Tm fine.' Mobuto got to his feet and winced as he looked at Whitlock's blood-soaked sleeve. 'You're losing a lot of blood. You need to get to a hospital.'
'The bullet went straight through. It looks a lot worse than it is.'
The principal and the community leaders ventured out from behind the curtains and looked from Sibele's body to Whitlock's injured arm.
'How did he get in here with that gun?' the principal demanded. 'I thought the police had searched everybody who came in here today.'
'They did,' Whitlock replied. 'It was obviously an inside job.'
Two uniformed policemen appeared at the back of the hall, alerted by the sound of gunfire.
'Call an ambulance,' Rogers shouted to them. 'And close those doors. The press aren't to get in here under any circumstances until the body's been removed.'
'Yes, sir,' one of the policemen said and closed the doors behind them.
Whitlock used his handkerchief as a tourniquet then glanced out across the now deserted hall before focussing his attention on the gallery. Why had Sibele looked up there? Was that where the sniper should have been? But the door leading into the gallery was being guarded by a uniformed policeman. Had that put the sniper off?
'You also saw it,' Masala said behind him.
Whitlock nodded.
There was a knock at the door and a breathless policeman entered the hall. He glanced at Sibele's body then looked up at Whitlock. 'We've been trying to reach you but you weren't replying.'
Whitlock instinctively looked down at the receiver on his belt. The wire connected to the earpiece had been ripped from the socket, probably when he fell. He looked up at the policeman. 'What is it?'
'The SWAT team have cornered the getaway driver a couple of blocks from here. They're awaiting your instructions.'
Whitlock turned to Rogers. 'Get over there right away. We need him alive. Make sure the SWAT team know that. If they are forced to shoot, tell them to maim, not kill.'
'I'm on my way,' Rogers said and jumped nimbly off the stage.
'Wait, I'm going with you,' Masala said and looked to Mobuto for his consent.
'Go on. And remember what Mr Whitlock said. Don't kill him.'
Masala nodded and followed Rogers from the hall. They were immediately besieged by the press but neither man said anything as they shoved their way through the extended microphones. Rogers told the uniformed police on the portico to get the press out of the building then walked with Masala to the main gates where an even larger crowd had gathered after word had spread through the neighbourhood of the shooting. A member of the SWAT team was waiting for them.
'What's the situation?' Rogers asked.
'We spotted him in a sidestreet. The description of the car and the registration number match the bulletin you sent through to us earlier. The street's been cordoned off but we haven't approached the car. He's just sitting there.'
'Let's go,' Rogers said.
The three men ran the hundred yards to where a crowd of onlookers had gathered around the mouth of the sidestreet. A police car was parked at an angle to the road, making it impossible for the Buick to get out without ramming it. Another police car was similarly positioned at the other end of the street. Half-a-dozen members of the SWAT team were positioned on the roofs overlooking the street, their rifles trained on the car. The lieutenant in charge of the SWAT team was waiting for them. Rogers told him what Whitlock had said and he immediately passed the instructions on to his men.
'What do you suggest we do?' the lieutenant asked.
Til try and speak to him,' Rogers replied.
'The car could be booby-trapped,' said the lieutenant.
Rogers shrugged. 'I've got to take that chance. The longer we make him sweat it out, the more chance there is of him cracking. We need him alive, remember?'
The lieutenant nodded.
Rogers stepped out in front of the police car and took off his jacket. He carefully unholstered his Smith 8c Wesson, held it up for Kolwezi to see, then handed it to Masala.
'Are you crazy?' the lieutenant said in amazement. 'He could gun you down.'
'If he does, don't kill him, disable him.''
The lieutenant sighed deeply then stepped back and spoke into his radio, telling his men that Rogers would be going in unarmed. Rogers walked slowly towards the Buick, his arms held out away from his body. He reached the front of the Buick and indicated for Kolwezi to open the driver's window. Kolwezi wiped the sweat from his face with his hand then wound down the window. He levelled the Walther at Rogers and ordered him to approach to within five feet of the window. Rogers complied. He looked up at the nearest of the SWAT snipers on the roof above them. He was at least fifty yards away from the car — out of earshot.
