Time of the Assassins u-6

by Alastair Macneill

  She was relieved finally to reach the hotel and as she entered the foyer she looked around slowly, hoping to see Kolchinsky. He was sitting with Whitlock close to the lift. Whitlock immediately got to his feet and waved to catch her attention. She smiled back at him then crossed to where he was standing and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Kolchinsky nodded to her in greeting then looked at his watch. She was fifteen minutes early. He knew that was for his benefit. Good. Keep her on her toes. He took another sip of coffee.

  'You look lovely,' Whitlock said, appraising her dark beige suit and eye-catching jungle-print blouse. 'Thanks,' she said. 'How's the arm?' 'Still a bit sensitive, but it's on the mend.' 'Have you heard anything from Mike?' she asked, looking from Whitlock to Kolchinsky.

  Kolchinsky shook his head. 'He said he'd call me in the morning, but he wanted to be alone tonight. I can understand that. Coming face to face with Bernard as he did this afternoon must have brought all the memories of Carrie and Mikey flooding back again.'

  'He'll be OK,' Whitlock said with a reassuring smile when he noticed the look of uncertainty on her face.

  'I know,' she replied softly.

  Kolchinsky finished his coffee then got to his feet. 'I'll ring the President's room and find out if he's ready to see us yet.'

  Sabrina watched Kolchinsky cross to the reception desk then turned back to Whitlock. 'Any news of Rosie?'

  'No,' Whitlock said grimly. 'Bernard and Bailey are still refusing to co-operate with the authorities, and they're the only ones who know where Rosie's being held.'

  'I'm sorry, C.W. I only wish there were something I could do to help. I know how much Rosie means to you.'

  'She's the daughter I never had,' Whitlock said with a sad smile. 'Well, that's what Carmen says. Rosie and I have always been close. Eddie's never been much of a father to her. That's why she turns to me if she needs to talk to someone. Not that she bares her soul very often. She's like Mike — the maverick.'

  Kolchinsky returned and pressed the button for the lift. 'The President's waiting for us.'

  They rode the lift to the thirtieth floor. Masala was waiting in the corridor for them. He ushered them into the lounge where Mobuto was seated, an open folder on the coffee table in front of him. Mobuto looked up and dismissed Masala with a flick of his hand.

  'Good evening,' Mobuto said, getting to his feet. 'Is Mike Graham not with you?'

  'Mike couldn't make it, I'm afraid,' Sabrina replied. 'He sends his apologies.'

  'You must be Sabrina Carver. I'm sorry I didn't get to meet you at the Trade Center this afternoon.' Mobuto's eyes never left her face as he shook her hand. 'David Tambese was right. You are beautiful.'

  'Thank you,' she said, easing her hand gently from his lingering grip.

  'How's your brother?' Kolchinsky asked, breaking the sudden silence.

  'He left hospital this morning. He should be back at work in the next couple of days.' Mobuto gestured towards the chairs. 'Please, won't you sit down? Would anyone like a drink?'

  They sat down but declined his offer.

  'Do you mind if I smoke?' Kolchinsky asked.

  'Not at all,' Mobuto replied then crossed to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a small Scotch. 'The reason I asked to see you tonight was so that I could thank you personally for all you've done for me, and my country, in these last three days. I thought it would be better if we met here rather than at the airport. It's sure to be teeming with reporters. And I know how much UNACO values its secrecy.'

  'We appreciate your discretion,' Kolchinsky replied, reaching for an ashtray.

  'I actually had a speech prepared for this moment but the more I thought about it, the more I realized just how pretentious that would have been.' Mobuto looked at Whitlock. 'You saved my life on more than one occasion. And that bullet could just as easily have killed you as winged you.' He turned to Sabrina. 'You and Mike pushed aside all thoughts of personal safety to help David get Remy out of Branco. You didn't have to do it, but you did. I owe the three of you a debt of gratitude that can never be repaid. Words seem very hollow at a time like this, but I can assure you that I shall be eternally grateful for what you did and for the professional way in which you did it. Thank you.' He took two small red boxes, each no bigger than a compact case, from his pocket and handed them to Whitlock and Sabrina. Their names were written in gold lettering across the lids. They exchanged glances then carefully opened the boxes. Both contained a gold medallion with a portrait of Mobuto's face on one side and, on the reverse, an inscription bearing their names and the date of issue. 'The Zimbalan Medal,' he told them, 'for outstanding bravery in the face of adversity. It's only eve. been awarded half-a-dozen times in the last forty years. Those are the first to be issued bearing my face as the new President of Zimbala. And it's the first time the Zimbalan Medal has ever been awarded to a foreigner. I would be honoured if you would accept them on behalf of my government and my people.'

