Sabrina ignored the fleeing youth on the rollerskates and went in pursuit of his accomplice. She followed him through a network of alleyways until he mistakenly darted into a cul-de-sac. He realized his mistake too late and when he turned back to the entrance Sabrina was already there, blocking his escape. She was breathing heavily, her hands on her hips. She met the youth's eyes. He was a Puerto Rican, no older than twenty, with long, greasy black hair and a red headband. He pulled a switchblade from his pocket and opened it inches from his leg.
'You want some?' he asked, the switchblade extended menacingly towards her.
'I don't want any trouble,' she said calmly then held out her hand towards him. 'Give me the bag and that will be the end of it.'
The youth laughed then spat on the ground. 'You want the bag, you come and get it.'
Sabrina shrugged and moved towards the youth. He dropped the bag then, tightening his grip on the switchblade, he waited until she was in range before lunging at her, the blade slashing the air inches from her face. Pity to cut such a pretty face but she'd asked for it. He grinned as he came at her again.
She waited until he stabbed at her then, using her left forearm to block his wrist, she followed up by slamming the heel of her right hand against his chin and kneeing him in the groin. He cried out in agony and stumbled back against the wall. The switchblade fell from his hand as he sagged to the ground, whimpering softly, his hands clutched between his legs. She picked up the bag, checked inside to see that everything was still there, and was about to confiscate the switchblade when she heard the sound of a police siren in the distance. She couldn't be involved in a police investigation. The way in which she had dispatched her attacker would certainly make news.
She ducked into the adjoining alley. The siren was getting closer. She ran to the end of the alley and was about to scale the ten-foot wire fence when the bleeper attached to her belt suddenly shrilled into life. It was UN AGO headquarters. Of all the times for them to call, she thought irritably. She switched it off then clambered over the fence, landing nimbly on her toes, and walked down another alley which brought her out onto Madison Avenue.
She called headquarters from a phone booth, spoke briefly to Sarah, then hurried to the curb to signal a taxi to take her back to her flat.
'Afternoon, Francois.'
The maitre d'hotel looked up from his reservation book and smiled warmly. 'Ah, good afternoon, Mr Whitlock. You are looking well.'
'I am, thank you. Has my wife arrived yet?'
'Not yet,' Franqois replied.
Til be in the bar. Tell her when she arrives.'
'Of course,' came the cordial reply.
Whitlock had been going to Le Chantilly restaurant on East 57th Street since he had first arrived in New York in 1980. It was where he had taken a vivacious Puerto Rican paediatrician, Carmen Rodriguez, on their first date. A year later to the day he had proposed to her at the same table. They had been married now for seven years.
He hoisted himself onto one of the bar stools and nodded in greeting to the barman who was busy serving another customer. The barman smiled back and told Whitlock he would be with him shortly. Whitlock was a forty-four-year-old Kenyan with sharp, angular features softened by the neatly trimmed black moustache he had worn since leaving university in his early twenties. He was photophobic and always wore a pair of tinted glasses to protect his eyes. He had been educated in England and after graduating from Oxford had returned to Kenya where he served with the Intelligence Corps for ten years before being recruited to UN AGO as one of its first field operatives. He was now the only survivor of the original team.
'What can I get you to drink, Mr Whitlock?' the barman asked, leaning his hands on the counter in front of Whitlock.
'The usual, Rick,' Whitlock replied.
The barman nodded, took a bottle of beer from the fridge and opened it. He poured the beer into a glass and placed it on a coaster in front of Whitlock.
'How are things in the world of politics, Mr Whitlock?' he asked, referring to Whitlock's cover as a member of the Kenyan embassy at the United Nations. Carmen was the only person outside UN AGO who knew about the deception.
'The usual, Rick.'
