Time of the Assassins (4 page)

Bailey left the room and Kolchinsky closed the door behind him.
'What a slimeball,' Sabrina said, staring at the closed door.
Kolchinsky smiled. 'He could have been sitting here instead of me.'
'What do you mean?' she asked.
'You never knew my predecessor, Gronskin, did you?'
She shook her head. 'He was before my time.'
'Well, when he was deported back to Russia for spying the CIA suggested Bailey as a possible replacement to take over as the Colonel's number two. The KGB put my name forward. The Secretary-General initially wanted Bailey, which I suppose was understandable under the circumstances, but the Colonel threatened to resign if Bailey got the job. As Bailey said, the two of them never saw eye to eye. It would have been catastrophic if Bailey had come here. So I got the job instead.'
'I never knew that,' Whitlock said.
'I'm sure glad the Colonel put his foot down,' Sabrina said, glancing at the door again.
Whitlock stood up and dug his hands into his pockets. He crossed to the far wall then turned to look at Kolchinsky. 'I was at university with Jamel Mobuto.'
'Why didn't you say something when Bailey was here?'
'Because we didn't get on,' Whitlock replied.
'Why not?' Kolchinsky asked.
Whitlock sighed deeply then returned to the sofa and sat down. 'He'd never set foot outside Zimbala before he came to Oxford. It must have been a bit of a culture shock for him. But instead of trying to adapt to the British way of life he rebelled against it and reverted to his African heritage. He wore African clothes, his room was an African shrine and he made no attempt to befriend any of the British students. He became a pariah although he did have an avid following amongst some of the more radical left-wing students who regarded him as something of a guru.'
'Was he a Communist?' Kolchinsky asked.
'No, strangely enough. He was just very pro-African and Africa's particular way of life. He had a younger brother who went to Oxford as well and he did become a Communist. But that was after I'd gone. I don't know anything about him.'
'His name's Remy,' Kolchinsky said and tapped the dossier on the desk. 'It's all in here. You'll both get copies of it.'
'You still haven't said why you and Mobuto didn't get on,' Sabrina said,
'I was born in Kenya but educated in England. To him, I was little more than a traitor. I'd sold out my race. And let's face it, I am more British than I am Kenyan. That's what he couldn't accept. So we just kept out of each other's way.'
'Why did he stay if he hated it so much?' Sabrina asked.
'Because his father had sent him. If he'd gone back to Zimbala it would have brought disgrace on the family. Africans take failure far more seriously than you do here in the West.' Whitlock dismissed the subject with a curt flick of his hand. 'Anyway, that was a long time ago. I certainly don't hold any grudges now.'
'Let's hope Mobuto feels the same way,' Kolchinsky said.
'Does he know I'm going to be babysitting him when he gets to New York?'
Kolchinsky nodded. 'Bailey's already briefed him on the telephone but he won't know you're in charge of the operation until he gets here. You'll have to break that to him yourself.'
'I look forward to it,' Whitlock said with a faint smile.
Kolchinsky handed them each a dossier which contained details of their particular assignment (to be destroyed after reading) and, in Sabrina's case, an airline ticket, maps of Beirut, written confirmation of her hotel booking, the name of her contact and a sum of money in Lebanese pounds.
She glanced at her watch and immediately got to her feet. 'My flight leaves at four thirty this afternoon,' she said. 'I'd better get going. Send the Colonel my best wishes when you see him again, Sergei.'
'I will,' Kolchinsky replied and activated the door for her. 'And Sabrina?'
She paused in the doorway to look round at him.
'Bring Michael back before he gets himself into any more trouble.'
She nodded grimly then left the room.
Kolchinsky closed the door again. 'The Colonel might not be coming back. The Secretary-General's waiting for the doctor's report before coming to a decision.'
'He was due to retire at the end of the year anyway. Perhaps it's for the best if he did take an early retirement.'
'Try telling that to the Colonel. It's not as if he's taking voluntary retirement. It's been forced on him by his doctor. So you can be sure he'll want to see out his time here, if only to prove a point to his doctor.'
'And possibly kill himself in the process.'
Kolchinsky reached for his cigarettes and lit one. 'That's why the Secretary-General's delaying his decision. He'll give the Colonel every chance to prove that he's fit enough to return to work.'
