That’s what the receptionist told him when he had called the boarding house from the hotel. He climbed the metal stairs to the first floor and pulled open the door. The corridor was deserted. His plan was simple. He would immobilize both men with the dart gun in his overcoat pocket then withdraw back down the fire escape and make his way round to the reception where he would say that they had called him earlier complaining of upset stomachs. He would then go to their rooms, call the bogus ambulance which was on standby not far from the boarding house, and tell the receptionist that he had diagnosed food poisoning in both cases. They would then be taken away on stretchers, ‘under sedation’, and driven in the ambulance to a safe house on the outskirts of the city. The manager of the boarding house would play down the incident, desperate to avoid any adverse publicity, and by the time the authorities did latch on to the deception the committee would have the answers they wanted and the two men would be dead. He had used the plan in the past to kidnap targets selected by the committee. It had never failed.
He stopped outside Andersen’s room. Certainly the lesser of two evils.
He curled a gloved hand around the dart gun in his pocket and rapped sharply on the door. Silence. He knocked on Yardley’s door. Again, silence. He cursed under his breath. It was what he had been dreading.
The boarding house had only been under surveillance for the past forty minutes. They must have gone out before that. On foot. The Volkswagen Jetta Anderson had hired that morning was still parked out in the street. They could be back at any time. He decided to check the rooms for any clues to their real identities. Not that he held out much hope.
They were professionals. Well, the one calling himself Yardley certainly was. But he would talk, like the others before him. Escoletti had his methods. He was a doctor. A specialist.
He would search Andersen’s room first. Then Yardley’s room. Then he would wait.
Whitlock had left the boarding house soon after Sabrina. He had needed to clear his thoughts. He had gone for a walk, careful to keep easily within a mile radius of the bar at the end of the block where Young was drinking.
What if Calvieri was the next hit on Young’s list? He would have to stop Young if he did get too close to Calvieri. What about the transmitter? He was suddenly glad of the Browning Sabrina had given to him. He had no qualms about killing Young, especially with the threat of the transmitter ever present in his mind. To hell with Philpott’s orders in the dossier to bring Young in alive. He would do what be thought best under the circumstances. And that meant killing Young.
What about Alexander? He doubted he would have to deal with him. How could Alexander possibly trace him? Young wouldn’t have used his real name in London. And there was no record of their departure at any of the airports. An American airbase would be the last place he would think of checking. And even if he did, how far would he get? No, Alexander didn’t worry him.
What did worry him was a revenge attack by the Red Brigades. It had been a mistake to approach the guard so openly outside Pisani’s house. But what choice did he have? He had to get Young out, if only because of the transmitter in his pocket. Had he driven the car up to the gate the guard would have opened fire. Not that he could say anything to Young about Sabrina’s warning. His only hope was if Calvieri went to Switzerland. They would surely follow him. And that would take the heat off them, at least for the time being…
He finished his espresso at the small coffee bar, paid for it, and walked the short distance back to the boarding house. The receptionist handed him his room key, then returned to her knitting. He froze halfway up the stairs when he saw Escoletti using one of the skeleton keys to open Young’s door. He pressed himself against the wall when Escoletti looked round furtively before picking up his black bag and disappearing into Young’s room. Whitlock’s mind was racing. Who was he? A detective? A Brigatista? Did he have any accomplices? Was the boarding house being watched? He looked down into the foyer. It was deserted. He retraced his steps down the stairs and went out into the street. He looked around slowly, careful not to arouse any suspicion.
He couldn’t see anything untoward. Not that he had any idea who, or what, he was looking for. He had to warn Young. He walked to the bar and pushed open the door. It was a small room with a dozen tables dotted about the floor and a counter running the length of one wall. A propeller fan turned slowly overhead. The five customers all sat at the bar. Nobody spoke.
Young sat at the end of the counter, a bottle of Budweiser in front of him. He was about to take a mouthful when he noticed Whitlock standing by the door.
‘Well, how was she?’ he called out, then beckoned Whitlock towards him. ‘As good as she looked?’
‘I’ve got to talk to you,’ Whitlock said, ignoring Young’s unpleasant leer.
‘So talk,’ Young replied, lifting the bottle to his lips.
‘Not here,’ Whitlock retorted. ‘Over there, at one of the tables.’
Young frowned but followed Whitlock to the table furthest away from the counter. Whitlock sat facing the doorway, watching for the tail he was sure had followed him to the bar.
‘What is it?’ Young demanded.
Whitlock told Young what he had seen at the boarding house.
‘And you’ve never seen this guy before?’ Young asked.
Whitlock shook his head. ‘He looked like a cop.’
Young pushed the bottle away from him.
‘We’ve got to get out of here, fast. If you were followed it’ll only be a matter of time before the reinforcements arrive. Wait here.’
‘Where are you going?’
Young didn’t answer the question and crossed to the counter where he spoke softly to the barman. He then took a wad of notes from his jacket pocket and handed them discreetly to the barman who pocketed them then indicated the door behind him with a vague flick of his hand. Young beckoned Whitlock over.
‘What’s going on?’ Whitlock asked.
‘I’ve just bought us an escape route,’ Young replied, then pointed to the entrance. ‘We can’t get out that way. Not if it’s being watched.’
The barman opened the hatch and Whitlock followed Young behind the counter. The barman closed it behind them then led them through the door into the kitchen. A woman looked up from the vegetables she was dicing, smiled fleetingly at the barman, then returned to her work. The barman opened the back door and Young peered out into the alleyway. He gestured for Whitlock to follow him, and the barman closed the door behind them.
‘Which way?’ Whitlock asked.
Young pointed left.
‘According to the barman it comes out in the street at the back of the bar. We’ll be able to get a taxi there.’
‘How much money have you got on you?’
Young shrugged. ‘About forty thousand lire.’
‘I’ve got even less. How far’s it going to get us? You’ll have to call Wiseman and tell him what happened. We need more money.’
‘I’ll call him later. First we need to get to the Stazione Termini,’ Young said as they reached the road. ‘Flag down the first taxi you see.’
‘Why are we going to the station?’ Whitlock demanded. ‘We need money before we can go anywhere.’
‘That’s why we’re going to the station. General Wiseman left a holdall in one of the lockers for this kind of emergency. It contains money, new passports and a duplicate set of the weapons I’ve been using out here. Now let’s find a taxi.’
Eight
Reinhardt Kuhlmann had been the Swiss police commissioner for sixteen years. Now, aged sixty-one, he had vowed to make it his last year in office. It would be his third ‘retirement’ in seven years. On the two previous occasions he had been back behind his desk within months. But, much as he hated the idea, he knew he would have to bow out this time.