The barman, sensing Whitlock wasn't in a talkative mood, left him alone. Whitlock took a sip of beer then glanced over his shoulder at the entrance. Still no sign of Carmen. He turned the glass slowly on the coaster as he thought about her. Their marriage had nearly ended a few months back. Well, that was when it had all come to a head. But it had been simmering for a couple of years before that. It all stemmed from her desire for him to leave UN A CO. She was frightened for his safety. But he had been adamant: he was staying. She had finally walked out on him and it had only been the intervention of Philpott that had brought them back together again. He had told them that Whitlock would be promoted to Deputy Director when he retired at the end of the year. Kolchinsky would take over as Director. Then, after a year, Kolchinsky would step down and Whitlock would take his place. Other than the four of them, and the Secretary-General, tire only other person who knew about it was Jacques Rust, head of UN AGO European operation, based in Zurich. Carmen had then thrown her full support behind him, knowing he would be out of the field by the end of the year. Whitlock knew he would miss working in the field, especially with Mike and Sabrina, but he also knew it would be a small price to pay to keep his marriage intact. And that meant everything to him…
'C.W.?'
Whitlock looked round sharply, startled by the voice behind him. He grinned ruefully at his wife then kissed her lightly on the lips. 'How long have you been standing there?'
'A few seconds,' she replied, allowing him to help her onto the adjacent bar stool.
'I'm sorry, I was miles away.'
'So I noticed.' She ordered a spritzer then turned back to him, her face solemn. 'I've got some bad news. Rosie was arrested last night.'
Whitlock stared at her in horror. Rosie was the teenage daughter of Carmen's sister, Rachel, and her German husband, Eddie Kruger.
The barman placed the spritzer in front of her. She waited until he was out of earshot before continuing. 'She was caught buying drugs in Times Square. I don't know what it was, Rachel didn't say.'
Whitlock sighed deeply and shook his head sadly. 'I suppose I shouldn't be that surprised.'
'And what exactly is that supposed to mean?' she demanded.
'Come off it, Carmen, you know damn well what I'm talking about. They've hardly been the best parents in the world, have they? Rachel had that affair with her boss and Eddie's drinking has been getting steadily worse these last couple of years — '
'She had that affair as an escape from Eddie's drinking,' Carmen cut in quickly.
'That's irrelevant. Look at it from Rosie's perspective. Can't you see? This is her way of escaping from them.'
'Will you talk to her?'
He shook his head. 'No; it's up to Eddie and Rachel to talk to her.'
'Rachel asked if you would.'
'Where's Eddie?'
'He went to an all-night poker game last night. She hasn't seen him since.'
'Some father,' Whitlock muttered.
'Talk to her, C.W. You're the only person she's ever listened to in the past.'
'I'm not using UN AGO to pull any strings, Carmen. Let's get that straight right from the start.'
'Just talk to her,' she replied softly. 'Please.'
'O K,' he replied at length. 'Where is she?'
'At home. Rachel put up the bail — '
The bleeper clipped to Whitlock's belt suddenly activated and he was quick to silence it. He shot Carmen a despairing look. 'This is all I need right now. I have to answer it, Carmen.'
'I know,' she replied and squeezed his hand gently.
'I will talk to her, I promise you. But when I don't know. It all depends on what's come up,' he said, patting the bleeper.
'Would you like to use this phone, Mr Whitlock?' the barman asked, having heard the bleeper
from the other side of the bar.
'No, but thanks anyway, Rick,' Whitlock replied then turned back to Carmen. 'I've suddenly lost my appetite.'
'I lost mine when I heard about Rosie,' Carmen replied.
'Come on then, let's go.'
Sarah Thomas had been Philpott's secretary for the last five years. Her sparsely furnished office on the twenty-second floor of the United Nations building was an antechamber to the UNACO headquarters. The wall opposite the door, constructed of rows of teak slats, contained two seamless sliding doors, invisible to the naked eye, which could only be activated by miniature sonic transmitters. The door to the right led into the UNACO Command Centre, a soundproofed room where teams of analysts worked around the clock to monitor the fluctuating developments in world affairs. The door to the left led into Philpott's private office.
Kolchinsky sat behind Philpott's desk, his eyes riveted on Whitlock and Sabrina. He had just broken the news to them about Philpott.
'Will he be alright?' Sabrina asked anxiously, breaking the sudden silence.