  The UN AGO Charter stipulated that no operative could accept any form of payment or gratuity from an individual, or from a government, which could be used to discredit the operative, or the organization, at a later date. But did a medal constitute such a gratuity? Whitlock and Sabrina looked at Kolchinsky, waiting for his reaction. He knew that if the medals were sold they could, theoretically, lead a trail back to U N A C O. But these were two of his most dependable operatives, despite their deception of the past few days. They were hardly likely to pawn the medals. And he was also well aware that if he did have the medals returned, it would not only embarrass Mobuto in front of them, but also in front of his own government who had obviously agreed to let him present the medals in the first place. Although it was a delicate situation, he was satisfied that no part of the Charter would be breached under the circumstances. He nodded his consent. Both then thanked Mobuto for the honour that he, and his government, had bestowed upon them.

  Mobuto removed a third box from his pocket and handed it to Sabrina. 'That's for Mike Graham. Will you see that he gets it?'

  'Of course,' she replied, pocketing the box.

  The telephone rang.

  'Excuse me,' Mobuto said, picking up the receiver. He spoke briefly in Swahili then replaced the receiver again. 'The Zimbalan ambassador and his delegation have just arrived. You'll have to excuse me. I'm only sorry we didn't have more time to talk.'

  Til wait here and see the President to the airport,' Kolchinsky said to Whitlock. 'You and Sabrina can get started on your reports.'

  Whitlock looked at his watch. It was only another hour before Mobuto would be leaving for the airport. 'If you're sure that's O K?'

  'I wouldn't have offered if it wasn't,' Kolchinsky shot back. 'Now go on, you've got a long night ahead of you.'

  'It's been a pleasure to finally meet you, sir,' Sabrina said, shaking Mobuto's hand.

  'The pleasure's been all mine. And again, thank you.' Mobuto turned to Whitlock. 'I owe you my life, Clarence. And to a Zimbalan, that means I will be forever in your debt. If there is ever anything I can do for you — '

  'There is,' Whitlock cut in.

  'Name it,' Mobuto replied, holding Whitlock's stare.

  'Stop calling me Clarence!'

  Mobuto chuckled and patted Whitlock on the back. 'I'm sorry, it's just that I always knew you as Clarence when we were at Oxford together.'

  'We've both changed since then, but you more than me. And for the better, I might add.'

  'Insolent to the last,' Mobuto said with a smile. 'Goodbye, C.W.'

  'Goodbye, Mr President,' Whitlock replied then followed Sabrina to the door.

  'Where do you want to work on the reports?' Sabrina asked, closing the door behind them.

  'Eddie and Rachel are probably with Carmen at our apartment right now,' Whitlock said as they walked to the lift. 'It would save a lot of hassle if we could go to your place.'

  'Sure, as long as we can stop off for a take-away on the way over. I haven't eaten since I got off the plane this afternoon and I'm starvin
g.'

  'I'm also a bit peckish now that you mention it,' Whitlock said, stepping into the lift after her. 'And as Sergei said, it's going to be a long night.'

  . 'Don't remind me,' she said as the doors closed.

  Kolchinsky arrived back at his apartment in the Bronx just before midnight. He switched on his answering machine then went through to the kitchen to make himself a coffee. There was only one message on the tape. He was to call Philpott as soon as he got home. He finished making the coffee then unhooked the receiver from his wall-phone in the kitchen and rang Philpott's home number. Philpott answered it immediately.

  'Malcolm, it's Sergei. I got your message. What's wrong?'

  'I got a call from the police commissioner half an hour ago,' Philpott told him. 'Bailey, Bernard and Rogers were released without charge earlier this evening.'

  'On whose authority?' Kolchinsky asked, pulling up a stool and sitting down.

