The Kobra Manifesto q-7

by Adam Hall

  At this instant he was isolated, with the nearest passenger ten or twelve feet away. They were spreading out and he was one of the few people without a companion. He had seen the carabinieri but was not reacting.

  The captain took a sidestep to block his path, and his white-gloved hand came up in a salute.

  Fogel stopped.

  The captain was saying something to him.

  Fogel listened. His expression and attitude were those of a law-abiding passenger arriving in Rome by air. The captain appeared to be asking for his passport.

  Fogel used his right hand to double the officer, pushing the blow upwards into the diaphragm while his left hand went for the captain's holster and wrenched the gun out. He worked very fast and he was armed and ready to fire before any of the party could reach for their own weapons.

  The first shot smashed the glass of a show-case a few feet from where Fitzalan and I were standing and I couldn't tell if Fogel had aimed at the carabinieri and the shell had passed between them, or if it had been meant as a warning shot. They were diverted for a second or two and the captain was still doubled up on the ground as Fogel broke away and began running, colliding with a group of passengers and leaving one of them sprawling as the carabinieri began shouting for him to stop. He saw the flash of the emergency light through the glass doors and swerved to his left, running fast and steadily and thinking his way out of the building and past the obstacles that threatened him: mostly the groups of people in the check-in area.

  At this moment the carabinieri began firing as they ran: their officer had given the order. I saw plaster chipping away from the wall beyond where Fogel ran, at a height of some ten feet: there were too many people about for them to try 'hitting the fugitive and I assumed the purpose was to warn him to stop and at the same time to alert the driver of the emergency vehicle outside.

  As Fogel reached the glass doors at the end of the check-in area I was a dozen yards behind him, running at the same speed and ready to swerve the instant he began turning round to fire into his pursuers. I could hear Fitzalan's shoes thudding behind me and slightly to the left. The situation worried me because I believed Fogel would fire back into the carabinieri before he went through the doors: it would be logical and of course feasible, costing him something less than two seconds and gaining him anything up to five or six as the soldiers scattered. The thing that worried me was that there was no close cover for me or Fitzalan: the people in this area were now frozen into immobility and there were no central stands or pillars and I would 'have to rely mostly on speed as I hurled myself obliquely at the row of glass doors and smashed one open before his gun fired.

  The whole set-up was impromptu and I didn't like that either: a penetration agent gets into comfortable habits and he likes premeditated action, preferring to set a trap rather than run a man down, preferring the dark to the light. It's rather like assembling a small but intricate bomb, step by step, dovetailing the components until they become potent, then setting it ticking. This was a totally undisciplined situation where anything could happen and I was uneasy because Fogel would see me as his most immediate threat and would possibly fire at me instead of into the soldiers. I believed I could be quick enough to get out of the way but a certain amount was going to depend on chance and that made the situation dangerous and untidy, Fogel reached the doors.

  I was watching him the whole time.

  Fitzalan had dropped back or was taking cover across the check-in counter: I couldn't hear him any more. The check-in counter was no use to me because it would waste a lot of time: Fogel was getting clear of the building and I had to be out there with him to see where he went. No active involvement wasn't a finite directive: it had been in part countermanded by the last order,which was to identify Heinrich' Fogel. Ideally I would stay with him, get close enough to identify, and withdraw. It could be done, even now, but I was going to need luck and that was the thing I didn't like, because my job is to arrange for certainties.

  Fogel's weight hit the glass door and I saw his right shoulder begin turning and that was all I waited for because this was the time when he was most likely to fire. There were two shots with almost no interval and I heard fane of the shells ricochet, whining to silence as I smashed into the nearest door and pitched through the gap as it swung open while part of the forebrain registered an item of data: Three shells fired, three left.

