Алистер Маклин - Time of the Assassins

‘What do you suggest we do?’ the lieutenant asked.

‘Will try and speak to him,’ Rogers replied.

‘The car could be booby-trapped,’ said the lieutenant.

Rogers shrugged. ‘I’ve got to take that chance. The longer we make him sweat it out, the more chance there is of him cracking. We need him alive, remember?’

The lieutenant nodded.

Rogers stepped out in front of the police car and took off his jacket. He carefully unholstered his Smith & Wesson, held it up for Kolwezi to see, then handed it to Masala.

‘Are you crazy?’ the lieutenant said in amazement. ‘He could gun you down.’

‘If he does, don’t kill him, disable him.’

The lieutenant sighed deeply then stepped back and spoke into his radio, telling his men that Rogers would be going in unarmed. Rogers walked slowly towards the Buick, his arms held out away from his body. He reached the front of the Buick and indicated for Kolwezi to open the driver’s window. Kolwezi wiped the sweat from his face with his hand then wound down the window. He levelled the Walther at Rogers and ordered him to approach to within five feet of the window. Rogers complied. He looked up at the nearest of the SWAT snipers on the roof above them. He was at least fifty yards away from the car – out of earshot.

‘We can talk – they can’t hear us,’ Rogers told him in Arabic. ‘Sibele’s dead.’

‘And Mobuto?’

‘No.’

‘What about Columbus?’

‘He couldn’t get into the building,’ Rogers lied. ‘It was too well guarded. But there was no way to get a message to Sibele before he went into the hall. He didn’t stand a chance.’

‘Twice we have failed,’ Kolwezi said bitterly. ‘Mobuto lives a charmed life, just as he did when his father was in power.’

‘Don’t worry, your deaths won’t be in vain. Mobuto will die tomorrow.’

‘Columbus?’

Rogers nodded then glanced across at Masala and the lieutenant. ‘I’m supposed to be trying to persuade you to surrender.’

‘Go now, my friend.’

Rogers turned sharply on his heel and began to walk back towards the police car.

Kolwezi calmly pressed the barrel of the gun against the roof of his mouth and pulled the trigger.

Carmen had left her receptionist to lock up and rushed over to the hospital after Whitlock had rung to tell her that he was there. Although his arm was heavily bandaged he had assured her that it wasn’t a serious wound. He knew the lie would at least put her mind at rest. It did hurt like hell, though. The doctor had given him a prescription for sleeping tablets which they had picked up on the way back to the apartment. He had eaten a light dinner then retired to bed early, determined to be back at work the following morning.

She was busy washing up when the telephone rang. She wiped her hands on the dish towel and answered the extension in the kitchen.

‘Carmen?’

‘Rosie?’ Carmen countered in surprise.

‘Yeah,’ Rosie replied.

She had dropped the ‘aunt’ and ‘uncle’ routine at their insistence. Uncle Clarence! Whitlock had hated it. Now she just called him C.W.

‘Rosie, where are you?’ Carmen asked anxiously. ‘Your parents are going out of their minds with worry. You must call your mother–’

‘No,’ Rosie cut in firmly. ‘That’s why I called you. Tell her I’m fine. I’ll call her in a few days.’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘With a friend.’

‘Why not come and stay with us for a while?’ Carmen suggested. ‘You don’t have to see your parents until you want to. But at least they’ll know you’re safe.’

‘Well…,’ Rosie replied. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow at work and we’ll sort something out.’

‘Is that a promise?’

‘Sure. My money’s run out. I’ll call you, OK?’

‘OK.’

The line went dead. Carmen replaced the receiver then looked in on her husband, wondering if he had heard the telephone. He was fast asleep. She smiled then closed the bedroom door and returned to the kitchen to finish washing the dishes.

Rosie picked up a pizza from the pizzeria near the callbox then went back to the apartment. She opened the door and saw Bernard’s leather jacket on the chair in the hall. He was listening to the news on the radio in the lounge.

‘When did you get in?’ she asked from the doorway.

‘About twenty minutes ago,’ Bernard replied with a smile.

‘How was your day?’

‘Don’t ask,’ he said then got to his feet and pointed to the box in her hand. ‘What’s the pizza?’

‘Ham and mushroom. Is that OK?’

‘Great. I’m starving.’ Bernard made room for the box on the coffee table. ‘And how was your day?’

‘I went out soon after you left this morning,’ she said, opening the box. ‘I only got back now.’

‘Where did you go?’ Bernard asked.

‘I took the subway to Fifth Avenue. I spent the day window-shopping. Not much else to do there with five bucks in your pocket.’

Bernard smiled then helped himself to a slice of pizza.

‘I rang my aunt just before I got the pizza.’

‘Your aunt?’ Bernard asked suspiciously, the pizza slice hovering inches from his mouth.

‘Carmen. She suggested I go and stay with them from tomorrow. I reckon it might be a good idea. It’s not that I don’t appreciate what you’ve done for me. I really do. But she is family. I only wish my parents were as liberal as my aunt and uncle.’

‘And you’re going to move in with them tomorrow?’

‘Yeah, I think so. We’ve always got on great. Is there something wrong?’

‘No, I think it’s a good idea. And anyway, I’m heading back to Beirut in a couple of days.’ Bernard’s mind was racing: Carmen, Whitlock’s wife. If Rosie moved in with them he could kiss his hostage goodbye. It only complicated matters. Why couldn’t she have called them the next day? By then he would know if he needed her. He would have to play it by ear. It was the only way.

The doorbell rang.

Bernard frowned. Was it the courier for the rifle? He wasn’t expecting him for another couple of hours, and he wasn’t expecting anyone else. He wiped his hands on a paper napkin then got to his feet and answered the door. Two uniformed police officers stood in front of him.

‘Good evening, sir,’ one said, touching his cap. ‘Are you Marc Giresse?’

Bernard nodded slowly. ‘Yes. What’s the problem, officer?’

‘May we come in?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Bernard replied, opening the door for them.

‘I’m Officer Deacon,’ the spokesman said once they were inside. ‘And this is Officer Cummings.’

Bernard noted that their badges were genuine. ‘You still haven’t told me what the problem is.’

Deacon was about to speak when Rosie appeared from the lounge. He glanced towards her. ‘Are you Rosie Kruger?’

She glanced at Bernard, her eyes wide and fearful. ‘Yes,’ she stammered.

‘Do you know a Kenneth Doyle?’

‘Yes,’ she answered. A look of concern suddenly crossed her face. ‘Has something happened to him?’

‘I was hoping one of you could answer that.’ Deacon took a sheet of folded paper from his pocket and held it up. ‘Mr Doyle left this note with a friend. In it he said he was coming round here this morning to see you, Miss Kruger. He also said that if this friend hadn’t heard from him by four o’clock this afternoon he was to go to the police with the note. It all sounds a little sinister, doesn’t it?’

‘Officer, there must be a logical explanation,’ Bernard said, fighting the anxiety that throbbed in the pit of his stomach.

‘Did you know Miss Kruger was sixteen years old, Mr Giresse? Or that she was a runaway?”

‘Yes, I knew that,’ Bernard replied. ‘She told me. That was one of the reasons I gave her a bed for the night. She’s too young to be on the streets at night.’