'We don't,' Tambese answered. 'But after the attempt on Miss Cassidy's life we couldn't take any chances — '
'What happened?' Graham cut in quickly.
Til brief you later,' she replied.
'How did you know when we'd get here?' Graham asked Sabrina.
'I didn't. I just knew you had to come to the airport sooner or later. I gave Colonel Tambese a photograph of you to make sure he'd stop you before you reached the airport. It's the one I took to Beirut with me in case I needed it when I approached the Lebanese police.'
'The three men in the jeep are trusted soldiers of mine,' Tambese continued. 'Most of the others at the roadblock are new recruits. We still don't know where their true sympathies lie. I had to make your arrest look realistic. Arresting foreigners for no apparent reason isn't exactly part of the plan for the new Zimbala. That's why we planted the AK-4ys and the grenade. Word is sure to get back to Ngune that you've been arrested.'
'Which means Ngune will think you're in custody, at least for the time being,' Moredi added.
'Why do I get the feeling this is leading up to something?' Graham said, his eyes flickering between Moredi and Sabrina.
'It is,' Sabrina said. 'We're going to Kondese to find Remy Mobuto.'
Graham took Sabrina to one side. 'And what about Bernard? You remember our agreement.
'You don't have to whisper,' Sabrina said. 'They know about Bernard.'
'What's so important about Remy Mobuto?' Graham asked.
'He knows where and when the hit on his brother will take place. That's why he was abducted.'
'So where does Bernard fit into this?'
'Ngune and his deputy, Massenga, are obviously the two brains behind this whole operation. But, according to Remy Mobuto, there is a third man, the assassin. And from what Joseph's told me, it has to be Bernard. I think all this talk of a hit squad made up of ex-Security policemen was just a red herring to throw the authorities off the scent.'
'But you've got no proof that this third man is Bernard?'
'No, it's just a hunch. And there's only one person who does know the truth.'
'Remy Mobuto,' Graham concluded.
'We have to find him, Mike. Quickly.'
'How far is Kondese from here?'
'It's a good two-hour drive,' Moredi told him.
'So what are we waiting for?' Graham said then picked up his holdall and walked to the van.
SEVEN
'Morning.'
'Morning,' Rosie replied, rubbing her eyes wearily as she emerged from the bedroom.
'Sleep well?' Bernard asked.
'Great, thanks. I haven't slept that well in ages.'
'That's good.' Bernard slipped on his leather jacket. 'I have to rush. There's food in the fridge. Help yourself. I've left twenty dollars on the kitchen table. Buy something for dinner.'
'Do you have special food?' she asked hesitantly.
'Halal, you mean? No, I'm not a Muslim. I'm supposed to be Catholic but I renounced the faith after my father died. Get anything, pizzas, burgers, whatever you like.'
'What time will you be back?'
'You know what these business meetings are like. They can go on for ever. I hope to be back by six.' Bernard opened the front door then looked back at her. 'The money's for food, not dope. If the police catch you near another dealer they'll throw the book at you.'
'I know,' she replied.
Til score us some dope, O K?'
'O K,' she replied with a grin. 'Marc?'
'Yes?'
'Thanks for everything.'
Bernard winked at her then left the flat and closed the door behind him.
Rosie fixed herself breakfast then changed out of thp baggy white T-shirt Bernard had lent her into her jeans and the light blue shirt he had left out for her. She rolled up the sleeves then went back into the kitchen to make herself another cup of coffee. She sat down at the table and held the cup in both hands as she thought about the previous evening.
