An armed guard stepped out of the hut and approached the motorbike. 'Can I help you?' he asked brusquely.
Bernard lifted the front of his visor fractionally, careful to ensure that the guard couldn't see the bruise around his eye. 'I'm from Harris Bond Couriers. I have a letter here for a Robert Bailey. He is expecting it.'
'Is he attending the conference?' the guard asked.
'Hey, I'm just the dispatch rider. I was told to bring the letter here to "Mafia House".'
The guard returned to the hut and picked up a clipboard off the desk. He paged through it until he found Bailey's name. An extension number was written beside it. He rang the number. It was answered by Rogers who told him that Bailey hadn't yet arrived but that he was expecting a letter from Washington. The guard replaced the receiver and activated the boom gate.
'Leave the letter with the guard at the entrance, he'll see that Mr Bailey gets it.'
Bernard gave the guard a thumbs-up sign and drove off. He pulled up in front of the entrance and left the motorbike idling as he hurried across to the nearest guard and handed the envelope to him. The guard checked the name against the print-out on his clipboard then nodded and disappeared into the building. Bernard mounted the motorbike and headed back towards the boom gate. He turned off into a narrow alley at the side of the building and pulled up in front of an adjacent door. He climbed off the motorbike then unfastened the helmet and placed it on the seat. He also removed the leather jacket he was wearing and was about to drape it over the seat as well when the door was pushed open and a man emerged.
Bernard had never seen him before. He was the same height and build as himself and was wearing a pale blue shirt, navy trousers and a pair of black shoes — the same outfit as Bernard. He nodded in greeting to Bernard then pulled on the leather jacket and zipped it up. Then, after slipping the helmet over his head, he climbed onto the motorbike and headed off towards the boom gate.
'Any problems?'
Bernard looked round sharply at Rogers who had appeared silently at the door behind him, the envelope in his hand.
'No,' Bernard replied.
'Jesus, what happened to your eye?'
'An accident,' Bernard answered sharply.
'Come inside.'
Bernard stepped past Rogers who immediately closed the door behind him and bolted it again. He found himself in a narrow corridor with several white-painted doors leading off from it. Rogers led the way to one of them then took a key from his pocket and opened it. Bernard went inside. It was a small room with a wooden chair and a battered locker in the corner.
'Your clothes are in there,' Rogers said, indicating the locker.
'What is this place?'
'These used to be storerooms up until a few months ago. Then all the stock was moved to bigger rooms closer to the conference centre. They're all empty now. The cops have already checked them so you won't have to worry about being disturbed.' Rogers gave the key to Bernard. 'Just make sure you lock the door behind me.'
'Is Mobuto's address still scheduled for two o'clock?'
Rogers nodded then looked at his watch. 'It's now twelve fourteen. You want to be in position no later than one forty.'
Til be there.'
'You'll have to hide that bruise. It'll only draw attention to yourself. I'll get you a pair of sunglasses.'
'No need,' Bernard said, taking a pair of sunglasses from his pocket.
'OK,' Rogers replied then moved to the door. 'Good luck.'
'Luck's for amateurs,' Bernard answered then pointed to the envelope Rogers was holding. 'What's in there?'
'Nothing,' Rogers replied with a grin then left the room and closed the door behind him.
Bernard locked the door then moved to the chair and sat down. All he had to do now was wait.
It had been Whitlock's idea to have Mobuto brought to the Trade Center in a police helicopter. That way he would not only avoid the posse of journalists expecting him to arrive by car, but it would also thwart any planned hit from one of the adjacent buildings. SWAT snipers had been in position on the surrounding rooftops since daybreak and the helipad itself, situated on the roof of the Trade Center, had been under armed guard for the past twenty-four hours. He had deployed armed officers at all the strategic points inside the building and, with no reported sightings of Bernard, he was quietly confident that he had the situation under control.
