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Алистер Маклин: Time of the Assassins

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Алистер Маклин Time of the Assassins

Time of the Assassins: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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An Alistair MacLean’s UNACO novel #6 The African state of Zimbala has a new leader, but someone wants him dead – and the only man who knows details of the hit is being hunted by UNACO’s top agent on an illegal mission of personal vengeance. Can UNACO stop their top assassin from killing his nemesis? Alphonse Mobuto has ruled the state of Zimbala for forty-five years. On his death, the Presidency passes to his eldest son, Jamel. Determined to introduce democracy and rid Zimbala of his father’s oppressive regime, Jamel faces retribution from those who once benefited from it. In New York to deliver an important speech at the UN, Jamel is an obvious target for an assassin’s bullet. The time and place of the assassination are known by only one man, Jean Jacque Bernard, an international terrorist and now a CIA operative. Clearly a case for UNACO. But deputy director Serge Kolchinsky realizes he has a potentially explosive situation on his hands. For he discovers crack team member Mike Graham has gone AWOL. Graham is in Beirut on a strictly illegal mission of personal vengeance – to track down and kill Bernard… Fast-paced and compulsive, Time of the Assassins is the fourth novel to be written by Alastair MacNeill from a detailed story outline by Alistair MacLean. Although MacLean died in 1987, it is hoped that his many fans will find that these novels offer the same pace and excitement as the bestsellers by the master himself.

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‘You want some?’ he asked, the switchblade extended menacingly towards her.

‘I don’t want any trouble,’ she said calmly then held out her hand towards him. ‘Give me the bag and that will be the end of it.’

The youth laughed then spat on the ground. ‘You want the bag, you come and get it.’

Sabrina shrugged and moved towards the youth. He dropped the bag then, tightening his grip on the switchblade, he waited until she was in range before lunging at her, the blade slashing the air inches from her face. Pity to cut such a pretty face but she’d asked for it. He grinned as he came at her again.

She waited until he stabbed at her then, using her left forearm to block his wrist, she followed up by slamming the heel of her right hand against his chin and kneeing him in the groin. He cried out in agony and stumbled back against the wall. The switchblade fell from his hand as he sagged to the ground, whimpering softly, his hands clutched between his legs. She picked up the bag, checked inside to see that everything was still there, and was about to confiscate the switchblade when she heard the sound of a police siren in the distance. She couldn’t be involved in a police investigation. The way in which she had dispatched her attacker would certainly make news.

She ducked into the adjoining alley. The siren was getting closer. She ran to the end of the alley and was about to scale the ten-foot wire fence when the bleeper attached to her belt suddenly shrilled into life. It was UNACO headquarters. Of all the times for them to call, she thought irritably. She switched it off then clambered over the fence, landing nimbly on her toes, and walked down another alley which brought her out onto Madison Avenue.

She called headquarters from a phone booth, spoke briefly to Sarah, then hurried to the curb to signal a taxi to take her back to her flat.


‘Afternoon, François.’

The maître d'hôtel looked up from his reservation book and smiled warmly. ‘Ah, good afternoon, Mr Whitlock. You are looking well.’

‘I am, thank you. Has my wife arrived yet?’

‘Not yet,’ François replied.

‘I’ll be in the bar. Tell her when she arrives.’

‘Of course,’ came the cordial reply.

Whitlock had been going to Le Chantilly restaurant on East 57th Street since he had first arrived in New York in 1980. It was where he had taken a vivacious Puerto Rican paediatrician, Carmen Rodriguez, on their first date. A year later to the day he had proposed to her at the same table. They had been married now for seven years.

He hoisted himself onto one of the bar stools and nodded in greeting to the barman who was busy serving another customer. The barman smiled back and told Whitlock he would be with him shortly.

Whitlock was a forty-four-year-old Kenyan with sharp, angular features softened by the neatly trimmed black moustache he had worn since leaving university in his early twenties. He was photophobic and always wore a pair of tinted glasses to protect his eyes. He had been educated in England and after graduating from Oxford had returned to Kenya where he served with the Intelligence Corps for ten years before being recruited to UNACO as one of its first field operatives. He was now the only survivor of the original team.