'I spoke to the doctor before I left the hospital. He's optimistic that the Colonel will make a complete recovery. They're keeping him in hospital for another few days to carry out more tests.'
'Unless he discharges himself first,' Whitlock said and eyed Kolchinsky knowingly. 'He'll want to be back at work as soon as possible. You know the Colonel.'
'I've already been in touch with the Secretary-General. He's going to see the Colonel tonight to tell him to take a month's leave after he's been discharged from hospital.'
'I wish him luck,' Whitlock said. 'You know just how stubborn the Colonel can be when he wants to get his own way.'
'I don't think he'll put up much resistance this time,' Kolchinsky replied then paused to light a cigarette. 'He's been overworking and he knows it. The next attack could be fatal.'
They lapsed into silence again.
Whitlock got to his feet and crossed to the dispenser against the wall. 'Coffee anyone?'
They both shook their heads.
'Where's Mike?' Whitlock asked, pouring himself a coffee.
'That's a good question,' Kolchinsky replied gruffly. 'The last I heard was that he's on the run from the authorities in Beirut.'
'What?' Sabrina asked in astonishment.
'Beirut?' Whitlock said, pausing in front of the desk to look down at Kolchinsky. 'Is he on assignment?'
'No, he is not,' Kolchinsky boomed angrily, stressing each word in turn. 'He's gone after Bernard.'
'Jean-Jacques Bernard?' Sabrina said, her eyes flickering between Kolchinsky and Whitlock. 'He's dead, isn't he?'
'Sit down, C.W.,' Kolchinsky said, waving towards the black leather sofa where Sabrina was sitting. 'I'll tell you what I know so far. And believe me, it isn't much.'
Kolchinsky waited until Whitlock was seated before opening the file on the desk in front of him and outlining the sketchy details Philpott had received from their UNACO contact in Beirut earlier that morning.
'Mike would never have shot this Barak in the back,' Sabrina said once Kolchinsky had finished. 'That's cold-blooded murder. He's been set up — '
'Spare the lecture, Sabrina,' Kolchinsky cut in sharply. He placed the cigarette on the edge of the ashtray before looking at her again. 'Look, I hear what you're saying. And if it's any consolation, I don't think he shot Barak either. But we can't be sure until we find him. And we have to find him, quickly.'
'What if the person who murdered Barak killed Mike as well?' Whitlock said and immediately noticed the look of horror on Sabrina's face. He turned to her. 'It's a possibility we have to face.'
'Why set Michael up to take the rap then kill him? If the killer wanted Michael dead, why not shoot him at Barak's house?'
Kolchinsky shook his head. 'No, if Michael was set up then it's obvious the killer wants him alive.'
'What about Laidlaw?' Sabrina asked. 'Have any of our people contacted him?'
'We can't risk it,' Kolchinsky replied. 'The police know he met Michael last night. They don't have any evidence linking him to the murder but you can be sure they'll be watching his every move. That's where you come in.'
'How?'
'You're going over there as Michael's girlfriend.
And it's imperative that you play it all above board. Contact the police once you arrive to let them know you're looking for him. That way you'll be able to see Laidlaw without arousing their suspicions. I'm not saying you'll find out anything, but you have to start somewhere.'
'Where do I come in?' Whitlock asked.
'You'll find out soon enough,' Kolchinsky replied then pressed the intercom button on the desk. 'Sarah, ask Mr Bailey to come through.'
Kolchinsky used a miniature transmitter to activate the door. Moments later Sarah appeared, followed by a man in a pale grey suit. He was in his early fifties with wavy black hair and a craggy face which was scarred around the cheeks and mouth from teenage acne. He smiled quickly at Sarah when she withdrew and closed the door behind her.
Kolchinsky came round from behind the desk and the two men shook hands. He introduced Whitlock and Sabrina to Bailey who then sat down on the second black leather sofa and took a cigar from his pocket. He unwrapped the cellophane then looked across at Kolchinsky. 'I was shocked to hear about Colonel Philpott. How is he?'
