Time of the Assassins u-6

by Alastair Macneill

  It took Bernard twenty minutes to reach his destination. He parked the car in a sidestreet. Then, after slipping the automatic into the back of his trousers, he walked the short distance to the main street. He looked around slowly. It was almost deserted — a couple returning from a late show, a drunk slumped against a wall. He waited until a car had driven past before crossing to the row of shops on the other side of the street. The windows were all protected by wire mesh and each building had a powerful alarm system in operation. He made his way to a shop near the end of the block, a firm of estate agents. It was actually a dubok — a company fronting for an intelligence agency, in this case, U N A C O. And he had a duplicate set of keys for the reinforced back door. He had got them from Dave Forsythe. They had known each other since Forsythe's days as Bailey's electronic expert, and it was his knowledge from that time that had prompted them to put their heads together and come up with a way of making them both a lot of money. But Bernard's intentions were a lot more sinister than the merely financial, and Forsythe had no inkling of those intentions…

  Bernard ducked up a narrow alley that ran parallel to the building and came out at the back of the shop. Although a security light illuminated the small courtyard, he knew there was nobody in the building. It was classified as a low-security risk. He took the two keys from his pocket and inserted them into the two locks, one at the top and one at the foot, of the metal door. An electronic circuit had been built into the two locks that would set off the alarm, both at the shop and at the command centre, if the keys weren't turned simultaneously. He wiped his hands on his shirt then positioned himself in such a way as to be able to turn the keys together. He counted to three then turned the keys. The alarm remained silent. He exhaled deeply then removed the keys and entered the shop, closing the door behind him. Forsythe had told him that the computer suite was in a soundproofed room underneath the building. And the only means of access was through the manager's office. Bernard moved along the corridor and paused in front of a frosted glass door. He unlocked it with the third key Forsythe had duplicated for him.

  Once inside, he went straight to the manager's safe and opened it using the combination that Forsythe had given him the previous day. He removed the sonic transmitter from the safe and activated the door built into the wall behind the desk. As it slid open, a light came on revealing a flight of stairs. He made his way to the foot of the stairs and used the sonic transmitter to open a second door.

  The small room was dominated by a row of computers that ran the length of the far wall. He crossed to one of the terminals, sat down, and accessed the system. Then, using the Modem telephone link, he dialled out a number that Forsythe had given to him. He replaced the receiver in its special cradle on the VDU and tapped his fingers impatiently on the table as he waited for the program he'd dialled to appear on the screen. It came up moments later. He had hacked into Bailey's home computer. Forsythe had set up the whole system in Bailey's study, including all the access codes. But, for security reasons, Bailey had changed all the codes as soon as he took charge of the system. All the codes, that is, except for the one Forsythe had programmed in for himself. It bypassed all existing codes and went to the very heart of the program, showing all the new access codes. Forsythe, who had set up several sensitive systems for the CIA over the years, had a secret code for each one of them. And none could be detected. Bailey had several sensitive files in his system, files that even Morgan Chilvers knew nothing about. And now Bernard could access all those files, copy them onto another disc, and sell them to the highest bidder. The CIA and the KGB would be the obvious customers, but he didn't care whom he sold them to, as long as the price was right. He would split the money fifty-fifty with Forsythe. Had he known that Forsythe had been sacked from his position at UN A CO, he could have negotiated a new deal. But that wasn't his style. Jean-Jacques Bernard wasn't a greedy man. He only needed the money to start a new life away from Beirut — a new face, a new identity. That was the deal he had made with Forsythe. But there was more to it than that, especially now that Bailey had sent his hatchet men after him.

  Yes, there was certainly more to it than that. It was time for revenge.