  'It seems that Morgan Chilvers, the CIA Director, got on to the White House after I'd finished talking to him this afternoon. He spoke directly to the President who was adamant that he wanted to avoid a scandal at all costs, especially one involving a senior Agency figure like Bailey. But Bailey couldn't be released without the other two being released as well. So that's what happened.'

  'What about the murder charges against Bernard?'

  'Overruled. The commissioner kicked up a big stink but as Chilvers pointed out, none of this was ever released to the press. They could afford a cover-up,' Philpott replied angrily.

  'Where is Bernard now?'

  'I've no idea. I was only given the news after they were released. So there was no chance to put a tail on him.'

  Kolchinsky shook his head in frustration. 'This is the sort of thing that used to happen in Russia twenty years ago.'

  'There is a slim chance of us picking up Bernard's trail again. We've got Rogers under surveillance at his house in Yorkville. It's my guess that Bailey will want Bernard out of the way as soon as possible before we can get to him. And he's sure to use Rogers or Brett to do the job.'

  'Where's Brett?'

  'That's the problem. He's not at home. As I said, it's a slim chance. But I still think Rogers will come into it one way or the other. All we can do now is wait.'

  'What should I tell C.W.?'

  'Nothing yet. Let's give Rogers some slack and see what he does with it. I'll call you if Rogers does make a move. Well, goodnight, Sergei.'

  'Night, Malcolm,' Kolchinsky said softly and replaced the receiver.

  THIRTEEN

  Bernard parked the car out of sight of the house then, taking the Desert Eagle automatic from the glove compartment, he climbed out and, keeping to the dirt road, moved cautiously towards the house.

  His clothes still stank from the stench of the cell where he had spent part of his eight hours in custody. It had felt like an eternity. He had always known that the CIA would have him released, even after he had been officially charged with the murders of the two policemen at the flat in Murray Hill. Not only could they not afford to let him go on trial for fear of what he would say, they also couldn't afford to let the detailed account of his CIA activities reach the New York Times. Either way they would have been crucified publicly. And he would have had no qualms about shooting his mouth off if they had left him to the mercy of the courts. A lawyer had been sent down from Washington to brief him on his rights while in custody. And to tell him to keep his mouth shut. He was to refuse to answer any questions, no matter how much the police provoked him. And they certainly tried, but to no avail. He had taken his lawyer's advice and remained silent.

  He had been in his cell when the lawyer brought the news that he was free to go. An unconditional release, or so the lawyer had called it. He was just glad to get out. He had seen Bailey outside the precinct house, but both had wisely ignored each other. Bailey had disappeared into the back of a black limousine which had been sent to take him directly to La Guardia Airport where a chartered plane had been waiting to fly him back to Washington. Rogers had also ignored Bernard and caught a taxi at the end of the street. Bernard had ducked through several back alleys then, satisfied he had shaken off any tail, hailed a taxi which took him to Grand Central Station. He had picked up a key from the information desk, which he had left there on the day he arrived in New York, and gone directly to the corresponding locker. Inside was a black holdall containing a change of clothing, a Desert Eagle automatic and a set of keys for a hired Ford which was parked in a garage close to the station, an emergency backup for just such a situation. Again, he had made sure he wasn't being followed, then gone to the garage and driven to the safe house.

  He reached the edge of the clearing and crouched down behind a tree. The hall light was on in the house. Not that it surprised him: Brett would already have been briefed, probably by Rogers, about their release from custody. But what else had he been told? Bernard knew he was probably overreacting. Why would Bailey have him killed, knowing that the lawyer would then hand the document over to the New York Times? It made no sense. But he still felt uneasy. He couldn't put his finger on the reason, and that's what worried him.

  He kept close to the trees as he made his way round to the back of the house. He paused in the shadows to wipe his sweating forehead. The house was two hundred yards away and he would have to break cover to get to it. He could see a light on in the kitchen but the curtains were drawn. He inched his way round the perimeter of the wood until he was able to see the flight of steps that led down to the cellar at the side of the house. But he couldn't see the window beside the wooden door at the foot of the steps. He had left the window off the latch, and if Brett had primed the alarm system, it would be his only way into the house — unless Brett had latched it after he had left for the Trade Center. There was only one way of finding out.