'He's expected to make a full recovery,' Kolchinsky replied.
'That is good news. Please send him my regards when you next see him. We may not have always seen eye to eye in the past but I have great respect for him nevertheless.' Bailey lit the cigar and exhaled the smoke towards the ceiling. 'Have you had a chance to look through the dossier I sent you this morning?'
'I've read it,' Kolchinsky said, unable to keep the disdain from his voice.
'And have you briefed your operatives?' Bailey asked, indicating Whitlock and Sabrina on the adjacent sofa.
'They've only just got here. We've been talking about the events in Beirut.'
'That's understandable,' Bailey said with the hint of a smile. 'It's quite a mess he's got you into, isn't it?'
'You let us worry about that, Mr Bailey,' Kolchinsky replied icily. Til let you explain the gist of the dossier to C.W. and Sabrina. After all, it is your dirty work.'
Bailey got to his feet and moved to the window. He puffed thoughtfully on the cigar then turned back to face Whitlock and Sabrina. 'What I'm about to tell you can never be repeated outside these four walls. It's one of the CIA's most closely guarded secrets and I intend to keep it that way. Any indiscretion on your part — '
'There will be no indiscretion on their part,' Kolchinsky cut in angrily, his eyes blazing.
Bailey shrugged, not altogether convinced by Kolchinsky's outburst. But he let it pass. 'It would never have needed to come out if Graham hadn't rushed off to Beirut to find Bernard.' He paused to draw on the cigar, still loath to reveal what he had come to say. When he spoke it was in a barely audible voice as if he feared that his words would carry beyond the four walls. 'Jean-Jacques Bernard works for me.'
'Bernard's CIA?' Whitlock said in astonishment.
Bailey nodded.
'Was he working for you when Mike's family were kidnapped?" Sabrina demanded.
'Yes,' Bailey answered then held up his hand to silence Sabrina before she could speak again. 'But the kidnapping had nothing to do with him. It was carried out on the orders of Salim Al-Makesh to give himself time to flee the terrorist base before Delta destroyed it.'
'And now Al-Makesh is dead. How convenient.'
'You can drop the sarcasm, Sabrina,' Kolchinsky said sharply, pointing a finger of warning at her.
She opened her mouth to speak, thought better of it, then slumped back angrily on the sofa and folded her arms across her chest.
'Why was Mike never told about this?' Whitlock asked, his eyes riveted on Bailey. 'He's been through hell these past two years trying to come to terms with the loss of his family. Had he known the truth it might have made his loss tha
t bit more bearable.'
'Bernard told us what happened and as he and Al-Makesh were the only two survivors of the attack we couldn't say anything without endangering his cover.'
'You bastard,' Sabrina snarled.
Bailey inhaled sharply and glanced at Kolchinsky, fully expecting him to reprimand her again. Kolchinsky said nothing.
'What did happen to them?' Whitlock asked, breaking the tense silence.
'I don't know the details,' Bailey replied with a shrug. 'But I do know they were killed in retaliation for the attack on the base camp. That's all Bernard could find out from Al-Makesh.'
Whitlock bit his lip pensively then looked across at Kolchinsky. 'When I asked you earlier where I fitted into the assignment you said that I'd find out soon enough. There's more to this than just finding Mike before he gets to Bernard, isn't there?'
'Yes,' Kolchinsky replied bluntly then took another cigarette from the packet on the desk and lit it. He indicated towards Bailey. 'I'll let you explain.', 'Very well,' Bailey said. 'Have either of you ever heard of Zimbala?'
'Sure,' Whitlock answered. 'It's a small country in central Africa. Borders Chad and Niger.'
'You're unusually well informed,' Bailey said with thinly veiled sarcasm.
'I am African,' Whitlock rejoined. 'Born in Kenya, but educated in England. That's where I learned about Zimbala.'
'Then you'll also know that Zimbala has been a one-party state since it was granted independence by the French forty-five years ago.'
'A dictatorship run by Alphonse Mobuto,' Sabrina said.
'Until his death last month,' Bailey said.
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