  Frances Bailey's eyes were red and puffy from hours of crying. But she had made sure she had sent her two teenage daughters over to her parents' house in Alexandria before she had shed the first of those tears. She had always been the perfect mother, and the perfect wife. Her friends had said that she would make an ideal First Lady when her husband was elected President of the United States of America. Their confidence in Robert Bailey, like her own, had never wavered. Now, within the space of a few hours, his career, and his future, lay in ruins. She was shattered. She was also bloody angry. It wasn't just his future that lay in ruins. What about their daughters? They would have to carry the stigma of their father's deceit with them for the rest of their lives. What right had he to blight their lives with his devious schemes? She knew Morgan Chilvers would do his utmost to keep her husband's arrest out of the papers, but it would already have circulated around Capitol Hill. And that's where it mattered as far as she was concerned. Samantha, the elder daughter, was already engaged to the son of a prominent Republican senator. What chance did they have now? And Kathleen had always wanted to become a political journalist on leaving school. And that meant mixing with politicians who would be the first to snigger behind her back at her father's misfortune. She had always idolized her husband. Now she hated him…

  'Why?' she asked, looking up at her husband who stood by the window behind her.

  'You wouldn't understand, Frances,' he replied softly.

  'Try me!' she snapped, jerking her head round to look at him.

  'Zimbala's in a strategic position in the centre of Africa. There are civil wars raging in all the neighbouring states. If we could have put our own man in power, we could have fed weapons into Zimbala which, in turn, could have been distributed amongst the anti-Communist forces in those neighbouring states. If we'd given them enough arms, it could have swung the wars in favour of those anti-Communist forces. We could have ham-' mered another nail into the coffin of world Communism.'

  'Why couldn't you have tried to negotiate with Jamel Mobuto? He's a man of reason, a man of intelligence. That much was obvious from the way he came across on his visit to America.'

  'Jamel Mobuto's loyalty is to Zimbala. He'll do deals with whoever's prepared to help him, and that includes Russia and China.'

  'In other words, his loyalty is to his people, unlike your puppet Ngune. He was an animal, Robert. How many people were killed while he ran the Security Police?'

  'Between them, Alphonse Mobuto and Tito Ngune kept Communism at bay in Zimbala for forty-five years. That's quite an achievement for a small African country.'

  'They kept it at bay with torture and murder. How could you have stood by a man like that?'

  'Because he stood by me,' Bailey replied, turning away from the window. 'Tito Ngune was one of the most loyal CIA operatives I've ever known.',

  'Well, I hope you were proud of your man, Robert. And I always thought you were a person who believed in the ideology of democracy. It shows just how much I really knew you.' She got to her feet. 'I've already packed a suitcase. It's in the car. I'll be at my parents until I've found my feet. We're finished, Robert.'

  Bailey didn't argue with her. He knew how futile that would be in her mood. He would call her in a few days, give her time to calm down.

  'Aren't you even going to say anything?' she snapped scathingly.

  'What's there to say? I said you wouldn't understand.'

  'No, I guess I didn't.' She walked to the door then turned back to look at him. 'I feel sorry for you, Robert. You're a pathetic, bigoted little man. God help this country if you'd ever reached the White House. Well, at least something good's come out of this, hasn't it?'

  Bailey winced as she slammed the door behind her. The front door closed, followed moments later by the sound of an engine revving into life.
The tyres screeched as she spun the car round and headed towards the gate. He waited until the sound of the engine had faded into the distance then poured himself another bourbon before walking out into the corridor. His bodyguard, who was sitting discreetly at the end of the corridor, got to his feet. Bailey waved him away then climbed the stairs and crossed to the study door. He punched a code into the bellpush and the door slid open. He closed it behind him and sat down in front of the VDU.

  Bailey thought about the meeting he had had with Morgan Chilvers in the morning. He would be asked to resign. Failing that, he'd be fired. Chilvers had always been good to him. He was a naive man when it came to some of the more clandestine operations carried out by CIA personnel in both Africa and Central America and Bailey was determined to destroy all those incriminating files before the auditors were sent in to analyse his system.

