Алистер Маклин - Time of the Assassins

A police car emerged from the other alleyway and screeched to a halt ten yards in front of Whitlock, blocking his shot. Whitlock cursed angrily and got to his feet. The policeman got out of the car, his Colt Python drawn. He shouted to Whitlock to drop his weapon. Whitlock tried to explain but the policeman’s grip tightened on the revolver and he repeated the order. Whitlock snarled angrily and tossed the Browning onto the ground.

The policeman kicked it away and gestured for Whitlock to approach the police car. ‘I want ten fingers on the hood. Do it!’

‘I’m working with you guys, for Christ’s sake!’ Whitlock snarled in exasperation.

‘Sure, now put those fingers on the hood.’

‘My name’s Whitlock, check with your superior. I’m head of the Zimbalan President’s security team.’

The policeman waited until Whitlock had put his hands on the police car then used his foot to spread his legs. ‘I was told to apprehend an armed black suspect in this alley. I don’t see another one, do you?’

‘That’s because you’ve let him get away,’ Whitlock snarled but the policeman snapped at him to face the front when he tried to look round.

The policeman frisked him then reached for his handcuffs. Whitlock, sensing his moment, swung round and felled him with one punch. He tossed the Colt Python onto the front seat then locked the keys inside the police car. Retrieving his Browning he hurried over to where he had last seen the gunman. He had gone. Then he heard a noise, a metal bin being knocked over. He followed the sound and was just in time to see the gunman climbing a wire fence at the end of an adjoining alleyway. Whitlock purposely fired wide. It had the desired effect – the gunman tumbled over the top of the fence, landing painfully on his back. Whitlock scrambled to his feet but by the time he reached the fence the gunman had already crossed the twenty-yard clearing and disappeared into a derelict warehouse. Whitlock clambered over the fence and landed nimbly on his feet. He straightened up then noticed the gunman’s Walther P5 lying at the edge of the clearing. He must have lost it when he fell to the ground. Whitlock doubted he would have another gun but he still approached the warehouse with professional caution.

He reached the open doors and peered in. It took his eyes a few seconds to get accustomed to the gloom then he darted inside and ducked down behind a rusty skip close to the door. He looked around slowly then carefully scanned the catwalk that criss-crossed the warehouse above him. No sign of the gunman. He slipped out from behind the skip and moved slowly across the concrete floor, the Browning gripped tightly in his hand, his eyes continually darting about him. He reached the other side of the cavernous room and paused to wipe the sweat from his eyes. Where the hell was he?

A shower of dust sprinkled his face but before he could react the gunman leaped onto him from a ledge on the wall. They both fell heavily to the ground and the Browning went spinning from Whitlock’s hand. The man lashed out with a rusted chain but Whitlock managed to roll clear before it struck the ground where he had been lying. Whitlock kicked out at the man, catching him on the leg so that he overbalanced and fell against the wall. The chain clattered noisily to the ground. Whitlock sprung to his feet and caught him on the side of the head with a stinging haymaker then followed up with two brutal body punches that dropped him to his knees. The man clutched his stomach in agony then noticed the fallen Browning out of the corner of his eye. He grabbed it and turned on Whitlock who managed to deflect it before he fired. They struggled for possession of the gun. It slipped from the gunman’s hand, landing at his feet. Whitlock shoved him back onto a tarpaulin in the corner of the warehouse and scooped up the Browning. He levelled it at the gunman then let his hand drop to his side. The man had been impaled on the rusted spikes of a security gate that had been discarded underneath the tarpaulin.

Whitlock swallowed back the bile in his throat and crossed to where the gunman lay, his shirt soaked in blood. He felt for a pulse then, letting the gunman’s arm drop, he bolstered the Browning before walking back slowly towards the doors. As he reached them he heard the first of the police sirens in the distance. He dusted off a box and sat down to wait for them.

Kolchinsky was waiting in the foyer when Whitlock got back to the hotel. ‘How’s the leg?’ were Kolchinsky’s first words.

‘OK,’ Whitlock replied with a grim smile. ‘It didn’t need stitches. But I got a tetanus jab as a precaution. Thank for clearing everything for me with the NYPD. I had visions of being stuck in a cell all night.’

Kolchinsky patted Whitlock on the shoulder. ‘Come on, Mobuto’s waiting to see you.’

‘How is he?’

‘Remarkably well under the circumstances,’ Kolchinsky replied as they walked to the lift. ‘You wouldn’t believe someone had just tried to kill him. He’s acting like it never happened.’

‘Acting being the operative word,’ Whitlock retorted as the lift door parted.

‘You really don’t like him, do you?’

‘As a person, no. But he’s obviously genuine about bringing democracy to Zimbala. And that makes all this worthwhile.’

They rode the lift to the thirtieth floor and were immediately challenged by a uniformed policeman as they stepped out. They both held up their passes and were allowed through. The entire floor had been booked by the Zimbalan delegation although only ten rooms were being used. It was a security measure.

Another policeman challenged them outside Mobuto’s suite and again they had to produce their passes.

Kolchinsky knocked on the door. It was opened on the chain by Masala who immediately unlocked it to allow them in. They were ushered into the lounge then Masala discreetly withdrew, closing the door behind him.

Mobuto was alone. He was seated on the sofa sifting through a batch of papers he had taken from his attaché case. He looked up, removed his reading glasses, then got to his feet and indicated the second sofa. Kolchinsky sat down and asked if Mobuto minded if he smoked.

‘Please, feel free,’ Mobuto replied then turned to Whitlock. ‘You saved my life tonight. Thank you. I believe you were injured while chasing the gunman. Nothing serious, I hope?’

Whitlock shook his head. ‘I cut my leg when I fell off the motorbike. It’s nothing. I’m sorry about your man. He’s the one who really saved your life.’

‘He died without ever regaining consciousness. At least he was spared the pain.’ Mobuto folded the glasses and placed them on the coffee table in the centre of the room. ‘Can I offer either of you a drink?’

‘Nothing for me,’ Kolchinsky replied, shaking his head.

‘Clarence?’

‘Nothing, thank you.’ Whitlock sat down beside Kolchinsky. ‘Where’s Brett?’

‘He’s next door,’ Mobuto replied indifferently.

‘And Masala’s in the other room. You’ve got no protection–’

‘I’ve got half the New York police force in the corridor and bodyguards in every adjoining room,’ Mobuto cut in sharply. ‘I feel like a prisoner.’

‘It’s important that you always have at least one bodyguard in the room with you at all times,’ Whitlock countered.

‘Even when I’m sleeping?’

‘Even when you’re sleeping,’ Whitlock shot back. ‘These assassins are obviously prepared to sacrifice their own lives to kill you. That means they’ll go to any lengths to get you.’

‘What exactly are you implying?’

‘What I’m saying is that even in this room you’re not safe. They could come through the window–’

‘We’re thirty floors up, for God sake,’ Mobuto cut in then chuckled softly to himself. ‘I think you’re being a little melodramatic.’