Алистер Маклин: Prime Target

‘They probably won’t be open for business for three hours yet.’

‘I know. Tell the security person who answers the phone that Sabrina Carver should call her uncle as soon as she gets to Hounslow.’

The six o’clock forecast had said it would be a cold day, but sunny. On the drive out through Chiswick and Brentford it was still foggy, and on the approach to Hounslow the fog thickened. Slowing down to negotiate the narrow streets on the outskirts of town, Sabrina Carver switched on the car radio to catch the 8.30 news bulletin.

The announcer was annoyingly upbeat for the time of day. He reported that Sinn Fein were to be promised seats at peace talks if they could persuade the IRA to renew their recently-ended ceasefire; a woman shot dead in Mayfair was believed to be an American tourist, but no details of her identity had yet been released; five students had died in a car crash at Milton Keynes; a serial killer had been given three life sentences at a Crown Court in Yorkshire; a British-led team of scientists was on its way to Pisa to help stop the tilt of the leaning tower.

That was it. No news from the States. For the third or fourth time since she arrived in England, Sabrina promised herself she would try again to tune her Sony to Voice of America. Some weird signal-screening in her quarters at the police hostel played hell with shortwave reception.

She stopped by the Riot City barrier and smiled at the constable in the security box, He waved as usual, but this morning it was different. Sabrina realized he was beckoning her. She got out and put her head inside the tiny office.

‘Morning, Terry. What’s up?’

‘You’ve to phone your uncle,’ he told her. ‘Soon as possible.’

‘Yeah. Right.’ It took a second to sink in. Until two weeks ago, the alias had been Cousin Malcolm.

‘You can use this phone if you want.’

Sabrina knew that would be breaking Riot City rules. She also knew Terry was happy to make that kind of gesture if it would gain him points with a hard-bodied blonde his own height. Over tea and biscuits in the canteen, he had told her she was wasting her time being a cop; she should be in pictures.

‘It’s OK,’ Sabrina said now, ‘I’ll get to him later. I don’t want to be late. If Uncle rings again, would you tell him I’ll call back as soon as I can?’

Terry said he would. Sabrina got back in the car, drove on until she was behind the administration block and stopped. She took her cellular phone from her bag and tapped in three digits. There was a scattering of satellite noise, then a ringing tone. Philpott answered on the fourth ring.

‘I got your message, sir.’

‘Fine. It’s nice to hear your voice, my dear. I’ve been looking over your team leader’s evaluation of your progress over there. He believes his notes are for the eyes of his London chief alone, of course, so there are one or two racist, sexist comments about pushy Yank feminist tactics and so on, but on the whole you’ve impressed him. He says that your, er, what is it now…’ paper rustled, ‘your capacity for total focus in a Level One TSG situation was especially to be commended. I assume that’s good?’

‘Level One is the ultimate stage of public order training, sir. A TSG is a Territorial Support Group.’

‘So what have you been doing in your TSG?’

‘All kinds of things connected with crowd handling and public order control. Yesterday we did gasoline-bomb training on a simulated Battersea street. At one stage I caught fire, but a couple of nice Inspectors patted the flames out.’

‘And do they buy your cover?’

‘Sure, they think I’m a New York cop. I chew plenty of gum and I swear a lot. It’s not the hardest cover to maintain. But I’m sure you didn’t get me to call just so we could engage in chit-chat.’

‘No, indeed. There’s a little job I want you to do, while you’re in the area.’ Philpott explained about the Emily Selby shooting and the possibility of the case being taken up by UNACO. ‘You know the kinds of fears a case like this can raise. Apart from the possibility that Emily Selby was a spy, there are other worries. The gunman could have been an irate Palestinian.’

‘Was Emily Jewish?’

‘She was. Think of the possibilities: a Jewish employee of the US government gunned down by a man of Arabic appearance.’

‘It raises a lot of scenarios.’

‘Well, for the moment it’s enough to be aware of them,’ Philpott said. ‘Emily had a small suite at the Knightsbridge Lawn Hotel, and unless intergovernmental procedure has changed wildly in the past year or two, the rooms will be sealed off for a few days until it’s decided who has the right to nose around in the dead woman’s property.’

‘You want me to pre-empt the search.’

‘If you would.’

‘Any idea what I might be looking for?’

‘A journal, perhaps, cryptic notes, any item in her possessions that doesn’t chime with the rest. Try to find out if Emily was less of a credit to her job than anyone suspected.’

Sabrina looked at the clock on the side of the main building. If she was going to get coffee before people started throwing bricks at her, she would have to go now.

‘Should I do the job tonight, sir?’

‘Not any later.’

‘In that case I’ll have to do some manoeuvring.’

‘Why so?’

‘There’s a full-scale military-style kit inspection tomorrow morning. My stuff’s in a foul state. Getting it ready will be a three-hour job, at the tightest.’

‘You’re an agent of UNACO, my dear, which means you count resourcefulness among your many qualities. I’m sure you’ll manage. How much longer will you be at Hounslow?’

‘I finish tomorrow.’

‘Lord, time flies.’

‘I hope to be back in New York Saturday.’

‘By which time, I’ve no doubt, you’ll be an even more finely-honed and efficient emissary of justice than you were before you left us.’

‘Are you being serious, sir?’

‘Not particularly,’ Philpott said. ‘Take care, Sabrina.’

‘As ever,’ she promised.

When she walked into the canteen three minutes later, the usual silence fell. It was momentary, a one-beat cessation of talk and rattling as the sixty-two men and four women in the place stopped everything to register her arrival.

Sabrina was not embarrassed or discomfited. She had been attracting overt interest since a few months past puberty; also, at Hounslow there was the added professional factor. The blonde was an American cop – or so they believed – and since all dreams of slick law enforcement centre on the US police image, Sabrina realized she was as much a focus of envy as anything else.

‘It’s coffee, black, no sugar, right?’ Plump Inspector Lowther was on his feet, pointing to the chair opposite his own at the table nearest the door. ‘I was on my way to get seconds anyway. Sit down, I’ll only be a minute.’

‘Thanks.’

As she pulled out the chair a young officer at the next table said, ‘Hey, settle an argument, will you?’ He pointed to her black cotton coverall suit. ‘You had that made special, didn’t you?’

‘Nope.’ Sabrina patted the gold-and-blue embroidered badge on her sleeve. ‘It’s standard NYPD issue.’

‘Really? Has it got special deep pockets for the bribes?’

Sabrina smiled back. ‘You must watch an awful lot of bad movies. Get out more often in the real world. Bribe a girl to go with you.’

He blushed, and the jeering laughter of his companions obviously stung. He looked away and said no more.

‘Here we go…’ Inspector Lowther put a cup of coffee in front of her and sat down with his tea and a jam doughnut. ‘I hope it’s hot enough.’

‘It’s fine, thank you.’