Алистер Маклин - Time of the Assassins

‘The only way Bernard leaves that house is in a body bag. Understood?’

No, Mark Stephens didn’t understand. And what the hell was Hagen doing there anyway? Stephens, who was in his early thirties, had been with the NYPD’s SWAT unit for five years, the last eighteen months of those as a lieutenant. He had been trained to deal with hostage situations. It was his job. And now his authority was being undermined by Hagen’s interference. But what could he do? Hagen was officially the commander-in-chief of the NYPD’s SWAT unit. And that meant his word was law. He knew the men, himself included, held Hagen in contempt – a desk man who only ever showed his solidarity with them when they were being praised for a successful operation.

‘I asked you a question, Lieutenant,’ Hagen said sharply.

Stephens removed his black peaked cap and ran his hand over his short blond hair. ‘That depends on the circumstances, sir.’

‘What circumstances?’

‘If we can get a clear shot at him. There’s a sixteen-year-old kid in there as well. Her safety is my main concern.’

‘Your main concern is preventing Bernard from leaving the house alive.’

‘Sir, he has hostage–’

‘I don’t give a damn about his hostage,’ Hagen cut in, his eyes blazing. ‘She’s a drug addict, for Christ’s sake. What’s her life compared to the lives of the two officers that son-of-a-bitch gunned down in cold blood? I had to break the news to their wives. Spare a thought for them, Lieutenant. And spare a thought for those kids who’ll never see their fathers again.’

Stephens had never seen Hagen so agitated. It was unnerving. What the hell had got into him? He knew the rules. And now he was willing to bend and twist them in some warped pursuit of revenge. Stephens wanted nothing to do with it, even if it meant losing his command. He wouldn’t be party to killing an innocent teenager.

‘Think about it, Lieutenant. Your future in this unit may depend on it. I’ll try and talk Bernard into releasing the girl, but if he refuses, then the order will be given to storm the house. And if you won’t give it, I will. Now give me that bullhorn.’

Stephens bit back his fury and handed Hagen the bullhorn he was holding. He looked around. At least his men were out of earshot. He certainly wouldn’t give the order to storm the house, not without first hearing Bernard’s demands. But would his men stand by him? Hagen could have them all suspended for insubordination. Was it worth putting his men’s careers at risk? He suddenly found himself caught in two minds, and he hated himself for it.

‘Bernard, I’m coming in,’ Hagen shouted through the bullhorn. ‘I’ll be unarmed. And alone.’ He handed the bullhorn back to Stephens. ‘Think about your future, Lieutenant. Who knows, there could even be a promotion in it for you.’

Stephens bit his lip to prevent himself from telling Hagen where to shove his promotion. Instead he undipped his two-way radio from his belt and told his men that Hagen was about to approach the house, adding that if any of them got a clear shot of Bernard they were to take him out. He knew it was wishful thinking. The man was very professional. And professionals rarely make mistakes. Hagen removed his overcoat and hat then stepped out into the clearing and walked slowly towards the house.

Stephens looked round as Philpott and Whitlock appeared behind them. Philpott nodded in greeting then introduced Whitlock as Rosie’s uncle. Stephens wondered how they would have reacted if he told them what Hagen had in mind if he failed to persuade Bernard to surrender. Some chance of that happening anyway! How he hoped he was wrong…

Hagen reached the gate and paused to look at the house. It was in complete darkness, as it had been ever since the SWAT team took up their positions on the edge of the clearing. The gate squeaked as he opened it. Well, now Bernard would definitely know he was there. He walked up the path and was about to mount the steps to the porch when the outside light came on. He froze mid-step, his eyes riveted on the closed door, waiting. He remained like that for several seconds, almost as if in a trance, then climbed the steps and moved slowly to the door. He was about to try the handle then thought he’d better warn Bernard that it was him, and not one of the SWAT team. He knocked on the door.

‘Bernard, it’s Hagen.’

‘It’s open,’ came the reply from inside the house.

Hagen pushed the handle down and opened the door. The light from the porch illuminated the hallway. He stepped inside, almost reluctant to close the door behind him. The light was his sanctuary.

‘Close the door,’ Bernard called out from the lounge at the end of the hallway.

Hagen closed the door, severing the light. He had lost his sanctuary.

‘I’ve got the girl with me, Hagen,’ Bernard said. ‘Any tricks and she’s dead. Now switch on the hall light and step away from the door.’

Hagen did as he was told.

Bernard emerged from the lounge alone, the Desert Eagle in his hand. It was aimed at Hagen’s stomach.

‘Where’s the girl?’ Hagen demanded.

‘Safe,’ Bernard replied, moving towards Hagen. He locked the door then frisked Hagen quickly and professionally.

‘I told you I was unarmed,’ Hagen said once Bernard had finished.

‘So you did,’ Bernard replied with a sneer.

‘I want to see the girl.’

‘She’s in there,’ Bernard replied, pointing to the bedroom. ‘And don’t switch on the light.’

Hagen opened the bedroom door. Rosie, who had regained consciousness less than an hour earlier, was still manacled to the radiator. She had been gagged. She stared at Hagen, her eyes wide and questioning.

‘I’m Deputy Commissioner Hagen, Rosie. We’re doing everything in our power to try and secure your release. Don’t worry, we won’t let anything happen to you.’

‘How touching. Now close the door.’

‘Hold in there, Rosie,’ Hagen said with a reassuring smile then closed the door again. ‘Let’s talk in the lounge, shall we?’

‘Sure,’ Bernard replied with a shrug. ‘But no lights. We’ll manage with the reflection from the hall light. After you, Hagen.’

Hagen glanced at the automatic in Bernard’s hand then reluctantly turned his back on him and entered the lounge. He made for the armchair by the window and sat down.

‘I assume you’re carrying a mike of some sort,’ Bernard said from the doorway. ‘The tie-pin?’

‘No.’

‘No, you’re not wired, or no it’s not the tie-pin?’

‘Both.’

‘Why don’t I believe you?’ Bernard said then shrugged. ‘But then it doesn’t bother me whether you’re wired or not. It might just backfire on you, though.’

‘What?’ Hagen said with a frown.

‘Drink?’ Bernard said, indicating the drinks cabinet against the far wall.

‘Yes,’ Hagen said, nodding slowly. ‘Bourbon, if you have one.’

‘Of course,’ Bernard replied, crossing the room to the drinks cabinet.

‘What did you mean just now about its backfiring on me if I were wired?’ Hagen asked.

Bernard used his free hand to pour the drink then placed it on the table beside Hagen’s chair. He crossed to the door then turned his back momentarily on Hagen and looked out into the hallway. When he swung round Hagen was clawing desperately at the underside of the chair.

‘Looking for this?’ Bernard said, taking a Smith & Wesson from his pocket. ‘Good place to hide a gun for an emergency, but I found it when I first got here. Question is, how did you know there was supposed to be a gun bolstered under that particular chair? A chair that you made for as soon as you entered the room. Now, if you are wired, which I’m sure you are, your colleagues are no doubt waiting for you to clear up this obvious misunderstanding. Well?’