by Colin Forbes
'Kansas. Pop works in electronics in Milan. Couldn't put up with that city any longer, so I came here. He has the most enormous apartment here, like a palace. Now what can I get you?'
'I guess you're hungry again,' Beaurain said, looking at Paula with a smile. 'Coffee to drink?'
'Coffee for me. And are those macaroons?' Paula pointed to a plate inside a cooler.
'Try one. You don't like it we'll dump it.' She used tongs to extract one and place it on a plate. 'I'm Sandy.'
'I'm Jenny,' Paula said quickly. 'This is Peter.'
She crunched the macaroon or whatever it was, swallowed it as Sandy poured coffee for both of them. Paula asked for another macaroon. Sandy pointed to a table facing the door. 'Why don't you folks go and be comfortable. I'll bring it over.'
'Good idea,' Beaurain agreed.
He chose a chair facing the door which gave him a sidelong view of the entrance to the amphitheatre. Sandy came over with a tray. A plate full of macaroons, the coffee freshly poured. Sandy stood with a hand on her hip.
'You're British.' She laughed. 'You see, I got it right. I know you don't like to be called Brits. Can't blame you.'
Beaurain asked for the bill, explaining they might have to leave quickly. He included a generous tip. Sandy thanked him, then pulled a face as she picked up the euro notes.
'This stuff is one reason I'll be glad when Pop takes me back to the States. Funny money. Dollars for me any time.'
'That was quick and smart of you,' Beaurain said quietly when the girl was back behind the counter. 'Making up false names.'
'I thought maybe when we've left someone will come in to interrogate her.'
'They probably will. Say we're friends to cover up their real motive . . .'
Paula had just consumed every macaroon on the plate, had a refill of coffee, when Beaurain checked his watch. Paula raised her eyebrows.
'I thought we were early.'
'We are, but someone I couldn't see very well has just unlocked the padlock on the doors to the amphitheatre. Do not assume it's Petacci.'
They said good night to Sandy and strolled to the doors, now open. The man had vanished inside. Beaurain gestured for Paula to stay behind him. He entered slowly, peered round. Barely seen, a man stood in shadow beyond the entrance. Beaurain walked slowly up to him while Paula followed, glove off her right hand which gripped the Browning behind her back. Something wrong here.
'Mr Petacci?' Beaurain enquired.
'Si.'
'Mr Murano phoned you from Milan?'
'Si.'
'So what is Mr Murano's first name?'
The shadowy figure shifted his stance. Shuffled his feet as though getting more comfortable. Both hands inside the pockets of his overcoat. Not a word of English so far. Silence. Beaurain had both hands down by his sides, neither wearing gloves.
'Murano's first name?' he repeated.
'First names do not matter in our circles.' Good English but with a faint trace of an accent Paula couldn't identify. 'You have money,' the figure added.
'You want something first?'
'The money first, then I give you information.'
Beaurain struck with the speed of a cobra. His fist hit the figure in the mouth. Then both hands grabbed his forearms, rammed him against the stone wall behind him. One hand whipped up, grasped his jaw, hammered it with force that made Paula flinch, so much force she heard the skull smash against the stone wall. All in seconds. The figure slumped down the wall. Beaurain bent down, hauled one hand out of the shadowy figure's pocket, produced the ugly sight of a Glock pistol when Paula switched on her torch, then off quickly. Beaurain checked the Glock by feel, shoved it in one of his own pockets. His eyes were accustomed to the dark now. He lifted the man by his armpits, rammed him inside one of the alcoves carved out of the rock, stood up.
'How did you know?' Paula asked.
'Didn't ask for that identification card Mario gave me. And they use first names a lot in Italy as a matter of course.'
'He was going to shoot us?'
'I think that was the general idea. The real Aldo Petacci has to be somewhere else inside this vast place.'
He was whispering but now he placed a finger to his lips. She had also heard the faint sound. Footsteps approaching the main entrance from outside, several pairs. Beaurain grasped her by the arm, guided her down a sloping ramp leading towards the arena, a huge oval shape below them. They hurried, soon reached the bottom. Still holding her arm, Beaurain guided her along the edge of the amphitheatre, then pointed her up a flight of steps between a block of tiers of seats climbing high up.
'Don't think there aren't some of them here already,' he warned. 'Go up to the top - always take the high ground. I'll creep up the next flight . . .'
It was eerie. You could almost hear the silence. Amphitheatre. Gladiatorial contests had been held here long ago - and now another one was building up.
She crouched down behind the wall below the tiers of seats, began to climb carefully. Once she glanced to her right, was appalled to realize that Beaurain, although crouched, was so tall his head was visible. She placed her rubber-soled shoes cautiously on each new step. There could be something on the flight which would make a noise.
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 distance, 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 swallows, 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 Hastings. 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 something 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 gracious. 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?'
'I did. London is the target. For the next al-Qa'eda spectacular. Atrocity would be a better word.'
'So Mario Murano came up trumps?'
'He did not.' He thanked Monica for the large cup of coffee she placed close to him on the desk. Tweed waited while he drank half the cup. 'No,' he continued, 'Murano was at pains to tell me nothing. Quite different from when I paid him a visit about something else six months ago. He was also very nervous. Couldn't wait to get rid of me.'
'Yet you come back with disturbing information.'
'That's right.' Buller emptied his cup and accepted Monica's offer of a refill. 'After leaving Murano,' he continued, 'I contacted another source. Ex-member of the carabinieri, which, as you know, is the police under army control. He had a high rank but couldn't stand the corruption. He resigned, set up his own investigation agency. One of his clever men infiltrated al-Qa'eda, second-in-command of their huge base in Milan. Got next to him, found he was bi
tter - his American wife had been inside the North Tower on September 11 when the plane hit it. He spilt his guts about the base moving to Britain since the next major target was London. The informant spoke English as well as Arabic. Shortly after telling his story his body ended up on a railway line. Police found it, dragged it clear minutes before the Rome express arrived. The autopsy showed the dead informant had swallowed a cyanide pill — probably just before he was tortured. Which makes the data he gave horribly reliable.'
'Poor devil,' Marler interjected.
'Are you passing this on to the Minister for Security?' asked Tweed.
