Алистер Маклин - Time of the Assassins

Sibele had been searched when he entered the building and the number on his invitation had been checked against a list. It had been bought legitimately from a tout in St Nicholas Park. There had only been five hundred tickets printed and, on Mobuto’s specific instructions, three hundred and fifty of those were to be sold to the public. All the money would go to help the children of Harlem. Had all the tickets gone to the wealthy black socialites of New York, as had initially been the plan, then he could never have got into the building. It was ironic that Mobuto had orchestrated his own death. The gun, a Beretta, had been smuggled into the building a week ago by a janitor who had been handsomely rewarded for his trouble. He had waited until the toilets had been searched by the police then taped the gun under the cistern for Sibele to collect minutes later. He had tucked the Beretta into the belt at the back of his trousers then taken his seat early to ensure that he was close to the stage. He had been sitting there for over an hour but he knew Mobuto had arrived at the school: it would only be a matter of minutes before he entered the hall…

The double doors at the back of the hall were thrust open and the menacing figure of Masala entered.

There were some anxious whispers from the audience but the appearance of the principal behind him seemed to calm the situation. Most of the audience recognized Mobuto immediately from the exposure he had received on national television and they watched him walk down the aisle with the rest of the delegation and climb the stairs leading onto the stage. The principal gestured to the chair nearest the podium and Mobuto smiled briefly before sitting down. The community leaders took their seats, leaving the chair next to Mobuto vacant for the principal. Whitlock and Masala sat at the rear. Whitlock glanced towards the wings. Rogers gave him a thumbs up then peered through the curtains at the audience before turning and moving back to the door.

The principal moved to the podium. He looked out across the sea of faces then cleared his throat. ‘May I straight away welcome you all here today. I had a speech all prepared to introduce our guest to you but, thanks to the efficiency of the American press, I doubt there’s anyone here who doesn’t know the entire life history of Mr Mobuto by now.’

There was a ripple of laughter. Mobuto remained impassive as he stared at the floor.

‘Mr Mobuto has graciously agreed to answer any questions you may have after he has finished his speech. So without further delay, please give a warm Harlem welcome to the new President of Zimbala, Jamel Mobuto.’

That was Sibele’s cue. As the applause echoed around the room he drew the Beretta and sprung to his feet. The woman beside him screamed. Masala knocked the principal out of the way and felled Mobuto, shoving him to safety behind the podium before Sibele could get off a shot. Women and children began screaming as chairs were kicked aside in the stampede for the back doors. Whitlock drew his Browning but couldn’t shoot at Sibele for fear of hitting someone in the audience. Sibele looked towards the gallery which had been closed for renovations. There was no sign of Columbus. Where was he? He said he would be there. Something must have gone wrong. Sibele turned back towards the stage. He was on his own. Whitlock had reached the edge of the stage when Sibele swung the Beretta on him and fired. The bullet hit Whitlock in the arm.

The Browning spun from his hand. Sibele ran towards the stairs leading onto the stage. Rogers swung out from behind the curtain and fired twice as Sibele reached the top of the stairs. The bullets took Sibele in the chest, punching him off the stage. He crashed into the front row of chairs, scattering them across the floor. Rogers leaped off the stage and kicked the gun away from Sibele’s outstretched hand. He pressed his Smith & Wesson into Sibele’s neck and felt for a pulse.

‘Well?’ Whitlock asked from the edge of the stage, his hand clutched over his arm.

‘Dead,’ Rogers replied then frowned anxiously. ‘Are you OK?’

Whitlock nodded and hurried over to where Mobuto lay. ‘Sir, are you alright?’

‘I’m fine.’ Mobuto got to his feet and winced as he looked at Whitlock’s blood-soaked sleeve. ‘You’re losing a lot of blood. You need to get to a hospital.’

‘The bullet went straight through. It looks a lot worse than it is.’

The principal and the community leaders ventured out from behind the curtains and looked from Sibele’s body to Whitlock’s injured arm.

‘How did he get in here with that gun?’ the principal demanded. ‘I thought the police had searched everybody who came in here today.’

‘They did,’ Whitlock replied. ‘It was obviously an inside job.’

Two uniformed policemen appeared at the back of the hall, alerted by the sound of gunfire.

‘Call an ambulance,’ Rogers shouted to them. ‘And close those doors. The press aren’t to get in here under any circumstances until the body’s been removed.’

‘Yes, sir,’ one of the policemen said and closed the doors behind them.

Whitlock used his handkerchief as a tourniquet then glanced out across the now deserted hall before focussing his attention on the gallery. Why had Sibele looked up there? Was that where the sniper should have been? But the door leading into the gallery was being guarded by a uniformed policeman. Had that put the sniper off?

‘You also saw it,’ Masala said behind him.

Whitlock nodded.

There was a knock at the door and a breathless policeman entered the hall. He glanced at Sibele’s body then looked up at Whitlock. ‘We’ve been trying to reach you but you weren’t replying.’

Whitlock instinctively looked down at the receiver on his belt. The wire connected to the earpiece had been ripped from the socket, probably when he fell. He looked up at the policeman. ‘What is it?’

‘The SWAT team have cornered the getaway driver a couple of blocks from here. They’re awaiting your instructions.’

Whitlock turned to Rogers. ‘Get over there right away. We need him alive. Make sure the SWAT team know that. If they are forced to shoot, tell them to maim, not kill.’

‘I’m on my way,’ Rogers said and jumped nimbly off the stage.

‘Wait, I’m going with you,’ Masala said and looked to Mobuto for his consent.

‘Go on. And remember what Mr Whitlock said. Don’t kill him.’

Masala nodded and followed Rogers from the hall. They were immediately besieged by the press but neither man said anything as they shoved their way through the extended microphones. Rogers told the uniformed police on the portico to get the press out of the building then walked with Masala to the main gates where an even larger crowd had gathered after word had spread through the neighbourhood of the shooting. A member of the SWAT team was waiting for them.

‘What’s the situation?’ Rogers asked.

‘We spotted him in a sidestreet. The description of the car and the registration number match the bulletin you sent through to us earlier. The street’s been cordoned off but we haven’t approached the car. He’s just sitting there.’

‘Let’s go,’ Rogers said.

The three men ran the hundred yards to where a crowd of onlookers had gathered around the mouth of the sidestreet. A police car was parked at an angle to the road, making it impossible for the Buick to get out without ramming it. Another police car was similarly positioned at the other end of the street.

Half-a-dozen members of the SWAT team were positioned on the roofs overlooking the street, their rifles trained on the car. The lieutenant in charge of the SWAT team was waiting for them. Rogers told him what Whitlock had said and he immediately passed the instructions on to his men.