by Colin Forbes
'You know something?' she remarked. 'No one took any notice of what happened. Maybe it's an everyday occurrence in Milan. You know where we're going?'
'Yes. I know Milan well. This tram stops at a point near where we're going. Are you OK?'
'Never felt better,' she fibbed. 'Does our friend know we are coming?'
'You heard me calling someone on my mobile as we got near Milan. He knows the time that express arrives. And he's never been inside the Hassler in his life - equivalent to the Ritz in London.'
'Any idea who those two men were?'
'None at all. But I don't think they were interested in looking after our health . . .'
She peered out of the windows as the tram stopped. This street was lined on both sides with old four- and five-storey buildings. The ground floors were mostly small shops - bakeries, grocers, bookshops and the inevitable supermarket. The tram moved off again. Passengers had alighted, no one had come aboard. They were now the only travellers. Peering out, Paula watched women shrouded in headscarves, heads bent against the bitter wind, clutching plastic bags as they hurried along. The sun had vanished and it was getting dark.
'Next stop we get off,' Beaurain said. 'It's a bit of a walk but we can survey where we're going. Which is rather necessary after our reception at Centrale . . .'
When they got off after Beaurain had paid the fares Paula wrapped her woollen scarf round her head. Even so, the biting wind chilled her face. They walked along in silence as the tram passed them and Beaurain kept glancing back over his shoulder . . .
'Expecting more trouble?' Paula enquired.
'Someone may have used his mobile to warn that we have arrived.'
'But both those thugs in the limo were knocked out,' she protested.
'You're forgetting the man on the express — Coiffeured Hair as you called him. He probably saw what happened and has again phoned ahead. There's the building, Murano's HQ and home.'
There were fewer shops, few pedestrians, but still plenty of traffic. Beaurain had nodded towards a strange building which jutted out into the street, narrowing it. Constructed of large blocks of grey stone, it had a weird eyebrow window on the first floor, an entrance below of two heavy wooden doors. Reaching it, Beaurain pressed the bell alongside a speaker phone. Before he could say anything an accented voice spoke in English.
'Saw you come, my dear Jules. Push the right-hand door, when it opens walk in and up the stairs. Door closes automatically behind you . . .'
'It's very quiet round here,' Paula remarked.
'Too quiet,' Beaurain snapped.
Beaurain led the way across a small stone-paved entrance hall. He began to climb a spiral stone staircase in a corner, its sides solid stone. It curved all the way to the top, where someone opened a door. They entered a large stone-paved room with a low ceiling, so low Beaurain had to dip his head. He gestured to Paula, made an introduction to the sole occupant of the room.
Mario Murano was short and stocky. His hair was brown and short, his plump face wreathed in a welcoming smile. He reminded Paula of a teddy bear as he took her hand in both of his. He was garbed in a sleeveless leather jacket, leather trousers, suede shoes.
'You bring me a lovely present,' he gurgled. 'This beautiful young lady, who wears an air of competence, knows what she is doing. A professional. I sense it.'
His English was fluent and with barely a trace of an Italian accent. Paula immediately felt at home in this strange room. She smiled back at him.
'You exaggerate, Signer Murano . . .'
'Mario! Please. I am Mario to my friends. I can tell you are already a good friend. Now, you find my home interesting, I can tell. Explore! Please do while I am pouring the wine.'
'Thank you, Mario. Yes, I do find your home interesting. It is so unusual . . .'
Her eyes had scanned the room swiftly. A quick scan to avoid giving offence. But Mario had noticed. She went over to the only window in the room, the eyebrow-shaped window she had noticed when they were walking along the street.
To examine it she had to crouch. Its base line was flush with the floor. At either end it curved upwards in an artistic arch. From the tip of the arch to the base it was no more than three feet high. She was looking down the street and pavement they had walked along. She stood up.
'So this is how you spotted that we were coming.'
'Yes, indeed.' Mario chuckled. 'Now come and join your friend, Jules, who has already made himself comfortable. But only when you have completed your exploration. I can tell it interests you, my rabbit's warren.'
Beaurain had quickly seated himself in one of the high-backed chairs with armrests. The chairs were covered with old and tasteful tapestry, placed round a heavy and large antique table. Paula continued her exploration, while Jules sat with an amused smile.
In three of the stone walls facing the window were alcoves which began at knee-height above the floor. She looked at several of the leather-bound books perched spine to spine. They covered a variety of subjects in different languages, including a number on espionage going back to the foundation of the British Secret Service in the time of Queen Elizabeth I.
'The wine is Chianti,' Mario told her. 'If you don't like it, the pot contains freshly made coffee. Also a carafe of water. Take your choice.'
'Your English is so perfect,' she remarked, sipping the wine.
'Ah! You see when I was young I spent three years in London working in a fish and chip shop. They don't make such wonderful chips in Italy! Your health, my dear.'
'Mario, we are short of time,' Beaurain broke in with a hint of impatience. 'I need to know what happens to all the money sent to you by that scoundrelly Belgian banker.'
'I take a small commission and then transmit the bulk electronically to Aruba in the Dutch Antilles.'
