Алистер Маклин: Time of the Assassins

Where the hell was he?

The gunshot came from inside the house. Then silence. Laidlaw banged the steering wheel angrily with his fist. It had been a trap. Why hadn’t Graham listened to him? He pushed open the door and scrambled out of the car, careful to keep out of sight of the house. He pulled the automatic from his holster but stopped short of curling his finger around the trigger. Sweating, he peered round the side of the car at the house. It was in darkness, just as it had been when they had been there earlier that evening. He would have to go round to the back. He ran, doubled-over, to the adjoining house. It, too, was in darkness. But that was to be expected. Staying alive in Beirut depended on ignoring trouble. He vaulted over the gate and hurried up the narrow driveway. An overgrown hedge divided the two properties. He found a hole in it and squeezed his way through. Barak’s back door was barely ten yards away from where he was crouched. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and looked down at the automatic in his hand. But he still couldn’t bring himself to touch the trigger. He cursed himself angrily. What happened if the gunman was still in the house? Could he defend himself? He was breathing heavily, but it had nothing to do with the run he had made from the car. It was fear. Delta had taught him that fear was all in the mind. It could be overcome. But that was when he could still pull a trigger.

He swallowed hard and ran to the back door, pressing himself against the wall beside it. He bit his lip as he tried to thread his finger through the trigger guard. It was almost as if an invisible hand were pressing his finger against the barrel. He couldn’t do it. He gritted his teeth and tested the handle. The door was unlocked. He kicked it open and dived into the small kitchen, rolling to the safety of the old, battered fridge. He remained there for a few seconds then slowly got to his feet and moved to the door leading into the hallway. Again he pressed himself against the wall and peered cautiously into the hall. At first he couldn’t see anything in the semi-darkness. But as his eyes grew accustomed to it he could make out a hand protruding from the open lounge doorway. He was about to swivel round into the hall when he heard the sound of a car starting up outside the house. He recognized the sound of the engine straight away. It was Barak’s Peugeot.

He ducked into the first door down the hall. It turned out to be a bedroom. Hurrying to the window, he peered through a tear in the curtains just in time to see the Peugeot drive off, heading towards the city.

There was only one person inside but he couldn’t make out who it was. It could have been Barak. Or the killer. Unless Barak was the killer. He doubted that. Barak hated violence, especially if it involved guns.

He made his way carefully down the hall until he reached the lounge. Pressing himself against the wall he looked down at the body. It was Barak. He was lying face down, blood seeping from the bullet hole in his back. Laidlaw checked for a pulse. He was dead. Laidlaw stared at the body. There had only been one shot. So where was Graham?

He stood up slowly and entered the lounge. It was empty. He quickly checked the remaining rooms.

They, too, were empty. He called out Graham’s name but there was no reply. Graham had gone. And Barak was dead. It only left one possible explanation. Graham had been in the Peugeot. He had killed Barak. Laidlaw couldn’t believe it. Why? Then a sudden thought flashed through his mind. What was it Graham had said back at the Windorah about Barak? For a moment he couldn’t remember his exact words. Then they came to him.

‘I thought someone would have put a bullet in his back by now…’

Laidlaw didn’t care that Barak was dead. What did bother him was that Graham used him to get at Barak. That hurt, especially after all they had been through together.

He looked down at Barak’s body again. One of the neighbours was sure to have made an anonymous call to the police, reporting the gunshot. And it would only be a matter of time before they came to investigate.

He left the way he had come. He couldn’t get involved. There would be too much explaining to do.

New York was swathed in sunlight. Temperatures were in the high seventies and with the absence of any wind it felt sticky and humid.

On the twenty-second floor of the United Nations building, overlooking the East River, Malcolm Philpott was also feeling the heat. A fifty-six-year-old Scot with gaunt features and fine wavy hair, he had been UNACO Director since its inception in 1980. He reached for his handkerchief and dabbed his forehead again – a cold, clammy sweat that only seemed to have surfaced in the last half an hour. Was he going down with an infection? He wouldn’t have been surprised. He was a workaholic and he knew his body was run down and in need of rest. But how could he rest with so much activity going on at UNACO headquarters? Especially now with Mike Graham’s maverick action in Beirut.

He pushed his handkerchief back into his pocket and looked across at his deputy, Sergei Kolchinsky, a Russian in his early fifties who had become an invaluable member of the team since joining UNACO from the KGB four years earlier. He had a brilliant tactical mind and had helped to crack some of UNACO’s toughest assignments in the past.

Neither man had spoken for the last few minutes. Both were smoking, Philpott his pipe and Kolchinsky a cigarette. Three unopened files lay on Philpott’s desk. Each had a name typed on its cover: Mike Graham; C.W. Whitlock; and Sabrina Carver. They made up one of the ten elite ‘Strike Force’ teams, all top field operatives who had been siphoned off from police, military and intelligence services around the world. They were able to request anything they wanted from their administrative colleagues which they felt could aid them on any given mission. Those requests used to have to go through either Philpott or Kolchinsky, but they had recently decided to waive the routine and allow the field operatives a free hand.

Now both men regretted ever having made the decision.

They had discovered that Graham had drawn three false passports, in the names of Michael Green, Miles Grant and Mark Gordon, and used one of them to fly to Beirut. He had managed to get a Beretta from a contact in Beirut which was now in the hands of the local police. It had his fingerprints on it. It had been fired once – the bullet which had killed Barak. And now Graham was missing. He was a wanted man in the Lebanon and UNACO couldn’t do anything publicly without endangering their own clandestine existence. That meant Graham was on his own. Certainly for the time being…

‘Malcolm, are you feeling alright?’ Kolchinsky asked, breaking the silence. ‘You’re looking very pale.’

‘I’m fine,’ Philpott replied tersely then reached for his cane and got to his feet. He moved to the window, walking with a pronounced limp on his left leg, the result of a shrapnel wound in the last days of the Korean War. He turned back to Kolchinsky, his eyes blazing. ‘I can’t believe he could have been that stupid. We’ve made plenty of enemies over the years, even politicians here at the UN, and this will provide them with the perfect ammunition for them to shoot UNACO down in flames. We’ve got to find him before the Lebanese authorities do. If he goes on trial we may as well all start looking for other jobs. UNACO will be crucified.’

Kolchinsky gave a resigned nod. ‘What do you suggest?’

‘We’ve got to bring C.W. and Sabrina in on the case as quickly as possible. But we can’t do anything until I’ve spoken to Langley.’

‘What have the CIA to do with this?’ Kolchinsky asked with a frown.

‘I’m as much in the dark as you are, Sergei. I got a call from their Deputy Director, Robert Bailey, this morning. He wouldn’t go into details over the phone but he said it had something to do with Bernard. He’s coming over later this morning to see me.’