He shook his head.
‘She found out she was pregnant two days before I left for Libya. That’s when I made my decision to quit, but the crisis was already brewing in Libya and I didn’t get a chance to do anything about it. We were going to throw a party when I got back to announce her pregnancy to our family and friends. I thought that would be the perfect time to tell her.’ He smiled sadly. ‘You can’t imagine how happy that would have made her.’
‘But would you have been happy?’ she asked.
‘It wasn’t a decision I took lightly, believe me. And I wouldn’t have done it unless I was absolutely certain in my own mind that it was the right thing to do. At the time I thought it was.’ He picked up the bottle and turned it around slowly in his hands. ‘Without sounding vain, I could have walked into any number of jobs. Instructor, supervisor, consultant. And none of them would have been desk jobs. I would have been still in the field and I would have had my family around me. It’s exactly what Carrie would have wanted.’ His gaze moved around the room. ‘You can’t imagine how I felt when I heard about the kidnapping. I was gutted. My first reaction was to call off the mission. That way I would have been reunited with Carrie and Mikey when I got back home. At least in theory. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I just couldn’t do it. It would have been the coward’s way out. How could I have ever looked them in the face again? There was only one decision I could take. Maybe now you can appreciate the hell I’ve been going through these past fourteen months.’
‘I think I can,’ she said quietly.
He stood up.
‘We’ve got a big day ahead of us tomorrow. I’m going to have a bath, then get some sleep. Who knows what time we’ll be woken in the morning.’
‘Thanks for talking to me, Mike.’
‘Sure,’ he muttered.
She hugged him to her, then quickly left the room.
Seven
Wednesday
The telephone rang.
Kolchinsky rolled over in bed and reached out a hand to feel for the receiver. He knocked his watch and cigarettes off the bedside table, then, opening one eye, he saw that the telephone was still a foot away from his outstretched fingers. He struggled to sit up in bed and lifted the receiver to his ear.
‘Sergei?’
‘Speaking,’ Kolchinsky replied, then reached down to pick up his cigarettes and watch from the floor. He squinted at the time. 7.04 a.m. He yawned.
‘It’s Fabio. Paolo Conte’s regained consciousness.’
Kolchinsky lit a cigarette, then dropped the packet on the table.
‘Have any of your men had a chance to speak to him?’
‘Not yet. I’m on my way to the hospital now.’
‘I’ll meet you there in thirty minutes,’ Kolchinsky said, then put his hand over the mouthpiece and coughed violently.
‘Are you all right?’ Paluzzi asked.
‘Fine,’ Kolchinsky said, eyeing the cigarette with distaste. ‘I’ll tell the others.’ ‘What about Calvieri?’ He’ll have to be told,’ Kolchinsky said.
‘I’ll leave that to you. See you at the hospital in thirty minutes.’
Kolchinsky replaced the receiver, then took another drag on the cigarette. Why did he persist in smoking? It wasn’t as if he even enjoyed it any more. It had just become a costly, addictive habit. He stubbed out the cigarette, then called Graham and Sabrina in their rooms. He then rang Calvieri’s room. No reply. He dialled the number Calvieri had given to him the previous evening. It was answered immediately.
‘Posso parl are con Tony Calvieri?’ Kolchinsky asked.
‘Resti in linea,’ came the reply, and Kolchinsky heard the receiver being placed on a hard surface, probably a table.
It was picked up moments later.
‘Pronto, sono Tony Calvieri.’
‘It’s Kolchinsky. Conte’s regained consciousness. We’re meeting Paluzzi at the hospital in thirty minutes.’
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
‘Any luck with the investigation?’
Calvieri sighed. ‘Not really, I’m afraid. I’ll fill you in when I see you. Thanks for letting me know about Conte.’
Kolchinsky met up with Graham and Sabrina ten minutes later outside the hotel and they drove to the Santo Spirito Hospital in the heart of the city. Paluzzi was waiting for them in the foyer.
‘Have you spoken to Conte?’ Kolchinsky asked.
‘I haven’t had a chance. I’ve only just got here myself.’ Paluzzi waited until a nurse had passed out of earshot then asked, ‘Where’s Calvieri?’
‘He was still at Pisani’s house when I called. He said he would be here as soon as he could.’
‘That suits me fine,’ Paluzzi said, leading them to the lift. ‘I don’t want him around until we’ve finished questioning Conte.’
‘Why?’ Sabrina asked.
Paluzzi got into the lift last and pressed the button for the third floor.
‘It’s psychological. Ubrino tried to kill him. We have to play on that if we’re going to get him into our confidence. If we’re seen to be working with the Red Brigades it could undermine our position. We can’t afford to take that chance.’
They got out on the third floor. Paluzzi indicated the two uniformed carabinieri sitting outside the private ward at the end of the corridor. They approached the two men and Paluzzi identified himself.
‘Who are the others?’ one of the policemen asked.
‘They’re with me, that’s all you need to know. Is Conte still conscious?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the policeman answered.
Paluzzi took Graham to one side.
‘I’m sending these two for an early breakfast. I’d like you to wait out here for Calvieri. Whatever you do, don’t let him come in.’
‘Got you,’ Graham replied.
Paluzzi spoke to the two policemen and they headed off for a welcome bite to eat. He opened the door and a third policeman, sitting beside the door, immediately got to his feet and challenged him. Paluzzi showed him his ID and asked him to join his colleagues in the cafeteria.
The policeman left the room. Kolchinsky and Sabrina went inside and she closed the door silently behind her.
Conte lay motionless on the bed. His face was sallow, his bloodshot eyes watching their every move. He tried to speak, but his throat was dry. Sabrina poured some water from the jug on the bedside table into a tumbler and tilted his head forward so he could take a drink. He coughed as the water ran down his throat.
‘Grazie,’ he said in a barely audible whisper.
‘Prego,’ she replied, putting the tumbler back on the table.
She was amazed at how young he looked. The UNACO dossier had given his age as twenty-two. He looked more like a schoolboy. Sixteen, seventeen at most. What had motivated him to join the Red Brigades when he had his whole life ahead of him? It seemed such a waste. Why couldn’t he see that? Perhaps now he would realize the futility of it all. The dream had become a nightmare.
Graham peered around the door.
‘Fabio, you’d better get out here.’
Paluzzi crossed to the door.
‘What is it? Has Calvieri arrived?’
‘Calvieri I can handle.’ Graham stabbed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘There’s a doctor out there who’s pretty pissed off with you. He says you were supposed to call him when you got here. Know anything about it?’
Paluzzi nodded and stepped out into the corridor. The man was in his thirties with black hair and a neatly trimmed black beard.
‘Doctor Marchetta?’ Paluzzi asked.
‘Si,’ came the curt response.
Paluzzi introduced himself in English and held up his ID card.