Алистер Маклин - Time of the Assassins

He looked at his watch. Twelve twenty a.m. How long before Brett’s silence aroused suspicion? A couple of hours at the most. The chartered flight he’d arranged the previous day to take him to Cuba, where he would catch a connecting flight to the Lebanon, was only due to leave New York at five that morning.

That left him with four-and-a-half hours to kill. He looked down at Rosie. She would be going with him, certainly as far as Cuba. Then she would be released, unharmed. He had no intention of killing her unless the authorities forced his hand. He doubted it would come to that. They would have to find him first. But for the moment she was exactly as he wanted her – unconscious. He still had some unfinished business to attend to before he left New York. That would take about an hour. Then he would come back for her and drive out to the field on the outskirts of the city to wait for the plane – and freedom. He smiled to himself then locked the bedroom door behind him and left the house. Brett’s Audi Avant was parked in the driveway. He was momentarily tempted to use it then dismissed the thought and ran the three hundred yards to where the Ford was parked at the side of the dirt road. He started the engine, turned the car round, and headed back towards the highway.

It took Bernard twenty minutes to reach his destination. He parked the car in a sidestreet. Then, after slipping the automatic into the back of his trousers, he walked the short distance to the main street. He looked around slowly. It was almost deserted – a couple returning from a late show, a drunk slumped against a wall. He waited until a car had driven past before crossing to the row of shops on the other side of the street. The windows were all protected by wire mesh and each building had a powerful alarm system in operation. He made his way to a shop near the end of the block, a firm of estate agents. It was actually a dubok – a company fronting for an intelligence agency, in this case, UNACO. And he had a duplicate set of keys for the reinforced back door. He had got them from Dave Forsythe. They had known each other since Forsythe’s days as Bailey’s electronic expert, and it was his knowledge from that time that had prompted them to put their heads together and come up with a way of making them both a lot of money. But Bernard’s intentions were a lot more sinister than the merely financial, and Forsythe had no inkling of those intentions…

Bernard ducked up a narrow alley that ran parallel to the building and came out at the back of the shop.

Although a security light illuminated the small courtyard, he knew there was nobody in the building. It was classified as a low-security risk. He took the two keys from his pocket and inserted them into the two locks, one at the top and one at the foot, of the metal door. An electronic circuit had been built into the two locks that would set off the alarm, both at the shop and at the command centre, if the keys weren’t turned simultaneously. He wiped his hands on his shirt then positioned himself in such a way as to be able to turn the keys together. He counted to three then turned the keys. The alarm remained silent. He exhaled deeply then removed the keys and entered the shop, closing the door behind him. Forsythe had told him that the computer suite was in a soundproofed room underneath the building. And the only means of access was through the manager’s office. Bernard moved along the corridor and paused in front of a frosted glass door. He unlocked it with the third key Forsythe had duplicated for him.

Once inside, he went straight to the manager’s safe and opened it using the combination that Forsythe had given him the previous day. He removed the sonic transmitter from the safe and activated the door built into the wall behind the desk. As it slid open, a light came on revealing a flight of stairs. He made his way to the foot of the stairs and used the sonic transmitter to open a second door.

The small room was dominated by a row of computers that ran the length of the far wall. He crossed to one of the terminals, sat down, and accessed the system. Then, using the Modem telephone link, he dialled out a number that Forsythe had given to him. He replaced the receiver in its special cradle on the VDU and tapped his fingers impatiently on the table as he waited for the program he’d dialled to appear on the screen. It came up moments later. He had hacked into Bailey’s home computer. Forsythe had set up the whole system in Bailey’s study, including all the access codes. But, for security reasons, Bailey had changed all the codes as soon as he took charge of the system. All the codes, that is, except for the one Forsythe had programmed in for himself. It bypassed all existing codes and went to the very heart of the program, showing all the new access codes. Forsythe, who had set up several sensitive systems for the CIA over the years, had a secret code for each one of them. And none could be detected. Bailey had several sensitive files in his system, files that even Morgan Chilvers knew nothing about. And now Bernard could access all those files, copy them onto another disc, and sell them to the highest bidder. The CIA and the KGB would be the obvious customers, but he didn’t care whom he sold them to, as long as the price was right. He would split the money fifty-fifty with Forsythe.

Had he known that Forsythe had been sacked from his position at UNACO, he could have negotiated a new deal. But that wasn’t his style. Jean-Jacques Bernard wasn’t a greedy man. He only needed the money to start a new life away from Beirut – a new face, a new identity. That was the deal he had made with Forsythe. But there was more to it than that, especially now that Bailey had sent his hatchet men after him.

Yes, there was certainly more to it than that. It was time for revenge.

Frances Bailey’s eyes were red and puffy from hours of crying. But she had made sure she had sent her two teenage daughters over to her parents’ house in Alexandria before she had shed the first of those tears. She had always been the perfect mother, and the perfect wife. Her friends had said that she would make an ideal First Lady when her husband was elected President of the United States of America. Their confidence in Robert Bailey, like her own, had never wavered. Now, within the space of a few hours, his career, and his future, lay in ruins. She was shattered. She was also bloody angry. It wasn’t just his future that lay in ruins. What about their daughters? They would have to carry the stigma of their father’s deceit with them for the rest of their lives. What right had he to blight their lives with his devious schemes? She knew Morgan Chilvers would do his utmost to keep her husband’s arrest out of the papers, but it would already have circulated around Capitol Hill. And that’s where it mattered as far as she was concerned. Samantha, the elder daughter, was already engaged to the son of a prominent Republican senator. What chance did they have now? And Kathleen had always wanted to become a political journalist on leaving school. And that meant mixing with politicians who would be the first to snigger behind her back at her father’s misfortune. She had always idolized her husband. Now she hated him…

‘Why?’ she asked, looking up at her husband who stood by the window behind her.

‘You wouldn’t understand, Frances,’ he replied softly.

‘Try me!’ she snapped, jerking her head round to look at him.

‘Zimbala’s in a strategic position in the centre of Africa. There are civil wars raging in all the neighbouring states. If we could have put our own man in power, we could have fed weapons into Zimbala which, in turn, could have been distributed amongst the anti-Communist forces in those neighbouring states. If we’d given them enough arms, it could have swung the wars in favour of those anti-Communist forces. We could have hammered another nail into the coffin of world Communism.’