Алистер Маклин - Dead Halt

“Perfect,” Paluzzi said.

“There is one snag though,” Whitlock announced. “The senator goes for a run every morning. Usually around six. So whoever’s on call will have to be up bright and early to go with him.”

“I don’t have a tracksuit with me,” Paluzzi complained.

“So buy one,” Sabrina said with a shrug. “Gucci make good tracksuits. Stick it on your UNACO credit card. After all, that’s what expense accounts are for.” She winked mischievously at Whitlock. “Not so, C.W.?”

“You buy a Gucci tracksuit and it’ll come out of your wages,” Whitlock told Paluzzi bluntly. “You’ll. buy the cheapest one you can find.”

“You know, C.W., you’re sounding more like Sergei every day,” Sabrina said.

“That’s because I’ve seen our budget for the year.” Whitlock turned his attention back to the folder in his lap. “There will only be two occasions when I want you all on duty. Tomorrow afternoon when the senator’s on the pleasure boat, and Sunday when he’ll be visiting the cemetery in Ireland. Apart from that, you make your own roster. Oh, there is one other matter. As you know, the senator’s due to dine at the American ambassador’s residence tomorrow night. The embassy wasn’t too happy about the idea of either UNACO or the anti-terrorist squad being on US property. They wanted the Marines to take charge of the security operation. We finally reached a compromise. They can use their Marines provided UNACO is still in charge of the overall security operation. I’ll be there, but in my official capacity as deputy director of UNACO. And that means I won’t be able to give my full attention to the security arrangements. I want two of you to be there with me. Sabrina, you’re at ease amongst diplomats. I think you–” he trailed off when he saw the smile tug at the corners of her mouth. “Don’t tell me, you don’t have an evening gown with you.”

She shook her head innocently.

“Then hire one.”

“Hire one?” she replied in disbelief. “That’s like borrowing somebody else’s clothes.”

“You’re not buying one,” Whitlock told her firmly. “And that’s final.”

“OK, I’ll hire one,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

“Mike, I want you there as well.”

Graham nodded.

Whitlock looked across at Tillman. “Is there anything you want to add?”

Tillman shook his head. “No, you seem to have covered everything. Although I would like a copy of the duty roster once your team has sorted it out.”

“Of course,” Whitlock replied.

“We can’t make out the shifts until we’ve seen Eastman,” Graham said to Whitlock.

“Forget about Eastman,” Whitlock replied. “He’ll just have to fit in with your arrangements. I want the duty roster made out tonight.”

Tillman closed the folder, stood up, and made his way to the door. “That certainly went a lot quicker than I’d anticipated. I’ll be in Senator Scoby’s suite if you should need me again tonight.”

Whitlock closed the door behind him and turned back to the others. “Well, I’ve still got a lot of paperwork to wade through before I turn in for the night. Let me have a copy of the roster once you’ve worked it out.” They headed for the door. “Oh, Mike, can I have a word before you go?”

“We’ll be in my room,” Sabrina told Graham as she left with Paluzzi.

“Don’t antagonize Scoby like that again,” Whitlock said once they were alone.

“I wasn’t out to antagonize him, C.W. He asked me about ‘Hawk’ Walsh–”

“Mike, you know very well that Scoby’s just as right-wing as Walsh,” Whitlock cut in. “And you went out of your way to try and mix it with him tonight.”

“So what was I supposed to do?” Graham retorted. “Agree with him that ‘Hawk’ Walsh’s a fine man? Forget it.”

“If you’re going to spar with politicians, the first lesson to learn is the art of diplomacy.”

“And what is the art of diplomacy?” Graham asked with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

“I used to have a poster on my wall when I was a student. It said simply: Diplomacy is telling someone to go to hell in such a way that they look forward to the trip.”

Graham grinned. “I like it.”

“Then bear it in mind next time.” Whitlock opened the door. “Go on before Sabrina and Fabio bag all the best shifts.”

Mullen moved quickly to the window as a pair of headlights swept across the front of the safe house in Finsbury Park. A white Mazda estate had turned into the drive and was pulling up in front of the closed garage door. Mullen grabbed the Colt from the table behind him and switched off the light. He took up a position in the hall with the revolver trained on the front door. His finger tightened around the trigger as the footsteps drew closer. They stopped in front of the door. The bell rang three times, each with a two-second interval. It was the code he had agreed to earlier with Fiona. But if it was her, where was the red Toyota van? He moved cautiously to the door, still wary of some kind of trap.

A fist banged sharply on the door. “Hugh, open up!”

Mullen unlatched the door then stepped back, waiting. “It’s open.”

Fiona opened the door and found herself staring down the barrel of the revolver. Mullen looked behind her and, satisfied there wasn’t anyone with her, lowered the gun. She closed the door and switched on the light.

“Where’s the van?” he demanded as she brushed past him and disappeared into the lounge.

“I dumped it,” she said, looking around at Mullen who was standing hesitantly in the doorway. “So that’s what all this was about. You thought I was the cops?”

“What was I supposed to think?” he retorted, stung by the sarcasm in her voice. “Why did you dump the van?”

She held up three large padded envelopes. “These were at the dead-letter drop in Kensington Gardens. They’re from Brady. The Fortune Teller contacted him this morning to say the cops knew about the van. The Fortune Teller was due to call him again late this afternoon. Nothing. It’s possible that his cover could have been blown. There was always that chance after the information he passed on to us about McGuire being in Switzerland.”

“So it looks like we might have lost our backup. That means we’ll be going in naked tomorrow afternoon.”

“We wouldn’t have needed him tomorrow anyway,” she replied, removing a sheet of paper from the envelope. “Brady’s already worked everything out. We’ll have three chances to hit Scoby over the weekend: when he goes for his run tomorrow morning, when he’s on the pleasure boat tomorrow afternoon, and when he goes to Ireland on Sunday to visit his grandparents’ graves.” She handed him a sheet of paper. “This sets out details of the plan to hit him on the river tomorrow.”

“And if that fails?” Mullen asked, casting a cursory look over the typewritten page.

“The other plans are in here,” she replied, tapping the two envelopes in her hand. “We’re only to open these if we need them. Those are my orders.” She looked at her watch. “It’s almost ten. I’m going to have a bath, then we’ll run through the plans for tomorrow before we turn in for the night. We’ve got an early start in the morning.”

“How early?”

“He goes for his morning run around six. We still have to get hold of a getaway car beforehand so we’ll have to be out of here no later than three-thirty. The full details are there,” she said, indicating the paper in Mullen’s hand. “Read it through while I’m having my bath. Then we can go through it together. We can’t afford to make any mistakes on this one–”

Whitlock was working on one of the files he had brought with him from New York when he was interrupted by a knock at the door. He groaned then got to his feet and answered it.