Red Alert (14 page)

Young looked in the rearview mirror as Whitlock passed again, then turned back to Ramona. 'No wonder you were so eager to help me. I get the information I want and at the same time the Red Brigades get to keep tabs on me.'

Ramona shook his head. 'Honestly, mister. I have no ties - '

Young palmed a switchblade from his pocket and rammed it into Ramona's ribs, twisting the blade violently up into the heart. He caught Ramona as he fell forward and pushed him back against the seat. He wiped the blade on Ramona's sleeve, then pocketed the knife and got out of the car. He looked around slowly. There wasn't anyone in sight. He took the envelope from Ramona's hand and closed the door. He removed his gloves, folded them over, and slipped them into his jacket pocket.

At a signal, Whitlock picked him up and drove to the exit. He paid the attendant, then swung the car out into the road and returned to the hotel, remembering the route. Young would expect that of him. He parked in the same spot outside the boarding house.

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'Want a drink?' Young asked, locking the door behind him.

'I don't drink.'

'That's right, you don't,' Young muttered. 'I remember some of your buddies in London telling me that. So what's wrong, why don't you drink?'

Whitlock paused on the top step and looked down at Young. 'My parents were alcoholics. Drink killed them. Does that answer your question?'

'Suit yourself,' Young replied with an indifferent shrug. 'There's a bar on the end of the block. I'm going to get myself a couple of beers. I'll be back in twenty minutes.'

'Then what?'

'We go out again. Just be sure you're ready.'

Whitlock watched Young walk off towards the bar, then looked at the booby-trapped watch. He had fifteen minutes to plant the bug in Young's room. He hurried up to his own room, locking the door behind him, then took a suitcase from the cupboard and placed it on the bed. He had bought the suitcase, as well as two changes of clothing, that afternoon with some of the expenses money Wiseman had given him. He unzipped it and took out a canvas toilet bag. Inside were two microphones, a radio receiver, a micro-cassette player and a pair of small headphones. He had picked up the toilet bag from a contact that afternoon. He checked the microphones. One was a radio microphone. The other was a 'spike mike'. He would need to get into Young's room to plant the radio microphone. It was too risky. Which left him with the spike mike. It was nine inches long (the actual microphone was only two inches in length) with a thin, metallic spike which could be inserted into a wall or window frame and any noises from the bugged room would then vibrate against the spike and pass through it to the microphone. He moved

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to the window and checked the distance between it and the adjoining window. Young's room. Ten feet. Maybe twelve. But there was no way across to it. Then he noticed the steel ladder on the far side of Young's window. He presumed it went all the way to the roof because he couldn't see anything in the darkness above him. It would have to be checked out.

He put the spike mike in his pocket and left the room, locking the door behind him. The fire stairs to the roof were at the end of the corridor. He took them two at a time and climbed out of the hatch on to the flat roof. The top of the ladder was visible from where he stood. He crossed to it and peered down into the alleyway below. It was deserted. He gripped the ladder in both hands and shook it violently. It held firm. He then clamped the spike mike between his teeth and descended the ladder to what was, he calculated, Young's window. The ladder was further away from the window than he had initially thought. Probably to dissuade burglars. He reached out towards the window. The frame was just in reach. That was enough. He locked one arm around the ladder then leaned across and tried to push the tip of the microphone into the wood. He was hoping it would be old and brittle, but his hopes were dashed. The wood was hard. He wiped the sweat from his face, then leaned over again and began to screw the spike into the wood. His arm was aching by the time the microphone was secure. He looked at his watch. He still had eight minutes to spare.

