‘What’s this all about?’ Kessler demanded in German, getting to his feet and removing his glasses.
‘Vito’s a good worker–’
‘We don’t want a reference,’ Paluzzi cut in, ‘we want to talk to him. Are you going to take us to him or do I have to call Dieter Vlok and tell him that his maintenance manager is refusing to cooperate with the authorities in a matter of national security?’
Kessler scowled but did as he was told, leading them into the workshop where he identified Cellina as the figure standing with his back to them on the other side of the room.
‘We’ll take it from here,’ Paluzzi said to Kessler. ‘Thank you for your help.’
Kessler looked from Paluzzi to Whitlock, then turned and left the room, muttering under his breath. The other five maintenance men in the workshop were watching them. Only Cellina seemed oblivious to their presence. It was not until Paluzzi approached Cellina that he noticed the blowtorch in his hand. He was welding. Paluzzi stopped a few feet away from Cellina, out of range of the blowtorch, and called out to him.
At first he thought Cellina hadn’t heard him but a moment later he switched off the power and looked around.
‘Are you Vito Cellina?’ Paluzzi asked in Italian.
Cellina pushed the visor away from his face. He was a gangling man in his thirties with collar-length brown hair and a sallow complexion.
‘Yes. Who are you?’
‘Security. I’d like to talk to you about a friend of yours. Nino Ferzetti.’
‘He’s not here,’ Cellina said, glancing nervously about him. ‘He didn’t come in to work this morning.’
‘That’s because you spiked his drinks last night.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Cellina stammered.
Paluzzi ripped the visor from Cellina’s face then grabbed him by the front of his overall and slammed him against the workbench.
‘I’m in no mood to play games with you. I want some answers and I want them now!’
One of Cellina’s colleagues picked up a screwdriver, but when he tried to approach Paluzzi he found his path blocked by Whitlock, who had unfastened his jacket to reveal the bolstered Browning. The man took a hesitant step backwards, then tossed the screwdriver on to the workbench. Whitlock ushered the men from the workshop and hovered menacingly at the door to dissuade any of them from returning.
‘Now it’s just you and me,’ Paluzzi hissed, tightening his grip on Cellina’s lapels. ‘Where’s the vial Calvieri gave to you this morning?’
Cellina made a desperate grab for the blowtorch. He managed to curl his fingers around the handle before Paluzzi brought the butt of his Beretta down savagely on the back of his hand. Cellina cried out in pain and jerked his fingers away from the blowtorch, which clattered on to the floor. Paluzzi twisted Cellina’s arm behind his back and frog marched him to the band-saw in the middle of the room. He switched it on, then forced Cellina’s face on to the cold metal workbench. Cellina struggled in vain to break Paluzzi’s hold as his face was pushed ever closer towards the serrated blade.
‘I’ll tell you where it is,’ Cellina screamed, his eyes wide with fear. ‘Please, no more. I’ll tell you.’
‘I’m listening,’ Paluzzi replied, still pushing Cellina’s face towards the blade.
‘It’s under my workbench,’ Cellina shouted breathlessly.
Cellina’s face was within inches of the blade when Paluzzi reached down and switched off the machine. Cellina crumpled to the floor, shaking, his face buried in his hands.
Paluzzi hauled him to his feet and shoved him towards the workbench.
‘Show me,’ he snarled, then unholstered his Beretta and pressed it into Cellina’s back. ‘And do it slowly.’
Cellina crouched down and pointed a trembling finger at the metal cylinder attached to the underside of the workbench with masking tape.
‘Did he say what was in it?’ Paluzzi demanded.
Cellina shook his head.
‘He just told me to keep it here in the workshop. Out of sight. That’s why I taped it beneath my workbench.’
Whitlock crossed to where they were crouched and peered at the metal cylinder.
‘It certainly looks intact.’
Cellina frowned at Whitlock. He spoke no English. Whitlock eased himself into a position where he could study the cylinder more carefully. It wasn’t booby trapped. He peeled off the masking tape, then stood up and checked the serial number: 814785. The same number as on the cylinder stolen from Neo-Chem Industries.
‘I’ll call the Colonel,’ Whitlock said, walking to the wall phone beside the swing door.
‘Did Calvieri say why he wanted you to keep it here?’ Paluzzi asked Cellina.
‘All he said was that someone would contact me this afternoon and I was to give it to them.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know He said they would identify themselves with a password-’
‘What was in it for you?’
Cellina sagged against the workbench and ran his fingers through his hair.
‘My stepsister was a Brigatista in Milan. She died last year from a drug overdose. Calvieri threatened to tell my mother about Louisa. She knew Louisa died from drugs but she didn’t know anything about her ties with the Red Brigades. She suffered a heart attack within days of Louisa’s death. It nearly finished her off. Another shock like that would surely kill her. I couldn’t risk it. You must understand that.’
‘And how’s she going to react to your arrest? Have you thought about that?’
Cellina buried his face in his hands again.
Paluzzi crossed to where Whitlock was standing by the swing door.
‘What did the Colonel say?’
‘He wants me to take the cylinder up to the office straight away. It’ll have to be sent for analysis. He’s arranging for a security guard to take Cellina off our hands but he wants you to wait here until the guard arrives.’
‘Sure,’ Paluzzi said, then noticed Whitlock’s questioning look towards Cellina. ‘I’ll tell you about it later.’
Whitlock nodded and reached for the swing door. He suddenly turned back to Paluzzi.
‘What would you have done if he’d called your bluff?’
‘He didn’t, did he?’ Paluzzi replied, glancing at the band-saw.
‘But what if he had?’
‘It could have got a bit messy,’ Paluzzi said with an indifferent shrug.
‘You would have carved up his face?’ Whitlock asked in disbelief.
‘What use is a threat unless you’re prepared to back it up?’
‘Now I see what the Colonel meant,’ Whitlock muttered.
‘About what?’
‘You and Mike being a bad influence on each other,’ Whitlock replied, then disappeared out into the corridor.
‘I’m not convinced,’ Philpott said, turning the cylinder around in his fingers. ‘I still say it’s a red herring. That’s why I don’t intend to tell the others until it’s been analysed. If they think there’s a chance that it’s the real vial it could lull them into a false sense of complacency. And that would jeopardize the search.’
‘Your confidence in them is touching, sir,’ Whitlock said, fighting the anger in his voice.
‘I have every confidence in them,’ Philpott replied sharply. ‘I know they wouldn’t let it affect them consciously. But the subconscious plays tricks on us all with out us even realizing it.’
The door opened and Kolchinsky entered breathlessly.
‘I came as soon as I could. But why the secrecy?’
‘Because I’m not convinced this cylinder contains the virus,’ Philpott replied, placing it on the table. ‘You didn’t mention anything to Visconti, did you?’
‘I did as you said and told him you needed me back here to help you co-ordinate the search.’