could have heard what Wiseman had said. He wanted to arm himself. He felt naked without his Browning. But Alexander never used firearms. And Young would know that. He couldn’t afford to take that chance, it could blow his cover.
His wits against Young’s firepower. He didn’t fancy the odds, not one little bit… There was a knock at the door. Whitlock answered it. Young stood in the doorway, the can of beer in his hand.
‘Let’s go.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll direct you there.’
Whitlock slammed the door angrily behind him and headed for the stairs. Young took another mouthful of beer, then left the can by the door and hurried after Whitlock.
Sabrina closed La Repubblica, got to her feet and moved to the window where she looked out across the brightly lit city, evoking memories of her previous visits to Rome. The first visit was the one she remembered best, mainly because it was a painful reminder of the way she used to be. The plane ticket had been a twenty-first birthday present from her parents and she had gone with three of her girlfriends from the Sorbonne, where she had been doing her postgraduate degree. She didn’t see any of the city’s heritage in those two weeks. Their nights were spent at clubs and discos and their days in bed recovering from the night before. And then there were the one-night stands…
She turned away from the window and shook her head slowly to herself. It was hard for her to believe that she had once been so immature. Not that it had ended there. After leaving the Sorbonne she had become one of the most sought-after debutantes in Europe. She had attended all the exclusive parties, rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous, and regularly had to fend off proposals of marriage from men old enough to be her grandfather. Then, when she tired of the parties, she found herself another passion: motor racing. It came to a head when she crashed her Porsche at Le Mans. She had severe bone fractures and a punctured lung. She spent the next four months in the American Hospital of Paris and came to realize that her life was going nowhere. She needed purpose and direction. She had joined the FBI on her release from hospital and it had given her the maturity she needed to make the transition to UNACO. You’ve come a long way, she thought to herself, and when she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror she noticed the faint smile of satisfaction on her face.
There was a knock at the door. She peered through the spy hole. It was Paluzzi. She opened the door and invited him in. He looked around the room.
‘Mike and Sergei not back, then?’
She closed the door. ‘I thought they were with you.’
He recounted the evening’s events.
‘I knocked on their doors but there was no reply. I thought they might be with you.’
‘I haven’t heard from them. I presume they must still be at the hospital.’
Paluzzi nodded, then indicated the armchair by the window.
‘May I?’
‘Of course,’ she replied with a sheepish grin. ‘Sorry, my mind was elsewhere. Can I get you a drink?’
‘A soft drink, perhaps. Soda water?’
She took a bottle of soda water from the fridge.
He told her not to bother with a glass and took a long swallow from the bottle, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘That’s better. It’s been quite a day.’
‘But hardly constructive,’ she replied, sitting on the bed. ‘We’re just clutching at straws, aren’t we? What chance have we got realistically of finding Ubrino before the deadline on Thursday?’
‘Not much, I’m afraid. We could certainly do with a bit of luck.’
Paluzzi took a sip, then pointed the neck of the bottle at Sabrina.
‘Conte’s our only hope now. The doctors are confident he’ll regain consciousness. It’s just a matter of when.’
‘And you think he knows where Ubrino’s hiding?’
‘It’s obvious that Ubrino’s orders were to kill the rest of his team once he had the vial. That’s borne out by Nardi’s murder as well as the attempt to try and kill Conte. Why else would he have been told to kill them, unless they already knew too much about the operation?’
‘I see your point. It’s still a long shot, though.’
‘I agree. But as you said, what chance have we got of finding Ubrino before Thursday? We have to bank on long shots now.’
They lapsed into a thoughtful silence which was interrupted moments later by the telephone ringing. Sabrina answered it. Paluzzi crossed to the window while she talked.
‘That was Calvieri,’ she said, replacing the receiver. ‘He’s had another tip-off. This time in Rome.’
‘Did he think it was genuine?’
‘All he said was that it was an anonymous call. It certainly smells like a trap.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s got to be checked out anyway.’
The telephone rang again.
‘That’s probably for me,’ he said as she picked up the handset.
She listened momentarily, then nodded and passed the receiver to him. She went to the cupboard to get her Beretta and shoulder holster.
‘Calvieri did receive an anonymous call,’ he said, hanging up.
She looked round at him as she strapped the holster over her T-shirt.
‘Who was that?’
‘One of the men in the van.’
‘What van?’
He jabbed his thumb towards the window.
‘I’ve got two men out there monitoring all Calvieri’s calls. I told you about it at HQ.’
‘No you didn’t,’ she replied, shaking her head.
‘Sorry, I thought I’d told you. We put a tap on his phone and planted a couple of bugs in his room while the two of you were in Venice. I’m sure he suspects he’s being bugged but it’s worth a try anyway.’
She pulled on a jacket.
‘Is he being tailed?’
‘When he goes out by himself.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing.’
There was a knock at the door. She answered it and ushered Calvieri into the room.
‘Evening, Paluzzi. I presume Sabrina’s told you about the tip-off.’
‘Anonymous, I believe? How original.’
‘All I was told was that he’s been spotted at one of the safe houses here in Rome.’
‘Do you think it’s a trap?’ Paluzzi asked.
‘It’s possible. As you know, I’m not very popular any more with the Brigatisti here in Rome. Most of them would gladly put a gun to my head and pull the trigger.’
‘Do you want back-up?’ Paluzzi asked.
‘No, definitely not,’ Calvieri insisted. ‘The last thing we need is a gun battle in the street.’
‘Are you armed?’ Sabrina asked.
Calvieri nodded.
‘A Heckler & Koch P9,’ Paluzzi said, looking at Sabrina. ‘But don’t rely on him to cover your back. He never uses it.’
‘I’ve never been known to use it. There is a difference.’
There was an uneasy silence as the two men stared contemptuously at each other.
‘Fabio, you’re welcome to wait here for Mike and Sergei,’ Sabrina said, deliberately stepping between them. ‘They should be back any time now.’
‘Thanks,’ Paluzzi replied. ‘I will. Take care of yourself.’
She smiled reassuringly and followed Calvieri from the room.
The small red-brick house, bordered by a neatly trimmed hedge, was a typical example of a Red Brigades safe house. An inconspicuous building in the heart of suburbia.
Calvieri pulled up opposite the house and killed the engine. He looked at it. A paved footpath, flanked by well-tended flowerbeds, led up to the front door which was illuminated by a subtle entrance light. The only other light came from behind the drawn curtains in the room to the left of the door. He checked out the garage to the right of the house.