Authors: Colin Forbes
Tags: #Fashion, #Political Freedom & Security, #Tweed (Fictitious Character), #Fiction, #Suspense, #Political Science, #Design, #Terrorism
Then her next tentative step felt a stone under it, small
and round. Had she moved less cautiously the stone would
have gone rolling down the flight behind her. In the dis
tance, further round the curved tiers, she heard the sound of something hard clattering down steps. Then whispers. There was a gang of them. She continued climbing.
The moonlight didn't penetrate the staircase but she had
good night sight and her eyes were now accustomed to the
dark. She was approaching the top when she saw a figure
above her, crouched with its back to her, holding some
kind of machine pistol. He was staring to his right. He
had spotted Beaurain, was waiting for the moment to shoot
him down with a fusillade. She glanced to her right again. Beaurain was below her but his head was still so visible.
Despite being shorter, she had made swifter progress up
towards the top. Her legs began to ache. She ignored
the pain.
The figure above her was moving now, elevating the
barrel of his weapon, taking deliberate aim. She had earlier
dispensed with gloves. She tensed, raised her Browning,
gripped in both hands, fired. Once, twice, again. The
figure stiffened, lost its balance, tumbled down the staircase
towards her. The weapon clattered down after it.
She stopped the figure's fall with one hand, picked up
the weapon with the other. Her Browning was bolstered.
The weapon was a Kalashnikov. She switched on her torch
for a second. The weapon still had a full magazine. She
checked the body quickly, again switching on her torch for a brief moment. Another magazine was protruding from a
pocket. She grabbed it. The gunman was dead. Beaurain appeared at the top, ran down the few steps.
'You're too tall, Jules,' she snapped. 'He could see
your head.'
'So I'm still alive because you spotted him. I'll take the
Kalashnikov.'
'No you won't. I can use it . . .'
Recently she had spent her annual training session with
tough Drake at the training mansion hidden away in the Surrey countryside. Drake had checked her on the Uzi, then trained her hard on a Kalashnikov.
'They may be coming for us along the top,' he said, his
revolver in his hand.
They darted up. There was a wide terrace behind the
tier of seats at the top. Three men were running towards
them. She aimed the Kalashnikov, fired a long burst. They
all dropped, didn't move. A shot fired from lower down whipped past just above Paula's shoulder. Beaurain fired.
The killer sank out of sight.
More shots from different
levels below. Beaurain swung his gun at different angles,
firing each time. No more shots. He knew he had hit
all four.
She heard feet clumping fast towards them from behind
along the top terrace. Swinging round, she let loose another
burst. The shock of her hail of bullets lifted the killer off his
feet. He collapsed backwards, lay sprawled on the terrace,
still as death.
One more attacker stood on a seat below them, took
careful aim. Beaurain, his revolver refilled with fresh ammo,
fired once. In the moonlight he saw blood spurt from the
man's chest, then he sank out of sight.
'How many more?' Paula wondered as she slid in the
second magazine.
'Listen . . .'
The amphitheatre, now filled with more blood probably
than in the days of gladiatorial combat, was still, very
silent. A voice called out, echoing round the amphitheatre as though it spoke through a funnel created by holding up
two hands to its face.
'Don't shoot. I am Aldo Petacci. Coming towards you along the top terrace. There are no more. I counted them
coming in.'
He was lean-faced, cadaverous, as though he needed a good
meal. Tall and thin, wearing a windcheater, he came towards them with both arms raised well above his head. They could
see him clearly in the torch beam Beaurain shone on him while Paula aimed her Kalashnikov.
He stopped. His hands were shaking. He walked up to
them very slowly. Waited a good six feet away.
'I am Aldo Petacci,' he repeated. 'Have you something
to show me?'
Beaurain produced from his wallet the card Mario had
given him way back in Milan, which seemed a thousand miles, a year away. Petacci examined the card, looked at
the back where Mario had drawn a strange symbol, then
smiled.
'I have a water bottle,' he continued in English. 'If you are thirsty . . .'
'I am parched,' said Paula. She knew it was tension. She was surprised when Petacci extracted a clean handkerchief
from his pocket, removed the screw cap from the water
bottle slung over his shoulder, carefully wiped the neck
before handing it to her. So hygienic. She took three swal
lows, handed it to Beaurain who also quenched his thirst.
'Mr Petacci,' Paula remarked, 'your English is perfect.
You could be an Englishman.'
'I am.' The lean face broke into a smile. 'Mario told
me a Jules Beaurain and friend would be coming. So I
waited to see if you could survive inside this place. Had
I realized you were British, like myself, I'd have come in to give a hand.'
