‘I see your point,’ Graham admitted.
‘I want you to go down to the foyer and tell Sabrina what’s happened. I’ll let you know when Fabio and Commissioner Kuhlmann get back from Worb.’
‘What do you want us to do until they get back?’
‘There isn’t much you can do.’
‘What are you going to do about the bodies across the road?’
‘I’ll have to discuss that with Commissioner Kuhlmann when he gets back.’
‘And Wiseman?’ Graham asked, as Kolchinsky led him to the door.
‘That’s up to the Colonel. I’m going to call him now.’ Kolchinsky opened the door. ‘And Michael, leave Calvieri alone.’
‘When have I ever disobeyed an order, Sergei?’ Graham asked, feigning a look of innocence.
‘Frequently,’ Kolchinsky replied, closing the door.
Heads turned when Graham emerged from the lift but he ignored the curious looks as he scanned the foyer for Sabrina. She wasn’t there. He sighed irritably, then crossed to the reception desk and asked for her to be paged. She arrived at the desk within seconds of the call being made.
‘Where have you been?’ Graham asked, leading her away from the desk.
‘I was in the bar,’ she replied, ‘having a drink with Calvieri.’
‘Sounds cosy,’ he muttered.
She ignored the sarcasm. ‘Any news of C.W.?’
He told her briefly what had happened.
‘That’s a relief,’ she said. ‘I almost missed Calvieri when he came down here.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I had this plan to call the switchboard from a house phone the moment I saw Calvieri and have him paged to the reception desk. I would have pretended to have been an anonymous caller with information on the Pisani murder. I could have kept him talking on the phone long enough for C.W. to deal with Young.’
‘So what went wrong?’
‘I was watching the lift. Calvieri must have used the stairs. You can’t see them from the house phones. I only saw him as he was about to leave the hotel.’
‘How did you get him back inside?’ Graham asked, glancing at the electronic doors.
‘How could I, without arousing suspicion? Fortunately he came back in when he saw me. It must have been close.’ She gestured in the direction of the bar lounge. ‘I’d better get back. Why not join us?’
‘No thanks, I’m pretty selective about who I drink with.’
‘And I’m not, is that it?’
‘I don’t drink with terrorists,’ he said sharply.
‘This is business, Mike, just remember that.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ An elderly couple looked at them, startled by her raised voice.
‘Is there a problem?’ Graham asked, staring at them coldly. They moved away.
‘I’m not going to have a slanging match with you out here, Mike. If you don’t want to come for a drink, that’s fine by me. I just wanted…’ she trailed off with a shrug and turned to leave.
He grabbed her arm. ‘You just wanted what?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she retorted, then shrugged off his hand and strode back into the bar.
Graham exhaled deeply, then went after her. They were seated at a table in the corner of the room. Calvieri saw him and beckoned him over. He pulled out a chair for Graham to sit down.
‘Mike! Come and join us. What will you have to drink?’
‘The coldest bottle of Perrier you’ve got,’ Graham said, glancing up at the waiter.
‘I see you changed your mind,’ Sabrina said, eyeing Graham sharply.
‘Yeah,’ Graham muttered, then sat back and looked distantly around the packed room.
The waiter returned with the Perrier water and a glass filled with ice. He placed them on the table in front of Graham.
‘Please, this is on me,’ Calvieri said, reaching out for the chit.
Quickly Graham grabbed the chit from the table and signed it. He looked across at Calvieri after the waiter had left.
‘You buy your own drinks. I’ll buy mine. That way there can be no misunderstanding.’
‘Ever since we met you’ve gone out of your way to condemn me for my beliefs. What makes you so sure you’re right?’
‘That’s a question you should put to the families of all those people the Red Brigades have murdered in the past twenty years,’ Graham replied, holding Calvieri’s gaze. ‘You might just learn something.’
‘We only hit legitimate targets, Mr. Graham. Politicians like Moro and Tarantelli. Or soldiers like General Giorgieri or your own Leamon Hunt, the director general of the Sinai Peacekeeping Forces we assassinated in 1984. Fascisti.’
Graham drank a mouthful of Perrier and sat forward, his arms resting on the table.
‘What about all those innocent bystanders, caught in the crossfire of your so-called fight against fascism? Are they also legitimate targets?’
‘It’s regrettable, but there will always be innocent casualties in this kind of conflict.’
Graham shook his head in disgust.
‘The standard terrorist reply. You know you can’t possibly condone it, so you evade the question.’
‘The Red Brigades don’t kill senselessly, Mr. Graham. There’s always a reason for our actions.’ Calvieri took a sip of brandy, then placed his glass on the coaster in front of him.
‘You may think we’re just a group of terrorists out to spread anarchy and revolution. It’s not the case. We have aims and ambitions like any other political organization. We have a strong following, especially amongst the working classes.’
‘You did, until you killed Aldo Moro in ’78,’ Sabrina cut in quickly. ‘You’ve never managed to regain that level of support since.’
‘Granted, killing Moro was a mistake. It gave the authorities a martyr and we lost an important hostage who could have brought us a lot of money. But that was a long time ago. We have won back that support, irrespective of what the Government would lead the world to believe. This country has had to endure an endless succession of inept, corrupt governments, none more so than the present communist government under Enzo Bellini. The balance of payments is the worst in living memory, unemployment is up fifteen percent and tens of thousands of Italians are living below the poverty line.’
‘The perfect climate for revolution,’ Graham said.
‘The perfect climate for change,’ Calvieri retorted. ‘The people have lost faith in the politicians, both the Christian Democrats and the PCI, the Communist Party. It’s time to brush aside the dead wood and replace it with a new, dynamic force in politics capable of putting this country back on its feet again.’
‘In other words, the Red Brigades,’ Sabrina concluded.
‘Not necessarily, no.’ Calvieri watched the puzzlement in their expressions. ‘Of course there are those Brigatisti who won’t settle for anything less than the overthrow of the democratically elected government, in the blinkered belief that the Red Brigades could seize power in the ensuing confusion.’
‘Like Zocchi?’ Sabrina said.
‘He was the worst. But there are others, some even on the committee. And these are the ones the authorities highlight in the media, making us all out to be bloodthirsty, revolutionary anarchists whose only law comes from the barrel of a gun.’
‘You’re their spokesman, surely that gives you a platform for your own views?’ Sabrina said.
‘I wish it were that simple. The Red Brigades only make the news when they fall foul of the law. That’s the only time the media want to know me. Of course I try to put across the other side of the story, but once the interview gets back to the studio it’s butchered by the editors and by the time it reaches the television news I’ve been quoted completely out of context. The media depend on viewing figures to survive, and sensationalism seems to be the way to achieve them. I can’t win.’