'South America now,' Paula commented.
'That's tough,' Beaurain commented. 'Persuading a banker on that island is easier than breaking into Fort Knox, but not much easier.'
'From there it is transmitted to a secret destination,' Mario said with a smile. 'Aruba once made a mistake and I was sent a copy of the onward transmission. It then goes to a Canadian bank in the Bahamas. I have the details.'
'Fancy a trip to the Bahamas?' Beaurain asked Paula with a touch of mockery.
Mario was fiddling inside a fat wallet he had produced from his jacket. He extracted a sheet of folded paper, unfolded it, handed it to Beaurain. He chuckled again.
'There are people - nasty people - who would pay a fortune for that information.' He waved a hand. 'No, Jules, I do not want a penny.'
'Ed Pendleton,' Beaurain said, reading from the paper. 'I do know the gentleman. He's their top director.'
'You see!' Mario waved his arms excitedly as he looked at Paula. 'Jules knows the whole world. An amazing man.'
'He doesn't know the route used by al-Qa'eda to send their murderous killers to Britain,' she observed.
The whole atmosphere changed. Mario was silent. His face now had a grave, almost nervous expression. Paula had drunk her glass of wine and, smiling at Mario, she poured herself coffee from the elegant pot after removing its cover. She drank some cautiously, still smiling at Mario to cheer him up. The coffee was very strong.
'If the reply is going to put you in danger we don't want to hear it,' she said, careful not to look at Beaurain.
'Danger.' Mario repeated the word solemnly. 'I should warn you there is danger everywhere in Milan. You must be very careful . . .'
A phone started ringing. Mario picked up a mobile from a stool by his side. He began talking rapidly in Italian. His whole personality had changed. His rounded jaw tightened, his eyes were half-closed, his voice rasping. When he put the mobile back on the stool he looked grim.
'A problem?' Beaurain enquired quietly.
'I must apologize,' Mario said, turning to Paula, handing her a plate of biscuits. She picked one up, slipped it into her mouth. It tasted good. 'I have to go and meet someone,' Mario continued, standing up
. 'It should not take long so you wait until I return.' He looked at Beaurain. 'In case I do not come back . . .' Paula's stomach nerves rattled, 'you have to go to Verona to meet the man who can tell you the route these evil men use to reach their base in Britain. He is Aldo Petacci. Shall I spell it? No, you have got it. Aldo will tell you. I do not know that information.' Picking up the mobile, he pressed numbers. Again he spoke in rapid Italian, the gist of which Paula, with her limited Italian, could not catch.
Beaurain looked across at Paula. His expression was as grim as Mario's. He eased himself back in his chair, his right hand slipping under his coat. She knew he was checking on his revolver. Mario put down the mobile.
'I have spoken to Aldo. He will meet both of you at Verona tomorrow evening at 6 p.m. exactly. Inside the amphitheatre. You know it, Jules?'
'I know Verona. And the amphitheatre.'
'It all sounds dramatic, but Aldo is like that. Secretive.' He stood up. He extracted a card from his wallet, handed it to Beaurain. 'Give Aldo this. It confirms you are who you are. One more thing. If I do not return within about one hour . . .' Paula swallowed the third biscuit she had been eating to settle her stomach '. . . you leave here,' Mario continued, 'but not by the way you came in. You see that door over there? I will unlock it. You leave that way. It takes you down into a maze of alleys. Go quickly if you have to.'
'Can we help in any way?' suggested Paula.
'No! But thank you.' He went to the rear door, unlocked it. 'Watch your feet. There is a narrow staircase behind that door. I must go now.' He went over to Paula and hugged her. She nearly burst into tears. 'It has been such a pleasure to know you, to enjoy your company.'
At the door through which they had entered he turned back. He handed a folder to Beaurain. 'There are two return rail tickets to Verona. So you do not have to go to the ticket office at Centrale.'
'Do take care,' Paula called out.
'Thank you.' Mario smiled, became the same man he had been when they arrived. 'I go to my meeting in my Fiat. You probably saw it parked on the pavement when you arrived.'
The door closed on him as he left. Paula ran over to the eyebrow window, crouched down. It was dark but street lamps illuminated the area. There was no one about. All the shoppers had gone home.
'What are you doing?' Beaurain called out harshly.
'I can watch him leave.'
Beaurain joined her, bending very low. They did see Mario climb inside his Fiat, drive it off the pavement and down the street. He had only gone a short distance when men wearing balaclava helmets appeared from nowhere. They were holding automatic weapons. Uzis, Beaurain thought.
Mario had no chance. A hail of gunfire hammered into the Fiat. Mario stopped, threw open the front door, a gun in his hand. The gunfire increased in ferocity. Mario fell forward, sprawled on the pavement under a street light. Paula could see the pavement turning red with his blood.
'Oh God!' she exclaimed, her voice a mix of fury and sorrow.
'They're coming this way,' Beaurain snapped. 'The rear door.' He grabbed Paula's arm. They ran to the door. They had just reached it when a fresh hail of gunfire hit the eyebrow window. The glass shattered, A large object was thrown through the unprotected window, landed on the floor. Beaurain had the door open, hauled Paula with him, slammed the door shut, a torch in his other hand lighting a very narrow winding stone staircase. There was a tremendous thump against the door Beaurain had closed behind them. The door shook, but held.
