Time of the Assassins u-6

by Alastair Macneill

  'So he still hasn't contacted Bailey about the hit?'

  'Not a word. This is a critical stage of the operation, Sabrina. That's why you've got to stop Michael from getting to Bernard.'

  'I'll get the next flight out to Habane,' she assured him. 'Who's my contact in Zimbala?'

  'We don't have anyone in Zimbala. Bailey offered to get one of his men at the embassy to liaise with you but I decided against it. I don't want the CIA interfering in our business. What they will do is leave an envelope for you in one of the lockers at the airport. It'll contain your hotel reservation, money, maps of the city — the usual. I've also asked them to leave a Beretta there for you. The key will be at the information desk. But apart from that, you're on your own.'

  'It won't be the first time,' she muttered.

  'Call me when you get there. I hope to have more on Bernard by then.'

  'How's the Colonel?'

  'He's fine. I saw him this morning.'

  'Send him my regards when you next see him, will you?'

  'Of course. And Sabrina, be careful.'

  'You can count on it.' She replaced the receiver and looked round at Graham who was hovering at the door. 'Bernard left for Zimbala last night.'

  'I got the gist of the conversation. Why the sudden change of heart? You were determined to spill the works when you went to the phone.'

  'What good would it have done telling Sergei I'd found you? You wouldn't have come back with me anyway. Then I'd have had to chase after you wherever you went. It would have been like something out of the Keystone Cops. At least this way I know where you are. And I know Bernard will be able to tip off Bailey before you get to him.' She gave him a wry smile. 'Well, that's what I'll say in my defence when I get back. I don't think it'll save me from suspension though.'

  'Why should you be suspended? It's not as if I gave you much choice. You did what you thought was best under the circumstances. The Colonel can't fault you for that. And what was all that about sending him your regards? Is he ill?'

  'I haven't told you, have I? With all this going on, it completely slipped my mind.'

  'Told me what?'

  They returned to the room where she explained about Philpott's heart attack and his subsequent convalescence at the Bellevue Hospital where he would remain for the next few days.

  'He can be a cantankerous old fossil at times but I hope this isn't going to force him to retire. The place wouldn't be the same without him.'

  'It's up to his doctor to decide if he'll be fit enough to return to work. But the signs are encouraging by all accounts.' She gestured to the door. 'Well, I'd better get back to the hotel and pack.'

  'How will I know where you're staying once you reach Zimbala? You're sure to get there first.'

  'We don't need to travel separately. U N A C O don't have anyone in Zimbala so word can't get back to Sergei that we're working together.'

  'But word can get back to Bernard. Remember, he doesn't know what happened at the factory tonight. As far as he's concerned, I'm still a threat to him. And that means he's sure to have people at the airport ready to intercept me the moment I arrive there.'

  'What about me? If Al-Makesh knew we were with UN A C O, then Bernard's sure to know it as well. And for all he knows, we could be working together to track him down.'

  Graham shook his head. 'He'll know the real reason why you're in Beirut.'

  'How? Sergei said Bernard hasn't been in touch with Bailey for days, certainly not since C.W. and I were assigned to the case.'

  'Because Al-Makesh knew why you were in Beirut. All Bailey had to do was tell the Mossad why you were here and they would have got Al-Makesh to pass the information on to Bernard. How else do you think Al-Makesh knew we were from UN A CO? Not from some informer on the street corner. From the Mossad.' Graham sat on the bed and looked up at her. 'Bernard will make sure you're given a free hand wherever you go. You're his guardian angel-the one person keeping me away from him. No, don't worry, you'll be perfectly safe in Zimbala.'

  'How are you going to get there?'

  'I don't know yet. My best bet would probably be to fly into one of the neighbouring states and sneak over the border at night. Which brings us back to my original question. How will I know where to contact you?'

  'I'll have the use of a locker at the airport…' she trailed off with a despondent sigh. 'Sorry, I forget. You can't go near the airport.'

  'Leave it there. I'll sort something out.'

  'What name will you be using?'

