The police car appeared in his rearview mirror. He mounted the jetty carefully, fearful that the wooden boards wouldn’t hold the car’s weight. They held firm. He checked the time. A minute left.
He decided against jumping from the car before it left the jetty, not with so much at stake. He would bail out when it hit the water. It would take several seconds to sink, giving him enough time to swim away.
He pressed the accelerator and the car shot forward. He braced himself as the car launched off the jetty. Then it hit the water, nose first.
He immediately unbuckled his seatbelt and pulled on the door handle. The door wouldn’t open. The car dipped forward and the cold, murky water flooded in. He tugged desperately at the handle then hit the door with his shoulder. It was jammed. The lock had been damaged when the door had been raked against the mountain. Within seconds the inside of the car was flooded. His only chance was the passenger door. He reached for the handle. The car bucked forward, knocking him against the windscreen. He felt as if his lungs would burst. If only he could get to the passenger door…
Whitlock knew something was wrong when he saw Graham struggling with the door handle before the front of the Quattro disappeared. He leapt out of the police car, discarded his jacket and his Browning, and ran to the end of the jetty. He dived into the water just as the last part of the Quattro slid under the water. He took a deep breath and dived. He could see where it had come to rest on its wheels. As he got closer he saw Graham struggling frantically with the passenger door. Whitlock grabbed the handle with both hands and, anchoring his right foot against the back door, he slowly eased it open. Graham pushed desperately from his side until the gap was big enough for him to squeeze through. They immediately propelled themselves upwards to the surface where they paused, coughing and spluttering, to catch their breath before swimming quickly to the jetty. Vlok and the policeman hauled them out of the water. Graham slumped down on to the wooden planks and exhaled deeply. It had been close.
Whitlock crouched beside Graham and put a hand lightly on his shoulder.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah,’ Graham replied, then put an arm around Whitlock’s shoulders.
‘I don’t know how much longer I’d have lasted out there if you hadn’t showed up when you did. Thanks, buddy.’
Whitlock shrugged it off, then stood up and helped Graham to his feet.
‘What we need now is a hot shower and a change of clothing before we catch pneumonia.’ He looked up at the policeman. ‘Any chance of a lift back to our hotel?’
‘You bet,’ the policeman replied with a grin.
Twelve
Rust sat behind his desk. In front of him was a folder containing the latest developments of Strike Force Nine’s operation in Paris. He had read it four times already but his mind refused to take any of it in. All he could think about was the vial. He looked at his watch: 3.30 p.m. An hour-and-a-half had elapsed since the cylinder had been taken away for examination. It could be another thirty minutes before the results were known. Perhaps longer. The waiting was killing him. He took a sip of coffee. It was cold. He spat it back into the cup and was about to make himself a fresh one when he heard a knock at the door.
He looked at the television monitor on his desk. It was Scheffer. He activated the door.
Philpott was on the telephone when Graham and Whitlock entered the office. He gestured for them to take a seat.
‘Thanks for letting me know, Jacques,’ he said finally then replaced the receiver and turned to face them.
‘The results have just come through. The vial contained water.’
‘I can’t say I’m surprised, sir,’ Whitlock replied. ‘As you said, it would have been too easy.’
‘Has Vlok told you what happened with the car?’ Graham asked.
‘Yes. I’ve notified the bomb squad. It’s in their hands now.’ Philpott looked at the desk clock. ‘There’s less than ninety minutes left before the deadline. I want you to rejoin your teams and continue the search for the vial.’
‘And what if we do find another one?’ Graham asked. ‘There won’t be time to send it to Zürich for analysis.’
‘I’ve asked Jacques to have a carbon-steel-plated Magnox flask sent down here from Zürich. It’s similar to the containers that are used for the disposal of highly toxic nuclear waste, only much smaller. The helicopter should get here within the next thirty minutes. Then if the vial is found, it can be sealed inside the flask, rendering it harmless.’
‘But what if it’s another red herring?’ Graham asked.
‘Let’s find it first,’ Philpott replied evasively, then bleeped Paluzzi and Marco to determine their positions so that Whitlock and Graham could rejoin them.
The telephone remained silent for the next twenty minutes. Then it rang twice in the space of five minutes. The first call was from Emile, the helicopter pilot, to say that he had arrived at the Offenbach Centre with the Magnox flask. Philpott told him to remain with the helicopter on the helipad.
The second call was from Michele Molinetti. Philpott couldn’t place the name.
‘Perhaps I should have said Captain Molinetti of the NOCS.’
‘Of course,’ Philpott replied, now remembering the name. ‘You’re at Calvieri’s flat in Milan, not so?’
‘That is correct.’
‘Have you found something?’ Philpott asked.
‘We have found an address book hidden in a secret compartment beneath the floorboards in his bedroom. All the names are of known terrorists here in Italy, except for one. There is no address with the name, just two telephone numbers. One home, one work. I checked the code with the operator, and it’s Zürich.’
‘Zürich?’ Philpott repeated, reaching for his pen. ‘I’ll get on to it right away.’
‘The name is Helga Dannhauser,’ Molinetti said, then went on to read out the two telephone numbers. ‘We have no record of her here in Italy. She could be linked to one of the other European terrorist groups, but none of us has ever heard of her.’
‘I appreciate the call, Captain.’
‘I only hope you have more luck than we’ve had. We had already checked out all the names, even before we found the book. We’re satisfied that none of them is linked to the case. Another dead end as far as we’re concerned.’
‘I’ll let you know if we come up with anything. I’ve got the number of Calvieri’s flat here somewhere.’
‘Colonel Paluzzi knows it anyway. Goodbye, sir, and good luck.’
Philpott replaced the receiver and immediately bleeped Paluzzi. Whitlock rang the office and Philpott asked him to send Paluzzi up to him straight away. When Paluzzi arrived Philpott told him about Molinetti’s call.
‘Helga Dannhauser?’ Paluzzi said thoughtfully as he stared at the sheet of paper Philpott had given to him. ‘The name doesn’t mean anything to me either.’
‘I want you to ring those numbers using the other phone. I would have done it myself but I think you’ll get further with your fluency in German.’
Paluzzi went into the outer office and sat down at the secretary’s desk.
He called the home number first. He let it ring for a minute but there was no reply. He then called the work number.
‘Guten tag, ZRF,’ a female voice answered.
‘Could I speak to Helga Dannhauser, please,’ Paluzzi said in German.