  He switched on the computer and fed in his personal code. The words ACCESS DENIED flashed across the screen. He ran his hand through his hair and scratched the back of his head. Access denied? He stifled a yawn then shook his head. You're tired, Robert. Now concentrate this time. Feed in the right code this time. His fingers froze over the keyboard. He'd never made a mistake like that before. For a moment he wondered if somehow the access code had been tampered with by a professional hacker. He dismissed the thought. Why change the code? A hacker would be too busy reading the files. And even if the code had been altered, he could press the '9' button which would automatically cancel the whole program. That had been programmed into the system by Dave Forsythe. The man was an expert when it came to' computers. He cursed himself for his suspicion. You pressed a wrong key, for God sake. Try again, slowly this time.

  He pressed each key carefully then immediately put his finger lightly on the '9', just in case he did need to use it. ACCESS DENIED. He pressed the '9' button. Nothing happened. The door sealed behind him and the ten-second countdown began flashing on the screen. He pressed the '9' frantically. Someone had overridden it. He kicked over the chair and ran to the door, banging furiously on it. But the whole room was soundproofed. Nobody could hear him. He looked round at the screen again, knowing he was going to die. The countdown finished and the word ACTIVATE began flashing across the screen.

  A jet of nerve gas streamed from the nozzle of the canister built into the wall directly above the door. He stumbled away and fell to the floor. Saliva bubbled on his lips and he clawed desperately at his throat as he struggled to breathe. It felt as if his chest were about to burst. His breathing became increasingly ragged as his body twisted uncontrollably on the floor. The spasms ended with a final shudder then his head lolled to the side. His breathing stopped.

  The message, which had appeared on the screen as Bailey lay dying on the floor, was still there the following morning when the body was discovered: TO BE TERMINATED AFTER THE ASSASSINATION OF JAMEL MOBUTO.

  FOURTEEN

  Jack Rogers sat in his favourite armchair by the window, his hand resting lightly on the telephone. His mind was in turmoil. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd called the safe house in the last hour. And always the same. He picked up the receiver and dialled the number again. Still no reply. He looked at his watch. It was already one fifteen in the morning. Where was Brett? Why hadn't he called? Had Bernard got to him?

  Rogers slipped on his shoulder holster then pulled on his jacket over it. He checked his Smith & Wesson then bolstered it. He picked up the car keys off the hall table and left the house, closing the door silently behind him. He shivered as he walked down the footpath to the gate. But it wasn't cold — an omen? He dismissed the idea. He didn't believe in that nonsense. He got into his Fiat and started the engine. Then, after checking the side mirror, he pulled out into the road.

  Dave Swain, a former presidential bodyguard, had been with UNACO for five years. He was the leader of Strike Force Seven. He sat behind the wheel of a Mazda which was parked fifty yards away from the Rogers's house. He'd been there since ten thirty the previous evening. Philpott's orders. An empty coffee carton lay beside the half-eaten hamburger on the dashboard. The radio was on and he was tapping his fingers on the wheel to the beat of the music when Rogers emerged from the house. He immediately radioed in to the command centre to let them know that Rogers was on the move. He switched off the radio and activated the tracking device on the seat beside him. It would pick up the signal from the homer he had attached to the underside of the Fiat. He gave Rogers a thirty-second start then followed him at a discreet distance.

  The man in the black Sedan, which was parked at the end of the street, stubbed out his cigarette then started up the engine and followed the Mazda.

  The telephone rang.

  Kolchinsky rolled over in bed and patted the bedside table with his hand until he found the receiver.

  'Sergei?'

  'Yes,' Kolchinsky replied sleepily. 'Malcolm, is that you?'

  'Yes,' Philpott replied. 'I've just had a call from the duty officer at the command centre. Dave Swain followed Rogers to a house off the Garden State Parkway. Rogers parked out of sight of the house and approached it on foot. Then Dave heard a burst of gunfire. When he went to investigate he saw Rogers lying in a clearing close to the house.'