  He thought for a moment. 'Well, I can't use Michael Green any more. I'll use the Miles Grant passport.'

  'OK, I'll leave the key for the locker at the information counter.' She glanced at her watch. 'As I said, I'd better get back to the hotel. I still have to make all the necessary travel arrangements before I go to bed.'

  'See you in Zimbala.'

  She walked to the door then paused to look back suspiciously at him. 'I've put my neck on the block for you, Mike. Don't jump the gun and go after Bernard by yourself.' no

  'As if I would,' he replied, his hands held out in a gesture of mock innocence. His face suddenly became serious. 'We made a deal. I'll stick to it.'

  'Sure,' she replied with a quick smile then left the room.

  He returned to his room and pulled his holdall out from under the bed. He could hear Sabrina in the bar below talking to the two men. Then silence. He turned his attention to rounding up his clothes and packing them in the holdall.

  'Knock, knock,' Laidlaw said from the open doorway behind him.

  'Come in, Russ,' Graham said without looking round.

  'So, you're off on your travels again. Where to now, or can't you say?'

  'You know the drill,' Graham said.

  'You're going after Bernard, aren't you?'

  Graham zipped up his toilet bag and put it in the holdall. 'Perhaps.'

  'You need an extra pair of hands?'

  Graham looked round sharply and was about to shake his head when he paused to weigh up the pros and cons of the situation. He was going into the unknown. Alone. Hell, he didn't even know where he was going. He could use someone with Laidlaw's experience. He couldn't speak any foreign languages. He knew Laidlaw spoke French, one of the main languages of Zimbala. But he was now officially working on UN AGO time. And Laidlaw was an outsider, an outsider who couldn't even be relied upon to fire a gun in a crisis. Some decision. in

  'What do you know about Zimbala?'

  'Small country in Africa. Borders Chad and Niger. It used to be a dictatorship — '

  'OK,' Graham cut in, holding up his hands to silence Laidlaw. 'I've got to rendezvous with Sabrina in Zimbala. She's flying there. I can't risk that. Bernard's sure to have his spies out looking for me. I'm going to have to fly to either Chad or Niger and slip over the border by car. But I don't speak French or Arabic so I'm going to stick out like the proverbial sore thumb. And that means attracting unnecessary attention that could get back to Bernard.'

  'And you want me to get you into Zimbala.'

  'You speak French.'

  'And Arabic,' Laidlaw added then smiled wryly. 'It'll be like old times.'

  'All I want you to do is get me to Habane. That's where I'm meeting Sabrina. Then I'll cut you loose.' Graham immediately saw the disappointment in Laidlaw's eyes. 'What if we're caught in a firefight when we find Bernard? You'd only be a liability. I don't want your death on my conscience, Russ. We've been through too much together.'

  Laidlaw nodded, his face grim. 'I hear what you're saying, Mike. I'll get you to Habane.'

  'Thanks,' Graham said.

  'Come on, we'll sort out the flight arrangements downstairs.' Laidlaw walked to the door then looked round at Graham, a faint smile touching the corners of his lips. 'It won't be the first time I've had to come to your rescue and haul your ass out of trouble.'

  'Like hell,' Graham replied good-humouredly then picked up his holdall and followed Laidlaw into the corridor, closing the door behind him.
<
br />   FIVE

  Whitlock drove his white BMW down the ramp into the basement carpark underneath his apartment block in Manhattan. He pulled into the reserved space beside a red Porsche Carrera, Carmen's car. He switched off the radio and glanced at his watch. It had just gone six thirty. He stifled a yawn. It had been a long day-twelve hours with Mobuto, eight of those in the United Nations building where Mobuto and his entourage had spent the day.

  Mobuto's address to the General Assembly had impressed him. It had been an eloquent, impassioned speech in which he had promised to uphold the principles of democracy as the new leader of Zimbala. Yet one aspect of the speech had surprised him. Mobuto had never once referred to his father by name or attempted to make any apology for the abhorrent crimes that had been committed under his regime. It was as if he had blocked out that part of his life and was only interested in talking about the future.

