Алистер Маклин - Time of the Assassins

‘It’s been a long time, Clarence,’ Mobuto said in his faultless English.

Whitlock bit back his anger. He had never forgiven his parents for christening him Clarence Wilkins.

‘Over twenty years,’ Whitlock replied, gripping the extended hand. ‘You look well, Jamel.’

Mobuto inhaled sharply and glanced at the massive bodyguard who was hovering in the background. He turned back to Whitlock. ‘You call me President Mobuto in front of my people!’

‘And you call me C.W. in front of mine,’ Whitlock retorted, holding Mobuto’s stare.

Mobuto smiled coldly. ‘You haven’t changed a bit. Still as insolent as ever.’

‘And you’re still as arrogant as ever.’ Whitlock looked past Mobuto and gestured for Brett and Rogers to approach them. He introduced them to Mobuto then went on to explain that one of them would always be at his side for the duration of his visit.

‘And you?’ Mobuto asked once Whitlock had finished speaking.

‘I’m in charge of security. Brett and Rogers report directly to me. As do your bodyguards.’

‘Very well,’ Mobuto replied after a moment’s thought then moved away with the Chief of Protocol, heading towards one of the limousines.

‘Brett, you’re taking first shift, aren’t you?’

Brett nodded.

‘Rogers, you’ll relieve him tomorrow at seven a.m.’

‘Fine,’ was all Rogers said.

Whitlock dismissed Rogers then he and Brett hurried after Mobuto. Brett went to the lead limousine and climbed in beside the driver. Whitlock caught up with Mobuto but remained discreetly in the background while he finished talking to the Chief of Protocol.

Mobuto spoke briefly to the Zimbalan ambassador in Swahili then beckoned the tall bodyguard towards him. He introduced him to Whitlock as Masala, his personal bodyguard, then told Masala that he and the other three Zimbalan bodyguards were to liaise directly with Whitlock.

‘President Mobuto and I will be in the second car,’ Whitlock said to Masala. ‘You ride up front in the third. Spread your men amongst the other two cars.’

Masala nodded then went off to carry out Whitlock’s instructions.

Mobuto climbed into the back of the limousine. The Zimbalan ambassador got in beside him and the driver closed the door behind them. Whitlock got into the passenger seat and the driver immediately started the engine.

Whitlock looked round at Mobuto. ‘I’m going to seal off the back of the car with a sheet of soundproof glass. Not only is it bulletproof but it will also give you privacy to speak to the ambassador. There’s a private telephone in the compartment in front of you if you need to make any outside calls. And if you need us, just dial zero.’

Mobuto nodded.

Whitlock activated the switch on the dashboard and the glass slid into place, sealing off the back and front seats of the car. He sat back and exhaled deeply. The driver glanced at him but sensed that Whitlock wasn’t in the mood to talk. He switched on the radio, found a music station and followed the first limousine out of the airport onto the Grand Central Parkway, heading towards Manhattan.

The convoy, led by a police car and two police motorcycles, made its way through Long Island City, across the Queensboro Bridge into Manhattan then down First Avenue to the United Nations Plaza, the hotel where the Zimbalan delegation would stay for the duration of their three-day visit to New York. It was situated close to the United Nations headquarters as well as being only three blocks away from the African American Institute which Mobuto had requested to see at some point during his visit. And with Mobuto due to address the United Nations’ General Assembly, the locale couldn’t have been better.

The convoy drew to a halt in front of the hotel; Whitlock jumped out of the limousine and looked around him slowly. The press, who had been alerted by an anonymous call to Reuters the previous day by one of the assassins, were out in force, waiting and hoping to get an exclusive of an assassination, or at least an attempted assassination, for the morning papers. Whitlock shouted at the two policemen on the motorcycles to get the photographers back a few feet to give Mobuto a chance to get out of the limousine. They immediately set about the task of pushing the jostling photographers away from the limousine. Brett and Masala flanked the back door and the other three bodyguards took up positions on the other side of the car, facing the photographers. Satisfied, Whitlock nodded to Masala who opened the back door. Mobuto climbed out slowly and turned to wave at the waiting photographers. Flashbulbs popped incessantly and Whitlock found himself struggling to focus on the sea of cameras, his eyes darting about in search of anything untoward.

Suddenly one of the Zimbalan bodyguards shouted a warning and lunged at the photographers. Whitlock knocked Mobuto to the ground in the split-second before a bullet smashed into the wall behind them.

The photographers scattered in panic as the bodyguard made a grab for the gunman. A second shot rang out and the bodyguard stumbled back, clutching his stomach. The other two Zimbalan bodyguards immediately drew their snub-nosed Smith & Wesson .385 and sprinted after the fleeing gunman.

The getaway driver, in a blue Ford, laid down a burst of suppressing fire, forcing the bodyguards to dive for cover. By the time they had got to their feet the gunman had jumped through the open passenger door and the wheels shrieked in protest as the car sped away from the hotel.

Whitlock mounted one of the police motorcycles, kick-started it, then slewed it violently in an ungainly one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn and took off after the getaway car. He unhooked the radio and called for backup, giving a description of the car and its registration number. The Ford swung sharply into East 34th Street, mounted the kerb, and narrowly missed a couple of teenagers waiting to cross the road.

The driver managed to regain control and turned into Second Avenue. Suddenly he felt the car beginning to skid and in his panic trod on the brakes. The wheels locked and the car careered across the road, clipping the side of an oncoming Greyhound bus. The car overturned and ploughed into the side of a stationary delivery van.

The driver was dead, his chest crushed by the steering wheel.

The gunman managed to unbuckle his safety belt and struggled to push open the passenger door. Eager hands reached out to help him as he eased himself out of the car. He wiped the blood from a gash on his forehead then waved the Walther P5 threateningly at the growing crowd of onlookers. They immediately stepped back, anxious not to alarm him.

He fired blindly at Whitlock as he turned into Second Avenue. Whitlock lost control of the motorcycle and fell heavily onto the road. The gunman looked around him wildly and the crowd parted as he darted up a narrow alleyway. Whitlock pulled himself to his feet and winced as a sharp pain shot through his left leg. He looked down at it. His trousers were ripped and the blood seeped down his leg from the gash inches above his knee. It hurt like hell but he was damned if he was going to let the gunman escape. He drew his Browning and went after the gunman. Ignoring the pain that shot through his leg with every step, he reached the end of the alleyway. It forked off in two directions. And the gunman was nowhere to be seen. He cursed softly, knowing he’d lost him.

A bullet cracked inches above his head and he flung himself behind a row of metal dustbins, the Browning clenched tightly in his hand. The shot had come from the left fork. He couldn’t see the gunman but at least he knew where he was. He could wait. The gunman fired again but the bullet was well off target. He was panicking; and panic invariably leads to mistakes. He suddenly darted out from behind a metal ladder and Whitlock aimed at his legs. He needed him alive.