He had taken her to a steakhouse after they had left the Rollercoaster and ordered her the biggest T-bone steak she had ever seen. She had been ravenous, not having eaten properly for thirty-six hours, and managed to clear the plate and still have room for an icecream. Then, after scoring from a dealer outside Bryant Park, he had taken her back to the flat. They had talked for hours. Well, she had. He had listened patiently as she bared her soul. It was like unloading a great burden from her shoulders. She had felt completely relaxed in his company. He reminded her of C. W. Two gentlemen. C.W. was the only other person she could talk to in times of trouble. She knew C.W. would have chastised her for going off with a strange man. But it wasn't as if she did it all the time. In fact, it was the first time it had ever happened. And she wouldn't have done it if she had felt the slightest doubt about him. And her instincts had been proved right. She wondered if C.W. would understand? She would phone him. He could pass a message on to her parents…
Her thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of the doorbell. Her initial reaction was that Marc had come back for something. He'd probably forgotten his keys. Her mother did it all the time. She put the cup down on the table and was about to get up when another thought struck her. It could also be the police. What if they had traced her to the flat? But how? And anyway, the flat was in Murray Hill, nowhere near Times Square. She wasn't violating her parole conditions. What about last night?¯She had been in Times Square. Had they received a tip-off? Who from? Kenny? But he didn't know where she was.
The doorbell rang again. She stood up and walked to the front door. She opened it on the chain.
'Rosie?' a voice called out.
'Kenny?' she replied, peering through the narrow aperture at him.
'Can I come in, or are we going to talk like this?'
She unhooked the chain and opened the door. 'How did you know I was here?'
'I had you followed from the Rollercoaster,' Doyle replied and immediately pushed his hands against the door when Rosie tried to slam it in his face. 'I did it because I was worried about you.'
'So you had someone spy on me,' she snapped, still trying to force the door closed. 'Go away, Kenny. Go away and leave me alone.'
'Rosie, I just want to talk to you. Please.'
'No!' she screamed. 'Go away.'
'You carry on yelling like that and one of the neighbours will call the police. Is that what you want?'
She stopped pushing on the door. 'OK, say what you've come to say then get out. I can't believe you're acting like this, Kenny. We used to be friends.'
'We still are.'
'Think again,' she snapped back.
'Rosie, there's something about this guy that isn't right.'
'You're not starting that again?'
'I'm worried about you, for Christ's sake. The guy saved your butt last night, granted. But there was no need for you to throw yourself at him like you did.'
'Throw myself at him?' she retorted in amazement.
'That's exactly what you did, and you know it. You couldn't take your eyes off him. You live in a fantasy world, you know that?' Doyle shook his head slowly. 'Open your eyes, Rosie. This is the real world. You're shacking up with — '
Rosie slapped him across the face. 'I'm not shacking up with him! He hasn't touched me since we met.'
Doyle dabbed the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. His lip was bleeding. 'I've tried my best. You just won't come out your fantasy world, will you? But you'll learn. And it'll be the hard way. I'll see you around. Take care of yourself.'
Rosie watched Doyle disappear into the lift then wiped a tear from her,cheek. Why had she hit him? She had never hit anyone before in her life. And he was her best friend. She knew he was only trying to protect her. He had always been the big brother she never had. But why couldn't he understand that she needed her own freedom, a freedom to pick and choose her own friends? She so wanted him to like Marc. But now she knew that would never happen. He would be there for her when Marc was gone. He wa
s always there for her. That's what made him so special. Then they could talk again. But until then she would stay away from the Rollercoaster, far away.
She closed the door and went back to the kitchen where she finished her coffee. After washing up she went through to the lounge and picked up the newspaper Bernard had been reading. The front page carried the story about the attempted assassination of Jamel Mobuto outside the United Nations Plaza. She didn't bother reading it. She wasn't interested in politics. She paged through the newspaper, found nothing of interest, and tossed it onto the coffee table in the middle of the room. She glanced at her watch. Nine fifty-five. She wasn't going to sit around the flat all day. Hell, there wasn't even a television set. She went back to the kitchen and was about to pocket the twenty dollars when she thought better of it and left it on the table. She would only use it for food. She turned out her pockets. She had six dollars and a few cents. It would be enough for a sandwich at lunchtime. She stuffed the money back into her pocket then picked up the spare key from the table in the hall and left the flat.
