Алистер Маклин - Time of the Assassins

‘Would it?’

‘Yes,’ Moredi replied bluntly. ‘But then the army’s already in disarray. Many of the soldiers had friends and relatives in the Security Police, Now they’re on opposite sides. But will the army try and stop Ngune’s men if they do march on Habane? Or will they join them? Nobody really knows the answer. That’s what makes it all so uncertain. Zimbala’s a powder keg waiting to explode. All it needs is a single spark to set it off. That’s why Jamel wants to stop Ngune in his tracks. If Ngune does march on Habane, then the sparks will fly. And whoever does win will have inherited a country bathed in the blood of innocent people. Jamel doesn’t want that. He saw enough bloodshed under his father’s regime.’

‘I still don’t see why Massenga tried to kill me this afternoon. If Remy Mobuto is the only person who knows what’s going on, then how can I be a threat to them? They’ve got him. They’re holding the aces, not me.’

‘They obviously think you’re out here to find him. That could ruin everything for them.’

Sabrina propped a pillow against the wall and leaned back against it. ‘How long have you had Massenga under surveillance?’

‘How did you know that?’

‘Why else would you have been at the hotel when he tried to kill me?’

Moredi smiled. ‘You’re very astute. I don’t know how long he’s been in Habane. An informant contacted us two days ago and said he’d seen Massenga. We checked out the story and I’ve had a team of reporters watching him ever since. He won’t know he’s being watched.’

‘Why don’t you tell the police about Massenga?’

‘Two reasons. Firstly, if they did arrest Massenga it could put Remy’s life in danger. And secondly, there are policemen who are sympathetic to Ngune. They would tip him off and Massenga would be pulled out. This way he could still lead us to Remy. I know it’s a long shot but we’ve got to take it.’ Moredi paused to wet his lips. ‘I’ve been watching him ever since he went to the airport this afternoon. Actually, it’s the second time he’s been to the airport in the last two days. He met someone there yesterday off a flight from Beirut. Around noon. They spoke for about an hour. Then the man flew out again. I couldn’t find out his name. Only that he’d taken a Pan Am flight to New York via Morocco and Bermuda.’

‘Describe him.’

‘He was pretty distinctive: tall, good-looking, black hair, black moustache.’

‘And a scar,’ Sabrina added, tracing her finger down her left cheek.

‘Yes,’ Moredi replied in surprise. ‘How did you know?”

Sabrina swung her legs off the bed. ‘I’ve got to make an urgent phone call. In private.’

‘Oh, of course,’ Moredi said, getting to his feet. ‘I’ll go down to the bar and get a beer. Would you like anything?’

‘A Diet Cola.’

Moredi left the room.

Sabrina rang Kolchinsky at UNACO headquarters and briefed him on what Moredi had told her.

‘So Bernard met Massenga in Habane,’ Kolchinsky said once she had finished. ‘I don’t see anything suspicious in that. He is supposed to be working with them, remember? It’s part of his cover.’

‘That may be, Sergei, but it seems a bit of a coincidence that Massenga tries to kill me the day after he meets Bernard.’

‘You’re reading too much into this meeting, Sabrina.’

‘It would certainly explain the attempt on my life this afternoon. How else would Massenga know I was due in Zimbala?’

‘It’s a possibility, I agree,’ Kolchinsky conceded.

‘And what about this third man that Remy Mobuto mentioned? It has to be Bernard.’

‘Why does it have to be Bernard?’ Kolchinsky retorted. ‘What do the CIA have to gain by assassinating Mobuto?’

‘Who says it’s on CIA orders? He could have made a private deal with Ngune to kill Mobuto.’

‘And double-cross Bailey? He wouldn’t live long enough to spend the money.’

‘Put yourself in Bernard’s shoes, Sergei. Bailey’s sure to have promised him a new identity once this is all over. But Bernard’s no fool. He knows the CIA will never use him again. So what’s he got to lose by contracting himself to Ngune?’

There was a pause while Kolchinsky pondered her words. ‘So you’re suggesting that Bailey would have him killed rather than give him a new identity?’

‘He knows too much.’

‘But you don’t have a shred of evidence to back up this elaborate theory of yours.’

‘Remy Mobuto has the evidence. I’m convinced of that now.’

‘Remy Mobuto has been kidnapped.’

‘And he’s being held in Kondese.’

‘Don’t even think of it, Sabrina!’ Kolchinsky snapped sharply. ‘You’ve been assigned to find Michael, not to poke about in rebel country looking for Remy Mobuto. Stay away from Kondese. That’s an order!’

‘Yes, Sergei,’ Sabrina muttered through clenched teeth.

‘I think it would be better if you caught the next available flight back to the States. After all, if Moredi’s right, then Bernard’s here now. And Michael’s sure to be close behind him.’

‘I’ll make the necessary arrangements.’

There was a knock at the door.

‘I’ve got to go, Sergei. Moredi’s back. I’ll call you if there are any new developments before I leave. Otherwise I’ll see you back in New York.’

‘Fine. Goodbye, Sabrina.’

She replaced the receiver then crossed to the door and peered through the spyhole. It was Moredi. She opened the door.

‘Finished?’ he asked.

‘Sure,’ she replied and stood aside to let him in.

He handed her a can of Diet Cola. ‘What happens now?’

‘Nothing,’ she replied, opening the can. ‘At least not until I’ve heard from my partner.’

‘Where is your partner?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ she replied then moved to the window and looked down into the street. ‘But he’d better contact me soon. We’re running out of time. Fast.’

‘Not another roadblock,’ Graham said tersely, seeing the army patrol ahead of them. ‘This is the third one in as many miles.’

‘It is the airport road. They’re obviously taking no chances,’ Laidlaw replied, bringing the white Toyota to a halt behind a rusty blue Fiat.

Graham looked out of the passenger window and counted eight vehicles ahead of them. He threw up his arms in despair. All they could do was wait.

It had been Laidlaw’s idea that they both dress as priests. He had borrowed the costumes from a friend, who ran a small theatre in West Beirut, on the pretext of needing them for a fancy-dress party the following evening. They had changed into the costumes before leaving for the airport that morning where they had caught a direct flight to N’djamena, the capital of Chad. Laidlaw had hired the car at N’djamena Airport and they had driven the eighty miles to the Chadian-Zimbalan border where the.Zimbalan authorities had issued them with ten-day visas, like Sabrina. They were stopped regularly by army patrols on the main highway into Habane but each time they were waved on when the soldiers realized they were priests. And, judging by the size of the military presence around them, they assumed that this would be the last roadblock before the airport.

The Fiat was waved through and Laidlaw drove up to the boom gate and cut the engine. An armed soldier approached the car and peered through the driver’s window.

‘Passport,’ the soldier said in a thick English accent.

‘I speak your language,’ Laidlaw replied in Swahili and handed the passports to him.

The soldier was surprised to hear his native tongue and smiled at Laidlaw before opening the passports to compare the photographs with the two men in the car. ‘What is your business at the airport, Father?’