Алистер Маклин - Time of the Assassins

‘You know the drill,’ Graham said.

‘You’re going after Bernard, aren’t you?’

Graham zipped up his toilet bag and put it in the holdall. ‘Perhaps.’

‘You need an extra pair of hands?’

Graham looked round sharply and was about to shake his head when he paused to weigh up the pros and cons of the situation. He was going into the unknown. Alone. Hell, he didn’t even know where he was going. He could use someone with Laidlaw’s experience. He couldn’t speak any foreign languages. He knew Laidlaw spoke French, one of the main languages of Zimbala. But he was now officially working on UNACO time. And Laidlaw was an outsider, an outsider who couldn’t even be relied upon to fire a gun in a crisis. Some decision.

‘What do you know about Zimbala?’

‘Small country in Africa. Borders Chad and Niger. It used to be a dictatorship–’

‘OK,’ Graham cut in, holding up his hands to silence Laidlaw. ‘I’ve got to rendezvous with Sabrina in Zimbala. She’s flying there. I can’t risk that. Bernard’s sure to have his spies out looking for me. I’m going to have to fly to either Chad or Niger and slip over the border by car. But I don’t speak French or Arabic so I’m going to stick out like the proverbial sore thumb. And that means attracting unnecessary attention that could get back to Bernard.’

‘And you want me to get you into Zimbala.’

‘You speak French.’

‘And Arabic,’ Laidlaw added then smiled wryly. ‘It’ll be like old times.’

‘All I want you to do is get me to Habane. That’s where I’m meeting Sabrina. Then I’ll cut you loose.’

Graham immediately saw the disappointment in Laidlaw’s eyes. ‘What if we’re caught in a firefight when we find Bernard? You’d only be a liability. I don’t want your death on my conscience, Russ. We’ve been through too much together.’

Laidlaw nodded, his face grim. ‘I hear what you’re saying, Mike. I’ll get you to Habane.’

‘Thanks,’ Graham said.

‘Come on, we’ll sort out the flight arrangements downstairs.’ Laidlaw walked to the door then looked round at Graham, a faint smile touching the corners of his lips. ‘It won’t be the first time I’ve had to come to your rescue and haul your ass out of trouble.’

‘Like hell,’ Graham replied good-humouredly then picked up his holdall and followed Laidlaw into the corridor, closing the door behind him.

Whitlock drove his white BMW down the ramp into the basement carpark underneath his apartment block in Manhattan. He pulled into the reserved space beside a red Porsche Carrera, Carmen’s car. He switched off the radio and glanced at his watch. It had just gone six thirty. He stifled a yawn. It had been a long day – twelve hours with Mobuto, eight of those in the United Nations building where Mobuto and his entourage had spent the day.

Mobuto’s address to the General Assembly had impressed him. It had been an eloquent, impassioned speech in which he had promised to uphold the principles of democracy as the new leader of Zimbala.

Yet one aspect of the speech had surprised him. Mobuto had never once referred to his father by name or attempted to make any apology for the abhorrent crimes that had been committed under his regime. It was as if he had blocked out that part of his life and was only interested in talking about the future.

The speech was well received by the delegates and a motion was carried unanimously to send a fact-finding team to Zimbala in six months’ time to monitor the situation with a view to readmitting the country to the United Nations. Its original membership, instated when the United Nations was founded in 1945, been cancelled in 1956 when Alphonse Mobuto had refused to allow a delegation to visit Zimbala to investigate accounts of mass genocide under his regime.

The motion had particularly pleased Mobuto who was desperate to bring Zimbala back into world affairs. Whitlock knew that the ambassadors of two Western nations had already promised state visits to Zimbala as soon as it was readmitted to the United Nations. It had been an historic day for the future of Zimbala – and it was all down to the tactful diplomacy of Jamel Mobuto. Whitlock had found his animosity towards Mobuto beginning to waver as the day progressed. He genuinely wanted to bring about change in a country where tens of thousands of its people had been tortured or murdered under his father’s regime. They still treated each other with caution but each was beginning to respect the other’s professionalism. And that was certainly a start.

Whitlock had wanted to remain on duty for the banquet at the United Nations that evening but Kolchinsky had told him to call it a day. He had reluctantly agreed to go home. So the first day had passed uneventfully. But it had been the easiest of the three days. The following day Mobuto intended to tour the African-American Institute on East 47th Street then go on to visit a high-school deep in the heart of Harlem. Then, on the third day, he would be a guest at a trade fair held in New Jersey. Two days of public exposure: a security team’s nightmare. But that was what he was being paid for and after hearing Mobuto at the United Nations he was now more determined than ever to ensure his safety. Mobuto was a man with a mission, a Messiah, the future of Zimbala…

Whitlock’s thoughts were jolted by a sudden rap on the driver’s window. He looked round sharply then exhaled deeply when he saw the man’s face peering in at him. Joshua Marshall had been the parking-bay attendant ever since the apartment block had been opened eighteen years earlier. He had grown up in the slums of Harlem and had been a promising middleweight fighter in the late fifties before the lure of alcohol had devastated his career. He had been dry for the past twenty years.

Whitlock activated the window and clasped his hand over his chest. ‘You almost gave me a heart attack, Joshua.’

‘I thought you’d suffered one, Mr Whitlock. You haven’t moved since you parked the car.’

‘I was thinking, that’s all.’ Whitlock removed the keys from the ignition and got out of the car. ‘How long’s my wife been back?’

Joshua scratched his head thoughtfully. ‘About an hour. She seemed in quite a hurry.’

‘Oh?’ Whitlock said, locking the door. ‘Did she say anything?’

‘She didn’t see me.’

‘Thanks, Joshua.’

Joshua touched his cap then ambled off back to his hut.

Whitlock used his personal ID card to activate the lift and tapped his foot apprehensively as he waited for it to arrive. Why had Carmen been in such a hurry? She never rushed anywhere; she was always very graceful and calm. What was wrong? The lift doors parted and he smiled fleetingly at the couple who emerged then stepped inside and pressed the button for the seventh floor. He paced the lift anxiously until it stopped and the doors parted again. He strode briskly down the blue-carpeted corridor, the apartment keys already in his hand. The door opened directly onto the lounge. Carmen was standing by the window. Her sister, Rachel, sat on the couch, her hands clasped tightly together. Her eyes were red. She had been crying. He knew then that something had happened to Rosie.

‘Thank God you’re back,’ Carmen said as he closed the door behind him.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, his eyes flickering between the two women. ‘Is it Rosie?’

Rachel bit her lip as she struggled to hold back the tears. ‘She’s gone.’

‘What do you mean “gone”?’

‘She had a blazing row with Eddie and stormed out of the house,’ Rachel replied. ‘We don’t know where she’s gone.’

Whitlock sat down. ‘When did this happen?’

‘About two hours ago. Eddie had just got back from work when they had a row in the kitchen. She stormed out of the house. I’m beside myself with worry, C.W. She’s only wearing a T-shirt and jeans. And she doesn’t have any money. I’m sure she’s gone back to Times Square. That’s where she’s been spending most of her time these last few months.’