Алистер Маклин - Time of the Assassins

‘Would you excuse me?’ Kolchinsky said, getting to his feet.

‘Of course,’ Mobuto replied then closed the folder and offered it to Kolchinsky. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t give UNACO prior warning about the offensive last night, but I had to take every precaution in case of a leak. I’m sure you understand.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Kolchinsky replied, almost absently, then took the folder from Mobuto and moved to the door.

‘Where can I reach you if any more news comes through from Zimbala?’ Mobuto called out after him.

‘I’ll be at the Trade Center,’ Kolchinsky said. ‘I’ve got a few things to discuss with C.W.’

‘I gave her my word.’

‘And I thought the only conspiracy around here was against the President,’ Kolchinsky retorted angrily. ‘Now I find there’s been another one, against me. Not only that, it involved the two people I trusted above all others at UNACO. You’ve disappointed me, C.W., you really have.’

Whitlock remained silent. What could he say – he had no defence. He had known it would have to come out. If only it had remained under wraps until Mobuto had left the country. Then the assignment would have been deemed a success and the damage would have been minimal. Well, so he had thought until now. Had it been Philpott he would have been reprimanded and that would have been the end of the matter. Philpott encouraged initiative in the field. But he should have known better with Kolchinsky. Everything had to be done by the book. His years in the KGB had taught him that, and nothing would change those views. He was too damn pedantic! But Whitlock wisely chose not to voice his thoughts. He was in enough trouble as it was. He only hoped Philpott would see the situation in a different light, but that would mean undermining Kolchinsky, and Philpott respected Kolchinsky too much to do that. The outlook was bleak, whatever way he looked at it. Yet, given the same circumstances, he would have done it again. Sabrina was his partner, and he had too much respect for her to go back on his word.

‘Don’t you have anything to say?’ Kolchinsky asked, breaking the lingering silence.

‘What do you want me to say, Sergei? I admit I’ve been helping Mike and Sabrina without your authorization. But I still believe I did the right thing.’

‘What if they had been caught? UNACO personnel involved in a civil war? We’d have been crucified by the UN. We’re an anti-crime organization. The Charter states quite clearly that UNACO is not to involve itself in the politics of any country. I’m sure you’re familiar with the section in question.’

‘Then why are we guarding Mobuto?’ That’s political.’

‘His life is threatened. It makes no difference that he’s a politician. It’s still a criminal offence.’

‘Remy Mobuto was kidnapped against his will,’ Whitlock retorted. ‘That’s a criminal offence.’

‘Of course it is,’ Kolchinsky replied, ‘but his release was linked directly to the government offensive against the rebels. That’s what makes it political. And Michael and Sabrina were in the thick of it.’

‘They didn’t know about the offensive when they went into Branco to free Mobuto’s brother, he told you that himself.’

‘And a lot of good that would have done them if the offensive had failed and they had fallen into rebel hands.’

‘Their actions weren’t political, Sergei, you know that. They were told that Remy Mobuto had information that could be vital to the case. What were they supposed to do, pass up the chance to get that information?’

‘They were supposed to have gone through the proper channels for a start.’

‘Would you have sanctioned the break-in at Branco?’

‘I would have told them to hold back and let Tambese and his men go into Branco. Then they could have questioned Remy Mobuto once he was out. That way it couldn’t have been misconstrued as a political move.’ Kolchinsky rubbed his hands over his face. ‘But it’s too late for that now. The Secretary-General’s going to kick up a stink when he finds out what’s happened.’

‘Will we be suspended?’ Whitlock asked.

‘That will be up to the Secretary-General. But if we can see the President off safely tonight that will certainly count in your favour. When did you last speak to Sabrina?’

‘When she asked me to check on Tambese.’

‘So we don’t know whether they found out anything from Remy Mobuto,’ Kolchinsky said.

‘Didn’t Mobuto say anything when you spoke to him?’

‘I didn’t ask him. I was hoping you would have heard from Sabrina in the last few hours. I’m going back to the hotel now to speak to him again.’ Kolchinsky closed the folder in front of him then picked it up and got to his feet. ‘I’m especially disappointed in you, C.W. This is hardly the sort of behaviour I’d expect from the next Deputy Director of UNACO.’

‘I’m still a field operative, Sergei. My loyalties lie with Mike and Sabrina. I’m sorry if you can’t see that.’

Kolchinsky walked to the door then looked back at Whitlock. ‘I only hope this doesn’t affect your promotion.’

‘You’ll have my letter of resignation if it does,’ Whitlock replied matter-of-factly.

Kolchinsky held Whitlock’s unyielding stare for several seconds then turned and left the room without another word.

The Trade Center had been built off the Shore Parkway in Brooklyn; it had cost nearly one-and-a-half-million dollars at a time when New York was crippled by mounting debts which had given rise to the theory that it had been financed largely by mob money. The mayor at the time had been quick to denounce these rumours, too quick, according to most New Yorkers. Then, when a local tabloid ran an article about it under the headline ‘Mafia House’, the name had stuck. It had become an expensive white elephant over the years, despite its location overlooking Jamaica Bay and its proximity to John F. Kennedy International Airport.

The visit of Jamel Mobuto had brought with it an unexpected publicity boost for the building. The two attempts on his life had made him one of the most newsworthy faces in the country and although he was not due to arrive at the Trade Center for another forty minutes, the front lawn was already seething with reporters and cameramen jostling for positions, all hoping for a third attempt on his life that could be captured on film for their newspapers and television news-bulletins. And they all had the same thought in the back of their minds. Third time lucky…

Had they known the purpose of the rider on the red and white Honda 500 that pulled up at the boom gate a hundred yards away from where they were encamped, they would have felt that their prayers had been answered.

An armed guard stepped out of the hut and approached the motorbike. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked brusquely.

Bernard lifted the front of his visor fractionally, careful to ensure that the guard couldn’t see the bruise around his eye. ‘I’m from Harris Bond Couriers. I have a letter here for a Robert Bailey. He is expecting it.’

‘Is he attending the conference?’ the guard asked.

‘Hey, I’m just the dispatch rider. I was told to bring the letter here to “Mafia House”.’

The guard returned to the hut and picked up a clipboard off the desk. He paged through it until he found Bailey’s name. An extension number was written beside it. He rang the number. It was answered by Rogers who told him that Bailey hadn’t yet arrived but that he was expecting a letter from Washington.

The guard replaced the receiver and activated the boom gate.

‘Leave the letter with the guard at the entrance, he’ll see that Mr Bailey gets it.’

Bernard gave the guard a thumbs-up sign and drove off. He pulled up in front of the entrance and left the motorbike idling as he hurried across to the nearest guard and handed the envelope to him. The guard checked the name against the print-out on his clipboard then nodded and disappeared into the building.