'We can talk — they can't hear us,' Rogers told him in Arabic. 'Sibele's dead.'
'And Mobuto?'
'No.'
'What about Columbus?'
'He couldn't get into the building,' Rogers lied. 'It was too well guarded. But there was no way to get a message to Sibele before he went into the hall. He didn't stand a chance.'
'Twice we have failed,' Kolwezi said bitterly. 'Mobuto lives a charmed life, just as he did when his father was in power.'
'Don't worry, your deaths won't be in vain. Mobuto will die tomorrow.'
'Columbus?'
Rogers nodded then glanced across at Masala and the lieutenant. 'I'm supposed to be trying to persuade you to surrender.'
'Go now, my friend.'
Rogers turned sharply on his heel and began to walk back towards the police car.
Kolwezi calmly pressed the barrel of the gun against the roof of his mouth and pulled the trigger.
Carmen had left her receptionist to lock up and rushed over to the hospital after Whitlock had rung to tell her that he was there. Although his arm was heavily bandaged he had assured her that it wasn't a serious wound. He knew the lie would at least put her mind at rest. It did hurt like hell, though. The doctor had given him a prescription for sleeping tablets which they had picked up on the way back to the apartment. He had eaten a light dinner then retired to bed early, determined to be back at work the following morning.
She was busy washing up when the telephone rang. She wiped her hands on the dish towel and answered the extension in the kitchen.
'Carmen?'
'Rosie?' Carmen countered in surprise.
'Yeah,' Rosie replied.
She had dropped the 'aunt' and 'uncle' routine at their insistence. Uncle Clarence! Whitlock had hated it. Now she just called him C.W.
'Rosie, where are you?' Carmen asked anxiously. 'Your parents are going out of their minds with worry. You must call your mother — '
'No,' Rosie cut in firmly. 'That's why I called you. Tell her I'm fine. I'll call her in a few days.'
'Where are you staying?'
'With a friend.'
'Why not come and stay with us for a while?' Carmen suggested. 'You don't have to see your parents until you want to. But at least they'll know you're safe.'
'Well…,' Rosie replied. Til call you tomorrow at work and we'll sort something out.'
'Is that a promise?'
'Sure. My money's run out. I'll call you, OK?'
'OK.'
The line went dead. Carmen replaced the receiver then looked in on her husband, wondering if he had heard the telephone. He was fast asleep. She smiled then closed the bedroom door and returned to the kitchen to finish washing the dishes.
Rosie picked up a pizza from the pizzeria near the callbox then went back to the apartment. She opened the door and saw Bernard's leather jacket on the chair in the hall. He was listening to the news on the radio in the lounge.
'When did you get in?' she asked from the doorway.
'About twenty minutes ago,' Bernard replied with a smile.
'How was your day?'
'Don't ask,' he said then got to his feet and pointed to the box in her hand. 'What's the pizza?'
'Ham and mush
room. Is that OK?'
'Great. I'm starving.' Bernard made room for the box on the coffee table. 'And how was your day?'
'I went out soon after you left this morning,' she said, opening the box. 'I only got back now.'
'Where did you go?' Bernard asked.
'I took the subway to Fifth Avenue. I spent the day window-shopping. Not much else to do there with five bucks in your pocket.'
Bernard smiled then helped himself to a slice of pizza.
'I rang my aunt just before I got the pizza.'
'Your aunt?' Bernard asked suspiciously, the pizza slice hovering inches from his mouth.
'Carmen. She suggested I go and stay with them from tomorrow. I reckon it might be a good idea. It's not that I don't appreciate what you've done for me. I really do. But she is family. I only wish my parents were as liberal as my aunt and uncle.'
'And you're going to move in with them tomorrow?'
'Yeah, I think so. We've always got on great. Is there something wrong?'
'No, I think it's a good idea. And anyway, I'm heading back to Beirut in a couple of days.' Bernard's mind was racing: Carmen, Whitlock's wife. If Rosie moved in with them he could kiss his hostage goodbye. It only complicated matters. Why couldn't she have called them the next day? By then he would know if he needed her. He would have to play it by ear. It was the only way.
