Алистер Маклин - Time of the Assassins

‘Let’s just say I wouldn’t want them protecting me,’ Whitlock replied. ‘As I said to Sergei back at the hotel, I only wish we could have used our own people to babysit Mobuto. I’d have slept better.’

‘I did try, C.W.,’ Philpott said with an apologetic shrug. ‘I wanted to bring in Strike Force Seven as his personal bodyguard team. That would have left you free to work with Sabrina in Beirut. But the President wanted this to be a joint operation and Bailey managed to convince him to use CIA men as bodyguards. There was nothing I could do. At least the President saw enough sense to agree to my request to put you in charge of the unit. I know you won’t let me down, C.W. Just keep an eye on Bailey’s goons. If President Mobuto had been killed tonight we’d have been crucified.’

‘We’ve still got three days to go, sir. They’re sure to try again.’

‘You can count on it. And what happened to this warning Bernard was supposed to have passed on to Bailey?’

‘I spoke to Bailey after the attempt on the President’s life,’ Kolchinsky said. ‘He claims Bernard never contacted him. His theory is that the two men were either freelance or else they decided to try and kill the President by themselves without telling the others.’

‘It just doesn’t ring true, does it?’ Whitlock said.

‘Of course it doesn’t,’ Philpott snapped tersely. ‘But we’re dealing with Bailey, remember?’

Kolchinsky nodded then rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘Well, there’s nothing more we can do tonight. And I’m shattered. It’s been some day.’

Whitlock got to his feet. ‘Only three to go. Can you drop me off at the apartment on your way home, Sergei? If I get the subway I’ll probably fall asleep and end up at Washington Heights.’

Kolchinsky patted Whitlock’s shoulder. ‘Of course. Come on.’

Philpott watched them leave then stared at the folder Kolchinsky had left with him. He knew Bailey was up to something, but what? The thought lingered as he opened the folder and started to read its contents.

Sabrina paused outside the door, knocked, and entered. The man behind the desk was in his early forties with a dark, swarthy complexion and a thick black moustache which arched over the corners of his mouth. He looked up from the document he was reading and his eyes lingered on her body before he sat back and raised his eyebrows quizzically, waiting for her to speak.

‘Are you Captain Farouk?’ she asked.

‘That’s what it says,’ he replied in faultless English, gesturing to the nameplate on his desk.

‘If you read Arabic,’ Sabrina replied with a smile. ‘I spoke to you earlier on the phone–’

‘Ah, yes,’ Farouk cut in and glanced down at the notepad in front of him. ‘Miss Cassidy, not so?’

‘Sabrina Cassidy,’ she replied, using the name on her UNACO passport.

‘Please, won’t you sit down, Miss Cassidy?’ Farouk said, indicating the wooden chair in front of his desk.

‘Thank you,’ she said and sat down.

‘Is this your first time in Beirut?’

‘Yes,’ she replied truthfully. ‘I didn’t know where to begin looking for Mike so I called the police and they put me on to you. They said you were in charge of the investigation.’ She feigned nervousness by fidgeting with the handbag in her lap. ‘But what investigation? What’s happened?’

Farouk raised his hand to silence her. ‘There’s a warrant out for the arrest of Michael Green.’

The name on one of the passports Graham had drawn from UNACO stores in New York. She sat forward. ‘On what charge?’

‘Murder.’

She slumped back in the chair. ‘Oh, my God. Murder? I don’t believe it. Sure, Mike’s a bit of a rebel but he’d never kill anybody.’

Farouk uncapped his pen and pulled the notepad towards him. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions, Miss Cassidy?’

‘Yes, of course,’ she replied, continuing to feign nervousness. ‘Anything.’

‘You said on the phone that he’d called you in New York. What exactly did he say?’

‘All he said was that he was in trouble and that he needed some money to get out of the country. Then the line went dead.’

‘Do you know why he was here?’

‘The first I knew he was in Beirut was when he rang me.’ She sighed deeply. ‘Mike’s a loner. It’s not the first time he’s gone off by himself.’

‘And he owns a company in New York?’ Farouk said, consulting his notes again.

‘Whitaker Haulage,’ she added. ‘He’s the boss.’

‘Yes, I know. We found some business cards in his hotel room.’ Farouk tapped thoughtfully on the notepad. ‘And his fellow directors don’t mind him just going off by himself without letting them know where he is? What if something were to happen to the company?’

‘They’re used to his erratic behaviour by now. And anyway, he pays their salaries. What can they say?’

‘Did he have any friends that you knew of in Beirut?’

She shook her head. ‘None that he ever mentioned.’

‘Russell Laidlaw?’

She pretended to think for a moment. Then she shook her head again. ‘No, I can’t say the name means anything to me. Is that the man who was murdered?’

‘No,’ Farouk replied. ‘He was the last person to see your boyfriend here in Beirut. He used to be in the Special Forces in America, the Delta unit.’

‘Are you suggesting that Mike was once a member of Delta?’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘I don’t believe it. Not for one minute.’

‘I’m not suggesting anything, Miss Cassidy. It’s just strange that Laidlaw was with Delta and the murdered man, Barak, was an informer for Delta here in Beirut. Delta seems to be the common denominator, doesn’t it?’

‘Haven’t you asked this man Laidlaw about Mike?’

‘He claims to have met him for the first time at the Windorah; it’s a bar frequented mainly by foreigners. The owner’s borne out his story. So I’m back to square one.’

‘Can’t you ask Delta?’

‘I already have. They say no Michael Green has ever been with them. And it took a lot of persuasion for them to just admit that.’

‘How do you know Mike was involved? Did someone see him?’

‘His fingerprints were on the murder weapon. I checked with Interpol and they confirmed they were his prints.’

‘Interpol?’ she replied with surprise. ‘You mean he had a criminal record?’

‘No, but the New York police had his prints on file.’

The NYPD had Graham’s fingerprints on file. They had all UNACO operatives’ fingerprints on file. It was a precaution in case any of them were injured, or killed, and weren’t carrying any formal identification. But Michael Green? Then it hit her. Why hadn’t she thought of it when Kolchinsky briefed them? UNACO must have given the NYPD permission to release the prints under Graham’s assumed name. But why? It made no sense. They had set up their own operative. She wanted some answers and she was determined to get them when she next spoke to Kolchinsky.

‘Is something wrong, Miss Cassidy?’ Farouk said, noticing her frown.

She cursed herself silently for letting her guard drop. ‘Sorry, I was just surprised that the New York police had his fingerprints on file. I never realized he had a criminal record.’

‘He was once convicted of a drink-driving offence.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ she said then sat forward, her eyes burrowing into Farouk. ‘I still don’t believe Mike killed this man. It’s not in his character.’

‘Well, unless he turns himself in we have to assume that he is the killer. And the longer he remains on the run, the worse it will become for him.’

‘I think he’s being held against his will somewhere,’ she said.