Whitlock shielded his face with his hand as the helicopter pilot executed a perfect landing on the helipad. Rogers hurried forward, his face screwed up against the swirling wind whipped up by the rotors, and opened the passenger door. Masala was the first out. He looked round slowly. Whitlock and Kolchinsky were standing by the door and four SWAT snipers were positioned at each corner of the roof. Satisfied, he nodded to Mobuto who clambered out of the helicopter and hurried, doubled over, towards Kolchinsky and Whitlock. Kolchinsky opened the door and Mobuto stepped inside, grateful to be out of the choppy wind. Whitlock and Masala followed him through the door. Kolchinsky gave the pilot a thumbs-up sign and the helicopter immediately rose off the helipad and moments later peeled away to the right, heading back towards Manhattan. He closed the door behind him and crossed to the four men at the end of the corridor.
'Are you alright, sir?'
'A little windswept, but otherwise I'm fine, thank you,' Mobuto replied to Kolchinsky's question. 'What is the agenda for this afternoon? Is my speech still scheduled for two o'clock?'
'Yes,' Kolchinsky said, brushing down his double-breasted jacket. 'And the cocktail party will be held immediately after your speech.'
'Excellent. I look forward to hearing what the country's leading financiers think of my proposed economic changes for Zimbala.' Mobuto smiled to himself. 'I hope they approve enough to give their backing to the investment programme I have in mind. Well, we'll just have to wait and see, won't we?'
'The complex manager is waiting for us downstairs,' Whitlock said to Mobuto. 'He's offered to give you a tour of the building if you're interested.'
Mobuto looked at his watch. 'I've got fifty minutes to kill before I'm due to make my speech. Yes, I'd be delighted to see the building.'
They took the lift down to the fourth floor where the manager and his senior aides had their offices. The manager, a short, dapper man in his late forties, was waiting in his office for them. The nameplate on his desk identified him as Anthony Lieberwitz.
'Would you care for something to drink, sir?' Lieberwitz asked after shaking Mobuto's hand.
'No, thank you. I had a coffee before I left the hotel.'
There was a knock at the door and the receptionist who had ushered them in moments earlier appeared again and announced that there was a Mr Bailey in her office. Lieberwitz told her to show him in.
Bailey forced a quick smile for the receptionist as he entered the room and the door was closed behind him. He nodded in greeting to Lieberwitz then turned to Mobuto and extended a hand in greeting. 'Nice to see you again, Mr President.'
'Glad you could come,' Mobuto said, shaking Bailey's hand.
'I wouldn't have missed it for the world.' Bailey replied. He shook Kolchinsky's hand then sat down in one of the vacant armchairs.
'This came for you, sir,' Rogers said, handing the envelope to Bailey.
'Ah, thank you,' Bailey said, taking the envelope from Rogers. 'I was worried it might not turn up.'
'It got here in good time, sir,' Rogers replied.
Lieberwitz got up from behind his desk. 'Mr President, would you care to see the rest of the building? We have a telescope on the top floor. The view of the city is quite breathtaking.'
'I look forward to seeing it,' Mobuto replied, getting to his feet.
The telephone rang.
'Excuse me,' Lieberwitz said then answered it. He put his hand over the mouthpiece. 'It's for you, Mr Kolchinsky.'
Kolchinsky took the receiver from Lieberwitz. 'Hello.'
'Mr Kolchinsky?'
'Speaking. Is that you, Sarah?'
'Yes,' she replied. 'I've just spoken to Mike Graham. He's with Sabrina at JFK. They touched down about ten minutes ago. It seems there's been an accident near the airport which has completely blocked off the carriageway into the city. He's asked for a helicopter to pick them up from the airport and take them to the Trade Center. He says it's an emergency.'
'Have one of our helicopters scrambled immediately and sent over to the airport.'
'Who should I speak to about having it cleared for landing at JFK?' she asked.
Til see to that, don't worry. You just make sure the helicopter gets over there as Soon as possible.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Did he say anything else?'
'No,' Sarah replied.
'Thanks, Sarah.' Kolchinsky replaced the receiver then looked round at Mobuto. 'You'll have to excuse C.W. and me. We won't be joining you on the tour of the building. Something's come up.'
'Nothing serious, I hope?' Mobuto said.