‘What can I get you to drink, Mr Whitlock?’ the barman asked, leaning his hands on the counter in front of Whitlock.

‘The usual, Rick,’ Whitlock replied.

The barman nodded, took a bottle of beer from the fridge and opened it. He poured the beer into a glass and placed it on a coaster in front of Whitlock.

‘How are things in the world of politics, Mr Whitlock?’ he asked, referring to Whitlock’s cover as a member of the Kenyan embassy at the United Nations. Carmen was the only person outside UNACO who knew about the deception.

‘The usual, Rick.’

The barman, sensing Whitlock wasn’t in a talkative mood, left him alone. Whitlock took a sip of beer then glanced over his shoulder at the entrance. Still no sign of Carmen. He turned the glass slowly on the coaster as he thought about her. Their marriage had nearly ended a few months back. Well, that was when it had all come to a head. But it had been simmering for a couple of years before that. It all stemmed from her desire for him to leave UNACO. She was frightened for his safety. But he had been adamant: he was staying. She had finally walked out on him and it had only been the intervention of Philpott that had brought them back together again. He had told them that Whitlock would be promoted to Deputy Director when he retired at the end of the year. Kolchinsky would take over as Director.

Then, after a year, Kolchinsky would step down and Whitlock would take his place. Other than the four of them, and the Secretary-General, tire only other person who knew about it was Jacques Rust, head of UNACO European operation, based in Zürich. Carmen had then thrown her full support behind him, knowing he would be out of the field by the end of the year. Whitlock knew he would miss working in the field, especially with Mike and Sabrina, but he also knew it would be a small price to pay to keep his marriage intact. And that meant everything to him…

‘C.W.?’

Whitlock looked round sharply, startled by the voice behind him. He grinned ruefully at his wife then kissed her lightly on the lips. ‘How long have you been standing there?’

‘A few seconds,’ she replied, allowing him to help her onto the adjacent bar stool.

‘I’m sorry, I was miles away.’

‘So I noticed.’ She ordered a spritzer then turned back to him, her face solemn. ‘I’ve got some bad news. Rosie was arrested last night.’

Whitlock stared at her in horror. Rosie was the teenage daughter of Carmen’s sister, Rachel, and her German husband, Eddie Kruger.

The barman placed the spritzer in front of her. She waited until he was out of earshot before continuing.

‘She was caught buying drugs in Times Square. I don’t know what it was, Rachel didn’t say.’

Whitlock sighed deeply and shook his head sadly. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t be that surprised.’

‘And what exactly is that supposed to mean?’ she demanded.

‘Come off it, Carmen, you know damn well what I’m talking about. They’ve hardly been the best parents in the world, have they? Rachel had that affair with her boss and Eddie’s drinking has been getting steadily worse these last couple of years–’

‘She had that affair as an escape from Eddie’s drinking,’ Carmen cut in quickly.

‘That’s irrelevant. Look at it from Rosie’s perspective. Can’t you see? This is her way of escaping from them.’

‘Will you talk to her?’

He shook his head. ‘No, it’s up to Eddie and Rachel to talk to her.’

‘Rachel asked if you would.’

‘Where’s Eddie?’

‘He went to an all-night poker game last night. She hasn’t seen him since.’

‘Some father,’ Whitlock muttered.

‘Talk to her, C.W. You’re the only person she’s ever listened to in the past.’

‘I’m not using UNACO to pull any strings, Carmen. Let’s get that straight right from the start.’

‘Just talk to her,’ she replied softly. ‘Please.’

‘OK,’ he replied at length. ‘Where is she?’

‘At home. Rachel put up the bail–’

The bleeper clipped to Whitlock’s belt suddenly activated and he was quick to silence it. He shot Carmen a despairing look. ‘This is all I need right now. I have to answer it, Carmen.’

‘I know,’ she replied and squeezed his hand gently.

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