'What the hell was that?' Paula cried.
'They threw a big grenade - maybe a bomb - through the open window. And that door is three inches thick. We must move - but watch your footing.'
Gripping an iron rail, Paula followed him down the diabolical, twisting stone staircase. At the bottom Beaurain's torch shone on another heavy door, closed with a bar. He lifted the bar, peered out into a dimly lit alley, gun in hand as he'd switched off his torch, shoved it in a pocket.
It was very quiet and they had a choice of alleys. One to the right, another to their left, the third straight ahead. The latter was vaguely illuminated with side lights attached to the stone walls. The alleys were paved with old cobbles. No one anywhere.
'We must find a hotel for the night,' Beaurain decided, 'so follow me.'
He made his cautious way down the alley straight ahead and soon it curved round dangerous corners. Paula, gripping her Browning, kept glancing back. If the murderers of Mario found them here they'd have little chance of surviving.
14
Paula never forgot their creep through the sinister alleys. Like herself, Beaurain also wore rubber-soled shoes, so they made no sound as they advanced slowly like ghosts amid the long shadowed areas between infrequent lanterns hung from ancient stone walls.
They passed alcoves inside which heavy doors closed off the entrances. High up, at first floor level, square windows, showing no lights, were set well back. Every now and again even narrower passages led off the main alley. Beaurain continued straight ahead, pausing at every corner where the alley curved. He had Paula behind him, where he wanted her, would hold up a hand to stop her while he peered round a curve.
The cold was intense, like walking through a refrigerator. Frequently she took off her gloves to rub her frozen hands together. Much good that it did. Beaurain had paused once more as he checked what lay beyond a curve. He whispered: 'I think there's a hotel. I'll check it and you keep out of sight
A red neon light over the entrance was flashing on and off. He reached the entrance steps and a blonde girl smiled at him invitingly. A cheap fur hat was perched on her head at a jaunty angle and the fur coat she wore was short, exposing long slim legs.
'You're home, darling,' she said in Italian. 'Come on in and I'll warm you up . . .'
Beaurain shook his head, gestured for Paula to follow him along the alley. The blonde sniggered when she saw Paula, called out something in Italian to Beaurain.
'What did she say?' Paula asked him as they continued walking.
'Nothing you'd want to hear. Wrong sort of hotel . . .'
They emerged from the maze of alleys suddenly into a main street. Still no one about. No traffic. Across the street a large building glowed with lights. Albergo Pisa. Inside the main entrance stood a doorman in a blue uniform, a gold cap. A Bugatti pulled up. A well-dressed couple hurried into the hotel and the car, with a chauffeur at the wheel, drove off.
'That's the place,' Beaurain said, taking Paula by her arm. 'Are you OK after all that?'
'I'm starving.'
After an excellent dinner with Beaurain Paula expected to fall into a deep sleep. Beaurain had booked two rooms and they had placed him in the next room to hers. Before she said good night to him at her bedroom door he had warned her: 'This should be safe, but we cannot assume that. If you are frightened by something bang on my wall. We can test it before I go to bed. Two hard knocks.'
When he had gone she had used her hairbrush to bang twice on the adjoining wall. Within seconds she heard his hard raps, acknowledging he had heard her. She climbed into bed, closed her eyes, opened them after only a few minutes. A vivid picture had entered her mind of Mario, smiling as he first greeted them. Taking a handkerchief from under the pillow she dabbed at her eyes, determined not to cry. She lay awake for a long time.
She was woken by rapping on the adjoining wall. Jumping out of bed, blinking, she threw on her dressing-gown, took the Browning from under her pillow, slipped it into her pocket. As she passed a wall mirror she paused briefly, dealt with her hair, then opened the door on the chain. Beaurain stood outside, wearing a smart blue English suit, a spotless white shirt and a matching blue tie. She was struck by his freshness.
'It's only ten in the morning,' she protested.
'I was up at seven o'clock,' he said with his engaging smile. 'You will want a good leisurely breakfast and then we have to take a taxi to the station - Centrale. Knowing Milan, the taxi will take ages to arrive.'
'Give me half an hour to shower,
dress and pack.'
'I gather you didn't sleep well. Make it an hour. I checked and they serve breakfast all morning . . .'
She needed a fresh handkerchief and dived into the pocket of her coat hanging in the wardrobe. She felt something strange, took it out. One of Mario's biscuits she had slipped into the pocket before leaving his home. Her eyes began to water.
She dived into the shower. The water was just the right temperature. She stood under the shower, sobbing. Then she stiffened herself, held her face up to the shower for several minutes. Drying herself with a large towel, she peered again into the wall mirror. Thank God, her eyes were not puffy.
Three-quarters of an hour later she left her room, carrying her case, rapped on Beaurain's door. It was opened instantly and he stood with his coat over his arm, his case in one hand. He was smiling. He's always smiling at me, she thought.