The doorbell rang.
Bernard frowned. Was it the courier for the rifle? He wasn't expecting him for another couple of hours, and he wasn't expecting anyone else. He wiped his hands on a paper napkin then got to his feet and answered the door. Two uniformed police officers stood in front of him.
'Good evening, sir,' one said, touching his cap. 'Are you Marc Giresse?'
Bernard nodded slowly. 'Yes. What's the problem, officer?'
'May we come in?'
'Yes, of course,' Bernard replied, opening the door for them.
'I'm Officer Deacon,' the spokesman said once they were inside. 'And this is Officer Cummings.'
Bernard noted that their badges were genuine. 'You still haven't told me what the problem is.'
Deacon was about to speak when Rosie appeared from the lounge. He glanced towards her. 'Are you Rosie Kruger?'
She glanced at Bernard, her eyes wide and fearful. 'Yes,' she stammered.
'Do you know a Kenneth Doyle?'
'Yes,' she answered. A look of concern suddenly crossed her face. 'Has something happened to him?'
'I was hoping one of you could answer that.' Deacon took a sheet of folded paper from his pocket and held it up. 'Mr Doyle left this note with a friend. In it he said he was coming round here this morning to see you, Miss Kruger. He also said that if this friend hadn't heard from him by four o'clock this afternoon he was to go to the police with the note. It all sounds a little sinister, doesn't it?'
'Officer, there must be a logical explanation,' Bernard said, fighting the anxiety that throbbed in the pit of his stomach.
'Did you know Miss Kruger was sixteen years old, Mr Giresse? Or that she was a runaway?"
'Yes, I knew that,' Bernard replied. 'She told me. That was one of the reasons I gave her a bed for the night. She's too young to be on the streets at night.'
'Whose bed?' Cummings asked, looking from Bernard to Rosie.
'You bastard!' Rosie snarled. 'Marc's never touched me.'
'Cool it, Rosie,' Bernard said, holding up his hands.
'Did Mr Doyle come round this morning?' Deacon asked Rosie.
She nodded. 'He had this thing about Marc. He didn't trust him. He wanted me to leave the apartment. I told him to go away. Marc's been fantastic to me ever since I came here.'
'And did he go away?' Cummings asked.
'Yes.'
'Did he return?' Cummings continued.
'I don't know. I left soon after him and I only got back a few minutes ago.'
'Did you see him?' Deacon asked Bernard.
'I've been out all day, officer,' Bernard replied. 'I'm sorry I can't be more helpful but I only met him once, and that was at the Rollercoaster where he worked.'
'Have you tried the Rollercoaster?'
'We've tried all his usual haunts, Miss Kruger. He just seems to have vanished. And that's very unlike him, according to his friends.'
'That's true,' Rosie said. 'Kenny loves company. I've never known him to be alone.'
'You say he didn't trust Mr Giresse,' Cummings said. 'Why?'
'Kenny was very protective towards me. He was like a big brother. He was always wary of any new friends I made, especially if they were men. I don't know why he didn't trust Marc. He just kept saying that there was something about him that wasn't right.'
'You'd both better come down to the precinct with us,' Deacon said.
'Are you booking us?' Bernard demanded.
'No,' Deacon replied. 'We'd like to question you further.'
'It's OK,' Bernard said to Rosie. 'As I said, there's sure to be a logical explanation to all this. Get your coat.'
'I don't have one with me,' she replied.
'Use mine,' Bernard said, gesturing towards the chair. He turned to Deacon. 'Can I get a jacket from the bedroom?'
