Алистер Маклин - Time of the Assassins

‘Where’s Brett?’

‘That’s the problem. He’s not at home. As I said, it’s a slim chance. But I still think Rogers will come into it one way or the other. All we can do now is wait.’

‘What should I tell C.W.?’

‘Nothing yet. Let’s give Rogers some slack and see what he does with it. I’ll call you if Rogers does make a move. Well, goodnight, Sergei.’

‘Night, Malcolm,’ Kolchinsky said softly and replaced the receiver.

Bernard parked the car out of sight of the house then, taking the Desert Eagle automatic from the glove compartment, he climbed out and, keeping to the dirt road, moved cautiously towards the house.

His clothes still stank from the stench of the cell where he had spent part of his eight hours in custody. It had felt like an eternity. He had always known that the CIA would have him released, even after he had been officially charged with the murders of the two policemen at the flat in Murray Hill. Not only could they not afford to let him go on trial for fear of what he would say, they also couldn’t afford to let the detailed account of his CIA activities reach the New York Times . Either way they would have been crucified publicly. And he would have had no qualms about shooting his mouth off if they had left him to the mercy of the courts. A lawyer had been sent down from Washington to brief him on his rights while in custody. And to tell him to keep his mouth shut. He was to refuse to answer any questions, no matter how much the police provoked him. And they certainly tried, but to no avail. He had taken his lawyer’s advice and remained silent.

He had been in his cell when the lawyer brought the news that he was free to go. An unconditional release, or so the lawyer had called it. He was just glad to get out. He had seen Bailey outside the precinct house, but both had wisely ignored each other. Bailey had disappeared into the back of a black limousine which had been sent to take him directly to La Guardia Airport where a chartered plane had been waiting to fly him back to Washington. Rogers had also ignored Bernard and caught a taxi at the end of the street. Bernard had ducked through several back alleys then, satisfied he had shaken off any tail, hailed a taxi which took him to Grand Central Station. He had picked up a key from the information desk, which he had left there on the day he arrived in New York, and gone directly to the corresponding locker. Inside was a black holdall containing a change of clothing, a Desert Eagle automatic and a set of keys for a hired Ford which was parked in a garage close to the station, an emergency backup for just such a situation. Again, he had made sure he wasn’t being followed, then gone to the garage and driven to the safe house.

He reached the edge of the clearing and crouched down behind a tree. The hall light was on in the house.

Not that it surprised him: Brett would already have been briefed, probably by Rogers, about their release from custody. But what else had he been told? Bernard knew he was probably overreacting. Why would Bailey have him killed, knowing that the lawyer would then hand the document over to the New York Times ? It made no sense. But he still felt uneasy. He couldn’t put his finger on the reason, and that’s what worried him.

He kept close to the trees as he made his way round to the back of the house. He paused in the shadows to wipe his sweating forehead. The house was two hundred yards away and he would have to break cover to get to it. He could see a light on in the kitchen but the curtains were drawn. He inched his way round the perimeter of the wood until he was able to see the flight of steps that led down to the cellar at the side of the house. But he couldn’t see the window beside the wooden door at the foot of the steps.

He had left the window off the latch, and if Brett had primed the alarm system, it would be his only way into the house – unless Brett had latched it after he had left for the Trade Center. There was only one way of finding out.

He broke cover and sprinted towards the house. The automatic sensing security floodlight above the kitchen door detected his movement and bathed the area in bright, piercing light. He was still ten yards away from the steps when the back door was flung open and he hurled himself to the ground as Brett sprayed the clearing with a fusillade from his silenced Uzi. He got off a couple of shots, forcing Brett to take cover, and used those precious seconds to reach the steps where he paused, gasping for breath. He made his way to the bottom of the steps, continually glancing over his shoulder for any sign of Brett. He tugged at the window. It was locked! Then he saw the shadow fall across the steps above him. Brett had him cornered. And he didn’t have time to turn and fire. He launched himself at the door, hitting it squarely with his shoulder. The lock buckled under the impact of the blow and the door flew open. He tumbled headlong into the darkened room as Brett raked the steps with another burst of gunfire. He fell heavily on his shoulder and the automatic clattered noisily to the floor.

Brett, hearing the noise, hurried down the steps and swivelled round, the Uzi clenched tightly in both hands. He saw the movement out of the corner of his eye and was still turning when Bernard brought the side of the spade down onto his head. Brett cried out in pain as he slammed against the wall. The Uzi fell to the floor. Bernard kicked it away then picked up his automatic and trained it on Brett who was on his knees, his hand clenched over his ear. The blood seeped through his fingers and ran down the side of his face, soaking the collar of his light blue shirt.

‘Did Bailey tell you to kill me?’

Brett looked up slowly, his face twisted in pain. ‘You were expendable, didn’t you realize that?’

‘Yes, that’s why I covered myself by writing a detailed account of my CIA activities–’

‘Which Bailey got from your lawyer friend a few days ago,’ Brett cut in, allowing himself a faint smile of satisfaction. ‘So when you didn’t have a hold on the company any more, you became expendable.’

‘How did he know who I’d given it to?’ Bernard demanded.

‘We’re a big organization, Bernard. We have moles everywhere. We managed to track down your friend to Cairo after you’d told Bailey about the document. I believe he put up quite a struggle before he died.’

Brett made a desperate grab for the gun in Bernard’s hand but Bernard sidestepped his clumsy lunge and shot him through the head. He closed the door, then propped the body against it to keep it shut. He found a set of keys for the house in Brett’s pocket then made his way across to a door that opened onto a flight of stairs which led up to the kitchen. The door at the top of the stairs was unlocked. He eased it open and stepped carefully into the kitchen. It was empty. He checked the rooms, apart from the bedroom where Rosie was being held. They, too, were empty. He moved to the bedroom and tried the handle. The door was locked. He cursed under his breath. He took the keys from his pocket, selected the one for the bedroom, then pressed himself against the wall as he unlocked the door. If Brett did have an accomplice in the bedroom, which he doubted, they would be sure to fire when the door was opened.

He pushed open the door and dived low through the doorway, fanning the room with the automatic.

Rosie was slumped in the corner of the room, her hand still manacled to the radiator. He scrambled to his feet and hurried over to where she lay, genuine concern in his eyes. He checked her pulse. It was steady.

An overturned mug lay on the floor beside her, the remains of the coffee having already formed a dark stain on the carpet. He lifted one of her eyelids. She had been drugged. He eased her onto her back, ensuring that she had some slack on her manacled wrist, then slipped a pillow under her head.