  The situation now became dangerous: he would have seen me and taken me to be a passenger trying to help the forces of law and order and he would drop me without a thought if I looked like stopping him. We were both on the pavement now and the driver of the emergency vehicle was liable to open fire on Fogel and hit me instead if I began running again. This kind of thing had happened to Harrison in Milan and to Hunter in Geneva and the action was now in Rome and it didn't look any more promising, so I went down head-long and rolled over with the soles of my shoes towards Fogel and lay without moving.

  Three shots banged out of a repeater rifle from the opposite direction and I assumed it was the driver. I could hear Fogel running again.

  Someone screamed.

  I had a key in my hand.

  In very fast action a lot of the work is done on the sub-conscious level, with a certain amount of reasoning responsible for decision-making: Fogel had knocked into a group of people and a woman among them had screamed as he dragged at the door of their car; they saw his gun and held back. He was still working fast and very efficiently but any physical action is slower than thought and the key in my hand was the one they'd given me at Hertz. I knew where the dark blue Fiat 1100 was: they'd shown me.

  The Alfa-Romeo had drawn in to the kerb half a minute ago and the people had got out and were standing in a group on the pavement when Fogel had knocked into them and pulled the door open. Part of his thinking must have been that he would find the ignition key in place, because this was a no-waiting area and the driver would have to stay near the car and wouldn't remove the key. Fogel had been very good in Budapest, stalking me with his telescopic rifle and placing three shots in two days, all of the beautifully worked out and unsuccessful only because I'd operated with cat's nerves and used every defensive trick in the business to stay alive. Now on the defensive himself he was still very good, working steadily and fast and relying to a certain extent on surprise manoeuvres.

  A heavy thudding began as the party of carabinieri came through the glass doors and I waited for the first shot and then got onto my feet and made for the Fiat on the other side of the road. There was only a medium volley because they hadn't seen him get into the Alfa-Romeo but it gave me cover and I reached the Fiat with all the momentum necessary: I needed the key for the ignition but not for the door because that way would take too much time. My heel struck the glass edge on and the stuff was still falling away as I reached inside and opened the door and got in and used the key and gunned up.

  Fogel was turning across my bows and I didn't think he had any particular route in his mind: if he drove straight off alongside the pavement he would run through a curtain of bullets because the carabinieri were strung out and already taking deliberate aim instead of firing wild and his only chance was to make a fast U-turn and try for distance. He was doing that and at the same time I was forced to make a decision because the situation was now mobile and I didn't stand a chance of tagging him without his knowing. The thing was beginning to look shut-ended because my orders were to identify without being recognised and I couldn't do that without tagging him and I couldn't tag him without being seen. Unless I could run him to ground and put the whole thing into a long-term surveillance phase I couldn't hope to get close enough to identify.

  During a mission a lot of your thinking is done for you by Control and the moves are sketched out for you through Signals, but sometimes the executive has to get into his controller's mind and make his decision accordingly and in this case the controller was Egerton and I didn't think he'd want me to abort the Rome assignment. There was also of course the other c
onsideration: if I wanted him to give me the Kobra mission I'd have to give him a bit of an incentive and the best way of doing that was to tie up this Rome phase the way he wanted it.

  So I wouldn't abort.

  The Fiat was slithering a little because of wheelspin and I eased off and got the tyres biting and then gunned up again, closing the gap on the Alfa-Romeo and holding it as another volley of shots came from behind us and picked some paint off Fogel's car and smashed the rear window. The siren of the emergency vehicle had started howling and I could see its red flashing light in the mirror. There was some traffic coming the other way because a Pan American Jumbo was due in at 00:55 and the line of cars began slowing when they saw the emergency vehicle coming up behind us. A stray shot came from somewhere but it didn't seem to hit anything.

  Fogel was trying for the main exit gate but his brake lights came on and the tyres began smoking because a police car had appeared from the other direction to cut him off: with that siren howling it wouldn't be long before every patrol on the airport zeroed in on the Alfa and at this point I began thinking he wasn't going to make it because they were taking him very seriously: I still didn't know what the two plainclothesmen had been waiting for but they could have been noncombatant surveillance men scouting for the carabinieri, but even if I was wrong on that point the fact remained that the carabinieri had been sent specifically to meet Fogel so they wanted him pretty badly.

