Алистер Маклин - Time of the Assassins

‘Thank you,’ she said, easing her hand gently from his lingering grip.

‘How’s your brother?’ Kolchinsky asked, breaking the sudden silence.

‘He left hospital this morning. He should be back at work in the next couple of days.’ Mobuto gestured towards the chairs. ‘Please, won’t you sit down? Would anyone like a drink?’

They sat down but declined his offer.

‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ Kolchinsky asked.

‘Not at all,’ Mobuto replied then crossed to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a small Scotch. ‘The reason I asked to see you tonight was so that I could thank you personally for all you’ve done for me, and my country, in these last three days. I thought it would be better if we met here rather than at the airport. It’s sure to be teeming with reporters. And I know how much UNACO values its secrecy.’

‘We appreciate your discretion,’ Kolchinsky replied, reaching for an ashtray.

‘I actually had a speech prepared for this moment but the more I thought about it, the more I realized just how pretentious that would have been.’ Mobuto looked at Whitlock. ‘You saved my life on more than one occasion. And that bullet could just as easily have killed you as winged you.’ He turned to Sabrina. ‘You and Mike pushed aside all thoughts of personal safety to help David get Remy out of Branco. You didn’t have to do it, but you did. I owe the three of you a debt of gratitude that can never be repaid. Words seem very hollow at a time like this, but I can assure you that I shall be eternally grateful for what you did and for the professional way in which you did it. Thank you.’ He took two small red boxes, each no bigger than a compact case, from his pocket and handed them to Whitlock and Sabrina. Their names were written in gold lettering across the lids. They exchanged glances then carefully opened the boxes.

Both contained a gold medallion with a portrait of Mobuto’s face on one side and, on the reverse, an inscription bearing their names and the date of issue. ‘The Zimbalan Medal,’ he told them, ‘for outstanding bravery in the face of adversity. It’s only ever been awarded half-a-dozen times in the last forty years. Those are the first to be issued bearing my face as the new President of Zimbala. And it’s the first time the Zimbalan Medal has ever been awarded to a foreigner. I would be honoured if you would accept them on behalf of my government and my people.’

The UNACO Charter stipulated that no operative could accept any form of payment or gratuity from an individual, or from a government, which could be used to discredit the operative, or the organization, at a later date. But did a medal constitute such a gratuity? Whitlock and Sabrina looked at Kolchinsky, waiting for his reaction. He knew that if the medals were sold they could, theoretically, lead a trail back to UNACO. But these were two of his most dependable operatives, despite their deception of the past few days. They were hardly likely to pawn the medals.

And he was also well aware that if he did have the medals returned, it would not only embarrass Mobuto in front of them, but also in front of his own government who had obviously agreed to let him present the medals in the first place. Although it was a delicate situation, he was satisfied that no part of the Charter would be breached under the circumstances. He nodded his consent. Both then thanked Mobuto for the honour that he, and his government, had bestowed upon them.

Mobuto removed a third box from his pocket and handed it to Sabrina. ‘That’s for Mike Graham. Will you see that he gets it?’

‘Of course,’ she replied, pocketing the box.

The telephone rang.

‘Excuse me,’ Mobuto said, picking up the receiver. He spoke briefly in Swahili then replaced the receiver again. ‘The Zimbalan ambassador and his delegation have just arrived. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m only sorry we didn’t have more time to talk.’

‘I’ll wait here and see the President to the airport,’ Kolchinsky said to Whitlock. ‘You and Sabrina can get started on your reports.’

Whitlock looked at his watch. It was only another hour before Mobuto would be leaving for the airport.

‘If you’re sure that’s OK?’

‘I wouldn’t have offered if it wasn’t,’ Kolchinsky shot back. ‘Now go on, you’ve got a long night ahead of you.’

‘It’s been a pleasure to finally meet you, sir,’ Sabrina said, shaking Mobuto’s hand.

‘The pleasure’s been all mine. And again, thank you.’ Mobuto turned to Whitlock. ‘I owe you my life, Clarence. And to a Zimbalan, that means I will be forever in your debt. If there is ever anything I can do for you–’

‘There is,’ Whitlock cut in.

‘Name it,’ Mobuto replied, holding Whitlock’s stare.

‘Stop calling me Clarence!’

Mobuto chuckled and patted Whitlock on the back. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just that I always knew you as Clarence when we were at Oxford together.’

‘We’ve both changed since then, but you more than me. And for the better, I might add.’

‘Insolent to the last,’ Mobuto said with a smile. ‘Goodbye, C.W.’

‘Goodbye, Mr President,’ Whitlock replied then followed Sabrina to the door.

‘Where do you want to work on the reports?’ Sabrina asked, closing the door behind them.

‘Eddie and Rachel are probably with Carmen at our apartment right now,’ Whitlock said as they walked to the lift. ‘It would save a lot of hassle if we could go to your place.’

‘Sure, as long as we can stop off for a take-away on the way over. I haven’t eaten since I got off the plane this afternoon and I’m starving.’

‘I’m also a bit peckish now that you mention it,’ Whitlock said, stepping into the lift after her. ‘And as Sergei said, it’s going to be a long night.’

‘Don’t remind me,’ she said as the doors closed.

Kolchinsky arrived back at his apartment in the Bronx just before midnight. He switched on his answering machine then went through to the kitchen to make himself a coffee. There was only one message on the tape. He was to call Philpott as soon as he got home. He finished making the coffee then unhooked the receiver from his wall-phone in the kitchen and rang Philpott’s home number. Philpott answered it immediately.

‘Malcolm, it’s Sergei. I got your message. What’s wrong?’

‘I got a call from the police commissioner half an hour ago,’ Philpott told him. ‘Bailey, Bernard and Rogers were released without charge earlier this evening.’

‘On whose authority?’ Kolchinsky asked, pulling up a stool and sitting down.

‘It seems that Morgan Chilvers, the CIA Director, got on to the White House after I’d finished talking to him this afternoon. He spoke directly to the President who was adamant that he wanted to avoid a scandal at all costs, especially one involving a senior Agency figure like Bailey. But Bailey couldn’t be released without the other two being released as well. So that’s what happened.’

‘What about the murder charges against Bernard?’

‘Overruled. The commissioner kicked up a big stink but as Chilvers pointed out, none of this was ever released to the press. They could afford a cover-up,’ Philpott replied angrily.

‘Where is Bernard now?’

‘I’ve no idea. I was only given the news after they were released. So there was no chance to put a tail on him.’

Kolchinsky shook his head in frustration. ‘This is the sort of thing that used to happen in Russia twenty years ago.’

‘There is a slim chance of us picking up Bernard’s trail again. We’ve got Rogers under surveillance at his house in Yorkville. It’s my guess that Bailey will want Bernard out of the way as soon as possible before we can get to him. And he’s sure to use Rogers or Brett to do the job.’