Алистер Маклин - Time of the Assassins

‘We will see,’ Ngune replied, but the intercom buzzed again before he could arrange to have Graham taken down to one of the interrogation rooms. He activated the switch. ‘Yes?’

‘It’s the control room here again, sir.’

‘Have you managed to re-establish contact with the outside yet?’

‘No, sir.’ There was a nervous pause. ‘We’ve just picked up two aircraft on the radar scanner. They’re headed this way. And judging by their speed, they have to be fighter jets.’

‘That doesn’t make any sense,’ Ngune said suspiciously. ‘I haven’t authorized the scrambling of any of our jets from the airbase in Chad. And we’d have been told by one of our informers if the air force had scrambled any of their jets from Habane.’

‘They don’t originate from Habane, sir. They’ve come from one of the neighbouring states in the south.’

‘Chad?’

‘I can’t say, sir.’

‘Have you tried to establish radio contact with them?’

‘Yes, sir, but so far they’re both maintaining complete radio silence.’

‘Range?’

‘Forty miles, sir, and closing fast.’

‘Put out an alert but tell the men to hold their fire until we know the identity of the planes. They could be ours. And keep trying to get them on the radio.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Ngune switched off the intercom and sat back in the chair. What was going on? First they lose contact with the patrols, then they lose contact with the garrison, and now two unidentified fighter jets were closing in on them. It had already crossed his mind that the government forces could have already recaptured Kondese. But there had been no gunfire. Well, no more than usual. And if the city had been taken, surely at least one patrol would have contacted the base? Then there was the mystery of the garrison on the Chad-Zimbalan border. If they had come under attack from government troops, they too, would have radioed through to the base. But nothing. Absolute silence. It was as if they had been isolated. The thought lingered in his mind. But how?

He pushed the thought from his mind and ordered the guard to take Graham to one of the interrogation rooms. He would join them presently. The guard prodded Graham in the back with the AK-47 and indicated for him to walk to the door. Ngune waited until the two men had left the room then removed a pair of powerful night-vision binoculars from the desk and moved to the window. He raised the binoculars to his eyes and scanned the horizon. Nothing. Then, a moment later, he saw the lights. At first they were hazy and distorted in the distance but as they grew nearer he could make out the silhouettes of two jets. He immediately recognized them as Dornier Alpha jets but he couldn’t see the markings. Then the lead jet peeled away to the right and Ngune was able to see the markings of the Zimbalan Air Force on the underside of the wings. He lowered the binoculars and wiped his hand across his clammy forehead. It was impossible. How could two fighter planes have been smuggled off the airbase in Habane without at least one of his informers knowing about it? Dammit, they lived on the airbase. How could it have happened? He switched on the intercom and gave the order to open fire as soon as the jets came into range.

He returned to the window and instinctively ducked as one of the jets buzzed overhead. The first missile exploded several yards short of the fence but the men still had to take cover as a shower of rocks and stones rained down onto the yard. The second missile ripped through the fence and detonated underneath one of the watchtowers. Ngune stared, transfixed, as the watchtower buckled under the impact of the explosion before toppling over and crashing down onto the barracks where many of his men had taken cover seconds earlier. A handful of men tried to break cover from behind the barracks but were cut down by the concentrated gunfire that strafed across the yard. The third missile hit the main gate, ripping it off its hinges as though it were made of papier mâché.

Then the first of the army’s Challenger tanks rumbled into the compound, its barrel already trained on the barracks where a handful of his men were making one last, determined stand. Machine-pistols against tanks, but he knew they would fight to the last man. It was a question of honour. Now suddenly it all made sense. They hadn’t been able to get through to the garrison because it had already been destroyed by the jets. The garrison had no radar so the jets could have approached completely unnoticed. He had always anticipated an attack from Habane. And to get to the garrison from Habane, the air force would have had to bypass Kondese. But the whole plan had backfired. Badly. He had been outmaneuvered by Jamel Mobuto, the man he had despised for so many years. And without men he couldn’t mount a challenge on Habane. The dream was finally over. Now all that concerned him was staying alive, self-preservation. And the longer his men held out, the better his chances were of escaping.

He opened the wall safe and stuffed his pockets full of bank notes. Then, unlocking the bottom drawer, he removed a miniature transmitter but the door burst open before he could use it to make good his escape. He put the transmitter down on the desk.

Graham entered and levelled the AK-47 at Ngune’s chest. ‘You should have trained your men to expect the unexpected. It wasn’t very difficult to disarm him.’

Ngune swallowed nervously. ‘We can make a deal, Graham. Take the money from the safe. Take it.’

‘In return for letting you go?’

‘Yes.’ Ngune gestured towards the safe. ‘It’s all in pounds and dollars. Take it, all of it.’

‘Oh, I intend to – all of it – and I’ll hand it over to the authorities when I hand you over.’ Graham moved forward and peered into the safe. He whistled softly.

‘Christ, there’s enough in there to wipe out the trade, deficit back home. You’ll be crucified when you go on trial, Ngune. I only wish I could stay around to watch it.’

Ngune’s eyes flickered towards the Walther on the desk. Could he reach it before Graham shot him? He doubted it. But what other option did he have? He would be crucified at his trial. He had to take the chance and go for the gun. Then the moment was gone. Graham stepped forward and picked up the Walther. He ejected the clip and tossed the gun back onto the table.

‘Empty your pockets,’ Graham snapped.

Ngune pulled the bundles of bank notes from his pockets and tossed them reluctantly onto the desk.

‘All of it!’ Graham said, pointing to the breast pocket on Ngune’s tracksuit top.

Ngune pulled another bundle of notes from his breast pocket and dropped them onto the table.

‘Let’s go,’ Graham said, indicating the door.

Ngune had already moved round from behind the desk when the shell hit the side of the building. The window shattered and plaster showered the room.

I Ngune lashed out with his fist, catching Graham on the side of the head. Graham fell back heavily against the wall and the AK-47 slipped from his hands. Ngune kicked Graham viciously in the stomach then grabbed the transmitter and used it to activate the door behind the desk. A panel, hidden in the wall, slid back, revealing a set of concrete steps leading down to a tunnel. Ngune darted through the opening and immediately activated the panel behind him.

Graham hauled himself to his feet and lunged at the door, hooking his fingers around it when it was only inches away from resealing itself. He gritted his teeth as he began to slowly, painfully ease it open again. After what seemed an age he managed to open it enough to be able to slip through. The panel immediately closed behind him.

The tunnel was over three hundred yards in length, and Ngune had already covered half the distance.