Time of the Assassins (30 page)

'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 starving.'
'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.
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.