The window was suddenly pushed up. He pressed himself tightly against the ladder, not daring to move in case the slightest noise carried into the bedroom. Young rested his hands on the frame. He had been gone only a few minutes. Why had he returned? Then Whitlock noticed a woman in the alleyway beneath him. It looked like the

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prostitute he had seen earlier in the boarding house. Young leaned out of the window as she passed, his face turned i away from Whitlock. He whistled at her. Whitlock held I his breath, knowing he would be spotted if she looked up | at Young. She didn't. Instead she held up her middle ; finger, then disappeared out into the street. Young laughed i and ducked his head back into the room, closing the i window. Whitlock exhaled deeply. He couldn't believe his ] luck. But he didn't intend to push it. He climbed back up 1 to the roof, pausing a bare minute to wipe the sweat from j his face with a handkerchief before returning to his room ] and locking the door behind him. He set up the apparatus j but used only one of the headphones to see if the micro- | phone was actually working. Silence. He checked the receiver unit. It was definitely working. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall, willing Young to make j some kind of noise. Still silence. He wiped his face again { and tossed the handkerchief onto the bed. There was a j sudden metallic click in the headphone. He frowned, then | smiled to himself when he realized what had made the j noise. Young had opened a can of beer. So that was why j he had come back early. He had decided to drink in his 1 room. Then he heard the familiar sound of the telephone I being picked up. He positioned a pillow behind him, i then sat back against the headboard and slipped both headphones over his ears.

'Yes, good evening. Richard Wiseman, please.' I

The reception was excellent. It was almost as if Young 1 was in the same room. j

'Good evening, sir,' Young said. There was a pause I while Wiseman spoke. 'Yes sir, I met with the informer. I j got all the information I need from him.' Pause. 'Including | the name of the man who pulled the trigger. He's called | Ubrino, he's a senior Brigatista here in Rome.' Pause. 'No,

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sir, he seems to have vanished. But I don't anticipate any problems tracking him down.' Longer pause. 'The other three members the informer mentioned were Pisani, head of the Red Brigades, and his two deputies, Zocchi and Calvieri. They're both brigade chiefs. Zocchi here in Rome and Calvieri in Milan. Zocchi's in jail so we won't be able to get to him, at least not straight away.' Pause. 'No sir, Alexander doesn't know the names. I thought it best to tell him as little as possible. I still say he's a liability.' Pause. 'I'd prefer to see him dead. He already knows too much.' Longer pause. 'I appreciate that, sir. I'll call you again in the morning. Good night, sir.' The receiver was replaced.

Whitlock removed the headphones, then put the apparatus back in the suitcase and locked the cupboard door. He sat on the bed again, his mind racing. Were all four Brigatisti now on Young's hit list? Including Calvieri? He had to pass the information on to Kolchinsky but there would be no time before they went out again. And where were they going? Was Young going to make his first hit? If so, who was his intended target? He knew Young wouldn't tell him anything. That much was evident. And what had Young meant by, 'I appreciate that, sir'? Appreciate that Wiseman was in charge and that he wanted Young to leave Alexander alone? Or did he appreciate the chance to kill Alexander? Whitlock cursed softly to himself. If only he could have heard what Wiseman had said. He wanted to arm himself. He felt naked without his Browning. But Alexander never used firearms. And Young would know that. He couldn't afford to take that chance, it could blow his cover. His wits against Young's firepower. He didn't fancy the odds, not one little bit...

There was a knock at the door.

Whitlock answered it.

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Young stood in the doorway, the can of beer in his hand. 'Let's go.'

'Where are we going?'

'Don't worry, I'll direct you there.'

Whitlock slammed the door angrily behind him and headed for the stairs. Young took another mouthful of beer, then left the can by the door and hurried after Whitlock.

Sabrina closed La Repubblica, got to her feet and moved to the window where she looked out across the brightly-lit city, evoking memories of her previous visits to Rome. The first visit was the one she remembered best, mainly because it was a painful reminder of the way she used to be. The plane ticket had been a twenty-first birthday present from her parents and she had gone with three of her girlfriends from the Sorbonne, where she had been doing her postgraduate degree. She didn't see any of the city's heritage in those two weeks. Their nights were spent at clubs and discos and their days in bed recovering from the night before. And then there were the one-night stands . ..