Deacon nodded then followed Bernard into the bedroom. He stood by the door. Bernard opened the wardrobe and unhooked the grey jacket then slipped his hand under the pile of shirts and curled his fingers around the Desert Eagle. It still had the silencer attached. His first thought was to shoot Deacon on the turn, but that would alert Cummings. He had to get them together. He removed the automatic from under the bottom shirt and slipped the jacket over his hand to hide it. He closed the wardrobe then walked across to Deacon. Cummings was now in sight, standing by the front door. But Rosie was in the way of a clear shot. He cursed. What if Cummings opened the door before Rosie moved? Any gunplay outside the flat would certainly compromise his cover. His mind was still racing when Cummings reached for the handle. Bernard had to play his hand, even if Rosie were caught in the crossfire. Keeping his cover intact far outweighed her usefulness as a hostage. He raised the gun underneath the jacket and shot Deacon through the head. Rosie screamed as Deacon stumbled back against the wall before slumping face forward onto the carpet. Cummings instinctively pushed her aside and was still reaching for his holstered Colt Python when Bernard shot him. He was slammed back against the door and the surprise was still mirrored in his eyes when he slid, lifelessly, to the floor. Bernard discarded the jacket and aimed the automatic at Rosie who was crouched against the wall, her hands clutched together tightly under her chin. She looked up slowly at him, the terror plain on her face.
'Please, don't kill me,' she whimpered, shaking her head slowly.
'I'm not going to kill you. You're too valuable to me.'
Bernard kept the gun trained on her as he checked to see that both policemen were dead. Satisfied, he ordered her to stand up. She slowly got to her feet, petrified.
'You should have listened to your friend Kenny, shouldn't you?'
'What have you done to him?' she asked, already fearing the worst.
'He came back to the flat after you had gone. I think he fancied himself as a bit of a detective. But he was in way over his head. Pity, he meant well.'
'You killed him, didn't you?'
'Yeah,' he replied with an indifferent shrug.
She fought back the tears. Why hadn't she listened to Kenny? He had been right all along. She had been living in a fantasy world. And now suddenly she had been pitched headlong into the world of reality. She desperately wanted to crawl back into her old world where she knew she would be safe. But she knew that couldn't happen. Never again. Then came the damning realization that she had been partly responsible for Kenny's death. If she had listened to him he would still be alive. And in that moment of truth her fear turned to anger. She lunged at Bernard, almost wishing he would pull the trigger. He sidestepped her clawing hands and she saw the gun out of the corner of her eye as he swung it down onto the back of her head. Then everything went black
.
EIGHT
Sabrina gazed up at the myriad stars that speckled the night sky like a panoply of diamonds on a velvet background and could almost believe there was a heaven. What else could lie beyond such beauty? Although she had been raised a Catholic she had never really considered herself very religious and now only attended mass once a year with her parents at Christmas, and that was only to appease them. She smiled to herself. Why did the subject of religion always seem to crop up when she was on assignment? A subconscious attempt to avoid eternal perdition? She pushed the thought from her mind and concentrated instead on their plans.
It had been decided that the five of them would travel to Kondese alone. Tambese had told them that any attempt to take reinforcements would only alert the rebels. Sabrina had spoken privately to Graham about the decision to take Moredi and Laidlaw with them. Moredi knew the layout of Branco prison, having once been a prisoner there, and Laidlaw's speciality at Delta had been his ability to plan the best way in, or out, of a compound. Both would be invaluable but neither would be part of the assault team. Satisfied, Sabrina had let the matter drop.
Tambese had then collected an assortment of weaponry from the barracks before chartering a Cessna from a private firm in the city. Not only would it be quicker by air, they would also avoid the rebel roadblocks which had been set up on all the approach roads into Kondese. Moredi had arranged for them to land at a farm on the outskirts of Kondese which belonged to Matthew Okoye, a personal friend of the Mobutos. He was one of the wealthiest businessmen in the country and Ngune had wisely given strict instructions for him to be left alone when the rebels had set up camp in and around Kondese. He knew the value of keeping on the right side of the likes of Okoye. They were the future of Zimbala, irrespective of who was in power.
It had taken them a little over an hour to reach the private airstrip and after Tambese had landed the Cessna they were driven to the farm. Okoye and his wife had discreetly withdrawn after dinner, leaving them in the spacious lounge to discuss the operation. But there wasn't anything they could do until the plans of the prison compound were delivered to the farm. So Sabrina had gone out onto the porch for a breath of fresh air.
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