‘Do you know which department she’s in?’
‘I don’t, I’m sorry. A friend of hers gave me this number the last time she visited me in Berlin. She told me to look up Helga if I was ever in Zürich. To be honest, I don’t even know what ZRF stands for.’
‘Zürich Rundfunk Firma. It’s an independent television company. I can’t say I know any Helga Dannhauser but I’ll put you through to the personnel department. She may be new here.’
Paluzzi was put through to the personnel department. He was told that there had never been anybody by that name working at the station. He thanked the assistant and hung up. His body tingled with excitement. He knew he was on to something. He picked up the receiver again and rang police headquarters. He asked them to check the name Helga Dannhauser against the first number he had rung. The name was fed into the central computer and seconds later he was told that the number was registered to a Miss Ute Rietler. He dialled the number of the ZRF station again and asked to speak to Ute Rietler. This time the switchboard operator put him through to the news department. The phone was answered by a gruff male voice.
‘Could I speak to Ute Rietler, please?’
‘Ute’s not here,’ came the reply. ‘She’s in Berne covering the European summit.’
Paluzzi slammed the receiver back into the cradle, then leapt to his feet and raced into the inner office, where he poured out his findings to Philpott.
‘There has to be a connection,’ Paluzzi said in conclusion. ‘It’s too much of a coincidence.’
‘I agree. It could be a security measure on his part to list her under a false name.’ Philpott picked up the receiver and rang the press room. He asked to speak to Ute Rietler.
There was a lengthy pause before the receptionist came back on the line.
‘Miss Rietler returned to her hotel about twenty minutes ago. She won’t be back for another hour. Would you like to speak to one of her assistants?’
‘No, it’s a personal matter. Which hotel is she staying at?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘Then find out, lass,’ Philpott thundered.
The flustered receptionist came back on the line a few seconds later.
‘The Ambassador, on Seftigenstrasse. Do you know where it is?’
‘I’ll find it, thank you.’
Philpott wrote the name of the hotel and the street on a sheet of paper and handed it to Paluzzi.
‘I want you and C.W. to get over there right away. She’s our last chance. And for God’s sake, hurry. There’re only forty minutes left before the deadline.’
Paluzzi stuffed the paper into his jacket pocket and hurried from the room.
Philpott sat back and looked at the telephone.
‘I think we’ve finally got you.’
Paluzzi found a parking space a block away from the Ambassador Hotel. They ran to the hotel, mounted the steps two at a time, then strode briskly across to the reception desk.
‘Can I help you?’ a blonde-haired receptionist asked with a glossy smile.
‘Ute Rietler, her room number please?’ Paluzzi said.
The receptionist punched the name into the computer.
‘Suite 240. I’ll tell her you’re here. Your names, please?’
‘It’s okay, we work with her,’ Paluzzi replied, forcing a smile. ‘She’s expecting us.’
‘It’s on the second floor. Turn right out of the lift.’ The receptionist turned her attention to another guest waiting impatiently to check in.
Both lifts were in use. They took the stairs. Whitlock paused on the second floor to look at his watch. There were twenty-one minutes left before Bellini was due to announce his resignation. He followed Paluzzi to Suite 240. Paluzzi rapped loudly on the door. No reply.
‘What if she’s not here?’ Whitlock whispered.
‘She’s got to be,’ Paluzzi replied, and knocked again.
‘Who is it?’ a female called.
‘Police.’
The door was opened on a chain.
‘Where’s your ID?’
Paluzzi produced a false carabinieri badge and held it up for her to see. Whitlock held up his false Scotland Yard card that had been made at the Test Centre in New York.
‘Italian police? British police? You have no jurisdiction here in Switzerland.’
‘We’re here for the summit. We’d like to ask you some questions, that’s all.’
For a moment they thought she would refuse to speak to them. Then the door closed, the chain was removed, and it was opened again to admit them. Ute Rietler was an attractive redhead who looked to be in her late twenties. It was clear, even in the white to welling robe she was wearing, that she had a stunning figure.
‘I hope we didn’t get you out of the bath,’ Paluzzi said.
‘I was just getting dried when you knocked,’ she replied, closing the door behind them. ‘I’m due back at the Offenbach Centre in forty minutes so I’m in a hurry. What is it you wanted to ask me?’
‘An old friend of yours,’ Paluzzi said, helping himself to a grape from the fruit bowl on the sideboard. ‘Tonino Calvieri.’
‘Who?’ she retorted with a frown.
Whitlock watched her carefully. She hadn’t reacted to the name at all. Not even a flicker of the eyes. But then she was ZRF’s leading anchorwoman. Philpott had phoned the information through to them on the earphone. And that meant she didn’t allow herself to get flustered. An act. And a good one at that.
‘You’ve never heard of Tonino Calvieri?’ Paluzzi said, leaning against the sideboard.
She dug her hands into her pockets and chewed her lip thoughtfully.
‘No, I don’t think so.’ She suddenly nodded her head. ‘Wait a minute, isn’t he that terrorist who’s just taken over as the new leader of the Red Brigades? We ran a short item on him a couple of days ago. What has he got to do with me?’
‘You tell us, Miss Rietler,’ Paluzzi said.
‘Tell you what?’ she snapped.
‘Why your phone number appears in his address book hidden in his apartment in Milan.’
‘This is too much–’
‘Where is the vial he gave you to hide?’ Paluzzi cut in sharply.
‘I’ve had enough of this badgering. I’m calling the hotel security.’
She disappeared into the bedroom and snatched up the receiver.
‘I’d put that phone down, Miss Rietler,’ Paluzzi said from the doorway. ‘Or should I call you Miss Dannhauser?’
Her body stiffened and her fingers tightened around the handset. The act was over. She replaced the receiver and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the carpet.
Paluzzi picked up a framed photograph from the bedside table and his eyes narrowed in sudden comprehension.
‘What is it?’ Whitlock asked, looking at the freckle-faced boy in the photograph.
‘He’s the spitting image of his father. And I thought I knew everything about Calvieri.’
‘That’s Calvieri’s son?’ Whitlock said in astonishment.
‘He couldn’t look more like his father if he tried,’ Paluzzi said, then looked down at Ute Rietler. ‘He gave you the vial, didn’t he?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she replied, but there was no conviction in her voice.
‘Ute, you’ve got to help us,’ Paluzzi said softly.
‘I can’t.’
‘Why?’ Paluzzi asked.
‘He said he’d expose my past unless I did what he wanted.’
‘You’re not making any sense, Ute,’ Paluzzi said. ‘Your past has already been exposed. We know about it. You must cooperate with us, it’s your only chance.’
‘I can’t,’ she repeated.
‘And what’s going to happen to your son when you’re jailed for life for conspiring with a terrorist? He’ll be taken into care. I doubt you’ll ever see him again. Is that what you want?’