Sabrina looked across at Kolchinsky who was standing with his back to her at the window then turned and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
Whitlock stared at the food in front of him. Choucroute garnie, sauerkraut with boiled ham and Vienna sausages. One of his favourite dishes. He had bought it on the way back to the boarding house but when he had opened the carton in his room his appetite seemed to vanish. He just wasn’t hungry. He had prodded the food absently with his fork for the last hour without making any attempt to eat it. Now it was cold and unappetizing. He suddenly stabbed the fork into one of the sausages and pushed the carton away from him. He glanced at his watch. 10.40 p.m.
What did time matter? He stood up and crossed to the telephone on the bedside table. He picked up the receiver and rang the apartment in New York. He let it ring for a minute. No reply. How many times had he rung the number in the last hour? Ten? More like fifteen. And each time the same. He had rung Carmen’s work number half a dozen times as well, with the same result. He replaced the receiver, then walked to the window and looked down into the alley below him. A teenage couple were kissing in the shadows of a doorway. He turned away angrily and sat down again. He was out of his mind with worry. Where was Carmen? Her sister hadn’t seen her. Her friends hadn’t seen her. It was completely out of character for her to act like this. He had called all the main hospitals in New York but none of them had any record of her admittance.
He had even contacted the city mortuaries but again his enquiries had drawn a blank. He was desperate to talk to her. He suddenly banged his fist angrily on the table. He had to stop dwelling on Carmen’s disappearance and concentrate on the assignment. Damn his selfishness. He had to pull himself together. Quickly.
He picked up one of the keys on the table. It was for Young’s room. He had been meaning to search the room ever since he got back to the boarding house. Now was a perfect time. It would help him to take his mind off Carmen. Well, he could try. He left his room, looked the length of the deserted corridor, then moved to the adjacent door, unlocked it, and slipped inside. He closed the door behind him and switched on the light. The room was identical to his own. A double bed, a table, a chair, a chest of drawers and a washbasin beside the window. Even the garish wallpaper was the same. He searched the chest of drawers and found a passport in the bottom drawer in the name of Vincent Yannick. A Walther P5 lay beside the passport. It was a good, reliable handgun, used mainly by the West German and Dutch police forces and exported extensively to both North and South America. He still preferred the Browning for accuracy. Not that he had much choice. The Browning Sabrina had given to him in Rome was in the hands of the NOCS.
As was everything else they had left behind at the boarding house. He looked under the bed and pulled out the pale-blue holdall Young had taken from the locker at Berne’s Belpmoos Airport. He unzipped it. Inside were bundles of Swiss francs, all in used notes. He would give the money to Kolchinsky to hand over to UNICEF.
He looked around sharply when he heard the noise. It came from next door, from within his own room. He immediately thought of the scientist being sent from Zürich to deactivate the booby-trapped watch. But there was another possibility. A Red Brigades assassin. He peered out into the corridor. It was still empty. He closed the door silently behind him and approached his own room cautiously, the Walther gripped tightly in his hand. The door was ajar. He kicked it open and dropped to one knee, training the Walther on the figure standing by the window. The man was in his forties with short blond hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He raised his hands slowly.
‘Who are you?’ Whitlock demanded.
‘My name is Dr. Hans Gottfried,’ came the nervous reply. ‘Monsieur Rust sent me. I did knock on the door but there was no reply. That is why I came inside.’
Whitlock got to his feet and tucked the Walther into his belt.
‘I’m sorry if I startled you but I couldn’t afford to take any chances.’
Gottfried lowered his hands. ‘I quite understand.’
‘Can I get you something to drink? Tea? Coffee? That’s about all they serve here.’
‘Nothing, thank you. May I see the watch?’
Whitlock held out his arm. Gottfried studied the watch for some time, then asked to see the transmitter. He turned it around in his hand then undid the protective cap to expose the detonator button.
‘Don’t touch that!’ Whitlock shouted, his eyes wide in horror.
Gottfried smiled gently.
‘I do not intend to, I assure you. I was just looking at the design.’
Whitlock slumped on to the bed.
‘I’m sorry, I’m just on edge. I’ve been like this ever since I was tricked into wearing this damn thing. What if the strap came loose while I was asleep? What if Young went on drinking and inadvertently strayed more than three miles away from the boarding house? You could count the number of hours’ sleep I’ve had since Monday on one hand. I’m exhausted.’
‘I can well imagine,’ Gottfried said, picking up an attaché case from beside the bed. ‘You will sleep well tonight, I promise you that.’
How the hell could he sleep well not knowing where Carmen was? He stifled a yawn, then forced a quick smile when he noticed that Gottfried was watching him.
‘Do you know anything about the origins of the device?’ Gottfried asked, placing the case on the table.
‘He did say it was the first of its kind and he had this insane idea to patent it if it proved successful.’
‘Homemade. I thought as much. That means the transmitter could also be booby-trapped.’
‘Wonderful,’ Whitlock muttered, then crossed to the window and sat on the edge of the sill.
‘What’s the next move?’
Gottfried patted the attaché case.
‘This contains a portable scanner we developed last year. It works on the same principle as the X-ray machines used at airports to check suitcases. We will be able to see if the transmitter is booby-trapped.’
‘And if it is? What then?’
‘That would depend on the nature of the device,’ Gottfried replied, opening the case and starting to piece together the machine. ‘If it is a tricky operation we will have to fly back to Zürich and defuse it in the laboratory. And if something were to go wrong, God forbid, there would be a medical team on standby to give you immediate assistance.’
‘That’s comforting to know,’ Whitlock replied, grim faced.
‘We have to accept that possibility,’ Gottfried said, glancing up at Whitlock.
‘The only way to deactivate this device is by cutting it off at the power source. That means opening the casing. And if this man Young knew anything about booby-traps, he could have made the job very difficult indeed.’
Whitlock wiped the back of his hand across his clammy forehead.
Gottfried removed a length of flex from the case and held up the plug which was attached to the end of it.
‘Where is the nearest socket?’
‘By the bed. Here, I’ll plug it in for you.’
‘Thank you,’ Gottfried said, handing the flex to Whitlock.
‘Okay?’
’Ja, it is working.’
Whitlock took up a position behind Gottfried’s chair and looked more closely at the apparatus inside the attaché case: a twelve-inch fold-up square box, with protective curtains at each end, a compact control console and a monitor which was built into the lid of the case.
Gottfried placed the transmitter inside the chamber, then pressed a series of keys on the console in front of him. An image of the transmitter’s components appeared on the screen.
‘The normal two wires connected to the detonator cap,’ Gottfried said, pointing them out with the tip of his pen. ‘Nothing unusual there.’