Doyle watched Rosie leave the building from the seclusion of a doorway on the opposite side of the street. He waited until she had disappeared from sight then crossed the road and mounted the steps leading up to the glass doors. He glanced around quickly then entered the foyer. It was deserted. He took the lift to the third floor and walked the short distance to the flat. He looked around again and, satisfied he was alone, removed a credit card from his wallet and slipped it carefully between the door and the jamb. He eased it against the lock and prised it back gently until he felt the door give under his sustained pressure.
After a quick perusal he pushed open the door and slipped inside, closing it silently behind him. He looked into the room nearest the front door, the lounge. The second door led into a bedroom. The bed was unmade. The T-shirt Rosie had been wearing the previous night lay crumpled in the corner.
He tried the adjoining door. It also led into a bedroom. The bed had been made with military precision. He moved to the wardrobe and tried the door. It was unlocked. He opened it. The clothes had been ironed then folded with meticulous care before being stacked neatly on the shelves. He unhooked the second door and opened it. Two pairs of jeans hung beside a pair of black flannels and a grey chintz jacket. He crouched down and unzipped the grey holdall at the bottom of the wardrobe. It was empty. He was about to zip it up when he noticed the black attache case pushed up against the back of the wardrobe.
He pushed the holdall to one side then removed the attache case and placed it carefully on the floor. Wiping the sweat from his forehead he glanced furtively over his shoulder like a naughty schoolboy about to light up a cigarette behind the toilets. He wiped his clammy hands on his shirt then tried the catches. They wouldn't move — a combination lock. He tilted the case to get a closer look at the digits. They were all at zero.
'One-nine-six-seven.'
Doyle looked round, startled by the voice behind him. Bernard stood in the doorway, a Desert Eagle automatic in his hand.
'Please, carry on,' Bernard said, indicating the attache case with the pistol. 'The combination's one-nine-six-seven, the year the PFLP was founded.'
'What?' Doyle said, his eyes riveted on the pistol.
'You've never heard of the PFLP?'
Doyle swallowed nervously and shook his head.
'The Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine.'
'You're a terrorist!' Doyle spat the words out.
'I prefer "revolutionary". But not any more. I work freelance now.'
'How did you know I was here?' Doyle stammered.
Bernard indicated the transmitter attached to his belt. 'You activated it the moment you opened the wardrobe.' He noticed the uncertainty in Doyle's eyes. 'I was in the adjoining flat, working. The two flats are connected by a door built into the lounge wall. That's why you never heard me come in. Actually, I thought it was Rosie snooping around.'
'What are you going to do with her?'
'Nothing,' Bernard replied casually then gestured to the case again with the pistol. 'You still haven't opened it. I thought you'd be curious to know what's inside.'
Doyle's hands were trembling as he lined up the digits. He placed his thumbs on the catches then paused to glance up at Bernard. His breathing was ragged and the sweat now ran freely down his face.
'It's not booby-trapped if that's what you're worried about,' Bernard said. 'Do you think I would be standing here if it was?'
Doyle wiped the back of his hand across his forehead then unlocked the case. He eased the lid open. Inside were the specially designed segments of a rifle and telescopic sight-attachment which were sunk into the contours of a foam base. 'A gun. I should have guessed.'
'A Galil sniping rifle to be exact. They may be the enemy, but the Israelis still make the best weapons in the world. So, is your curiosity satisfied now, gay boy?'
The taunt stung Doyle into action. He lunged at Bernard who sidestepped his wild punch and landed a vicious rabbit punch of his own at the base of Doyle's neck. Doyle stumbled and threw his hands up to protect his face as he fell heavily against the wall. Bernard took a silencer from his pocket and screwed it onto the muzzle of the pistol. He looked down at Doyle who was on his knees, his head bowed, his fingers gingerly massaging his neck.
'Hey, gay boy?' Bernard said, prodding Doyle with his foot.
Doyle looked up slowly. Bernard smiled coldly and shot him through the head.
Kolchinsky was reading through a dossier when the intercom buzzed. 'C.W.'s here, Mr Kolchinsky.'
'Send him through, Sarah,' Kolchinsky replied and used the sonic transmitter to activate the door.
'Morning, Sergei,' Whitlock said, entering the room.