  'Where's David now?'

  'He's got the house under surveillance. I don't want him to do anything until we get reinforcements to the area.'

  'Who are you bringing in? Strike Force Seven?'

  'No, Strike Forcfe Three. It's their operation. I've already told the duty officer to call C.W., Mike and Sabrina. They're meeting you outside the UN in twenty minutes. I'm going on ahead to talk to Dave.'

  'I'm on my way,' Kolchinsky said, pulling the duvet to one side.

  'I've sent a car over to pick you up,' Philpott told him. 'It should be with you in a few minutes.'

  'Thanks, Malcolm.'

  'See you at the house,' Philpott replied then the line went dead.

  Kolchinsky replaced the receiver, stifled a yawn, then hauled himself to his feet. He took a cigarette from the packet on the bedside table, lit it, then got dressed and went outside to wait for the car.

  'What the hell are they doing here?' Graham demanded angrily, pointing to the row of police cars parked at the entrance to the approach road that led to the safe house.

  'We're about to find out,' Sabrina replied, braking gently as a policeman stepped out into the road and waved down the car. She stopped beside him and opened her window. 'What's going on?'

  'Who are you?' the policeman demanded.

  Kolchinsky, who was sitting in the passenger seat, reached across to show his ID card. The policeman checked it then looked at Graham and Whitlock, who were sitting in the back of the car, before handing the card back to Kolchinsky.

  'You can go through,' the policeman said to Sabrina.

  'You still haven't told us what the hell's going on?' Graham snapped. 'What are you guys doing here?'

  'There's a senior SWAT officer down there,' the policeman replied, pointing to the approach road. 'He'll brief you.'

  'There's a SWAT team here?' Kolchinsky said incredulously. 'That's all we need.'

  Sabrina engaged the gears and turned down the approach road.

  'There's the Colonel,' Kolchinsky said, pointing to Philpott who was standing with Swain beside a SWAT van.

  Sabrina pulled up behind the van then climbed out of her car and smiled at Philpott. 'It's good to see you back on your feet, sir. How are you feeling?'

  'I was feeling fine until I got here.' Philpott gestured around him. 'It's like a bloody circus.'

  'What's going on, sir?' Graham asked, closing the back door behind him.

  Philpott shot Swain a dirty look. 'Dave was followed by one of the SWAT boys. That's why they're here. I'll see you in my office tomorrow morning, nine o'clock sharp.'

  Swain nodded sullenly then walked to his Mazda and got behind the wheel. He started the engine then turned the car round and drove back towards the highway.

  Philpott turn
ed to Whitlock. 'I spoke to Bernard on the phone soon after I got here. He's got Rosie in there.'

  'Is she alright?' Whitlock asked anxiously.

  'Yes. He let me speak briefly to her. She's fine, considering the circumstances. She's a remarkable girl, C.W. You should be very proud of her.'

  'She's a great kid,' Whitlock replied. 'Has Bernard made any demands yet?'

  'Not yet.'

  'What about Rogers?' Kolchinsky asked.

  'Dead. Bernard let the SWAT team take the body away…" Philpott trailed off as an unmarked police car turned into the approach road. 'Well, this is a surprise.'

  'Who is it, sir?' Sabrina asked.

  'Sean Hagen, Deputy Commissioner of the N YPD. What brings him out at this ungodly hour?'

  Hagen waited until the driver opened the door for him then climbed out. He was wearing a grey overcoat over his suit and had a trilby tucked firmly over his head.

  'I didn't realize you had such little confidence in your men, Sean,' Philpott said as Hagen approached him.

  'The SWAT unit falls directly under my command,' Hagen replied, digging his hands into his pockets. 'Who do you think ordered the tail on your man? It's the only way we could find Bernard again. Like you, we lost him when he was released from custody.'

  'And now you've come to supervise his execution, is that it?' Philpott said coldly.