'So Petacci is an assumed name?'
'One of many. My Italian is good enough to pass for one
of them in this country.'
'You have information for us,' Beaurain said tersely.
'The route they use when they've come in from the
East is via Milan. They board an express for Paris. Then
they take a train to the coast of Brittany, end up in St Malo. Guides wait for them, put them aboard fishing
vessels which cross the Channel. A few miles from the
coast of Britain they transfer to dinghies when the sea's calm. They land at a remote beach somewhere near Has
tings. More guides are waiting with cars to take them
on.'
'Take them on to where?' Beaurain snapped.
'That he didn't know. But he knew the spectacular target
is London.'
'They sound well organized. Mind telling me how you
came by this .priceless information? If it's true?'
Petacci smiled grimly. 'It is true. I persuaded an Afghan who spoke unnervingly good English.'
'Might I ask you how you persuaded an Afghan to tell
you all this?'
'You may.' Petacci smiled. 'You just did. I used the one method which would make him talk. I threatened to cut off
his beard. Without that he couldn't join his own people. They would know something had happened, stick a knife
into him.'
'Have you any idea,' Beaurain persisted, 'how many of
them have followed this route?'
'More than twenty. Their European base was Milan.
Now it is somewhere in Britain. No idea where. But some
thing very big is being planned. No point in telling Victor Warner, Minister for Home Security. Man's an idiot.
Always gets it wrong . . .'
'What is your real name?' Beaurain persisted, still holding
a wad of banknotes.
'Oh, for heaven's sake!' Paula protested.
Petacci smiled. 'Your Belgian friend is right to check me
out. As far as he can.' He looked at Beaurain. 'George,
Hugh, Alfred. Any name you like. None of them is right.'
'Don't answer me this question,' said Paula, 'and I
will understand. But have you worked for some outfit in
Britain?'
'Used to be with Special Branch. Since I'm a linguist they
sent me over here to Europe. I made a lot of contacts. In those days I got fed up with Special Branch, a bunch of clods. So I decided to leave and go freelance over here.
The money's much better.' He smiled again. 'But I do
hear that since Buller took over as top dog they've cleaned
up their act.'
'One more question,' Beaurain went on. Paula groaned
to herself. 'Surely that Afghan you interrogated will tell his
mob what he's told you.'
'Doubt it.' Petacci smiled again. 'After I'd bled him white
I shot him in the head, dumped the corpse inside a deep
ravine. And if you're returning home which route are you
using?'
'Same one we used to get out here,' Paula told him. 'By
express from Milan to Paris, then Eurostar . . .'
'No!' Petacci was emphatic, still smiling. 'They will be
waiting for you at Centrale. Take a train from here back
to Milan. Slip out by the side exit, grab a cab, go to the
airport. Fly back to Heathrow. It's late but there's been
another hold-up, so flights are all leaving very late. I can drive you to Verona station.' He checked his watch. 'You should catch an express from Venice soon.'
'Thank you for your help,' Beaurain said, now gra
cious. He handed Petacci an envelope stuffed with notes.
'Your fee.'
Petacci riffled through the banknotes, took half, handed
the rest back to the Belgian. 'I still love England. Half will
keep the wolf from the door.' He looked at Paula. 'You'll
be appalled when you see my car but I've installed a brand new souped-up engine. It goes like the wind. Which is the
way you'd better go to get out of Italy alive. Beaurain, one
question you didn't ask.'
'Which was?'
'Who are the people I've been talking about. Miss Grey -and yourself - have had a tough time. Thought I'd better keep that bit till last. They're al-Qa'eda.'
18
Late on the afternoon of the day when Beaurain and Paula
were travelling aboard the express to Verona, in London
Tweed was surprised to be visited by an unexpected guest. It
was murky beyond the windows in his office, another typical
February day. The only other two people with him were
Marler, who had just arrived, and Monica, who seemed to
live behind her word processor.
'A visitor for you downstairs,' Monica announced with a wry smile. 'Jasper Bullet, that nice man from Special Branch.'
'He must have got back from Italy. Send him up.'
The bulky figure of Buller, wearing a raincoat - no camel-hair uniform this time - walked in. He smiled at Monica, then at Tweed as he sat down after removing the
raincoat. His manner was so different from the Bull, as his
staff had nicknamed him, Monica was taken aback.
'Would you like some coffee?' she suggested. , 'A gallon of it would be welcome.' He swung round and
again smiled.
Tweed studied him. Under his air of affability he thought
he detected tension. Buller lit a cigarette after asking permission. He stared at Tweed over the flame of his lighter.
'The situation is probably desperate,' he said quietly.
'You found out something in Milan?'