Kolchinsky glanced at his watch. 'Afternoon, actually. It's a minute after twelve.'
Whitlock shrugged. 'I won't quibble about a minute.'
'Sit down,' Kolchinsky said, indicating the nearest of the black leather sofas. 'I thought you were supposed to be accompanying the President to the African-American Institute this morning?'
'The tour was cancelled.' Whitlock sat down. 'He's been in conference all morning. Suits me fine. The less he sees of New York the better.'
'What about his trip to Harlem this afternoon?'
'Still on, unfortunately. It's scheduled for two o'clock. That's why I thought I'd pop over and see you while I had the chance. Anything on the two assassins?'
'Not a thing. I've been on the phone to the Zimbalan authorities again this morning. It seems the Security Police shredded a lot of documents before Jamel Mobuto outlawed the organization. A lot of personnel files were also destroyed. They've promised to get back to me the moment they come up with anything.' Kolchinsky pushed a folder across the desk. 'This came in this morning from the lab at the Test Centre. It's the report on the shooting outside the United Nations Plaza. It's routine stuff mainly. But there was something that caught my eye — second page, third paragraph. See what you think.'
Whitlock opened the folder and read the relevant paragraph then looked up at Kolchinsky. 'I see what you mean. Although the gun-man was only thirty yards from Mobuto, he fired almost three feet wide of his target. Are they sure about their calculations?'
'They had half-a-dozen press photographs to choose from when it came to pinpointing Mobuto's position outside the hotel."
Whitlock closed the folder and replaced it on the desk. 'So the gunman either missed deliberately or else he was a lousy shot.'
'It doesn't make sense,' Whitlock said thoughtfully. 'Any assassin worth his salt wouldn't have missed by three feet. Not from that distance.'
Kolchinsky explained briefly what Sabrina had said earlier about a 'third man'.
'If Bernard is this mysterious third man, why not just use him to assassinate Mobuto?' Whitlock said. 'Why go to all the trouble of assembling a team of Security policemen…' he trailed off and looked quizzically at Kolchinsky. 'Decoys?'
'That had crossed my mind.
But decoys for what? We know that Bernard wasn't even in the country when the attempt was made on the President's life. He was in Beirut.'
Whitlock stood up and walked to the window. He chewed his lip thoughtfully then turned back to Kolchinsky. 'What if this third man was there the other night when the attempt was made on Mobuto's life?'
'As backup?'
'As the assassin. The gunman in the crowd was just the decoy.'
Kolchinsky tapped the folder. 'The bullet dug out of the wall came from a nine-millimetre parabellum. It's the same gun discarded by the gunman.'
'Exactly,' Whitlock said, nodding. 'He purposely fired wide. That would tie in with the report.'
'So why didn't this third man shoot Mobuto?'
'Obviously he didn't have a clear shot.' Whitlock moved to the desk and looked down at Kolchinsky. 'I know it's a wild hunch, Sergei, but it makes sense, don't you see that? The decoy draws our attention to himself by firing blindly and in doing so gives the real assassin the chance to shoot Mobuto in the ensuing confusion. But, as I said, the assassin obviously didn't have a clear shot. And he's only got one shot in that situation.'
'So if this theory of yours is right, why didn't the first gunman also try to shoot Mobuto? Why purposely fire wide?'
'Because they want Mobuto dead. Who would be more reliable? The man in the crowd, armed only with a handgun, or the sniper overlooking the target area? What if the first gunman had only wounded him? They'd never have got near him in hospital. He'd have been guarded better than Fort Knox.'
'If your theory is right, then Bernard can't be this third man.'
'Why?' Whitlock countered.
'I've told you, he was in Beirut two days ago.'
'We only have Bailey's word for that. You said that Bernard was spotted at the airport by a CIA operative. Bernard could easily have bribed him to say that. What if he's been here all the time?'
Kolchinsky stared at the folder thoughtfully then looked up at Whitlock. 'If you're right, the next attempt has to be this afternoon. It's the only time the President will be out in the open.'
'My thoughts exactly. I want to draft in more police snipers to cover the area around the school.'
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