Алистер Маклин - Dead Halt

Graham reluctantly handed Eastman’s Browning to the RUC officer then followed Whitlock back down the stairs. He crossed to where Sabrina and a paramedic were crouched over Fiona Gallagher. “Is she dead?” he asked.

Sabrina nodded then unclipped the laminated identity disc from the front of Fiona’s blouse and held it up. “This is obviously how she got in.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Graham replied bitterly. “Not now. Eastman must have got it for her. Christ, the bastard was in charge of the whole operation. No wonder she was always slipping through our hands with such ease.”

“We’ll leave you to tidy up in here,” Whitlock said to the paramedic. “Mike, Sabrina, let’s go.”

“Scoby’s dead, isn’t he?” Graham asked once they were outside.

Whitlock nodded grimly. “The bullet blew away the back of his head. It looks like she used a dumdum bullet. He didn’t stand a chance.”

“How’s Melissa Scoby?” Graham asked.

“She’s been sedated and taken to a local hospital.” Whitlock watched as Eastman was led from the church to a waiting police car. “I’ll get on to Commander Palmer as soon as possible. Hopefully he’ll let us have first crack at Eastman when he’s returned to the mainland.”

“We really screwed this one up, C.W.,” Graham said.

“It looks like Fabio got out just in time,” Sabrina added. “At least he’s got a future to look forward to back in Italy.”

“I hear the pay’s good for military advisers in the Gulf,” Graham said. “I always thought my Delta years would come in handy again some day.”

“We’re not beaten yet,” Whitlock reminded him. “I don’t know about the two of you, but I’m damned if I’m going to give our critics at the UN the satisfaction of seeing UNACO on its knees. And that means we’ve still got a lot of work to do if we’re going to pull this round in our favor. Are you with me?”

Graham patted Whitlock on the shoulder. “We’re with you, buddy. Come on, let’s go.”

It was five-thirty in the morning when the telephone woke Kolchinsky. It was Whitlock. Five minutes later Kolchinsky replaced the receiver then reached for the pack of cigarettes on the bedside table. He lit one, took his first drag of the day, and began coughing violently. Donning his dressing gown and slippers he went into the lounge. He had to tell the Secretary-General about Scoby before one of his aides either heard it on the radio or saw it on the six o’clock news. He sat down in his favorite armchair and dialed the number of the Secretary-General’s scrambled line at his home in Rhode Island. It was answered by an aide who patched the call through to the Secretary-General’s bedroom, but Kolchinsky’s worst fears were realized: the Secretary-General had been up since five and had already heard of the shooting on the radio. Repeating all he knew, Kolchinsky promised to keep him posted on any new developments, then replaced the receiver and used the remote control to switch on the television set in the corner of the room.

He lit another cigarette as the news began but it smouldered untouched in the ashtray for the duration of the lead story: the assassination of Senator Jack Scoby at a church in Ireland. Impatiently he switched off the set, stubbed out the remains of the cigarette, then sat back in the chair and ran his hand over his thinning hair. Nothing had gone right since he had taken over from Philpott. It had been an endless catalog of catastrophic errors. And now UNACO had just handed their critics the ammunition they needed to destroy them. He knew the Secretary-General would stand by UNACO. But how long could he hold out against the inevitable tide of condemnation that was sure to break once the news of Scoby’s death spread through the United Nations? It was imperative that Kolchinsky try and minimize the damage to the organization. The Secretary-General needed a scapegoat to appease their opponents.

He knew now who that would have to be. He would tender his resignation to the Secretary-General when he met with him later that morning.

Tillman had originally been scheduled to travel with the Scobys to Ireland but had pulled out earlier that morning, citing a backlog of paperwork as his reason for staying at the hotel. The real reason for his change of heart, however, had nothing to do with work. He knew that even with the added security which had been drafted in to protect Scoby in Dugaill, the threat to Scoby’s life was still very real. And if anything were to happen to Scoby, he would have to move fast to save his own skin …

Scoby was the linchpin in the deal with the Colombians and the Mafia. Without him, the deal became worthless. That meant both parties would have to move quickly to distance themselves by removing all incriminating evidence which could possibly link them to Scoby. And Tillman would be top of their list. He had spent the last couple of days pondering the different options open to him if Scoby were assassinated. And when it came down to it, there were only really two options open to him. Agree to turn State’s Evidence in return for a place on the Witness Protection Program. But there was no guarantee that he wouldn’t spend time in prison before he was allocated a new identity under the program. And if that happened, he knew he’d never get out alive. Or he could use the five hundred thousand dollars he’d received as “sweeteners” from the Colombians and the Mafia to start a new life in some distant corner of the world. It would be his only chance if worse came to worst …

And it had. After Palmer had called he’d immediately put his emergency plan into action. He’d hurriedly packed his suitcase then checked out of the hotel and taken a taxi to Heathrow where he’d used his diplomatic status to secure a seat on the next flight back to New York. He knew the anti-terrorist officers on duty at the hotel would tell their superiors that he’d gone. But he wasn’t worried about them. He was worried about Jorge Cabrera and Martin Navarro. It would only be a matter of time before they found out that he had returned to the States, but hopefully by then he’d have already collected the money and fled the country. Hopefully …

As was his custom every morning, Martin Navarro woke at six then spent half an hour working out in his mini-gymnasium before swimming a dozen lengths of his indoor pool.

A bodyguard handed him his towelling robe as he climbed out of the pool. He slipped it on as he walked through to the patio which overlooked the spacious gardens of his double-story mansion in Rhode Island. A glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and a copy of the New York Times lay on the table in the center of the patio. He sat down and opened the paper.

“Excuse me, sir,” the butler said, appearing in the doorway behind him. “Mr. Varese’s in the lounge. He asked if he could have a word with you. He seems rather agitated.”

“Tony’s here at this time of the morning?” Navarro said with a frown. He folded the paper over again and tossed it back onto the table. “Show him in.”

The butler bowed and left. He returned moments later with Varese and ushered him into the patio. “Can I get you anything, Mr. Varese? Coffee? Orange juice?”

Varese shook his head.

Navarro dismissed the butler then looked up at Varese. “Well?”

“You haven’t heard, have you?” Varese said, pacing the floor anxiously.

“I don’t know unless you tell me what it is you’re talking about,” Navarro shot back.

“Scoby’s dead. It’s the lead story on every news bulletin. I know you only watch the news on your way to work. That’s why I came straight round when I heard about it.”

“Tell me what you know,” Navarro said, clasping his hands behind his head as he listened to Varese. “Well, at least the damage is minimal. Nobody else in the family knew about the deal we made with Scoby. And I intend to keep it that way.”