'And if not, I'll leave Strike Force Three and join you here.'
'You don't sound very enthusiastic about it,' Kolchinsky said.
'I'm not. Stuck behind a desk all day isn't my idea of
fun, Sergei.' Whitlock picked up the dossier. 'Let me out, will you?'
'The Colonel said you were over the moon when he broke the news to you.'
'How did you expect me to react? Carmen was there.' Whitlock walked to the door and looked back at Kolchinsky. 'Don't worry, I won't let anyone down. Especially not her.'

THREE

Remy Mobuto had always lived in his brother's shadow. He had known from an early age that Jamel, as the older brother, would take over as leader of Zimbala once their father died. That had never bothered him. He had never had any aspirations to enter politics. When he followed Jamel to Oxford he immediately joined the Communist Party, more as an act of rebellion than anything else. His father's response was not only to stop sending him money but also to bar him from returning to Zimbala until he renounced his Socialist beliefs. He refused to comply and left Oxford after the first year to join the Guardian where he remained for seven years before taking up a post as an investigative journalist with a left-wing French newspaper. By then he had become an outspoken critic of the numerous dictators in Africa, especially his father. His father disowned him publicly and said he would never be allowed back to Zimbala in his lifetime.
He returned for his father's funeral, the first time he'd been back to Zimbala in seventeen years, and Jamel was able to persuade him to stay on as the new editor of the country's leading daily newspaper, La Voix.
Remy had only been in charge for a month and already he had a major scoop on his hands. It concerned the plot to overthrow his brother and form a new dictatorship; but he had discovered another side to the story, a sinister angle that would make international headlines if it were ever made public. But before he could do that, or tell Jamel, he needed proof to back up those allegations. And he was about to get it...
He drove down the main street of Habane, the capital of Zimbala, and turned into the basement carpark where he had arranged to meet his informant. There were only a couple of cars there at that time of the evening. He glanced at his watch. Eight fifty-seven. He had told his informant to meet him at nine o'clock. He pulled into the pre-arranged space, climbed out of the car, then took a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lit one.
He looked around him slowly. The silence was eerie. He took a long drag on the cigarette and looked at his watch again. Eight fifty-eight. He cursed his anxiety. There was no reason for it. But still the uncertainty lingered. He looked round again, this time taking more notice of his surroundings. Then he saw it: his informant's car, a blue Fiat. It was parked next to the wall and almost hidden from view by the red Studebaker beside it. He exhaled sharply and managed a faint smile. Typical of his informant to take such precautions.
He ground his cigarette underfoot and walked slowly towards the Fiat. He could see his informant behind the wheel. Why hadn't he shown himself?
Mobuto dismissed the question; at least he was there. He reached the Fiat and leaned over to peer through the driver's window. The man's throat had been cut from ear to ear, soaking his shirt and trousers in blood. Mobuto recoiled in horror, stumbling back painfully into the Studebaker's wing mirror. He felt his stomach heave and he retched against the wall. He remained doubled over for several seconds before slowly straightening up and wiping the sweat from his forehead.
Then he heard a sound behind him. He turned, his eyes wide with fear. Two men stood behind the Studebaker. Both were dressed in blue overalls. One had blood on his sleeve. The killer? He was about to speak when he noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye. He was still turning when the cosh struck him behind the ear.
Then nothing.
Zimbala's main prison, La Tambier, was less than ten minutes' drive from the centre of Habane. It took its name from the district in which it was located. It had been built when Alphonse Mobuto first came to power and quickly became known throughout the country as La Boucherie, the Butcher's Shop, because of the number of anti-government dissidents who were tortured then murdered there by the feared and hated Security Police. Jamel Mobuto's first two decrees on taking office had been to free all political prisoners being held there and the immediate dismantling of the Security Police. Now, ironically, its most notorious prisoner was Le Boucher, Tito Ngune, the head of the
Security Police for the last twenty-three years. There had been cries for his public execution but Jamel Mobuto had made it quite clear that Ngune would be tried and, if found guilty, sentenced to life imprisonment. He refused to continue the legacy of executions which had been symptomatic of his father's regime.
