Алистер Маклин - Time of the Assassins

‘How far to the manhole?’ she shouted.

‘Thirty yards,” Tambese called back.

To hell with it, she thought, and flicked the Uzi back onto automatic fire. She fired a burst at the approaching men. Two fell and a third tripped over one of them and tumbled headlong into the water.

Still they came. They had to be a suicide squad. There were probably another eight men behind them waiting to take over from their fallen colleagues. And all because Ngune wanted them alive. They would continue coming until she ran out of bullets. That had to be their strategy otherwise the three of them would be dead by now. How many bullets left? She fired again. Another man stumbled and fell.

‘We’re almost there,’ Tambese shouted to her.

She fired again. Another fell. Two left. She pulled the trigger. Click. The magazine was empty. And they were closing in fast. Were there others behind them? She couldn’t see any. She was confident she could disarm them when they came into range. She discarded the Uzi and stood her ground, her hands held up protectively in front of her. A sudden burst of gunfire behind her scythed over her head, cutting them down when they were less than fifteen yards away from her. She dropped to the ground and looked round in horror at how close the bullets had passed over her head. Tambese stood on the ladder leading up to the manhole, an Uzi in his hand.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

‘Just. Where did you get that from?’ she asked incredulously, gesturing to the Uzi.

‘Come up, I’ll show you.’

She pulled the woollen hat from her head and followed him up the ladder. A hand was held out towards her but after a sharp word from Tambese it was quickly withdrawn. She climbed out of the manhole and looked around her slowly, her eyes narrowed in uncertainty. The man standing next to Tambese was dressed in army fatigues and wore the rank of captain. An army jeep was parked at the side of the road behind them. Another eight soldiers stood beside the giant Challenger tank which was guarding the end of the street. The hatch was open and she could see the tank commander, his arms resting on the turret, goggles pulled up onto his forehead. He was smoking a cigarette.

‘What’s going on?’ she finally asked, looking round at Tambese. ‘And where’s Remy Mobuto?’

‘I’ve had him taken to hospital. These are some of my men. The others have been deployed throughout the city. Kondese is no longer in the hands of the rebels. It’s all gone according to plan–’

‘What plan?’ she demanded. ‘Why weren’t we told about it?’

‘It was top security. Jamel and I were the only two who knew about it. We couldn’t afford to take any chances, not with so much at stake. There’s a lot of sympathy for Ngune within the army. That’s why I had to handpick these men personally for the operation. And they were only given their orders before I left the house.’ Tambese held up his hand before she could speak. ‘I know, I owe you an explanation. Later. First we’ve got to get Mike out of Branco.’

‘How?’

‘You’ll see.’ Tambese smiled at her bewildered expression. ‘It’ll be quite a show, that I can promise you.’

When Graham came round he found himself lying on a carpeted floor. He rubbed the back of his head gingerly then, after struggling to sit up, he looked slowly around him. It was an office. Then he saw the portrait of Alphonse Mobuto on the wall. Beside it was a framed photograph of Mobuto and Ngune shaking hands at some formal function. Both men were wearing tuxedos. There was also a picture of Ngune on the desk. It wasn’t difficult to work out where he was. Then he noticed the armed guard standing by the door. The AK-47 was pointing straight at him. Graham continued to massage his neck until he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. The door opened and Ngune entered, still dressed in the grey tracksuit. He nodded to the guard who had snapped to attention then told him to stand easy and keep the AK-47 on Graham.

‘Please, take a seat,’ Ngune said, indicating the armchair in front of the desk. He stepped behind the desk and eased himself onto his padded leather chair.

Graham pulled himself to his feet and slumped into the chair, his hand still rubbing the nape of his neck.

‘Cigarette?’ Ngune said, extending the silver box towards Graham.

Graham glared back at Ngune.

‘As you wish,’ Ngune said then took one out for himself and lit it. He exhaled the smoke then sat back and studied Graham before smiling faintly at him. ‘As I said earlier, you certainly put on quite a show here tonight. Eight dead at the last count. There may be more.’

‘I certainly hope so,’ Graham retorted.

‘They can be replaced,’ Ngune replied with a dismissive shrug, ‘unlike a wife and son.’

‘You son-of-a-bitch,’ Graham screamed and lunged at Ngune.

The guard slammed the AK-47’s butt down onto Graham’s shoulder, knocking him to the floor. Graham swung round on the guard but he was already out of striking range. The AK-47 was again aimed at his head. He pulled himself to his feet, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. His breathing was shallow and ragged as he glared down the barrel of the Walther P5 Ngune had taken from one of the desk drawers.

‘Sit down, Mr Graham, before you do yourself an injury.’

The intercom buzzed on the desk. Ngune waited until Graham had sat down again before answering it.

‘It’s the control room here, sir,’ an anxious voice said in Swahili. ‘We can’t get through to any of the patrols. They’re not answering their radios.’

Ngune wiped away a drop of sweat that trickled down his forehead. ‘Send out a patrol to reconnoitre the area. And keep trying to contact the other patrols.’

‘That’s not all, sir. We can’t get through to garrison either.’

‘Have you checked that there isn’t something wrong with our radio?’

‘Yes, sir. It’s working.’

‘Keep trying. And keep me advised.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Ngune switched off the intercom and looked across at Graham. ‘We know you were working with your partner tonight. Who was the third member of your team?’

‘Mickey Mouse,’ Graham replied contemptuously.

‘Who was it?’ Ngune shouted, aiming the Walther at Graham’s head.

‘Got some trouble, have we?’ Graham said, glancing at the intercom.

Ngune lowered the gun. ‘Killing you would be stupid. Either you answer my questions here in the comfort of my office or I will have you taken down to one of the interrogation rooms and tortured until you tell me what I want to know. The choice is yours, Graham.’

‘A choice?’ Graham said in mock surprise. ‘And I thought you abhorred democracy. Perhaps I’ve been underestimating you all along.’

‘I will ask you for the last time. Who was the third member of your team?’

‘I told you, Mickey Mouse.’

Ngune sat back and stared at Graham. ‘I have come across your kind before. You think you can unnerve me by pretending to show no fear at the thought of being tortured, but it never works. I have never failed to get the answers I want from a prisoner, never. You will not be the exception, Graham, no matter what you may think. I will break you.’

‘Torture me as much as you want,’ Graham replied, holding Ngune’s stare. ‘But you tell me this, how can you break a man who’s already immune to pain?’

Ngune’s eyes narrowed fractionally as he waited for Graham to continue.

‘Do you honestly believe that whatever machinery you’ve got waiting for me down in your interrogation room can possibly match the pain I went through when I lost my family?’ Graham shook his head. ‘Hell, you do what you want, Ngune. You can’t hurt me, not any more.’