Алистер Маклин - Time of the Assassins

After a quick perusal he pushed open the door and slipped inside, closing it silently behind him. He looked into the room nearest the front door, the lounge. The second door led into a bedroom. The bed was unmade. The T-shirt Rosie had been wearing the previous night lay crumpled in the corner.

He tried the adjoining door. It also led into a bedroom. The bed had been made with military precision.

He moved to the wardrobe and tried the door. It was unlocked. He opened it. The clothes had been ironed then folded with meticulous care before being stacked neatly on the shelves. He unhooked the second door and opened it. Two pairs of jeans hung beside a pair of black flannels and a grey chintz jacket. He crouched down and unzipped the grey holdall at the bottom of the wardrobe. It was empty.

He was about to zip it up when he noticed the black attaché case pushed up against the back of the wardrobe. He pushed the holdall to one side then removed the attaché case and placed it carefully on the floor. Wiping the sweat from his forehead he glanced furtively over his shoulder like a naughty schoolboy about to light up a cigarette behind the toilets. He wiped his clammy hands on his shirt then tried the catches.

They wouldn’t move – a combination lock. He tilted the case to get a closer look at the digits. They were all at zero.

‘One-nine-six-seven.’

Doyle looked round, startled by the voice behind him. Bernard stood in the doorway, a Desert Eagle automatic in his hand.

‘Please, carry on,’ Bernard said, indicating the attaché case with the pistol. ‘The combination’s one-nine-six-seven, the year the PFLP was founded.’

‘What?’ Doyle said, his eyes riveted on the pistol.

‘You’ve never heard of the PFLP?’

Doyle swallowed nervously and shook his head.

‘The Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine.’

‘You’re a terrorist!’ Doyle spat the words out.

‘I prefer “revolutionary”. But not any more. I work freelance now.’

‘How did you know I was here?’ Doyle stammered.

Bernard indicated the transmitter attached to his belt. ‘You activated it the moment you opened the wardrobe.’ He noticed the uncertainty in Doyle’s eyes. ‘I was in the adjoining flat, working. The two flats are connected by a door built into the lounge wall. That’s why you never heard me come in. Actually, I thought it was Rosie snooping around.’

‘What are you going to do with her?’

‘Nothing,’ Bernard replied casually then gestured to the case again with the pistol. ‘You still haven’t opened it. I thought you’d be curious to know what’s inside.’

Doyle’s hands were trembling as he lined up the digits. He placed his thumbs on the catches then paused to glance up at Bernard. His breathing was ragged and the sweat now ran freely down his face.

‘It’s not booby-trapped if that’s what you’re worried about,’ Bernard said. ‘Do you think I would be standing here if it was?’

Doyle wiped the back of his hand across his forehead then unlocked the case. He eased the lid open. Inside were the specially designed segments of a rifle and telescopic sight-attachment which were sunk into the contours of a foam base. ‘A gun. I should have guessed.’

‘A Galil sniping rifle to be exact. They may be the enemy, but the Israelis still make the best weapons in the world. So, is your curiosity satisfied now, gay boy?’

The taunt stung Doyle into action. He lunged at Bernard who sidestepped his wild punch and landed a vicious rabbit punch of his own at the base of Doyle’s neck. Doyle stumbled and threw his hands up to protect his face as he fell heavily against the wall. Bernard took a silencer from his pocket and screwed it onto the muzzle of the pistol. He looked down at Doyle who was on his knees, his head bowed, his fingers gingerly massaging his neck.

‘Hey, gay boy?’ Bernard said, prodding Doyle with his foot.

Doyle looked up slowly. Bernard smiled coldly and shot him through the head.

Kolchinsky was reading through a dossier when the intercom buzzed. ‘C.W.’s here, Mr Kolchinsky.’

‘Send him through, Sarah,’ Kolchinsky replied and used the sonic transmitter to activate the door.

‘Morning, Sergei,’ Whitlock said, entering the room.

Kolchinsky glanced at his watch. ‘Afternoon, actually. It’s a minute after twelve.’

Whitlock shrugged. ‘I won’t quibble about a minute.’

‘Sit down,’ Kolchinsky said, indicating the nearest of the black leather sofas. ‘I thought you were supposed to be accompanying the President to the African-American Institute this morning?’

‘The tour was cancelled.’ Whitlock sat down. ‘He’s been in conference all morning. Suits me fine. The less he sees of New York the better.’

‘What about his trip to Harlem this afternoon?’

‘Still on, unfortunately. It’s scheduled for two o’clock. That’s why I thought I’d pop over and see you while I had the chance. Anything on the two assassins?’

‘Not a thing. I’ve been on the phone to the Zimbalan authorities again this morning. It seems the Security Police shredded a lot of documents before Jamel Mobuto outlawed the organization. A lot of personnel files were also destroyed. They’ve promised to get back to me the moment they come up with anything.’

Kolchinsky pushed a folder across the desk. ‘This came in this morning from the lab at the Test Centre. It’s the report on the shooting outside the United Nations Plaza. It’s routine stuff mainly. But there was something that caught my eye – second page, third paragraph. See what you think.’

Whitlock opened the folder and read the relevant paragraph then looked up at Kolchinsky. ‘I see what you mean. Although the gunman was only thirty yards from Mobuto, he fired almost three feet wide of his target. Are they sure about their calculations?’

‘They had half-a-dozen press photographs to choose from when it came to pinpointing Mobuto’s position outside the hotel.’

Whitlock closed the folder and replaced it on the desk. ‘So the gunman either missed deliberately or else he was a lousy shot.’

‘It doesn’t make sense,’ Whitlock said thoughtfully. ‘Any assassin worth his salt wouldn’t have missed by three feet. Not from that distance.’

Kolchinsky explained briefly what Sabrina had said earlier about a ‘third man’.

‘If Bernard is this mysterious third man, why not just use him to assassinate Mobuto?’ Whitlock said.

‘Why go to all the trouble of assembling a team of Security policemen…’ he trailed off and looked quizzically at Kolchinsky. ‘Decoys?’

‘That had crossed my mind. But decoys for what? We know that Bernard wasn’t even in the country when the attempt was made on the President’s life. He was in Beirut.’

Whitlock stood up and walked to the window. He chewed his lip thoughtfully then turned back to Kolchinsky. ‘What if this third man was there the other night when the attempt was made on Mobuto’s life?’

‘As backup?’

‘As the assassin. The gunman in the crowd was just the decoy.’

Kolchinsky tapped the folder. ‘The bullet dug out of the wall came from a nine-millimetre parabellum. It’s the same gun discarded by the gunman.’

‘Exactly,’ Whitlock said, nodding. ‘He purposely fired wide. That would tie in with the report.’

‘So why didn’t this third man shoot Mobuto?’

‘Obviously he didn’t have a clear shot.’ Whitlock moved to the desk and looked down at Kolchinsky. ‘I know it’s a wild hunch, Sergei, but it makes sense, don’t you see that? The decoy draws our attention to himself by firing blindly and in doing so gives the real assassin the chance to shoot Mobuto in the ensuing confusion. But, as I said, the assassin obviously didn’t have a clear shot. And he’s only got one shot in that situation.’