Ngune lay on the single mattress in the corner of his cell. He was a stocky fifty-eight-year-old with grey hair and a small goatee beard which looked as if it had been stuck on to his chin with glue. His face and body were a mass of bruises after he had been attacked at his home by a forty-strong mob who were preparing to lynch him in the remains of his once beautiful garden when the military had arrived and bundled him into the back of a police van and brought him to La Tambier.
He sat up gingerly and looked slowly around the cell. All those years of unswerving loyalty to Alphonse Mobuto and this was all it had brought him. Mobuto had always had one weakness, his family. Although he publicly renounced Remy and repealed the law making Jamel his natural successor, he had always refused to allow Ngune's men to touch them. But, unknown to Mobuto, Ngune had tried on three different occasions to have Jamel killed. Each attempt had ended in failure. He certainly had guts, Ngune had to give him that. Anyone else who had dared to criticize either Mobuto or his Government was immediately arrested and taken to La Tambier or to the now abandoned Branco prison in Kondese, the second-largest city situated in the south of the country. None of them ever left.
A jackhammer started up somewhere beyond the
prison walls. It had become a familiar sound over the last couple of days. At first it had been an irritation but now he had grown strangely accustomed to it - a break from the monotonous silence that filled the prison. He had wondered what they were doing out there. Digging up the road? Or tearing down part of the prison? It was certainly feasible under Jamel Mobuto's new liberal leadership. Not that it mattered. It was all academic to him now. But it still interested him, if only to put his mind at rest. He reminded himself to ask one of the guards when they brought him his next meal...
Michael Sibele had known for the last two days why the gang of workmen was busy outside the main gates: repairing a burst mains pipe. He had been the guard on duty at the gate for the last week. It was his last day. Tomorrow he would return to his duties inside the prison - with mixed feelings. He had enjoyed the workmen's company but he would also be grateful to get away from the noise of the machines, especially the incessant throbbing of the jackhammers. The workmen had offered him ear plugs but his commanding officer had forbidden him to wear them. So he just had to put up with the noise. Well, only a few hours to go...
One of the workmen broke away from the group and approached him. Sibele knew him only as Johnny. His real name was Thomas Massenga, once Ngune's right-hand man, who had been on the run since Jamel Mobuto came to power. It was only when he got closer that Sibele saw the blood on the sleeve of his blue overall. Massenga pulled a
Mini-Uzi from inside his overall and shot Sibele at point-blank range.
The bulldozer which had stood dormant for the past two days coughed into life and rumbled towards the prison gates. Two guards, who had been alerted by the gunfire, ran towards the gates. Both were armed with FN FAL semi-automatic rifles. Massenga shot them before they could fire at the bulldozer. It smashed through the gates, tearing them off their hinges as though they were made of plastic. Massenga gestured to the other six men who immediately followed him into the prison compound, each carrying a Mini-Uzi.
The skeleton staff were no match for Massenga and his team of ex-Security policemen. The fighting was over within a minute and they were able to make their way down to the cells. The two guards outside Ngune's cell threw down their weapons when challenged by Massenga. They had no option. Massenga took the keys from one of them and unlocked Ngune's cell door. He hurried over to where Ngune lay and crouched anxiously beside him, horrified at the sight of Ngune's discoloured, swollen face. Immediately he ordered two of his men to carry Ngune then locked the two terrified guards in an adjoining cell. Discarding the keys, he then led the way back to the front of the prison. He glanced at his watch. They had made good time. Although the telephone wires had been cut minutes before the assault he knew the authorities would still have been alerted and were almost certainly on their way to the prison at that very moment.
A black van reversed through the shattered remains
of the main gate and the back doors were thrown open. Ngune was helped into the back of the van and placed gently on a palliasse with his head resting on a pillow. Massenga closed the doors then climbed into the cab beside the driver who engaged the gears and pulled out into the road.
The plan was to change vehicles on the outskirts of Habane then continue on to Kondese where hundreds of men, mostly ex-Security policemen loyal to Ngune, were waiting to launch a crushing offensive against Jamel Mobuto's inept, and disorganized, government troops, many of whom had only joined up when the new regime was instated. And with a team of assassins awaiting Jamel Mobuto's arrival in America, it would only be a question of days before Tito Ngune was inaugurated as the new President of Zimbala.
It was a plan that couldn't fail.
