Алистер Маклин - Time of the Assassins

‘No, sir, he’s not,’ Kolchinsky said sternly. ‘C.W.’s right. You must always have at least one bodyguard with you at all times. Tonight proved that.’

Mobuto sat down opposite them and sighed deeply. ‘Very well. You are the experts.’

Whitlock got to his feet. ‘Which room’s Brett in?’

Mobuto pointed to his left. ‘He’s next door.’

Whitlock left the suite and knocked on the adjoining door. He grabbed Brett the moment he opened the door and slammed him up against the wall. ‘You’re supposed to be next door, not sitting here on your arse watching a ball game.’

Brett broke free from Whitlock’s grip and stared angrily at him. ‘The President told me to go. What the hell was I supposed to do?’

‘You were supposed to explain to him that it’s your job to stay with him. You don’t tell him his job and he doesn’t tell you yours. You’re supposed to be a professional. Start acting like one.’

Brett glared furiously at Whitlock then slipped on his shoulder holster and scooped up his jacket before leaving the room. Whitlock followed him into Mobuto’s suite. Brett pulled up a chair and sat discreetly in the corner.

‘The President’s just received a telephone call from Zimbala,’ Kolchinsky said. ‘His brother’s been kidnapped.’

‘What happened?’ Whitlock replied, looking at Mobuto.

‘He went to meet an informer. An hour later the newspaper’s deputy editor received an anonymous call to say that Remy had been abducted by Ngune’s men. That’s all the caller would say.’ Mobuto glanced at Whitlock. ‘I presume you have been briefed about the Ngune breakout?’

‘Yes, sir, I have,’ Whitlock replied. ‘Has Ngune got the backing to attempt a coup d’état?

‘He’s got men and money,’ Mobuto answered matter-of-factly. ‘The men are his ex-Security Policemen. The money comes from the wealthy Moslem community in the south of the country. Many of them built up vast fortunes under my father’s regime, illegal fortunes, I hasten to add. They know that if I do bring a new democratic freedom to my country then it’ll mean the confiscation of those fortunes. And as you know, greed knows no bounds. They’ll go to any lengths to reinstate a dictatorship that will protect them, just as my father’s regime did for forty-five years. I’m the one obstacle in their way. The people look to me as a new Messiah. I won’t let them down.’

‘One thing puzzles me,’ Whitlock said at length. ‘Your father repealed the law making you his natural successor once he realized you’d never follow in his footsteps. So how did you manage to wrestle power from the government after his death?’

‘My father was the government. He made the decisions, he passed the laws. His ministers were just yes-men, puppets. So, when he died, the puppets had no-one to pull their strings anymore. They panicked. And I used that panic to my benefit. But I had to act fast. Ngune was my biggest threat. He was the one man my father trusted, really trusted. Fortunately for the country, the police and the Security Police had never got on. And with the police and most of the armed forces behind me, I was able to stop Ngune from seizing power. Unfortunately I underestimated the strength of his support. But I’m determined not to cut short my visit here. That would just play straight into his hands. It would make the people think I was panicking. And that could lose me support.’ Mobuto got to his feet and moved to the sideboard to pour himself a bourbon. ‘Well, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some work to finish before I go to bed.’

‘Of course,’ Kolchinsky said, getting to his feet.

Whitlock crossed to where Brett was sitting. ‘Don’t let him out of your sight,’ he said softly.

‘I won’t,’ Brett replied tersely.

Whitlock said good night to Mobuto then followed Kolchinsky out into the corridor. ‘I wish we could have used our own people to babysit Mobuto. I’d have felt a lot happier.’

Kolchinsky nodded grimly. ‘I know what you mean. But we’re stuck with Bailey’s men, I’m afraid. There’s nothing I can do about it.’

‘I know,’ Whitlock replied and pushed the button for the lift.

‘I’m going to drop by the hospital to update the Colonel on today’s developments. Fancy coming?’

Whitlock shrugged. ‘Why not? Carmen won’t be home yet. She works late Tuesdays.’ He looked at his watch. ‘But aren’t visiting hours over?’

‘The Secretary-General had a word with the hospital’s administrator who reluctantly agreed to make an exception in the Colonel’s case and waive the normal visiting hours. It was one of the conditions the Colonel laid down if he was to remain in hospital.’

Whitlock shot Kolchinsky a knowing look then ushered him into the lift.

Kolchinsky drove the short distance to the Bellevue Hospital, conveniently situated less than two miles away from both the hotel and the United Nations building. The receptionist directed them to a private ward on the third floor.

Kolchinsky knocked lightly.

‘Come in,’ Philpott called out.

Kolchinsky opened the door and entered. Philpott was sitting up in bed, his face hidden behind a copy of the New York Times .

‘Just put them by the bed. I’ll take them later,’ Philpott muttered gruffly from behind the newspaper.

‘It’s me, Malcolm,’ Kolchinsky announced.

Philpott lowered the newspaper and gave them a wry smile. ‘I’m sorry, I thought it was another of those damn nurses. They’ve been coming and going all day.’ He glanced at Whitlock. ‘I see he managed to drag you along as well.’

Whitlock smiled and pulled up a chair. ‘How are you feeling, sir?’

‘A little weak, but otherwise fine.’

Kolchinsky sat down on the second chair and handed Philpott a brown packet. ‘It’s from the deli on 44th Street.’

Philpott opened the packet and looked inside. ‘Grapes! I was hoping it might have been some tobacco. The doctor confiscated mine.’ He put the packet on the bedside table and picked up his empty pipe. ‘I’m dying for a smoke. C.W.–’

‘I’m not fetching you any tobacco,’ Whitlock cut in quickly. ‘Get better first, then you can smoke your pipe again.’

‘I am better. I should have discharged myself this morning.’ Philpott gave a resigned sigh. ‘Any news of Mike?’

Kolchinsky explained the day’s events, culminating in the attempted assassination of Jamel Mobuto.

‘Good God,’ Philpott muttered when Kolchinsky had finished talking. He looked at Whitlock. ‘Are you alright?’

‘I cut my leg when I fell off the motorbike. It’s nothing serious. But my suit’s a total write-off. It’ll break my tailor’s heart.’

‘At least you’re alright. Any news on the assassin and his accomplice?’

‘Nothing yet,’ Kolchinsky replied. ‘They weren’t carrying any ID but they’re almost certainly Zimbalan. Probably ex-Security policemen. I’ve had their photographs and prints faxed through to the police in Habane. Hopefully they’ll have come up with something by tomorrow.’

‘And what was that you said earlier about Bernard. He’s CIA?’

Kolchinsky nodded then opened the attaché case. He handed his photostat copy of Bailey’s file to Philpott. ‘It’s all in there. I’ll leave it with you tonight. It certainly makes interesting reading.’

‘I bet it does,’ Philpott hissed. ‘Be careful of Bailey, Sergei. Tell him as little as possible. And don’t trust him an inch.’

‘I think we all realized that when we met him,’ Kolchinsky said, glancing at Whitlock.

‘And as for those two bullet-catchers…’ Whitlock trailed off with a shake of his head.

‘What about them?’ Philpott asked.