  A single shot and my windscreen shattered and I hit the snow away with the flat of my left hand: I think it was Fogel himself, holding the gun across his shoulder and letting fly at random to cool of the pursuit.

  Two shells left.

  The Alfa-Romeo was now in a long curving slide as he took evasive action against the police car and I clouted the right offside wing of the Fiat as I went through the gap between the police car and a traffic island, driving into a blaze of light and out again and seeing the Alfa straightening up ahead of me. The only way he could go now was through the open gates to the tarmac and I followed him and saw the guard drawing his gun as I passed him. He fired three steady shots and two of them went into the Alfa, smashing a rear light and picking some bits of glass off the broken rear window. The car swerved and corrected and swerved again and I hit the brakes and pulled out a bit towards the airport building to give him room if he was going to turn over.

  I couldn't see what was happening but it looked as if the guard's second shot had hit Fogel but hadn't quite knocked him out. He'd got control again but was veering towards the Air France plane that was now being checked and refuelled in the parking bay. This could either be typical thinking on his part or pure chance and I couldn't make out which: if he kept on his present course he could drive under the tail of the aircraft with a few inches to spare and give himself some excellent visual and tactical cover and force anyone behind him to hold their fire.

  I swung the wheel and brought the Fiat into a wide curve that would take me past the tail of of the aircraft and keep the Alfa in sight. The sirens were now a permanent background and I could see some lights flashing somewhere beyond the Air France plane and to the right. Fogel was still on course but there was something wrong with him because the Alfa swerved again and tried to correct and couldn't make it: on this course he wouldn't clear the tail of the plane with anything like the room he needed. Some of the maintenance crew had stopped work and I thought I saw one of them running for cover behind the fuel tanker.

  Headlights blinded me for a moment and I hit the mirror. Either the police car or the emergency vehicle had been gaining on us and I pulled over slightly to the left again to give them a clear run if they wanted to go past: the Fiat was flat out and smelling hot and I wasn't certain I could keep up with the Alfa-Romeo if Fogel decided to head for the open runways; but this thought was academic because he swerved again and couldn't correct this time and hit the fuel tanker head-on and I was already putting the Fiat into a controlled slide when the whole thing went up and I was driving into a wall of flame.

  Chapter Six: TARGET

  She was practising arpeggios.

  The heavy lace curtains were half drawn and the light in die room was muted, softening the reflections in the lid of the piano.

  I watched her hands. She was only a child, and having trouble with her right thumb, passing it under with a little jerk and using her arm to support the movement. Several times she gave up and sat perfectly still, gazing in front of her with her pale ivory face composed and her eyes quiet. A painter would have run for his brushes, though I could believe chat if I hadn't been in the room she would have sworn aloud each tune she stopped playing.

  I was putting her off, I said.

  No, not at all.

  We spoke Italian.

  I was only here for a moment, I told her.

  She didn't blame me, she said with a wistful smile.

  Then she began again, trying to get her thumb ready so that it didn't jerk. I sat listening until Rumori came in.

  He was dark and thin with eyes that moved restlessly in the shadows of 'his brows, as if he were all the time half-listening to some distant drummer, 'Mr Wexford,' he said.

  We spoke English.

  'Europress.'

  He nodded absently, taking me into the hall, where an immense lantern hung from the ceiling, its coloured-glass pendants smouldering under a film of dust. The silk walls were torn here and there, and the plaster showed through: the Piazza Piccola was an area of crumbling villas where people tended to move in and out a lot as the rents went up; and the moving men were indifferent 'She's making progress,' I said.

  'You think so?'

  He stooped towards the door of the music room, listening.