'Nothing for you to worry about, Mr President,' Kolchinsky replied with a reassuring smile.
Lieberwitz opened the door and Mobuto, Masala and Rogers went into the outer office. Bailey remained in his seat. Lieberwitz looked from Bailey to Kolchinsky then withdrew discreetly, closing the door behind him.
'You're missing the tour,' Kolchinsky said, eyeing Bailey coldly.
'Scramble one of your helicopters immediately and have it sent over to the airport? Why?'
'That doesn't concern you,' Kolchinsky shot back.
'If it concerns this case, it does.'
'C.W., show Mr Bailey to the door.'
'No need, I'm going,' Bailey said, getting to his feet. 'You'd better not be holding out on me, Kolchinsky. Because if you are you can be sure that will go in my report to the White House. And UN A C O's in enough trouble as it is without my adding to your problems.'
Whitlock closed the door behind Bailey. 'Who was that on the phone?'
'Sarah,' Kolchinsky replied. 'Michael and Sabrina have just got back from Zimbala. Michael wants a helicopter to fly them over here. He says it's an emergency.'
'An emergency? That has to mean Bernard's already here. Did Mike say where Bernard intends to make the hit?'
Kolchinsky shook his head. 'But they should be here before the President starts his speech.'
'And if they're not?'
'We could stall for time, but we don't even know if there is an assassin, whether it be Bernard or not, let alone where and when the hit's going to be made.'
'The security's already been tightened in and around the main hall. I don't know what else we can do.'
'Nothing, for the moment.' Kolchinsky banged his fist angrily on the desk. 'Why couldn't he have called us? He must know we're here. Our hands are tied until they get here.'
'He must have had his reasons,' Whitlock replied.
'Especially if it involves Bernard,' Kolchinsky snapped. Til see you down at the hall. I've got to call the airport to get the necessary clearance for our helicopter to land there.'
Whitlock left the room. Kolchinsky ran his hands over his face then sat down behind the desk and picked up the receiver.
Bernard finished applying the foundation and powder to the scar on his cheek then studied his reflection carefully in the cracked, full-length mirror attached to the inside of the open locker door. He smiled to himself. The scar was gone. Then, taking the cap from the bottom shelf of the locker, he placed it carefully on his head. Now the disguise was complete. He was just another New York cop. He picked up the identity tag that had been left in the locker for him and clipped it onto his jacket. He unlocked the door then opened it fractionally and peered out into the corridor. It was deserted. He left the room, locking it again behind him, then slipped on his sunglasses before walking to the stairs at the end of the corridor.
He glanced at his watch. One twenty-five. He climbed the stairs and found himself in another corridor. He knew where he was from the plans he had studied in Beirut. He made his way to a door further down the corridor which led onto another set of stairs. He descended them to the next level. There, as in the plans, were a men's and a ladies' room, and they had been specially set aside for the police for the day. He entered the men's room and smiled at the policeman standing in front of the urinal. He nodded in greeting. Bernard went to the nearest sink and washed his hands.
The policeman crossed to the row of sinks. He looked at Bernard's reflection in the mirror that ran the length of the wall in front of them. 'Hey, that's some bruise you've got there.'
'Happened last night,' Bernard replied, affecting a New York accent. 'Guy caught me by surprise with a baseball bat. But it's nothing compared to what I did to his face.'
The policeman chuckled then wiped his hands on the roller towel. 'I'm Hank Medford. Eighteenth Precinct.'
'Jose Mendoza, Twenty-sixth.' Bernard shook Medford's hand. 'So where have they got you working today?'
'I'm up on the roof,' Medford replied as they walked to the door.
'It's alright for some,' Bernard said, holding the door open for Medford. 'You've got the perfect weather to be outside.'
'And you?'
'Good question,' Bernard muttered. 'I'm helping out wherever they need an extra pair of hands. At least I get to see round the building.'
'Big deal,' Medford said facetiously.
'Yeah,' Bernard replied with a twisted grin. 'I've just been told to get my ass over to the hall where Mobuto's making his speech at two.'