  The speech was well received by the delegates and a motion was carried unanimously to send a fact-finding team to Zimbala in six months' time to monitor the situation with a view to readmitting the country to the United Nations. Its original membership, instated when the United Nations was founded in 1945, been cancelled in 1956 when Alphonse Mobuto had refused to allow a delegation to visit Zimbala to investigate accounts of mass genocide under his regime. The motion had particularly pleased Mobuto who was desperate to bring Zimbala back into world affairs. Whitlock knew that the ambassadors of two Western nations had already promised state visits to Zimbala as soon as it was readmitted to the United Nations. It had been an historic day for the future of Zimbala — and it was all down to the tactful diplomacy of Jamel Mobuto. Whitlock had found his animosity towards Mobuto beginning to waver as the day progressed. He genuinely wanted to bring about change in a country where tens of thousands of its people had been tortured or murdered under his father's regime. They still treated each other with caution but each was beginning to respect the other's professionalism. And that was certainly a start.

  Whitlock had wanted to remain on duty for the banquet at the United Nations that evening but Kolchinsky had told him to call it a day. He had reluctantly agreed to go home. So the first day had passed uneventfully. But it had been the easiest of the three days. The following day Mobuto intended to tour the African-American Institute on East 47th Street then go on to visit a high-school deep in the heart of Harlem. Then, on the third day, he would be a guest at a trade fair held in New Jersey. Two days of public exposure: a security team's nightmare. But that was what he was being paid for and after hearing Mobuto at the United Nations he was now more determined than ever to ensure his safety. Mobuto was a man with a mission, a Messiah, the future of Zimbala…

  Whitlock's thoughts were jolted by a sudden rap on the driver's window. He looked round sharply then exhaled deeply when he saw the man's face peering in at him. Joshua Marshall had been the parking-bay attendant ever since the apartment block had been opened eighteen years earlier. He had grown up in the slums of Harlem and had been a promising middleweight fighter in the late fifties before the lure of alcohol had devastated his career. He had been dry for the past twenty years.

  Whitlock activated the window and clasped his hand over his chest. 'You almost gave me a heart attack, Joshua.'

  'I thought you'd suffered one, Mr Whitlock. You haven't moved since you parked the car.'

  'I was thinking, that's all.' Whitlock removed the keys from the ignition and got out of the car. 'How long's my wife been back?'

  Joshua scratched his head thoughtfully. 'About an hour. She seemed in quite a hurry.'

  'Oh?' Whitlock said, locking the door. 'Did she say anything?'

  'She didn't see me.'

  'Thanks, Joshua.'

  Joshua touched his cap then ambled off back to his hut.

  Whitlock used his personal ID card to activate the lift and tapped his foot apprehensively as he waited for it to arrive. Why had Carmen been in such a hurry?

  She never rushed anywhere; she was always very graceful and calm. What was wrong? The lift doors parted and he smiled fleetingly at the couple who emerged then stepped inside and pressed the button for the seventh floor. He paced the lift anxiously until it stopped and the doors parted again. He strode briskly down the blue-carpeted corridor, the apartment keys already in his hand. The door opened directly onto the lounge. Carmen was standing by the window. Her sister, Rachel, sat on the couch, her hands clasped tightly together. Her eyes were red. She had been crying. He knew then that something had happened to Rosie.

  'Thank God you're back,' Carmen said as he closed the door behind him.

  'What's wrong?' he asked, his eyes flickering between the two women. 'Is it Rosie?'

  Rachel bit her lip as she struggled to hold back the tears. 'She's gone.'

  'What do you mean "gone"?'

  'She had a blazing row with Eddie and stormed out of the house,' Rachel replied. 'We don't know where she's gone.'

  Whitlock sat down. 'When did this happen?'

  'About two hours ago. Eddie had just got back from work when they had a row in the kitchen. She stormed out of the house. I'm beside myself with worry, C.W. She's only wearing a T-shirt and jeans. And she doesn't have any money. I'm sure she's gone back to Times Square. That's where she's been spending most of her time these last few months.'

  'And one of the conditions of her bail was that she wasn't to go anywhere near Times Square until her case went to court,' Carmen said.

