Алистер Маклин: Prime Target

On Wednesday 28 February at 10.10 a.m. Eastern time, thirteen hours after the Arab had been declared dead at a London hospital, a startlingly clear image of a cat-face tattoo appeared on the ICON information screen in the UNACO Command Centre at UN headquarters in New York. It accompanied a case summary with a picture of the dead Arab male, complete with an investigative précis and inset shots of the dead man’s property. Tom Gilbert, the duty Newsline Monitor, made high-definition printouts and spent another twenty minutes gathering peripheral information. He then took everything to the office of the Director of UNACO.

That morning was as busy as any other in the complex of offices and technical suites that made up UNACO’s headquarters. UNACO – the United Nations Anti-Crime Organization – occupied an entire floor of the Secretariat building which dominated the UN’s East River site. More than two hundred employees, many of them highly trained specialists, handled the administration of the world’s most efficient crime-fighting body. Thirty prime-rated field agents, drawn from police and intelligence agencies around the world, formed the core of ten teams known as strike forces which, by agreement among the majority of nations, were able to cross national boundaries freely. They could also bypass police administrations and, where necessary, override laws and the diplomatic process. The organization’s avowed aim was to counter crime at the international level, using personnel and resources funded by the UN member nations. UNACO was not a secret body. On the other hand it did not publicize itself. Its offices were unmarked, all telephone numbers were unlisted and agents and employees never openly acknowledged their affiliation. The Director of UNACO, Malcolm Philpott, was accountable only to the Head of the Security Council and to the Secretary General of the United Nations.

As Tom Gilbert entered the office, Philpott was staring at a letter printed on CIA notepaper.

‘Hope I’m not intruding, sir.’ Gilbert crossed the big room, his feet soundless on the carpet. He put the folder on Philpott’s desk. ‘This could be relevant.’

‘So could this.’ Philpott tapped the letter. ‘Remember Tony Prine and his one-man mission to Bolívar?’

‘Prine?’ Gilbert thought for a moment. ‘Specialist in industrial sabotage – that Prine?’

‘The same. A highly resourceful chap. He’s been trying to uncover a solvent-manufacturing plant, crucial to the production of cocaine, located somewhere in the region of Cartagena. Well, a satellite surveillance officer at Langley has spotted a big bang in the heart of the Bolívar region. He says if it’s got anything to do with us, we should tell the people upstairs to get ready to counter complaints from the Colombian government about unscheduled anti-drug activity on their urban turf.’

‘Looks like Prine found his target.’

‘Let me know as soon as he makes contact. Some kind of pat on the back will be in order.’

At that hour Philpott still looked puffy, a side-effect of the beta-blockers he now had to take for his heart condition. Otherwise, he looked fit and alert. He pointed to a mini espresso machine on a table at the side.

‘Help yourself to Milanese blend, Tom. Bad for the heart so early in the morning, but it does wonders for the soul.’

Gilbert poured himself a cup and sat down to wait. Philpott looked at the pictures he had brought and read the sketchy case details. He looked up.

‘No identification on the Arab?’

‘Not at present. He’s had recent plastic surgery to alter vertical and horizontal facial alignment.’

‘Perhaps a seriously wanted man then. Is there anything more than you’ve given me?’

‘The woman the Arab is believed to have killed–’

‘She’s the one on the left in the picture he was carrying. I read that and I’ve looked at the picture.’

‘Don’t you recognize her?’

Philpott held the print under the desk lamp. The woman had a pallid, delicate face, small-featured and framed by soft-curled blonde hair. Her companion, no less attractive, had a strong face and rich dark hair.

‘You must have met her,’ Gilbert said.

‘Really?’ Philpott shook his head. ‘I meet a lot of good-looking females. Nowadays it’s never a memorable frisson.’ He sighed. ‘Her jacket is a Donna Karan, I believe, but I don’t know the wearer at all.’

‘She’s Emily Selby,’ Gilbert said.

Philpott thought for a moment. ‘Political analyst on the White House press team. Yes?’

Gilbert nodded. ‘Her areas of expertise are listed as Central and South-West Asia.’

‘God almighty, I believe I spoke to her at a reception not long ago.’ Philpott groaned. ‘Maybe I’m losing it.’ He read the details again. ‘So, yesterday afternoon, right in front of the Lancer Gallery in Mayfair, Emily was shot through the spine and the back of the head with bullets from a Glock 17, identified as the gun found on the dead man. What was she doing in London?’

‘According to a Reuter’s bulletin, she was taking a month of her annual leave in Europe.’

‘Do we know who this other woman is?’

‘Yes, I got her identity on FaceBase.’

‘Did you, indeed. How long did that take?’

‘Three minutes.’ FaceBase was a feature-comparator capable of identifying photographs from a database of three million images. ‘It never takes much longer than that,’ Gilbert added.

Philpott stared at him. ‘Do I detect a certain smugness?’

‘Well, it does seem to work every time, and I did argue strenuously for the installation of the system, even though certain people–’

‘Certain people. You mean even though I , alone, reckoned it was going to be a waste of money and floor space.’ Philpott shrugged. ‘I was wrong.’

‘It’s magnanimous of you to say so, sir.’

‘Tom, when you’re right as often as I am, you have to be wrong some of the time or you start to look infallible. That would never do.’

‘The woman’s name is Erika Stramm,’ Gilbert said. ‘She’s German, a freelance political journalist with vague terrorist affiliations. She’s twice been refused a US visa.’

‘But we can’t define the link between her and Emily Selby.’

‘Not yet.’

Philpott got up and stood by the window, looking down at the array of national flags fluttering on their masts in front of the complex. The office was on the twenty-second floor. From that height everything looked reassuringly tidy.

‘So,’ Philpott said, ‘the bald fact is that a man of Middle Eastern origin has murdered a US government employee in the heart of London. I think that until we know more about the gunman and his motive, we should regard this as a matter for low-level UNACO involvement. I’ll have the Political Intelligence office hunt for possible leads.’ He turned from the window and smiled tightly. ‘Thanks for bringing this to my attention.’

Gilbert caught the dismissal. He stood up and drained his coffee cup.

‘What about the dead man’s fingerprints?’

‘They were transmitted on the ICON file, sir. Did you want to have them?’

‘Pass them to Mike Graham, with the rest of the stuff. Tell him I’d like a detailed work-up as soon as he can manage one. You’ll find him in the Interview Suite writing case notes. He’ll be glad of the diversion.’

When Gilbert had gone, Philpott picked up the phone and told the UNACO operator to find the number for Riot City in Hounslow, England, and to give them a call.

‘Sounds like a fun place,’ Ms Redway said.

‘If you don’t find it listed as that, its real name is the Public Order Training Centre,’ Philpott told her, ‘and its bureaucratic handle is TO18. It’s a fantasy violence environment for police officers. I’m not sure I entirely approve, but their crowd-control training is the best.’