  'Perhaps not,' he said, and turned away. There was an appointment book on the gilt console and he ran a long delicate finger down the page.

  'You were to come for a lesson,' he said, 'on the Ninth.'

  The Seventh, surely.' I went to look at the book.

  'In a series of twelve lessons,' he said reluctantly, 'I shall need you here at least twice a week.' He turned again and led me to the stairs and I followed him up.

  Code introduction for the period Eighth to Fourteenth was any number at random, with an answering sequence of two below and three above, in this case 9-7-12. I'd only seen him once before, nearly four years ago, and remembered him as a larger man. I suppose you can't feel as mournful as that without losing weight.

  The bandage was too bloody tight round my arm, and my hand felt numb. I decided to ask him to help me re-tie the thing before I left here. They'd done a reasonable job at the clinic but the nurse had been a real bitch and I'd finally got out of the place at dawn this morning, down the fire escape: they'd kept me for more than five hours and wanted to make a lot of tests because there'd been a head injury and they weren't satisfied with the reflex response. Good at their job, I'm not saying they weren't: it was just that I was so bloody annoyed about the Fogel thing that I wanted some action to drain off some of the adrenalin.

  At the first landing Rumori looked at me attentively for a moment.

  'You are feeling well?'

  'Fantastic,' I said.

  He'd been ahead of me on the stairs but he'd noticed me stop, halfway up: his thoughts weren't so far away as he liked people to think. It was the result of long habit: he'd been our agent-in-place for seven years and Macklin said this was the safest house in southern Europe.

  'If you need anything…' he murmured, and we began on the next staircase.

  He'd almost certainly seen the report in the press: they'd held over some space for this one because it wasn't often they lost a 747 on the ground because some maniac blew it up with a fuel tanker. The Italian police were playing it close to the chest: a person whose identity had not yet been revealed had caused an accident on the tarmac, killing four members of the maintenance crew and a freight loader. The 747 was totally gutted. A British journalist, as yet unnamed, had driven his automobile through the flames and hit a maintenance troll
ey a hundred yards away on the far side without having caught fire. He had been dragged to safety by the emergency crews. Unfortunately it was impossible to reach the occupant of the other car, since it was hi the heart of the conflagration.

  No mention of the carabinieri, or the chase, or the exchange of shots.

  Rome, like Marseille and other focal points, is a centre for every major intelligence network including Africa, South America and Japan. The Italian police knew who the occupant of the burned-out Alfa-Romeo had been, and so did the monitoring sections of every major intelligence network. The Italian police were very interested in the British journalist but I'd given them the Interpol routine and they'd called Paris and then asked me a lot of questions and got a lot of answers that didn't tell them very much and finally called off the two men they'd stationed outside the door of my ward. The third one had tagged me from the hospital as far as the nearest intersection, where I'd got rid of him for the sake of practice.

  The thing was that the intelligence networks would also be very interested in the British journalist. They hadn't asked any questions yet but if they could get hold of me they certainly would. London would have got the story through Fitzalan right away, and the Bureau's sleeper agents in Rome would have been alerted. Emilio Rumori had got it direct on the air from London or from Fitzalan, long before he saw the newspapers. Fitzalan had rung me at the hospital twice in the name of Jones, asking for news of my progress. He'd been hanging around the out-patients department when I'd gone down there to see if I could get away, so he knew I was back on my feet and presumably he'd cleared the area because I was hot and if anything happened to me he wouldn't be involved.

  That nurse had been such 'a bitch that I finally had to bribe one of the cleaners to get my clothes back for me so that I could do the fire-escape thing. They were in a pretty bad condition because I'd been dragged out of the Fiat and there'd been a lot of fire-foam about, and I had to re-kit in a man's shop and pick up another suitcase, real pigskin because I liked the look of it and because I was so bloody upset about blowing the Fogel assignment that I thought I'd pass on some of the angst to those withered old crones in Accounts.'