  Whitlock rubbed his eyes wearily.

  'Where's Eddie now?'

  'He's out looking for her,' Rachel replied, 'but he doesn't know Times Square.'

  'Do you know any of her regular haunts there?' Whitlock asked.

  Rachel shook her head. 'Rosie never tells us anything.'

  Whitlock got to his feet. 'Well, I'd better get over there.'

  'It's no use going now,' Carmen told him. 'You wouldn't know where Eddie was. He's phoning every twenty minutes to see if you're back.'

  'When did he last phone?"

  'About ten minutes ago,' Carmen said, glancing at her watch.

  Til go and change,' Whitlock said.

  'Are you hungry?' Carmen asked. 'There's a casserole in the oven. I can put some out for you before you go.'

  'No, I had a big lunch. I'll eat later.'

  'C.W.?'

  Whitlock paused in the doorway to look back at Rachel.

  'Bring her home. Please.'

  Whitlock nodded grimly and left the room.

  Rosie Kruger was in the Rollercoaster, her favourite bar on West 43rd Street, less than a hundred yards away from the heart of Times Square. She had her father's pale blue eyes but her long black hair and honey complexion had been inherited from her mother. She was sixteen-years-old but with her slim, petite figure and attractive features she could have passed for twenty. Kenny Doyle, the twenty-eight-year-old barman at the Rollercoaster, knew her real age but that had never stopped him from serving her a drink. He had been a good friend to her and when she walked out on her parents she had made straight for the bar, looking for him. He understood her plight. He had run away from his home in Chicago when he was fifteen and still bore the scars from the beating he had received at the hands of his father after his parents had discovered he was gay. He had never contacted them again. As far as he was concerned, he had no parents.

  Rosie felt the same way about her parents. Her father was on the brink of alcoholism, a pathetic figure who could only face life if he had a bottle in his hand. She knew he was on the verge of losing his job. Not that it really mattered to him any more. He had lost his dignity years ago. And her mother was too weak to stop his drinking. Rosie had been the one who had had to put her father to bed every night for eighteen months while her mother took refuge behind the facade of a sordid affair with her boss, a divorcee. And then it had only ended after he had decided to go back to his wife. No, it wasn't only her father who had lost his dignity.

  She could remember vividly the first time she had tried dope, th
e day that she had found out about her mother's affair from one of her classmates. She had felt cheap and degraded, bitter. She had shared a joint with some friends in the toilet. They each had a few tokes and by the time the roach was flushed away she was already experiencing her first rush, a warm, dreamy sensation that seemed to encompass her whole being. She never wanted it to end. A week later she made her first score from a dealer in Times Square. It made putting her father to bed that bit more bearable. She had been smoking dope now for the last year, scoring whenever she had saved up enough money from her weekend job at McDonald's.

  Then, the previous day, it had all gone wrong. She had met her connection in the usual place but the moment the deal was struck they were busted by three plainclothes policemen who had been watching them from an unmarked car on the opposite side of the road. They were both frisked then cuffed and taken into custody. It was the most humiliating, and frightening, night of her life. She had never been so glad to see her mother that morning. All she wanted to do was get out of the cell. It stank of vomit and urine. And for those few hours after she got home she found she could talk to her mother properly for the first time in over two years. There was even a bond of understanding between them. Then her father had come home. All he had done was scream abuse at her, accusing her of bringing shame and disgrace on the family. The double standards appalled her. It was then she knew she couldn't stay there, not with him. She knew she was violating her bail conditions by being in the Rollercoaster but she also knew she would be perfectly safe if she kept a low profile. And she knew Kenny would look after her…

  'What you drinking, sweetheart?'

  The voice startled her but when she looked round she winced at the stale smell of alcohol on the man's breath. He was wearing a grey suit, his tie undone at the throat. She estimated he was in his early thirties.

  'You're real pretty,' he said and reached out his hand to touch her face.

  'Back off,' she snapped and jerked away.

  'Hey, leave my girl alone,' Doyle said from behind the counter.