  He broke cover and sprinted towards the house. The automatic sensing security floodlight above the kitchen door detected his movement and bathed the area in bright, piercing light. He was still ten yards away from the steps when the back door was flung open and he hurled himself to the ground as Brett sprayed the clearing with a fusillade from his silenced Uzi. He got off a couple of shots, forcing Brett to take cover, and used those precious seconds to reach the steps where he paused, gasping for breath. He made his way to the bottom of the steps, continually glancing over his shoulder for any sign of Brett. He tugged at the window. It was locked! Then he saw the shadow fall across the steps above him. Brett had him cornered. And he didn't have time to turn and fire. He launched himself at the door, hitting it squarely with his shoulder. The lock buckled under the impact of the blow and the door flew open. He tumbled headlong into the darkened room as Brett raked the steps with another burst of gunfire. He fell heavily on his shoulder and the automatic clattered noisily to the floor.

  Brett, hearing the noise, hurried down the steps and swivelled round, the Uzi clenched tightly in both hands. He saw the movement out of the corner of his eye and was still turning when Bernard brought the side of the spade down onto his head. Brett cried out in pain as he as slammed against the wall. The Uzi fell to the floor. Bernard kicked it away then picked up his automatic and trained it on Brett who was on his knees, his hand clenched over his ear. The blood seeped through his fingers and ran down the side of his face, soaking the collar of his light blue shirt.

  'Did Bailey tell you to kill me?'

  Brett looked up slowly, his face twisted in pain. 'You were expendable, didn't you realize that?'

  'Yes, that's why I covered myself by writing a detailed account of my CIA activities — '

  'Which Bailey got from your lawyer friend a few days ago,' Brett cut in, allowing himself a faint smile of satisfaction. 'So when you didn't have a hold on the company any more, you became expendable.'

  'How did he know who I'd given it to?' Bernard demanded.

  'We're a big organization, Bernard. We have moles everywhere. We managed to track down your friend to Cairo after you'd told Bailey about
the document. I believe he put up quite a struggle before he died.'

  Brett made a desperate grab for the gun in Bernard's hand but Bernard sidestepped his clumsy lunge and shot him through the head. He closed the door, then propped the body against it to keep it shut.

  He found a set of keys for the house in Brett's pocket then made his way across to a door that opened onto a flight of stairs which led up to the kitchen. The door at the top of the stairs was unlocked. He eased it open and stepped carefully into the kitchen. It was empty. He checked the rooms, apart from the bedroom where Rosie was being held. They, too, were empty. He moved to the bedroom and tried the handle. The door was locked. He cursed under his breath. He took the keys from his pocket, selected the one for the bedroom, then pressed himself against the wall as he unlocked the door. If Brett did have an accomplice in the bedroom, which he doubted, they would be sure to fire when the door was opened.

  He pushed open the door and dived low through the doorway, fanning the room with the automatic. Rosie was slumped in the corner of the room, her hand still manacled to the radiator. He scrambled to his feet and hurried over to where she lay, genuine concern in his eyes. He checked her pulse. It was steady. An overturned mug lay on the floor beside her, the remains of the coffee having already formed a dark stain on the carpet. He lifted one of her eyelids. She had been drugged. He eased her onto her back, ensuring that she had some slack on her manacled wrist, then slipped a pillow under her head.

  He looked at his watch. Twelve twenty a.m. How long before Brett's silence aroused suspicion? A couple of hours at the most. The chartered flight he'd arranged the previous day to take him to Cuba, where he would catch a connecting flight to the Lebanon, was only due to leave New York at five that morning. That left him with four-and-a-half hours to kill. He looked down at Rosie. She would be going with him, certainly as far as Cuba. Then she would be released, unharmed. He had no intention of killing her unless the authorities forced his hand. He doubted it would come to that. They would have to find him first. But for the moment she was exactly as he wanted her — unconscious. He still had some unfinished business to attend to before he left New York. That would take about an hour. Then he would come back for her and drive out to the field on the outskirts of the city to wait for the plane — and freedom. He smiled to himself then locked the bedroom door behind him and left the house. Brett's Audi Avant was parked in the driveway. He was momentarily tempted to use it then dismissed the thought and ran the three hundred yards to where the Ford was parked at the side of the dirt road. He started the engine, turned the car round, and headed back towards the highway.