Til walk with you. It's on my way back to the roof anyway.'
'Great,' Bernard said, patting Medford on the back. Two cops together were far less likely to draw attention to themselves than a single cop would by himself, especially one wearing dark glasses to help conceal a badly bruised eye. And by pretending to know Medford, it would add further credibility to his deception, especially when they reached the hall.
They walked to the lift and, once inside, Bernard pushed the button for the sixth floor. He touched his cap to the two receptionists already in the lift but ignored their inquisitive eyes as he talked to Medford. The receptionists got off on the fifth floor and both looked back at Bernard as the door closed over again behind them.
'I'd say you made quite an impression,' Medford said with a salacious grin.
'So did the baseball bat. And that's all they were interested in — how I got the bruise — nothing more.'
'How can you be so sure?'
'It was in their eyes.' Bernard smiled at Medford's puzzled frown. 'You have a lot to learn about women, my friend.'
'Not much chance of that. I'm married.'
The lift stopped again and the door opened onto the sixth-floor corridor.
Bernard stepped out of the lift then looked round at Medford. 'See you around, Hank.'
'Sure thing,' Medford replied. 'And keep away from baseball bats.'
Bernard waited until the doors had closed before turning to the policeman who had approached him. 'I'm looking for Captain D'Arcy.'
'He's in the hall. If you've got a message for him, I'll see that he gets it.'
'I've been sent here as an extra pair of eyes on the catwalk. Mr Whitlock's orders.' Bernard took a sheet of paper from his pocket. 'That's his authorization.'
The policeman opened the letter and read it quickly. 'OK. I'll let Captain D'Arcy know you're here. You'd better get up there. The President's due here any time now.'
'How do I get up there?' Bernard replied, feigning ignorance.
'Use that door over there,' the policeman said, pointing further down the corridor. 'Report to Sergeant Mason. He's up there already.'
'How many men have we got up there?'
'Three.'
Bernard thanked the policeman and smiled to himself as he walked to the door. Everything was going according to plan. The door was unlocked. He went inside and locked it behind him with a key Rogers had given him. He found himself in a room behind two lengths of heavy grey curtain that hung at the back of the stage. The irritatin
g sound of bland muzak came from inside the hall. He moved to the metal ladder mounted against the wall and climbed effortlessly to the catwalk situated fifty feet above the stage. A tall, blond-haired policeman challenged him as soon as he reached the catwalk. Bernard recognized him from the dossier Bailey had prepared for him at the outset of the operation.
'Sergeant Mason?' Bernard said as a matter of formality.
'Yes,' came the terse reply.
'I'm Columbus,' Bernard said, taking off his sunglasses.
'What happened to your eye?'
'An accident,' Bernard replied dismissively. 'What about the other two policemen who're supposed to be up here with you?'
'Unconscious.'
'I'm impressed,' Bernard said absently, his eyes already scanning the catwalk for the best angle for the shot.
'They'll be out for another couple of hours. Those were the instructions — '
'Where's the rifle?' Bernard cut in.
'It was brought up earlier. I'll get it for you.'
Bernard waited until Mason had left then looked round him slowly. Everything was just as he had visualized it when he had studied the plans back in Beirut. The catwalk was hidden from the main body of the hall by the heavy grey curtains that hung from the ceiling to the floor on the sides of the room. He found the break in the curtains behind the stage and tweaked one of them aside so that he could look out over the hall. The first of the businessmen had already taken their seats close to the stage and were talking amongst themselves as they waited for their colleagues to arrive.
Bernard looked down onto the stage. The lectern was centrally positioned at the front, perfectly placed for a head shot. But he didn't intend to wait until Mobuto reached the stage. He would pick him off as he entered the hall through the doors at the back of the room. That way all eyes would be on Mobuto and nobody would notice the slight movement in the curtains high above the stage. He let the curtain fall back into place then looked at his watch. One thirty-three. Bailey had already told him that Mobuto would reach the hall around one forty-five. Plenty of time. Mason returned with the black attache case and gave it to Bernard.
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