She turned away from the window and shook her head slowly to herself. It was hard for her to believe that she had once been so immature. Not that it had ended there. After leaving the Sorbonne she had become one of the most sought-after debutantes in Europe. She had attended all the exclusive parties, rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous, and regularly had to fend off proposals of marriage from men old enough to be her grandfather. Then, when she tired of the parties, she found herself another passion: motor racing. It came to a head when she crashed her Porsche at Le Mans. She had severe bone

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fractures and a punctured lung. She spent the next four months in the American Hospital of Paris and came to realize that her life was going nowhere. She needed purpose and direction. She had joined the FBI on her release from hospital and it had given her the maturity she needed to make the transition to UNACO. You've come a long way, she thought to herself, and when she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror she noticed the faint smile of satisfaction on her face.

There was a knock at the door. She peered through the spyhole. It was Paluzzi. She opened the door and invited him in.

He looked around the room. 'Mike and Sergei not back, then?'

She closed the door. 'I thought they were with you.'

He recounted the evening's events. 'I knocked on their doors but there was no reply. I thought they might be with you.'

'I haven't heard from them. I presume they must still be at the hospital.'

Paluzzi nodded, then indicated the armchair by the window. 'May 1?'

'Of course,' she replied with a sheepish grin. 'Sorry, my mind was elsewhere. Can I get you a drink?'

'A soft drink, perhaps. Soda water?'

She took a bottle of soda water from the fridge.

He told her not to bother with a glass and took a long swallow from the bottle, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. 'That's better. It's been quite a day.'

'But hardly constructive,' she replied, sitting on the bed. 'We're just clutching at straws, aren't we? What chance have we got realistically of finding Ubrino before the deadline on Thursday?'

'Not much, I'm afraid. We could certainly do with a

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bit of luck.' Paluzzi took a sip, then pointed the neck of the bottle at Sabrina. 'Conte's our only hope now. The doctors are confident he'll regain consciousness. It's just a matter of when.'

'And you think he knows where Ubrino's hiding?'

'It's obvious that Ubrino's orders were to kill the rest of his team once he had the vial. That's borne out by Nardi's murder as well as the attempt to try and kill Conte. Why else would he have been told to kill them, unless they already knew too much about the operation?'

'I see your point. It's still a long shot, though.'

'I agree. But as you said, what chance have we got of finding Ubrino before Thursday? We have to bank on long shots now.'

They lapsed into a thoughtful silence which was interrupted moments later by the telephone ringing. Sabrina answered it. Paluzzi crossed to the window while she talked.

'That was Calvieri,' she said, replacing the receiver. 'He's had another tip-off. This time in Rome.'

'Did he think it was genuine?'

'All he said was that it was an anonymous call. It certainly smells like a trap.' She shrugged. 'It's got to be checked out anyway.'

The telephone rang again.

'That's probably for me,' he said as she picked up the handset.

She listened momentarily, then nodded and passed the receiver to him. She went to the cupboard to get her Beretta and shoulder holster.

'Calvieri did receive an anonymous call,' he said, hanging up.

She looked round at him as she strapped the holster over her T-shirt. 'Who was that?'

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'One of the men in the van.'

'What van?'

He jabbed his thumb towards the window. 'I've got two men out there monitoring all Calvieri's calls. I told you about it at HQ.'

'No you didn't,' she replied, shaking her head.

'Sorry, I thought I'd told you. We put a tap on his phone and planted a couple of bugs in his room while the two of you were in Venice. I'm sure he suspects he's being bugged but it's worth a try anyway.'

She pulled on a jacket. 'Is he being tailed?'

'When he goes out by himself.'

'And?'

'Nothing.'

There was a knock at the door. She answered it and ushered Calvieri into the room.

'Evening, Paluzzi. I presume Sabrina's told you about the tip-off.'

'Anonymous, I believe? How original.'

'All I was told was that he's been spotted at one of the safe houses here in Rome.'

'Do you think it's a trap?' Paluzzi asked.

'It's possible. As you know, I'm not very popular any more with the Brigatisti here in Rome. Most of them would gladly put a gun to my head and pull the trigger.'

'Do you want back-up?' Paluzzi asked.

'No, definitely not,' Calvieri insisted. 'The last thing we need is a gun battle in the street.'

'Are you armed?' Sabrina asked.