The New York Police Department, which was responsible for security at John F. Kennedy Airport, had drafted in fifty men for the arrival of Jamel Mobuto's delegation in America. Fifteen snipers, each with Mi6 rifles (and infra-red night scopes), were positioned at strategic points overlooking the runway while another fifteen, in plainclothes, mingled freely with the crowds inside the terminal building itself. A section of runway had been cordoned off that afternoon by the remaining twenty policemen who had strict orders not to allow anyone through without an official pass. The authorities were determined not to take any chances, not with so much at stake. Whitlock had driven to the airport a couple of hours
before the delegation was due to arrive to ensure that all the security measures had been put into operation. He had been satisfied with the arrangements. He glanced at his watch. The two hours were almost up and, according to air-traffic control, the presidential plane would land on schedule.
He looked around. To his left were three NYPD police cars, parked bumper to bumper, and behind them a human chain of police officers, all armed with handguns and rifles. To his right were the four black limousines that would be used to transport the Zimbalan delegation around New York. The opaque dark windows, like the chassis, were bulletproof, and each of the drivers could activate a row of razor-sharp spikes secreted on the undercarriage if any attempt was made to overturn the car. Every eventuality had to be covered.
The official welcoming party had congregated in front of the limousines, talking amongst themselves. The Zimbalan mission was headed by their newly appointed ambassador to the UN and the White House's Chief of Protocol was the official representative from the American administration.
Whitlock's eyes flickered to the two sombre-suited men standing apart from the others, Paul Brett and Jack Rogers. Bailey's men. Both had been presidential bodyguards with the Reagan administration but neither of them had ever had to draw his gun in anger. Whitlock had spent most of the afternoon with them and he'd come away with the distinct impression that they held him in little regard. Although they never said it, he knew their bitterness stemmed from the fact that
he would be in charge of the operation. They would be taking orders from someone outside the CIA. Brett suddenly glanced across at him. His face remained expressionless. Rogers said something and they both laughed. Whitlock stared back at Brett. The hell he'd be intimidated by one of Bailey's flunkeys. Brett looked away.
Whitlock suddenly noticed that a member of the Zimbalan mission had been watching them. She was an attractive, light-skinned African in her late twenties in a blue suit and white blouse. The translator. The official languages of Zimbala were Swahili and French; and several of the Zimbalan delegates didn't speak English. He smiled at her. She smiled back then looked away quickly as if she had been caught doing something wrong. He suddenly thought of Rosie. He'd been so busy that afternoon that he'd completely forgotten to call her. He felt a sense of guilt but at the same time knew he could never have spoken to her anyway. He made a mental note to call her and arrange a time to meet, away from her parents.
Someone called out, breaking his train of thought. The presidential plane was making its final descent. He immediately ordered the policemen to take up their designated positions on the runway then crossed to where Brett and Rogers were standing. They glanced at him but said nothing.
The white Gulfstream One executed a perfect landing but it was only when it taxied towards them that Whitlock saw the blue, red and white Zimbalan flag painted on the side of the fuselage with the words 'Air Zimbala' above it in black lettering. It was
obvious that the plane had been repainted before its journey and Whitlock suddenly wondered if it had been done to erase the memories of the previous regime. He let the thought pass as the plane came to a halt less than twenty yards away from the limousines. The hatch opened and a set of steps was driven up to it. The Chief of Protocol led the way to the foot of the steps, waiting for Mobuto to appear. The first man to emerge had to duck through the opening. Whitlock judged him to be at least six foot six. He looked around him slowly then disappeared back inside the aircraft. He reappeared a moment later and Whitlock immediately recognized Mobuto when he emerged behind the bodyguard. He was a tall, handsome man who had an air of confidence about him. He was dressed in an expensive grey Dior suit and wore dark glasses. It was hard to believe he was forty-two years old. He looked ten years younger. He removed the glasses on reaching the tarmac and he shook the Chief of Protocol's extended hand. Rogers and Brett immediately flanked him at the foot of the steps and walked with him as he shook hands with each member of the Zimbalan mission in turn. His grip lingered on the translator's hand and he smiled faintly at her before turning back to the Chief of Protocol who was standing behind him. It was then that he noticed Whitlock standing discreetly in the background. He told Brett and Rogers to hold back then crossed to where Whitlock stood and held out a hand of greeting.